Silent Cymbals Read online

  Why hadn’t René made the call herself? And why would she be so late? She rehearsed at three, and it wasn’t like her to miss a rehearsal. Well, that was René. Always the chatterbox, just full of scintillating details. Rusti felt like she had fallen down the rabbit hole. Things were getting curiouser and curiouser.

  Petra looked inquiringly up from her polishing, and raised her eyebrows. “So? Did you find her?”

  “No, but she sent a message to meet her at five.”

  Petra shook her head and smiled. “It’s ironic that you two had no contact growing up, and yet you both learned belly dancing.”

  “For me, it was a way to hang onto the memories. Besides, identical twins raised apart often have mystical connections.”

  Abruptly changing subjects as she often did, sometimes in mid-sentence, Petra said, “Your eyes look great. What did you do to them?”

  “It’s René’s Cheyenne Sunset.” They both laughed. “Makes me think of trail rides in the Painted Desert,” Rusti said. “It’s always a treat to get out of L.A. and vacation on your brother’s ranch. I wish we were there this very minute. Open blue skies instead of smog, cowboys instead of gangsters.”

  “Wait’ll I get my Stetson,” Petra quipped. Then more seriously, she said, “We really ought to plan to go—and take René with us.”

  “How cool. I’ve been hoping we could do it again, but I didn’t want to hint too hard.”

  Just then a couple came into the shop. “I have to take care of them,” Petra said, slipping the jeweled box into her pocket. “Don’t go away.”

  Rusti waited a bit, but Petra got busy with other customers. Rusti finally waved her a goodbye kiss and slipped out the door, her thoughts on the mysterious phone call. She’d planned to go to the club and wait for René to show up, but since René wouldn’t be there until later another idea hit her. According to the morning paper, Razor Jones was in the hospital with a shoulder wound. That should be a safe enough place to meet an underworld type.

  Chapter Two

  The nurse at the desk told her that Mr. Jones was “stable.” Maybe he wouldn’t be so stable after she gave him a piece of her mind. A tip was one thing, but jewelry worth five hundred dollars from a high-rolling underworld character was obviously intended to compromise her sister. Not to mention the hundred-dollar bill. Just what did Razor Jones expect for his flashy tip? And what were those pills? If he was giving her sister drugs, she’d…well, she wasn’t sure just what she would do. But if René was mixed up with him, romantically or otherwise, she’d put Jerry Nickols on his tail.

  Rusti found the private room at the end of the hall. Oh, just great—there was a guard on the door. She showed her ID and after she signed his log, he let her pass.

  Razor Jones sat on the edge of the hospital bed in his infirmary garb, evidently feeling all right in spite of getting shot.

  “Are you feeling better?” she asked.

  “Yeah, great. What’s with the red wig, René?”

  “It’s not a wig, and I’m not René. You gave me this last night,” Rusti said, dropping the hundred-dollar bill down on Jones’ bed. “I’m Rusti Collins. René’s…er…Majai’s sister. Her twin.”

  His handsome face twisted into a quirky puzzlement. “So the black hair was a wig?”

  “Give the clever man a shiny gold star.”

  He didn’t crack a smile. “Where’s René?” He leaned forward. “And where’s the box?”

  Oh, no, she’d left it with Petra. “Don’t have it with me right now.”

  “Where is it?” he repeated, louder this time.

  Rusti’s face warmed, but she lifted her chin defiantly. “Why do you care? It was a gift, wasn’t it?” She was more than a little afraid of him, but she was also angry. “What about those pills?”

  Razor Jones looked like he could strangle her. His scowl drilled right through her. “I want that box!”

  “I left it with a friend.”

  “Give me a name.”

  “Never mind. I’ll give it to my sister. I don’t know where René is at the moment, but she’ll be at the club in time for her show.” She sent him her frostiest look. “But I can see that you’re in no condition to catch her act tonight.” She headed for the door.

  “Hey, come back here,” he shouted. “I’m not through with you.”

  “Oh yes you are.” As she left, she called back over her shoulder, “If René wants to give the box back to you, that’s up to her.”

