Die Smiling (23 page)

“Wow, now I'm so thrilled I can barely stand it, 'cause she's so world famous and skinny, and all that.”

Black laughed. “I'll try to take your mind off her on the flight.”

“Ditto, believe you me.”

“I'm looking forward to having you to myself for a couple of hours. All I have to do is check the status of a couple of patients here at the Lodge and I'm good to go. Most of my schedule's cleared for the pageant, anyway. This is as good a time as any to check out that South Beach property I've got my eye on. I've got a couple of friends in the area, too.”

“I can't be gone longer than a few days. Anyway, I gotta get back and do my income taxes before the fifteenth.”

“Bring everything with you, and I'll send it over to Coffman and Company in Springfield. Bill, the guy running that office, is a genius at taxes. I'm taking all my business to him now, and he's saving me a ton of money.”

“Just so I get a big refund check, that's all I care about. I also have that little issue of body tampering at a funeral home to worry about.”

“Any progress there?”

“I think the killer played with her while the night security man and his girlfriend were getting it on in the back room. The guy's name is Walter Costin, and he's a weird bird, let me tell you. Strange thing is, though, Costin says Shaggy was there that night, too.”

Black remained silent for a few seconds. “Shaggy, your crime scene friend?”

“The very one.”

“Why would Shaggy be at a funeral home late at night? Or at all, for that matter?”

“He says he wasn't. Says he barely knows this Walter Costin guy, and definitely was at home sick in bed that whole night.”

“My bet's on Shaggy. Why would he lie to you about it?”

“That's my take, too, but something's going on here.”

“That might possibly be the understatement of the year.”

Black was right on there. I told him I'd meet him at Cedar Bend heliport in one hour. I drove home, packed my duffel with a suitable supply of boot-cut jeans and black T-shirts, and a blue denim shirt baggy enough to hide my shoulder holster. I'd sleep in my T-shirt, but that usually didn't stay on long anyway, not with Black around. I stuck in my toothbrush and a big envelope stuffed with my tax stuff that I was extremely glad to get rid of, then scooped up Jules Verne to be babysat by Black's crack household staff while we were in the land of sunny beaches, and actually made it to Cedar Bend Lodge before the hour was up.

Twenty minutes later, Black and I settled ourselves in the comfortable black leather recliners inside his luxury Lear jet, surrounded by its sumptuous black-and-tan accoutrements and onboard staff. Black was dressed casually for him, in tan Dockers and an immaculate white monogrammed shirt that showed off his tanned skin and white teeth and hard-packed muscles. He looked good to me, especially when he suggested we retire to his custom black-and-tan bedroom at the rear of the plane as soon as the flight attendant disappeared into the galley. We hadn't seen each other since earlier that morning, after all, so what can you expect?

We did wait for the seat belt light to go off, we were that much in control, then found our way to the aforementioned romantic tryst in a very large bed with his signature black satin sheets, at which time everything else came off, too, in titillating fashion, at that. Our carnal little freight train started the second Black's lips touched my bare flesh and roared through both of us with just as much clack and fury as an Amtrak locomotive flying through a Montana railroad crossing.

All in all, it was quite an adventurous and enjoyable two hours in the air. One thing for sure, it left us naked and entwined, breathless, satisfied, and more than a little dazed by the sheer fury of it all. After a sudsy shower together, we ended up happy and relaxed with matching damp hair and soothed muscles a good twenty-five minutes before set down, our mutual needs sated in a big way, which was always a good thing. Now we could get down to business and catch a few criminals and buy a few hotels.

In the aftermath of their daddy's death, the boy persuaded his parents to take in the three poor little homeless orphans. It didn't take a lot of encouragement. His mom and dad already liked the older one a lot, and his mom probably thought that now she had four pretty girls to dress up for pageants and live vicariously through. Stepdaddy's funeral was pretty much deserted. Child Protective Services searched for the children's other blood relatives without much luck. So far, Stepdaddy seemed to be alone in the world, and the social workers had not been able to locate the older one's real father. That was fine with the older one; she hated him, anyway.

