Head to Head (7 page)

I said, “He looks like he owns the world and everything in it.”

“Yeah? Well, he’s getting close.”

Harve clicked the mouse a couple of times, and up popped Black’s background data—page after page after page. I scanned it with real interest. Born in Kansas City, Missouri. Maybe that was why he ended up down here in the woods. Parents deceased. No siblings. Undergraduate degree from Tulane University, master’s degree from Columbia, three years in the army, and a medical degree in psychiatry from Harvard. I sat back and swiveled my chair. “Gee, and with his looks, he could have made something of himself. What’s he worth?”

“He’s loaded. He’s bought up real estate all over the world, mostly hotels like I said, and either he’s got damn good business instincts, genius financial advisers, or he’s one helluva crook. Piles of cash in the stock market, even more moolah rolls in from his practice. He’s got offices all over the world. At the moment, bucks are piling up from those best-selling books Dot reads.”

“Have you read his books?”

“Hell, no. But Dottie’s his biggest fan since she saw those icy eyes.”

“I heard that,” Dottie yelled from where she was loading the dishwasher in the adjoining kitchen.

I wasn’t much of a reader, but I reminded myself to borrow one before I left. “His practice is worldwide?”

“Yep. He maintains small, exclusive psychiatry practices in New York, L.A., London, Paris, Rome, Tokyo, and there’s talk of setting up one in Moscow. He’s got trusted colleagues running them for him, but he visits each office regularly to see special patients. Busy guy. Must take days just to count his money.”

“And here he is, holed up in good old Missouri, out in the middle of nowhere. Doesn’t ring quite true to me. His assistant intimates he’s been spending lots of time here at the lake.”

Harve said, “It says here he’s got a Lear jet to travel in. And a Bell 430 helicopter with a helipad, I might add. He’s also got a motor yacht he had custom-built to use on the lake. He likes his toys and finds time to play with them.”

“Money’ll do that for folks.”

“Wouldn’t know.”

“Me, either.”

The television suddenly blared in the living room, followed by Dottie’s excited cry. “Hey, guys, Larry King’s coming on any minute.”

Harve tapped in the print command for Black’s dossier, and I followed him into the living room at the front of the house. It was a bright daffodil yellow. Dottie liked for everything to be yellow, different shades, maybe, canary, butter, sunshine, but all yellow. I chalked that up to her sunny disposition. Harve’s penchant for technology showed up in the 71-inch TV screen surrounded not only by sound but every digital instrument known to man. Black wasn’t the only man who liked toys.

I owned a 13-inch model, which wasn’t hooked up to cable, but hey, it was color. I felt a hint of culture shock watching a screen the size of my plate-glass front window. When Black came on camera, I had a physical response that I didn’t like. He was way, way too good-looking. I studied him with professional objectivity, as a suspect instead of a man, trying to figure out exactly what brought out that reaction in women. He looked dangerous, sensual. And those eyes were too intense given his otherwise relaxed, confident demeanor.

Larry King asked him right off about the book he was promoting. Black was at ease with the camera—articulate, urbane, with a well-masked accent I detected but couldn’t quite place. It sure as hell wasn’t Kansas City.

“Does he know about the murder yet?” Harve muted a toilet tissue commercial with little puppies sliding into four-roll packs.

“Miki Tudor, his assistant down here, said she told him. But I notice he’s handling his grief rather well.”

Dottie came in with a tray of coffee and cherry cheesecake. My stomach said, Oh yeah. She said, “You’d think he’d act more upset, or even cancel the show, since she’s his patient.”

I took a sip of the coffee. Decaffeinated. Yuck. “Yeah, if Black’s upset, he’s hiding it pretty good. Wonder what else he’s hiding?”

“You’ll have him in your gun sights soon enough. I almost pity the guy.” Harve smiled at Dottie when she poured his coffee. “Why don’t you record your interview with him and let me listen to you grill him?”

“I bet he uses a bunch of psychobabble stuff to throw you off,” said Dottie, finally sitting down with her own coffee and cheesecake. “If you can remember your name when he puts those killer eyes on you.”

