Head To Head

by Linda Ladd

  “I think I’ll pass this time. I want to check out the crime scene at night. If the perp got her after dark, I want to retrace his steps and see things the way he saw them.”

  Harve glanced up from the file. “Good God. The head was taped to the chair?”

  “The duct tape held it in place. You know, Harve, I thought something looked funny about the head at retrieval, but none of us suspected it was actually severed until Buckeye cut through the tape.”

  “So why the hell would somebody cut off the head, then reattach it? Doesn’t make a lick of sense. I’ve heard of decapitations before and using the head as a trophy, but nothing like this.”

  “Maybe he did it in a rage, then regretted it? Tried to fix it.” I popped the V8 tab and took a sip. Harve was nursing a Heineken.

  “There’s not much rage in this murder. The body’s been beaten with some kind of object that leaves those half-moon shapes but not too badly, except for the face, and some of that damage might’ve been done by the fish.”

  Suddenly, fried crappie didn’t sound so appetizing. I would definitely skip Dottie’s fish fry. “Have you seen any cases similar to this?”

  Harve shook his head. “We’ve both run across cases where the victim’s positioned in a specific way, especially in serials, but that’s usually done for a reason. We can check out the FBI’s database of recovered body parts. I’ve got a friend at Quantico who’ll do a search for me. Might find something that ties in with this one.” He frowned. “I just can’t figure why the perp reattached the head.”

  “Reattached the head? Gross. Don’t say any more; it’s almost time to eat.” We hadn’t heard Dottie slip in from the back porch. She was dressed in khaki shorts and a light blue sleeveless tank top with a heart made out of red glitter on the front. Smiling, she held up a good stringer of bass and crappie. “Possum Cove’s a treasure trove, and my dirty little secret. I found a fishing hole just below Suze’s place that’s teeming with fish just for me. Lots of brush and a rickety old dock. I’d give anything if I could get you over there, Harve. You’d be in the box seats of Nirvana.”

  The box seats of Nirvana? Dottie said stuff like that all the time. Not fish heaven, not angler’s paradise. But box seats in Nirvana. Dottie was a unique person, and she beamed at me. “You’re staying for dinner, aren’t you? I gotta hear your impressions of the delicious Doctor Black.”

  “I’m gonna have to pass, Dot. I want to go back to Sylvie’s bungalow and look the place over again. Yeah, and by the way, Black’s pretty much everything you said he’d be.”

  Dottie slung her catch from Nirvana into the kitchen sink, with a clatter of the metal stringer. “I bet even you felt the chemistry, right? What’d I tell you? He’s something, right?”

  “Even me?” Mock hurt. But sometimes the truth hurts. I hadn’t been out with a man since I’d known her. What else was she going to think? “He’s involved in the case, so that means hands off even if I was interested, and I’m not.” Sometimes I tell little white lies. “I don’t think he did it, but some things about him just don’t add up.”

  Harve looked at me with interest. “Like what?”

  “Like he said he hardly knew Sylvie’s family, but I saw him embracing some of their help, who acted like they wanted to kneel down and kiss his ring.”

  “You thinking he’s working for the Montenegro family?”

  I said, “He throws around an excessive amount of money, even for a doctor/real estate developer. Maybe he supplements his lifestyle with drugs and dirty money. Maybe he launders it for them.”

  “Who’s this Montenegro family?” Dottie washed her hands and dried them on a dish towel as she approached the table. When she reached for the file folder, Harve put his palm on it before she could pick it up. “You don’t want to see these, hon. It’s got the autopsy photos in it.”

  “Oh, Lord, no, I don’t. Thanks for warning me. But who are the Montenegros?”

  “Sylvie’s dad turned out to be a crime figure in New Orleans. Some people say they’re a Cajun Mafia.”

  Harve said, “And that opens all kinds of cans of worms.”

  “Jacques Montenegro informed me he’s making inquiries, to quote him. This may kick off a Mafia war. The feds’ll be thrilled. They’re already surveilling them.”

  Dottie looped an apron over her head and tied it behind her back. She flopped a bass on a wood cutting board and lopped off its head with a meat cleaver. “So you think Doctor Black is involved with a crime family?” She shook her head as she cleaned the fish. “Who would’ve guessed that?”