  Chapter Three

  Razor Jones, alias Marc Devaux, FBI agent, knew he’d have to be satisfied with that for the moment. If that stunning redhead gave the box to René as she promised, everything would be copasetic. Until then, the entire operation was in jeopardy. If that box got into the wrong hands, René’s cover would be blown all to hell. And his. If he let his guard down, they could both end up like their late go-between, Thurlo Kincaid, who’d ended up face down in an alley with a shiv in his back.

  With Kincaid gone, he had to contact René directly. And now, as if that wasn’t bad enough, this feisty version of René waltzes in here and says René is missing.

  Great! René was the only person in L.A. who knew his true identity. He’d been playing this game for so long that he actually identified with Razor Jones, Enrico Terrilla’s righthand man, the crime boss’s protégé. And why not? He’d had only two other visitors—both crooks—aside from Ben Guerreo, who’d volunteered to pick up his car from the Egyptia and take it home for him. Terrilla himself, down with gout, had called twice and sent an elaborate floral arrangement. Tropicals. Jesus, what a morning.

  In all his years with the bureau, Devaux had never considered volunteering for an undercover assignment—until his brother Sean was brought down by a drug dealer’s stray bullet. That night at the hospital he’d promised his mother that he’d put the L.A. drug dealers out of business. He’d been on a mission ever since. God, what a business. It wasn’t only dangerous, it was dirty. And he was good at it. Too good. He’d felt for some time now that a really decent man would have to work harder at it. And when thoughts like that began to plague an agent, things got complicated. Nothing brought that home as much as running into a woman like Rusti Collins. An innocent. He could spot the type a mile away. She could be dangerous. And in danger. He had to get that box back from her. Now.

  Wherever René was, she must have heard about the shooting. It was all over the papers and the TV news. She couldn’t come by, of course, or even risk calling. But where the hell was she? He’d left a coded message on her cell phone yesterday, telling her to scrap their original plan—that they were about to nail Terrilla, way ahead of schedule, and he’d hand her the evidence that night. Why hadn’t she received the message? Damn! He should never have handed off that box without René’s personal okay. Good God, a twin. René’s background information hadn’t mentioned any siblings.

  Certainly not a twin. He had to find out what was going on.

  Devaux ripped the IV from his hand, found his trousers hanging in the locker, and with some difficulty—his shoulder hurt like hell—got into them. He needed a fresh shirt and a gun—the cops had relieved him of the .45 he was carrying last night. Both he could get at home. He awkwardly tucked the gown inside his pants and made a dash for the stairwell. There was a cop bent over the counter talking to the ward nurse. Was he here to stop a second attempt on his life? Or follow him if he tried to leave? He had to be careful. The cartel had a plant inside the police department.

  Within minutes Devaux was at the hospital entrance. A cab parked at the curb had the FOR HIRE sign up. This was too damned convenient. Why? He glanced around, looking for plainclothes cops or anyone who looked suspicious. Wary, he climbed into the cab and gave the driver the address of a liquor store two blocks from his apartment. It had a back door to an alley where he could ditch a tail. After the shooting last night, he couldn’t trust anyone, be sure of anything.

  The chaotic scene flashed in his mind. If he and his team had somehow blow
n their cover, which he doubted, he could understand a hit on himself or on René. But why rub out Bull? Jesus, a bullet through the head. Terrilla trusted him and Bull implicitly. He doubted that the old Capo was behind the hit. None of this made any sense. And now, with things about to gel, this intriguing twin suddenly appears out of nowhere and throws a monkey wrench into the mix.

  Chapter Four

  Rusti hurried into the Club Egyptia around 4:30 P.M., her head swirling with questions only René could answer. Bob Cane, the club bouncer, smiled and held the door open for her. The soft-spoken, six-footer reminded Rusti of a dashing Pasha in his turban and velvet trimmed vest. A jeweled scimitar hung at his side. Just seeing him in this exotic regalia always made Rusti smile.

  “Hi, Bob,” she said. “Is my sister here?”

  He nodded. “In her dressing room, waiting for you.”

  Good, Rusti thought. She had stopped by Petra’s for the pillbox and didn’t intend to let René skate by with one of her vague explanations and amused smiles. Not this time. She wanted details about that gangster and his pillbox. Particularly its contents. “Did she say anything about what happened last night?”

