by Linda Ladd
The set was a fake villa overlooking the sea. A la Cleopatra. Lots of white pillars and marble floors and billowing white linen panels draping a platform bed. A painted Aegean Sea backdrop offered a sunset on the horizon. The victim sat upright on the bed, completely nude, rail thin, legs crossed demurely, arms folded over her breasts in a show of modesty. Tate was right about the blood. The killer either got sloppy or was in too big a hurry and let her pump out all over the place. The air was heavy with the sick-sweet, coppery smell of congealing blood. Could be he’d done the same at the lake, but the water had washed it up all clean and neat for him.
There was no doubt the head was Sylvie Border’s. Her face was unmistakable, beautiful even in death, eyes open and staring, but Tate was right. It looked like the perp had intentionally smeared blood all over her face, except for a patch on the forehead that looked as white and waxy as the magnolia blossoms perfuming the front veranda of her parents’ New Orleans home. She had been posed to stare out the window at the fake ocean sunset. Cameras were in place around the set, with directors’ chairs just behind, and stage lights focused on her as if ready for the shoot to begin.
It had taken me over six hours to get here, and they were still processing the scene. That meant lots of evidence to collect. I moved to the bed, where a young woman wearing black pants and a white polo shirt with LAPD on the breast pocket was clicking still photographs of the body. I didn’t know the woman, but she glanced up from her work and gave me the professional nod reserved for law enforcement colleagues gathered at the scene.
Silver duct tape had been used again, all right, about three rolls of it. Definitely excessive. Wrapped round and round the throat. It was the same perp, all right, or somebody playing awfully good copycat. And very few people knew the details of the crime scene at the lake. Somehow he’d managed to transport Sylvie’s head fifteen hundred miles across country to Tinseltown without being seen. God only knew what unfortunate soul the body belonged to, but it had been a young woman, anorexic probably and not much taller than five-foot, very slight and small, like Sylvie had been. Who was he trying to kill over and over again? Why was he switching heads? If I could figure out why, I could figure out who.
The criminalists had been filled in on my case and were making damn sure they handled everything precisely by the book. Thank you O.J. Simpson and his Dream Team. Everybody in the LAPD had become better and more careful at their jobs, and they were damn good before. Nobody was going to make any stupid mistakes that’d come back to haunt them. I examined the body more carefully, then leaned close to the head, with its dead eyes staring at the camera, glad Black wasn’t here to see Sylvie’s last and final humiliation. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought the body and head belonged to the same person. We definitely had a serial operating here, one with flair and flourish, and if my guess was correct, he’d done many, many other crimes before we ran headlong into him, so to speak.
Tate came over and bent down to examine the victim’s neck. “You’re telling me that when they remove this tape, they’re going to find out that this body is not Sylvie Border’s?” Tate stood up and looked down at the bed, with his fists on his hips. “Why the hell does he do that?”
“One reason is that he wants us to know these two murders are connected. Wants to show his handiwork to the world. I think he was disappointed when the media didn’t get hold of the gory details at the lake, so he came out here, where everyone is media mad and likes to leak to the press. He wants the papers to run with this, and he knows they’ll have no scruples out here. Good thing about it is it’s riskier for him. He’s getting reckless. This is a messy crime scene, lots of hair and tissue. Maybe he got careless and left a part of him behind this time, and that’s all we’ll need to nail him.”
Tate said, “Nicholas Black is our primary at the moment. He was seen here and had the opportunity. Ditto on your victim.”
“Black’s not stupid enough to come out here and commit murder when the last one went down at his resort. Much less allow himself to be seen lurking around.”
“Maybe that’s what he wants you to think. I hear he’s a publicity hound who likes the spotlight. That fits with the killer’s profile, too.”
I studied Tate’s face a moment and realized he could very well be right. Every time I thought I could eliminate Black, he bounced back like some kind of frickin’ fickle finger of fate. “Yeah, maybe. I’ve spent some time interviewing him, and my gut tells me he’s not the killer.”
“Your gut was right about 99 percent of the time, if I remember correctly,” he said, grinning. “Trust your instincts; that’s what Harve always told us, remember?” I nodded, and he asked, “What about Gil Serna? True about him sleeping with Sylvie Border?”
“I interviewed him at the funeral. He’s pretty torn up.”
“We’ll get another shot at him as soon as he shows up.”
We discussed the scene with the criminalists for a while, asked lots of technical questions, but they were already turning up more clues than we’d gotten at the lake. Several hairs in evidence, and a bloody footprint was being cast. At least we’d have something to work with this time.
Outside, the press was swarming the sidewalks like maggots in three-day-old garbage, but these were exceptionally good-looking, well-coifed, sunny California maggots. Unfortunately, we had to leave the perimeter tape guarded by LAPD officers to get to Tate’s truck. Once we ducked under it, somebody must’ve yelled fair game. In seconds we were surrounded and hounded down the sidewalk. Twenty feet from Tate’s truck, we were brought to a standstill by at least thirty camera crews. When I saw Peter Hastings barging his way to the front, screaming my name, I knew the battle was lost. I had to take a stand, give them something, or I’d never get out of the fray.
