Blood Score (2 page)

Amandine’s Restaurant – Halsted Street

North of Downtown Chicago

Ethan Chandler ran his fingertips across the linen tablecloth in his slow practiced manner in search of the wineglass he’d placed at two o’clock. He touched the base of it, trailed his fingers up the stem and raised the glass to his lips. From his taste of the fine Merlot, he knew his glass was half full. That meant the waiter would soon refill it and ask if he still wanted to wait. He touched his custom Rolex and felt for the time.

An hour had gone by. He’d been late for the reservation and had rushed to make it. Amandine’s would have cancelled it, except they recognized his name.

“
That’s him,” a woman whispered. “I saw him play in New York City last fall. Absolutely divine. He’s so gorgeous.”

A table over, two women had made him their evening’s entertainment. Their dinner conversation had focused on one topic—
him
—and they’d resorted to whispering. It always amused him when people thought a blind man was deaf too. Now that these women had recognized him, they were drawing more attention. Other voices joined in. Outing a celebrity justified their conduct and made their behavior more socially acceptable than merely gawking at the handicapped.

The string quartet across the room distracted him, but not in a good way. Although the composer was not his favorite, the restaurant’s violinist had strayed from the music and Ethan noticed. He imagined playing his own Stradivarius, a priceless masterpiece over three-hundred years old.

Antonio Stradivari of Cremona Italy had fabricated his Gibson Stradivarius in the early seventeen hundreds. The violin had a flat masculine build and had been an outstanding concert instrument with a truly memorable tone that had turned into his musical partner over the years. He thought of himself as its guardian, rather than its owner, and he felt the presence of those who had known the joy of playing it before him. Knowing his cherished instrument would carry his mark, long after he left this world, that thought brought him a certain satisfaction and a feeling of immortality.

But his thoughts were interrupted by the annoying sound of a cell phone—
his
. Normally he would have turned off the blasted thing, thinking it to be a rude intrusion on the dinner hour, but he’d hoped for a call. The ring tone told him who’d be on the line.

“
Yes.” He smiled.

“
Well, how is it? Is your mouth in heaven?”

The woman didn’t bother to identify herself. He recognized the throaty voice of his publicist and personal assistant, Rachel Blevins.

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“
Amandine’s is supposed to be fabulous. I’m asking about the food, Ethan.”

“
Oh, dear. That could’ve been awkward.”

“
Why?”

“
What if Olivia and I had skipped dessert and were having sex? My answer would have been quite different.”

The women at the other table gasped and Ethan fought a smile as he listened to Rachel’s familiar deep sigh.

“If it’s any consolation to you, the food smells delicious.” He grinned, but his amusement faded. “Truthfully, Livie hasn’t arrived yet.”

“
I made your reservations for eight. She’s over an hour late, Ethan. Have you tried calling her? That woman can be so—”

“
Rachel. Please.”

His publicist had never been a fan of Olivia Davenport. He’d dated Livie, off and on, for the past six months after they’d met at a cocktail party hosted by his recording studio.

“I’ll call you if there is any cause for alarm,” he told her.

“
Okay, have a good evening. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“
Not if I see you first.” He grinned.

“
Very funny.”

Ethan ended the call, but before he put his phone in his pocket, he used voice commands to dial Livie again. He left another message when it rolled to voice mail.

“It’s cruel and unusual punishment to leave a hungry man waiting at a great restaurant. The smells here are driving me insane. Well, crazier than usual.” He sighed and let concern filter through his voice. “Please call me, Livie. I’m worried, darling. Where are you?”

After he ended the call, a busboy filled his water glass, and Ethan decided to call it a night.

“Could you have my waiter bring the check please?”

“
Yes, Mr. Chandler.”

“
Thank you.”

Ethan paid his bill and headed for the exit. He used a cane to guide him as well as his recollection of how many steps it had taken him to walk the distance after he’d first arrived. A waiter offered to assist him, but he declined. He navigated his way out of the restaurant, knowing wait staff gave a man with a cane a wide berth.

The warm night air outside felt good and was a nice change from the chilly air-conditioning in the restaurant. He breathed deep and used his senses to orient himself, but a sound caught his attention.

The soft rapid clicks of a camera.

He turned toward the noise and listened.
Click. Click.
As he moved away from the sound, it followed him. In a different setting, he might not have noticed, but given his lifestyle and notoriety now, things had changed. The Paparazzi had taken to pursuing him on occasion, especially when he was with a beautiful actress or singer. He hoped that’s all it was, but lately he’d sensed someone watching him. The third time this week. The intrusion unnerved him enough that he’d been forced to mention it again to Rachel. The blatant invasion of his privacy had made him more careful.

What had the intruder seen and taken photos of tonight?
Who are you and what do you want?
He wanted to demand an answer, but he only gritted his teeth instead. He felt the start of a throbbing headache. His evening had come to an abrupt end.

In light of the recent fan letters Rachel had told him about—the strange obsessive kind—he had become more aware of his interactions with the public. The media had been following him since he was a child. By the time he became a teenager, he’d turned into a global sensation and had done it all without the guidance of parents.

He’d discovered that the most difficult part of dealing with his blindness had been learning how to trust others. Isolation would have been an easy trap to fall into, but after he gained notoriety, he chose a different course. His budding fame forced him into relying on people more, for some things. He depended on a small entourage of assistants and gatekeepers to screen those who sought him out and they kept him on schedule. Rachel had taken the reins of it all. He relied on her to manage everything. His growing celebrity had been fun—until lately.