The social workers jumped at the chance to place them with such a good family, two doctors for parents, no less, not to mention the wealth and prestige involved. So the decision was made, and the children were all as happy as they could possibly be. The boy's house was big, but the mom put Sissy in the boy's oldest sister's bedroom because she was still working in Europe and rarely came home and gave Bubby his own private room near the master bedroom. The boy insisted that he'd like to move out into the Winnebago, now that he was almost old enough for college. He needed his privacy, he said, with all these girls hanging around the house. So the parents agreed and gave his old room to the older one.

Everything progressed admirably, and none of the children ever mentioned again what had happened that night. Sissy was so grateful to be saved from the awful things her daddy had done to her that she willingly continued to be a slave to all of them, including the twins. Bubby grew shy and withdrawn, but the boy's parents really felt sorry for him and were always hugging and rocking him and trying to make him smile.

The older one loved it at the boy's house. Her new room had a little balcony that he could climb up whenever he wanted, and they made love every night before they went to bed. The boy had found porn sites on the Internet, and he got where he liked to watch them a lot and wanted her to, but she didn't like them much at all. But she loved him to distraction. He had saved her so many times from so many things. And now Sissy was different toward her, subservient and silent, and they could always make her do anything they wanted.

One night the boy said he wanted Sissy to join them in a threesome, but the older one said no, absolutely not, and he got mad and slapped her across the face. Shocked, she ran back to the house and cried in bed, but it wasn't long before he climbed in through the balcony and held her and begged her to forgive him. He said it was all the sex videos that made him think of the three of them together, and he didn't really want to do it, either.

The beauty pageants continued, but now the boy could drive the girls to them when his mother was on call at the clinic. Usually the older one and one of the boy's sisters won their divisions, but Sissy still had some scars that hurt her chances. She was losing now to the twins and one smartalecky girl from the next town, one who always turned up her nose when she saw any of them. So one night when they were gathered around the game board, planning their quests, Sissy said, “I wish that girl Kelly was dead. She always beats me when it's my turn to enter.”

The boy stared at her, and the older one didn't like it much when he went up behind Sissy and rubbed her shoulders. Sissy leaned into him and closed her eyes like she really liked it.

The boy said, “Well, we can kill her, if you want.”

Everybody froze and stared at him, but he didn't laugh like he did sometimes when he teased them.

“What're you starin' at? We did it before, didn't we? And nobody was the wiser. Why would we get caught this time?”

“We can't just kill her,” the older one said cautiously.

“We can kill anybody we want to. We've already proven we can. We just have to stick together. Be a team. Anyway, Sissy hasn't won anything in a long time, and it makes her sad. She's part of our family, plays the game with us now, and we owe her a little consideration. Right, Sissy?”

“Right,” said Sissy. She smiled up at him, adoration in her eyes.

“Then we'll get rid of Kelly, just for you. I'll design the best quest for us ever, one that won't fail. Something quick and easy that'll take her out of the picture.”

“I don't want to,” said the older one. “It's not right. It's too risky. It's a terrible idea.”

The boy frowned at her, and something in the way he looked at her made her shiver a little bit. Lately, he was acting strangely, going off by himself and not telling her where he'd been. It alarmed her and made her feel like something terrible was going to happen, but she loved him so much. They all loved him so much.

“Okay, but just remember this. I've gotta tape now that'll put all of you behind bars or in the electric chair. All I got to do is show it to the cops.”

The older one looked down, but she was scared now, of what they were planning to do and of the boy, too. He had changed. He even looked different, and he took pictures of everything. He liked to take pictures of them with their clothes off and videos of him making love to her. She was growing more and more afraid of him, but then he would whisper in her ear and touch her so gently and she would melt and cling to him.

The boy planned the quest for a weeknight. He had found out that the girl had ballet practice at the high school on Tuesdays at seven
P.M
. and that she always walked home to her house just down the street. So on that night, he gathered all the kids together in his car, had them put on gloves, and drove down to the nearest Wal-Mart store. He had watched the store employees for a whole week and knew which employees came in at seven and worked all night. He parked a good distance away and walked around to the car he'd chosen in the back lot. Nobody was around so he got inside and quickly hot-wired the ignition. When he drove back around to the front and stopped beside his own car, the others scrambled inside and they took off, laughing and slapping high fives.

