Head To Head

by Linda Ladd

  My Explorer was parked in front of the sheriff’s office, and the reporters yelled at me en masse as I got in. I waved to Bud as he took off to pack his clothes for the trip to New York. He gave me the victory sign, but I wasn’t feeling nearly so good about what I had to do as I pulled my cell phone out of my bag. The white linen business card with Black’s personal cell phone number was still sticking in my visor. I dialed the number and waited, curious if he really was available at that number at any time, day or night.

  “Yes.” His voice was deep enough and distinctive enough for me to recognize it right off.

  “Doctor Black, this is Detective Morgan from the sheriff’s office.”

  “Hello, Detective. What can I do for you?”

  I hesitated. “I need to talk with you. It’s urgent. Are you available this evening?”

  “It can’t wait until tomorrow?”

  “No, I prefer to meet with you tonight. It won’t take long.”

  “Okay. Go to my office, and I’ll have Miki direct you to me.”

  I closed the phone, found myself dreading the coming interview. I put the autopsy file on the seat beside me. I needed to see him look at the gruesome pictures, but I wasn’t monster enough to like it.

  Twenty minutes later, Miki and I walked down the Cedar Bend dock that led out to the helipad. The yacht that had been custom made for the mighty Black was my destination, but it was anchored somewhere out on the lake, so there was a fancy-shmancy Cobalt 360 cruiser to ferry visitors, with a young, good-looking hunk in a tan-and-black uniform idling the motor.

  “Nick’s hosting a dinner party on the yacht tonight. They left around four, but Tyler’ll take you out there in the launch.” Miki was all business today. Not even a supercilious look to make me feel inferior. She turned and clicked away on her high heels, and I watched to see if she got one of her stilettos stuck in the cracks of the dock. She didn’t, of course—that would be gauche—and I wondered how she avoided that.

  Jumping down into the bobbing cruiser, I said as much to Tyler. He laughed. “I don’t know how any of you ladies walk in those things.”

  Sticking out one of my black high-tops, I drew another laugh. The witty detective making friends with the hunk. As he expertly maneuvered the cruiser out of the slip and hit the open water, I moved up under the canopy with him. He smiled at me, all blowing black hair and big brown eyes. A very pleasant boy. I liked him.

  “What’s all this stuff?” I asked over the roar of the motor, pointing at the big green radar screens with lots of blips on them.

  “That’s our satellite tracking system. Every boat at Cedar Bend has a device embedded in the hull that sends out a signal. They’re all equipped with these screens, too, so we’ll know where each boat is at any given time. Some of our guests get lost out on the lake, and Doctor Black wants to make sure we can find them if they get in trouble. All the boats are numbered. See this blip here, number one?” Tyler said, pointing at a moving green dot. “That’s us. We’re headed out to the Maltese Falcon. That’s the big guy.”

  “I take it Black’s a Hammett fan.”

  “Yeah, he’s a fan of everything back then. Have you seen his forties memorabilia yet?”

  “No, can’t say I have.”

  “He keeps it at his ranch out in L.A. You ought to ask him about it. It’ll make his day. He digs that stuff big time.”

  Yeah, what I was going to show him was not going to make his day. I watched all the little dots moving around the radar screen and wondered if there were ever any flaws in Cedar Bend operations. Other than a famous actress being beheaded, the doctor seemed to run a very tight ship, so to speak.

  The yacht loomed up after about twenty minutes, anchored out in the middle of the lake. Red, white, and blue lights were strung all over it like Christmas at the mall. It had a festive air, and as we tied up alongside and cut the engine, I remembered that the big Fourth of July fireworks display was tonight. No wonder Black was busy. There was music playing on board. “Bridge Over Troubled Water,” which was damned appropriate under the circumstances. Tyler helped me off on a boarding ramp at the side of the yacht. I thanked him, and as he roared off toward the resort again, I made my way toward a white-uniformed sailor type waiting at the top of the steps. His black nameplate said Geoffrey.

  “Detective Morgan, I’ve been asked to take you to Doctor Black’s office.”

