She’d gotten Damon out of harm’s way—he was safely in L
.A., and that meant that the security footage wouldn’t work as a smoking gun for him, but it would establish that Marco and Damon knew the woman—even if only Marco had killed her. Even if Marco wasn’t charged, the scandal of him being a person of interest might destroy both him and Damon.
For the next seven hours, Tasha roamed the city, checking the locations she’d identified earlier. It was nine fifteen. If they had access to Marco’s schedule they’d assume he was done by now, meaning if anything was going to happen tonight it would be now.
Tasha slipped through the lobby of an office building, using a connecting door to enter the structure next door, then finally climbing fifteen flights of stairs to reach the roof and her chosen vantage point. There were two possibilities she could see from here.
A dark-haired man walked out of a shadowed doorway. He wore a suit and his head was bent. From a distance, his build and haircut were similar enough to Marco’s that someone could mistakenly think it was him.
After a quick spike of adrenaline, Tasha forced herself to calm down. Cold settled around her like a cloak. Using the roofs and fire escapes as a highway, she went down half a block before dropping to street level. There was an alley that ran behind all the buildings on that side of the street. Tasha’s feet were practically silent on the concrete and she slipped between the dumpsters.
The body was still warm. Dark hair blended with the shadows, but the face was undeniably that of the redhead. The dye job was recent—they’d forgotten to do her eyebrows, which were a pale red-gold.
There were four stab wounds across her belly just below her breasts. There was relatively little blood—she’d suffocated from punctured lungs. It was a bad way to die. Tasha had to accept that if she hadn’t taken a long way around to get here the girl might still be alive.
She put latex gloves on over the leather ones she already wore and took a tiny flashlight from her pocket and used it to scan the area around the body. Marco’s tie was a few feet away and speckled with blood. Tasha tucked it into her pocket. Checking the woman’s coat, she found a few blond hairs—Damon’s hair—that the decoy had grabbed last night. Inside the dead woman’s coat pocket, she found a phone, which was undoubtedly Marco’s.
She checked the scene again. The murder weapon was gone.
It was possible they’d gotten hold of a knife Marco had touched, but it was more than likely the real murder weapon was going to be planted on Marco’s
person or amongst his belongings. Tasha made her way back down the alley, using a service entrance to a hotel kitchen to escape unseen.
It was a race against time. She had to find that knife and make sure it couldn’t be tied to Marco. The most obvious choice was the condo, followed by the Symphony Center. If she were the one planting the knife where would she go?
If she got this wrong, Marco’s life could be over.
Tasha took off running.
*****
Marco’s fingers flew over the strings. His focus was absolute. The first-chair violinist stood with her eyes
closed, her simple jeans and sweater nothing like the long black velvet gowns she wore for concerts. But it didn’t matter what she wore, or what he wore. All that mattered was the music. Marco had stayed because of Tasha’s instruction, and if she hadn’t made the demand, he wouldn’t be sitting on the nearly empty stage improvising with the first chair violinist. Music was his home, a place where he was grounded. He’d needed this.
Vivian’s fingers were flying as she changed key and tempo. Marco followed her lead. On and on their song went. It didn’t ever have to end.
There was a screech as the bow slid down the strings of the violin.
Marco looked up. “Vivian? You okay?”
“What’s going on?” Using her bow as a pointer, she indicated stage right. Two guards were running while shouting into walkie-talkies.
Marco wasn’t sure what to do and he was keenly aware of Tasha’s instructions to make sure there was someone with him. Before he could decide if he wanted to investigate, the CSO manager hustled onstage.
“Marco, Vivian. You’re both okay?”
“What’s going on?”
“Someone broke in—actually, she broke in to your dressing room, Marco. One of the tech crew heard something and they found her when they went to check. We’re calling the police.”
“Her?” Marco rested his cello in its stand. “Where is she?”
Together, he and the manager hustled backstage, Vivian trailing behind them. Marco, as a guest—though he played with the CSO so much he was practically a member—had his own dressing room. Vivian and the conductor did also. The dressing rooms were down a short hall that contained the ticketing office and the electrical room.
Two security guards were dragging a figure out of his dressing room. “Careful, there’s blood on her,” one warned.
Marco’s heart stopped when he saw who they held. Tasha was wearing a skin-tight black suit and her right hand was covered in blood.
“Wait.” Marco rushed forward, brushing past the manager. “Leave her alone.”
“Do you know her?” the manager asked.
Marco met Tasha’s gaze. She shook her head slightly, but Marco ignored it. He wouldn’t let them carry her to jail. “Yes,” he said. “I do.”
“You should have told me that there was someone stalking you.” The manager looked worried. “I would have added more security.”
Marco forced a laugh. “Stalking?
Hardly. This is my girlfriend.”
All eyes swiveled to him.
“Your girlfriend?” Vivian asked.
“Yes, this is my girlfriend…Natasha. She gets a bit pissed when I miss dinner reservations.” Marco hoped he didn’t sound as stupid as he felt. This was the
lamest cover story in the world.
Tasha’s eyes widened for a second, then she jerked free of the guards and threw her hands in the air.
“You!” She pointed a bloody finger at Marco. “You think you can ignore me? Your music is more important?” She suddenly had a thick Russian accent. “Do you see this? I bleed for you. I cut myself coming to see you, but you are too busy, you do not even give them my name.”
“Uh, Marco, are you sure she’s not…uh.” The manager was trying to find a polite way of asking if she was sane.
“She’s a model,” Marco blurted out. In his experience, the craziest ones were always models.
