Head to Head (15 page)

It turned out that the Lafourche Parish sheriff knew exactly where Marc Savoy had lived. His name was Roy Lebonne, and he showed up with a coroner named Joe Billy Preston. Both of them knew Black by name and spoke to him in Cajun, which made me a trifle nervous.

I stood back and watched them work the scene, but it was killing me not to go inside and make sure they weren’t screwing up the evidence. I am controlling that way, I admit it. They were friendly enough, had Cajun accents, and assured me that it was well known that Marc Savoy was in love with Sylvie Border and had chased her around since high school like a love-struck
chien
, which translated as dog. They told me that rumor had it that he’d once been visited by her father’s friends in the Montenegro crime family and been beaten nearly unrecognizable in his own house, and that after that he’d kept to himself out here, where he could worship Sylvie in peace and quiet. I wondered again if the Montenegros hadn’t decided Savoy was guilty, then paid the poor guy a second, more deadly visit.

But I was out of my jurisdiction and my element, so I listened and nodded and didn’t share my expert opinion. Black hung around for a while, and when I told him I preferred to catch a ride back to town with the sheriff and take a commercial flight home instead of sharing his jet, he got all bent out of shape and said, “Fine, do whatever you want to, but I’m going back over to Aldus Hebert’s house and spending the night. If you change your mind and want to fly back with me, that’s where I’ll be.” Then he took off without saying another word.

I felt bad because he was the one who put me on to Marc Savoy, and then I got mad at myself. I was getting personally involved with him, and so I vowed then and there that I’d just have to get myself un-personally involved with him. By the time we got the body tagged and bagged and deposited into Marc Savoy’s old canoe to tow behind us, night had fallen. I did not like the swamp in the daytime, and I sure as hell didn’t like it pitch-black. All the way back to the Lafourche Parish Sheriff’s office, I waited for the Creature from the Black Lagoon to rise wrathfully and pull me down into his underwater lair. When we passed Aldus Hebert’s house, I heard the lively strains of a hopping zydeco band playing “Jolie Blond” over the sound of the police boat’s motor. I looked to see if I could see Nick Black among the figures dancing under strings of lights in the front yard but couldn’t make him out. I thought about stopping, but spending the night there with Black was just asking for trouble, and I had enough trouble as it was.

I didn’t get away from the Lafourche Parish Sheriff’s office until well after midnight and caught a ride with one of their deputies to the airport, where I took the first morning flight home. I’d had enough of the New Orleans heat and humidity and bluebottle flies. I slept on that flight and the commuter one, too, then some more when I finally fell onto my own couch and crashed. By late the next afternoon I felt fairly refreshed and ready to get back to work.

I spent some time preparing my written reports on the trip and then dropped in to see Harve around seven-thirty that evening. I handed him Sylvie Border’s autopsy file and left him at the kitchen table to sort through it while I opened the fridge and got out a can of V8 juice. “Dot gone fishing?”

“Yeah, she and Suze promised to bring back a whole mess of crappie for dinner. Stay, and we’ll hash this thing out.”

“I think I’ll pass this time. I want to check out the crime scene at night. If the perp got her after dark, I want to retrace his steps and see things the way he saw them.”

Harve glanced up from the file. “Good God. The head was taped to the chair?”

“The duct tape held it in place. You know, Harve, I thought something looked funny about the head at retrieval, but none of us suspected it was actually severed until Buckeye cut through the tape.”

“So why the hell would somebody cut off the head, then reattach it? Doesn’t make a lick of sense. I’ve heard of decapitations before and using the head as a trophy, but nothing like this.”

“Maybe he did it in a rage, then regretted it? Tried to fix it.” I popped the V8 tab and took a sip. Harve was nursing a Heineken.

“There’s not much rage in this murder. The body’s been beaten with some kind of object that leaves those half-moon shapes but not too badly, except for the face, and some of that damage might’ve been done by the fish.”

Suddenly, fried crappie didn’t sound so appetizing. I would definitely skip Dottie’s fish fry. “Have you seen any cases similar to this?”

Harve shook his head. “We’ve both run across cases where the victim’s positioned in a specific way, especially in serials, but that’s usually done for a reason. We can check out the FBI’s database of recovered body parts. I’ve got a friend at Quantico who’ll do a search for me. Might find something that ties in with this one.” He frowned. “I just can’t figure why the perp reattached the head.”

