by Linda Ladd
ONE
Okay, my name is Claire Morgan, and I’m a homicide detective with the Canton County Sheriff’s Department right here at the beautiful Lake of the Ozarks in mid-Missouri. At the moment, I’m on a undercover surveillance assignment for probable drug dealing in a lovely cove cradled by the most beautiful green wooded hills you can ever imagine. Unfortunately, the idyllic spot is marred a bit by about fifty runabout boats full of practically nude young college coeds and their horny boyfriends. Various and sundry other underage kiddies are also out in the hot summer sun, drinking and flirting and trying their best to hook up with the next good-looking thing that happens by. Ah, Party Cove, the place to be on a sultry summer day. There is plenty to watch, believe you me, some of which could definitely be called X-rated, or even in the triple Z range.
In fact, as I lie here on my stomach in the prow of Nicholas Black’s shiny and magnificent Cobalt 360 cruiser, training a high-powered, telescoped digital camera on yon distant shore, I’m getting quite an eyeful of boozed-up, sex-crazed kids in action. My own very special honey, the aforementioned Black, who is also a filthy rich shrink to the stars and all manner of other celebs, is sitting in the pilot’s chair behind me talking psychobabble to somebody who’d called from his posh London clinic. No doubt there’s a Brit in a straitjacket on the loose in Piccadilly Circus.
It’s late August, and the lake is dark olive green with not a breath of wind to ripple the glassy surface. Calm as death, as they say. Not that I want to think about death at the moment. I’ve had enough narrow escapes with the Grim Reaper of late, so many in fact that the Dreary Dark Man with the Scythe probably has my name tattooed on his palm for easy reference. Nope, I sure don’t want to think about my last case, or the one before it, or any of them, actually.
So instead, I fixed my attention on my partner, Budweiser D. Davis, a good-looking, silver-eyed Southern drawler from Atlanta, Bud for short. He is hiding in a honeysuckle thicket on the nearby shore, no doubt enjoying the fragrance and buzzing bumblebees, while similarly scoping out the wild goings on all around us with a video camera running, the incriminating tape of which we someday hoped to share with a judge and jury.
Although a charm-meister extraordinaire for sure, Bud hasn’t done a lot of that sort of thing lately, not since our last case when his girl, Brianna, got herself in some very deep trouble. She’s gone away now and nobody knows for how long, to live in Europe, Rome to be exact, where she’s trying to get over the injuries she sustained and the severe psychological trauma she suffered. Truth is, she’s doing pretty good under the circumstances, and Bud thinks she’ll be back one of these days, and they can start up where they left off.
Frankly, I have my doubts about that one, but who knows? My world’s a strange, dangerous place, and it has a tendency to rub off on my friends. Actually, a lot of us went through a pretty hairy ordeal along with her and still have our own ugly scars to prove it. Bud took her departure pretty hard at first, still has his sad moments of guilt and depression, but he is coming out of it slowly. How do I know? He’s once again ogling good-looking women and making wisecracks and telling me the origins of phrases from a book I bought him, the latter being pretty annoying. A sure sign of healing, however. His appetite has picked up, too.
“Nabbed any bad guys yet?”
That was Black, now off his private line, but trust me, it’ll ring again, give it three minutes. He is an important man, a buyer of five-star hotels and owner of exclusive psych clinics, a writer of best-selling self-help books, even, and last but not least, one helluva good lover and good-looking guy, to boot, with that black hair and those bluer than Montana sky-blue eyes. He actually drives a Humvee, believe it or not, and has a motor yacht moored mid-lake that is so magnificently apportioned it could earn its own article in the July issue of Yachts Only Aristotle Onassis Could Afford. He calls it the Maltese Falcon since he’s such a big Dashiell Hammett fan. That’s probably the reason he’s spending so much time with me, my being a so-called primo homicide detective, and all. But I do enjoy his company and vice versa, it seems. In fact, things are pretty hot and heavy between us and have been for quite a while now. Indeed, we’re from vastly different social and economic levels, but we rarely talk anymore about how we met, that being when he was my prime murder suspect and I was out to get him, come hell or high water.
