Death of a Chorus Girl (The Delacroix Series Book 1) (19 page)

Her hand covers my mouth to silence me.  “I trust you,” she states, simply and emphatically.  “These last couple of days have been a whirlwind.  It’s been quite a long time since I’ve had to consider anyone other than myself.  Will this really help you, if I agree?”

“Truthfully, I don’t know.  But nothing else has worked.”  My eyes hold hers as I think about what advice I should give her.  “But you need to know that if you decide to agree it could be dangerous to you.  Especially if we get found out.”

“How so?”

“Best case scenario, your career in theater could be wiped out.”

“That’s the best case?”  Her voice grows alarmed in pitch.

“If we get caught, yes.”

“What’s the worst?”

“I don’t know.”

Empathy Delacroix: Contracts

“Richard?”  He looks up from his plate.  We are having dinner at my place after leaving the precinct together.  His captain wanted me to sign the papers before we left, but I didn’t feel up to it, and Richard backed me up on needing more time.  “We never discussed my meeting with Tom and Fitz the other day.”

“Would it be alright if we never again have a conversation involving them?”  The teasing tone in his voice is forced.  “Or is that too immature of me?”  His hand reaches across the table to take mine.

I ignore his questions.  “Fitz wants me to co-produce an Off-Broadway show that I’ve been consulting on for Tom.  He thinks I’m talented enough to not just be a choreographer.  What do you think?”

Richard doesn’t say anything, but his thoughts on the matter are evident.  His grip on my hand strengthens, his lips thin and pale, and his gaze narrows.  He struggles with his response while I get up and maneuver around the table to sit in his lap.  That action alone eases his anxiety and his arms fold around me.

“I don’t know a lot about it, but I’m sure you’re capable,” he says.  “But I’ll be honest, I wish it wasn’t with Tom and Fitz.”  Something about his demeanor speaks that he isn’t completely forthcoming with all of his reservations.  I don’t doubt that some of those reservations result from jealousy, but there is more to it.  I just can’t put my finger on it.

Richard Giordano: Morningside Heights

T
wo weeks have passed since we waylaid Em with becoming the captain’s CI.  The next night she asked my thoughts on her getting deeper into business with Fitzwallace.  I chose not to offer an actual opinion.  I was proud of that fact at the time, thinking I had taken the high road.  Now? No.

The minute she signed the CI paperwork a week and a half ago my stomach turned.  I felt like I used her.  Mainly because
if
she does end up co-producing with Worthy, Fitzwallace is planning to be more hands on as well, to “ensure her success.”  In fact, our first function for the new show is on Saturday.  Em having more exposure to Fitzwallace is good for my case, as it means more exposure for me also.  But it is a shitty thing to do as her boyfriend because it also exposes her to more risk, and she doesn’t even know it.

“You know you don’t have to wine and dine her to screw her, right Dick?  That bitch is totally in heat for your specific brand of dog.”  Steve and I are on our way to a scene.  My grip constricts around the steering wheel at his filthy words.  These last weeks with Em have been phenomenal while the same time with Steve were a damned chore.  Learning that he is potentially the mole for Fitzwallace has left me unable to have any idea what to say to him and no idea how to be around him.  Not only because of our work but also because of Em.  Before the photograph of me kissing her made the rounds, Steve had his fun but strangely always remained respectful in how he referred to her.  Now, well let’s just say this isn’t the first time he compared her to an impious animal.  Nor, is it the worst reference he has made.

“That’s enough, Steve.  If that’s how you want to be about the women you screw around with, that’s between you and them.  But Em is
my girlfriend
so you’ll show her some respect.  She’s not a bitch in heat and I’m not just looking to score.”  My fury fills the car.  My eyes dart to him and find that my words cut him deeper than normal.  He’s a hot head and speaks whatever garbage passes through his mind but because of that, he typically doesn’t take anything anyone else has to say seriously.  Yet, there he sits, sulking.

Lucky for us, we pull up to our scene.  We don’t speak to each other as we ascend the stairs to the tiny New York City apartment housing our DB.  “I’ve got the rats,” Steve announces as we walk down the hallway.  “You’ve got Hadess?”  At my “what the hell are you talking about” expression, he defines the term.  “You know,
Hades
?  As in ruler of the underworld.  Keeper of the dead. 
Frisco
without a...” he trails off as he motions to his dick before huffing and stomping off towards one of the crime scene analysts.

I roll my eyes and head over to Frisco to get the details on our victim.  “What are we looking at?” I ask as I kneel down.

“Blunt force trauma to the head,” she begins while showing me the wound.  Blunt force plays it down.  The guy’s skull looks more like cracked marble and curves inward.  “From the mess in the room, I would say the weapon is in here somewhere.”

