by Linda Ladd
“Well, fellas, that puts a whole new slant on my case. Do you think she was hit by another crime family?”
“Dunno,” said Thierry. “But Jacques Montenegro’ll fin’ out.” Thierry and I had high-powered binoculars. There were a couple of surveillance guys from the FBI operating a video camera and a Nikon in the bedroom next door. Law enforcement cooperation at its finest. The feds were too busy to sit around chatting with me, but they said I could borrow their funeral tapes if I went through the proper channels.
For at least twenty minutes, Thierry had been identifying thugs, murderers, counterfeiters, and smugglers by name as they entered the church to pay their respects to the departed soap star. Jean-Claude soon excused himself and took a circuitous route out of the building and headed for the funeral, dressed in a black suit that made him look like a night-painted German tank. “I best get me o’er dere. It’s pret’ bad ’bout dat Sylvie. She was a sweet li’l thin’, dint like paparazzi knowin’ ’bout her daddy.”
The consensus seemed to be that Sylvie didn’t deserve to die, certainly not in the way she did. But Mafia connections often ended up badly—I’d watched the Godfather movies a couple of times. I perked up when Nicholas Black arrived in the typical long black limousine. Ah, this high-on-the-hog living was really something. I focused my field glasses on him when he got out of the back. “What about Nicholas Black? Does he have any kind of affiliation with the Montenegro family?”
Thierry shook his head. “He don’ come ’round much. You can check dos FBI films. They on all de time.”
“The FBI’s on the family around the clock?”
Thierry nodded; then he took off when the funeral seemed about to begin. Five minutes later I watched him through the binoculars as he climbed the church steps and disappeared inside. I wanted to be late so I could stand in the back and watch the mourners without being seen, so I hung around for another ten minutes. I was not looking forward to the next hour. I had a thing about funerals—didn’t like them, didn’t go to them, and I rarely wear dresses. Okay, I never wear dresses, but out of respect for Sylvie’s family, I put on a circa-1980 sleeveless, ankle-length black dress with a broomstick skirt. I added a black short-sleeve linen blazer over it to hide my shoulder holster, because I’ll be damned if I’ll prance around Algiers without a weapon on me. Even at a funeral. Even if I melt into a puddle in this muggy, hellish Louisiana heat. Hell, everyone who’d entered the church had a gun bulge somewhere on their person. I’d even left my sneakers at home in lieu of these too tight black patent flats, but I drew the line at panty hose. No way. I’d lost a lot of weight since I’d last worn the dress, so it hung on me like I was a metal coat hanger or a scarecrow. Oh well, that’s the way the ball bounces.
Thierry had reminded me to cover my head, so I’d picked up a black silk mantilla at a Dillard’s on the way to the funeral. Draping it over my head until I looked almost female, I entered the church and nodded at the six big goons standing guard at the holy water font. They were all suitably somber, their guns respectfully tucked out of sight. Thierry was one of them. Jean-Claude was nowhere in sight.
The church was nearly full; the drone of the priest told me that the funeral mass was well under way. I crossed myself with holy water the way I’d seen on television and lurked in the back. The deceased’s family sat together in the first few pews, and it didn’t take me long to notice that Nicholas Black was seated in the row behind them. He seemed to be alone. I didn’t recognize anyone else, until I heard loud weeping and picked out Gil Serna on an outside aisle. He was taking it hard. People were beginning to turn around to see who was bawling. He had some woman with perfectly cut and highlighted hair with him, probably his press agent, and a husky, bald guy, probably his personal bodyguard. Stars didn’t go anywhere without their “people.” I had hoped he’d come. It would give me an opportunity to interview him without Charlie having to pay for a flight out to La La Land.
The casket was closed, of course. I wondered if Black had filled the father in on the gory details. Sylvie had about the same number of flower sprays that Rudolph Valentino’d had at his funeral in the 1930s. Across the altar, down every aisle, everywhere you looked. It smelled like incense and roses, and there was quite a bit of crying and shuffling in the cavernous sanctuary. The service continued, and in deference to the black patent torture devices on my feet, I took a seat in the back row, behind a pillar. I saw Jean-Claude guarding a side entrance that led to the adjoining cemetery. What did they expect? An armed assault on the coffin?