I said, “We’re not trying to nab, Black. We’re trying to surveil and identify who’s doing what. So far I’ve seen lots of drunk college kids playing loud music and making out, but no blatant drug exchanges. More like spring break at South Padre Island meets Girls Gone Wild.”
Black did some looking around, no doubt for the girls gone wild in question. “How much longer is this going to last? I’m getting hungry.”
“Did I not see a big fridge down in the galley? Filled up with all your favorite gourmet foods? Make yourself a caviar sandwich or something to tide you over until we get done here.”
Black lounged down beside me, all six foot three, deeply tanned hunkiness of him. He’s part of my cover today, you see, we’re yet another drunken couple playing loud music and getting touchy-feely at Party Cove. Only problem is, Black has his top-of-the-line satellite radio set on some kind of rhythm-and-blues station. I daresay we’re the only kids today at Party Cove blaring Koko Taylor’s “Piece of Man.”
Otherwise, however, Black is playing his part exceedingly well indeed. With one hand, he took a drink from his icy longneck Dixie Lager, imported by the truckload from his hometown, the Big Easy, no less, and groped my bare flesh a bit with the other. When he stopped the massage long enough to hand me an icy Wild Cherry Pepsi in a frosted crystal goblet, I decided that, yep, this guy knows my weaknesses. All he forgot was the frozen Snickers bars that I usually request, preferably the miniature kind.
Leaning back and resting his head on a dark blue boat cushion, he adjusted his aviator sunglasses that he bought when last seen skiing in St. Tropez. Not by me; I’ve never been there, of course, but somebody on those frosted venerable slopes must’ve seen him, I’m sure. He shut his eyes and said, “Forgot to order your Snickers. Sorry.”
See what I mean? This guy’s hard to resist. He’s wearing black swim trunks and nothing else, so I removed my eyes from my camera viewfinder long enough to admire all that sun-brown skin and nicely ridged six-pack. I’m on duty, right, but I’m not comatose and unresponsive. Later would come soon enough, but a quick peek doesn’t hurt to tide me over.
I said, “Something gone awry at Buckingham Palace, I take it?”
Black kept his eyes closed but smiled, dimples galore, I tell you, the man’s smile gives me tremors in the solar plexus, not to mention other delicate places. “They’ve got a problem with a patient. He’s waking up from some very bad nightmares screaming bloody murder.”
“Oh, yeah? I can relate.”
“Right, but you’ve usually got me in bed to calm you down. This guy gets up and attacks the nearest woman.”
“I see your dilemma.”
That was true about him being in my bed, or lately, we’ve been waking up in his Sealey Posturepedic mother of all beds, custom designed, and I mean huge bed, over at his big lake resort called Cedar Bend Lodge. At least we sleep there together on the nights Black’s at home and not off gallivanting around the globe doing very important things as he’s wont to do. Truth be told, I’m glad to have him nearby when I wake up, all sweaty and shaky, or I might get up and attack some woman, too. The handguns we both keep handy under our pillows are a mite reassuring, too. Yessiree, our bed’s a veritable shooting gallery waiting to happen. But better safe than sorry, I always say. That’s why I have my big Glock 9 mm and .38 snubnosed revolver right here on the deck beside me, mere inches from my right hand. I would’ve strapped them both on over my bikini, but that might give me some strange tan lines and my drug targets might notice.
Getting down to work again, I returned my attention to the myriad of drug-peddling suspects guzzling every imaginable kin
d of booze and raising hell all around us. “Keep down, Black, and put on your cap. You’re too well known around the lake. If any of these guys recognize you, you’ll get me made.”
Unperturbed, Black lifted his head and snugged on his black fiber-optic cap. It had a gold New Orleans Saints logo on the crown that lit up at the touch of a tiny switch. Bud gave it to him as a thank-you for a great big life-or-death favor Black had done for him a couple of months back. He said, “They’ll recognize you before they do me, Claire. You’re the one whose picture keeps popping up in the papers for getting the bad guys.”
