Read Online Bone Song by John Meaney - Free Book Online Page A

want anything from room service?”
    â€œFor Hades's sake . . .”
    â€œJust kidding, Donal.”
    â€œWhere's the—”
    â€œShe's coming now.” Levison touched Donal's arm. “Here.”
    They walked down to the main elevator bank just as the diva's elevator arrived and the golden doors slid open. She stepped out, Maria daLivnova, diva extraordinaire.
    The hotel's general manager, Whitrose, was beside her, fawning.
    â€œUm, Miss daLivnova, you'll have met Lieutenant, um, Riordan? In charge of the . . . arrangements for your visit.”
    â€œNo, I've not had the pleasure.” Her gaze on Donal was amused, nothing more.
    But she stopped his lungs and maybe his heart.
    So beautiful . . .
    And a target, unless he did his job properly.
    â€œHonored, ma'am.” Donal made himself speak. “If we could talk some more about the security prec—”
    â€œA glamorous detective. For me. My, how I'm touched.”
    Then she swept past him, followed by her two female assistants. Both women were employees of the Théâtre du Loup Mort, assigned by the management. They'd been in the limousine at the airport to meet the diva. Donal had interviewed both of them; afterward, Levison, who was much better at forming a rapport with strangers, had talked to them individually. Neither seemed to be a security risk; both of them were already looking as stressed on the surface as Donal felt inside.
    Glamorous detective.
    Donal watched the door to the diva's suite swing shut. He blew out a breath.
    That'll be me, all right.
    The first performance changed everything.
    Donal was standing in the shadowed interior of a box on the top level. Commissioner Vilnar was one of six dignitaries seated officially inside it.
    Down below, armed officers were obvious outside the actual performance hall; in here, two department snipers in plainclothes were in another box, their rifles at their feet. Levison was seated in one of the stalls. Other members of Donal's team were scattered among the audience.
    The visible presence outside presented the first layer of deterrence, but Donal assumed that a trained killer might spot the two snipers: their grim gazes continually swept the audience below. Neither one looked like an opera lover, despite the tuxedos.
    They were the second, also visible, layer. The third layer was Donal's squad. If Levison hadn't told him, Donal would not have guessed that the overweight gray-haired lady with the diamonds and fur stole was Sergeant Miriam Delwether, one of the department's finest shots.
    This was the opening night, and if there was to be an attempt on the diva's life, this would be the most dramatic time to stage it.
    The lights went down, shadows growing unevenly inside the auditorium, and Donal was alert for any shifts of movement, any gleam of reflected light—
there.
He had to force himself to relax—
just opera glasses
—and to keep scanning, looking for any sign of a weapon being brought to bear.
    Onstage, the production swirled into life. Colorful costumes were bright, almost blazing at the edge of Donal's peripheral vision: the
Mort d'Alanquin
's opening scene took place in a royal court amid pageantry.
    None of it helped Donal's vision to remain dark-adapted. He continued to scan the audience.
    Donal was half aware of the dancing onstage. As the scene progressed, the cast tended to stand still more and the singing became more important. When the diva stepped out onto stage left, at the entrance to the royal court, Donal's gaze snapped back and forth across the auditorium: stalls, circle, boxes, flicking to the stage itself, then back to the seats below.
    And then she opened her mouth to sing.
    Oh, my Death . . .
    The diva sang, her voice pure and crystalline, pulling the audience to her with her innocent inquiry:
“Is this where the great king holds judgment?”
    When the solo was finished, the diva lowered her head as waves of applause washed through