After the Mass concluded, the casket was picked up by the eight pallbearers. To my surprise, Nicholas Black was one of them. More surprising, Gil Serna was, too. He wept like a baby all the way to the grave site. Certainly appeared to be grief stricken, but then again, he was an actor. Actors did tears.
Outside, I stood back at the perimeter of the onlookers and waited for the opportunity to approach the family. Chairs for the family and pallbearers were placed around the giant Montenegro family crypt, and the mourners began to file by and offer condolences. About the time I reached Sylvie’s parents, Nicholas Black caught sight of me and tried to head me off, probably afraid I’d offend the grieving family. After all, I was that cold-hearted bitch he didn’t like much.
“Jacques, Gloria, this is Claire Morgan. She’s the detective in charge of the investigation,” he said very low and respectful instead of whisking me away. He added something in what sounded like flawless French, which, of course, I didn’t understand and which, of course, ticked me off. Whatever he said, it piqued their interest. “Have you found out the animal who did this to my baby?” Jacques Montenegro said, eyes rimmed with red from weeping and lack of sleep. He was tall, elegant-looking, and slight. Delicate, sort of. Well, he looked like a Frenchman.
“Not yet, sir. But I will. Please accept my condolences.”
“Thank you.”
Sylvie’s mother was pretty, a small woman with graying blond hair and dark eyes. She didn’t look at me or say anything, just kept wiping her tears with a white handkerchief embroidered with red roses. I started to ask if I could come by later and ask them some questions, but Jacques beat me to it. He gestured for me to lean down close.
“I have questions for you, if you please,” he said near to my ear. Couldn’t say any mafioso had ever whispered in my ear before. “Please come to my house after this is done, and we will talk.” His Cajun accent was less pronounced than that of my undercover friends, and more educated. He wasn’t going to say gar-rawn-tee, I guarantee it.
“Yes, sir, thank you,” I said, deciding things were moving along rather well.
Black took my arm then, which was becoming an annoying habit of his, and escorted me away from the family as if he owned me. His voice remained low and guarded. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming down here?”
“Excuse me? Since when do I have to check in with you to do my job?” I tried to pull my elbow free. He didn’t let go, holding me gently, but firmly. Now I was really getting pissed off. I started to let him have it, but then that would cause a scene. I’d save that for later.
“I flew down on the Lear. You could have come with me.”
“How thoughtful of you, Doctor Black. Is that so you could keep tabs on me?”
“You might need it around here.”
“You don’t know me very well, or you’d know I can take care of myself.”
Black examined my bruised eye for a long, significant moment; then he frowned down at my outfit. “Where’d you find this nun getup? The Salvation Army?”
I said, “Ha-ha. You slay me.” An unfortunate choice of words.
Black said, “I wouldn’t suggest pulling that gun you’re wearing under the blazer.”
“Oh, darn, and I just love to shoot up funerals.”
Black did not find me amusing. Imagine. “You can ride back to the house with me if you like.”
“I thought you weren’t close with Sylvie’s family.”
“W
ho said I was? Jacques wants me to come out so he can talk to me, just like he wants to talk to you. I’m not staying long. You might as well ride along.” I was about to say I had a ride, thank you very much, when he added, “Gil and his friends are coming with me.”
“Why not?” I said, all graciousness and smiles.
Gil Serna blubbered all the way to the Montenegro estate, so I didn’t get a chance to question him, even though Black introduced us all around as we left the church. I sat across from Gil’s blond, good-looking female agent named Mathias Grobe—yeah, that was really her name—who absently patted him on the knee and murmured little things that I couldn’t understand. The big, bald bodyguard guy was named Jimmy Smith. Go figure. Not Jimmy the Rat nor Jimmy the Hammer nor Jimmy the Terminator. Plain old Jimmy Smith, and I wasn’t sure there was anything inside his head, judging by the blank stare coming out of his squinty little black eyes. Maybe he should have been called Jimmy the Lobotomy. I’m unkind; I know it. Sorry.
