by Linda Ladd
“Please, Detective, sit down. I understand you’ve been through something unpleasant this evening. I feel unhappy that it happened to you.”
“Wow, thanks. I feel unhappy it happened, too. Even a little miffed, maybe.”
Nobody laughed at that, either. Maybe I was a lousy comedienne, or maybe they had a lousy sense of humor.
“I’ve already had a talk with my men. It won’t happen again.”
“Are you saying you ordered me assaulted, Mr. Montenegro?”
“Not expressly. You see, with Nicky’s permission, I sent my men to Sylvie’s bungalow to gather her belongings so I could take them home to her mother. You surprised them there, and when you fought back so violently and caused them some injuries, they understandably got angry and a bit carried away.” Jacques shifted in his chair and took a drink out of the short glass in his hand. I detected some underlying annoyance when he continued, “And, I must admit, we’re not pleased that you insinuated to the Lafourche sheriff that we put out a hit on Marc Savoy, when it’s quite obvious that he committed suicide. We have enough troubles at the moment without dealing with false accusations. When you surprised my men, they were afraid you’d find out who they worked for. They were protecting me, you see. The idea was to tie you up so they could get away without you pursuing them. When you came to and put up a fight, you got knocked in the water, but that was never intended to happen. It was unfortunate, especially since it upset Nicky so much. The truth is, however, that you were never in any real danger.”
“No kidding? Wish I’d known that when I was holding my breath at the bottom of the lake.” I looked at the Three Little Hoods. “Remind me to arrest their asses before I leave.”
The guilty parties watched me impassively like they were really unconscious but had learned to sleep with their eyes open. All three probably had combined brains the size of one tiny chickpea. I’d had enough of the clever repartee.
“Okay, let’s cut to the chase here. You went to a lot of trouble to get me on this boat. What do you want?”
“I had the feeling when you visited my home that you think Nicky killed Sylvie. I’m here to assure you he did not.”
I gave a little laugh, incredulous, but nowhere close to amused. “I guess I’m just to take your word for that, right? Lay off him because he’s your special buddy. Sorry, pal, I’ll need a better reason than that to take him off my suspect list.” He really was off my list, but they didn’t need to know that.
“How about this for a reason? Nicky is Sylvie’s uncle, and he’d never lay a finger on her or any other member of his own family.”
Well, Montenegro threw me for a loop on that one. I was stunned, and I don’t do stunned often. I bet they could tell. I glanced over at Black. He nodded and said, “Jacques is my older brother.”
“Your brother. You and Jacques Montenegro are brothers.” Sometimes I repeat myself when I’m unsettled. It gives me time to think up more clever remarks.
“That’s right,” Jacques said. “Unfortunately, however, Nicky isn’t interested in the family business. He likes all this psychology mumbo jumbo. He keeps his association with us secret for obvious reasons. Sylvie was the same way. She didn’t want the notoriety of the Montenegro name to overshadow her career.” Or ruin it, I thought.
His handsome face fell slightly, sorrow written all over it; then his features went hard again, and his dark eyes glittered. “Whoever killed her is going to pay. But it wasn’t my brother. Nicky and Sylvie were very close. You’re wasting your time suspecting him and keeping your investigation off track. I came here to tell you the truth so you’d start looking in the right places instead of following this dead end. I have met with my colleagues in my own circles.” Which meant crime families from New York to New Orleans to Sicily, I assumed. “I have been assured none of them were involved in Sylvie’s death. My personal opinion is that a stranger killed Sylvie, and Nicky concurs with me. As Sylvie’s father, I’m requesting that you work closely with Nicky, use his expertise at profiling, or whatever he likes to call it, and find the savage who did this. I want him caught, and then I want him dead. We can help you with that, if need be.”
So much for fair trials and all that unnecessary bother. But I was taking it all in, trying to unboggle my boggled mind. I was shocked to learn of the relationship, even more shocked that Nicholas Black had managed to keep his real identity under wraps, considering his own fame and newsworthiness.