Harve laughed. “Interesting use of words, Dot.”

“I’ll be forearmed by then, thanks to Harve’s dossier. Maybe I’ll ask him his take on the killer, since he’s a psychiatrist.”

“Good point,” Harve said. “I forgot to mention he assisted the FBI on one case. He testifies in court sometimes, too. You’ll read all that tonight.”

“I’ve had some truly sad news today,” Black said on-screen, instantly drawing all our attention back to the tube. “Shocking, terrible news.”

I felt my muscles tense, and Larry King leaned forward, pleased as punch about the shocking, terrible announcement going out live on his show. Ratings, ratings, my kingdom for ratings.

“I hope to hell he’s not thinking of telling—” I stopped midsentence when Black spoke again.

“The wonderful young actress Sylvie Border, a very close friend of both of us, Larry, died last night at my resort in Missouri.”

King looked as stunned as I was. “What the hell does he think he’s doing?” I jumped up, rattling my coffee cup. “This is going to whip up a frenzy around here.”

“Oh, my God. Sylvie was on this show not a month ago.” King glanced off camera, presumably at his producer. “I can’t believe it. She’s so young…how…”

Black looked the picture of sorrow now. “It’s a terrible tragedy. I can hardly believe it’s true, either. I spoke to her parents early this morning, and understandably, they’re taking this extremely hard. I want to encourage the press to leave them alone, give them some time to grieve in peace. That’s why I’m bringing this up now. I’m making a plea for privacy for the family.”

Larry King shook his head and said, “What happened to her, Nick? Are you at liberty to tell us anything more?”

“She was found murdered,” Black said. King’s sharp intake of breath was caught on air. “I don’t know all the details. I was on my way up here already. I’m leaving that to the police. I understand the Canton County sheriff is handling the investigation. I know Sheriff Charles Ramsay personally, and I have every confidence he’ll find Sylvie’s killer.”

“Thanks for nothing, Black.” I was so angry, my voice shook. “You’ve just sent every frickin’ camera crew in the country down here.”

Dottie said, “Why’d he announce it on the air? He ought to know better than that.”

“He probably did it to get publicity for this new book, and if he did, he’s gonna regret it. I’m gonna make sure he doesn’t talk about it on any more television shows or at book signings, unless he wants me riding his back night and day until this case is over.”

The mother was in excruciating pain, but she pulled the child by the hand across the upstairs landing. The embalmer had beaten her again with the strop because she’d objected to the child going down into the cellar, where the corpses were. She had been terrified, but the child had come upstairs from the cellar for dinner, all covered in blood and stinking of embalming fluid. The father kept the child in the cellar all day now, away from her. He called the child Brat now, all the time, and the child refused to talk and had eyes that were empty and haunted. She had to escape, had to get the child away. She packed one suitcase for their things, and as soon as the child was sent upstairs to be readied for dinner, she got the suitcase and pulled Brat along the upstairs hall. The embalmer had kept Brat down there until five-thirty, and she didn’t have much time to flee. They had to get out now. She held her side where he must have cracked her ribs when he kicked her two nights ago. It hurt to walk, even to talk.

She whispered to the child, “Hurry, hurry, before he comes…”

But he was standing at the bottom of the staircase, waiting. She screamed in utter horror, and the child awakened from a stupor because screaming was against the rules. She ran for the back stairs, dragging the child with her, but the father took the steps three at a time and caught her by her long blond hair before she could slam the door. He jerked the child from her hand and flung the child against the wall. Breath knocked out, the child slid limply to the floor and watched the parents fight. The mother went wild then and attacked the man with all her remaining strength. She clawed at his face and eyes and screamed until she couldn’t scream anymore, and he hit her hard with his fist and knocked her to the floor. He grabbed her up like a rag doll and forced her back against the wall. He held her off the floor, his fingers clutching her throat harder and harder. The child struggled up and screamed for the first time ever and ran and jumped on the father’s back. The father shook the child off and rammed a fist into the child’s stomach.

