Score of silence, p.3
Score of Silence, page 3
Tupper returned to the squeaky floorboard again. The creak sounded in the room and over the phone again. His eyes wandered over the bed. He regarded the bed skirt and lifted it with his booted toe. A muffled gasp sounded in his ear.
Gingerly, Tupper stooped and looked into the narrow space below the bed.
How the heck?
He peered into the darkness but only found murkiness. He tapped an icon on his screen, and it shone with full brilliance. He rotated the screen until he briefly saw a face before something dark obscured it.
He lay on the floor and reached under the bed. Sounds of Caroline trying to wedge herself against the wall stayed his advance.
“Caroline...” Tupper whispered into the cellphone. He thought it odd to hear himself with a slight delay as he spoke.
He returned his earpiece and fingered his throat mic. “I’ve found her. All personnel are to withdraw and get me an ambulance.”
He heard a snort from under the bed.
“Ha, ha,” he spoke into the darkness, his earpiece dangling again. “I know, I know, Tupper Jones ordering an ambulance.” He hoped the emphasis put the frightened woman at ease.
“Come on, Caroline.” He stretched and wedged his shoulder into the narrow void. His fingers brushed her, and she jerked away.
He had an idea where Caroline was, and shadows played across his eyes as Caroline shifted behind her camouflage. His arm and shoulder screamed at the contortions he performed, keeping his palm against the dusty floor.
“It’s me, Tupper,” he coaxed in a whisper.
He felt shaky chilled fingers drifting across his hand.
“I’m going to turn my hand over,” he spoke in placating tones. “Try to grab my wrist.”
Tupper waited the tense moments as Caroline’s cold fingers curled around his wrist. His forearm, bicep, and pectoral muscles screamed in protest, but the rapid pulse he felt through Caroline’s wrist demanded he endure a little more discomfort. He felt her pulse spike when he gently pulled on her arm.
Caroline’s head and shoulders cleared the bed, shaking and silent. When Tupper saw her wide eyes and blown pupils, her odd behavior suddenly made sense. The explanation didn’t make him feel any better.
“Calm down, now,” he soothed as he pulled Caroline from under the bed. He stared at the blotches and runoffs of blood covering Caroline’s exposed skin, but couldn’t find a wound. His eyes darted to the body on the bed, but he averted his gaze when Caroline started to follow his line of sight.
Caroline sat, leaning against Tupper. Her quaking transferred to his stressed shoulder. He swallowed a wince and focused on making quiet, reassuring sounds. Her teeth chattered, and he examined her for injuries she couldn’t identify in her current state. The hand that gripped his was purple and swollen, and she clutched it protectively against her abdomen. The other gripped a cellphone so tightly; her knuckles were as white as her pale face. She recoiled violently when Tupper tried to take the phone from her.
“Are you hurt anywhere?” Tupper asked, the whisper barely audible over Caroline’s clattering teeth.
Caroline shook her head and started to fade for a moment. Her head snapped up when she heard a pair of footsteps outside the bedroom.
The footsteps belonged to the SWAT commander, and a man dressed in white zippered overalls. The commander looked at Tupper, then at Caroline, and led his companion by the elbow out of the room.
“I need to see the body,” the man started to protest.
“Not now,” the SWAT commander interrupted flatly.
After a moment, the SWAT commander reappeared in the doorway. “The ambulance is a few minutes away,” he declared softly. He didn’t breach the threshold but did place a zippered jacket onto the floor.
Tupper pulled the jacket over Caroline’s shoulders. The shivering didn’t stop, but Caroline’s fingers curled around the nylon, and she pulled it closer.
“You’re going to be okay,” Tupper murmured into the tangled, sweat-matted brown hair. Caroline nodded, her chin stabbing Tupper’s shoulder. He absently rubbed his free hand up and down her back, trying to reassure her, and rub out the tremors he felt from her. His mind momentarily flashed again to what he would do to the two suspects that had fled earlier. He wanted to bark orders into his throat mic, but the dangling earpiece wouldn’t reveal any secrets just yet.
