Free Bone Song by John Meaney

silence. Backing out of the box, he wiped tears from his face with the back of his hand, and by the time he reached ground level he was practically normal. The two detectives stationed at the side entrance to the auditorium were still damp-eyed.
    â€œBe professional,” said Donal as he went through.
    â€œSir.”
    From the side, Donal watched as multiple bouts of applause rose, ebbed, then washed higher once more. The company took bows, but the loudest cheers were reserved for the diva (and secondmost for the prince, or rather the man who sang that part, whose name a quarter of the audience and none of the police knew).
    Flowers arced through the air, hurled by enthusiastic operagoers, and Donal winced each time one of the snipers moved up in their box. But neither of them raised his weapon over the balcony's edge.
    A young girl brought a huge bouquet, taller than herself, up onto the stage. The diva accepted it and kissed the girl's cheek, which brought a fresh wave of applause.
    Finally, the curtain went down and stayed down. The lights came up, the sudden brightness forcing Donal to squint. Happy people, murmuring and chattering, threaded their way up the aisles to the exits, while Donal's tension was strung tight.
    He had been relieved in the emotional aftermath of the final aria. But now everyone's guard was down, and this was a danger moment. No one had said the diva had to be onstage for the killing to occur.
    â€œStay alert, damn it,” he said to the two Brodowskis as he climbed backstage.
    â€œHuh? Right.”
    â€œGot it, Lieutenant.”
    There was a press of well-wishers in the diva's dressing room, champagne in a silver rune-chased bucket, woven heptagrams of blue orchids and indigo roses, and a chattering cacophony of congratulations. Levison, in his unassuming way, stood in the background, assisting with the bouquets.
    â€œThank you so much,” Levison murmured to the florid son of a well-known businessman, owner of the Black Viper supermarket chain.
    The businessman's gaze didn't even flicker in Levison's direction.
    From the doorway, Donal watched and raised his eyebrows as Levison took charge of another bouquet. The slightest of quiet smiles passed across Levison's face: it meant everyone was ignoring him, unaware that his presence ensured the diva's safety in this room.
    Donal eyed the diva's visitors. Platinum skull-shaped cuff links, white-gold torques with diamond insertions . . . No overt weapons. And no body language that betrayed anything more urgent than the need to bask in the diva's presence.
    For a second, the diva noticed Donal and gave the tiniest of nods. He felt a sensation like a multitude of sprite fingers playing down his spine. Then the diva's attention was on a large woman in an ivory-white gown who was offering congratulations, and the moment was past.
    Donal forced his way back into the narrow corridor. Then he went back to the stage, checking angles and examining shadows. All clear. The Brodowski Brothers were now at the side exit, and Al—the slightly taller one—opened the metal door for Donal.
    Outside, the limo was ready. Two of Donal's squad, Petrov and Duquesne, dressed in their best suits, were standing by the vehicle. Their gazes roved the rooftops as well as ground level.
    â€œSo far, so good,” said Duquesne. “We got Avram up on the roof. No problems there.”
    â€œNo relaxing yet.”
    â€œRight.” Petrov spared a second to look at Donal. “And how many nights do we keep it up for?”
    Donal didn't answer. The question was rhetorical, and Petrov's tone was mild: not a complaint but an observation.
    Damn, damn, damn.
    Because no one could keep alert forever.
    At the official reception afterward, there were canapés and hors d'oeuvres and who-knew-what savories on the buffet. Commissioner Vilnar looked resplendent in his cummerbund and even congratulated Donal on the arrangements so far.
    â€œThank you,