Head to Head (6 page)

“I can assure you that I have nothing whatsoever to hide. Neither does Doctor Black,” Miki Tudor said. Defensive as hell. She was so classic Grace Kelly, chin-length, ash-blond hair pulled back in a chignon with a tasteful tortoiseshell clasp. Tiny pearl earrings on delicate ears. A strand of large pearls draped around her neck, real ones, expensive, if I was any judge. Actually, I wouldn’t know a real pearl from a peppermint Chiclet. Miki fingered the glossy necklace, revealing more nerves than she admitted.

“Nice pearls,” I said.

“Thank you,” she said.

Bud was ogling the young woman and making no bones about it. Not a new development. Bachelors admired attractive women. It was their nature. Ms. Tudor was ignoring his drool, highly insulted that law officers dared think that she or her renowned employer could be involved in a crime.

“Nobody’s accusing either of you of anything.” My voice stayed level. I’d learned to be patient. Why spook the lady before we got what we wanted out of her? Miki Tudor wasn’t the first person I’d questioned whose defenses were revved to full throttle. “We’d like to view the hotel’s security tapes.”

“I think you need a warrant for that sort of thing,” Miki said, eyes unblinking and on me. Guarding her master like a well-heeled dog. A poodle in pearls.

“That’s true in some cases. Most of the time we don’t. Innocent people are usually eager to work with us. I doubt, Ms. Tudor, that you want to get off on a bad foot in a police investigation, especially when there’s no real reason to.”

Confident Miki looked a tad unsure of herself, so I pressed her.

“We realize this is a difficult time for the hotel staff, but if you cooperate with us, we’ll get through it faster and easier.”

Bud decided to ooze some Southern charm. He oozed well and knew it. He was oozing it better with pretty Miki Tudor than he had oozed it with elderly Madeline Jane Cohen. “Believe me, Ms. Tudor, we’re not suggestin’ you had anything to do with this. We just want to find the killer as soon as possible.” His smile was white and winning, his eyes beseeching, his Rhett Butler accent heavily pronounced. Miki visibly relaxed, even dropped her hand and quit fidgeting. Maybe she didn’t like female police officers. Most women didn’t trust their own gender. I sure as hell didn’t. Give me a male friend any day. But then I’d always been a tomboy, so there you go.

Miki folded smooth, tanned hands atop her white French provincial desk. Fingernails were immaculate, a French manicure, perfectly done. Miki Tudor defined cool elegance and obviously liked French stuff. Framed by a spectacular view of blue water, behind her white sails dotted the lake as entrants practiced for Cedar Bend’s famous Independence Day Regatta, slated for a few days from now. She was a good-looking woman, and I would bet a week’s pay that Miki wore her large, tortoise-rimmed spectacles to de-emphasize her beauty. Under the big lenses, her china-blue eyes looked wary and fatigued. Miki was edgy and trying to hide it.

Miki could be concealing guilt, but my intuition told me it was more likely frayed nerves and a red-eye from Kansas City.

“We realize you haven’t had much sleep, Ms. Tudor. Naturally, this is quite a shock to you. Would it be better if we postponed this interview until tomorrow? After you’ve had some rest?”

The offer surprised Black’s personal assistant big time, not to mention Bud. I ignored his quizzical look and studied Miki’s face. The young woman was incredibly readable. I liked to watch people’s expressions and body language. My instincts were usually right on, and I had enough common sense to listen to my inner voice, as they say. Miki was tired. And now Miki was grateful; her big blue eyes welled up, and she became a weepy poodle. I noted, however, that no tears actually fell. A delicate lace hankie miraculously appeared in Miki’s hand, and she daintily dabbed nonexistent tears away.

“Forgive me, detectives, I’m just overly emotional. I can’t help it. I am exhausted and thoroughly stunned by all this. Nothing like this happens here at Cedar Bend. I thought it was impossible. And I know Sylvie. We’d become pretty good friends since she’d been coming here. We’re both runners. Last week we ran three miles together every day.”

