Head To Head

by Linda Ladd

  My head pounded now. The traffic was horrendous, and I had to fight not to run my siren and slap the flashing light on my roof and take the shoulder home. One crawling minivan driver was so annoying that many unkind but highly descriptive remarks left my mouth in a low, muttering growl, but, hey, I didn’t yell or scream profanities or make unpleasant gestures. I am classy that way.

  Finally, finally, I pulled off Highway 54 and turned right on the private gravel road I shared with Harve Lester and Dottie Harper. Suddenly, it occurred to me that my fridge looked a lot like Sylvie Border’s had, minus the salad and wine. I ticked off my mental grocery list. Let’s see, no milk, no bread, no eggs, no bacon, no nothing. Food sounded good, but not enough to fight minivan drivers anymore. I thought I remembered a can of chili in the cabinet, but that might’ve been dog food left over for the stray black mongrel that sometimes came to call.

  My mailbox appeared, looking old and rusted and forlorn beside Harve and Dottie’s brand-new, silver, industrial-sized one, one big enough for a toddler to live in. Theirs had silver numbers that glowed in the dark; mine had numbers in faded black Magic Marker. They actually got mail. I drove on without stopping. Dottie picked up my mail and kept it in a cute little wicker basket on her front porch in case I ever showed interest in it.

  Harve Lester and I had been friends for years, and although Dottie was pretty much a disenfranchised flower child with nothing in common with either of us, she took very good care of Harve. Hiring her as his nurse and live-in housekeeper had been the smartest thing Harve had ever done.

  Harve and I were partners when I worked in L.A., and he’d fixed it for Charlie to hire me. He’d been shot in the line of duty and had no feeling below his waist. He was pretty much self-sufficient, but when Dottie had come along two years ago, it had made a huge difference in his life. She never left him alone for long, except for the weekends, when she ran around with Suze Eggers and lifted weights and kayaked and pretty much kept her athletic body in perfect condition. She was great, and a good friend to me, too.

  When I couldn’t take California anymore, Harve offered me the small A-frame fishing cabin he owned a quarter of a mile down the shore from his own house. Rent free. He’d inherited twenty acres of plum lake-front footage from his grandmother that was now worth a small fortune, and he loved it almost as much as he loved Dottie Harper. He never spoke his feelings aloud, probably because Dottie didn’t share his feelings, and kept their relationship strictly platonic, but I knew him well enough to see it in his eyes.

  Nearing Harve’s place, I saw Dottie step out of the screened porch and wave. I braked and rolled down the window.

  “Hey, Claire! Dinner’s about ready! Come on in and tell us about that murder over at Cedar Bend.”

  Great. They already knew about the murder. That didn’t bode well. Oh, yeah. Our mutual friend, Suze. “I don’t know, Dot. I’ve got a lot of work to do, and I’ve got a headache.”

  “I’m making my special lasagna with extra mozzarella. And I’ll fix you a toddy for your headache.”

  I hesitated and listened to my stomach react at the mention of Dottie’s lasagne. Dottie did Italian right. A vision of cheesy lasagna bubbling in a pan did me in.

  “Give me ten minutes to shower and change, and I’ll be over.”

  Dottie gave a thumbs-up and disappeared back into the house. The screen door banged behind her, and I drove on to my little corner of the world. I got out of my car and stood looking out at my dock, where I tied up my little jon boat, but I saw fish pecking at Sylvie Border’s ravaged face. I shut down the thought as I’d learned to do. Yep, the day was a downer, but whaddaya gonna do?

  Twenty minutes later I was clean and dressed in a different T-shirt and cutoff denim shorts and sandals and was lounging in Harve’s dining room chair, drinking an iced version of Dottie’s famous, magnificent toddy. She’d concocted it for Harve when his muscles tightened up, and it took away my headaches and relaxed me more than anything else I’d ever tried. My mood picked up the minute Harve rolled into the room in his motorized wheelchair and gave me a big smile.

  At fifty-one, he was as strong as a bull in the upper torso from fanatically lifting weights and hoisting himself in and out of his wheelchair. Although he’d had no use of his body from the waist down for years now, I’d never heard him utter one complaint. He was handsome, rugged looking. His eyes and hair were the same color, iron gray. Always positive, he actually kept my spirits up. He was my best friend in the world. “Havin’ one of those fun days, are you?” Harve rolled into place at the head of the table.

  “You got that right.” I set the silverware around the table, and that made me think of Sylvie, too, so I picked up the salad tongs and tossed Dottie’s secret recipe, her homemade Parmesan dressing, into fresh salad greens. She made the best salad dressing this side of New York City, and I popped a cucumber slice in my mouth. My stomach fussed at me for not eating all day. Sometimes my stomach hated my guts.

  Harve said, “I heard you pull out a little before dawn. That’s never a good sign.”