  Bob shook his head. “You know René. But she seemed stressed. Not that you could blame her. She could’ve been killed last night.”

  “If I have my way, that sister of mine will get herself another job. Too many gangster-types use this place as a hangout.”

  Something flickered in Bob’s eyes that Rusti couldn’t read. Maybe his look meant he had a crush on René and didn’t want her to quit. But all he said was, “Yeah, especially lately.”

  Thank heavens it was too early for crooks. Besides Bob, Rusti saw only Kirby, the bartender, setting up for the evening trade. He and René were good friends, buddies, René had said, but Rusti wondered if there wasn’t more between them. And why not? Kirby seemed nice enough. And he was the kind of guy who stood out in a crowd. A dramatic streak of platinum in his dark hair accented his rugged good looks.

  Rusti waved a greeting and removed her sunglasses. It was always too dark inside the club, and today the lights were dimmer than usual. “Please turn up the lights, Kirby,” she said. Even with her sunglasses off she could barely see the fresco of the Giza Pyramids, or the painted camels that flanked the entrance to the backstage hallway. Maria, the maid, nodded a greeting and continued vacuuming.

  “René,” Rusti called, knocking at her sister’s door. It swung open.

  Rusti gasped. Drawers had been pulled out and costumes strewn all over. A chair lay on its side. A tingling sensation slithered up her spine. Hesitantly, she entered the room. When she stooped to pick up René’s favorite turquoise veil, she gasped, spying the hand with its designer nails extending from behind the toppled modesty screen. She rushed forward and lifted the screen. René lay face up; a knife protruded from her blood-soaked breast.

  Rusti heard her own scream echo off the walls of the room. “Oh, God. No! Not René.” Nausea threatened to overwhelm her. She knelt and touched her sister’s throat, searching for a pulse. There was none. But there had to be. Fighting her rising panic, she tried again. It was futile. She sat on the floor beside her twin and caressed the long fingers of her left hand.

  The nails were silver—with tiny gold rhinestone-studded triangles glued to the metallic enamel. They were so typically René.

  “What’s going on in here?” the maid asked. “Who screamed? Oh my God!” She crossed herself. “Kirby! Bob! Hurry! It’s Majai!”

  Kirby burst into the room with Bob right behind. Kirby bent down and listened for a heartbeat. He looked up, his eyes misty, and shook his head. Bob dialed 911 while Kirby helped Rusti to her feet. She wanted to stay with René, but with an unrelenting grip Kirby led her through the door and out into the hallway, murmuring, “I’m so sorry, Rusti, so sorry. We all loved her.” The words rolled off Rusti. She felt as though she might shatter into a million pieces.

  Before Rusti realized where he’d taken her, she found herself in Mike’s office, sipping a splash of brandy. She couldn’t stop trembling.

  Kirby took the glass from her and put a sweater around her shoulders.

  Slowly, her trembling subsided. Minutes that seemed like hours passed until the police arrived. A uniformed cop asked her a few questions and took some notes. Then LAPD’s barrel-chested homicide detective, Carl Baxter, arrived and took over.

  “You were alone when you found her, Ms. Collins?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Rusti said softly, wishing she’d wake up from this nightmare.

  Maria frowned. “Can’t this wait? She just lost her sister. I told you only Rusti was there.”

  “I’ll get back to you,” Baxter growled. “I want to hear this firsthand from the person who discovered the body.”

  Kirby handed Rusti a mug of hot coffee. She closed both hands around it, desperately needing to hold onto something solid to quiet her trembling hands. René is dead. I’ll never see her alive again.

  Kirby knelt down beside her. “Take a sip, Rusti. It’ll help.”

  Rusti nodded. She lifted the cup to her lips and winced at the bitter taste, but continued to sip the hot brew. It warmed her insides, her icy hands.

  “I put the closed signs out,” Mike told Baxter. “And your guys crime-taped the parking lot and are out there turning away the dinner crowd. For all intents and purposes we’re closed, but my people are still on the clock. Are you through questioning them, yet?”

