Die Smiling (32 page)

I declare, he does have such a nice shrinkish way of broaching subjects. “Nice, right? Real Paris Hilton kinda stuff.”

“What's Shaggy have to say now?”

I told him about Shaggy sewing on the lips and how Bri was acting like she'd lost her mind. Just the usual pleasantries between a man and his gal pal.

“Hasn't exactly been great for you the last few days, has it, Claire?”

“Nope. Not even close”

“Let's stop and get a Big Mac. That oughta make you feel better.”

I nodded and relaxed even more. Black knew my comfort foods, but truth be told, I already felt better because we'd patched things up, at least for the moment, and I didn't have to go home alone. He was a good sounding board with good insight, and a nice strong, hard body to snuggle into at night, and that's exactly what I needed.

We took a sack of fast food to my place, and I told him everything that went down in the hospital with Carlos Vasquez and today with Shaggy and Costin. I asked him what he knew about Esteban Rangos's murder, and he told me that the boy had been Jose's favorite nephew and protégé and was murdered several years ago by unknown assailants. He said Rangos was heartbroken and had vowed to find the killer. But Black stopped short of revealing whether or not Rangos had put out an open-ended hit on the killer. I didn't ask for any more details, either, and he didn't offer them. We let it drop, and he sat and listened silently while I paced back and forth in front of him. After a while he stood up.

“Okay, let's work out together. Maybe you'll work off some of this tension and dare I say it, aggression. That's what I did when I got off the plane this morning. It cleared my mind.”

We headed for the backyard, and he held my punching bag while I absolutely beat the ever-living hell out of it for about fifteen minutes. After a while, though, I collapsed on the mat, breathing hard and red faced, my upper arm aching, sweating with exertion. Black dropped down beside me and propped his head in his palm.

“Feel better, sweetheart?”

“No.”

“You will after we soak in the hot tub and massage each other for a couple of hours.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

He leaned down and kissed me, then murmured against my ear. “You'll get him, whoever the hell he is. He'll slip up and you'll find him.”

“You're right on there. But this case is going absolutely nowhere. Nothing makes sense and nothing connects. Lots of bizarre goings-on here, everywhere I turn. We're missing something. Something significant. It's right there in front of me, I sense that, but I just can't put it together.”

“You need more time, that's all. It's just been a few days. What about tomorrow? I take it that Charlie is ordering surveillance at the pageant?”

“We're gonna watch the audience. See if anything seems suspicious. It's a long shot but stranger things have happened. We're filming it, too, in case we miss something.”

“Good idea.”

Staring at me with his famous, lightning-charged, I'm-coming-now-to-jump-your-bones-ready-or-not look, Black stood up and pulled me to my feet. I followed him inside and let him strip off my clothes, and then lowered myself into the hot foaming water and watched with not a little enjoyment as he did the same. He was a well-honed specimen of virile, rock-muscled manhood, make no mistake about it. He submerged himself to midchest, still smiling that killer smile of his, and I headed straight for him, our flesh sliding together like two parts of a sensual puzzle, yin and yang, I tell you, slick and wet and over-the-top carnal sensation, and I shut my eyes and felt myself loosen up and my body go limp under his warm mouth and gentle fingers and probing tongue, but my last thoughts before I let the magic take me was that I wasn't so sure anything was going to look better tomorrow. In fact, I had a real strong intuition that something really bad was going to happen.

I have this thing about kiddie beauty pageants. Truthfully? I hate them worse than a weeklong bout of food poisoning. I think they are stupid, wrong, exploitive, child abusive, should be against the laws of God and humanity, near felonies, but that's just my humble opinion. So I am not particularly enjoying myself at the moment. I'm standing at the back wall of Black's biggest, glitziest ballroom watching garishly painted-up moms parade garishly painted-up little girls around like prize ponies with flower wreaths around their necks.

Just outside the door, and unfortunately near enough for me to overhear, a wacko mother is telling her baby to shut up and smile, that she needs to win because they need the cash for rent. I restrain myself from attacking A-hole Mommy, but her comments remind me of the note attached to poor Hilde and her dreadful death mask, not to mention the Esteban Rangos autopsy pictures and Vasquez's black-stitched, grotesquely swollen mouth, all of which are reasons why I am forced to endure this ridiculous sideshow. The children are now performing their so-called talents, and not very well, but the parents are oohing and aahing to beat the band. I just wish it was over.

Bud is covering the excitement going on near the stage and probably enjoying it to the same sublevel extent as myself. And yes, Brianna is still set on competing as a contestant, but hadn't made her appearance yet. Across the room, my lone female colleague in the department, Connie O'Hara, was busy filming the goings-on. She'd had her own baby two months ago, and this was her first day back on duty. I wondered if they held beauty contests for two-month-old infants? Probably did, their talent being burping and messing their diapers.

