Head to Head (17 page)

“Okay, let’s go. Get down in the boat.”

“The kayak’s a two-seater. We can take it.”

“Gee, thanks, man, but I don’t think so. I prefer to be in the driver’s seat. So step down in the bow, and keep your hands where I can see them.”

I must be out of my frickin’ mind
, I thought, as I stepped down into
Old Betsy
’s rusted, twenty-year-old, camouflaged stern. Somehow I thought Black was on the up and up. Why, I couldn’t say, but I could handle myself well enough with a gun in my hand. And it wasn’t going to leave my hand, trust me.

I jerked the cord on the outboard, and of course, it wouldn’t start right off the bat. It was obstinate. It liked to be coddled.

Black twisted around to look at me. “Is this thing gonna make it to my yacht? I can call for the launch to pick us up.”

“Just shut up and keep your hands on top of your head where I can see them.”

I finally got the motor running, and even though it smoked and knocked hard enough to make somebody answer a door, I knew it’d make it. And if it didn’t, I was one hell of a mechanic. I operated the stick with my left hand and kept my right hand busy with my gun on Black’s back. The next few hours were going to be interesting, if I got through them alive.

As it turned out, the
Maltese Falcon
was anchored in the deepest part of the lake, about five miles outside my own cove, due north, making Black’s kayaking feat not quite so impressive. Even I could kayak five miles. Dottie could probably do twenty or thirty, if she had a mind to. The yacht stood in the darkness, with its strings of bright lights outlining the deck railings and cabin lines, looming like a last vision of the
Titanic
before it went to the bottom.
Not a good analogy under the circumstances
, I told myself as I nudged my ugly-little-stepchild craft up alongside the sleek and gleaming black-and-tan launch. Poor
Old Betsy
, probably felt like calling a plastic surgeon. But I was getting over being knocked into the lake tied to an iron chair. It’s amazing how holding a gun to the head of a man like Nicholas Black can make you feel empowered. Go figure.

“It’s okay,” Black called up to the concerned-looking security guard standing at the top of the ladder, as if the Doc often arrived home in the dead of night with a cop prodding him at gunpoint. Maybe he did. Stranger things have happened. To me.

“You can put your gun away now,” he said once we were on deck.

“Thanks for your permission, but I’m sort of attached to it tonight. Please, lead the way.”

He led the way, and the guard grinned like he was glad somebody finally refused something to the big boss man. I found that sort of endearing, but I motioned him ahead of me, too, just in case he was smiling because he was planning to jump me. Black headed for his private quarters and I didn’t see anybody else, not even the crew. The motor yacht was anchored for the night; everybody was tucked into their little black-and-tan beds.

“Rogers, return to the bridge. Everything’s under control here.”

“Yeah, Rogers, and if you hear gunshots, call 911.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I liked Rogers. He was all right.

Inside Black’s quarters, in front of the wall of windows and a little balcony, sat Jacques Montenegro. He had on a gray Tommy Hilfiger sweatshirt and chinos, and no doubt expensive Docksiders without socks. He was sitting behind Black’s desk as if he owned it, and he just might. Three of his big, burly lieutenants sat in easy chairs around the office. None of them were my friends Jean-Claude and Thierry. They all had on black sweatshirts and snug black sweatpants. Murderous, burly guys definitely should not wear snug black sweatpants. It just didn’t do their figures justice.

“Don’t get up, gentlemen. It’s easier for me to shoot you sitting down.”

Two of them laughed. The other didn’t get my wit, I guess. He was sporting a black eye and swollen nose, and I suspected his crotch was throbbing a little, too. Montenegro smiled; oh, my, he was Mr. Debonair. “Good evening, Detective. I’m glad Nicky could persuade you to come here for a little chat.”

“Your friend Nicky didn’t do squat. I’m here on orders from Sheriff Ramsay, so say your piece and get it over with.” I emphasized the name because, truth be told, I am sort of a smart-ass, and I was also a little embarrassed because someone in my present company had slapped me around and tied my wrist to a chair, and now I couldn’t even shoot him. For some reason, that brings the sarcasm just boiling to the top.

Nobody laughed now. Black moved away and stood by a large porthole on the starboard side as if he were contemplating diving through it when the shooting started, but I could still cover them all with my gun. Unless they all drew on me at once. I decided that was unlikely, and besides, Rogers would call 911 if they did.

“Please, Detective, sit down. I understand you’ve been through something unpleasant this evening. I feel unhappy that it happened to you.”

“Wow, thanks. I feel unhappy it happened, too. Even a little miffed, maybe.”

