Head to Head (21 page)

I tried not to watch Black’s jaw working convulsively as he ground his teeth. Black needed a breather, so I got up and went into the bathroom to give him some time to compose himself. I can be thoughtful sometimes.

By the time I returned to the table, Black had his emotions under strict control. He looked at me and said, “It sounds like a ritual thing. And he’s got a reason for beheading his victims. That’s why he’s taking the heads. We’ve got to figure out why he’s doing it this way. I agree with Claire that it’s a game, one he’s become very good at. How does he keep them? How does he transport them? Where does he kill the other victim? He’s got to have a home base that he works out of, some place where he feels safe and secure. Where he thinks discovery is impossible.”

“Are you saying he might have a stash of victims somewhere?” I said, a little grossed out. “To use when he’s ready to kill again?”

Black nodded. “I think it’s highly possible. Many serials keep the bodies nearby, like Gacy did in Chicago.”

“And Dahmer,” Harve added.

I said, “But how could he move around the Cedar Bend complex with all your security people and cameras and still have so much time to set up the scene, almost like a stage set?”

“Sylvie’s an actress,” Black said. “He could have been putting her in some kind of scene. Some play or movie that he likes or that means something to his sick mind. Most of these offenders act out their fantasies; that’s how they get their reward. And most of the time their fantasies continue to evolve and get more complicated and more violent.”

“It’d help to know who the other victim was. If we can pinpoint where she went missing, at least we’ll have a starting point.” Harve looked at me. “Any missing persons reports at the lake?”

I shook my head. “I checked that again earlier tonight. But if she was a transient or homeless person, chances are no one would report her missing.”

“Same applies to young runaways,” Harve said. “One case I ran across they identified a runaway teenager, a fourteen-year-old girl, when they published a picture of a toe ring found on the body. She was clean except for that. The killer overlooked it.”

“Was she from this area?” Black asked.

“No. She went missing from southern Indiana, a little town called Clarksville. Her head showed up in the mountains around Salt Lake City, Utah.”

“Well, one thing we know without a doubt is that the killer is acting in an unusually cold-blooded manner.” Black sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. Thinking. I’d seen him do that before. “Except for some battering, little true passion was involved. No overkill. All clinical and precise. In my experience, that probably points to a stranger as the offender. I think the crime scene was too impersonal to be anybody involved with her, like Gil Serna or any other boyfriend. Or me, if you’ve still got me on your list.”

I didn’t say anything. He may still be on my list, but he was at the bottom of it. Instead, I said, “Do you think the perp chose her because she was famous?”

“I’ve been considering that, and it’s possible,” Black said. “That’d mean the killer’s eager for publicity, wants to watch his handiwork on television, enjoy it all over and over again. It could be that he’s worked his way up to this point in his fantasies and feels invincible.”

Harve nodded. “If that’s the case, he’s pacing the floor, waiting for the gory details to surface. He’s probably angry we’ve kept them under wraps.”

“That could compel him to act again, sooner than he might’ve originally planned,” Black said. “Force the police to acknowledge his handiwork by killing in a public place. Or notifying the media himself. Several cases I’ve been involved in, the serial killer chose a particular reporter and worked through them to ensure he got the publicity he craved.”

“I think he chose Sylvie on purpose,” I said, thinking about it from a different perspective. “He would never have selected a place like Cedar Bend, otherwise, not with all the security you provide your guests, if he didn’t have a certain victim in mind, someone staying there. Why not choose a place that was easy to get into, a victim who was helpless, like a derelict off the streets? Why put himself in danger of discovery when he didn’t have to?”

“Then why Sylvie?” Harve asked, and both men turned to look at me.

I said, “She’s famous, for one thing, and that makes her newsworthy. Maybe it was something to do with the TV show she played on. Something her character did that offended him. Or turned him on. Some people are abnormally obsessed with soap operas and believe the people on them are real. Maybe he hated her character, wanted to kill her and stalked her until he got her down here when she was alone and vulnerable.”

“Sylvie played the good girl on the show,” Black said. “Moralistic, and always doing the right thing and expecting everyone else to do the same.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That could annoy a psychopath.”

“Have you found out anything from the other cast members on her show?” Harve asked me.

