The child nodded, remembering how the mother’s head was twisted and her mouth was frozen open in a silent scream. “That’s good, Brat. That’s the way you should behave. Come along. You can help me prepare your mother.”
The embalmer picked up the child and returned to the cellar. He sat the shivering child on the tall swivel stool and walked into the cold room. When he came back out, he had the mother in his arms. He laid her gently on the steel table, straightened her broken neck with a gentleness he had not shown her in life. “See how beautiful she is, with all that long blond hair. Why don’t we braid it so it’ll look all neat and pretty? Will you help me do that?”
The child nodded, and together they took the rest of the hairpins out of the mother’s big, soft bun. The father washed the blood out of it with the water hose suspended above the table and taught the child how to braid.
“There, see, that makes her look very nice. It’ll only take a jiffy to stitch up those cuts on her face, and I can put make-up on the bruises. Watch. See how I can make her smile.” He closed the dead mother’s mouth and prodded the cold, stiff lips until they curved in a caricature of a smile. “See, look how happy she is now.”
The child thought she did look happier now.
“You must never tell anyone that you killed your mother,” the father told the child then, leaning close and speaking in a stern voice. “They would come and take you away and bury you alive in a deep, dark hole in the ground. You’d never see your mother or me again.”
The child stared at his mother’s strange grimace, afraid.
“Now you can help me prepare her, like we’ve done with the others, but this time it’s special because it’s your own mother. This is an honor for both of us.”
The embalmer gathered the sharp tools and rubber hoses and chemicals he’d need and rolled the towel-covered instrument tray beside the child. “You can hand me the tools I need. You can make up for killing your mother by being my helper.” He pointed at an instrument on the tray. “Now hand me that big scalpel.”
The child picked up the scalpel. It felt heavy and cold. The father took it and began to work. The child took the mother’s cold hand and squeezed it tightly but didn’t cry as the father cut into her soft white flesh.
The child was eight years old.
7
The Cedar Bend helipad was located at the tip of the point, where Black kept his private quarters and office. I was seething inside when I arrived there early the next morning, but I was the picture of calm tranquility, pure Zen, as Miki the Poodle ushered me through palatial marble halls to Black’s lavish tan-and-black office. Ten leather-framed Rorschach inkblot designs lined one wall, and I studied each one in turn. In my present mood, they all looked like the devil to me. I stood in front of a windowed wall and watched the sun come up.
Not long after, the dull, insistent buzz of rotors infiltrated my glass sanctuary, and the Bell 430 helicopter Harve had described the night before came barreling into sight. Surprise, surprise, guess what color it was? Nicholas Black probably raised black-and-tan coonhounds, too.
I watched the copter bank right as graceful as a gull, then straighten and head home. Black was precisely on time. Well, good. The sooner I got my hooks in him, the better. Thanks to Doctor Ain’t I Somethin’, media vans were rolling to the lake in swarms, like killer bees but with deadlier stingers.
I stood in Black’s penthouse office. It had its own third-floor wing, did I mention that? Gee, I’m impressed. The craft set down expertly on the round concrete pad, and I watched the wind from the rotors blast the calm water out in concentric circles. A security guard in uniform rushed to open the door for Black, but it wasn’t Suze Eggers. Maybe Eggers annoyed Black, too.
Decked out in a dark blue suit, white shirt, and red tie—nothing casual here—Nicholas Black stepped out, still talking into a cell phone. He thrust off a briefcase to the security guard, who trotted after him like a trusty beagle, as he bent low and made his way swiftly up a wide dock of bleached wood lined with about a dozen berths, each with its own Cobalt 360. All black and tan, of course.
My God, I’d been transported to Palm Beach. Where were the polo ponies and Prince Charles? Did I mention my penchant for sarcasm? Yeah, well, ostentatious wealth is a big trigger, let me tell you.
I watched him until he disappeared somewhere below. My mouth watered in anticipation. My fingers twitched. My eyes lit up. Armed with a fifty-page dossier about him memorized in my head, I was ready to put my foot on his chest and force him to confess.
I wondered if Miki Tudor was the one on the phone with Black. I turned and observed through an open door that Miki was at her pretty little white desk across the hall, her usual sleek self dressed in white with pearls all shiny around her neck. It looked like she was doing her nails, but she could have been admiring her big diamond ring. But I’d know if they’d talked again after she apprised him of the murder; I’d already requested both Black’s and Miki’s phone records.
I rolled back my shoulders like the kick-boxer I am, ready, willing, and eager. I was good at interviews, even with psychiatrists. I waited. Impatient. Resisting the urge to pace, I stood still. The complex was connected to Black’s private quarters, essentially a French chateau with a massive glass atrium walkway. Maybe he went next door to Buckingham Palace to admire all his stuff. That might take some time. Maybe he was on the phone to the president, advising him on the war against terror. Maybe he was wiping his fingerprints off everything he touched, just in case he killed somebody else and threw them a tea party under the lake.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Detective.”
A deep, masculine voice out of nowhere. I spun around and found Nicholas Black right behind me. The mirrored doors of the elevator slid soundlessly together, creating a seamless wall of mirrors. Clever, clever. I bet it was a one-way mirror, too, so Black didn’t walk into any surprises. He came straight to me, the briefcase in his left hand, right hand extended to shake. I took it. His clasp was firm and dry. So was mine.
“Nick Black. Fill me in on what you’ve got so far.”
“Claire Morgan, Canton County Sheriff detective.”
“I know who you are. Miki told me you wanted to meet me here as soon as I got in. Sorry, I’m an early riser.” He smiled and gestured at a chair. “Please, sit down. Would you like some breakfast? Or a cup of coffee? I’m having one. Miki makes terrific coffee.”
“Gee, how nice for you.”
Black raised an eyebrow, and I decided to tone it down. He was a tone detector. Time to shift to the polite, “let’s be civilized and have coffee together” mode.
Like an apparition in the mist, Miki floated in wearing her all-white business suit, including hose and strappy high heels, and carrying a silver tray that held a coffee urn, a silver creamer, and two white cups and saucers. Fine white china with a narrow band of black and gold around the rims. No monogram or design. Simple but elegant. The same kind of china used under the water with Sylvie and everywhere else at the resort. I settled into the tufted, tan leather armchair across from Black’s massive ebony desk. It was polished to such a gleaming patina that I could see the clouds in the sky behind him reflected in the top.
I thanked Miki and balanced the cup and saucer on my lap, atop a crisp white linen napkin. I watched her leave, then said, “Ms. Tudor is a very efficient assistant.”
The way I said it was designed to make him think I suspected more was between them than an employer/assistant relationship. Black obviously picked up on it, because he studied me a moment, then chose to ignore the remark. His reaction was more effective than acknowledging my insinuation. He knew that. I knew that. He said, “Miki’s a treasure, all right. I don’t know what I’d do without her. She keeps everything running around here.”
He