Nobody laughed at that, either. Maybe I was a lousy comedienne, or maybe they had a lousy sense of humor.

“I’ve already had a talk with my men. It won’t happen again.”

“Are you saying you ordered me assaulted, Mr. Montenegro?”

“Not expressly. You see, with Nicky’s permission, I sent my men to Sylvie’s bungalow to gather her belongings so I could take them home to her mother. You surprised them there, and when you fought back so violently and caused them some injuries, they understandably got angry and a bit carried away.” Jacques shifted in his chair and took a drink out of the short glass in his hand. I detected some underlying annoyance when he continued, “And, I must admit, we’re not pleased that you insinuated to the Lafourche sheriff that we put out a hit on Marc Savoy, when it’s quite obvious that he committed suicide. We have enough troubles at the moment without dealing with false accusations. When you surprised my men, they were afraid you’d find out who they worked for. They were protecting me, you see. The idea was to tie you up so they could get away without you pursuing them. When you came to and put up a fight, you got knocked in the water, but that was never intended to happen. It was unfortunate, especially since it upset Nicky so much. The truth is, however, that you were never in any real danger.”

“No kidding? Wish I’d known that when I was holding my breath at the bottom of the lake.” I looked at the Three Little Hoods. “Remind me to arrest their asses before I leave.”

The guilty parties watched me impassively like they were really unconscious but had learned to sleep with their eyes open. All three probably had combined brains the size of one tiny chickpea. I’d had enough of the clever repartee.

“Okay, let’s cut to the chase here. You went to a lot of trouble to get me on this boat. What do you want?”

“I had the feeling when you visited my home that you think Nicky killed Sylvie. I’m here to assure you he did not.”

I gave a little laugh, incredulous, but nowhere close to amused. “I guess I’m just to take your word for that, right? Lay off him because he’s your special buddy. Sorry, pal, I’ll need a better reason than that to take him off my suspect list.” He really was off my list, but they didn’t need to know that.

“How about this for a reason? Nicky is Sylvie’s uncle, and he’d never lay a finger on her or any other member of his own family.”

Well, Montenegro threw me for a loop on that one. I was stunned, and I don’t do stunned often. I bet they could tell. I glanced over at Black. He nodded and said, “Jacques is my older brother.”

“Your brother. You and Jacques Montenegro are brothers.” Sometimes I repeat myself when I’m unsettled. It gives me time to think up more clever remarks.

“That’s right,” Jacques said. “Unfortunately, however, Nicky isn’t interested in the family business. He likes all this psychology mumbo jumbo. He keeps his association with us secret for obvious reasons. Sylvie was the same way. She didn’t want the notoriety of the Montenegro name to overshadow her career.”
Or ruin it
, I thought.

His handsome face fell slightly, sorrow written all over it; then his features went hard again, and his dark eyes glittered. “Whoever killed her is going to pay. But it wasn’t my brother. Nicky and Sylvie were very close. You’re wasting your time suspecting him and keeping your investigation off track. I came here to tell you the truth so you’d start looking in the right places instead of following this dead end. I have met with my colleagues in my own circles.” Which meant crime families from New York to New Orleans to Sicily, I assumed. “I have been assured none of them were involved in Sylvie’s death. My personal opinion is that a stranger killed Sylvie, and Nicky concurs with me. As Sylvie’s father, I’m requesting that you work closely with Nicky, use his expertise at profiling, or whatever he likes to call it, and find the savage who did this. I want him caught, and then I want him dead. We can help you with that, if need be.”

So much for fair trials and all that unnecessary bother. But I was taking it all in, trying to unboggle my boggled mind. I was shocked to learn of the relationship, even more shocked that Nicholas Black had managed to keep his real identity under wraps, considering his own fame and newsworthiness.

“I’m not ashamed of my family, Claire.” Black used my first name, which seemed odd under the circumstances. “It was just easier when I was young to start out without that familial identification, especially when I enlisted in the army. I’d never have made it there if my true background was known. I used Black because it’s a derivative of Montenegro. I didn’t kill my niece or anyone else. I didn’t try to hurt you tonight.” He frowned at the three stooges. “Jacques is right. I was furious when I got there and saw what they’d done. It was stupid. Nothing like that will ever happen again.”

“Not unless I happen to detect in the wrong direction.”

“It won’t happen again,” Jacques said in a voice that pretty much meant death by agony to the offending party. Mr. Burly, without a sense of humor and with a torn-up face, squirmed in his chair, and I knew he was the one who had played Dunking for Donuts with me.