“Bud’s been checking into obsessed fans and digging for any stalking incidents, but he hasn’t come up with anything out of the ordinary. Marc Savoy’s been ruled out because he was with some fishermen at a local bar when the murder went down. Bud picked up Sylvie’s fan mail and interviewed the other actors on the soap when he was in New York. He’s going through it now for any leads.”

While I’d been talking, Harve had rolled his chair into the kitchen and had returned with three longnecks of ice-cold Heineken. He set them in the middle of the table with a clink of glass. “What about the use of the duct tape, Nick? Is that significant in your estimation?”

“If it’s over the mouth, sometimes it’s an attempt to silence the victim. Like when an abused son gets tired of hearing his mother nag and berate him, something like that. Same with over the eyes. Blind the victim so they won’t see the offender perpetrating the crime. In this case, I think it was more a means of control first, then later to keep the head in place.” I watched the realization hit Black again that it wasn’t just a victim, but that it was Sylvie taped to that chair in the lake. Harve met my eyes as Black pushed back his chair and walked out onto the back porch. He’d done fine for a while, but even Nicholas Black was human.

I said, “He’s still shaky. He’s been through a lot tonight.”

“Get him outta here. It’s too soon, whether he thinks so or not. Let me go over all this again and sort it out in my head. Come over tomorrow, and we’ll rehash it some more. Tell him I’ll send over the reports on similar cases when I get them all printed out.”

“Okay.” I stood up and glanced outside. I couldn’t see Black on the porch. “Need anything, Harve? Groceries or anything?”

“No. Dot fixed me up with some casseroles and frozen pizza.”

“When’s she getting back?”

“Monday or Tuesday. I miss her, but she deserves time off. I’m not always so easy to live with.”

“You’re a teddy bear, and Dottie knows that better than anybody. Take care. Ring the bell if you need me.”

As I was leaving, Harve said, “Don’t be too hard on the guy. It’s pretty obvious that he loved that poor girl.”

“Yeah, I know. See you tomorrow.”

Black was outside in the yard when I came down the steps, just standing there, hands on his narrow hips, staring out over the dark water. I’d always heard he loved the lake, and now I believed it. It had a calming influence on me, too, especially at night. I looked out over the quiet cove and watched a boat near the opposite shore. A lantern glowed faintly at the stern, and it made me want to be out on that smooth black water, too, just floating and stargazing, not thinking about gruesome murders and missing body parts.

I said, “We’re calling it a night. Harve’s tired and wants to get some sleep.”

“Let’s walk back to your place.”

Already a few feet down the path toward the dock, I stopped in my tracks. “What about the boat?”

“Harve can have it.”

“Harve can have it?” I repeated.

“Sure. It’s handicapped equipped; all our Cobalts are. Then he can go fishing with his nurse if he wants.”

“You’re giving him your boat, just like that?”

“I’ve got a dozen of them docked at the marina. If I need more, I’ll order them. Harve’s helping me find Sylvie’s murderer. Think of it as a token of my appreciation.”

“He’s a proud man; he might not take it.”

“Then it’ll be up to you to convince him. Tell him it’s for Dottie to use.”

I stared at him, but I thought about how often Harve longed to go out on the lake with Dottie, how many times he’d said he missed going fishing. It was just too dangerous in a wheelchair in the bass boat. But Black was right; he’d be comfortable in the big cruiser, and he’d be perfectly safe.

Black said, “It’s a beautiful night. Let’s walk. I think better when I walk.”

The night was dark, still, and peaceful, and little was left to be said. He took long strides, a sign of inner agitation. But hey, I was five-nine; I could match him, almost. I didn’t interrupt his thoughts. I knew what he was thinking about, and I wanted him to think about it. I was running into dead ends left and right. I welcomed his input.

When we reached my house, we walked down to the dock, and he took out his cell phone and politely requested that Tyler pick him up at my dock. While he gave directions, I righted the picnic table he’d overturned and sent tumbling down the hill earlier. I sat down on top of it with my feet braced on the attached bench. Black came over and stood in front of me.

“Thanks for giving the boat to Harve,” I said, realizing I was more choked up at the gesture than I realized.