“Reattached the head? Gross. Don’t say any more; it’s almost time to eat.” We hadn’t heard Dottie slip in from the back porch. She was dressed in khaki shorts and a light blue sleeveless tank top with a heart made out of red glitter on the front. Smiling, she held up a good stringer of bass and crappie. “Possum Cove’s a treasure trove, and my dirty little secret. I found a fishing hole just below Suze’s place that’s teeming with fish just for me. Lots of brush and a rickety old dock. I’d give anything if I could get you over there, Harve. You’d be in the box seats of Nirvana.”

The box seats of Nirvana? Dottie said stuff like that all the time. Not fish heaven, not angler’s paradise. But box seats in Nirvana. Dottie was a unique person, and she beamed at me. “You’re staying for dinner, aren’t you? I gotta hear your impressions of the delicious Doctor Black.”

“I’m gonna have to pass, Dot. I want to go back to Sylvie’s bungalow and look the place over again. Yeah, and by the way, Black’s pretty much everything you said he’d be.”

Dottie slung her catch from Nirvana into the kitchen sink, with a clatter of the metal stringer. “I bet even you felt the chemistry, right? What’d I tell you? He’s something, right?”

“
Even
me?” Mock hurt. But sometimes the truth hurts. I hadn’t been out with a man since I’d known her. What else was she going to think? “He’s involved in the case, so that means hands off even if I was interested, and I’m not.” Sometimes I tell little white lies. “I don’t think he did it, but some things about him just don’t add up.”

Harve looked at me with interest. “Like what?”

“Like he said he hardly knew Sylvie’s family, but I saw him embracing some of their help, who acted like they wanted to kneel down and kiss his ring.”

“You thinking he’s working for the Montenegro family?”

I said, “He throws around an excessive amount of money, even for a doctor/real estate developer. Maybe he supplements his lifestyle with drugs and dirty money. Maybe he launders it for them.”

“Who’s this Montenegro family?” Dottie washed her hands and dried them on a dish towel as she approached the table. When she reached for the file folder, Harve put his palm on it before she could pick it up. “You don’t want to see these, hon. It’s got the autopsy photos in it.”

“Oh, Lord, no, I don’t. Thanks for warning me. But who are the Montenegros?”

“Sylvie’s dad turned out to be a crime figure in New Orleans. Some people say they’re a Cajun Mafia.”

Harve said, “And that opens all kinds of cans of worms.”

“Jacques Montenegro informed me he’s
making inquiries
, to quote him. This may kick off a Mafia war. The feds’ll be thrilled. They’re already surveilling them.”

Dottie looped an apron over her head and tied it behind her back. She flopped a bass on a wood cutting board and lopped off its head with a meat cleaver. “So you think Doctor Black is involved with a crime family?” She shook her head as she cleaned the fish. “Who would’ve guessed that?”

“My hunch is that he might’ve been more seriously involved with Sylvie than he’s letting on. Maybe he had an affair with her while he was married and doesn’t want it to get out. She’s a patient, and he’s got a reputation as a psychiatrist to protect. Bud’s in New York right now interviewing his ex-wife. It’ll be interesting to hear what she has to say.”

“Please stay and eat, Claire.” Dottie turned around and gave me a beseeching look. “I want to hear everything. We never see you anymore. By the way, I put your mail on your front porch swing, about three days’ worth.”

“Thanks. I’ll take a rain check on the fish, I promise. I’m not finished with the paperwork on my New Orleans trip, and Charlie wants this one done strictly by the book.”

Twilight was settling in over the lake, a dark purple haze that looked like a gauzy curtain. When I arrived at Cedar Bend, I found Black had installed a new security post, which was manned by two guards at the entry gate. They were stopping people going in and out of the resort, and I rolled down my window and held up my badge. It wasn’t Suze Eggers this time, and I wondered if Black had fired her since Sylvie had died on her watch. “I’m Claire Morgan, primary on the Border case. I’m headed out to the crime scene.”

The new guard was big and tough and looked like he’d been around the block a few times. I had a hunch he was either retired military or big city cop. He had these watchful cop eyes, blue and unreadable. He looked like somebody I’d want backing me up in a sticky situation. Nicholas Black was getting serious about his security staff.