I began to ascertain that I just might be out of my league here. Hell, before the last week or so, I could count the number of underworld figures I’d met personally on one hand. I felt a bit uncomfortable, even with the Glock in my grip. Perversely, I was fairly certain I was safe. Black was now on a first name basis with me. Surely, he wouldn’t call me Claire, then knock me off. It just wouldn’t be polite.

Holstering my weapon, I put my hands on my hips. I could see my reflection in the dark windows behind the Godfather, and sans my weapon, I didn’t look very intimidating in red yoga tights and T-shirt and no shoes. Everybody was staring at me as if it was my move, so I said, “Okay, tell me everything you know. From the beginning.”

“Please sit down, Detective, and let me tell you about my daughter.”

The sad story went on for almost an hour and would’ve had me in tears if I hadn’t been jerked around so much, but it told me little more than I already knew. Other than Black’s relationship with the family, it pretty much bore out my findings. With Black eliminated as a suspect, though, it put everything in a different light, but I wasn’t quite as ready as Jacques Montenegro to accept the assurances of his mob friends that Sylvie’s death was not a contract hit. Maybe it was a little theatrical for a professional hit man, but there probably were dramatic killers for hire out there some place.

After the story was over and all my questions were asked and answered, truthfully, I hoped, Montenegro and his merry men took their leave. I glared them out of the stateroom, not liking the fact that they were getting a pass on hassling me, a licensed officer of the law. But I was more glad, I guess, that the attack hadn’t been by some nut job still lurking out there and waiting to get me in a new, resourceful way.

“This’ll just take a minute. Make yourself comfortable,” Black told me as he followed the men out of the office.

I nodded, but it wasn’t until I relaxed into one of the long white divans heaped with satin pillows that I realized how sleepy I was. I heard the launch come to life down on the deck, felt the slight sway of the yacht, and decided to shut my eyes just for a moment. I was gone in seconds. Dottie’s hot toddy had finally kicked in.

Somewhere in the never-never land of my mind, I could hear a phone ringing. It was playing the “Mexican Hat Dance.” Hey, that’s the tune I set my phone on. Groggily, I reached for my belt, where I clipped my phone. I couldn’t find it. I heard an unfamiliar voice.

“She’s still asleep. This is Nick Black. May I take a message?”

Nick Black
, I thought; then I thought,
Nick Black
? I sat up and looked around. He was sitting behind his desk, holding my canary yellow cell phone in his hand. “She’s okay. She came out here to interview me last night and fell asleep on my couch. I’ll have her call you back.” He punched off and laid the phone on the desk. He was dressed in a starched white shirt and blue tie, clean-shaven and obviously dolled up for an important meeting. He smiled. “You’re a popular lady. That’s the third call I’ve answered for you.”

“Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“Actually, I tried. Whatever your friend put in your drink was potent enough to knock you out like a light.”

“How did you know Dot fixed me a toddy?”

“I was waiting outside for her to leave so I could get you alone.” He walked to a sideboard with a silver coffee urn. He filled a cup and brought it to me. “You like it black, if I remember correctly.”

I took it and shoved my hair back off my face. I was at a disadvantage, but the strong black coffee helped. “What time is it?” I asked, noticing how the sun was glittering off the water outside the windows. “How long did I sleep?” Then, “Who called me, and who the hell said you could answer my phone?”

Black laughed and refilled his own cup. He leaned against the black granite counter and took a sip. He was always so calm, so collected, even when he’d been lying facedown on my dock, arms and legs spread. I wondered if all psychiatrists were like that. He shot out an arm and looked at his big, gold, expensive watch. “It’s almost noon. That means you’ve been asleep almost ten hours, and I answered your phone because I knew whoever was calling would be worried.”

“You should’ve given me the phone.”

“I shook you, and you didn’t stop snoring. I assumed you needed the sleep.”

“I don’t snore.”

“It was a joke.”

“You’re not funny.”

“Give me a chance. Sometimes I’m a real card.” Deadpan.

I frowned, but it hurt my bruises.

“See?” he said.

I remained sober. “Who called?”

“Sheriff Ramsay. I assured him that you were all right and I wasn’t a danger to you. Then Dottie called, and I assured her that you were all right and I wasn’t a danger to you. She said she made her potion extra strong so you would sleep through the night, and I asked for the recipe. Then some guy named Bud called, from a plane on his way home from grilling my ex-wife in New York, and I assured him that you were all right and I wasn’t a danger to you.”

So maybe he was a card. I wanted to smile but decided one time was one too many. I looked around. “Are we still out on the lake?”