  “Okay,” I said, feeling like James Bond being escorted into Goldfinger’s lair, or was that Doctor No, the guy with the big boat, that dragged 007 and a built Bond girl over some sharp coral reefs? But, hey, better get my feet back on the ground. I’m a small-town detective with no knives in my shoe, no rockets in my car’s exhaust pipes, just a real nasty autopsy file in my hand. I followed Geoffrey the sailor man along the deck, beside a gleaming rail. In fact, everything was gleaming. We passed some big, gleaming plate-glass windows, and I saw Black having dinner inside the salon with four or five guests. Gee, all candlelight and soft music and orchids. He was leaning toward a pretty woman with red hair and glittering diamonds at her throat and large breasts spilling out of her golden gown. But what else would Mr. Suave be doing? He looked more interested in Buxom Red than in the fact that his dear friend got murdered on his property. I guess fat cats take things in stride.

  “Please wait here, and I’ll tell the doctor you’ve arrived. May I get you something while you wait?”

  “Nope. I’m fine.”

  Geoffrey bowed, all crisp white fabric, tanned skin, and shiny brass buttons. Good-looking appeared to be a prerequisite for employment at Cedar Bend. I moved around the stateroom. It was supposed to be the aft quarters, but it was also an office. Large windows wrapped around the end of the stateroom and revealed a night sky with about a million stars and a long line of sparkling lights stretched out over the horizon like Buxom Red’s diamond necklace. I wasn’t sure exactly where I was, but that would be night owl traffic crossing one of the bridges. An open door revealed a good-sized stateroom for a boat, bigger than my living room. Same windows and same view and a bed big enough for King Kong and Babe the Blue Ox to get it on in. I had a feeling the redhead might hang her tiara on that bedpost overnight and really heat up those black satin sheets with the good doctor.

  “How do you like the Falcon?” Out of nowhere.

  “You make a habit out of sneaking up on people?” I was slightly annoyed that he’d pulled it off again. He was dressed in a tuxedo and looked damn good in it, too. Bond didn’t have much on him, no sirree. I had on jeans with a rip in both knees and a big blue-denim shirt over a black tank top to hide my shoulder holster. For some reason, I just didn’t fit this yachting lifestyle.

  “Didn’t mean to startle you. Please, sit down,” he said, rounding the teak desk. There was an expensive Dell laptop to one side, the top closed. The spangled night sky was his backdrop, but his face was shadowed, the desk lamp with a black shade not fully illuminating him. I had a feeling that mood was everything with him. Then he got a load of my face. “Good God, what happened to you?”

  “Ran into this criminal type who wasn’t glad to see me.”

  He frowned, not finding me amusing. “Have you seen a doctor?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Why don’t you let me take a look at it?”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. Like I said, it’s nothing.”

  He sat down; so did I. Time to be nice. I could be professional, despite my clothes. “I appreciate your time. I didn’t realize you were entertaining guests.”

  “It’s a business meeting, some colleagues from Moscow. I’m thinking of opening an office there. Would you care to join us?” He kept looking at my black eye.

  “Sorry, not in the mood for parties.”

  “Are you ever in the mood?”

  “Not since we found Sylvie’s body, and you won’t be either in about ten seconds.”

  His gaze dropped to the file on my lap; then his eyes met mine and glinted blue in the lamplight.


  “Victim’s autopsy report,” I said as I slid it across the desk. “You told Sheriff Ramsay you wanted to see it. He gave his permission and asked me to bring it out here in person.”

  When he picked it up, I braced myself. I’d put the picture of the severed head on top, and I felt about two inches tall. But I knew his reaction would tell me a lot. He took a moment, maybe bracing himself, too, then opened the folder. He came out of the swivel chair hard enough to send it banging against the windows behind him. I came to my feet, too, and he looked at me with complete and utter horror. I pretty much knew in that moment that he didn’t do it. I watched him stagger out of the room and a minute later heard water splashing. I could also hear the sounds he was making, muffled, choked up.

  The heartless detective does her job. Feeling like a dirty dog, I sat down and waited for him to compose himself. It took about five minutes. His face was pale when he came back, and he shut the folder without looking at the picture again. When he put his eyes back on me, they were so cold and controlled that I felt like shivering.

