Dark Places (6 page)

“His name is Simon Classon, and he works out at the Dome of the Cave Academy for the Gifted. Ever heard of it?”

“Yes. I'm on the advisory board there.”

That captured my attention. “No way.”

Black rocked back in his chair. “Yeah, for about four years. I know Rich Johnstone a little. He's the director. It's a charitable tax deduction.”

I watched him retrieve two dinners in white carryout boxes from the new microwave oven that I hadn't noticed until then. But Black didn't do carryout from McDonald's or Wendy's, like us regular folk. His came from his very own four-star restaurant, Five Cedars. “Caesar salad and coconut shrimp, and caramel cheesecake for dessert. Sound good?”

Suddenly my stomach remembered that I hadn't fed it all day. It complained with a good rendition of a runaway freight train. “Coconut shrimp's my favorite. And I kill for cheesecake.” I picked up my fork with not a little relish and watering of the mouth. “You know this Simon guy, by any chance?”

“Nope. What's he do at the academy?”

“He's the chief angelologist and suspected resident dealer of campus drugs.”

He stopped eating and stared at me. He has the bluest eyes this side of Sweden. Not just blue, but rich and deep and azure. They looked real warm and cuddly right now, but I've also seen them when they looked icy enough to freeze me to my chair. That was back last summer when I was accusing him of murdering people, but I haven't been accusing him of anything much lately. No, lately we've been pretty much hitting the hot-and-heavy-affair description. Told you that I LIKE him.

Black tore me off a hunk of crusty French bread and dropped it on my plate. My manners were beginning to rub off on him, I guess. “Angelologist?”

“That's right. He teaches classes about angels and seraphim. And he's got a website, too, where he sells angelgrams to the unwary among us.”

“Yeah, who doesn't nowadays?”

“Sell angelgrams or have a website?” Black ignored my wit and forked up a bite of shrimp. I followed his lead and found it fantastic. I dug into my gourmet food without further ado. I preferred fast food, but gourmet wasn't so bad in a pinch.

Black was enjoying his fare, too. He always waited to dine with me, no matter how late I showed up. Secretly, I thought that was pretty cool of him. Most men I knew put their stomachs first. Bud and Harve, for instance.

“Yeah, and guess what else we found? A stash of coke under his kitchen cabinet hidden in a bunch of cobwebs.”

“If he's a dealer, I guess you suspect foul play?”

I nodded. “There was blood spatter in his foyer, and it looks like an angel doorstop was the assault weapon. Shaggy's got it now. We'll know more tomorrow. He's comparing a hair he found on the doorstop to some in Classon's hairbrush.”

Black said, “How about calling up the website and checking it out?”

“I'd love to. I was planning to go over to your place later and use your computer.”

“See. I knew you could use this stuff. It'll help you with your cases and keep me from getting bored while I wait for you to drag in hours late every night.”

“Alas, the penalty one pays for dating a cop.”

“Ah, but the positives far outweigh the negatives. I'll show you all the benefits of a California king-size bed later.”

“Looking forward to it, but again I say, you've overdone it this time.”

Black ignored me. He pretty much ignored anything we disagree on. If we didn't argue about it, it didn't exist. He is a famous forensic psychiatrist, did I mention that? Writes books, and everything. He helped me on my last case, once I finally proved to myself he wasn't the serial killer I was after. Truth is, he can be pretty helpful sometimes. Like now.

At the touch of a button, the television came on. It was one of those flat kinds that hang on the wall, I forget what you call them. Plasma, maybe? Never checked them out because I never expected to be dating a moneybags. He had placed it over my new fieldstone fireplace. I guess it looked better there than a moose head. He showed me how to connect to the Internet provider and asked me the name of Classon's website.

“callupanangel.com.”

“Cute.” A minute later Classon's picture bloomed up on the opening page surrounded by a border of flying angels hoisting flaming swords. He was an attractive man but his features were a little too effeminate for him to be called handsome. It was hard for me to guess how old he was; he looked anywhere between thirty and fifty. He definitely had on eyeliner and lipstick and his hair was dyed Ronald McDonald red and cut in a shoulder-length bob. He had on the black half-glasses I'd found on his bed. He had a nice smile. I didn't detect any wings or glowing halos or diaphanous white robes about his person.

“You sure this guy's a man?”

I knew he was thinking about last summer, but I didn't want to think about that case right now, not so close to bedtime, a.k.a. nightmareville.

“His neighbor intimated that he might be a girly man.”

“I'd say she's right on.”

“Yeah. This is stacking up to be a weird case.”

Black said, “Want to order an angelgram? It's a steal at eighty bucks. I'll put it in your stocking.”

