Head To Head

by Linda Ladd

  I asked him a few more questions and found out that he had been on the set with a whole movie crew the evening she’d been killed. I’d check that out to make sure, but that was one helluva good alibi. I made sure he would be available for further questioning if I needed him, and he said they were going to shoot interior shots for Trojan on a soundstage in Los Angeles for a couple of weeks and that’s where he’d be. Our conversation seemed to have calmed him down a bit, and I left him in Mathias’s hands, dry-eyed and somber.

  As for Sylvie’s parents, I waited for most of the mourners to depart before I approached them. They seemed to be nice people, other than their bloodstained and murderous criminal activities, and both were totally crushed by their daughter’s death. She was their only child.

  “Sylvie was so sweet,” Gloria said softly. “Always there when we needed her. She called often, came home a lot. We’re very proud of her, making it in acting. That wasn’t easy, you know, to land that role of Amelia. She was up against sixty-five other women, and she got it. That was the happiest day of her life.”

  Jacques teared up but fought down his emotion. I waited a moment, aware of the herd of gun-toting henchmen watching from the doorway. “Mr. Montenegro, do you have any idea who might have killed your daughter?”

  “No, not yet. I am making inquiries.”

  “Will you let me know if you find out anything?” I said, not really expecting him to, especially if it was some of his Mafia cronies, but I still gave him my card.

  “I’m also curious about Sylvie’s relationship with Nicholas Black. Is he a close friend of your family?” Now I’d see if he admitted Nicky had been around more than today.

  “No,” he said, gazing straight at me for the first time. “The only time we’ve talked is today and when he called about Sylvie the morning after she died.”

  Liar, liar, pants on fire. Even Black had admitted more association than that. “Did she ever talk about him to you? Indicate that they were involved in any way?”

  He shook his head. “Is Doctor Black a suspect in Sylvie’s murder?”

  I evaded with my ultraskillful detective acumen. “He was one of the last people to see her alive. It’s important for me to understand their relationship.”

  Montenegro didn’t like my questions about Black, not one bit. “I think you better look elsewhere for my daughter’s murderer, Detective. Nicholas Black couldn’t have done it.”

  I was brave. I said, “How could you possibly know that, Mr. Montenegro?”

  Montenegro got a look on his face that would probably cause most of the burly, armed men standing around to wet their pants. Gloria Montenegro recognized it for what it was and quickly said, “They were not involved. Sylvie would have told me if they were. We were very close. She was in love with Gil Serna, but he was jealous, and she got tired of his possessiveness.”

  “Do you think Gil Serna is capable of killing her?”

  Jacques Montenegro gave an impatient shrug. I was irking him. I did that irk thing to people sometimes. “He’s tough in his movies, but just look at him over there, sniveling and weeping on that woman’s shoulder. He’s weak. He wouldn’t have the guts to kill anybody. Acting isn’t real life.”

  Deep thoughts from Mr. Mafioso, but I guess a man like Jacques Montenegro judged men differently than everybody else. Unsettling, with me asking him questions. I finished the interview shortly after that, realizing they weren’t being exactly forthcoming with their answers. I expressed my condolences again and left, not knowing much more than I did before I got there. One thing I did know, Nicholas Black and the Montenegros were lying about their relationship, and it was up to me to find out why.

  12

  I took a cab to the airport, sweltering like a tamale warpped in black in my staid funeral attire. Everyone, however, treated me with a great deal of respect. They probably thought I was a nun, like Black said. The airport was crowded, bustling with lots of southern accents, tourists in tank tops, and Louisiana foodstuffs, like pralines, beignets, and crawfish cakes. I thought about renting a car and buzzing up to Baton Rouge for old time’s sake; then I remembered Katie Olsen, my roommate at LSU, and what had happened to her, and nixed that idea.