Nicholas Black sat beside me, and I tried not to think about how handsome he was. It was irksome that I noticed the size of his hands, the way his fingers were long and tapered and tanned where he rested one on his crossed knee. He was close enough for me to pick up a hint of a clean-smelling cologne. Nothing I recognized, but I’m not into expensive fragrances. Okay, okay, I admit it. I’m attracted to him. I’ve got hormones. He rings my bell just a little bit. So what? I just could never act on it, not as long as he was a suspect. Not even if he wasn’t a suspect. Hands off. Off limits. Bad news. Possible killer. And although I was rusty with men, courtship, dating, and anything remotely connected to any of the above, I sensed he was attracted to me as well. I wasn’t that rusty. Or maybe he was just figuring out the best way to off me. Never can tell.
“Mr. Serna,” I said at length, realizing I had to broach the subject sometime, and it might as well be now, when his tears had lessened. “I’m going to have to ask you a few questions. I realize you’re upset now, and that this isn’t a good time, but I’m due back in Missouri tonight. May I have a few minutes of your time later, after we arrive at the house and you’ve had time to compose yourself?”
Mathias looked offended at my dastardly forwardness, and Jimmy the Baldy looked like nobody was at home in his head. Then he looked straight at me and left me no doubt. Gil was distraught, but he nodded and turned to stare out the window. He could’ve been acting; he did Academy Award–caliber stuff, but I didn’t think so. It’s hard to cry so long, even if you’re not putting on a show. Trust me, I know. On the other hand, he could be crying because he cut off his girlfriend’s head and now regretted it.
The Montenegro estate was the proverbial sight to behold. More like an armed camp and Gone with the Wind set backed up to the Mississippi River. It looked like it had once been a real antebellum plantation, but there was an eight-foot concrete wall surrounding the grounds, which had to be at least twenty acres of live oaks dripping gray Spanish moss. The guards at the front gate actually looked inside our vehicle, checked the trunk, then waved us through the iron gates. I bet they didn’t even do that at Madonna’s house. Michael Jackson’s, yes.
The house had the obligatory white columns in front, actually around all four sides, supporting long, shaded verandas on both floors. I could smell the white waxy blossoms of a giant magnolia tree beside the front porch as soon as I got out of the car. The scent of roses was even stronger in the hot, motionless air. I was having a mild and sweaty heatstroke in my black blazer but resisted the urge to fan myself with my Glock automatic.
We were ushered inside a long, wide foyer that ran the length of the house, and I greeted the air-conditioning like a long-lost lover. Through an eight-foot back door, which stood open, I could see a long green lawn that stretched to the river. A barge was moving right along, the top of it visible over the levee. Drugs and prostitution obviously paid well in New Orleans.
People, all dressed in black, all hushed voices and reverent manner, were milling around the bottom floor, which was comprised of a living room, dining room, den, office, and huge kitchen in the back, probably needed to serve all the armed henchman standing around. I know because I checked it out as soon as we got there. I like to know where the exits are when visiting godfathers. Everything was beautifully decorated in pastels, not the heavy dark wood associated with the Francis Ford Coppola movies. Of course, they were Italians. Louisiana gangsters obviously liked the Florida motif and hired interior decorators from Palm Beach.
The family was receiving in the pale blue and yellow parlor, and I noticed they greeted Black very warmly. As he’d told me, he didn’t intend to linger. He sought me out where I was watching everything from a spot on the staircase. Not very subtle, but an overview. “I’ve got to get back. Would you like to fly back with me, Detective? I’ve got plenty of room.”
“This isn’t a pleasure trip, Doctor. I’ve got work to do here.” Now that sounded rather boorish and prim. I don’t know why, but I had a lot of trouble being civil when he was around. Usually I was a pretty civil person. Maybe I was subconsciously nipping in the bud that attraction thing. It was doing the trick. His eyes were about the same degree in temperature as an Alaskan glacier.
“Please let me know if I can be of further assistance to you in the investigation.” He gave me a smile that said I’ll remain studiously polite even if you’re a bitch.