“I would if he was around to call up his angel buddies. What does it say about his background?”

Black moved the cursor and clicked on a small box that said “Bio.” The screen flashed, and he read aloud. “Simon Classon was born in South Africa, the only child of a husband /wife missionary team. Came back and grew up here in Missouri.” We skimmed the screen together and found that both of his parents were dead. No siblings. No other family. Classon was alone in this world. “Went to school at the University of Missouri–Columbia. Got a master's degree there in comparative religions.”

“Wonder where he learned to talk to the angels? He's got archangels on speed dial, you know.”

“I'm in the mood to talk to some angels myself,” Black said, switching off the set and giving me a look I've come to know rather well. “What do you want to try out first? Our new hot tub or our new bed? You choose. Either one's okay by me.”

“Hot tub,” I said. “It'll relax us, and all that.”

“Yeah, and all that.” Black smiled and jerked his sweater off over his head. I took a moment and admired his six-foot-three-inch physique of hard-packed muscles and tanned skin. I smiled and pulled my sweater off over my head. He grinned and admired my big ugly meat-cleaver scar. A sort of tit-for-tat kind of thing.

The hot tub turned out to be hot and bubbly and romantic with the smell of vanilla and the feel of warm, slick skin. The California king-size bed turned out to be big and soft and comfortable, and after some very slow and pleasurable lovemaking, I fell asleep snuggled in Black's arms, wrapped in those silky black sheets he insists upon. What can I say, the guy's not too bad to hang around with.

I was pretty much dead to the world when the phone chirped at five a.m. the next morning. I rolled out of Black's arms and onto my side, slightly disoriented by the sheer magnitude of the bed. I rolled some more and reached the opposite shore. I snatched up my cell phone and said a groggy hello but the phone kept up with the parakeet tweets.

“That's mine,” Black mumbled, reaching for one of the three private cell phones he toted around, black, gold, and red, no less. Indeed, the two of us had an abundance of phones and phone numbers. I'd come to learn, however, that a call like this on Black's red cellular usually meant an emergency. It's the number he'd given to me, and to his family in Louisiana, who, I had learned the hard way, had a few Mafia connections, but, hey, some godfathers have okay brothers, too. I sat up on my side of the bed, and then rose, shivered, and pulled on my old red fleece robe, and walked to the wrought-iron wall edging my bedroom loft.

Like Oprah over Lake Michigan, I gazed down upon my new and huge front room with its wall of decorative, arched windows and beheld a world cloaked in pristine white, everything in the world outside frosty and glazed, and covered by a good foot or more of snow. The lake looked inky and frigid and deep, and somehow sinister in the stark black-and-white tableau.

Then again, it was a beautiful sight to behold the first thing in the morning, the proverbial winter wonderland, and my initial irk at Black's remodeling efforts was fading fast. In fact, I felt a certain amount of glee welling inside me. I picked up the upstairs all-purpose remote—yes, Black had provided two of the state-of-the-art clickers, so I'd never have to run downstairs to change the plasma's channel, I guess. I pushed the button for the fireplace and below, gas logs burst into roaring flames. I smiled and felt like Paris Hilton. All I needed was a little dog that looked like a rat and wore Versace.

Black was still listening to the person at the other end. I knew the matter was ultraserious when he said, in that slight, incriminating tone of annoyance he did so well, “And you are telling me that nobody there is capable of dealing with this?”

I'd heard that tone a couple of times myself, even though we were still in the honeymoon stage of our relationship and he knew better than to condescend to me too openly. I suspected the employee at the other end was doing some fairly fast dancing to soften Black's aforementioned show of ire. Then Black said, resigned but still overtly peeved, “All right. Order the Lear fueled and I'll be there as soon as I can.”

I watched him flip the cell phone shut. He turned and faced me. His hair was mussed, a small strand actually sticking up in front, which I can tell you didn't happen often, not with Black's wont for celebrity barbers. I found it endearing and wished I had a Polaroid camera to prove he had an imperfect moment now and again. Like everybody else, he had human hair that got messed up when he slept on it. I had begun to wonder. Like Bud, he looked perfect most of the time. I resisted the urge to smooth it down. I also resisted the urge to dive back into bed with him for some more lively amorous gymnastics. Guess mussed hair turns me on.

Instead, I returned his serious expression and said, “Good morning. Or is it?”

“It's not.” He stood up, splayed his fingers, and ran them back through all that thick black hair, thus fixing the mussed problem, so I admired his great physique some more while he pulled on an expensive black flannel robe. He'd brought me one like it, too, but I preferred trusty Old Red. “I've got to go to Paris. An emergency with a patient.”