She inhaled deeply, breath shaky. She shook her head. Her coiffure didn’t move. She had no wrinkles, not even a frown line. Botox Betty. “I just can’t seem to absorb this,” she said and met my eyes in a show of vulnerability. Okay, I am a skeptical cop, I admit it. I watched her remember her duty to Cedar Bend and Doctor Black. She retreated into narrow-eyed, guard-poodle mode. “We do everything humanly possible, and I mean everything, to protect our guests. Nick insists upon the tightest security, especially with his patients.”

Nick, was it? Well, well. First-name basis between Doctor Black and girl Friday. Interesting to be sure, but that could mean anything.

“Man, that’s terrible. Her bein’ your friend and all.” Bud leaned forward, Mr. Earnest. I thought for a moment he was going to reach out and hold her hand, but he didn’t. He said, “But we really need your help today to catch this guy, if you feel up to it at all. Did the victim have any enemies that you know about? Did she mention any problems that cropped up since she’s been here at the lake?”

“Well, actually, we weren’t that close yet. At least not enough for her to bare her heart about her personal problems. Nick knows her much better than I do, really. He’s just devastated. He could barely talk when I told him what happened.”

I said, “Did he know anything about Sylvie’s frame of mind the night she was killed?”

“No. He asked the questions,” Miki said. “And I didn’t know all the details. He wants to talk to you as soon as possible so you can tell him exactly what happened.”

“When’s he coming back?”

“Tomorrow morning, early. He has business meetings in New York today, and Larry King tonight. Black always honors commitments.”

Right. I said, “I’d like to speak with him as soon as he returns. What time do you expect him?”

“He’s coming in on the Lear, but he’ll probably spend the night in New York. He’s got a loft in TriBeca. His ex-wife lives in Manhattan, and he usually visits her.”

“And his ex-wife’s name?” I poised my pen over my notepad.

“Jude.”

“Jude what?” I asked.

“Not
the
Jude?” Bud perked up considerably. “You don’t mean the supermodel from Denmark?”

“Yes, she’s quite well known.”

“Yeah, I’ll say. She was on the cover of
Sports Illustrated
a few years back. I remember it well.”

Bud was downright giddy. After all, it was the swimsuit edition. He probably had it framed in his bathroom. “How long has Doctor Black been divorced?”

“Five or six years, I think.” Miki leaned back in her swivel chair, obviously uncomfortable with the turn of conversation. “To be perfectly honest, I’d prefer that you ask him any questions about his private life. It’s really none of my business and certainly not my place.”

“Of course.” I nodded, the understanding, fellow female detective. “If you’ll tell me approximately when he’ll be here, I can be waiting for him and get the interview over with.”

Miki liked the sound of that. “Doctor Black’s schedule is often disrupted, you understand. He’s a very important man, but the flight plan calls for him to leave JFK at 5
A.M
. New York time. That should put him down here around six o’clock our time.”

“Early bird gets the worm, and all that,” Bud said. He grinned. The Affable Male Detective.

Miki let down her guard enough to smile. “Doctor Black doesn’t seem to require as much sleep as other people do. I can’t imagine how he gets by on so little.”

Curious as to why Black had so much trouble sleeping, I probed a bit. “He’s certainly well known for analyzing movie stars. Does he have other interests that take up his time?”

Miki immediately warmed to the subject of her employer’s shining accomplishments. “He just finished his latest book. His publishers predict another best-seller.” She beamed, proud as a little poodly peacock.

“Another best-seller?”

“Nick’s written four self-help books that have hit #1 on the
New York Times
best-seller list.”

I did remember reading something about him writing books, and Bud sat up straight and grinned. “Maybe he’ll put me and Claire in his next book.”

Bud was so charming now that he ought to invest in a king cobra and a flute. But his remark wormed another smile out of somber Miki. “He just might. He likes to observe the people around him. He is a psychiatrist, after all.”