Then they lay in wait, just up the street from the girl's house. It was pretty much deserted there, but it was a good part of town with lots of expensive homes that sat far back off the street among trees. The boy's family lived just two streets over. When the pretty girl walked up to the intersection, he pulled out from the curb and headed toward her. She kept walking, her back to the car, and when he was almost to her, he floored the accelerator and drove straight into her. The car hit the girl with an awful thump, and she flew into the air and came down on the other side of the street. The older one looked back, but the girl lay where she had fallen and did not move.

“You killed her! Oh, my God, she's dead.”

“No, she isn't. But even if she is, so what? She was a whore. She didn't deserve to live.”

Sissy and his little sisters were clapping, and Bubby looked up at the older one and began to make a low moaning sound deep inside his throat. The boy drove to the corner up from their house and braked the car, “Okay, get out and stop that kid's crying, or Mom and Dad will suspect something. Hurry up, I've got to ditch the car, then go into Wal-Mart so I'll have an alibi on their security cameras! Hurry up, get out! And keep your mouths shut about this!”

As the other children ran down the sidewalk toward home, the older one stood on the street corner and watched the boy drive away. He was out of control. She had to think of a way to talk him out of evil quests, or they were all going to go to hell.

A limousine was waiting at the Miami International Airport, but, of course, it was, long and white and luxurious, pretentious, even. Did I ever mention that Black liked to travel in style? We left the muggy, humid heat of the tarmac and climbed inside air-conditioned, comfortable plushness. As Black answered his cell and spoke in rapid French to someone at his Paris clinic, I realized that I was getting used to his megabucks lifestyle. Me, who loves McDonald's cuisine and Kmart togs. Actually, I still do prefer them, but I'll eat and drink Black's four-star entrees now and again, if necessary. He does the same for me with Big Macs and fries.

The hotel Black was interested in was called the Hotel Imperial. It appeared he was drawn like a moth to names implying wealth and prestige and hoity-toity. It was a twenty-story high-rise, art deco, and exclusive to the max, but of course, again. He must have called ahead with the hint of a multimillion-dollar offer to buy because we were met at the end of the red carpet like the maharajah of Marrakech and his tagalong detective friend. I was surprised when the two suntanned young executives who met us didn't kowtow and back their way into the mirrored, chrome elevators. I made a point not to notice the groveling. But believe me, somebody in this hotel's boardroom really, and I mean,
really
, wanted Black to sign on that dotted line.

We were given the penthouse, of course, the Presidential Suite, in fact. Surprise, surprise. A regular George and Laura we were. With chocolate-dipped strawberries and a chilled bottle of Dom Perignon and a giant fruit basket, vegetable tray, and several dozen urns of red roses, but no cheeseburgers. And even a huge silver tray with Black's favorites, Oreos and chocolate chip cookies. Maybe there are harem slaves with bare midriffs and sponges waiting in the bathroom to bathe us, who knows?

“I think they want to impress you, Black, maybe even want you to buy this place.”

“So far, so good. We'll see.” Mr. Arrogance and throw them a few crumbs if they slither on their bellies and beg.

I said, “Wanna go shake down a creep with me?”

Black said, “I thought you'd never ask.”

“Good, but first let's scope out Hilde's place. Bud gave me directions on how to get there.”

Earlier while in the circling pattern, I had notified Miami PD by phone that I'd be hitting town and would be by later to pick up their help in interviewing one of their residents. I made sure my permit to carry concealed as an out-of-state law enforcement officer was kosher with them as well as the airport officials. Once I got the A-OK on that front, I made sure both guns were loaded, the Glock hidden under my baggy shirt, the .38 on my ankle, extra clips snug in my pockets.

Yes, ma'am, I felt pretty damn secure as we walked out the front doors of the burgundy-and-navy hotel lobby and into the blazing afternoon sunshine. I'm getting pretty paranoid about being attacked by bad guys, you see. Imagine that.

The beach stretched out just across the street from the front of the hotel, tan and sandy and warm and oh, man, did I ever want to lie down on it and soak up some rays. The day was perfect, the air balmy, the sun bright, the temperature a lovely 79 degrees. Paradise, uh-huh, you got that right. Too bad I was more intent on getting on the nerves of one Carlos Vasquez.

The same white stretch limousine was waiting at the curb. I stopped and looked at it a moment then dug in the heels of my orange-and-black Nikes. Black stopped alongside me.

“What?” he said.