“Paris? You mean, like in France?” I wasn't expecting that. Who gets a call to go off to Paris at five o'clock in the morning? Name one person, other than Colin Powell or Condoleezza Rice, maybe.

“Yeah. Paris, the one in France.” Black walked around the giant bed, which took some time, sat down, and pulled me onto his lap. He squeezed me close, and I put my arms around his neck with my cheek against his hair. “Come with me, Claire. We'll spend Christmas together in Paris. I'd love to show you the city.” When I didn't snatch that bait right off the hook, he got more creative with the incentive package. “How about midnight mass at Notre Dame Cathedral, and then Christmas brunch at the Jules Verne on the Eiffel Tower?”

That Black. He gives new meaning to jet-setting, champagne wishes, and caviar dreams. I, on the other hand, went Ford Explorer–setting and had five-percent-beer dreams, or just plain nightmares. I attempted to explain my reluctance. “I can't just take off on the spur of the moment, Black. You know that. This new missing-person case just came up, and besides, it doesn't sound like much fun spending Christmas alone in some ritzy French hotel doing nothing while you take care of patients.”

“I've got an apartment off the Champs Elysées that you'd find very comfortable.”

But of course he did, silly me. “Oh, yeah. I guess you've got apartments all over the world just in case, don't you?” The remark sounded sarcastic, yes, and I wondered why it had come out that way. Black donned his benign look of annoyed indulgence, as he tended to do when I nixed his plans or needled him a bit, but he remained steadfastly patient. Not many in the world of Nicholas Black ever even attempted to thwart his wishes, but he was getting used to my backbone, I guess.

He said, “No, I don't keep apartments everywhere, only in cities where I have private clinics.” He scrutinized me momentarily, but I refused to squirm. “Didn't you tell me Charlie ordered you to ease back into work? I understood yesterday's sting was supposed to be it for a couple of weeks.”

Uh-oh, here came the single biggest bone of contention between us since we became an item last summer, but it was quite a big bone, T.-rex femur, as a matter of fact. Black had this ridiculous notion that I should up and fly off with him on his deluxe private jet whenever he snapped his fingers. I'd done it a few times when I was out on medical leave and had a bunch of casts on, but now I was healed up and back on the job and he knew that.

“I wish I could.” I was equally diplomatic, and sort of slightly meant it, because he
was
offering Christmas in Paris, after all, and Black did know how to show a girl a good time. He looked encouraged, so I skillfully changed the subject as I'd learned to do in such instances. “How long's this trip going to take? You'll be back by Christmas, right?” After all, I did have a book and some as-of-yet-undisclosed stocking stuffer to wow him with, come December 25.

“I don't know. It's just a week 'til Christmas Eve. I'll try to make it back before that, if you're absolutely determined not to go with me.” Yes, absolutely was pretty much the right word. We stared at each other, both realizing Christmas by oneself could get lonely. Black was nothing if not valiant. “Can't Bud handle this case by himself for a week or two? Maybe the guy will show up on his own. I could throw in a couple of tickets to
Swan Lake
at the Bastille.”

Swan Lake
at the Bastille? Jeez, that really tempted me not to go. But how would he know that I'd rather have a couple of root canals than sit through a ballet with dancers dressed up like big, tiptoeing white birds? Also, I was not used to somebody making demands on my time, even polite ones, but Black wasn't really being overly pushy and demanding. I'd been single too long, I guess. Fiercely independent. In control of my destiny. I didn't want to hurt his feelings. I wanted to go with him, kind of. I felt uncomfortable, pulled in two directions, and the old suffocation dropped down on me, the way it had when my late ex-husband tried to control my every move. I'd vowed a long time ago never to let that happen again. Not even with Nicholas Black, who had definitely wormed his way deep into my LIKE.

Black, being a shrink and therefore, a master of perception, read my hesitation in right-on fashion. “Okay, so be it. I know how much you've been looking forward to getting back to work. I'll go alone, but I'm going to miss you.”

See? Sometimes this guy just makes me melt into mush. I considered reneging on my decision, because truth be told, Bud
could
probably handle the Simon Classon case just fine. And who knows? The angelologist just might've already turned up and at this very moment could be snuggled and snoring in his little angel bed in his little angel house. Or, not. Then I remembered again Black was a crack psychiatrist and could very well be playing the old reverse-psychology trick on me.

My cell phone picked that moment to chime in with the
Mexican Hat Dance
, no sissy bird chirps for me, and I grabbed it before the second stanza. Two calls before 5:15
A.M.
; we're a real popular duo today.

Bud's voice. Gruff, sleepy, excited. “We got a body that might be Classon's.”