The bits and pieces I pick up in the conversations around me and my own observations incline me to agree.  “It looks like a cage match took place in here,” I observe, “one that was to the death.”

Frisco nods.  “There are defensive wounds all along the body, along with aggressive ones.”  She lifts up his hands to show me the knuckles.  “He definitely fought for his life.”

We are going to be here a while so I pull out my phone and send Em a text.  “How are things going with her, Rich?”

“Who says I’m texting her?” I counter without looking up.

“That goofy, nauseating look on your face,” Frisco teases.  “I dare say you’re in love.  How about I help you wrap up here so you can get home.  The guys can take our DB to the morgue.”

Empathy Delacroix: Imagined Wounds

“Your own lawyer says it is more than generous!” Fitz shouts across the table at Tom.

“So what?!” Tom hollers back.  “Money isn’t all she needs to consider!  There’s her time!  There’s
Singin’
!”

“
Singin’
has opened, Thomas!” Fitz snaps.  “It is a hit and she’s not in the show!  There is nothing more for her to do!”

The three of us are meeting at Fitz’s home office and they’ve been screaming at each other for a good ten minutes.  Everything was going fine until Fitz asked if Tom’s lawyer was finished reviewing the contract.  All hell broke loose after I told him that the lawyer was, but I am still considering his offer.

I press my fingertips into my temples, desperate to stave off the pounding behind my eyes.  “Gentleman!  Please!”  Silence descends on the room at the sound of my voice.  “For the love of all that is holy, can we at least snap at each other at a respectable volume?”

Tom drops into the chair next to me.  “I’m sorry, Em.”  His fingers replace mine and the pain ebbs, like it always does.  My hands are always ice cold while Tom’s are the perfect warmth.  I watch his head turn towards Fitz as he glares at him but talks to me.  “You shouldn’t feel pressured though.  No rush to make a decision.”

Fitz huffs and perches on the edge of the table that is between him and Tom and me.  “I thought you wanted this show on the Broadway stage before the end of the year?”  Anger still laces his words, but he is no longer hurling them at Tom anymore.

Even though the headache is fading away, I don’t want to talk about
Covered
or my contract any longer.  “I think I’ve had enough for the day.  Fitz, I promise, I am carefully considering your offer.”  Which is true.  “I’m just not sure that I have the right skills to co-produce a play.”  Which is also true.  “I would hate to disappoint you if it turns out that I have no business producing.”  Which isn’t really true.  Fitz’s opinion means nothing to me.

His grim expression softens and the smooth businessman I’m used to dealing with emerges.  “Of course, Empathy.  I understand and I don’t want you to feel rushed.  That’s something Thomas and I agree on.  But, I’m a businessman and this show needs to make a move while it is hot.  The longer we wait for you-”

“The higher the likelihood that we will miss our free PR window,” I finish for him and receive a proud nod of approval.  “I will make my decision by the end of the week.”

Tom and I leave and silently ride down the elevator.  I stretch out my arm to hail a cab once we reach the sidewalk of Fifth Avenue.  “You’re not walking?” Tom questions.

“I’m tired,” I concede.  Their vicious argument upstairs wore me out.

“Em, my car is in the garage.  Let me drive you home.”

“You drove today?” I ask in surprise.  Tom rarely drives.

He grabs my hand and pulls me around the corner to walk down Seventy-Second Street towards the garage.  “My driver needed to take some time off.  Come on.”

A pit falls into my stomach and I wonder if I’m starting to get the nasty flu bug that has been going around.  But when we turn the corner to walk down the alley to the car entrance of the garage, the bright sunlight fades to a hazy gray and the white walls of the building become a little brighter.

A figure grabs me by the throat and shoves be back against the rough concrete surface of the building.  My head bounces off it and my brain rattles around.  Stars pop in front of my eyes and my legs feel weak.  I claw at his gloved hand, desperate to ease the pressure and steal a breath.  His hot breaths fall on my cheek as he whispers something unintelligible in my ear.  The fingers at my neck unfurl and I inhale sharply, ignoring the pain in my oxygen deprived throat and lungs.  Before I can slide down the wall, an intense pain erupts in my stomach.  Another, then another, then another immediately follow it, until I lose count.  They move up and down my torso at a frenetic pace.  I can’t scream; my lungs don’t possess enough air to give it voice.  The figure gives me one last shove against the wall when he’s done stabbing me and then runs off, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

Blood drips slowly onto the pavement.  I ball my ruined shirt up in my hands and wrap my arms around my body, hoping I can slow the bleeding and make it to Fifth Avenue where someone will notice me.  The taste of copper fills my mouth and I cough, spraying it onto the untraversed pavement of the alley.  Each step is more laborious than the last.  I hadn’t been in peak condition before the attack, not after what that bastard did to me upstairs.