  My gate was situated about a million miles down the concourse, of course, probably because I wore torturous shoes. Why didn’t I bring a change of clothes? Maybe I’d stop at one of the souvenir booths and buy a shirt that said FRENCH QUARTER or NEW ORLEANS SAINTS or VAMPIRES LOVE THE BIG EASY. That last one was more my style because it showed Anne Rice’s handsome Lestat with blood dripping from his pointy fangs. Maybe we should get something similar to encourage tourism at Lake of the Ozarks, except we could use a werewolf, or something, maybe a maniac killer who seated their victims at underwater dinner tables. This sobered me, and I increased my step.

  At my gate I sat down in an empty row of seats against a wall and massaged my pinched, screaming feet for a while. I leaned my head back and shut my eyes, but opened them when somebody sat down right beside me. Annoyed, I was about to complain that there were plenty of seats available that weren’t on my lap, but then saw that it was Nicholas Black. Well, hell’s bells.

  He said, “Hello, Detective.”

  I hardly recognized him because he’d changed out of his silk Italian suit and crisp white shirt and psychiatrist demeanor, and into a plain white T-shirt, faded denim jeans, black running shoes, and a good old boy demeanor. Gee, he looked like a real person and everything. I said, “What’s up, Doc? Slummin’ it with us peons? Thought you flew off on your own special little jet plane with your own special little flight crew.”

  “Are you always this unpleasant?”

  I pretended to consider. “Yes, sir, I usually am.”

  Black seemed tenser than necessary and exhibited a less than chipper mood. “I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

  “Didn’t I give you my cell phone number?”

  “I said it’s important.”

  “Okay, shoot.” I watched him watch the people hurrying by with their rolling suitcases or duffel bags thrown over their shoulders. Maybe he just joined me to people watch, but I admit I was curious. His flight should have taken off a couple of hours ago—a lot of time for a very busy man who must keep to a schedule. Which meant he had gone to the trouble of finding my flight number and hanging around until I showed up.

  “I have some information for you,” he said, not looking at me. He kept scanning the crowd until I got nervous and started eyeballing our fellow travelers, too. I didn’t see any lurking Montenegro types, but they could be in disguise.

  “Okay.” Sometimes I didn’t mince words.

  “You have to swear that you won’t divulge this to anybody.”

  “Sorry, no can do. I’m an officer of the law, remember? I divulge facts to lots of people, including my partner, the sheriff, the district attorney, the judge, and the jury, to mention a few.”

  “Then I can’t tell you. But it’s a substantial lead that might take you straight to Sylvie’s killer.”

  “Is that so? Maybe an obstruction of justice charge would loosen your tongue.”

  Black kept up the frowning, thought about it awhile, then obviously decided he didn’t like the sound of an obstruction charge, even though it probably had a snowball’s chance in hell of sticking with the DA. “I found out today that Sylvie had a stalker. One that’s been bothering her ever since she was in high school. I’ve got the name, and the address is down in bayou country south of the city. It’s not far, a couple of hours, tops.”

  Did that ever perk up my little ears. I got out my trusty detective tablet. “What’s his name?”

  “I thought you might want to visit and ask him a few questions while you’re down here.”

  “You thought right. Give me the name and address, and you can be on your way.”

  Black shook his head, leaned back, and propped a foot on his knee. “No can do. I want to go along. You’ll never find his place out in the bayous without me
to guide you.”

  I studied his face for a long moment, hoping to make him squirm uncomfortably for pissing off a police officer. He stared back, Doctor Cool. I said, “How do you know this area so well?” Translation: “Are you involved in Jacques Montenegro’s crime syndicate?”

  “I went to Tulane, and I also did part of my residency at Charity Hospital in New Orleans. I have friends down around the Lafourche area.”

  That was true, at least the college part, but that didn’t rule out crime connections. Maybe that was when he threw in with the bad guys? So I said, “Thanks, but no thanks. It could be dangerous, and I don’t have time to baby-sit you.”

  Black barked a laugh, as if my remark was oh just so idiotic, and the arrogant look that followed clearly said that he didn’t need anybody to take care of him, especially me. I read between the lines well, you see. What he said, however, was, “You don’t know the bayous, or you’d welcome somebody who knew his way around them.” He hesitated, as if he was still contemplating throwing in a baby-sitting reference about moi, but he quickly came to his senses and didn’t. But I’m not stupid, and I did know enough about bayou country to know it was downright spooky down there and that he was probably right, so I said, “I think a better course of action is to call the NOPD and get a couple of armed officers to come with me.”

