Head To Head

by Linda Ladd

  I gave him the okay sign with my thumb and forefinger. He gave a little salute and then disappeared from sight. I wasn’t twenty yards away from the motor yacht when it began to move toward Cedar Bend and Nicholas Black’s staff meeting.

  LIFE WITH FATHER

  The father was nice after the cook left. He and Brat often worked together on the corpses in the cellar, and he gave Brat presents. He bought Brat an IBM laptop computer and some games that went with it. Brat loved the laptop and sometimes took it to the cold room so the mother could play. The father took him on rides in their brand-new green Dodge station wagon, which they kept in the barn, and sometimes Brat even got to practice driving down deserted country roads at night, when there was no one to see them. Around this time, the father began to give Brat special injections, which he said would make him behave and obey the rules.

  “You’re turning into such a tomboy, Brat. You’ve got to be more ladylike, like your mother was. I’m going to help you do that, make you soft and sweet, just like you used to be.”

  Then one day the father drank too much whiskey, and he gave Brat another injection; then he stripped off Brat’s clothes and taped Brat’s wrists and ankles to the steel embalming table with a roll of silver duct tape. “I’ve talked to you about being more ladylike until I’m blue in the face, and now look what you’ve forced me to do. This is not something I want to do, Brat, believe me, but you’ve left me no choice.”

  Brat struggled against the tape binding him, but the father picked up the scalpel. “Someday you’ll thank me,” he said, and Brat screamed in agony when the scalpel sliced skin.

  Two weeks later Brat could walk again, slowly and painfully. Groggy from painkillers the father injected, Brat went into the cold room, and the dead ones gathered around to see the horrible thing the father had done and stitched up, then hid under a white gauze bandage. “He must die,” a young mother who’d died in childbirth said. “I’d never do something so horrible to my child,” Brat’s mother said. “Yes, he is evil. He must die.” “Yes, Brat, he must die,” they all agreed.

  So Brat went into the kitchen in the middle of the night and got the big meat cleaver out of the cutlery drawer, carried it upstairs to where the father was snoring in a drunken stupor, and held it high over the embalmer’s head, then brought it down in a hard chop on the father’s neck. The head separated from the body, and a fountain of blood drenched Brat’s arms and face and the bed and the wall, but Brat continued to hack the father’s body into a bloody pulp of tissue and gore until the red river of fire inside him flowed slow and cool and blue again.

  Then Brat took a shower, packed the cleaver and the razor strop and the laptop and computer games and other necessary things in a duffel bag, then went downstairs and got the big brown strongbox that the embalmer hid behind the corpses on the top shelf in the back of the cold room. The father did not believe in banks, and neither had his father before him, nor his grandfather before that. The strongbox was packed to the brim with money the family business had saved for years and years, thousands and thousands of dollars, and Brat took it and put it on the bottom cellar step, then returned to bid good-bye to his friends in the cold room. Brat told his mother good-bye and that she would never see him again, but his mother said, “You said you’d never leave me, and I said I’d never leave you.” Then she wept, and Brat could not bear to hear her cry or leave her behind, so Brat took the cleaver out of the duffel bag and severed her head and put it in a brown paper sack from the Kroger store. He whispered, “Don’t worry, Mother. We’ll be together forever, I promise.”

  Brat took the mother’s head and the duffel bag and strongbox and other necessary things outside and put them in the green Dodge station wagon, then went inside and poured gasoline on the father’s butchered body and drenched the carpets in every room. Then he lit a match and watched the house burn for a little while, before he drove away into the night.

  Brat was fourteen years old.

  18

  “Okay, Claire, let’s hear it, beginning to end.”

  I sat directly across the desk from Charlie. Bud sat next to me. We were in Charlie’s cluttered office, and outside the closed door, the other deputies tried to look busy while they eavesdropped. After all, we were discussing the biggest case to ever hit Lake of the Ozarks. All the secretaries huddled around the coffeepot, buzzing about glimpses they’d gotten of themselves arriving at work in the morning on video clips running nonstop on cable news networks.