  “My hunch is that he might’ve been more seriously involved with Sylvie than he’s letting on. Maybe he had an affair with her while he was married and doesn’t want it to get out. She’s a patient, and he’s got a reputation as a psychiatrist to protect. Bud’s in New York right now interviewing his ex-wife. It’ll be interesting to hear what she has to say.”

  “Please stay and eat, Claire.” Dottie turned around and gave me a beseeching look. “I want to hear everything. We never see you anymore. By the way, I put your mail on your front porch swing, about three days’ worth.”

  “Thanks. I’ll take a rain check on the fish, I promise. I’m not finished with the paperwork on my New Orleans trip, and Charlie wants this one done strictly by the book.”

  Twilight was settling in over the lake, a dark purple haze that looked like a gauzy curtain. When I arrived at Cedar Bend, I found Black had installed a new security post, which was manned by two guards at the entry gate. They were stopping people going in and out of the resort, and I rolled down my window and held up my badge. It wasn’t Suze Eggers this time, and I wondered if Black had fired her since Sylvie had died on her watch. “I’m Claire Morgan, primary on the Border case. I’m headed out to the crime scene.”

  The new guard was big and tough and looked like he’d been around the block a few times. I had a hunch he was either retired military or big city cop. He had these watchful cop eyes, blue and unreadable. He looked like somebody I’d want backing me up in a sticky situation. Nicholas Black was getting serious about his security staff.

  “Yes ma’am. If we can be of assistance, let us know.”

  “Thanks.” I looked at his nameplate. It said John Booker. “You’re new, right, Booker?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Just came on this week. Nice to meet you.”

  “Ditto. Anybody else come through here requesting admittance to the crime scene?”

  “No, ma’am. Lots of press trying to get through, but we’ve kept it cordoned off on Doctor Black’s orders.”

  I attempted my best nonchalant tone. “What about Black? He been down there?”

  Booker shook his head. “No, ma’am. Not to my knowledge.”

  I thanked him and took off down the road to the murder site. Tourists were everywhere on the lake, obviously not turned off by a grisly murder on the premises. The media was discussing nothing else, but we’d held them off pretty well so far. They hadn’t found out the condition of the body, and they weren’t conjecturing on possible killers yet.

  Sylvie’s gate was padlocked. I didn’t have the key and didn’t want to return to the main lodge, so I ducked under the yellow sheriff’s tape and made my way down through the trees on foot. The grounds had already been swept by Buckeye’s people, with very few results. A hair caught on the bark of a tree and a couple of old cigarette butts were now being examined and tested. I was more interested in how the perp approached and got into the bungalow.

  I had my flashlight, and I stepped through the thick undergrowth and leaves. It was rough terrain, overgrown, but there were animal paths and rain washes cut into the hillside where I could place my feet on gravel and not leave footprints. So could the murderer.

  It was completely dark now, and I stopped just above the bungalow and listened. Night sounds. The loud, discordant chorus of crickets. I could hear music, very faint, from the bungalow that Mrs. Cohen had stayed in. “You Light Up My Life.” Mrs. Cohen was
gone. Somebody who liked the oldies was staying there now. I wondered if they knew about the horrible murder next door. And what they’d think if they knew a detective was creeping around in the dark, listening to their radio.

  Twenty yards below I could see the bungalow where Sylvie Border died. Solar lamps glowed dimly every four feet along the front porch, and I remembered the lights were also positioned across the back. Still, the deck was very dark. The chandelier in the foyer was on; I could see it through the fanlight. The rest of the bungalow lay as dark as a grave. This is what the killer saw if he came down through the woods. Where was Sylvie when he was standing here? In the house? On the deck? Asleep in bed?

  If Black had left between 9:30 and 11:00 P.M. like he’d said, what would she have done after he left? He said she was tired from a run. Would she soak in the hot tub on the back deck? Or in the one in the bedroom? Maybe she took off her clothes herself before she got into the hot tub, was naked before he attacked her. Maybe he watched her, got aroused, and decided to rape her and then kill her.