“I like him. He’s a good guy. Was he your partner in L.A.? Is that how the two of you became friends?”

I did not fall for that. “He’s been a good friend to me, he and Dottie both.”

“What happened to you in L.A., Claire? Why can’t you talk about it?”

The probing shocked me. Most people took the hint when I shut the door on a subject.

Frowning, I stood up and decided it was time to head for the hills. That’s right, flee when things become dangerously personal. Chicken, well, yes, exactly. Apparently, Black decided me exiting stage right wasn’t going to happen. He grabbed my wrist and spun me back around.

I jerked against his hold on me, pissed off, but he pulled me close enough that our noses nearly touched. My heart began to pound. Black was breathing hard and his voice dropped to that husky, I-need-to-throw-you-down-right-here-right-now-and-ravish-you timber. “I want to kiss you.”

Right to the point, no hedging here. I swallowed hard. Time for the womanly bravado I’d practiced for so long. “Sorry, pal, that ain’t gonna happen.”

“Like hell it isn’t.”

He brought his mouth up against mine, no soft little nibble but hard and edgy and determined, but his grip loosened almost immediately as if, uh-oh, he realized he’d made the wrong move, and I was going to be ticked off, but he was nowhere near to forcing me. This was a good time to knee him in the groin with good results. I could pull away any time I wanted, could stalk off, even slap his face or slap him in cuffs again if I wanted to. Unfortunately, I didn’t want to; I wanted this kiss as much as he did. He didn’t need more encouragement, and when I didn’t resist, he put one arm around my waist and pulled me up tight against his chest, his other hand caught in my hair and holding my head steady. It had been so long since I’d kissed a man, even longer since a man had sent a sexual fire ripping down my spine to explode where it counted. It felt good, wonderful, like seeing the sun rise over the promised land you vowed never to visit again.

My lips opened to him, and he took full advantage, ravishing my mouth and cheeks, then moving to the base of my throat, where my pulse hammered in a staccato that was downright embarrassing. I felt my resolve go limp. I didn’t know how long the embrace lasted, but I finally fought my way back to reality enough to realize I was engaged in something incredibly stupid and unprofessional. The truth hit me like a cold shower, and I pushed him back. He didn’t resist my rejection, so we stood a couple of feet apart, both of us breathing hard and audibly, as if we’d run a full marathon. Sexual chemistry, there it was again, but now I
really
knew what it meant.

Then, I’m sorry to say, I was the one that went for him, grabbing the front of his shirt and jerking him back to me. Our mouths ravaged each other some more, and the embrace got crazy with lots of groping under clothes and tongues and groans and moans. Then I came to my senses again and jerked back away from him, how I do not know. Maybe it was the Cobalt roaring into sight at the far end of the cove.

“This can’t happen,” I got out somehow, but who was I kidding? It takes two to tango, and I’d been skipping around that dance floor pretty damn fast.

“It already happened.” His voice wasn’t quite normal, either, which made me feel better, but he was calmer than I was and not trying to touch me. “And it’s not going to stop.”

I was letting him lead me down the garden path that he’d chosen, and I stomped on my carnal brakes while I still could. “Look, Black. I like you. I didn’t at first, I admit it, but you’re not the kind of man I thought you were. I don’t think you had anything to do with this crime, but I have to prove that. The kissing was great, I have to say; I enjoyed it, too. But that’s all it can be. The end, over, done with.”

Black gave a low laugh. Totally not amused. “I can wait until this case is over, if that’s the problem. Just hurry up and solve it.” He let me think about that for about two seconds; then he kissed me on the forehead and said, “Take care, Detective. I have to go to L.A. tomorrow, so don’t get yourself killed while I’m gone. Remember, duck and weave. I’ll call you when I get back from the coast.”

Then he was striding down my dock to flag down his ride under my dusk-to-dawn lamp. I sat down on the picnic table, furious at myself for getting drawn into a personal relationship with a man like Nicholas Black. It was a stupid thing to do. If I couldn’t keep my hormones from raging when I was around him, and it was pretty damn obvious I couldn’t, then I’d have to keep my distance. Charlie would have my hide if he found out I’d been playing kissy face with a murder suspect. I cringed just to think how Charlie would ream me out if he ever heard about this.