Head to Head (23 page)

“No comment,” I said. My voice sounded strange, and I looked around for Tate. He’d made it to the truck, but I was stuck tight in the jumble of rolling cameras and pressing people. “Please let me through.”

The jackals pressed closer, pushing me around. Dozens of microphones were shoved in my face.
Get it together, get it together,
I kept thinking, but Peter Hastings was up front now, and the look on his face was
oh yes, oh yes, I am God
. A CBS reporter beat him to the punch.

“Is it true you’re Annie Blue, the L.A. detective involved in the infamous love triangle with her husband and police partner? The incident crippled your partner and killed both your husband and son. Can you deny that, Detective?”

“I have nothing to say.” I pushed my way through the reporters, knocking a couple of them out of the way, but others stepped in front of me. I wanted to draw my weapon and shoot my way through, and was considering it when Hastings stuck his mike in front of my face and struck the fatal blow.

“Is it true you’re having an affair with Nicholas Black, Detective? Are you the woman in the photographs we’re running on our show?”

Now I stopped because he shoved a sheaf of eight-by-ten glossies in my direction. I looked down at them and saw myself kissing Black that night on my dock, saw another of us having breakfast on the deck of his yacht. I ripped them up, sick to my stomach, and pushed my way through the crowd. When a long black limousine turned the corner, I knew it was Nicholas Black to the rescue even before he jumped out and started walking toward us.

“There’s Nick Black,” I heard a reporter yell, and the whole crowd gave a collective gasp of delight, then shifted in his direction like a tidal wave. They headed for him with a scramble of cords and excited cries, pleased as punch that they would get to destroy two people instead of just one. Shakily, I watched Black move up a flight of steps to where they all could see him, and then I headed toward Tate’s truck. Halfway there, John Booker stepped out of nowhere and pulled me toward Black’s limousine.

I jerked free from his grasp. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m getting you out of here before they tear you to shreds. Nick’s taking the heat so you can get away. He’s got his jet waiting on a private airstrip to take you home.”

Tempted, I glanced back at Black, now speaking to the crowd of photographers. He wasn’t looking at us, but some of the reporters were. Booker said, “They’re gonna hound you all the way home. On the plane, in the airport, everywhere. This is the best way, trust me.”

He was right, and the photos proved I knew Black better than I was supposed to know him. I waved Tate off and pointed to the limousine. He nodded okay, and I climbed in the back as Booker stiff-armed two photographers trying to scramble in after me. As we drove away, the photographers were snapping pictures through the black tinted windows.

“Nick must think a lot of you,” Booker said as he settled into the opposite seat. “He’d rather take a beating than face the paparazzi. He’s sued ’em three times and won.”

“How’d he know I was here?”

“He called the sheriff about this new murder, and Charlie told him you were in L.A. Then on our way down here, we saw you on the tube.” He pointed at three nineteen-inch color sets built into the console. All three sets were tuned to different stations. The one in the middle was Fox News and had a close-up of Nicholas Black’s face. I didn’t have to ask; Booker turned up the volume.

“My relationship with Detective Morgan is strictly professional,” Black was saying, very calm, very used to media attention, “though I wouldn’t mind if it were otherwise. She can arrest you guys if you get in my way.”

The reporters laughed like they loved him, like they were having a real good time, like they didn’t mind him suing them. He smiled easily, as relaxed as I’d been tense.

“Did you know about her other identity, Doctor Black?” Peter Hastings asked, sounding smug and thrilled to be the one who broke the dirt.

“No, but anyone who’s really lived has a past. Maybe even you, Pete? Wonder what my private investigators could dig up on you.”

More laughter, but it was a subtle threat, and Hastings looked like his closets were locked good and tight and for a reason. But he was nothing, if not persistent.

“I’m not calling you a liar, Doctor, but I do have a picture here of you and the detective getting pretty friendly. It’s hard to deny the truth when it’s right here in front of your face. It’s going on the air in a matter of minutes, Black, so now’s your chance to tell us the truth.”

Black took the photographs handed to him but barely glanced at them. “You can’t blame a man for trying, but she wasn’t interested. If you’re the jackal who took these, you’ll be able to vouch for the fact that I left her place minutes after these were taken.”

“Is it true she has a death wish?” a redheaded female reporter yelled from the back. “Is that why she left the LAPD, because the department psychs said she was too dangerous to remain on the force?”

“I think that sounds like you guys have been watching too many Mel Gibson and Danny Glover films. I’m planning a formal news conference tomorrow about my association with this case. I’ll answer any questions you might have at that time. My office will give out the time and place within the hour.”