“I’d like to meet him at the airport. Could you arrange that, Ms. Tudor?”

“He’ll land at the hotel’s private airstrip outside Camdenton and then come out here on the helicopter. Nick built a helipad out at the point.”

“Just like the prez heading home from Camp David, huh?” said Bud.

A third smile was not in the cards. Put the cobra back in the basket. Stomp on the flute. In fact, Miki ignored him and concentrated on me. “Our VIP guests hate paparazzi. That’s the main reason they choose Cedar Bend for their R & R. We provide private flights and complete confidentiality about their stay here.”

I replied, “That privacy isn’t going to last long when the press gets hold of this murder. It’s only a matter of time until they find out what happened to Ms. Border.”

“We’re quite aware of that, Detective Morgan.” All huffy and stiff-necked. “I’m getting ready to put together some kind of statement, but I want Nick to approve it before I talk to the press.”

“You can’t release information until we notify Ms. Border’s family. Do you have information on the next of kin?”

“Oh, Nick’s already taken care of that. He felt he owed it to Sylvie’s family since it happened here.”

That took me by surprise. “He’s already spoken to the family?”

“Yes, I guess he has by now. He said he was going to call them.”

“Then he’s a personal friend of her family?”

“I don’t know the answer to that question.”

“We’ll have to get their names and personal information. We’ll need to interview them.”

“I don’t have access to information about Doctor Black’s patients. You’ll need to discuss that with Doctor Black himself.”

I changed my tack. “As far as you know, Ms. Tudor, was Sylvie involved in any kind of trouble, here or elsewhere?”

“If she was, she didn’t confide anything to me. But she wouldn’t. As I said, we weren’t that close. I very much enjoyed her company, however. I suppose I was a little in awe of her. She was very big at NBC.”

“Was she dating anyone special?”

“She mentioned Gil Serna a couple of times,” Miki admitted. Reluctant. Feeling like a traitor. “She did intimate once that they hadn’t been getting along lately. But she really liked him. I could tell by the way she acted when she talked about him.”

“How do you mean?”

“He called once when I was at her bungalow. We’d just gotten back from a run. She seemed really glad to hear from him. She was smiling, you know, real happy like, genuine pleasure, at least it seemed that way to me.”

“Has he ever flown out here to see her?”

“Oh, no. And we definitely would’ve known if he had. She’s only been here for a couple of weeks this time.”

“This time?”

Miki stiffened as if she’d let a secret slip but recovered quickly. “She visits us two or three times a year, usually. She absolutely thinks the world of Nick.”

“As far as you know, Ms. Tudor, are they more than just friends?”

Miki glanced away from me. Not good. Lying? “Not that I know of, but I certainly don’t presume to keep tabs on Nick’s private life.”

“What about you?”

Miki was bewildered. “What about me?”

“Have you ever been romantically involved with Doctor Black?” Blunt inquiries sometimes shake people’s confidence.

“Absolutely not. Never.” Unequivocal. Firm. Offended. I believed her.

“That’s right,” Bud said. “You’re married, aren’t you?”

“If you must know, I’m in the middle of a divorce. But I’m not involved with Nick, and he’s not the reason for my marital problems. I work for him. I respect and admire him more than anyone I’ve ever known, but that’s as far as it goes. Ask anyone on the staff here, if you don’t believe me. They can tell you our relationship is strictly professional and always has been.”

“We have no reason to believe otherwise, Ms. Tudor. We’re just asking the questions we have to ask. We’re not trying to insult you or make you uncomfortable in any way.”

“Of course,” said Miki, her words as frosty as Christmas in Stockholm. “Now if you want to review our surveillance tapes, I can arrange that. But I’ve really spared you all the time I can.”