“I’m not ashamed of my family, Claire.” Black used my first name, which seemed odd under the circumstances. “It was just easier when I was young to start out without that familial identification, especially when I enlisted in the army. I’d never have made it there if my true background was known. I used Black because it’s a derivative of Montenegro. I didn’t kill my niece or anyone else. I didn’t try to hurt you tonight.” He frowned at the three stooges. “Jacques is right. I was furious when I got there and saw what they’d done. It was stupid. Nothing like that will ever happen again.”
“Not unless I happen to detect in the wrong direction.”
“It won’t happen again,” Jacques said in a voice that pretty much meant death by agony to the offending party. Mr. Burly, without a sense of humor and with a torn-up face, squirmed in his chair, and I knew he was the one who had played Dunking for Donuts with me.
I began to ascertain that I just might be out of my league here. Hell, before the last week or so, I could count the number of underworld figures I’d met personally on one hand. I felt a bit uncomfortable, even with the Glock in my grip. Perversely, I was fairly certain I was safe. Black was now on a first name basis with me. Surely, he wouldn’t call me Claire, then knock me off. It just wouldn’t be polite.
Holstering my weapon, I put my hands on my hips. I could see my reflection in the dark windows behind the Godfather, and sans my weapon, I didn’t look very intimidating in red yoga tights and T-shirt and no shoes. Everybody was staring at me as if it was my move, so I said, “Okay, tell me everything you know. From the beginning.”
“Please sit down, Detective, and let me tell you about my daughter.”
The sad story went on for almost an hour and would’ve had me in tears if I hadn’t been jerked around so much, but it told me little more than I already knew. Other than Black’s relationship with the family, it pretty much bore out my findings. With Black eliminated as a suspect, though, it put everything in a different light, but I wasn’t quite as ready as Jacques Montenegro to accept the assurances of his mob friends that Sylvie’s death was not a contract hit. Maybe it was a little theatrical for a professional hit man, but there probably were dramatic killers for hire out there some place.
After the story was over and all my questions were asked and answered, truthfully, I hoped, Montenegro and his merry men took their leave. I glared them out of the stateroom, not liking the fact that they were getting a pass on hassling me, a licensed officer of the law. But I was more glad, I guess, that the attack hadn’t been by some nut job still lurking out there and waiting to get me in a new, resourceful way.
“This’ll just take a minute. Make yourself comfortable,” Black told me as he followed the men out of the office.
I nodded, but it wasn’t until I relaxed into one of the long white divans heaped with satin pillows that I realized how sleepy I was. I heard the launch come to life down on the deck, felt the slight sway of the yacht, and decided to shut my eyes just for a moment. I was gone in seconds. Dottie’s hot toddy had finally kicked in.
Somewhere in the never-never land of my mind, I could hear a phone ringing. It was playing the “Mexican Hat Dance.” Hey, that’s the tune I set my phone on. Groggily, I reached for my belt, where I clipped my phone. I couldn’t find it. I heard an unfamiliar voice.
“She’s still asleep. This is Nick Black. May I take a message?”
Nick Black, I thought; then I thought, Nick Black? I sat up and looked around. He was sitting behind his desk, holding my canary yellow cell phone in h
is hand. “She’s okay. She came out here to interview me last night and fell asleep on my couch. I’ll have her call you back.” He punched off and laid the phone on the desk. He was dressed in a starched white shirt and blue tie, clean-shaven and obviously dolled up for an important meeting. He smiled. “You’re a popular lady. That’s the third call I’ve answered for you.”
“Why didn’t you wake me up?”
“Actually, I tried. Whatever your friend put in your drink was potent enough to knock you out like a light.”
“How did you know Dot fixed me a toddy?”
“I was waiting outside for her to leave so I could get you alone.” He walked to a sideboard with a silver coffee urn. He filled a cup and brought it to me. “You like it black, if I remember correctly.”
I took it and shoved my hair back off my face. I was at a disadvantage, but the strong black coffee helped. “What time is it?” I asked, noticing how the sun was glittering off the water outside the windows. “How long did I sleep?” Then, “Who called me, and who the hell said you could answer my phone?”