  I moved laterally down to the lake until I could see the back deck. The hot tub was clearly visible. If I were Sylvie, once Black was out of sight, I would have soaked in the hot tub and relaxed my muscles before I went to bed. Hell, that’s what I needed to do right now. There wasn’t much I wouldn’t give to have my own private hot tub.

  This time of night the bungalow was completely secluded, dark, and private enough to bathe nude without being seen. Unless somebody was standing where I was, shielded by bushes.

  Across the cove I heard a boat motor start up, then idle. Then I saw a boat move out into the lake. I could see the light attached to a pole in the stern for night fishing. I could see figures moving along the marina deck, where there were a couple of restaurants catering to casual diners. I could smell hot wings cooking on the grill and the faint fishy smell of the lake. The point farther out at Black’s digs was quiet, no helicopters landing or taking off. Just the soft music from next door. “The Way You Look Tonight” suddenly went off as if offended that I was listening. Now all was quiet except the crickets and the lapping of the water against the pilings. I wondered if these were the last sounds Sylvie had heard, those and the sound of her killer’s voice.

  I climbed over a fallen log and wound my way to the edge of the water. It would be easy for me to splash through the shallows and climb up the side of the back deck. If Sylvie had been in the hot tub, gazing over the water toward the marina, she’d never see me. I did it easily, and without any sounds that would alert someone to my approach. It was dark around the bungalow, lots of shadows not illuminated by the solar lamps. I moved silently to the hot tub. It had been emptied, probably by Buckeye’s people. I turned and looked out over the lake. He got her here, while she was in the hot tub; I felt sure of it. That’s why she was nude. She may have even been drowsing, with her eyes shut. Just enjoying the peace and quiet.

  I heard a board creak behind me but a second too late and only got a faint impression of a dark figure before something hit me in the back of the head. Everything went blurry, and I fell to my knees. Hands grabbed me around the waist and jerked me up, and I knew I was in trouble. I shook off my grogginess and kicked out at his groin as hard as I could. It was too dark to see my assailant, but I heard him grunt with pain. I twisted loose, got him again in the jaw, and clawed for the gun in my shoulder holster. Another guy grabbed me, but I landed a good punch to the face, which nearly broke my hand, before he got me a good one in the side of my head and my lights went all the way out.

  I wasn’t sure how long I’d been unconscious when I came to, but I knew I was on the lower-level boat dock close to the water and somebody was tying my wrist to a deck chair. I lunged up at him, yelling and fighting, and grabbed the guy’s hair with my free hand. He cursed and fought my hold, then slung me backward so hard, I went off the deck into the lake, chair and all. I hit cold water, pulling desperately to free my bound left hand as the heavy wrought iron chair sank quickly, taking me with it. My feet were free, so I kicked and twisted, pulling at the rope holding my wrist. The knots weren’t tight, and I knew I could work myself free, but panic threatened, anyway, stark and overwhelming, in that awful, dark silence where the fish had fed on Sylvie’s body. As I jerked and pulled, I could see the solar lamps on the deck above me, and a stream of bubbles burst from my mouth when I finally wrenched my hand free.

  I shot desperately upward and broke the surface, gasping and choking. I sucked in air and grabbed hold of the pilings, and then I heard a voice, Nick Black’s voice, low and angry, answered by other voices before the sound of running feet thudded up the steps and receded into the distance. I got my elbows on the deck and tried to hoist myself out of the water, but then Black was there, right above me, hauling me out by the back of my shirt.

  As soon as I hit the deck, I jerked away from him and scrabbled sideways. Breathing hard, hands trembling, head hammering, I pulled my weapon and held it trained on his chest.

  “Get down, get down on your knees. Do it, do it!” My voice was hoarse, and I was shivering with cold, but I could see him better now. He held his arms straight out to the side, then went slowly down on his knees, as if he’d had some practice at it.

  “Easy, easy, Detective. Don’t shoot me. I didn’t do this.”

  “Get your hands behind your back! Now! Now, I said!”

  Once he was flat on his stomach, I cuffed him, frisked him for weapons, and found him clean, then staggered sideways, a little weak-kneed, and leaned against the railing, looking around for his accomplices.