  Our eyes met for a long moment; then he said, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. I have no way of knowing this for sure, of course, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Jacques Montenegro didn’t have a couple of NOPD officers on the payroll. The last thing you want is for Jacques to find out about this guy and have him hit before you can question him. From what I hear, Jacques doesn’t waste a lot of time asking questions before he passes sentence. That’s why I waited and told you about the stalker, instead of going to the New Orleans police.”

  Black was pretty good with this Mafia stuff. “So you’re the good guy in all this, right? Just doing your civic duty, and the detective ought to be grateful?”

  “Something like that.”

  “How long is this going to take?” I asked him, and he smiled, smelling victory.

  “We’ll probably make it out before dark, but if not, I have an old friend who’ll put us up for the night.”

  “Now you’re telling me you have an old swamp buddy who’s gonna let us spend the night with him?”

  “Yeah. It’s not a Four Seasons, but it’ll do.”

  “I’m not spending the night anywhere with you.”

  “Then we better get going.”

  A long-term stalker was the lead Bud and I had been looking for. Of course, Black might have his own reasons to identify a new suspect for me to go after while he neatly wiggled himself off my hook. But he was right about Montenegro getting to his daughter’s stalker first. The guy’d be dead before he opened his mouth.

  “I’ll have to call Charlie and obtain permission. And I’m going to tell him that you’re my source and that you are insisting on going along.”

  “I’m not going to kill you and dump you in the bayou, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

  “I’m not afraid of anything, but Charlie’ll have your ass if you try anything funny.” Just for his information.

  “I’ll be a good boy and not murder you, I promise.” Man, scorn was alive and well in New Orleans, Louisiana.

  Fishing my cell phone out of my bag, I crossed the busy concourse a good distance away from Black and punched in the sheriff’s number. I watched Black walk to the nearest coffee shop and stand in line. Charlie picked up on the first ring. “What the hell do you want?” was his gracious answering etiquette. He obviously had caller I.D.

  “Hello, Sheriff. It’s me.”

  “I know who the hell it is. What’s up? I’m on my way to a fuckin’ press conference.”

  “I want permission to take a later flight or maybe stay another day down here. Nicholas Black just told me that he’s got a lead on a stalker who’s been hounding Sylvie Border for some time. The stalker’s place is out in the bayou. He wants to go with me, says he knows the bayou country and can be useful.”

  “How does Black know about a stalker?”

  “He won’t name his source, but apparently, he’s got a lot of college friends down here, and I suspect he heard it from one of them. I want you to know I’m going off into a swamp with him, in case I never come back.”

  After a beat, Charlie gave a small sniff. “I doubt if he’s going to up and murder you, Claire.”

  “That’s easy for you to say.”

  “Nick’s not a killer. I’ve known him too long.”

  “Maybe you’re more trusting than I am. I just want you and Bud to know where I am and who I’m with, and that I don’t trust Nicholas Black as far as I can spit.” Yes, I was a little ticked at Charlie’s cavalier attitude. So what if the guy chipped in beaucoup bucks for Charlie’s election campaigns? Give me a break here. “Do you want me to check this out while I’m here or come on home?”

  “Check it out, I guess. Bud’s still in New York, partying it up on my nickel, no doubt. Just call in and keep me posted. If I’m not available, tell Jacqee.”

  Oh, right, I’ll entrust confidential information to Ms. Airhead UCLA. “Yes, sir. I’ll be sure to do that.”

  I placed the phone in my bag and waited for Black to seek me out. He strolled over a few minutes later with two black coffees and a sack of beignets, whatever the hell that was. “Everything set with Charlie? Did you give him my best?”

  I watched his dimples deepen when he smiled, but I looked away and strode off down toward the main terminal ahead of him. “Let me guess, we’re riding down to the bayous in a black stretch limousine so we won’t stick out among the natives.”