  “I guess you enjoyed that, Detective? I guess you’ll say, ‘It’s just part of my job,’ right?”

  “I didn’t enjoy it, but it went a long way to make me eliminate you from my suspect list. You can’t manufacture a reaction like that.”

  “God, you’re as cold as ice, aren’t you? What kind of person are you?”

  “You don’t have to worry about that, Doctor. Do you want to hear what the autopsy showed, or do you need to go back to your party?” It was a well-aimed jab, and his jaw hardened, a flush running up under his skin.

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “What we know now is that she was beheaded before she was put in the water. It appears he used some sort of stick to attach the head to the body, a paint stirrer, in fact.”

  He looked revolted, got up, and turned his back to me and stared out at the night. “Go on.”

  “It appears to have been quick and clean with a long blade, like a sword or cleaver, or something like that. There were other wounds, bruises, and abrasions, especially on and around the face, and there was some damage done by marine deterioration.”

  He kept his back to me. “Was she raped?”

  “Yes. With an object. Buckeye thinks it might’ve been the paint stirrer.”

  “Oh, God.” He rubbed his face with both hands, then brought his fingers back through his hair.

  Sometimes I hate myself. I hated myself right now. His voice was tortured, and I found myself wanting to round the desk and comfort him. I didn’t move. That was a job for Buxom Red.

  Black suddenly turned to me. “Something awful must have happened to you to make you this unfeeling.”

  Boy, he hit that nail on the head, but I took a moment to roll up the protective window I used at times like this. “I’m sorry you think I’m unfeeling, Doctor Black. But you’re wrong. I feel very badly about Sylvie. I want to get the person who did this awful thing to her. If it’s you, I’ll get you. If it’s someone else, I’ll get them. I won’t stop until I do, I can promise you that.”

  “Nicky, darling, is something wrong?”

  Uh-oh, Buxom Red at the door, oh so concerned, smelling like two hundred dollars an ounce and wearing fifty times that much jewelry on her impressive self.

  “No, everything’s fine. I’ve just had some difficult news.”

  The woman sashayed into the room like a cat ready to rub the heck out of somebody’s legs. She looked at me like I was a grub worm that had wriggled its way in from the deck. I stood, gentleman to the core, and Black made the introductions.

  “Gillian, this is Detective Morgan. Detective, this is Gillian Coventry from my London office.”

  “How do you do?” I said. “I won’t keep you from your guests any longer, Doctor Black.”

  “I’ll take you back in the launch myself.”

  Well, that surprised the hell out of me. “No need. I can wait for Tyler to come pick me up.”

  Black looked at me for a long moment. Maybe he was offended. Maybe he wasn’t used to anyone ever turning him down. “I need to head back, anyway,” he said. Did that ever get a look out of Buxom Red!

  “Oh, Nicky,” she purred. The cat analogy was still working. “The fireworks haven’t even started yet.”

  Interpretation: “I want to sleep with you, Nicky poo, in the worst way. I can make you scream with pleasure all night long.” Suddenly, I wondered where Ms. Coventry had been the night of the murder. She was a little scary acting, but then I’m not used to society types. Was she jealous enough to get rid of Sylvie?

  “Have you been visiting us here at the lake very long, Ms. Coventry?” I asked, watching her closely and wondering exactly what she did in London. I could think of a few things, but they weren’t kind.

  “She got in this morning,” Black said sharply, obviously well aware of my suspicions. “She never even met Sylvie.”

  The dim lightbulb deep in Buxom Red’s brain suddenly came on. “Do you suspect me, Detective?” All shrill and bent out of shape. Curls and breasts aquiver with outrage. It was a sight to behold. Dolly Parton hit by a stun gun.

  “I suspect everyone, ma’am. It’s my job.” Deadpan Jack Webb.

  “Gillian, I’ll try to see you later tonight or early in the morning before your flight out.”

