Читать книгу Head To Head - Linda Ladd - Страница 6

I got the call at 5:35 A.M. on my cell phone. As a Canton County Sheriff’s Department detective, I get plenty of early morning calls but none like this one. The temporary dispatcher said, “Like, it’s a real homicide, Claire! Awesome, like, can you believe it?” Guess that tells you a lot about what passes as excitement here at Lake of the Ozarks. I might live on the Lake Tahoe of mid-Missouri, but a haven for gangsters and murderers it ain’t, believe me. My partner, Bud Davis, and I are more likely to investigate who stole somebody’s yard gnome or who left an X-rated message on the answering machine down at Maudie’s beauty shop. That last one comes to mind because I handled it yesterday, all by myself, too. But that’s okay. For years, I worked Los Angeles Robbery/Homicide, or shall we say, Murder Unlimited, California Style, so the quiet life of purloined gnomes was one reason I immigrated to the Midwest.

My heart rate picked up because, hey, a murder is a murder. I sat up on the edge of my couch. I sleep on the couch a lot because I can’t sleep anywhere a lot, and I forced my bleary eyes to focus on the dock in front of my teensy-weensy A-frame cabin. The lake cove was quiet and calm, dark green waters lapping dark green, forested shores. See why I came out here to live? The sky was trying to do the dawn thing it did every morning around this time, but the lake had pulled up its blanket of mist and was saying, not yet, not yet, please let me sleep, just ten more minutes.

“Guess what else, Claire, like, just guess?” Somehow I wasn’t in the mood to guess much, but the question was rhetorical, anyway. Fact is, the dispatcher was an emergency temp named Jacqueline, Jacqee for short, which tells you a lot. On the other hand, she’s the sheriff’s youngest and flightiest of four daughters. My partner and I call her Dude-ette. She was home from college for the summer, and I guess nineteen-year-olds majoring in fashion design like to play guessing games with detectives at the crack of dawn. Thus, Dude-ette went on, oh, so excited: “And it’s a Hollywood celebrity, can you believe it? Like, a real live celebrity down here at the lake that got herself killed!”

Now that one did make me wonder what Jacqee had been smoking down at the station house. “Okay, Jacqee, I’m awake now. Calm down, and tell me when and where.”

“Cedar Bend Lodge.”

“Oh, damn.” Now I believed the celebrity part. Cedar Bend Lodge was the primo address on all fifteen hundred miles of the lake’s mountainous, rugged shoreline. Worse news was that Nicholas Black, world-renowned psychobabbler, owned it. I’d never met the handsome and suave Doctor Black, of course, but word was he was more self-absorbed than his Tinseltown patients. Shorthand for: I am not eager to deal with him.

“Call Bud Davis. Is there a uniform on it?”

“Uh-huh. O’Hara. She’s the one on duty.”

“Does Charlie know?” I felt I needed to guide Jacqee through the drill, she being a student of hem lengths and peasant blouses, and all.

“Daddy had to go to Jeff City last night, and like, talk to some dudes up there, you know, the governor and those guys.”

Oh, them.

“Okay, I’m on my way,” I said, then remembered who was on the other end of the line. “Listen, Jacqee, don’t talk to anybody about this, got it? Nobody. Especially the press. Understand?” Redundant, yes, but it paid to be with Jacqee of the two e’s.

“Well, duh uh, you think I’m a dork, or what?” Yes, Jacqee, you are a dork, and more. The line went dead, the fashion expert affronted to her core, which probably wasn’t all that deep, anyway. Oh, well.

I took my usual ten-second shower, combed my short blond hair straight back off my forehead and left it wet, threw on a black T-shirt and jeans and black-and-orange Nike high-tops, slipped on my shoulder holster with my 9mm Glock snugly buckled in place, and clipped my badge to my belt. The lead detective was on the way in two minutes flat.

The lake at Lake of the Ozarks was formed in 1931, with the construction of Bagnell Dam, and was still impressive now, more than seventy years later. I drove over that mighty edifice, windows down and caffeine deprived. Nicholas Black’s resort was on a coveted point south of Horseshoe Bend, and I picked up speed on the deserted blacktop highways curving along the lakeshore. Later in the week the big Cedar Bend Regatta was supposed to begin, and crowds of tourists would venture out in the ninety-degree-plus July heat to watch. Just what we needed. A murder to get the race started.

I reached the stone gate of Cedar Bend Lodge in fifteen minutes and swung my black Explorer into the entrance road and accidentally ran over the end of a mammoth bed of pink and white impatiens and purple petunias. Uh-oh, a gardener 911 was probably going off somewhere. I guiltily regained the blacktop and drove through Doctor Black’s meticulously manicured 18-hole golf course, pure emerald splendor for tourists with fat wallets and low handicaps. The main lodge loomed a minute later, built with waist-size logs and glinting with a zillion miles of dark plate glass. The famous five-star restaurant Two Cedars was the star of the black-and-gold reception lobby, but the four ballrooms, with cathedral ceilings and crystal chandeliers dripping glittery spangles, offering breathtaking lake views weren’t too shabby, either.