I said, “Don't you think that thing's gonna make us look a wee bit conspicuous?”

“Could be.”

“How about hailing a cab instead? Or renting some kind of low-key car for a couple of hours?”

“I'm sure they've got a hotel car we could use. I keep complimentary cars for VIPs at my resorts. Let me check.”

What'd you know? One wave of his hand and let it be done.

Within minutes a white-vested valet drove up in a Lincoln Continental, black with tan leather interior. Okay, still a mite flashy, and not exactly as ominous a presence as a giant Humvee, but I'll make do. Black's cell rang for the umpteenth time since we'd left Missouri. He checked Caller ID, then said, “I have to take this. Hold on a minute.”

Pacing a few steps away, he talked all serious-like in very low tones, so I enjoyed the scenery. The ocean was cobalt blue at the horizon, shaded with lighter bands of turquoise and aquamarine, large waves crashing and foaming against the beach. I loved that sound, always have. I was well acquainted with Miami, as a matter of fact had even lived here once for about six months, in one of the few foster homes I had not loathed and/or run away from.

Black snapped his phone shut and walked back to me. Uh-oh, he was frowning and shaking his head, storms incoming.

“Something's come up that I can't get out of. I'll get another driver and you can take the Lincoln. I'll go in the limo. Meet me back here in what? A couple of hours enough?”

I didn't ask what was up. It didn't matter; he had his life, I had mine. Sometimes the twain met; sometimes it didn't.

“It might take longer than that. How about three hours? And I can drive myself. I know my way around here, and I have directions to Hilde's place.”

Black appeared surprised. “You know the Miami area?”

“Yeah, I lived here once upon a time. Doesn't look to me like it's changed much.”

“Why didn't you tell me you'd lived down here?”

I shrugged. “I don't know. Why should I?”

“Last time you went out alone, remember what happened? Trouble follows you around like a goddamn shadow.”

I started to take offense, but okay, it had happened on and off in the past, mostly on. I reassured him. “All I'm gonna do is poke around in Hilde's stuff, then pick up a couple of things for Brianna, then I'll head back here. Oh, yeah, I forgot, I'm armed to the teeth and a trained officer of the law, too.”

“Wait till I get done with business before you go after Vasquez, okay?”

“Sure. I've gotta report in to the Miami PD and get an officer to accompany me, anyway. Relax, Black, do your thing. I can take care of myself.”

Black gave me a quick good-bye kiss and an embrace that was pretty damn embarrassing in front of all the fawning hotel employees loitering around, then he walked me around to the driver's door. He is polite that way, despite all the big bucks. “See you later, Claire. Call me if you need me. And duck and weave, for God's sake.”

“Right. You, too. Never know what might go down in serious hotel negotiations.”

Black smiled and strode off toward the white limousine awaiting his pleasure underneath the hotel's canopy. I turned the key and listened to the engine kick over and purr like it knew how awesome it was. Not exactly the same tune my Explorer played, but I was particularly pleased about the dark tinted windows. I had left my sunshades on the plane and was already getting a glare headache from sun, sand, and water.

Hilde and Brianna's joint beach house was indeed located north of Miami proper, well away from South Beach and most other tourist traps, up around the city of Hollywood, as a matter of fact. I knew the general area pretty well, so I drove the scenic route north on Highway One where it edged the sparkling azure sea. It was cool and quiet inside the car and brilliantly beautiful outside, and nothing against Black, but it felt good to be alone with my thoughts for a while. I needed to think about the case and figure out the whos and whys and whats, so I spent the thirty-minute drive wrestling down a bunch of ugly demons roiling around inside my mind. Unfortunately, at the moment they had me pinned in a half nelson.

As it turned out, the place that Hilde and Brianna Swensen owned was indeed a sweet little slice of paradise. If Brianna decided to sell it, I tell you one thing, I sure wouldn't mind putting in a bid. I was pretty attached to my very private little A-frame house on the lake with all its peace and quiet, but this place just might give it a run for its money. The beach house sat just off the coastal highway, at one end of a wide and sweeping sheltered cove with a string of about seven or eight other private residences dotted fairly far apart along its curve. Sea grass and some low dunes separated the houses from the sea, many of which had boardwalks down to the water. Not top of the line in south Florida beach real estate, but not exactly sharecropper shack city, either. Hilde and Brianna had walked a fair amount of runways to afford this getaway, I can tell you.