“Ergo, that’s exactly why I’m down here behind this rail with this nifty visor hiding my face.”
“That visor’s just about all you’re wearing, too. Maybe you ought to keep down, just for modesty’s sake.”
Black, Black, getting a bit possessive now, yes, he is. I didn’t care for that remark much, but he didn’t push too hard about that kind of stuff, so I swiveled my camera back to where Bud was hiding with the departmental video cam. He was still hunkered down in the bushes, and I wouldn’t be able to pick him out if I didn’t know his location. I just hoped to hell he didn’t rub up against any poison ivy. He’s allergic, big-time, but never sees it soon enough. I addressed Black’s crack about my skimpy apparel. “If I recall, Black, once upon a time you bought me this very string bikini and insisted I wear it day and night.”
“That was at my private beach on Bermuda when you had casts on your arm and leg. It’s different out here with a hundred guys on the lookout for visual stimulation.”
More psychiatrist talk there. I felt his hand enjoying itself on my lower back, then farther down into my bikini bottom, what there was of it, also looking for stimulation, which it found pretty damn quick. After an enjoyable minute or two, I pushed his hand away, but not because I wanted to. “Later, Black, I’m working, remember.”
His sigh sounded annoyed, almost reached the grumble level, but he relaxed back beside me with nary a profane mutter. “You’re getting burned. Let me rub some lotion on you. Your skin’s too white to stay out in the sun this long.”
“Cut it out, Black, I’m slick as a seal, already. We can get our jollies tonight after Bud and I get this surveillance over with.”
This time Black did mutter a low oath in the dialect of his New Orleans Cajun youth, which he didn’t usually reveal but frustration sometimes brought out in him, then he got up and headed back into the square of shade thrown by the black canopy over the pilot’s chair. When one of his three cell phones chirped softly, he carried it down the steps into the galley, no doubt looking for Beluga and French baguettes to munch on while analyzing a new batch of bizarre British dreamscapes.
Fully concentrated on my job now, I zeroed in on one boat that I found a trifle more suspicious than the others. Three Caucasian males lounged around, two young guys, one older, and by that, I mean late twenties/early thirties. All wearing knee-length swim trunks and baggy white Tshirts with American flags on the front. They had Old Glory on their baseball caps, too. How patriotic can drug dealers get? Or maybe that’s how their strung-out clients recognized them.
All were drinking Budweiser beer and ogling half-naked women flaunting their stuff along the rocky beach and in the nearby boats. They were lounging around in a sleek black-and-white Tahoe Q8i with a MerCruiser 5.0, plenty fast enough to outrun most police boats but couldn’t hold a candle to Black’s Cobalt. Their craft was floating near a flotilla of about twenty boats tied together in the middle of the cove. College kids home for the summer and looking for action aka public nuisance citations. Our suspects had not tied on with the rest of the crafts. No doubt ready for a speedy getaway, just in case any cops such as myself and Bud were lurking around, just waiting to catch them when they whipped out a bag of crack cocaine to entice scantily clad beauties aboard. Of course, they could do that with beer, too, and probably already had. I clicked five or six photos, zooming in on their faces, tacky tattoos of various patriotic eagles and naked women holding lightning bolts, and one with the name of their boat. Siren’s Call. How appropriate is that.
After that, I relaxed my tense shoulder muscles, rolled them around a bit, took a deep breath, then wiggled into about a two-inch spot of shade cast by the railing, where I did have an excellent position from which to observe. I swung the camera to the other end of the flotilla. A busty, half-naked girl was doing some kind of hoochie-coochie dance on the prow of her boat. She had on tall red cowboy boots with black fringe and a ten-gallon red cowboy hat with a black leather hat band about the same size as her bikini bottom. She whipped off her bikini top as I watched and swung it around like a rodeo porn star. I guess she forgot her lasso at home.
I restrained myself from taking a picture, then changed my mind and snapped a couple of her, just in case. But I do declare, what’s the matter with these gals? Other than the fact that she was obviously drunk out of her mind, which could be a considerable factor, she wasn’t breaking the law, other than an indecent exposure charge, maybe, which would break my cover if I busted her, so I guess she’s gonna get to show off her wares. Which she did with a great deal of abandon and jiggly mammary pride.