Gasping and coughing, the mother fled for the front stairs, but he reached her and held her with one hand while he hit her with his other fist; then he flung her down the staircase with all the force of his rage. She screamed, but it died when she hit the stairs and tumbled over and over until her head hit the floor below with a loud thud.

“This is your fault,” the embalmer raged, jerking the child off the floor. At the bottom, the woman was moaning, and the child said, “Momma, momma,” and the father said, “Go ahead and die, you whore.”

Then he picked up the struggling child in one arm and dragged the mother by her left foot down the cellar stairs, her head hitting each step along the way. Thump…thump…thump…He went to the cold room, where he kept his corpses. He tossed the screaming child down the steps into the darkness, then picked up the mother and threw her down beside the child.

“Nobody leaves this house,” he said, so angry his voice was breathless in a way the child had never heard before. “If I have to keep you down here forever, you’ll learn not to break my rules.”

The embalmer slammed the steel door shut, and the child cradled the mother’s head and held it still and listened to the wheezing sounds coming from her chest. The cold, black darkness surrounded them like a dank and malignant blanket, and the child sat shivering in the dark until the mother’s breathing stopped, and the child was alone with the dead.

The next morning the father opened the steel door, and light slanted into the cold room. The child was too chilled to move. The father draped a blanket around the child and, once they were upstairs in the house, sat the child down beside the roaring fire. The father was no longer angry. He sat in a rocker and watched the child shiver uncontrollably. Then he said, “You shouldn’t have made me knock your mother down the steps. Now she’s dead, and it’s all your fault.”

The child looked at the flames.

“But I’m not angry with you. It’s probably for the best. I can fix her where she looks like herself again, so she’s smiling and beautiful. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Brat? For her to look peaceful and happy?”

The child nodded, remembering how the mother’s head was twisted and her mouth was frozen open in a silent scream. “That’s good, Brat. That’s the way you should behave. Come along. You can help me prepare your mother.”

The embalmer picked up the child and returned to the cellar. He sat the shivering child on the tall swivel stool and walked into the cold room. When he came back out, he had the mother in his arms. He laid her gently on the steel table, straightened her broken neck with a gentleness he had not shown her in life. “See how beautiful she is, with all that long blond hair. Why don’t we braid it so it’ll look all neat and pretty? Will you help me do that?”

The child nodded, and together they took the rest of the hairpins out of the mother’s big, soft bun. The father washed the blood out of it with the water hose suspended above the table and taught the child how to braid.

“There, see, that makes her look very nice. It’ll only take a jiffy to stitch up those cuts on her face, and I can put make-up on the bruises. Watch. See how I can make her smile.” He closed the dead mother’s mouth and prodded the cold, stiff lips until they curved in a caricature of a smile. “See, look how happy she is now.”

The child thought she did look happier now.

“You must never tell anyone that you killed your mother,” the father told the child then, leaning close and speaking in a stern voice. “They would come and take you away and bury you alive in a deep, dark hole in the ground. You’d never see your mother or me again.”

The child stared at his mother’s strange grimace, afraid.

“Now you can help me prepare her, like we’ve done with the others, but this time it’s special because it’s your own mother. This is an honor for both of us.”

The embalmer gathered the sharp tools and rubber hoses and chemicals he’d need and rolled the towel-covered instrument tray beside the child. “You can hand me the tools I need. You can make up for killing your mother by being my helper.” He pointed at an instrument on the tray. “Now hand me that big scalpel.”

The child picked up the scalpel. It felt heavy and cold. The father took it and began to work. The child took the mother’s cold hand and squeezed it tightly but didn’t cry as the father cut into her soft white flesh.

The child was eight years old.

The Cedar Bend helipad was located at the tip of the point, where Black kept his private quarters and office. I was seething inside when I arrived there early the next morning, but I was the picture of calm tranquility, pure Zen, as Miki the Poodle ushered me through palatial marble halls to Black’s lavish tan-and-black office. Ten leather-framed Rorschach inkblot designs lined one wall, and I studied each one in turn. In my present mood, they all looked like the devil to me. I stood in front of a windowed wall and watched the sun come up.