Black laughed and refilled his own cup. He leaned against the black granite counter and took a sip. He was always so calm, so collected, even when he’d been lying facedown on my dock, arms and legs spread. I wondered if all psychiatrists were like that. He shot out an arm and looked at his big, gold, expensive watch. “It’s almost noon. That means you’ve been asleep almost ten hours, and I answered your phone because I knew whoever was calling would be worried.”
“You should’ve given me the phone.”
“I shook you, and you didn’t stop snoring. I assumed you needed the sleep.”
“I don’t snore.”
“It was a joke.”
“You’re not funny.”
“Give me a chance. Sometimes I’m a real card.” Deadpan.
I frowned, but it hurt my bruises.
“See?” he said.
I remained sober. “Who called?”
“Sheriff Ramsay. I assured him that you were all right and I wasn’t a danger to you. Then Dottie called, and I assured her that you were all right and I wasn’t a danger to you. She said she made her potion extra strong so you would sleep through the night, and I asked for the recipe. Then some guy named Bud called, from a plane on his way home from grilling my ex-wife in New York, and I assured him that you were all right and I wasn’t a danger to you.”
So maybe he was a card. I wanted to smile but decided one time was one too many. I looked around. “Are we still out on the lake?”
“Yes, but we’re going to have to weigh anchor and head back soon. I’m already late for a staff meeting.” I raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t want to wake you, and your boat wasn’t ready.”
“What do you mean my boat wasn’t ready?”
“I ordered it gassed up and readied for the trip back. I have a mechanic on board who’s been tinkering with it. It sounded a little, well, like it was dying on the way out here last night. I wouldn’t exactly call it reliable.”
“We don’t all have yachts, Nicky.” More sarcasm. See what I mean?
Black ignored it. I guess it was a little childish, but like I said, I was at a disadvantage. He was springing stuff on me left and right.
“You’re welcome to use my shower. And I’ve laid out some clothes on the bed that you can wear home.”
“That’s not necessary. I need to get going right now.”
“Come on, Claire, be sensible. Take a shower, have some breakfast, wake up a little. By then we’ll have your skiff in the water again.”
Skiff? I thought. Nobody called jon boats skiffs, and whatever happened to bateau? “Okay, but give me my phone.”
He handed it over and motioned to the adjoining stateroom. “Help yourself. I’ll order breakfast. Or would you prefer lunch?”
“Suit yourself. I doubt if I’ll eat anything. I’m not hungry.”
The stateroom was as big as the office and also had one of those cute little balconies that overhung the water. The balcony doors were shut, so I opened them, and I could hear a couple of men talking somewhere above decks. I wondered how big a crew Black had on this yacht, then moved into a black marble bathroom with gold fixtures straight out of a pasha’s palace. The shower stall was all glass and mirrors, with fluffy black towels stacked around everywhere, and I decided Black was a little carried away with black. I locked the bathroom door, checked for hidden cameras just to make sure, then got in the shower. I made it as hot as I could stand it and washed my hair with a shampoo that smelled like gardenias. I knew Black didn’t use it, so I assumed he was always prepared for ladies to stay over. I wondered idly how many other women had washed their hair in the huge shower, most of the time probably with him as their loofah brush. Maybe he should have had one of those counters on the shower door like in department stores and Web pages.
There were black terry cloth robes hanging on gold hooks, so I slipped one on, then found brand-new combs and toothbrushes in a drawer, all wrapped and hermetically sealed in cellophane. I chose one of each and used them quickly. Wide awake now, I was eager to get back to the station and talk to Bud. A black cotton T-shirt and matching black cotton slacks with a draw-string waist were on the bed, both in my size. Nicholas Black aimed to please.
I combed my hair straight back, didn’t even consider looking for make-up to hide the bruises on my face and my puffy eye. The other guy looked worse and no doubt walked funny. That was the important thing. Then I remembered that I was aboard Black’s yacht and decided that it might be a good time to snoop around. I opened drawers and found lots of neatly stacked clean clothes, but in the bathroom I found his hairbrush and a small vanity glass, which might have his fingerprints on it. I tugged a few strands of hair out of the hairbrush bristles, put them in the glass, and tucked it down the front of my bra between my breasts, where Black would have to molest me to find it. Not to worry. We weren’t that good friends yet. There you go, all done, slick as a whistle, just in case I needed a sample for DNA testing.