Eric Dixson was also busy, shooting pictures as fast as humanly possible, too, at the end of the runway where he could get better close-ups for the girls' portfolios. My new good friend, Jude, was sitting among the other judges, probably waiting with bated breath for Black to get here so she could pretend she didn't like him anymore.

Star
magazine was probably lurking around, too, looking for the scoop on the famous duo's reconciliation. They'd probably already made up some asinine nickname for them like they did for
Brangelina
and
Bennifer
. Let's see, Nick and Jude together, yeah, the morons would probably coin them as
Nude.
And as for Black and me, Claire and Nick would no doubt become
Click
. I could see the headline heralding the return of the super couple now: “Nude Back Together at Last. Poor Click Casualty of Love.”

I watched the people. My gut told me that the perpetrator had an intense interest in beauty pageants, maybe this one in particular, maybe not. He was probably here, plotting, or maybe it was a she, all decked out in her sparkling gown or skimpy bathing suit, now in position to win the coveted crown. Killing a competitor for a rhinestone tiara seemed a bit farfetched, but then again, a lot of murder motives were.

There was the usual assortment of obsessive people and crazy mothers, I would say, not that I'd attended many such events. The ballroom was full, everyone craning their necks and flashbulbs popping all over the place as their favorite contestant walked out from behind the curtains. I scanned each row, looking for something, anything that tweaked my suspicions, or a familiar face, or a guilty one. Mostly families grouped together, some with a father and an older bored sibling or two of Mama's precious little princess, but most were strident stage moms, with maternal aunts and grandmas in tow, faces stiff with tension that filtered down to their child and no doubt made them feel like crap if they didn't win.

Then I saw somebody I recognized, Joe the Psychic McKay. He waltzed in the door beside me, and I cringed, hoping he wasn't here to put Lizzie through the toddler hellfire of kiddie pageants. He was searching the room and when he turned in my direction and saw me, it was pretty obvious he'd come here just to seek me out, which couldn't be good.

“Hey, there, Detective, thought you might be hanging around in here.”

“Hey. Why'd you think that? Vision?”

“Nope. Nick Black told me.”

“So? What's up?”

“Nothin' in particular, just checkin' on you.”

I glanced back at the stage as a little girl froze up at the sight of the gawking audience, reversed herself back through the curtains, and refused to come out. Her mother was crying louder than she was. “Please, McKay, tell me you're not here because you entered Lizzie in this stupid circus.”

“Hell, no, but she'd win, hands down, not that I'm prejudiced, or anything. Fact is, she's upstairs right now spendin' a little time with your favorite head examiner. I dropped by to tell him she wasn't sleepin' so good, see if he had any ideas to fix that, and he said he had an hour he could spend with her before he had to show up down here as a judge. I left the two of 'em in his office, playin' Barbies and building towers outta blocks. He's gonna do it pro bono, too. Said he owed me since I helped you get outta that nasty little situation last winter. Nice guy, bad as I hate to admit it.”

“Yes, he is.” Except for his tommy-gun-toting, Top Ten Most Wanted secret relatives. I looked back to the runway where a toddler in a cowgirl outfit was skipping her way down the runway and singing a majorly off-key rendition of “Home on the Range.” “So Lizzie's not sleeping, huh?”

“Not much. She wakes up a lot screamin' until I can get to her and calm her down. She's takin' to Nick a little, though, maybe, we'll see if it lasts. I've gotta get back up there, but I had to talk to you first.”

“Why?”

We had a mutual gazing contest then, for just a little too long but he seemed reluctant to spill the beans, which made me reluctant to dump them out, either. I finally got tired of waiting for him to lay it out in black and white, because it was probably a lot more black than white. “Okay, give it to me straight, McKay. You got another terrifying nightmare starring me, right?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Oh, great, tell me. How bloody's this one?”

“It's the same old story, Detective. I feel you're in danger. I've been getting flashes of little girls, like those up there”—he gestured at the stage, where the children were all lined up for the crowning—“all dressed up in these frilly petticoats and stuff, but the clothes looked sorta retro, two of 'em, girls that look sort of alike.”

“You're seeing me with little girls in kiddie pageants?”

“Yep. Not sure why, either, but you're right there in the middle of 'em, too. Got any ideas why I'm gettin' this stuff?”

“For Pete's sake, McKay, why can't you be as good a psychic as John Edward? It would make my job a heck of a lot easier. He'd just say, there's a little girl to your side with a bowie knife in her hand. Take care 'cuz she's gonna stab you in your bathroom on May first. Something like that.”

McKay grinned, dimpled impressively. What was it with me and dimply men? Seemed my goose bumps just couldn't get enough of them. “Yeah, that'd be nice. I'd be a helluva lot richer, too. Can't control what I see, comes in snatches, and it's not cooperatin' this time the way I'd like it to. I also see Bud sometimes, with you, but there's something between you. Some kind of bars or barrier, that make any sense?”

“Nope. Bud's right over there. He's working this case, too.”