Not long after, the dull, insistent buzz of rotors infiltrated my glass sanctuary, and the Bell 430 helicopter Harve had described the night before came barreling into sight. Surprise, surprise, guess what color it was? Nicholas Black probably raised black-and-tan coonhounds, too.

I watched the copter bank right as graceful as a gull, then straighten and head home. Black was precisely on time. Well, good. The sooner I got my hooks in him, the better. Thanks to Doctor Ain’t I Somethin’, media vans were rolling to the lake in swarms, like killer bees but with deadlier stingers.

I stood in Black’s penthouse office. It had its own third-floor wing, did I mention that? Gee, I’m impressed. The craft set down expertly on the round concrete pad, and I watched the wind from the rotors blast the calm water out in concentric circles. A security guard in uniform rushed to open the door for Black, but it wasn’t Suze Eggers. Maybe Eggers annoyed Black, too.

Decked out in a dark blue suit, white shirt, and red tie—nothing casual here—Nicholas Black stepped out, still talking into a cell phone. He thrust off a briefcase to the security guard, who trotted after him like a trusty beagle, as he bent low and made his way swiftly up a wide dock of bleached wood lined with about a dozen berths, each with its own Cobalt 360. All black and tan, of course.

My God, I’d been transported to Palm Beach. Where were the polo ponies and Prince Charles? Did I mention my penchant for sarcasm? Yeah, well, ostentatious wealth is a big trigger, let me tell you.

I watched him until he disappeared somewhere below. My mouth watered in anticipation. My fingers twitched. My eyes lit up. Armed with a fifty-page dossier about him memorized in my head, I was ready to put my foot on his chest and force him to confess.

I wondered if Miki Tudor was the one on the phone with Black. I turned and observed through an open door that Miki was at her pretty little white desk across the hall, her usual sleek self dressed in white with pearls all shiny around her neck. It looked like she was doing her nails, but she could have been admiring her big diamond ring. But I’d know if they’d talked again after she apprised him of the murder; I’d already requested both Black’s and Miki’s phone records.

I rolled back my shoulders like the kick-boxer I am, ready, willing, and eager. I was good at interviews, even with psychiatrists. I waited. Impatient. Resisting the urge to pace, I stood still. The complex was connected to Black’s private quarters, essentially a French chateau with a massive glass atrium walkway. Maybe he went next door to Buckingham Palace to admire all his stuff. That might take some time. Maybe he was on the phone to the president, advising him on the war against terror. Maybe he was wiping his fingerprints off everything he touched, just in case he killed somebody else and threw them a tea party under the lake.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Detective.”

A deep, masculine voice out of nowhere. I spun around and found Nicholas Black right behind me. The mirrored doors of the elevator slid soundlessly together, creating a seamless wall of mirrors. Clever, clever. I bet it was a one-way mirror, too, so Black didn’t walk into any surprises. He came straight to me, the briefcase in his left hand, right hand extended to shake. I took it. His clasp was firm and dry. So was mine.

“Nick Black. Fill me in on what you’ve got so far.”

“Claire Morgan, Canton County Sheriff detective.”

“I know who you are. Miki told me you wanted to meet me here as soon as I got in. Sorry, I’m an early riser.” He smiled and gestured at a chair. “Please, sit down. Would you like some breakfast? Or a cup of coffee? I’m having one. Miki makes terrific coffee.”

“Gee, how nice for you.”

Black raised an eyebrow, and I decided to tone it down. He was a tone detector. Time to shift to the polite, “let’s be civilized and have coffee together” mode.

Like an apparition in the mist, Miki floated in wearing her all-white business suit, including hose and strappy high heels, and carrying a silver tray that held a coffee urn, a silver creamer, and two white cups and saucers. Fine white china with a narrow band of black and gold around the rims. No monogram or design. Simple but elegant. The same kind of china used under the water with Sylvie and everywhere else at the resort. I settled into the tufted, tan leather armchair across from Black’s massive ebony desk. It was polished to such a gleaming patina that I could see the clouds in the sky behind him reflected in the top.

