T. Bunn - Winner Take All

Only when he faced her was his age evident. And the strain of the rehearsal. “Yes?”

“I was wondering if I might ask you a question, Maestro.”

“Did I not see you upstairs in Kedrick’s office?”

“That is correct.”

“And he sent you down?”

Kirsten was unable to hide behind a lie. “He probably would be furious to discover us talking.”

That brought out a smile. “Well then. Perhaps I can find a moment.”

“I’m trying to obtain some information about a singer.”

“Dirt, you mean.” When she did not contradict him, he inquired, “Are you a journalist?”

“I work for a lawyer. We are involved in a very serious court case.”

“Another singer is in trouble with the law?” He shook his head in sorrow. “There is nothing magical about the Met for those of us fortunate enough to work here. Our job is to create magic for those out front. We work the backstage magic machine. One of my predecessors used to ride home by subway after every performance. He had a limo paid for and waiting outside, but he went by subway. Why? Because he felt it was important to remind himself just how mundane and ordinary his backstage world truly was.” He had a most attractive smile. “Myself, I would prefer a note card attached to the door of the limo.”

She realized he was coming on to her, and smiled in reply. “Positioned just above the champagne bucket.”

“You like champagne. Excellent. A sign of good breeding and fine moments to come.” He gave her a moment to continue the flirtation, then shrugged his acceptance of her distance. Another time. “So. Which singer is of interest to you?”

“Erin Brandt.”

His good humor vanished. “But Ms. Brandt is most decidedly dead.”

“That is correct.”

“Still her problems go on?”

“I’m afraid so. And a very good man risks losing everything.”

He inspected her. “Do I want to know more?”

“Probably not, Maestro.”

“ Bene .” He glanced in both directions, then drew her over to one side. “We are not having this discussion.”

“I understand.”

“We would not be talking at all, except for the fact that Ms. Brandt is now lost to us all.” He scouted the hall once more. “You know I came from the Zurich opera house, did you not?”

“No.”

“Indeed. And from your expression I see you have heard the story of Erin Brandt’s debut. Yes. I was intendant there before coming to the Met. Erin made her debut at a performance that I conducted.”

“How did she sing?”

“Magnificently. Erin Brandt’s singing was never the issue. Nor her acting. It was the person I refused to work with.”

“Can you give me something more precise?”

“Not for the record. You understand? I have nothing for you if you wish to make notes or write something public.”

“I am working on background information for a court case, Maestro. Nothing more.”

“Then with you I will share my secret. The diva scheduled to perform that night, she was a friend. A very, very good friend. You understand?”

“Perfectly.”

“She also had a cast bronze stomach. She had many problems. Her voice, her age, her hearing, her legs, her circulation, her … Never become involved with a singer, my dear. They are a most taxing group of ladies. But her stomach was never a problem. Never, never, never. Do you understand?”

“You think Erin poisoned her?”

“Not poison. My friend recovered. She was very ill for three days, then it was gone.” He wagged his finger between them. “And you will remember what I said, yes?”

She offered her hand. “It was very nice not meeting you, Maestro.”

He bowed over her hand, not quite drawing it to his lips. “You really must come by and introduce yourself some other time, signorina. I am certain I would be delighted to make your acquaintance.”

The DA caught Marcus on his cell phone just as he was turning onto I-95. “Wilma Blain, counselor. You someplace where you can give me your full attention?”

Marcus tucked himself behind a lumbering Freightliner doing an easy sixty. “Fire away.”

“I’ve done some checking.” The tiny phone turned her voice flat as cold iron. “The fellow who represented the accused at the arraignment is still listed as their attorney.”

The lawyer would have to be notified of Marcus’ arrival, as he was required to be present for all questioning by the authorities. “Do you know him well enough to get him down on short notice?”

“Can’t say. Seeing as how they’re represented by a courtroom rat from up Raleigh way.”

Marcus braked sharply, causing the SUV on his tail to swerve and honk and shout something he could not be bothered to hear. “Not Hamper Caisse.”

“On the money. The fact he’s still involved brings two critical questions to mind.”

“You want to know why two lowlifes involved in a simple B amp;E are being handled by a guy from Raleigh. And you want to know why Hamper agreed to take the case.”

“I like the way your mind works, counselor. A courthouse rat like Caisse wouldn’t dream of spending a day down here for an arraignment, followed by visits to his clients, then a week for a trial.”

A courthouse rat was a lawyer whose real office was the district court’s front patio, since all courthouse rats smoked like chimneys and used butt time to prep their clients. Their hours coincided with the metal-detector guards’-first to enter, last to leave. “Hamper has been down for visits with this pair since the arraignment?”

“Interesting question. Know what I did after I learned Hamper was still listed as handling this mess?”

Marcus found his chest tightening. “You checked the prison visitors’ log.”

“You’re not looking for a job, are you?”

“I’d never be able to keep up with you, ma’am.”

She laughed. “Apparently Hamper Caisse is beating a path between Raleigh and the coast. You man’s been down here eight times in the past six weeks. What’s more, Hamper’s only seen one of the guys six of those times.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Your mental lightbulbs just went off. I can hear it happening. Just popping on everywhere.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“You kidding? I’ve got me two bad guys with sheets long enough to wrap them up like shrouds. You don’t think I’d like to find something to bury them?”

“Calling Hamper directly won’t work,” Marcus said. Courthouse rats had mobile phone usage down to an exact science. They never answered their calls. Never. They checked messages, thus giving themselves an out when cornered. “And it might be Halloween before he actually visits his office again.”

“So?”

“Call Judge Rachel Sears. Family court. Third floor of the district courthouse. Tell her exactly what we’re facing here. Then see if she’ll order Hamper to meet us in Wilmington.”

“I am liking this conversation,” the DA said, “more and more.”

“Ask her to do so with a minimum amount of nicety. We want this guy to show up parboiled,” Marcus suggested. “Oh, and one more thing. Ask Judge Sears if she would not tell Hamper it’s me. We might be able to use that as leverage.”

“I get the impression you already know why this Raleigh hotshot is taking the trouble to drive down and handle the case of two punks on a burglary charge.”

“I don’t know, but I can guess.”

“Guess away.”

“It wasn’t robbery.”

“I’m listening.”

“And they’re not his client.”

“Then who is?”

“That is exactly,” Marcus replied, “what I want to ask them myself.”