Carla Neggers - Cut and Run

But something told her there would be. Whatever was between her and Matthew Stark felt very unfinished. And he was the kind of man who finished things. He was also the kind of man, she thought uncomfortably, who would push and dig and ask questions until he learned that the world’s largest and most mysterious uncut diamond was the Minstrel’s Rough…that the Peperkamps had been in the diamond business for four hundred years…that she was the last of the Peperkamps-and hadn’t given him straight answers to his questions. He’d put all the pieces together.

He’d figure out she had the Minstrel.

Which, of course, she did.

Could someone else put those same pieces together and arrive at the same conclusion? Was someone else after the Minstrel?

Who?

She catapulted herself-not to the piano to escape this time-but to J.J.’s room, J.J.’s closet. She had to get out. She had to be someone else for a while, to be with people, to sort this mess out.

Her eyes fell on a midcalf black wool skirt with a slit up the back and a low-cut red silk blouse that had been very, very daring fifty years ago. She immediately saw it dressed up with lots of rhinestones, black seamed stockings, red shoes…and lavender-tinted hair.

She pushed the Washington reporter’s dark gaze from her mind and got started.

Juliana Fall was a liar, and she didn’t know Rachel Stein was dead. She was also one very attractive woman, and as he hung around the glittering Beresford lobby, Matthew thought more about her vibrant eyes than her skirting of the truth. He’d expected the Juliana Fall he’d met Saturday night to live in a building like the Beresford. The one he’d met this afternoon could have lived anywhere, the Beresford or some hole in the Bronx. The dust, the clutter, the sassy ponytail had surprised him. They didn’t fit his stereotype of the world-class pianist. Hell, he thought, she was probably up there sharpening her pencils or playing some piece written while Napoleon was trouncing Europe.

Napoleon, she’d say, who’s he?

Maybe he wasn’t being fair. Whatever she knew or didn’t know, it was plain enough to Matthew that Ms. Pianist wasn’t in any funk, as her eminent teacher had suggested.

The lady was just flat-out bored.

For the first time in years, Stark felt like having a cigarette. He’d quit smoking after Vietnam, figuring he had a full quota of poisons in his system, but right now he just didn’t give a damn. The tough, cynical, scarred, smart, heroic, tarnished Matthew Stark. He’d had his picture on the covers of Time and Newsweek; he’d appeared on network television and PBS specials. He was supposed to know more than your average Joe Six-Pack. Be more.

What a lot of bullshit that was. He was trying to coax information out of a gorgeous space cadet of a piano player whose big excitement for the day probably was feeding her goldfish. Who the hell wouldn’t be bored banging on a piano all day in that great, fancy, lonely apartment? Concerts added a little interest, he supposed, but she couldn’t give one every day, and they too had to get old after a while. Things like that generally did. Preserving a reputation was damn tedious. Making one was the fun part.

The uniformed doorman came over and asked if he could help. Matthew said no thanks. The doorman then politely suggested he be on his way. Matthew shrugged and didn’t argue. The guy had his job to do.

He went and stood outside, across the street at the bus stop in front of the Museum of Natural History. He didn’t know what he was waiting for, but his instincts told him-damn reliable instincts they’d been too, once-that he’d just given Juliana Fall something to nibble on besides some piece written by a guy in a white wig.

His description of Rachel Stein and Weaze’s nutso talk about the world’s largest uncut diamond had clicked with her-and she’d lied about both. Matthew wanted to know why, and he wanted to know what she was going to do about it. If anything. She might just sit upstairs talking to her goldfish and playing the piano and forget he’d even been there.

But he remembered the scared, interested, comprehending look in those deep dark green eyes, and he didn’t think she would. His questions had chased away the vagueness and boredom he’d seen in her eyes when she’d pulled the door open for him. Ahh, he thought, nothing like an adventure to kick up the spirit.

He’d give her an hour.

Word was getting around that J.J. Pepper was back. Between four and six, when she liked to play, the Club Aquarian would start to fill up, and people wouldn’t just eat and gab. They’d listen, which Len Wetherall could appreciate. J.J. was good-and a hell of a sight to watch, looser than she had been in the spring and summer. New Zealand or wherever the hell she’d been had done her some good. Or coming back had.

Len settled back against the bar, sipping a cup of black coffee and having a look at the postcards she’d just handed him. He figured she got them from some New Zealand tourist office in town. They weren’t made out, of course; no postmark, nothing like that. Merrie, his wife, had said quit worrying about damn New Zealand and focus on the hair-it was lavender today-if he wanted to know what game J.J. Pepper was playing. But he wasn’t sure he did. It could just ruin everything. Not so much for him, maybe, but for her.

She was at the baby grand, warming up with a couple of slow and easy tunes. It was early, not crowded, but that wouldn’t last. Right now, she looked as if she’d been made for the place. Her low-cut blouse was the same shade of red as the single rose on each table, the only touch of color in the gray and black decor. Nearly everyone had a clear view of her on the round platform stage, carpeted in gray, just eight inches off the floor. It stood between the dining room on one side and the high-tech bar on the other, and behind it were semiprivate seating areas, with low black lacquer tables and gray suede half-circle sofas. From every corner, you could hear J.J. Pepper’s rich, ringing sounds-and see that damned lavender hair.

Fifteen minutes after J.J. had gotten started, a dark-haired man came in alone and asked who the lady at the piano was. He just gave a curt nod when he was told. Len didn’t like that. The guy had a serious, cut-the-bullshit face, and he didn’t take off his black leather jacket when he slid onto a stool at the far end of the bar. He ordered a beer and turned around so he could see the stage.

Len didn’t like that, either.

J.J. was into her piece-she never called them tunes-and hadn’t spotted him. She’d moved into some hotter stuff, was really getting into it. Her lavender hair was coming out of its pins, and a big lock flopped down her forehead. She was grinning and biting her lip, and for a second Len held his breath, thinking she was going to let out a hoot.

The guy down at the other end of the bar just sipped on his beer and watched, tight-lipped.

Al, the bartender, started to whoop and slap the bar, his version of clapping, and Len turned back to see what the excitement was all about.

“Holy shit,” he breathed.

He couldn’t believe it. J.J. had kicked off her red shoes and every now and then she’d slam out some high notes with her right foot.

“Babe’s getting the moves down,” Al said. “What’d we ever do around here without her?”

Len grinned. “Damned if I know.”

When she finished, J.J. bounced up off the bench, smiling and sweating like the world had just been lifted off her shoulders, her blouse and skirt askew. She straightened them up, not very well, and stuck stray hairs back up in their pins as she trotted up to the bar. Al had her usual Saratoga water with a twist of lime waiting. Len didn’t touch the stuff himself. Regular water was fine with him.