  Gillian balked, but he sweet-talked her across the stateroom, out into the hallway. Then he came back and took my arm in a tight grip and led me to the launch. No sweet-talking going on now, no talking going on at all. I stepped down into the stern of the launch and sat on a padded cushion as he manned the controls. I watched him jerk loose his black satin bow tie, then grab hold of the helm with both hands, probably pretending it was my throat. He pushed up the throttle with not a lot of finesse, and the bow rose sharply, as if the pricey craft was shocked at the mistreatment, then leveled off as we gained speed across the water.

  I held on to the side, glad our little evening together was about over, and more relieved than I should have been that he didn’t appear to be guilty. Ten minutes later I was still wondering why I cared if he was or not when he suddenly cut the motor. The launch stopped on a dime and rose as the wake washed forcefully against the hull and rocked us like two babes in a cradle.

  Not good. Alone in the middle of a very deep and dark lake with a possible killer who was really, really mad at me. I reached inside my shirt and unhooked my holster. Black noticed the little snap it made.

  “What are you going to do now, Detective? Shoot me?” He spat the words out. Sharp. Angry. Not his usual impeccable diction.

  “Maybe. Depends on you.”

  “I didn’t kill her.” He was approaching me, and I wondered if Sylvie had been killed in a boat. This boat. I wondered if there was a sharp saber stowed away somewhere in the upholstery for enraged moments like this. Neither of us looked up as the fireworks started in the distance. A huge starburst exploded in the sky above us, bathing us both in pink light. Another followed quickly and painted us green.

  I said, “I don’t know if you did or not, but I will soon enough.”

  “You’re pretty damn sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Now, why don’t you start the motor again and let me get back to work?” Another burst of color, and we turned yellow before everything faded to black again.

  “I want to read the autopsy file first. Out here on the water, where I won’t be disturbed. You got the shock out of me you wanted, just the way you planned. Now give me the goddamned file. Her father’s going to want to know how she died, and I want to tell him the truth.”

  I handed over the file, without a word. He took it with him to the cockpit, sat down at the helm, and switched on a lamp above his head. I watched his jaw working as he leafed through the photographs one after another. He didn’t react visibly this time, but he read each page carefully, pulling certain pictures back out in order to check them against the written accounts. It took at least half an hour, and I sat in the rockin
g launch and said nothing and watched the magnificent fireworks. He never looked up at the show in the sky, not once. He’d made me feel like the aforementioned grub worm, and I deserved it. But hey, that’s why they pay me the big bucks.

  When he finally finished, he handed the file back to me without comment, started the motor, and headed back to Cedar Bend. When we got there, he left the launch and stalked down the dock, and it was Tyler who came running with a big smile, eager to help me off the launch and back to where my car was parked. At least somebody liked me.

  11

  “You sayin’ you dint know Sylvie was a Montenegro?”

  I was sitting in the upstairs window of a safe house overlooking the Sacred Heart Catholic Church, with two undercover guys. Both were beefy and florid, of Cajun stock, which reflected big time in their accents and mannerisms. I almost expected them to break out a fiddle and washboard at any minute and play me a foot-stomping version of “Jambalaya.” But they were all business and scary as hell, and I prayed they weren’t on the take, or I might end up as a human anchor somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico.

  I’d flown to New Orleans early that morning for Sylvie Border’s funeral, had reported in at the NOPD, and had been assigned to two gorillas posing as Homo sapiens. Don’t get me wrong, but sometimes gorillas are just what you need when you’re snooping around in a strange city. Especially when your partner got all snazzied up and flew off to New York to meet a supermodel. Thinking Sylvie’s family would reside in the Garden District or in another upscale neighborhood, I was surprised when Thierry Baxter (Baxter sounds more like Indiana than a French Cajun, right?) and Jean-Claude Longet drove across the Mississippi River Bridge to Algiers. Even I knew that place’s reputation, which, by all counts, was where all the criminals in the state of Louisiana lived and prospered happily ever after. It was also where Sylvie Border grew up.

  “Nope. Never heard of the Montenegro family until today.”

  “Some call ’em Cajun Mafia, but Sylvie’s daddy built it up all by hisself. He be de head of de family, and he already got out feelers to see who went and whacked ’is baby girl.” That was Thierry. He did most of the talking for the dynamic duo.