“Yes ma’am. If we can be of assistance, let us know.”

“Thanks.” I looked at his nameplate. It said John Booker. “You’re new, right, Booker?”

“Yes, ma’am. Just came on this week. Nice to meet you.”

“Ditto. Anybody else come through here requesting admittance to the crime scene?”

“No, ma’am. Lots of press trying to get through, but we’ve kept it cordoned off on Doctor Black’s orders.”

I attempted my best nonchalant tone. “What about Black? He been down there?”

Booker shook his head. “No, ma’am. Not to my knowledge.”

I thanked him and took off down the road to the murder site. Tourists were everywhere on the lake, obviously not turned off by a grisly murder on the premises. The media was discussing nothing else, but we’d held them off pretty well so far. They hadn’t found out the condition of the body, and they weren’t conjecturing on possible killers yet.

Sylvie’s gate was padlocked. I didn’t have the key and didn’t want to return to the main lodge, so I ducked under the yellow sheriff’s tape and made my way down through the trees on foot. The grounds had already been swept by Buckeye’s people, with very few results. A hair caught on the bark of a tree and a couple of old cigarette butts were now being examined and tested. I was more interested in how the perp approached and got into the bungalow.

I had my flashlight, and I stepped through the thick undergrowth and leaves. It was rough terrain, overgrown, but there were animal paths and rain washes cut into the hillside where I could place my feet on gravel and not leave footprints. So could the murderer.

It was completely dark now, and I stopped just above the bungalow and listened. Night sounds. The loud, discordant chorus of crickets. I could hear music, very faint, from the bungalow that Mrs. Cohen had stayed in. “You Light Up My Life.” Mrs. Cohen was gone. Somebody who liked the oldies was staying there now. I wondered if they knew about the horrible murder next door. And what they’d think if they knew a detective was creeping around in the dark, listening to their radio.

Twenty yards below I could see the bungalow where Sylvie Border died. Solar lamps glowed dimly every four feet along the front porch, and I remembered the lights were also positioned across the back. Still, the deck was very dark. The chandelier in the foyer was on; I could see it through the fanlight. The rest of the bungalow lay as dark as a grave. This is what the killer saw if he came down through the woods. Where was Sylvie when he was standing here? In the house? On the deck? Asleep in bed?

If Black had left between 9:30 and 11:00
P.M
. like he’d said, what would she have done after he left? He said she was tired from a run. Would she soak in the hot tub on the back deck? Or in the one in the bedroom? Maybe she took off her clothes herself before she got into the hot tub, was naked before he attacked her. Maybe he watched her, got aroused, and decided to rape her and then kill her.

I moved laterally down to the lake until I could see the back deck. The hot tub was clearly visible. If I were Sylvie, once Black was out of sight, I would have soaked in the hot tub and relaxed my muscles before I went to bed. Hell, that’s what I needed to do right now. There wasn’t much I wouldn’t give to have my own private hot tub.

This time of night the bungalow was completely secluded, dark, and private enough to bathe nude without being seen. Unless somebody was standing where I was, shielded by bushes.

Across the cove I heard a boat motor start up, then idle. Then I saw a boat move out into the lake. I could see the light attached to a pole in the stern for night fishing. I could see figures moving along the marina deck, where there were a couple of restaurants catering to casual diners. I could smell hot wings cooking on the grill and the faint fishy smell of the lake. The point farther out at Black’s digs was quiet, no helicopters landing or taking off. Just the soft music from next door. “The Way You Look Tonight” suddenly went off as if offended that I was listening. Now all was quiet except the crickets and the lapping of the water against the pilings. I wondered if these were the last sounds Sylvie had heard, those and the sound of her killer’s voice.

I climbed over a fallen log and wound my way to the edge of the water. It would be easy for me to splash through the shallows and climb up the side of the back deck. If Sylvie had been in the hot tub, gazing over the water toward the marina, she’d never see me. I did it easily, and without any sounds that would alert someone to my approach. It was dark around the bungalow, lots of shadows not illuminated by the solar lamps. I moved silently to the hot tub. It had been emptied, probably by Buckeye’s people. I turned and looked out over the lake. He got her here, while she was in the hot tub; I felt sure of it. That’s why she was nude. She may have even been drowsing, with her eyes shut. Just enjoying the peace and quiet.