  A moment later I ducked and shifted my aim to the shoreline when somebody ran into sight. He yelled, “Security! Drop your weapon!”

  “Police!” I yelled back. “I need help over here!”

  The guy splashed across the water and climbed onto the deck in exactly three seconds flat. It was John Booker. “What happened?” he said, holstering his gun and looking down where Black was on his belly at my feet. “Is he all right?”

  “I don’t give a shit. He just attacked me.”

  “No way, Detective. He’s with me. We came down here when we found your vehicle abandoned at the gate. Black wanted to make sure you were all right. I went in the front, and he took the back.”

  I stared at him in disbelief, quivering with wet and cold and anger, still holding my weapon trained on Black’s back.

  “Look at the surveillance tapes if you don’t believe me. We just got here minutes ago.”

  I took Black in to jail, anyway. I had him fingerprinted and thrown into a holding cell for assaulting a police officer. Nothing in my life had ever felt better than seeing him behind those bars. Booker’s story checked out, but that didn’t mean I bought it. Booker brought in the surveillance tape and ran it for Charlie; then one of Black’s slick lawyers, wearing tasseled loafers, showed up and had a private conference with Charlie. I wasn’t invited. I waited in the interrogation room, calmer now, except that my head still pounded and my hands shook. I kept them around a mug of hot coffee so no one would see.

  As soon as Charlie walked into the room and I saw his face, I knew Nicholas Black was going to walk. I stood up and dared Charlie to let him go.

  “It wasn’t him, Claire. He can prove it.”

  “Yeah, right. He just happened to be there at exactly the same time somebody assaulted me.”

  “That’s right. He was at the main lodge with the fuckin’ mayor of all people when security informed him your vehicle was sitting empty at the gate. Said he wanted to make sure you were okay, and he excused himself from the meeting as soon as he could, and the two of them opened the gate and drove down the hill. The guard named Booker went in the front door, but Black heard something and ran around the side deck, and that’s when he saw you struggling with a couple of guys. They ran, but when you got dumped in the lake, all he thought about was getting you out of the water.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Maybe. The tape shows him coming in with the
guard clear as day.”

  “Maybe the guard’s in on it with him. Ever thought of that, Charlie? He works for him, doesn’t he? Or maybe he hired those two thugs, then arranged it so he could show up and save the day at the last minute so he’d look like a hero. I’m telling you Black’s got something to do with this. I heard him talking to them, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Go home, Claire. Get some rest. You got the wrong man this time.”

  “Go to hell, Charlie.”

  “I didn’t hear that. You’re tired. You’re upset. Go home and think it through. Then we’ll talk.”

  I wanted to shoot him, so bad I had to hold my arm down to keep from drawing my weapon, but I didn’t. I left in time to see Black and Booker being picked up by a long black limousine. I was going to get Black for this. I was going to get him if it killed me.

  16

  It was midnight by the time I got home, damp and muddy and enraged. Dottie was waiting on my front porch with a pot of homemade chicken noodle soup. I loved Dottie like a sister, but I wasn’t in the mood for company. Actually, I wasn’t in the mood for anything, other than murdering somebody with my bare hands. I suppose Dottie was safe. I like her soup.

  “Harve and I heard on the police band,” she said, jumping up and exhibiting wringing-of-hands concern. “Oh, God, look at you. Are you all right?”

  “Well, I’ve been better.” Truth was, I wasn’t sure. I was still shaky and nasty with lake slime. I walked into the kitchen, more agitated than anything. Dottie followed. “Did Black do this to you?”

  “Yes, but nobody’ll believe me.”

  “I believe you.”

  I could always count on Dottie, and I was grateful. Truly, I was. She was a good friend, but I wanted her to leave me alone. I needed to think, to relax muscles that were knotted hard. I needed that hot tub. “Thanks, Dot. I do appreciate your bringing the soup. But I’m not hungry. I’m real tired and, frankly, pissed off so bad I’m not going to be good company.” She nodded. She understood. “Let me help you get out of those filthy clothes. You’ll feel better if you do.”