Yes siree, Bob, Cedar Bend Lodge was impressive. The nine-by-twelve-foot front door with beveled stained glass in hues of ruby and emerald and topaz definitely welcomed people who had not come to Lake of the Ozarks to rough it.

I whipped under a portico the size of a basketball court and held aloft by flat, stacked fieldstone columns and slowed at the sight of a resort security guard. I stopped and wound down my window and flashed my badge.

I recognized Suze Eggers right off. She was the best friend of my next door neighbor, Dottie Harper. Suze strutted up to my car, all proud of the sharp black-and-tan uniform, which accentuated her lean, athletic body. I knew she worked security for Black, but to me, she had a gargantuan attitude problem. I sometimes wondered about her sexual orientation, although Dottie assured me she was as straight as the proverbial arrow.

“Well, well, Detective Claire Morgan, up with the birds and lookin’ fine.”

See what I mean? Maybe Dot was kidding herself about the gay thing.

“Hi, Suze, what’s going on? Dispatch said there’s been a murder.”

“Oh yes, ma’am, you got yourself a murder, all right. All cooked up for breakfast.”

Huh?

Suze grinned, made a deal out of pulling off her fancy tan hat with the Cedar Bend logo. She propped her palm on the roof of my car and leaned into the window. She smelled strongly of a unisex Calvin Klein cologne; I forget which one. I had to resist the urge to roll up the window and talk to her through the glass. She said, “Lady got whacked out at one of them fancy gated bungalows. You know the ones I mean? Out on the point goin’ for a coupla grand a week.” Suze seemed pleased about the murder. Not a healthy sign.

She stopped talking and ogled me a minute. It must’ve taken her a good long time to get her white-blond hair up into those stylish spikes that fell over just a little on the ends. She had thick, straight eyebrows over dark, nervous eyes. Maybe she was just excited. Uh-oh, not good.

“Fact is,” Suze lowered her voice, and I guess she thought we were real cop cohorts now, “weird ain’t near bad enough to describe this perp. He whacked her good, then came back for seconds.”

Gangster speak was flowing now. A regular female Tony Soprano. I pictured her in front of a mirror, plastic water gun in hand, muttering things like “Fuhgeddabout it, or You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to ME?”

“Did you find the body, Suze?”

Her eyes darted around some more. “Old lady found the body, one of the guests.”

I said, “What about the victim?”

“She’s a big-time VIP, just like the chick that found her. All them out there are loaded. They had condos next door to each other. The old lady says she gets up early and takes a swim out to that big floatin’ dock Black’s got out off the point, said she does the same thing every day. Anyways, minute she saw the dead girl, she went all hysterical and nearly drowned herself before she made it back to her place. She punched the panic button and held it down till I got there. Took me four minutes to get out there, and she was still screamin’ her friggin’ head off. I called in you guys right off. I did it by the book, Detective. I know procedures. I’ve been studying to be a cop.”

Great. “Did you touch anything at the scene?”

Suze frowned and ran her fingers through her gelled hairdo. We both looked to see how much goop she’d raked out. She wiped the stuff on her pants. “I told you, I know procedure. I ain’t touched nothin’. I went over and checked out the body to make sure the old broad wasn’t seein’ things.”

“And you secured the perimeter after you called dispatch?”

“You bet. Guarded the road myself right here till the first uniform showed up. Name’s O’Hara, I think. She got here in less than ten. She’s that hot new chick that Charlie hired on.”

I rest my case. I pulled the gearshift back. “Okay, Suze, where do I go?”

“Take the main road down ’bout a mile, I reckon. It dead-ends at Doctor Black’s private gate, and that’s something you can’t miss, trust me. It’s gotta big brass B on it. Hang a left there, and follow that road down to the water. It’s got its own security gate, but your partner said to leave it open until you showed up.”

So Bud beat me to the scene. That would cost me a dozen Krispy Kremes. “Listen, Suze, nobody goes down this road except for officers and the crime-scene team, got it?”

“Yeah, sure. Guests out here don’t drag outta bed till noon, anyways. Wild parties go on all night; then everybody sleeps in till their appointment with the doc.”

I told Suze not to talk about the crime scene and then accelerated down the shady blacktop road. Hundreds of red roses festooned the split-rail fences along the way, and I could smell them, sweet and summery and vaguely reminiscent of prom corsages. I only went to a prom once, but I did get a rose corsage. It was a fake one, but it’s the thought that counts, right?

It was still cool, but by nine o’clock, the sun would broil everyone alive. July was hot as hell in Missouri, unlike California’s paradise weather. I drove past closed private gates guarding luxury condos hidden in woodsy tracts.