“W- what happened?” Caroline stuttered, as the growing sound of a siren abruptly stopped.
Tupper lifted her chin and looked into her eyes, still unable to focus. “That’s what we’re gonna find out.”
Four
Soirée
She stared out a window, the diagonal brushings of rain visible beyond. It was as if a pop-culture view of the famous Edward Hopper painting, Hotel Window, had been cast across the canvas. It was unclear if the woman was waiting for something. Perhaps she was just bored. Maybe, just maybe, she only wanted to look out the window. If this were a photograph instead of a painting, the object or objects of her focus might be discerned on closer inspection. There wasn’t anything remarkable about the painting. The blue linen blouse billowed off the frame as if Hopper could produce a painting of Marilyn Monroe. The dark, wet hair contrasted against the sunny blouse as if the juxtaposition were intentional. Maybe even meaningful. The painting was scrutinized, and muted conversations buzzed at the artist’s feeling or technique. Caroline knew that the artist just wanted to paint a woman looking out a window. Not just any woman, but someone important to her.
Caroline blinked and considered her flute of red wine. She felt the current vintage was a weak sibling to the previous year. It was still complimentary, but it had been overpaid for. Besides, wine tasting was bullshit. Studies had shown that even the most respected wine connoisseurs couldn’t tell the difference between table wine and the expensive top shelf stuff. She grimaced and set the unfinished flute on a serving tray that moved by. The server gave Caroline a dirty look, which was subsumed by an embarrassed blush when Caroline smiled sheepishly. An unspoken apology went pretty far in these circles.
Caroline grabbed a long stem of champagne off a tray as another server gracefully moved through the crowd. It was a moneyed crowd. These people probably think that they know about wine, she thought. She imagined their butlers bringing them freshly opened vintages; they would sniff the cork and smell something other than cork and wax. Pinkies raised, they would slowly sip the wine, swish it around their perfectly purchased teeth, and declare, well defined, pure nose, or chewy tannins. Maybe even something as stupid as it would be lovely after aging.
She arched her eyebrow when she expected to taste sparkling wine but was rewarded with real champagne. An inexpensive Prosecco would’ve been fine, but the owner of the gallery had apparently spent quite a sum for the gathering to show the latest collection. That owner should’ve consulted a professional like Tiffany Jones before making the purchase. Like Tiffany, Caroline knew wine. Or at least, she knew the right things to say. It was all subjective anyway. Just like art.
And she knew art. She dabbled growing up and continued for the first part of her commitment to the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. When she discovered their journalism degree in her senior year, she torpedoed her fine arts degree and jumped into journalism with both feet. Her scholarship wouldn’t cover the change to her major so close to finishing the degree, so she and her brother moved in together while they both worked several jobs. He managed to get a few internships operating a video camera, and she trudged through proofreading and line editing. In the end she somehow managed to wrangle degrees in art preservation and restoration, architecture, and journalism. It had stretched her time at university to over a decade.
Fortified with better-quality libations, she returned to the painting. The placard declared the artist was a Kimberly Smythe. She knew that the piece was misattributed, but she would never reveal this to anyone. Caroline had gotten all dressed up for the event at the gallery. She’d remembered writing stories on art and high culture for quite a while, and the editor continually shot down each of her submissions. She had been determined to claw her way into something more meaningful. Perhaps investigative reporter, but she had to do her time in the trenches, and leveraged her original career choice with what the fate decided her actual career would be. In the end, she felt that it was all worth the sacrifice. Tupper ended up doing third-party investigations for the NSA, FBI, Homeland Security, and even the Chicago Police Department’s Office of Professional Responsibility. Caroline’s checkered past gave a lot of people pause, but Tupper was such a force, he always managed to smooth over any shenanigans Caroline found herself in. Tupper encouraged Caroline and Kimberly to maintain the friendship they built with his wife, Tiffany, when they attended the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. Caroline was in a good place in her life, despite recent setbacks. She cringed at the memory of the noises of the airport. Caroline squeezed her eyes closed and forced the memory into a black hole in her psyche.
