I confided in him without worry. He was the one friend I kept no secrets from.
“Who got killed?”
“Ever heard of Sylvie Border, the soap opera star?”
“Oh, my God,” Dottie cried from the kitchen. She held a piping hot nine-by-twelve pan of lasagna. She wore yellow oven mitts with red smiley faces on them. Her T-shirt matched the mitts. That pretty much summed up Dot. “That’s Amelia on A Place in Time! How could anyone kill her? She’s one of the good ones.”
Harve made a sheepish shrug. “Dottie and I watch that show. It comes on when we’re havin’ lunch out on the porch.”
“You and everyone else, it seems. This perp’s a psychopath, Harve. We’ve gotta catch him quick.” I told them the bare facts, and Dottie sank into a chair, still holding the lasagna. Her blue eyes were wide and shocked.
“Oh, my God.” She breathed heavily, looking a little sick.
I said, “Sorry. I should’ve waited until after we ate.”
Harve said, “No, that’s okay. Do you really believe Black’s that much of a sicko? He doesn’t seem the type.”
I shrugged. “We’ll see. Supposedly, he was in flight to New York when the murder went down. I get a stab at him first thing tomorrow morning. How about doing a quick rundown on Black for me?”
In addition to Web site building, Harve used his computer savvy to track down people on the lam for individuals and law enforcement agencies. He prepared dossiers on anyone who was anyone and made twice as much money at it than he had as an LAPD detective lieutenant.
“I’ve already got a good-size file I put together on Black when he stirred up that big stink buying up the land around Cedar Bend Point. I’ll pull it up after dinner. Tell you one thing, though, he’s got a hell of a lot of interests other than psychiatry. He’s big in real estate. He likes hotels, buys up resorts, and makes them exclusive by putting in a clinic for his high-class clients.”
“I want to know his favorite color socks before I meet him tomorrow.”
“You got it, sweetheart.”
I picked up a knife and sawed thick slices off a loaf of hot, crusty Italian bread. I was salivating by the time Dottie picked up the serving spatula and cut the lasagna into squares.
I took a sip of my iced tea as Harve handed me my plate. “Black’s on Larry King Live tonight. How about you two watching with me and giving me your impressions of him?”
“I can tell you one thing, Claire. He’s a real cutie,” said Dottie, shoveling a huge portion of the lasagna onto Harve’s plate. She wanted him to gain weight. “I met him once. Did I ever mention it?”
“You met him in person?” I took a slice of bread and handed the plate to Harve.
“Sure did. I went to his book signing last year up in Kansas City. Barnes & Noble at the Plaza. He’s got real pale blue eyes. Almost like ice, sort of, but then it feels like they burn into you, real intense-like. He said, ‘Who’s this book for?’ and you know what, I couldn’t even remember my name for a second or two. I felt really silly, like some little teenybopper with a crush.” She shook her head.
“You still got that book?” I asked.
Dottie nodded. “Uh-huh. It’s in my room. I’ve got his others, too.”
“May I borrow them?”
“Sure. Remind me to get them before you leave.”
I looked at Harve. “You ever meet him?”
“No, but with the big, fat file I’ve got on him, I feel like I’m his long-lost brother. You aren’t going to believe all the irons this guy has in the fire.”
“Can’t wait to invade his privacy.” I shut my eyes in ecstasy at the first bite of lasagna. My stomach wasn’t kidding. I was damn hungry.
After dinner Harve and I sat down in his cluttered office, a converted sunporch overlooking the quiet cove. The first thing Harve pulled up on the computer screen was a head shot of Nicholas Black. Dottie was right. He was handsome, all right. I’d seen him before, of course, but just glimpses on television now and then. Up close and personal, he definitely had impact. Black hair, short, but a stylish corporate kind of cut, probably about $200 a la Bill Clinton’s scandalous do by Jose out of Beverly Hills. Lean face, dark tan, high cheekbones. Gazing straight into the camera out of eyes that looked more sky blue than icy. Native American–looking. A bare-chested Sioux warrior on a rearing wild black stallion came to mind. Sex appeal. Aplenty. For sure. Even I wasn’t immune, and I haven’t slept with a man in years. The celibate detective.
I said, “He looks like he owns the world and everything in it.”
“Yeah? Well, he’s getting close.”
Harve clicked the mouse a couple of times, and up popped Black’s background data—page after page after page. I scanned it with real interest. Born in Kansas City, Missouri. Maybe that was why he ended up down here in the woods. Parents deceased. No siblings. Undergraduate degree from Tulane University, master’s degree from Columbia, three years in the army, and a medical degree in psychiatry from Harvard. I sat back and swiveled my chair. “Gee, and with his looks, he could have made something of himself. What’s he worth?”
“He’s loaded. He’s bought up real estate all over the world, mostly hotels like I said, and either he’s got damn good business instincts, genius financial advisers, or he’s one helluva crook. Piles of cash in the stock market, even more moolah rolls in from his practice. He’s got offices all over the world. At the moment, bucks are piling up from those best-selling books Dot reads.”
“Have you read his books?”
“Hell, no. But Dottie’s his biggest fan since she saw those icy eyes.”
“I heard that,” Dottie yelled from where she was loading the dishwasher in the adjoining kitchen.
I wasn’t much of a reader, but I reminded myself to borrow one before I left. “His practice is worldwide?”
“Yep. He maintains small, exclusive psychiatry practices in New York, L.A., London, Paris, Rome, Tokyo, and there’s talk of setting up one in Moscow. He’s got trusted colleagues running them for him, but he visits each office regularly to see special patients. Busy guy. Must take days just to count his money.”
“And here he is, holed up in good old Missouri, out in the middle of nowhere. Doesn’t ring quite true to me. His assistant intimates he’s been spending lots of time here at the lake.”
Harve said, “It says here he’s got a Lear jet to travel in. And a Bell 430 helicopter with a helipad, I might add. He’s also got a motor yacht he had custom-built to use on the lake. He likes his toys and finds time to play with them.”
“Money’ll do that for folks.”
“Wouldn’t know.”
“Me, either.”
The television suddenly blared in the living room, followed by Dottie’s excited cry. “Hey, guys, Larry King’s coming on any minute.”
Harve tapped in the print command for Black’s dossier, and I followed him into the living room at the front of the house. It was a bright daffodil yellow. Dottie liked for everything to be yellow, different shades, maybe, canary, butter, sunshine, but all yellow. I chalked that up to her sunny disposition. Harve’s penchant for technology showed up in the 71-inch TV screen surrounded not only by sound but every digital instrument known to man. Black wasn’t the only man who liked toys.
I owned a 13-inch model, which wasn’t hooked up to cable, but hey, it was color. I felt a hint of culture shock watching a screen the size of my plate-glass