  Harve got up early, sometimes by four o’clock. He liked the quiet morning hours to work on his Internet business. He constructed Web sites and was damn good at it. In fact, he was a computer genius.

  “How’d you find out about the murder?”

  “Dottie heard it from Suze, and it was on the police band this morning.” That Jacqee. She’s, like, a big mouth, you know?

  “It’s real ugly, and Nicholas Black’s shaping up as the primary suspect.”

  Harve whistled softly, but his eyes lit up with the old fire. Nobody loved a murder investigation more than Harve, and he was pretty good at solving them, too. He’d been my mentor at the LAPD.

  I confided in him without worry. He was the one friend I kept no secrets from.

  “Who got killed?”

  “Ever heard of Sylvie Border, the soap opera star?”

  “Oh, my God,” Dottie cried from the kitchen. She held a piping hot nine-by-twelve pan of lasagna. She wore yellow oven mitts with red smiley faces on them. Her T-shirt matched the mitts. That pretty much summed up Dot. “That’s Amelia on A Place in Time! How could anyone kill her? She’s one of the good ones.”

  Harve made a sheepish shrug. “Dottie and I watch that show. It comes on when we’re havin’ lunch out on the porch.”

  “You and everyone else, it seems. This perp’s a psychopath, Harve. We’ve gotta catch him quick.” I told them the bare facts, and Dottie sank into a chair, still holding the lasagna. Her blue eyes were wide and shocked.

  “Oh, my God.” She breathed heavily, looking a little sick.

  I said, “Sorry. I should’ve waited until after we ate.”

  Harve said, “No, that’s okay. Do you really believe Black’s that much of a sicko? He doesn’t seem the type.”

  I shrugged. “We’ll see. Supposedly, he was in flight to New York when the murder went down. I get a stab at him first thing tomorrow morning. How about doing a quick rundown on Black for me?”

  In addition to Web site building, Harve used his computer savvy to track down people on the lam for individuals and law enforcement agencies. He prepared dossiers on anyone who was anyone and made twice as much money at it than he had as an LAPD detective lieutenant.

  “I’ve already got a good-size file I put together on Black when he stirred up that big stink buying up the land around Cedar Bend Point. I’ll pull it up after dinner. Tell you one thing, though, he’s got a hell of a lot of interests other than psychiatry. He’s big in real estate. He likes hotels, buys up resorts, and makes them exclusive by putting in a clinic for his high-class clients.”

  “I want to know his favorite color socks before I meet him tomorrow.”

  “You got it, sweetheart.”

  I picked up a knife and sawed thick slices off a loaf of hot, crusty Italian bread. I was salivating by the time Dottie picked up the serving spatula and cut the lasagna into squares.

  I took a sip of m
y iced tea as Harve handed me my plate. “Black’s on Larry King Live tonight. How about you two watching with me and giving me your impressions of him?”

  “I can tell you one thing, Claire. He’s a real cutie,” said Dottie, shoveling a huge portion of the lasagna onto Harve’s plate. She wanted him to gain weight. “I met him once. Did I ever mention it?”

  “You met him in person?” I took a slice of bread and handed the plate to Harve.

  “Sure did. I went to his book signing last year up in Kansas City. Barnes & Noble at the Plaza. He’s got real pale blue eyes. Almost like ice, sort of, but then it feels like they burn into you, real intense-like. He said, ‘Who’s this book for?’ and you know what, I couldn’t even remember my name for a second or two. I felt really silly, like some little teenybopper with a crush.” She shook her head.

  “You still got that book?” I asked.

  Dottie nodded. “Uh-huh. It’s in my room. I’ve got his others, too.”

  “May I borrow them?”

  “Sure. Remind me to get them before you leave.”

  I looked at Harve. “You ever meet him?”

  “No, but with the big, fat file I’ve got on him, I feel like I’m his long-lost brother. You aren’t going to believe all the irons this guy has in the fire.”

  “Can’t wait to invade his privacy.” I shut my eyes in ecstasy at the first bite of lasagna. My stomach wasn’t kidding. I was damn hungry.

  After dinner Harve and I sat down in his cluttered office, a converted sunporch overlooking the quiet cove. The first thing Harve pulled up on the computer screen was a head shot of Nicholas Black. Dottie was right. He was handsome, all right. I’d seen him before, of course, but just glimpses on television now and then. Up close and personal, he definitely had impact. Black hair, short, but a stylish corporate kind of cut, probably about $200 a la Bill Clinton’s scandalous do by Jose out of Beverly Hills. Lean face, dark tan, high cheekbones. Gazing straight into the camera out of eyes that looked more sky blue than icy. Native American–looking. A bare-chested Sioux warrior on a rearing wild black stallion came to mind. Sex appeal. Aplenty. For sure. Even I wasn’t immune, and I haven’t slept with a man in years. The celibate detective.

  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…”

&nbs
p; 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.”

  LIFE WITH FATHER

  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.