The gallery was showing neo-expressionism for only another week. She watched for security flaws, kept an eye out for guard and docent schedules. She mulled over the best time and method to steal one of the expensive paintings. But instead of imagining herself suspended from the skylight with a cardboard tube and a box cutter, Caroline found herself drawn to the painting no one else seemed to care about. There weren’t any bids on record, and it had been tucked into a quiet corner with terrible lighting that led to the curator’s office.
For some reason, it made her angry.
Caroline took a long sip from her glass and resisted the urge to act on her previous imaginings and actually steal the painting. A criminal record wouldn’t exactly do wonders for her career aspirations. The favors that Tupper would have to call in to protect their clearance would put undue strain on their relationship.
“You must be lost.”
Caroline’s eyes flicked slightly to the left. It was the only reaction to the intrusive voice she allowed. Forget a poker face; she had “reporter face.” The voice materialized next to her, a bit too close even for her, someone who had tried her hand at ambush reporting.
The first thing she noticed was that his hair was a shade lighter than his champagne. The flute reflected varying shades of gold and blonde when it was tipped back. Caroline knew it was a deliberate choice when his latest sip resulted in a grimace.
A polite smile flashed on her lips before he took a sip from her own flute. “This does appear to be an art gallery,” Caroline waved her champagne glass to encompass the room.
The man laughed too loud for Caroline’s taste. He ran his hands down an off-the-rack suit, smoothed back his tousled hair, and flashed a toothy smile. Her creep-o-meter was dangerously close to the red zone. It had saved her on more than one occasion, and it was screaming to be heard at the current juncture.
“No, no,” he chuckled, “I meant that everyone else attending this soirée”—he emphasized the word with air quotes, and continued—“seems to be riveted to the interpretations of a... dinner party.” The last words elicited a scowl. He nodded toward the painting they stood beside. “Compared to them, this one seems so... pedestrian. Almost as if it were an afterthought.” He leaned forward, and examined the brushstrokes, and then focused considerable time on the frame. “It seems quite ordinary compared to the magnificent frame that houses it.”
Caroline crossed her arms, the foot of her champagne glass bobbing against her hip. “That’s what makes it so extraordinary.”
The man chuckled his agreement and thrust out his free hand. “Frank Donaldson.”
Caroline forced herself not to react, her only surprise revealed by several blinks. “You’re pretty brazen to be walking around this neck of the woods, Mister Donaldson.” She tossed her chin toward a man in a cheap suit doing his best to look inconspicuous in the self-portraits section.
“Then again,” she continued, “with the FBI as your date, I suppose you can throw caution to the wind.”
Donaldson extended his arms and shrugged with the best “aww shucks” he could muster. Caroline suspected he was still moving large sums of dirty money around to cover up Guastavino family involvement. Donaldson tugged at the sleeve of the arm holding his glass. He replied, “House arrest is so...” He raised his glass shoulder height, and waved it back and forth. “Boring,” he concluded, his eyes momentarily going wide.
“I can imagine,” Caroline replied, as Donaldson lifted his pant leg to reveal an ankle monitor. She nodded and offered a half-smile to the agent barely concealed behind the wall. How do these guys expect to be invisible if they keep touching their earpieces? she thought and turned to drink her champagne to cover her eye roll.
“Grand jury’s in a little over a week.” Donaldson sighed melodramatically. “After that, Frank Donaldson won’t exist.” He smiled. “No more accountant to the rich and famous.”
“You mean infamous,” Caroline retorted and swirled the remainder of her champagne in her glass. She doubted anyone would consider Andre Guastavino as anything other than the thug that he was. Albeit a wealthy thug. She gave a sympathetic nod.
“You never told me your name,” Donaldson spoke, his smile widening into a leer before he corrected himself.
Caroline sighed inwardly. Oh great, she thought, before extending her right hand. “Caroline.”
A sweaty hand engulfed hers, squeezed, and finished with two sharp pumps. “Just Caroline?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.