“Whaddaya know. Look who visited our lady right before she ended up in the drink.” Bud punched a button, and the sleek black Porsche froze in the act of turning into Sylvie Border’s private drive. I stood with him in front of a wall of television screens in the security office of Cedar Bend Lodge. The tape clearly revealed Nicholas Black behind the wheel of the Porsche. Bud had paused the tape at the point when Black checked out the camera. The digital timer read 9:37
P.M
.

“Muggin’ for the camera. How considerate of the Doc. This places him at the scene the night of the murder,” said Bud, nodding. “Okay, he showed up there around 9:30, and I’ll bet a Double Whopper with cheese, Buckeye’ll tell us Black was with her within the window of opportunity. Question number two—how long before Black pulls out in his fancy car?”

I said nothing as the motion-activated tape kicked on again. Black’s Porsche appeared driving up from the bungalow, but the driver didn’t face the camera this time. In fact, the face was averted when the car hit the main road and accelerated toward the lodge. Other cameras along the way picked up the car until it sped through the stone entrance gate and out of sight.

“He left at 12:30
A.M
. That’s a pretty long time to visit a patient at night, don’t you think, Claire? Especially when they’re not romantically involved.”

I leaned against the desk, staring at the cameras and frowning. I thought about it. “Rewind it, Bud. Let’s see if anybody else’s in the car with him.”

Bud walked around the console and worked a couple of buttons. The tape reversed, and the car rolled into view again, but it was too dark to see anyone in the passenger’s seat. “He’s got a cap on now.” Bud pointed to the screen. “He wasn’t wearin’ one when he drove in.”

“If it’s him coming out. Could be somebody else.”

“Could be a her. Or it could be Sylvie herself.”

“Maybe. But unlikely.”

“Yeah.”

“Guess we better take a look at all the tapes, Bud. It wouldn’t hurt to go back to the day Sylvie Border arrived at Cedar Bend and see if we can find anybody else paying a call on her. Might even pay to check out her previous visits, if Black keeps his tapes that long.”

“Okay, I’ll confiscate as many as I can. We can go halves on watchin’ them. I like to share the fun with you, podna.”

Oh, these Southerners.

“Miki gave us the okay, so have somebody get them together for us to review while we take statements from the staff.”

The individual questioning took the rest of the day. I talked to countless maids, kitchen and room service people, and Bud rounded up everyone else who worked at the lodge. After a forty-minute session with an eighteen-year-old maid so scared she stuttered everything she said, I called it a day and checked out Sylvie’s bungalow. I wanted it secure and guarded from press vultures. Bud had gone back downtown to fill in Charlie, who was supposed to be back from Jeff City by five o’clock.

At eight minutes after six o’clock, I climbed into the Explorer and finally left the grounds of Cedar Bend. Tired, fighting one of the killer headaches I’d had for the last couple of years, I admitted things didn’t look so good for Nicholas Black. So far, he was the only person seen going in or out of the victim’s bungalow that day or the day before. And he’d visited her on five separate occasions during her two-week stay, not counting their therapy sessions up in the private quarters of his luxury digs. No one else had been seen anywhere close to the dead woman’s bungalow. Sylvie hadn’t shown up on the tapes, either, but I had a whole stack of videocassettes for homework.

Traffic was heavy as I drove across Bagnell Dam. Boats dotted the glittering lake, many trailing water-skiers in creamy wakes. Jet Skis zipped everywhere like pesky little gnats. July was the busiest month at the lake, and Cedar Bend’s Regatta and Black’s special Fourth of July fireworks display shot from barges out on the water brought visitors in droves. That wasn’t counting the conventions at the big resorts. Cedar Bend’s concierge told me four conventions were going on there this week, with fifty more slated before the huge New Year’s Eve gala that Black threw for his friends and clients, with more fireworks, lots of champagne, and invited media.

Today I’d bumped shoulders with about a zillion guests all decked out in shorts and conventioneer badges and black straw Panama hats, but they’d have to have 007 infiltration skills to crash the exclusive bungalows on the point. Still, the convention rosters would have to be checked out.

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 my 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.