I thanked Miki and balanced the cup and saucer on my lap, atop a crisp white linen napkin. I watched her leave, then said, “Ms. Tudor is a very efficient assistant.”

The way I said it was designed to make him think I suspected more was between them than an employer/assistant relationship. Black obviously picked up on it, because he studied me a moment, then chose to ignore the remark. His reaction was more effective than acknowledging my insinuation. He knew that. I knew that. He said, “Miki’s a treasure, all right. I don’t know what I’d do without her. She keeps everything running around here.”

He does like his lackeys
, I thought,
Sycophants Unlimited
, and then stopped myself. I was exhibiting the kind of chip-on-the-shoulder attitude that could jeopardize my case. I didn’t usually react so strongly to people, but the man brought it out in me. He might be phony, but he wasn’t stupid, so I changed my approach. “I appreciate your seeing me first thing, Doctor Black.”

“Please, call me Nick. And I’m glad to talk to you. Sylvie was a special person. Very special to me. I want her killer caught and punished. I promised her parents I’d see to it.”

“Are you in the habit of making promises you have no way of keeping?”

Black’s eyes delved into mine, searching, analyzing. I felt like his patient but stared back without blinking until he said, “I intend to cooperate in every way possible. Her parents are distraught, understandably so. They asked me to intercede with the authorities and the media on their behalf, and I felt obligated to do so.”

“Then you are well acquainted with Sylvie Border’s parents, I take it?”

Black picked up the silver creamer and dribbled about a teaspoon of cream into his cup. Every movement was easy and graceful, while nonchalantly masculine. He held the creamer toward me. I shook my head. “I take mine black.”

His eyes lingered on my face a moment too long; then he replaced the creamer on the tray. He didn’t add sugar. He was one handsome fella, yes, sir, and mercy me. Charisma radiated from him like heat off the burning desert sands. I wasn’t so out of the romance game that I couldn’t feel it. Sexual chemistry was alive and well, and almost a tangible presence, as if it stood personified between us and laughed when I tried to step around it. I wondered if he felt it. Because I sure as hell did. But it wasn’t ever going to happen.

I raised my cup, took a ladylike sip. Not that I’m much of a lady, but I do know how to sip—I just put my foot down at crooking my little finger. The coffee was good and strong, brewed to perfection, no decaffeinated crap for Nicholas Black. Perfect Miki strikes again.

Black resumed the conversation. He said, “I don’t know them extremely well. We’ve met on several occasions, and I found them to be nice people. I knew them well enough to want to break such horrible news in person before they heard it on TV.”

“Did you also feel obligated to break the horrible news to the whole world on CNN, or was that simply a publicity stunt to promote your new book?”

Black’s facial expression didn’t waver, but I watched something move in those blue eyes, something that hinted at danger. “I sense a certain hostility in you, Detective. Do you think I killed Sylvie? Is that what this is all about? Or do you just exhibit this chip on your shoulder as a matter of course?”

“Oh, it’s a matter of course, I guess. Especially when I’ve just brought up a beautiful young woman who spent the night under the lake being nibbled by carp. And you were her only known visitor the night of her murder.”

He didn’t look away, but he waited until he’d taken a drink and replaced the cup on the saucer, then said, “I suppose I’m the primary suspect until you verify my alibi?”

“Everybody’s a suspect until we verify their alibi. Tell me about the last time you saw Ms. Border alive.” I pulled my notepad and pencil out of my purse and moved to the edge of my chair like Lois Lane at the
Daily Planet
. He made me wait. Choosing words carefully?

“It was the night before last, just before I left for New York.”

“And where was that?”

“I went down to her bungalow.”

“What time was that?”

“I guess it was around nine o’clock, but it could’ve been nine-thirty, or even ten.”

“When did you leave?”

“I stayed about thirty minutes or an hour, I guess. She was getting ready for bed. She said she’d gone running earlier in the evening with Miki and was tired. We sat outside on the deck and watched the water.”

I jotted without looking up. “Are you sure about these times, Doctor Black?”

“Fairly certain. I’m guessing, so they could be off some.”

Lie number one and still counting. I said, “What was the purpose of your visit to Ms. Border’s private bungalow?”