I went to the window after he left the room and made sure he really was leaving like he said. Not that I didn’t trust him one bit, but I didn’t trust him one bit. I was glad I went the extra mile when I observed the Montenegro’s black chauffeur come up and give him a warm embrace. Very interesting to a trained investigative mind like moi’s. They smiled and chatted a little too long for strangers, and I stepped out on the veranda and stood hidden within a group of people admiring the view, hoping to hear what they were saying. “Don’t make it so long next time, Nicky. You missed big ’round heah.”
Well, well, did that ever justify my bitchiness. Black obviously did have more of a relationship with Sylvie and her family than a psychiatrist should. I wondered if he was into something illegal down heah in Cajun country. Drugs, maybe. Drug distributor to the stars, perhaps? Maybe that’s how he afforded multiple mansions and custom-built yachts and Lear jets. Maybe that’s why Sylvie got murdered on his property. I filed this new information to think about later. Gil Serna had finally stopped crying.
We sat down together on a navy velvet settee in one corner of the foyer for our interview. I was very solicitous.
“Mr. Serna, I am so sorry for your loss. I understand you were involved romantically with Ms. Border.”
Big tears welled up in his big chocolate eyes. Oh, Lord, waterworks again. His tear ducts were going to get on their knees and beg for mercy if he didn’t stop soon. “I was in love with her. Oh, God, God, I can’t believe this happened to her. How could it’ve happened to her? Oh, God, this sucks.”
“That’s what I’m going to find out. When was the last time you saw her, Mr. Serna?”
“Just before she left for Cedar Bend. I didn’t want her to go. I wanted her to stay with me. I had a week in L.A. before I had to go to Italy to shoot my new movie.
The working title’s Trojan. It’s a period piece, sort of like Gladiator. If she’d stayed, this wouldn’t have happened. She’d be okay. I could’ve protected her. Jimmy Smith’s with me night and day. I wish I’d sent him with her. I told her she should’ve had a bodyguard, but she said she didn’t need one down there with Black.” He looked at me like it was my fault.
I nodded, anyway. “I wish she had stayed with you, too. She was a lovely young woman.”
“And she was good, too, really good, down deep inside, you know, down in her heart. I’m not good; you know my reputation’s shit, but she was good for me. She helped me control my temper.”
“You have a temper, Mr. Serna?”
“Yeah, everybody knows about it. You didn’t know about it?”
“Did y
ou ever lose it with Sylvie Border?”
“Sure, a couple of times.” He looked at me; his eyes were dry now, beseeching me, trying to pluck my locked-up heartstrings. Actually, I think I saw him play this scene in his last movie. Right before he shot a police officer between the eyes. “But I never laid a finger on her. I couldn’t. I loved her. I couldn’t stand to be away from her very long. She made me better. I’m no good, but she made me better.”
“What can you tell me about her relationship with Doctor Black?”
He frowned and rubbed his jaw. It was unshaven, but maybe that was his Trojan look. “I figured they were having an affair. Who wouldn’t want to be with her, who wouldn’t? But she flat denied it, said he was her doctor and her friend, and that she liked him a lot and he was helping her, but she always said that’s all it was. Strictly professional, and now that I met up with him and we hung around some, I believe it. I didn’t, though, when she went off to his resort for her sessions. I called constantly. She made me crazy sometimes, when I got to thinking about her with Black. He’s known for being with beautiful women; that’s a well-known fact.”
Yeah, I noticed that. Buxom Red came to mind. “So you had no real evidence linking the two of them romantically?”
“No. She said he was just a friend.”
“Do you know anyone who might have wanted to do her harm?”
“No, no, I’ve been racking my brain, trying to think. People liked her. She was kindhearted and good. You know what she used to do? Last winter when we were in New York, she used to buy up all these winter coats and scarves and hats and stuff and take them downtown where the street people hung out. She made me take her and Jimmy Smith to keep us safe. She liked it. She used to make ham sandwiches in my kitchen, a whole basketfull, and take them down there, too. She’s just awesome, man.” He realized the tense should have been past and got a little glazed in the eyes.