This time, Caroline couldn’t hold in the sigh. “It’s Collins, Caroline Collins.” She yanked her hand back the moment Donaldson released it and curled her fingers around the stem of her glass, hoping the chill from the bowl would somehow relieve the lingering disgust of his touch.
Bright green eyes bored into Caroline’s brown as Donaldson considered her. “Nice to meet you... Caroline.” His voice lowered an octave.
Damn it, thought Caroline, I don’t need this shit right now! She looked over her shoulder for another painting to stand at—preferably one with a crowd around it. She started a mental checklist of the best ways to politely extricate herself.
Donaldson smirked, then snapped his fingers in an “ah ha” moment. “From the paper?” His index finger stabbed in her direction.
Caroline’s smile never failed, but her shoulders tensed. She had submitted more than one story criticizing the Guastavino family, but her editor had rejected them all. Every. Single. One. She started to turn away, an angry flush rising on her cheeks.
Donaldson held up both hands, his glass stem pinched between two fingers. “Don’t be angry, Caroline. I have heard of you. Now that I’m playing for Team Justice, we’re teammates.” His lecherous smile returned. “Colleagues even.”
Two counts of suspected murder, alleged assault, money laundering, evidence tampering. For those alone he should be facing life in prison. Of course, he turned State’s evidence, with an immunity deal, and a cozy future in witness protection. All he had to do was testify to the whereabouts and amounts of Guastavino’s many offshore accounts and illegal operations.
“No,” Caroline said evenly, sarcasm flaring on her cheeks, “I don’t think so.”
Donaldson’s mask slipped, but he recovered quickly. “I was just thinking,” he declared, “this is my last week as Frank Donaldson, and it would help my soul to unburden my sins and transgressions before I’m sent away to a life of boredom and obscurity.”
“Better than a truncated life,” she retorted, taking a step back.
Donaldson responded by stepping forward. “I’m sure an exclusive interview would do wonders for a burgeoning career.” He winked. “Perhaps some investigating is in order?”
“I’ve been out of that line of work for a while, Mister Donaldson.” Caroline spied a server weaving among the crowd, two glasses of white wine balanced on her tray. “Perhaps a toast is in order?” Caroline closed the distance in a few steps, replaced her glass for the two from the tray, and handed one of them to Donaldson. Her professional smile almost faltered when Donaldson’s fingers brushed against hers while accepting the drink.
“Fare thee well, Frank Donaldson,” he toasted with a smirk, and winked at Caroline. “May better parties lie ahead.”
Caroline ignored his advance and took a sip. She scowled at the offense to her taste buds. The white wine was even worse at room temperature. She could feel Donaldson’s leer heavy on her shoulders.
The painting she had sought solace in started to morph, Donaldson’s lame come-ons echoing in her ears. Donaldson lurked in the shadows, her vision clouding. She stared at the wine flute. She was trying to come to grips with the situation when she felt like her limbs were made of stone. Unfamiliar pain radiated from all over her body.
She felt trapped, a steel grip on her arm, its weight crushing her. She knew something was amiss.
“Sir, you can’t come back here!”
“Stand down!”
Unfamiliar voices assaulted her ears.
“Collins! Collins! Wake up, you cold-blooded bitch!”
She felt something warm on her ankle, pulling it straight.
No!
“Sir, if you don’t leave right now, I’m calling security.”
“And if you don’t back the fuck off, I’m gonna arrest you for obstruction of justice!”
Something cold clamped hard on her ankle.
“Hold her down, damn it!”
Bile filled her mouth, throat, and nose. She couldn’t breathe. She heard a shriek and a gurgle, but she couldn’t speak couldn’t move.
“I said, ‘Hold her down!’ Collins, you’re only making this worse!”
“Fuckin’ whore bit me!”
Caroline’s eyes snapped open, her transition from her dream to the present complete. A flat face with a bleeding mouth loomed over her. She yanked her arm back, but a shiny metal handcuff prevented her movement. She bucked, but a pair of hands held her down. Flat Face snarled. “Caroline Collins,” he spat, spittle landing on her face, “You’re under arrest for the murder of Frank Donaldson.”