  Once when I was little, I went to a traveling circus held out in the middle of a high school football field. It had three rings, the whole works, with trapeze artists performing high above the ground and elephants tramping around the track. That’s what this reminded me of, a Ringling Brothers show with Nicholas Black, Sylvie Border, and me as the featured acts. So far the spotlight had been on the other two, and I felt like I was swinging on a trapeze without a net, just waiting for the spotlight to find me. The audience would gasp, and I would fall to my death. Guess that tells you what kind of confident mood I’m in lately.

  From the street below, a car’s horn suddenly blared, and a bunch of angry shouting ensued. Charlie shot to his feet and jerked down the blinds. “I am so fuckin’ sick of those vultures circling around. I’m damned tired of facing a media gauntlet every time I come to work.” He glared at Bud and me as if we should do something about it. “And dadgummit, keep your voices down so Magdalena won’t overhear.”

  Magdalena Broussart was his secretary for going on fifteen years, a wonderful little lady who reached Bud’s chin, wearing four-inch heels, but who also kept the department running like a well-oiled engine. Unfortunately, she had a penchant for watching Murder, She Wrote and thought she was Jessica Fletcher. Double unfortunately, she had about fifty close bingo-playing lady friends in their seventies who lived vicariously through her knowledge of police business, and anything they heard from her spread through their ranks like wildfire. The bored old lady network, so to speak.

  I wanted Charlie to stop glaring at me, so I began my sordid tale from the moment Black showed up at my house in the kayak. Charlie’s bushy white brows came together at that point. I paused to give him time to spill out a string of vitriolic curses, but he didn’t, so I went on to the point where I met with Jacques Montenegro on Black’s customized yacht. Charlie had been saving his wrath up for the point when I told him who’d grabbed me and knocked me into the water, pacing around and threatening to have them arrested for assaulting one of his people. I found that a sweet offer but mentioned that it’d probably just cause more publicity and accomplish nothing. I’d calmed down considerably from the night before.

  While he cursed some more and with a great deal of feeling and imagination, I considered whether to tell him that Black was Jacques Montenegro’s brother. I decided not to tell him because I felt Black was right about Charlie. It would put him in an uncomfortable situation politically and lose him his biggest campaign contributor, all in one neat little package with a bow on top. I didn’t want to do that until I proved Black had something to do with Sylvie’s murder. And even I had to admit, that was a long shot.

  “Black wants to help us with the investigation,” I finished, glancing at Bud. “You know his background. He’s studied lots of cold cases and has been moderately successful at profiling killers. He wants permission to look over the evidence, give us his opinion; then he promised to back off and leave the rest to us. He swears he’s innocent and had nothing to do with Sylvie’s murder. At the moment, I think he’s probably telling the truth. I just can’t prove it yet, one way or the other.”

  “Nick’s no psychopath. I don’t think he’s got it in him to do something this sick,” Charlie said. “I’ve known him for ten years, for Pete’s sake.” Of course, we all knew psychopaths were harder to identify than by the way they treated their friends who were sheriffs. I didn’t point it out, but just look at Ted Bundy and O.J. Simpson and Jeffrey Dahmer. Not to mention that guy who killed all those yo
ung boys in Chicago and buried them in his crawl space. John Wayne Gacy had not only been named after a national hero, he’d been a clown to earn extra income, at children’s parties, no less. I wondered what was in the crawl space under Black’s many mansions or taped to chairs on the bottom of the lake under his yacht.

  “Well, I’m waitin’,” Charlie said, impatience showing. He kept a foam stress reliever on his desk, shaped like a little white Progressive Insurance car, and when he wasn’t drinking Pepto, he was squeezing it. Right now, he was working it like crazy in his left hand. He’d be one hell of a cow milker, if the poor heifers could survive his zeal. “What do you think, Claire? You want his help? It’s up to you; you’re the lead.”