The limousine hit the freeway, and the driver smoothly merged into six lanes of speeding traffic without even running a single person off the road. “Aren’t we going back for him?” I asked Booker.

“He’ll meet us there.”

“Does he always travel with Cedar Bend security guards?”

“This time he did.”

I tried to read Booker without any luck, sensing he was much more than one of Black’s security details, then looked back at the television screen in time to see Black making his way toward the street. I dropped my head back on the cushioned seat and closed my eyes. The worst possible thing had happened. Now all I had to do was figure out how to deal with it.

It turned out that Black had a ranch of sorts northwest of L.A. in the Santa Monica Mountains, a ranch of King Saud sorts. The limo drove past a road that led up into the hills, where I glimpsed the windows of another Black mansion overlooking another Black spectacular view. I shut my eyes. How much money did Nicholas Black have? Maybe I should’ve been a psychiatrist and written a few books, too. Maybe then I could afford a hot tub. My life story would be a best-seller all by itself, considering the money it’d rake in for the tabloids.

I wondered again what I was doing here in Black’s limousine with the mysterious Booker. How did this happen? I didn’t want to analyze it right now. I just felt real bad, all wrung out and depressed. I didn’t want to talk, explain, justify, remember. I didn’t want to function. Luckily, John Booker wasn’t much of a talker, either.

“Nick said to wait for him on the plane,” he said at length when the car slowed to a stop on a tarmac.

I opened my eyes, picked up my leather handbag, and trailed him across a paved runway to the sleek corporate jet. We were down in a small valley now with mountains around us. Inside the jet, it was as grand as everything else Black owned, all tan and black and plush and expensive. I felt like I had flown back in time, with all the old feelings crashing around inside my head, smashing up barriers I’d erected so I wouldn’t have to face my past again. Too bad, so sad, as they say. My inner attempt at flippancy fell pretty flat, so I sat down in one of the black reclining seats and shut my eyes. It helped to shut my eyes. If I couldn’t see my life falling apart, it wasn’t happening. I heard Booker moving around as if he owned the place, quietly giving commands to a woman I assumed was a flight attendant and then later to a male voice I assumed was the pilot’s. Again, I wondered who Booker was and exactly what he did for Black. Cell phones rang now and then, my own twice, but I hid behind my closed eyelids. Nobody home. Don’t call back. Maybe I’d never have to open my eyes again; maybe I could just let John Booker silently watch over me forever.

In time I heard Black’s voice somewhere nearby, speaking in low tones. I opened my eyes and saw him at the end of the cabin with Booker, both tall and dark and in control, and two gray-haired, distinguished-looking men in pilot uniforms. I shut my eyes again until Black spoke directly to me, now very close.

“Buckle your seat belt, Claire.”

He was sitting across from me, and Booker was gone. I obeyed and buckled up, then looked up as a young woman with a gold nameplate that said Mindy handed me a goblet and a white pill in a tiny paper cup.

“It’s a sedative,” said Black. “Take it. It’s mild and won’t put you out.”

“Then maybe you better give me two or three more,” I said with my razor-sharp wit. Black stared at me. No smile.

“Well, I guess you’ve figured out where you’ve seen me before,” I said, putting the tablet in my mouth and chasing it with the water. Mindy took the goblet and paper cup away.

“I figured out who you were long before today.”

That surprised me. “When?”

“The first day you paid me a visit. I had Booker look you up.”

“So Booker’s your private investigator.”

“That’s right. We ran missions together in the army. He’s a good friend and one of the best men Special Ops ever saw.”

That explained a few things. “So I guess you keep dossiers on everybody you meet, just like the KGB?”

“You had it in for me; I could see that from the beginning. I make it a habit to know my enemies.”

“So now we’re enemies?”

“Not at all. What I learned about you helped me understand your…attitude. You were hiding a painful incident from your past, trying to make a new future. Nothing wrong with that. I would’ve prescribed the same course if I’d been treating you.”

“So you tell your patients not to face up to facts, but to go out to the boondocks of Missouri and hide under a rock.”

Black contemplated me as the plane began to move down the runway. “As you know, I’ve got a few secrets, too. I ended up in the boondocks of Missouri. Nothing wrong with that, either.” He pressed a button, and a door opened beside him, revealing a recessed liquor cabinet. He poured himself a finger of whiskey, tossed it back, and didn’t look happy. Not exactly his old debonair self. His face was serious; his voice was serious. We were suddenly a serious pair. “Annie Blue. I’m Black and you’re Blue. Pretty ironic under the circumstances, wouldn’t you say?”