  “No. Have ’em stick around.” Detective Baxter pulled up a chair and sat opposite Rusti. She stared straight ahead into his wide, brown eyes, surprised by their immediacy. “You didn’t see anyone, Ms. Collins?”

  “No,” Rusti said, aware he wanted more. Please, she prayed, don’t let any of this be real. But it was real. René was dead, kept replaying in her head.

  Rusti looked around the room, seeing it clearly for the first time. Mike sat on the edge of his desk, his expression failing to hide his impatience. In the corner by the door, Bob was whispering to Zena, a back-up dancer. Maria glared at the detective. It’s okay, Maria, Rusti thought. He only wants to find out who killed René.

  Baxter’s deep and commanding voice penetrated the fog that had closed around her. “Were you and your sister on good terms?”

  “Of course, I loved my sister deeply. What are you suggesting?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  Kirby shot a sharp look at the detective. “Anyone here can tell you they got along just fine,” he said.

  Mike rolled his eyes. “Rusti isn’t a killer. She’s a kindergarten teacher for crissake.”

  The detective ignored the men. “Is everyone here who was in the club when you came in, Ms. Collins?”

  Before Rusti could answer, Maria piped up and said, “Everyone’s here. But Neal Jordan was here earlier delivering René’s new costume. That was right after lunch, though, and René didn’t come in until about 3:00 P.M.”

  Baxter jotted something down in a little notebook and continued questioning Rusti. “Whoever killed your twin trashed the place, looking for something. Drugs? Cash? Did she keep valuables of any kind in the dressing room?”

  “I don’t know,” Rusti said. “I don’t know anything more that can help you.”

  Baxter leaned closer. “She seems to have scrawled something in the blood. Any idea what it was?”

  Stunned, Rusti looked to Kirby for confirmation.

  He nodded. “Bob noticed it after we left.”

  “I didn’t see it,” Rusti said, feeling numb.

  Detective Baxter frowned. “The bouncer told me your sister wanted to see you the minute you came in. What was that all about?”

  Rusti shook her head. “I don’t know.” His steady stare and the somber expression in his dark eyes made her feel she was failing René. “I’m sorry. I wish I could be more help.” It was difficult getting the words out past the lump in her throat. She brushed away a tear that had formed on her lashes.

  Zena, Mike’s curr
ent girlfriend, chewing hard on her gum and looking bored, rose to her feet. “Look,” she said, “I don’t know nothin’ either. Can I leave now?”

  “Sit down, Zena,” Mike ordered.

  Zena, statuesque and beautiful, straightened to her full six feet. She flipped her midnight-black hair in a dramatic gesture and glared down at him. It was rumored that Zena’s father had mob connections. Mike, who had taken Zena under his wing, denied it, admitting only that her old man was a tyrant, whose cruelty had taken its toll on Zena.

  “I mean it, Zena,” Mike snapped. “Sit.”

  Zena darted him a dirty look, but complied.

  Detective Baxter stared at Zena’s long legs as she crossed them, slowly, provocatively.

  “You and Majai were friends, Zena?” Baxter asked.

  Her eyes lit up wickedly. “Closer than twins,” she said.

  “Knock it off, Zena,” Mike told her.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Bob said. “It could have been a P she tried to draw. Maybe an F.”

  “Or an R,” Zena said.

  “Razor Jones,” Rusti whispered, more to herself than the detective.

  “He’s on our list of suspects,” Baxter said. “Oh, one more thing, Ms. Collins. Officer Davis says you told him that you danced in your sister’s place last night.”

  Mike’s eyes widened. “What?”

  All attention flashed to Rusti. “Yes,” she said. “I did.”

  Zena shot to her feet. “Mike, you bastard!” she said, her eyes full of fire. Flush-faced, she lit into Mike. “You promised I could be René’s replacement.”

  To help Mike out, Rusti piped up and added, “I wore a black wig, Zena. Mike didn’t know.”

  Zena glared at Rusti.

  It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Rusti turned back to the detective. “Twins do things like that for each other.”

  The questioning continued. Rusti heard the replies through a dull ache. Mike didn’t think there was any connection between the shooting and the stabbing. Kirby didn’t think René had any special boyfriend. No one thought René used drugs.