  That wasn’t exactly true. It was up to him, and we both knew it. Guess he was being nice. “People say he’s pretty good. We could release some of the facts to him, and if he can tell us anything helpful, that’s great. And if I’m working closely with him and he’s guilty of the murder and playing us for some reason, maybe he’ll slip up, and I can nail him. Either way, it could be to our benefit. In any case, I can handle myself.”

  Charlie considered me and glanced at Bud, who considered me, too. I knew exactly what they both were considering. I felt my face grow hot and hoped I wasn’t flushed as red as I felt. I clamped my jaw. Okay, I’d been jumped and compromised by great big thugs, like some green little recruit. It rankled, but it wasn’t going to happen again. I had been on my home turf and had underestimated the situation. How the hell was I to know Black had underworld nursemaids?

  “I can handle myself,” I said again, frowning this time.

  “What about the ex-wife?” Charlie turned to Bud. “She ruled out as the perp?”

  “Rock-solid alibi. Had a soiree that night at her Manhattan loft, with lots of ritzy people there. That’s what she called it, a soiree as in la-de-da. Lasted until three in the morning. Even had an off-duty NYPD officer hired for the evenin’ as a security guard. He vouched for her.”

  “Nicholas Black, too?” I said. “Did he show up?”

  “Nope. Not only did he not show up for the party, she said she hadn’t seen or heard from him in over a month. That said, she oozed so much devotion to him that I was almost embarrassed that he left her. She clearly loves him, said she didn’t want the divorce, but he did. Said they still love and respect each other. Said they couldn’t make it work because at that time their careers meant more to both of them.”

  “Is she as beautiful as she looks in Vanity Fair?” I asked, thinking no one could really be that drop-dead gorgeous.

  “I found myself staring at her and forgetting where I was. Body to die for. Voice like warm honey. Black’s nuts to kick her out of his bed.”

  At that, Charlie got a trifle testy. “Shit, Davis, get your mind out of your pants for once, and get on with this. I don’t give a flyin’ fuck if you want to screw her.” Sometimes Charlie zeroed right in on the point.

  “Yes, sir. I did some digging around at the airport. Found out Black wasn’t on his jet when it landed that night at LaGuardia. He flew in on a commercial flight later, nonstop from New Orleans.”

  Charlie slammed his right fist down on the table. I didn’t jump; he usually did it at least once at each meeting, so I watched for it. “And you just now gettin’ around to mentioning that? Claire, did you know about this?”

  I did know it, of course. Bud’s good about keeping me posted. “Maybe he went to New Orleans to notify the family. I’ll check it out.”

  “Oh, will you? Gee, thanks, Detective, for doing us all a favor.”

  Maybe Charlie’s where I get my sarcasm. Sometimes he was better at it than even I was. Especially when he was red-faced and furious and looking for somebody to vent on. “I’d say it’s a bit suspicious for him to send his private plane on to New York and take a commercial from New Orleans. More sarcasm. Told you he was good at it.

  “It’ll be easy enough to check out,” I put in quickly. “FBI’s been taping everybody going in and out of the Montenegro estate.”

  “Well, check it out and make it quick. I think Black’s innocent, and I want you to declare it to the press as soon as you can, before the media hounds blow his involvement totally out of proportion and start throwin’ around allegations about his contributions to my campaigns. Every magazine and rag on the rack has a picture of Sylvie with Black. This is turnin’ into a fuckin’ nightmare.”

  “Peter Hastings is stalking our officers,” Bud said. “O’Hara found him filming outside her house this morning and demanding answers about the crime scene. She shut him down but said he’s determined to get the goods any way he can.”

  “Well, he ain’t gonna get the goods if I have anything to say about it. I mean, nobody says nothin’ to the press. Is that clear? I don’t want anything to break until I give the go-ahead. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  Charlie glared at Bud. “Yes, sir,” Bud said.