I guess it was a joke, but he looked way too serious to be cracking gags. The sedative was relaxing me, all right; my arms were resting on my lap like slabs of bacon. My head was lolling on the headrest, then was pressed back against it when we lifted off the ground and up into the clouds at a sharp angle. We leveled off, and I stared out the porthole at heavy white clouds and blue sky, glad to be leaving the great state of California behind.

“Thanks for taking the spotlight off me,” I said after a minute, looking across at him. “I guess you have a lot of questions. I owe you some answers, so go ahead, ask.”

“You don’t owe me anything. Especially answers. I know what happened to you, and it makes you even more interesting.”

Well, that hit me wrong. Ms. Flippant reared her ugly head. “Oh, I get it. Now I’m your brand-new specimen. You can pin me to your couch and analyze me for your next book. Annie Blue, husband killer, and—” I started to add son killer, but I could not say it, not even under the effects of Prozac, or whatever the hell it was that I took. Our eyes met, and he knew what I was feeling. He always seemed to know everything.

“I hate psychiatrists,” I said, squeezing my eyes shut.

“I’m not your psychiatrist,” he said.

I said nothing for a moment; then I searched his face. “Why’re you doing this? You just got yourself in a war with the media, and now they’re going to start probing into your life, trying to dig up dirt. They’ll find out about your brother, just like they found out about me.”

“Guess I’m just one hell of a nice guy.” He was angry now. His face was tight; his tanned skin was flushed shades darker.

“Well, thanks for whisking me away, just like a Calgon commercial. I won’t forget it.”

Black definitely no longer found me amusing. He said, “You can trust me. I want you to trust me.”

“Yeah, that’d be nice, wouldn’t it?”

Black looked at me, and then he actually laughed. “Go to sleep. You’ll feel better if you rest on the flight. Because, my dear detective, Charlie’s the one who’s going to hammer you with lots of questions when you get back home.”

I shut my eyes, and then I shut my thoughts down, and then I slept.

Black woke me right before we landed. Another private airstrip. Another tan-and-black uniform. A helicopter to take us home. Boy, this was the life. But I felt better, more myself. The sleep was the first real rest I’d had since Dottie’s potion. The helicopter was a Bell 430 six-seater, deluxe model, I guess, with some more hand-stitched, supple leather recliners and a wood bar and plush, deep-pile carpet in shades of gold and black. To my surprise, Black climbed into the pilot’s seat. Amazing, the depths of this man’s talents. I wondered if he could cook, too.

“Put this on so we can talk,” he told me, handing me a headpiece with earphones and a little microphone. He slipped his over his head, poked on a pair of black aviator sunglasses, and focused on the elaborate instrument panel. I was a little nervous since I’d never ridden in a helicopter, but that was the least of my problems. Black handled it calmly and expertly, the way he did just about everything. In minutes we were skimming over tree-cloaked Ozark mountains on our way to Cedar Bend.

“I’m going to do a pass over your place and see if the media’s staked out your house,” he said in my ear. I nodded. I hadn’t thought of that yet. Unfortunately, the media was way ahead of me. There were three satellite dishes set up on the entrance road, and I could see somebody doing a remote newscast on my dock, with binoculars and a tripod camera.

Black banked into a turn and took us down to the other end of the cove to Harve and Dottie’s place. More satellite trucks, and a couple of people outside Harve’s chain-link fence. I pulled out my cell phone and punched in Dottie’s number. She answered on the first ring.

“Claire, where are you? Harve and I’ve been frantic.”

“Look out the window. I’m in Black’s helicopter, hovering over your house. Has the press been bothering you?”

“Yeah, I hear the rotors now. They’re coming out of the woodwork, the jerks,” Dottie said, and I saw her walk out on the rear sundeck and look up at us. Harve’s wheelchair came into view at the door, and she said, “Here, Harve wants to talk to you.”

“Claire, get the hell out of here. They’ll eat you alive if you come back. Find some place to hide out until I can get a gate up that’ll keep them off our road.”

“Tell him you’re staying with me. I have the security you need,” Black ordered in my ear.

I didn’t have a lot of choice, so I made the decision quickly. “I’m going out to Cedar Bend for a little while, but I’ll be home as soon as I can. Have they put together who you are yet?”

“Not yet. Dottie’s been running them off for me, bless her heart.”

“Okay, I’ll see you soon. Take care.”