I walked out into the office area. No one was there, so I retraced my steps taken the night before and found Black on the top deck, seated at an outside table set for two.
“I’m ready to leave,” I told him, looking over the side for my boat. It wasn’t there.
“Have some orange juice first. Sit down. We need to talk.”
I looked at him a moment, curious as to what he had to say. I sat down, and a woman came out in a black-and-tan uniform and poured me more coffee and fresh juice. The juice was in an icy black goblet. Jeez. I thanked her when she set large black plates in front of both of us. Fresh fruit, pancakes, scrambled eggs, sausage, and bacon, all prepared to perfection. My stomach noticed and threw a fit of growling. I frowned, pretending it was my bad mood raising the ruckus.
“Good, you’re hungry,” Black said. “So am I.”
“When will my boat be ready?” I asked him, digging in with more relish than he did. It had been a long time since I’d eaten anything. I tried to remember if I’d turned off the chicken soup on my stove. I thought I did.
“Soon. It needed some serious attention.” He watched me eat, smiling a little, and then I saw him looking at my bruises.
“The first ones are fading, but last night’s look pretty horrible.”
“I bruise easily, especially when a big fist smashes into my delicate skin.”
He was not amused. In fact, he looked angry. “They’re idiots, and apparently, you need to learn to duck and weave.”
“Oh, are you the one who’s gonna teach me?”
“I did some boxing in college. It looks like you need some lessons.”
Highly offended was I. “He blindsided me, if you must know. And there were two of them.”
“I can teach you awareness, too.”
“And I can teach you humility,” I said. “And how to live without a staff of hundreds to wait on you.”
“I’m more self-sufficient than you think.”
Ok
ay, enough small talk. Time to ask the pertinent questions. “Tell me about your family, Black. Did Jacques inherit his Godfather status from your father as the oldest son? Are you waiting to take over when things go bad, like Michael Corleone? Or are you like poor Fredo, who got whacked out on a lake like this one?”
I was half-joking, sort of, but Black didn’t take it that way. He looked out over the lake a moment, and I could tell he wasn’t amused and wasn’t eager to talk about his family. Too bad, I was. He made a decision and looked at me.
“Jacques made his own way. Both of us left home as soon as we could.”
“Why?”
Hesitation, longer this time. Then he said, “My father was abusive to my mother until I got old enough to step in and stop him.”
He’d mentioned his mother to me before, down in the bayou. “What happened?”
His eyes flashed with anger at my persistence. “If you must know, one night he was beating up on her, and I broke both his arms with a baseball bat. I left home after that, lied about my age, and joined the army. But he never hit her again.”
“How old were you?”
“Sixteen.”
“Are your parents still living?”
“No, they’re both gone now.”
“So Jacques went one way, and you went another.”
He nodded.
“I’m surprised you told me all this.”
“I want you to trust me. You’ll see I’m all right, once you get to know me better.”
Uh-oh, trouble, I thought. I laid down my fork. I thought it best to ignore that sappy crap. “I’m looking for Sylvie’s killer, and that’s all I’m looking for. Your brother’s affirmation of your innocence last night was really sweet, but you’re still a suspect in this case as far as I’m concerned. Until I prove to myself that you’re not guilty.”
“I can wait. If anyone can solve this, you can.”
Flattered I was. Annoyed I was. Yoda I sounded like. Time to go. “I’ll be in touch.”
He rose when I stood up. “My pleasure, Detective.”
My boat was in the water beside the launch now, but I hardly recognized it. It had been checked over all right. Newly painted, a couple of seats added for fishing, and it fired up with a smooth little purr when I pulled the cord. I looked up at the railing above me and found Black watching. I was pleased, and not above showing it, not where Old Betsy was concerned.