  “And I want a press conference tomorrow morning at 5 A.M. on the dot. Let the vultures get up at the crack of dawn. They make our lives miserable; we’ll just return the favor. Bud, you’re gonna do the talkin’ for us. Make sure you say nothin’ about nothin’ when you answer the questions. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  We left Charlie yelling into the phone at some unfortunate soul and made our way to the little cubbyhole we shared on the third floor, where I had about three weeks of paperwork piled up. I sat down in my squeaky wooden desk chair, and Bud sat across from me at his own desk. Our desks butted up against each other, detective togetherness. His was clean and neat like his designer fashions; mine looked all rumpled and day-old like my Tshirts and jeans. The window beside us looked down at the street in front of the building, and he spent a few minutes watching the satellite dishes lined up like giant metal umbrellas.

  “I can’t believe this,” he said.

  “Yeah,” I answered, logging on to check my e-mail. I had 172 messages, most of which looked like X-rated spam. No wonder I put off checking my e-mail.

  Bud lowered his voice. “Well, are you going to tell me why Black answered your cell phone?”

  I looked up. “You think that’s your business?”

  Bud affected a hurt face. “Well, of course.” He gave his famous grin, all charm, eyes glinting, and I had to smile, until he said, “Seems to me the two of you sure are getting awfully cozy out there on that boat of his.”

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Defensiveness dripped like battery acid. I couldn’t help it.

  “That’s supposed to mean, are you sleeping with him? and if you are, cut it out, because you’re compromising the investigation.”

  “Get real. I’m not sleeping with anybody. You know me better than that.”

  “He seemed pleased as punch to let me in on the fact that you were still asleep and he didn’t want to disturb you because you needed your rest. Said you didn’t take good enough care of yourself.”

  “So? He can say whatever he likes, and you’ll still know me better than he ever will. Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m not involved with him, sexually or any other way. I fell asleep on his couch because I’d been up all night, and I made the mistake of drinking one of Dottie’s hot toddies before he showed up at my house. It just happened. It was stupid, I admit it. I felt like a fool when I woke up there. I feel foolish now.”

  “Just watch yourself. That guy’s smooth, and I don’t trust him. He’s too damn cool with the bad guys.” Bud held up a piece of Juicy Fruit. Peace offering. Trying to make amends. I took it, glad that question had been asked and answered. I knew it would come sooner or later. “You still think he’s capable of killing her? You’ve spent time with him now, seen him informally, slept on his couch.”

  Bud had to get in one last jab. It was in his nature. I hesitated in answering his question, realizing that I wasn’t sure. Black was an enigma that it’d take time to figure out. “I’m not sure what to think yet. He’s
not cleared in my mind, not completely, but somehow I don’t think he did it. It’ll be interesting to see what he comes up with concerning the crime scene. It’s worth a try. If he’s trying to throw me off or create a red herring, I’ll see through it.”

  “Why don’t I sit in when he pontificates on the murder?”

  “He made it clear he’d only deal with me. Said he doesn’t trust anybody else.”

  “And you swallowed that bullshit?”

  “I wouldn’t trust people around here, either, if I were him. He won’t open up in a crowd. I can work him better alone.” Bud didn’t look convinced, but he wasn’t going to no matter what I told him. His distaste for Black was visceral. I changed the subject. “What about Inman? Any verification of his whereabouts at the time of the murder?”

  “Caught him on a liquor store surveillance camera about the time of the murder. And his deadbeat neighbor had a beer with him out on a picnic table behind the trailer after he got home. Pretty well covered his slice of opportunity.”

  “He’s not getting off on assault and battery. If his wife won’t nail him on it, I will. My bruises ought to convince a jury.”

  Bud shook his head. “You’ve had one hell of a week, Morgan. Maybe I oughta stick closer to you. Be your avenging angel.”

  “All I need right now is to get these reports done and in to Charlie; then I’m going to meet Black again. He wants to go over the photos and reports of the crime scene and give me his take on how it went down. That’ll be interesting, to say the least.”

  “Yeah? Sure you don’t want me to come along for protection?”

  “You’re not gonna let me live down gettin’ jumped, are you?”

  “I thought you were invincible. Now I worry about you.”