When we swept into Black’s resort over the lake, we could see about half a dozen boats and pontoons full of press people floating around the point. But Black was right. His penthouse was secure. They couldn’t get at either one of us there. Black put down on the round helipad as if he’d done it a million times, and he probably had. He took my arm and hurried me swiftly into his private quarters. Once inside the deserted lower level, he said, “Now you know why I have all this security set up for my patients. They can’t get to you here, no matter how hard they try.”

My welcoming committee from the sheriff’s office, on the other hand, had no problem piercing Black’s ultimate sanctuary. Bud showed up at Black’s private living quarters within thirty minutes of our arrival. When he saw us sitting on one of the long black sofas watching the boats watch us, he said, “Well, ain’t this sweet?”

Bud was as angry as I’d ever seen him. I didn’t blame him. I would be, too, if I were him. Peter Hastings and the reporters made it look worse than it was. Anyone who saw those photographs would assume I was having a hot and heavy affair with Black, and Bud wasn’t an exception. Truth was, I ought to have gotten as far away from Black as I could. But then I’d have had to face the reporters, and I couldn’t bring myself to do it, not yet. Tomorrow, maybe, tomorrow I’d be able to do it. I’d be stronger then, the shock would fade.

“I’m sorry, Bud,” I said, heartfelt, embarrassed. “It’s not true. Nothing’s going on between us.”

Both men looked at me; then Bud glanced at Black. “Could’ve fooled me. Pictures looked goddamned real, but, hey, technology’s a bitch now. You sayin’ the pictures of you and him together are doctored?”

Black stood up. He didn’t look particularly happy, either. He looked like he was going to knock Bud’s lights out. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll let you two talk about this in private.”

“Gee, thanks, Doc. You’re a prince,” said Bud. Sarcastic as hell. Black left the room without replying; then Bud looked at me in utter disgust.

It hurt, but he had a good reason to be angry. “I made a big mistake, Bud. But it was just that one time, out on my dock, just a kiss and then he left.”

“That kiss is gonna cost you plenty, Claire, or should I call you Annie?”

He obviously felt betrayed. “Bud, I didn’t plan for this to happen. I didn’t tell you the truth about my past because I didn’t want it to come out. I wanted to forget it and start over. I didn’t tell anybody. Please, try to understand.”

Bud paced back and forth in front of the windows, then sat down on a chair across from me. Frowning, agitated, he jerked loose his tie and said, “Getting involved with this guy, Black, is a mistake. I know you think he’s innocent, but what if he isn’t? Have you thought about that? Let me get you out of here before it gets worse. I’ll take you home. Or you can stay with me.”

“My house is under siege, so is Harve’s. So is yours the minute I show up there. Black can keep the press away from me, at least until I get my head back on straight and decide what to do. This is tough, Bud. It’s real hard to have to relive all this right now.”

Bud shook his head and gazed out over the lake. He didn’t say anything for a minute or two. “Okay, God, I’m sorry.” He swiped his hand over his jaw, and I realized he was unshaven. I’d never seen Bud unshaven. I didn’t know it was possible. “I got all bent out of shape when I saw him sittin’ here like some kind of spider in his web, gettin’ you all tangled up in his shit. I thought you hated his guts.”

“He’s not as bad as I thought.” That sounded so damn feeble that even I was embarrassed.

“Yeah, right.” Bud looked away from me, then stood up and paced, hands on his hips. I knew then something bad was coming. I just didn’t know how bad.

“The LAPD got an ID on the body out there.”

“Already?” I was surprised it had happened so soon, and I didn’t like the look on Bud’s face.

“The bad news is that you probably know her.”

I felt my mind recoil. Not again. I waited, afraid to ask.

“Her name is Freida Brandenberg. They said the two of you joined the force at the same time. That right?”

I nodded, thinking of the tough blonde with a dead-eye’s aim on the shooting range. My heart fell when I remembered the two towheaded little boys she was so proud of. “I didn’t know her very well. We went through the academy together. I haven’t seen her in a long time.”

“She disappeared while out runnin’, and they ID’d her fingerprints.”

I didn’t think I could feel worse than before, but I did. Bud’s next words clinched it.

“Now for the really bad news. I hate to be the one to tell you this, but Charlie’s takin’ you off the case.” He stopped in front of the sofa and looked down at me. “Not just because of the publicity with Black, but because you know this victim. He said it’s just a formality. You’ll go on paid leave until things calm down. You should’ve told him about what happened in Los Angeles. He’s mad as hell and fendin’ off calls from all over the place, includin’ the governor’s mansion. That’s why he sent me out here instead of comin’ himself.”