Now I was invading the most exclusive area, where bungalows nestled in jeweled glades and thick woods touched the water. Black must’ve hired a hundred or so ex-Disney World gardeners to landscape the place. Flowering orange trumpet vines decorated security cameras, and there were plenty watching from tall poles. Strangers loitering here would stick out like Michael Jordan on a junior high basketball team. Black’s security, however, obviously had not done the trick. I’d have to interview every staff member to see if anyone had seen any unwelcome lurkers on the grounds.

Black’s gate loomed up, all ostentatious and gaudy. Somewhere on the other side of that mighty portal worthy of Buckingham Palace, Nicholas Black had magically transplanted a Hollywood-style estate smack dab to the Ozark hills. What I wanted to know was why? I’d actually seen it from the water once when I was fishing with Dottie. The sun reflected off three stories of plate glass windows in a migraine-inspiring glare. The original Cedar Bend was built in 1962, and about five years ago Black had bought it dirt cheap out of bankruptcy and then spent several million remodeling the place. Story was that he saw the view, liked it, and couldn’t rest until he owned it. A real Donald Trump, MD style. A major celebrity, he was always in the news for something and usually sporting a busty blonde on his arm. Another penchant shared with The Donald. Not that he wasn’t devilishly good-looking himself, I had to admit.

I braked and studied the gate of the victim’s condo. Thrown wide open, no guard in sight. Great police work, that. I turned in and, after thirty yards of steep descent, saw the private bungalow. All logs, fieldstone, and glass, beautifully framed by swaying blue-green cedars and deep green lake water.

A dark brown sheriff’s cruiser was parked next to Bud’s unmarked white Bronco. Connie O’Hara, pretty, blond, twenty-five, and impossibly skinny in her brown uniform, stood alone in the driveway. Charlie had hired the young woman at my urging, and I was glad another female had cracked the department. Young and untried, O’Hara had potential, number three in the police academy and on the Kansas City force until her highway-patrolmen husband was transferred south. We practiced on the shooting range and sometimes worked out in the weight room together. So far she was doing just fine.

Then I saw the silver van and the two guys scrambling out of it. Oh, wonderful, Peter Hastings and Jake, his obnoxious cameraman. I killed the engine and got out. Within seconds Hastings had ambushed me with Jake’s camera rolling. I averted my face and kept walking. The brash producer was almost as disgusting as his stupid TV show. Touted as honoring real cops, On The Beat did more sensationalizing of crime scenes than honoring anybody.

Why Hastings and his crew had trekked down to the hinterland of the Missouri Ozarks to immortalize a backwater sheriff’s department was a more interesting question, and nobody seemed to have a good answer. But watch out now, Hastings had hit the jackpot—a murder to exploit—and he was up for the job.

I nodded to O’Hara and tried to outstride the reporter, but Pete would not be deterred. Both men scuttled like cockroaches and cut off my path, and the camera was zeroed in close up when I ducked under the yellow crime scene tape and headed for the front door of the bungalow.

“Give us a statement, Detective Morgan? Reliable sources tell us this is a homicide. Can you confirm that for our viewers?”

Fairly certain he was fishing, I paused, and because Charlie had ordered us all to be polite to the TV crew, I addressed his questions. “I just arrived on scene, Mr. Hastings; any comment at this time would be inappropriate.”

Hastings stuck a live mike over the yellow tape. “Is it true the victim’s a famous actress here to kick a cocaine habit? Can you confirm that much, Detective? Can you tell us who she is?”

I hoped to hell it wasn’t true, and I wanted to know who’d tipped off Hastings. Jacqee or Suze? “No comment. Tell you what, sir, it might be better to take that camera and wait at the entrance gate until we’re finished here. Deputy O’Hara, please escort Mr. Hastings and his cameraman to the gate at the top of the hill and keep everybody out until we’re finished with the crime scene.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Trying not to smirk, O’Hara ushered the newsmen away from the bungalow. Hastings muttered under his breath, and what he said was not pretty. I gladly left O’Hara to deal with the media morons and walked over the quaint, humpbacked little bridge that led onto a wraparound porch. Terra-cotta urns over-flowed with brilliant scarlet geraniums along the planked walkway and deck. The house was spacious, built of rustic brown wood, and it jutted out over the water in an impressive feat of engineering. There were a few windows facing the road, but I bet there were plenty more facing the lake.

The surrounding woods were quiet. Waves gently lapped weathered pilings, and one ecstatic robin warbled his heart out somewhere high atop a tree. I could understand now why celebrities landed out here in the boondocks to screw their heads on straight. Quiet, peaceful, private, no traffic, no sirens, the place could ease the stress, all right. Except that now a murderer had come calling to our little utopia in the woods.