There was a covered carport around back and some kind of big storage shed, but no garage, so I pulled underneath it and climbed out of the Lincoln. I left the car cooling in the shade and trudged through deep sand around to the front door, which faced the ocean. The sand was so warm, in fact, that it made me want to strip off my socks and Nikes and go barefoot. I resisted the urge. Business first, but later was a different story.

The structure was not too large and covered with planked siding stained a pale melon color. The shutters were painted white and not battened down. Windows were the old-fashioned louvered kind, circa Florida in the 1950s. It was an older place, recently updated by the looks of it. There was a wood deck on the front, but no furniture. Hilde probably stored it inside the shed when she was away. And she had definitely gone away this time.

I turned around and gazed up and down the beach at the other homes. There didn't seem to be anybody out enjoying the weather, and I found that hard to understand. I wondered who the neighbors were, though, and if the Swensen sisters knew them well, and if any of them were insane stalkers. I turned back to the water and stared at the incoming waves for a couple of minutes, allowing the sea breezes to ruffle my hair around and listening to the stiff palm fronds rustling above my head. I liked that sound, too, I liked the smell of the sea, I liked the heat on my face. Man, do I ever like Florida, and everything about it. Maybe I would move down here someday.

Truth was I'd buy this place for myself if I had a bank account like Black's, but he already had some beach properties here and there around the world, so probably wouldn't be interested in this little insignificant place. He'd probably buy it for me, if I asked him to, but I wouldn't and never wanted to be that beholden to anybody, anyway—tempting though it was.

It was a quiet stretch of beach, tranquil, just the way I liked it. No wonder poor Hilde hadn't wanted to move to Missouri with her sister. It was a wonder that Brianna had given up and left this slice of Eden. I felt behind the front porch light as instructed until my fingertips hit the key. I slid it in the lock and opened the door.

Inside, the house looked fairly neat, but very lived in and enjoyed, too. More so than did Brianna's spotless abode in Roach, Missouri. I'd guessed right about the fifties thing, judging by the roll-out handles on the louvered windows alone. I liked older beach houses better than the fancy new ones with all their plate-glass windows and multilevel decks. The old-timers had more character, I guess. Seemed more permanent, too.

The living room wasn't particularly big, but comfy enough, longer than it was wide, with a couple of matching turquoise-and-yellow floral couches and white tables with four white lamps and whitewashed walls, pretty typical Florida decor. The kitchen adjoined; white, too, with white countertops and black-and-white geometric tiled floor. Very clean and orderly. All the appliances were new and shiny stainless steel.

I didn't touch anything—habit, I guess. But this wasn't a crime scene and I had permission to be here. It seemed like I was trespassing, anyway. I moved down a short hall and passed a small bedroom being used as an office and then walked into a larger one that stretched the back width of the house. It looked as if two bedrooms might've been made into one with an added-on adjoining master bathroom. The drapes closed off the windows, and it smelled and felt stuffy, but the bed was neatly made. There were lots of photographs and envelopes strewn out over the burnt orange, blue, and sage striped bedspread. I bent and picked one up by the corner. It looked like a picture of Brianna and Hilde together, circa ages four and six, maybe. They were cute then, too.

I glanced around and felt unable to breathe in the close, warm air. The scent of Hilde's perfume lingered, barely perceptible, Fendi, I think. Then I remembered how it wafted up out of the shower curtain when Bud and I found her body and got a little sick nibble inside my gut. Deciding what I needed was some more of that sea-fresh air, I moved to the window and jerked back the white drapes.

The man came barreling out of them at me so swiftly and unexpectedly that I couldn't react fast enough. He charged head down into my shoulder and knocked me back onto the bed. I bounced back up fighting and sent the heel of my hand into his temple while I scratched frantically inside my shirt for my weapon. He hit me back, a hard punch to my left cheekbone, but not enough to stun me and not before I had my Glock out and jabbing hard against his groin.

“Don't move. You hear me, don't you move a muscle.”

He must've valued his private parts because he froze. I got up, panting, a little dizzy from the blow but not enough to let down my guard. I recognized him now, even with that scared-as-hell expression on his face. Carlos Vasquez himself. Looked like I didn't have to go looking for him, after all.