T. Bunn - Winner Take All

“I hope so.”

“Describe this man again, please.”

“I didn’t see anything except his sleeve and two gloved hands.” And the knife. She shuddered at the taste and the scent of him. “He wore a heavy coat of some rough weave. He was much taller than me, and very strong. He sounded American.”

He showed doubt. “It is unlikely that a German woman would bring in talent from outside the country.”

“American,” Kirsten insisted. “And he wore the most awful cologne I’ve ever smelled.”

He made careful notes. “You did well, Ms. Stansted.”

She stood and reached for her purse, then winced as the motion pulled upon her cut. “I need to get some sleep.”

“And tomorrow?”

“I’m booked on a midday flight to New York. But first I want to have a word with Erin Brandt.” She traced her hand along the bandage, wishing there were some way other than drugs to take the edge off the pain. “And I want you to make sure she is good and ready when I get there. Her and that insect of a manager.”

The detective took careful measure of her. “Tell me what you want doing.”

The morning’s papers were flung about Erin Brandt’s front parlor. A very private tornado had entered this room and torn the calm to shreds. Reiner watched Erin stride to the front window once again. This was what his career had come to. Twenty-nine years of clawing his way to the top, axing the competition, and kowtowing to a multitude of egos, so that he could sit in Erin Brandt’s front parlor and watch her come undone.

“Why are they staking out my house?”

The previous night he had finally done the unthinkable and confessed to his wife that she had been right all along. Taking on Erin Brandt had been the worst mistake of his entire career. He had said this not to grant his wife immense satisfaction, which it most certainly had. He needed answers. He was at the end of his rope, dangling over a precipice, millimeters away from the fall that would send his career crashing upon the rocks. His wife had no answer save a scream very much like the one he was hearing now.

“I asked you a question!”

“They have staked out my house as well.”

“Did I ask for information about your health and well-being?”

Erin struck the window so hard it was a wonder the glass did not break. “I want to know what you are going to do about that man!”

He walked over to join her by the window, wondering how many other fingers had itched to wring that alabaster neck. “Is that him there?”

“Are you intent on being perversely dense this morning? How many hulking strangers do you see outside my door? Of course that’s him!” She stamped her foot. “I want him gone! ”

Reiner returned to the sofa, distancing himself from the impending cyclone. “Erin, I forbid you to go to New York.”

She tore her attention away from the window. “What?”

Reiner gave himself time for a long look. He took in the imperious chin, the power that defied her diminutive form. The regal bearing that translated so forcefully to the stage. He had gained much from this connection. But lost far more. Gradually his other top singers had grown resentful of playing second fiddle to Erin’s star. For three years now Erin had been his only client. A disastrous state of affairs. “You can’t possibly go to New York.”

“Can’t I.”

“You’ve lost your case in North Carolina. They can arrest you. The lawyer said traveling to America at this point would be insane.”

She treaded across the Chinese silk carpet, alighted upon the sofa next to him, and took his hand. “Shall I tell you what is insane?”

Reiner fought against the urge to rip his hand away. He knew that soft, melodious voice. It was the viper’s hiss. “Please, Erin, I’m thinking only of your welfare.”

“Oh, I know all too well how you look after me.” She stroked the veins running down the back of his hand. “For example, I know about the secret accounts.”

“I … What?”

She took hold of the flesh between his thumb and forefinger and pressed delicately. “The accounts, dear Reiner. The ones where you slip in the extra five percent of my earnings. Above the ten percent written into our contract.”

She gripped more tightly now, searching for a hold on his racing pulse. “Not to mention the percentage you add to everything you acquire for me. This house, for example. How much was your secret take on this? A hundred thousand?” She used her fingernails to clench the sensitive flesh. “Two? Four?”

“Erin, please, you’re hurting-”

“Now I shall tell you what you are going to do.” As she gave her instructions, she continued to tighten her pincher hold, until he could feel her talons actually join together. “Is that all clear?”

He gasped, “Perfectly.”

“I’m so glad.” She released him and rose to her feet. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must go see to my packing. Goscha has been of no help whatsoever since the child departed.”

Reiner stared at his hand. The raw quarter moons bled softly and ached as though he had been branded. His gut churned so that the words emerged as a plaintive moan. “Why did you bring the child back at all?”

“That is not your concern.” She swept open the doors like a queen taking her leave. “Your concern is making safe my journey to New York.”

Kirsten exited the hotel in the company of an extremely vigilant detective. Traffic thundered and the trolleys clanged metallic music as they walked toward the river. Overhead the sky had darkened to a gun-metal hue. The city’s muted pastels and prismatic grays were now matched on all sides. A chilly yet harmonious order hemmed in this very German world. Only the trees and flowers shouted defiant accolades to a summer now lost.

The Schwanenspiegel lakes and their whimsical bridges were as colorless as the sky. When they approached the line of houses on the lakes’ other side, the detective pointed her toward a jewel box of a house in powder-puff blue. A cupola adorned the upper floor, opening into double French doors and a tiny balcony painted a very feminine ivory.

As they started across the street, the detective made a sharp drumming sound deep in his throat and veered off to their right. Kirsten hesitated, feeling very exposed. The detective aimed straight toward a watcher who had suddenly appeared beside a Mercedes van. The observer was caught off guard, and momentarily debated the wisdom of flight. But the detective was too swift. He gripped the man by his lapels and roared an extremely German invective.

A woman Kirsten had not noticed before raced across the bridge they had just crossed and tried to move in between the two men, both of whom were now shouting. Kirsten’s detective shoved the woman so hard she bounced off the Mercedes and sprawled on the pavement. She scrambled to her feet and added her own shrill cries.

A voice behind Kirsten demanded, “How dare you show your face at my house.”

She turned to confront an irate Erin Brandt. Her manager hovered in the background, three suitcases at his feet. Kirsten told them both, “I just wanted to make sure you realized your attack didn’t succeed.”

Erin showed bitter amusement. “My attack? Darling, you vastly overestimate your importance.”

Kirsten switched her attention to the manager. From behind his electric blue spectacles, gray eyes shot venom her way. “Your lackey, then. It doesn’t matter. You both failed.”

“Oh, so someone else is after you? How utterly comforting.” Erin fingered the diamond pendant draped about her neck. “Is this a gift, how you manage to create enemies in every new town? Does the grass also wilt beneath your tread?”