Adrenaline punched through me, blood sang through my veins, happy as a Disney tune. I left Black's lap in a hurry and paced while I talked. “It's a homicide, then?”

“Don't know yet.”

“Where'd they find him?”

I watched Black shake his head. He did not look thrilled. He said, nope, muttered, “Well, that kisses Paris good-bye.” He got up and headed for the bathroom. A minute later the shower came on.

Bud said, “Somewhere out around that school he works at. One of the instructors slid off in a ditch last night, and when the wrecker showed up this mornin', they found a corpse in the woods. How long's it gonna take you to get ready?”

“Five, ten minutes tops.”

“Put on somethin' warm. It's freakin' freezin' out there.”

I was out of my robe and into jeans and a black turtleneck before the line went dead. I pulled on a clean gray sweatshirt with
SHERIFF DEPARTMENT
on the front in glow-in-the-dark yellow, pumped with excitement at getting back to work in earnest. I do love my job, even in snow and ice and frigid weather and Christmas traffic. As I sat down and pulled on thermal socks and worn black-leather combat boots, I heard Black brushing his teeth. Now I had a legitimate excuse not to go to Gay Paree and mingle with all the French America-phobes. Besides that, my book for him would look even more paltry on top of the Eiffel Tower with all those sparkling Christmas lights and panoramic views of the Seine River. The pirouetting swans would have to live without me, too.

Black was back, hair combed, wearing a cream-colored sweater and denim jeans, smelling like Irish Spring soap, alert and ready to jet. “I take it they found that guy you're looking for?”

“They found a body they think might be Classon. Bud'll be here any minute.”

“Was he murdered?” Black was into murders, too. Big-time. Gave him fodder for the forensic psychiatry cases he dealt with when he wasn't busy playing shrink to Hollywood stars and abused political wives. Nick Black, Man of Many Talents. Plus some.

“Not sure yet, but it looks like it.”

“Guess that means I'm headed to Paris solo.”

I picked up my badge and dropped the chain around my neck, then retrieved my well-worn leather shoulder holster from the bedside table. “Yep, sorry, maybe I can tag along with you next time.”

“I'll hold you to that, Morgan.”

While he finished dressing, I threw some cold water on my face and brushed my teeth, then retrieved my 9mm Glock from underneath my pillow. Since my last case, the hair-raising,
Hellraiser
-ish one, I prefer to sleep with my weapon. Black doesn't mind because he was there last summer, so he sleeps with a loaded gun nearby, too. Legal, of course, since Missouri enacted its new concealed-weapons law. He carried one before that, too, but I chose to overlook it. Black watched me strap on my shoulder holster and slide the Glock snugly into its bed. I secured the snap, and no longer felt naked.

“Man, what is it that's so damn sexy about a woman wearing a shoulder holster?”

“Maybe if you're a good boy, I'll wear it to bed when you get back.”

“Good God, Claire, give me a break. It's hard enough to take off without that image dancing in my head.”

We laughed together but waited to say our good-byes downstairs in my huge, glassed-in front porch, which looked even more huge and glassed-in in the light of day. We had two or three minutes tops before Bud arrived, so we took full advantage of it with lots of rubbing around and kissing and touching and heavy breathing. When Bud's white Bronco nosed around the bend, Black stepped back. “Okay, I'm out of here. Be safe. Duck and weave, and all that.”

That was Black's way of telling me to be careful, sort of an inside joke. He grabbed an aluminum travel mug with the Cedar Bend Lodge logo, filled it with coffee, pulled on his heavy black parka, and headed for his slick Cobalt 360 cabin cruiser docked in all its magnificence at the end of my teensy-weensy dock. He just loved to speed across the lake in the Cobalt when he came to call because it cut off about twenty minutes' driving time around the jagged, hilly shoreline. I downed some coffee myself and watched him wave one arm at Bud before he climbed into the cabin cruiser, fired it up, and eased it expertly away from the dock. He was going to have one helluva cold trip back to his heliport at Cedar Bend Lodge.

About a minute later, Bud was outside leaning on the horn, and I slipped on my department-issue brown parka, checked to make sure my gloves were still in the pockets, poured out a couple more aluminum travel mugs of hot black coffee, and headed outside. It was daylight now but overcast with an angry, gunmetal sky threatening even more snow. The wintry air hit me as I stepped out onto the front porch, bracing and invigorating, but not as cold as I'd expected. My breath smoked out in front of me and snow, unblemished but for Black's boot tracks, squeaked underfoot as I negotiated the front steps. I suddenly realized that I felt great, on top of the world, but maybe that's because I had on warm clothes, my Glock was loaded and back under my left arm where it belonged, and I was on the job full-time. Smiling, I slid into the passenger seat and presented Bud with his java.