“Okay, take it easy. Get back, and I’ll answer a couple of questions.”
Oh, the delight they showed then, but they did back off. This was the part I hated, the part that sent me fleeing Los Angeles and everybody in it. But they didn’t recognize me, and chances were they wouldn’t.
“Can we have your name, please? And spell it, if you would.”
“And take off the sunglasses, please.” That from a photographer.
“Detective Claire Morgan. Canton County Sheriff’s Department.” I spelled my name. I ignored the bit about the sunglasses.
“A source tells us that the body found inside belongs to Sylvie Border. If that’s the case, who was found at Nicholas Black’s spa in Missouri?”
“I’m not at liberty to divulge that information,” I said tersely, trying to keep my head down enough to shield my face. “I’m out here to view the crime scene. You’ll have to present your questions to the LAPD officer in charge of the case.”
“What about your case, Detective? Do you know who the murderer is?”
“We are making progress in our investigation. That’s all I’m willing to say at this time.”
“Is Nick Black still a suspect? We understand he’s here in town. That places him at the scene of both murders, doesn’t it? Is he the killer, Detective?”
“As I said, you’ll have to direct your questions about this case to the LAPD. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a plane to catch.”
For one magic moment, I thought I’d gotten through unscathed, that they’d back off and let me go home, but then Peter Hastings came forward, with a knowing smirk on his face. I braced myself for his insistent man-whine, but instead he hit me with a bombshell that nearly blew me off my feet.
“Isn’t it true, Detective, that your real name is Annie Blue, and that three years ago, you were an officer with the LAPD?”
Everything around me stopped, all motion and sound fading into one shrill shock wave. Oh, God, I thought, don’t let this happen, not again. Then a fiery crackle of energy swept through the throng, so palpable I could almost feel it coming at me, like heat off summer asphalt.
“No comment,” I said. My voice sounded strange, and I looked around
for Tate. He’d made it to the truck, but I was stuck tight in the jumble of rolling cameras and pressing people. “Please let me through.”
The jackals pressed closer, pushing me around. Dozens of microphones were shoved in my face. Get it together, get it together, I kept thinking, but Peter Hastings was up front now, and the look on his face was oh yes, oh yes, I am God. A CBS reporter beat him to the punch.
“Is it true you’re Annie Blue, the L.A. detective involved in the infamous love triangle with her husband and police partner? The incident crippled your partner and killed both your husband and son. Can you deny that, Detective?”
“I have nothing to say.” I pushed my way through the reporters, knocking a couple of them out of the way, but others stepped in front of me. I wanted to draw my weapon and shoot my way through, and was considering it when Hastings stuck his mike in front of my face and struck the fatal blow.
“Is it true you’re having an affair with Nicholas Black, Detective? Are you the woman in the photographs we’re running on our show?”
Now I stopped because he shoved a sheaf of eight-by-ten glossies in my direction. I looked down at them and saw myself kissing Black that night on my dock, saw another of us having breakfast on the deck of his yacht. I ripped them up, sick to my stomach, and pushed my way through the crowd. When a long black limousine turned the corner, I knew it was Nicholas Black to the rescue even before he jumped out and started walking toward us.
“There’s Nick Black,” I heard a reporter yell, and the whole crowd gave a collective gasp of delight, then shifted in his direction like a tidal wave. They headed for him with a scramble of cords and excited cries, pleased as punch that they would get to destroy two people instead of just one. Shakily, I watched Black move up a flight of steps to where they all could see him, and then I headed toward Tate’s truck. Halfway there, John Booker stepped out of nowhere and pulled me toward Black’s limousine.
I jerked free from his grasp. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m getting you out of here before they tear you to shreds. Nick’s taking the heat so you can get away. He’s got his jet waiting on a private airstrip to take you home.”
Tempted, I glanced back at Black, now speaking to the crowd of photographers. He wasn’t looking at us, but some of the reporters were. Booker said, “They’re gonna hound you all the way home. On the plane, in the airport, everywhere. This is the best way, trust me.”
He was right, and the photos proved I knew Black better than I was supposed to know him. I waved Tate off and pointed to the limousine. He nodded okay, and I climbed in the back as Booker stiff-armed two photographers trying to scramble in after me. As we drove away, the photographers were snapping pictures through the black tinted windows.
“Nick must think a lot of you,” Booker said as he settled into the opposite seat. “He’d rather take a beating than face the paparazzi. He’s sued ’em three times and won.”
“How’d he know I was here?”
“He called the sheriff about this new murder, and Charlie told him you were in L.A. Then on our way down here, we saw you on the tube.” He pointed at three nineteen-inch color sets built into the console. All three sets were tuned to different stations. The one in the middle was Fox News and had a close-up of Nicholas Black’s face. I didn’t have to ask; Booker turned up the volume.
“My relationship with Detective Morgan is strictly professional,” Black was saying, very calm, very used to media attention, “though I wouldn’t mind if it were otherwise. She can arrest you guys if you get in my way.”
The reporters laughed like they loved him, like they were having a real good time, like they didn’t mind him suing them. He smiled easily, as relaxed as I’d been tense.