I watched him now for hesitation or signs of guilt. He stared back as if he knew what I was doing and how to get around it. I had an uncomfortable feeling he could hold his own in any police interrogation. Then again, I am not half-bad when I’m really motivated.

“She called up here and asked if she could borrow my car over the weekend, so I drove it down to her bungalow.”

“Did she say why she wanted to use the car?”

“She said she needed to go to the grocery store and then pick up some things at the mall.”

“Did she ever use your car before that night?”

“Last weekend, on Sunday afternoon. Shopping. Sylvie loved to shop.”

I heard the sorrow thicken his voice now, and it seemed real enough. On the other hand, the surveillance camera showed his car leaving around midnight. Maybe I could make him dig that hole a couple of feet deeper. “How did you get home that night?”

“I walked along the lake. It’s quicker than following the road back. It was a beautiful night with a full moon and lots of stars. I like walking at night. It helps me think.”

He had adroitly covered himself with a viable story. “What did you have to think about, Doctor Black?”

“I was a little worried about Sylvie. I have other cases that dwell on my mind, as well.”

“Why were you worried about Sylvie?”

“She wasn’t happy, and she wouldn’t say why.”

“And what time did you say you left her bungalow?”

“About ten or ten-thirty. I had to get back and pack. We took off at midnight.”

“We?”

“My flight crew and myself.”

“Did you have sex with Sylvie that night?”

For the first time, anger sparked in his eyes, then turned into the blue ice Dottie had described.

“Certainly not. I told you already that she was a friend, Detective. A good friend and a patient. We never had sex, nor would I ever have sex with any patient. I’m sure you know that would violate the doctor/patient relationship.”

I’d riled him, and that was a good thing. Riled people made mistakes and said stupid things. “I meant no offense, Doctor. I’m just doing my job.”

He relaxed and smiled, teeth white and even, a veritable Crest commercial. I wondered if they were capped, or at the least, bleached. “I have nothing to hide. Eliminate me as soon as possible so you can move on and find out who did this.”

“Thanks for the tip on police procedure. I think I’ll take you up on that and see if I can’t find the killer.” I can get a little sarcastic sometimes.

“You’re a very angry lady, aren’t you? It’d be interesting to find out why.”

“Sorry. I don’t believe in paying a thousand dollars to lie around on a couch and tell somebody my secrets. Seems like a stupid thing to do.” I smiled ingratiatingly. “And besides, what I am doesn’t matter in this investigation, Doctor Black. It’s you we’re investigating.” For effect, I looked down at my notes. “Did Ms. Border act oddly or say anything out of the norm when you saw her that night?”

“Actually, she did. Like I said, she was unhappy, and she’d been upset all week. I’d noticed how stressed out she was in our first session, but we’d been making progress. She was relaxed and happy for a day or two; then all of a sudden, she reverted back to the way she was when she got here.”

“What was she upset about?”

“I’m afraid that is privileged information, Detective.”

We stared at each other, assessing, probing, panting.
He’s enjoying this
, I realized,
but the trouble is, I am, too. Not good. Not smart
. I found myself wanting to best him, put him down. How unprofessional was that? I shrugged out of that coat and said, “Did she mention anyone, having a fight with a boyfriend, somebody harassing her, anything like that?”

“Since it has already been reported in the press, I can say that she’s having a love affair with an actor. She said he’d called earlier that evening, and she’d hung up on him.”

“Did she seem angry?”

“Not particularly, but Sylvie is a good actress. I always keep that in mind when I treat actors.”

“Was it usual for her to put on an act with as good a friend as you claim to be?”

“We were good friends,” he said calmly. Casually, he crossed his legs, put his elbows on the chair’s armrests, and steepled his fingers. I had a feeling that was one of his favorite contemplative psychiatrist positions. He could probably daydream about buying more big toys doing that, and patients wouldn’t be the wiser. I also had a feeling I’d gotten the last spark of anger out of him that I was going to get. He went on, “When she didn’t want to talk about her problems, she’d hide behind facades. We all do that. Even you, I suspect.”