  He caught up and matched my stride. “What makes you think Cajuns don’t ride in limos?”

  I smiled, sort of, but when we exited, he led me to an old, beat-up gray Chevy pickup truck. I looked it over as he opened the door with a flourish, a real gentleman. I said, “Hertz must be going bankrupt offering these kinds of rentals.”

  “I borrowed this from a friend. As you said, we don’t want to be conspicuous.”

  “You got a lot of friends all of a sudden, don’t you?”

  I got in, hoping I wasn’t settling into my personal beat-up gray Chevy hearse. Black slid into the driver’s seat, turned on the ignition, and edged us out into the traffic. The windows were down because there was no air-conditioning, and I wondered if Doctor Millionaire could survive without his upper-upper-class perks. No conversation passed between us until we were out on the interstate and heading south toward the Gulf of Mexico. After a while he glanced over at me and then reached behind my seat and retrieved a plastic Wal-Mart bag. “I picked you up a change of clothes. You don’t want my Cajun friends to genuflect and say a Hail Mary.”

  “Enough with the nun jokes, okay?”

  Inside the bag, I found a pair of denim short shorts and a lime green halter top and white slip-on Keds. “What is this, Daisy Mae Day? And where do you suggest I clip my weapon, to my halter strap?”

  “You can hide it in your purse like Charlie’s Angels do.”

  “Yeah, and if pigs could fly, I could solve all my cases in one hour like Charlie’s Angels do.”

  “It’s hot in the swamp. All the women dress this way.”

  “In your dreams I’m gonna wear this.”

  “Yeah, that’s true, too.”

  I had the urge to laugh at that, so I looked out the window and wondered if I was losing my objectivity.

  About fifteen miles down the road, Black pulled into an Exxon truck stop and while he gassed up the Chevy clunker, I went into the bathroom and turned myself into Daisy Duke. Big mistake. When I came back out, a long line of truckers sat chugging coffee and eating cheeseburgers at the counter. They turned collectively and stared at me aghast, as if Mother Teresa had suddenly turned into Pamela Anderson. They watched me the whole time I thumbed through the T-shirt rack and finally chose one
that had an alligator eating Jerry Springer on the front. I wondered if that would help me feel at home in Cajunville. I also chose a plain white one like Black’s, so we could be twins, and a pair of low-rider jeans and some white tennis peds, a can of Deep Woods Off, and a good-sized citronella candle. I’ve seen bayou movies, thank you very much. The truckers had obviously been on the road too long, because they were still watching me browse around in my skimpy, Playmate getup, as if they’d never seen a woman before, and so was Black, now that he’d pumped and paid for the gas. Annoyed, I tore off the $6.99 price tag and slipped the Springer shirt over my head. Show’s over, fellas. Tune in to Baywatch reruns to get your jollies.

  I took my goodies to the checkout desk and added two Snickers bars and two bottles of water in case Black and I needed sustenance along the way. After all, he bought me coffee and those strange beignet thingies, which I found out were doughy fried rolls with powdered sugar all over them. I paid the kid at the counter, who also had on an alligator T-shirt, but his was eating Burt Reynolds. I returned to the ladies’ room and clipped my holster and badge on the front of my new jeans and arranged the big T-shirt to hide them. Now this was just so much better. I shouldered my leather bag and was ready to go stalker hunting.

  13

  We took Interstate 10 and crossed the Mississippi River on the Huey P. Long Bridge. Traffic was heavy until we turned onto Highway 1 South and into the far outlying areas of New Orleans, where lots of shipyards, manufacturing plants, and shabby strip malls edged the road. Then we got into low marshes and drainage ditches and decrepit houses with lots of barefoot children playing with chickens. The highway narrowed and thinned out, and we flew along without much chitchat. Black pointed out a landmark here and there, but I was more interested in talking about this supposed stalker.

  “So are you going to tell me the stalker’s name, or do I have to guess it?”

  “His name is Marc Savoy. He went through middle and high school with Sylvie. Apparently he adores her.”