I was a bit surprised, however, that the young man in the boat with her, obviously a boyfriend of sorts, was blatantly encouraging such behavior in his own personal girlfriend, but he seemed to be enjoying her gyrations as much as everybody else. Or maybe he was just her brother. I daresay Black wouldn’t be so obliging if I flung off my top and did a jig, considering that jealousy thing he flares up with now and again. All around, I began to hear male catcalls floating in from every direction and boat horns honking with the old, approving “Oh yeah, take it off!” message. My, my, this girl must work at Hooters. If not, she should. And Bud, no doubt, had gotten it all down on film for posterity or to share in the squad room with the other guys, probably the latter.
I continued to surveil, not impressed with the size of her breast implants in the least, but now the sun was slowly dropping behind the tree line, ready for some downtime while the moon did its thing, I guess, but this party on the water was not going to break up until the wee hours of the morn, trust me. The boats might change their order, some kids might untie from the flotilla and speed away to barely make Mom and Dad’s curfew, but just as many others would show up, dock on, and join in the fun. Nope, Party Cove was just getting started, and the longer it went into the night, the drunker and rowdier everybody got. That’s why the sheriff had some of our deputies on undercover duty here each and every night all summer long, and I was just glad it wasn’t me. I prefer the afternoon surveillance any time.
I spent a few minutes perusing the two honky-tonk bars inhabiting the cove, trying my best to luck upon a drug deal in progress. There were two bars, side by side, Manny’s and the Kangeroo Trapeze, and let me tell you they sold more beer than Busch Stadium during the World Series. With dusk quickly approaching, it didn’t appear as if we were going to get lucky and bust any criminal types, so I shifted a little, sat up, and drained the rest of my Wild Cherry Pepsi. It tasted sweet and cold, really good going down my dry throat. It was still humid, despite the fading day, and Black was right, I was sunburned all down my backside. That was gonna be great tonight in bed. Guess we’d have to get creative. What I really needed to do was hang it up for the day, jump off the stern platform, and cool off my bright red skin in the water.
I stretched cramped neck muscles a few seconds, then regained my position and refocused on my targets. The boat with the three white males had now picked up the cowgirl with the red boots and naked breasts, knowing something classy when they saw it, I suppose, and had just slid their boat into the sand directly in front of Bud. They were stowing gear and getting ready to jump to the beach and head on foot to the nearest bar. The girl was still topless, and she was not a gal who needed to go topless, believe you me, uh uh, and she was just so elegant with that giant tattoo of Dog the Bounty Hunter on her right breast. I swiveled my telephoto lens to
Bud and found him standing up in plain sight with the video camera in his hands, probably thinking that Dog tattoo was just too tempting not to get a closeup on tape.
Damn, it didn’t take a genius to figure out he was filming them from the bushes and the reason why, and geniuses these three guys were not. They also weren’t above beating Bud to a bloody pulp with a flag-painted baseball bat for ogling their foxy lady, so I decided to save Bud’s bacon yet again. A bit of distraction was called for, so I jumped up, switched Black’s radio on to a blasting rock station, then hit the Cobalt’s horn a few times to get their undivided attention. All three guys and Dog’s biggest fan turned around and stared at me, so I jumped up on the prow and began a rather clumsy, spraddled-legged rendition of Tina Turner’s “Rollin’ on the River” routine.
I’m not exactly Bojangles but I had enough naked flesh showing to make up for some pretty ugly dance steps, and it was too far for them to be turned off by the big hatchet scar decorating my shoulder. Luckily, the three stooges stood transfixed on the shore and watched me so I gyrated my hips as provocatively as I knew how and pretended that I was going to take off my top like the other girl had done. Catcalls erupted from a couple nearby boats, so I kept it up for a few minutes, doing a little kicking and strutting like I saw one of the girls at the Mustang Ranch do on an HBO special and feeling pretty much like an idiot.