McKay followed my gaze to where Bud slouched against the far wall, watching the girls on stage and looking bored as hell. “Maybe if you gave me something personal of the victim's to hold, or let me go look at the murder scene like last time? That might help me get a bead on.”

“Maybe you need to find some psychic good enough to get his own TV show and take some lessons.”

“Maybe I will. Maybe I'll make a profession outta this and get richer than Nick.”

Nobody's richer than Nick, I thought, except maybe J. K. Rowling and the queen of England. “I'll see what Charlie says. It can't hurt, and he was all for it last time. Maybe tomorrow? That be good for you?”

“Just give me a call and tell me when and where.”

The runner-ups were being announced by a guy rated on the cheesy scale just under David Hasselhoff, and one beautiful little girl beamed a painfully fake smile at being selected third runner-up, and the second runner-up collapsed in her petticoats, bawling like a hungry calf. These things oughta be outlawed, I'm telling you. Apparently McKay felt the same way, because he frowned and didn't hang around.

He said, “Better go. Lizzie might get scared if I'm outta sight too long. We're gonna rent a movie tonight.
Shrek
. I'd ask you to come over and watch it with us, but know you won't. If I pick up on anything else, I'll drop by your place and tell you.”

“Thanks. I mean it, McKay.”

After he left, I stood alone and hoped that Black could do something to help Lizzie survive her horrific ordeal; she was definitely lost in her own little monster-inhabited world. I watched in agony as the pageant dragged its way through all the age groups, exploiting elementary schoolchildren, then junior high, then high school, and then the big event itself was heralded at the microphone by Mr. Cheese Whiz.

Connie O'Hara edged over to me and lowered the camcorder for a moment. “You having as much fun as I am?”

“Oh, yeah, I just love to watch smiling pretty girls strut their stuff around. How's the baby?”

“Oh, he's fine. Thanks for that little sleeper with the Cardinals' logo. You need to come over sometime and see him in it. Mom's moved down to Osage Beach, so she can keep him for me while I'm on duty. She never liked Kansas City anyway. She's a small-town gal like me.”

“That's good. Having somebody you can trust to keep him safe.”

I thought of my Zach and how he'd been staying with a trusted relative the night he died, but it didn't do him any good. I really didn't want to talk about her baby, or any baby, for that matter, so I changed the subject. “Was it hard to get back into the grind?

“No. I missed working more than I thought I would. Didn't think my first assignment would be filming a stupid beauty contest, though.”

“My sentiments exactly, believe you me.”

“Well, here comes the next lovely, so back to work. See you later.”

I watched her move away, and the lights dimmed as the main event began. I was still having trouble believing that Brianna was actually taking Hilde's place in this ridiculous show, but I tended to think the poor girl was having some kind of post-traumatic stress syndrome. I hoped she would agree to go into therapy with Black, too, and sooner rather than later. Wouldn't be long at this rate before he'd be analyzing everybody I knew at Lake of the Ozarks. What does that say about my friends and neighbors? I searched the crowd, saw no one acting strangely or eyeing anybody's lips with scissors in his hand. I glanced at my watch, wondering if the stupid thing was ever going to get over. The pageant was well run, though, so I guess old Pattycakes Cardamon knew what she was doing.

I knew Brianna was last, and she walked down the runway with long easy strides and that odd hip walk beanpole models always slink around with. She was smiling, easy, relaxed, and I wondered how in the world she could put on that kind of calm face, after all she'd been through the past few days. I guess they learned to look beautiful, serene, and un-neurotic at beauty pageant school. Couldn't be good for their mental health, if you ask me.

Brianna won the thing and was crowned Miss Spring Dogwood, and should have, I guess, and then she gave this soft-spoken, breathy thank-you speech in a voice that didn't sound anything like her, talking about her sister and how she accepted the crown in honor of her precious memory. The crowd was appreciative and hushed, and I knew then I had to be in the outer chambers of the
Twilight Zone
with a bunch of mist around me, or even purgatory, maybe. After the victory ramp strut, the curtains came down, everybody got up, packed their duds, and headed to the next pageant, weeping kids in tow.

After a while, Bud and Brianna came out from backstage, and I saw Eric Dixson approach them for the winner pictures. Some newspaper photographers hovered around, too, waiting their turns. Bud left Brianna posing on her throne with her giant tiara and roses and walked over to me. He didn't look particularly happy that she won. I tried not to think how much she looked like dead Hilde sitting in that bleached-out shower stall.

“See anything?” he asked me.

“Nope. Just the regular beauty-obsessed folks.”

“Me, either. Nothing happened backstage that amounted to anything. I thought the guy might try to pull something dramatic.”

“Maybe he was here.” I heard my phone go off and Caller ID lit up with Miami Police Department. “Hold on, Bud, it's Ortega, he must've got something.”

I answered in a hurry. “Yeah? Ortega?”

He said, “Vasquez's is talking some. Said he remembered something else about the perp.”

“Hit me with it.”

“Said the guy was wearing a swastika on a chain around his neck. That ring any bells at your end?”