“
Bastard,” he mumbled and tightened his jaw. The best way to handle the annoyance of the paparazzi was to leave. He heard the commotion of the valet station to his right and wandered toward a voice.

Before he said anything, a busy young man asked,
“What are you driving, sir? You have your claim number?”

Ethan replied without hesitation,
“I’m driving a Maserati, and I seem to have misplaced my ticket.”

He handed his cane to the young man while he fumbled through his pockets.

The kid stammered, “Wait. Aren’t you…blind, sir?”

“
Oh, dear. I suppose
that
could pose a problem.” Ethan managed to avoid a smile. “Why don’t you call me a cab instead...please?”

The parking attendant either hadn’t seen the humor or he presumed Ethan was drunk. He didn’t say a word. He hailed the next cab, and after the kid helped Ethan into the taxi, he said,
“How do you know this is a
real
cab?”

“
Because nothing on the planet smells like a taxi.” Ethan grinned and handed the parking attendant a generous tip, a bill he’d carefully folded in his wallet to distinguish the amount. He had no doubt his tip and his attempt to hijack a Maserati would not be easily forgotten by the valet.

“
Thank you, sir. Have a good evening.”

“
You, too.”

It always made him smile when someone young called him ‘sir.’ Listening to the voice of the valet, he sounded to be in his early twenties, but Ethan was only twenty-five. Did he really look that much older? In truth, he felt older. So many people relied upon him for their livelihood. His extensive trips abroad had also brought their share of pragmatic experiences that had seasoned him. Perhaps he
did
look older.

The valet shut the door to the cab, and the vehicle pulled into traffic. It was only a short drive from Halsted Street to his loft downtown. When he arrived at his residence, the vehicle door opened as he settled with the driver.

“Good evening, Mr. Chandler.” A familiar voice greeted him, and a hand helped him from the taxi.

“
Thank you, Joseph. Have you seen Ms. Davenport this evening?”

“
No, sir. Is there something wrong?”

“
No, nothing. We had dinner plans, but she didn’t show. No big deal.” He forced a smile. “Good night.”

“
Have a good night’s rest, sir.”

Ethan unfolded his cane as he stood on the curb and didn’t bother to explain more about why he’d asked about Olivia. The doorman guided him through the front entrance and left him alone in the lobby. On instinct, he counted the steps toward the private elevator that would take him to the flat he owned.

He secured his deadbolt and folded his cane to set it on a console table near his front door, along with his wallet, keys, and watch. Ethan didn’t need a cane in his own home. He wandered to the bar and poured himself a small glass of Macallan single malt Scotch. After he took a hefty gulp, the alcohol burned all the way down and warmed his chest.

But before the liquor mellowed him, his edginess came back in a rush. He turned and felt a strange presence in the room, a heaviness of deadened sound where he didn’t expect it.

“Anyone there?”

The sensation lingered in haunting fashion, until it faded to an underlying white noise. A clock ticked on the wall. His utilities hummed, and he heard a faint sound of music coming from a neighbor. Now nothing appeared out of the ordinary, which made him feel foolish. His jumpiness had more to do with Livie and why he’d stirred the interest of a rogue cameraman.

Livie.
His Livie
. He felt the weight of her absence.

Ethan shook his head and finished his scotch before he wandered into his bedroom suite. He shrugged out of his jacket and hung it over a chair near his closet. He unbuttoned his dress shirt, pulled the tail of it from his slacks, and turned on the water.

A long hot shower. That’s what he needed.

Naked, he walked into his stall and lifted his face toward the hot stream to let the spray hit him. He stood under the showerhead and breathed in the steam, letting the hot water trail down his chest and back before he grabbed the body wash. Once again, his thoughts turned to Livie and the mystery photographer that had become more than a troubling nuisance.

Something didn’t feel right.

***

From a small hole above Ethan, a tiny fiber optic camera clicked to transmit its feed to another location and within minutes, Tim McFarland settled onto a sofa and licked his lips. Waiting. He had Ethan Chandler to himself—recorded in the privacy of the violinist’s home. Nothing happened there without him knowing it.

Nothing
.

At first his craving for the world class musician had been prurient, a compulsion he had to satisfy in secret, as he had done with other young men who lived in his building. Serving on the residents’ board, he received listings of property closings and had volunteered at key times to gain access to the private residences of those he took special interest in to do final inspections or play a role as the welcoming committee. All volunteer time, of course. He made sure that when it counted, he’d have time alone to wire his own surveillance gear as part of his appreciation package.

But it didn’t take long for Ethan Chandler to become his whole world. The violinist had earned his total devotion. The boy had unleashed Tim to become what he was always meant to be.

In a very private room, he fixed his gaze on his small screen, captivated by Ethan in the shower—his favorite location feed to record. The young man had interesting sexual desires that fascinated him, but as soapsuds slid off the musician’s muscular shoulders and down his taut belly, Tim watched with sweat trickling down his brow. In the dark of his special room, the one he shared with Ethan, he felt the power surge within him. Here he had control. He could do whatever he wanted. The sound of his breathing grew louder and filled the dark room, masked only by the ethereal strains of the violinist’s music, as he built to a crescendo of his own.

In his mind Tim McFarland conjured what he’d do to Ethan—what he would do again and again—
if he could
.