“Did you know about her other identity, Doctor Black?” Peter Hastings asked, sounding smug and thrilled to be the one who broke the dirt.
“No, but anyone who’s really lived has a past. Maybe even you, Pete? Wonder what my private investigators could dig up on you.”
More laughter, but it was a subtle threat, and Hastings looked like his closets were locked good and tight and for a reason. But he was nothing, if not persistent.
“I’m not calling you a liar, Doctor, but I do have a picture here of you and the detective getting pretty friendly. It’s hard to deny the truth when it’s right here in front of your face. It’s going on the air in a matter of minutes, Black, so now’s your chance to tell us the truth.”
Black took the photographs handed to him but barely glanced at them. “You can’t blame a man for trying, but she wasn’t interested. If you’re the jackal who took these, you’ll be able to vouch for the fact that I left her place minutes after these were taken.”
“Is it true she has a death wish?” a redheaded female reporter yelled from the back. “Is that why she left the LAPD, because the department psychs said she was too dangerous to remain on the force?”
“I think that sounds like you guys have been watching too many Mel Gibson and Danny Glover films. I’m planning a formal news conference tomorrow about my association with this case. I’ll answer any questions you might have at that time. My office will give out the time and place within the hour.”
The limousine hit the freeway, and the driver smoothly merged into six lanes of speeding traffic without even running a single person off the road. “Aren’t we going back for him?” I asked Booker.
“He’ll meet us there.”
“Does he always travel with Cedar Bend security guards?”
“This time he did.”
I tried to read Booker without any luck, sensing he was much more than one of Black’s security details, then looked back at the television screen in time to see Black making his way toward the street. I dropped my head back on the cushioned seat and closed my eyes. The worst possible thing had happened. Now all I had to do was figure out how to deal with it.
23
It turned out that Black had a ranch of sorts northwest of L.A. in the Santa Monica Mountains, a ranch of King Saud sorts. The limo drove past a road that led up into the hills, where I glimpsed the windows of another Black mansion overlooking another Black spectacular view. I shut my eyes. How much money did Nicholas Black have? Maybe I should’ve been a psychiatrist and written a few books, too. Maybe then I could afford a hot tub. My life story would be a best-seller all by itself, considering the money it’d rake in for the tabloids.
I wondered again what I was doing here in Black’s limousine with the mysterious Booker. How did this happen? I didn’t want to analyze it right now. I just felt real bad, all wrung out and depressed. I didn’t want to talk, explain, justify, remember. I didn’t want to function. Luckily, John Booker wasn’t much of a talker, either.
“Nick said to wait for him on the plane,” he said at length when the car slowed to a stop on a tarmac.
I opened my eyes, picked up my leather handbag, and trailed him across a paved runway to the sleek corporate jet. We were down in a small valley now with mountains around us. Inside the jet, it was as grand as everything else Black owned, all tan and black and plush and expensive. I felt like I had flown back in time, with all the old feelings crashing around inside my head, smashing up barriers I’d erected so I wouldn’t have to face my past again. Too bad, so sad, as they say. My inner attempt at flippancy fell pretty flat, so I sat down in one of the black reclining seats and shut my eyes. It helped to shut my eyes. If I couldn’t see my life falling apart, it wasn’t happening. I heard Booker moving around as if he owned the place, quietly giving commands to a woman I assumed was a flight attendant and then later to a male voice I assumed was the pilot’s. Again, I wondered who Booker was and exactly what he did for Black. Cell phones rang now and then, my own twice, but I hid behind my closed eyelids. Nobody home. Don’t call back. Maybe I’d never have to open my eyes again; maybe I could just let John Booker silently watch over me forever.
In time I heard Black’s voice somewhere nearby, speaking in low tones. I
opened my eyes and saw him at the end of the cabin with Booker, both tall and dark and in control, and two gray-haired, distinguished-looking men in pilot uniforms. I shut my eyes again until Black spoke directly to me, now very close.
“Buckle your seat belt, Claire.”
He was sitting across from me, and Booker was gone. I obeyed and buckled up, then looked up as a young woman with a gold nameplate that said Mindy handed me a goblet and a white pill in a tiny paper cup.
“It’s a sedative,” said Black. “Take it. It’s mild and won’t put you out.”
“Then maybe you better give me two or three more,” I said with my razor-sharp wit. Black stared at me. No smile.
“Well, I guess you’ve figured out where you’ve seen me before,” I said, putting the tablet in my mouth and chasing it with the water. Mindy took the goblet and paper cup away.
“I figured out who you were long before today.”
That surprised me. “When?”
“The first day you paid me a visit. I had Booker look you up.”
“So Booker’s your private investigator.”
“That’s right. We ran missions together in the army. He’s a good friend and one of the best men Special Ops ever saw.”
That explained a few things. “So I guess you keep dossiers on everybody you meet, just like the KGB?”
“You had it in for me; I could see that from the beginning. I make it a habit to know my enemies.”
“So now we’re enemies?”
“Not at all. What I learned about you helped me understand your…attitude. You were hiding a painful incident from your past, trying to make a new future. Nothing wrong with that. I would’ve prescribed the same course if I’d been treating you.”