I make it to Seventy-Second Street.  The hazy forms of pedestrians walk by but they don’t seem to notice me.  They are all focused on their phones, which are either held in their hands as they text or pressed to their ears while they talk.  I open my mouth to beg for help but choke on the blood instead.  My knees give out and I collapse against the building, finally sliding down to the pavement.  The world and its unaware inhabitants disappear as darkness consumes my soul.

Richard Giordano: Em’s Apartment

“Em?” I call out when the elevator doors open on her apartment.  The space is dark so I flip on the lights before pulling out my phone and checking my texts.  Her
See you when you get home
in response to my earlier text is still the last one I have from her.  She did have another meeting with Worthy and Fitzwallace today.  As if thinking his name had conjured him, the elevator doors open revealing Worthy supporting my girlfriend.

“Em!” I gasp, instantly forgetting about the man standing next to her.  She looks awful.  Her skin is green and she is struggling to breathe.  One of her arms is raised against her face and shielding her eyes.  A boulder-sized rock forms in my stomach. 
She had a vision!

“Can you turn off the light, Rich?” Worthy asks as he practically drags her into her home.  “She says it really bothers her.”

I do as he asks before racing over to sweep her into my arms.  “It’ll be alright, Em,” I whisper tenderly in her ear.  Her arms coil around my neck and she takes deep, drinking breaths.  “I’m here.  I’m right here.”

“Thank you, Tom,” barely crosses her lips.

“She says thanks,” I direct towards him, giving her sentiments the voice Em doesn’t have.  “And I thank you too,” though it pains me to say it.

“You’re both welcome,” the concern in his voice matches the expression on his face.  Whatever I think of Worthy, he truly does care about Em’s wellbeing.  “The doctor wanted to keep her overnight because he couldn’t figure out why she collapsed but she refused.  He prescribed a pain killer and a sedative, in case she has another episode.”  His eyes fall to her limp form in my arms.  “You’ll take care of her,” he states more than questions.  “Get her to the doctor if needed, regardless of what she insists.”

“I’ve got her, Tom,” I confirm to put his mind at ease.  “She’ll be fine.”

He nods then sees himself out.

“How bad?” I ask Em as I carry her to her bedroom and lay her on the bed.

“B– Ba– ad en– nou– gh,” she manages to stutter.  “P– P– Pa- Please d– on– n’t m– ma– mam– …”

“Shhh,” I whisper and press my lips to her temple.  “Not now, bellezza.  We don’t have to talk about it now.”

My heart shatters upon hearing her broken voice and seeing the tears well up in her eyes.  I carefully remove her shoes, socks, jeans, and bra, taking extra care not to let my eyes linger on the sections of her body she hasn’t chosen to share with me yet.  I leave her in her shirt and panties and cover her with her blankets.  In the blink of an eye, I strip down myself to my boxers and crawl into the bed next to her.  Em curls into my loving embrace and sobs rivers into my chest before sleep finally subdues her.

Empathy Delacroix: Firsts

I wake to the sounds of my alarm going off in the morning, still using Richard’s chest as my pillow.  He should have gotten up an hour ago to get ready for work.  I stretch, paying close attention to where I place my arms.  A bruise along his cheek greets me when I tilt my head to take in his face.

“Oh, God!  Are you okay?!  What happened?!” I exclaim as I leap up onto my knees, connecting with his ribs in my spastic remorse.

He curls protectively into his side injury with a groan.  “You did, Em.  Last night’s aftermath was bad.”  My eyes instantly fill with tears and I look up at the ceiling to keep them from falling.  He growls under his breath and sits up.  “You pack quite a punch.”  The observation causes a tear to slide down my face.  “Hey, don’t cry.  I didn’t mean it like that.”  His hands cup my face and bring it down from the ceiling.  The pads of his thumbs gently push the remaining tears from my eyes.

“I’m sorry.”  I choke on the words before taking a deep breath.  My fingers gingerly outline the bruise along his jaw. “How bad is it going to be when you get to work?”

“Lucky for us, I’m off today, bellezza,” he reminds me with a chuckle and a nudge of his nose, “though, it seems you forgot.”  I did forget.  Richard gives me a deep kiss that warms my blood then settles back against the pillows with one arm propped behind his head.  His eyes search mine for a few moments.  “Tell me you love me.  Let me make love to you.”

He speaks the words with such love that internally, democracy reigns.  My body shivers with its consenting vote.  My skin and inner core burn with approval.  My pounding heart and whirling mind scream their yes.  Yet, none of that is what slides from my lips.  “What does that mean?” comes out instead, focusing on his new term of endearment.