Tasha picked up this new piece and ran with it. “And you see what I’ve done?” She motioned to the all-black suit. “There’s blood on it and dust. This is a new piece from
Proenza Schouler. What will I tell Lazaro when he sees it? I wore it for you.” Tasha ran her hands slowly down her sides, drawing everyone’s attention to her body. “But you prefer the curves of the cello.” She sneered. “I will find a man who appreciates me.” She turned to the security guard who only minutes ago had been dragging her out. “You. You wish to fuck me?”
“Uh…”
Marco was biting his tongue to keep from laughing, but now it was time for him to do his part. Two could play the crazy card.
He grabbed her arm and jerked her forward. “I am the only man you’ll fuck. And you will wait for me, always.”
He cupped her head, wrapped an arm around her back and kissed her.
Someone cleared his throat, but Marco didn’t stop. When he did eventually break the kiss, Tasha was panting. Only a guard, the manager and Vivian remained.
“An actual girlfriend?” Vivian asked. “Good for you, Marco. You need someone in your life.” She touched the head of her bow to his shoulder. “I’ll wait for opening night for proper introductions.”
“You’re sure you’re okay?” The manager was looking at Tasha nervously.
She cuddled against Marco’s side. “Lyubov moya, I’m sorry. But you know you cannot keep me waiting.” She stuck out her lower lip in a pout and trailed her hands down his belly. She slipped her fingers under the waistband of his pants. Marco jerked in surprise. The manager and guard were both riveted.
“If you’ll excuse me.”
The words were strangled as Marco tugged her hand out of his pants. “Can someone bring me my cello?” Marco herded Tasha to his dressing room. She was cooing at him in what sounded like Russian while she plucked at his clothing.
The instant the door closed, her face went blank and hard. “Lock the door and get the bag out of a garbage can.”
“Tasha, what’s going on?”
“Later.”
Marco looked around his dressing room—everything seemed fine, except that his instrument case was open on the floor. A black coat lay in a heap on the floor, but it didn’t look like the one Tasha had left in.
She knelt beside his cello case, peering at the black velvet lining. “The bag,” she snapped.
Marco pulled the liner from the garbage can and passed it over. She wrapped it around her hand and reached in to the case, feeling along the edge.
“Got it,” she said.
“Got what?”
She held up what she’d found—a steak knife.
“The murder weapon.”
Marco’s vision darkened and he sat down. “Murder weapon? Who did you kill?”
Tasha folded the knife into the bag. “Do you take the cello home with you?”
“Yes. Tasha, who was murdered? Why was the knife in my case?”
“Good, I can deal with the blood when we get it to your condo.” She went to the small couch across from the dressing table. Kneeling, she reached under it and pulled out a pair of black gloves and a small silver item about the length of a phone but only an inch wide.
“What’s that?”
“My knife.” She flicked a button and a blade shot out of the end. It was bloody. She wiped it clean with the gloves, careful not to touch it, and then put both into the garbage bag.
Reaching back under, she pulled out a tie and a
cellphone, which she shoved into the bag. Finally, she bundled the jacket from the floor in on top of everything and twisted the bag closed. “I don’t think he had time to plant anything but the knife, but look around. Tell me if you see anything out of place.”
Marco looked around, but he was having trouble believing what he was seeing. “Why is there blood on your hand? Who was murdered? Who is he?”
Tasha stepped onto a chair and peered at the top of the wardrobe unit. “He is the man who murdered Sandra. She was stabbed with the knife that was in your case. He planted it there in order to frame you for murder. I followed him and we fought—that’s why there’s blood on my knife. That’s his jacket.”
“Did you kill him?”
“He ran. I stayed. I needed to distract them so no one would search your dressing room and find the knife.”
There was a knock.
Tasha jumped off the chair, tousled her hair with her left hand and unzipped her bodysuit down to her bellybutton, letting it gape open to show the inner curves of her breasts. She grabbed Marco’s shirt and yanked. Buttons went flying. “Answer the door.”
In a daze, Marco unlocked and opened the door. The manager was cradling his cello. The proper older gentleman took one look at Marco’s bare chest and ripped shirt and jerked his eyes to the ceiling.
“Here you go.”
Marco opened the door enough to accept the cello. Tasha had positioned herself on couch, and was trailing fingers up and down the bare triangle of flesh she’d exposed.
“Lyubov moya, come back to me.”
“Would you call me a car?” Marco smiled weakly. “Thanks.”
He took the cello and all but slammed the door in the manager’s face.
“I thought my reputation with women couldn’t get any worse. I was wrong.” Marco sighed and laid the instrument into the case and closed it.
“You’re the one who started it,” Tasha said. There was a hint of anger in her words. “I would have been fine on my own.”
“Beautiful, no, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m just a little freaked out.” Marco reached for her but she turned away.
“How long until they bring you a car?”
“Ten minutes.”
“That’s okay. I can wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“Doesn’t matter.” She tapped her fingers against her thigh in a steady rhythm. “I got the evidence he planted on the body, and you’re now well alibied here. The assassin looked confused when he saw your jacket and the cello case—he didn’t think you’d be here.”
Marco took a minute to absorb what she was saying. This whole thing felt surreal. “Why bring the knife here?”
“Tomorrow an anonymous tip would be called in to the police saying you’d killed the woman whose body someone will find tonight or tomorrow morning. The police would search the condo first and then come here. They’d find the knife with her blood on it in your possession. If you’d left on time you would have had a less firm alibi for the time of the murder—an alibi that might be overlooked due to physical evidence. Your tie was near the body, your phone in her pocket. Damon’s hair was on her coat.
“You’d be a suspect in the murder, your connection to Damon would come out in the investigation, and the resulting scandal would bring enough public attention to both of you that the Trinity Masters’ secret would be in real jeopardy.”