I was more worried about rubbernecking tourists with Nikons. “What about next of kin? Does Sylvie Border have a husband?”
“Single, as far as I know.”
“So she was registered out here alone?”
“Yeah, accordin’ to Miki Tudor and the gal at the reservations desk. Been relaxin’ out here for almost two weeks, with daily therapy sessions with the resident guru. Been spendin’ a lot of time with him, from what I hear.”
“Very interesting. Okay, let’s get this over with.”
3
Inside, the bungalow was spotless, perfection as usual from Black’s top-notch maid service. The neatness didn’t fit. Not that I frequented pricey hotels, or anything. My gut told me that wealthy socialites and cinema stars didn’t spend time straightening up after themselves. Sylvie was probably the typical spoiled, pampered diva, and spoiled, pampered divas didn’t hang up their clothes. I’d have to check on when the maids had done the bungalow last and what they thought of Sylvie. Where were the scattered newspapers and magazines and wet towels and flip-flops and half-empty cups of coffee? Like at my house.
“She didn’t put up much of a struggle in here.” Bud wadded up a gum wrapper and stuffed it in his pants pocket.
I said, “Could be the perp never came into the house. Maybe he sneaked up on her outside on the deck. Maybe she was sunning or napping on the chaise or soaking in the hot tub.” I looked out the window. “The woods come right down to the bungalow, with bushes thick enough to hide somebody who doesn’t want to be seen. It would’ve been easy to hide out there. She wouldn’t have seen him.”
“Yeah, sure,” Bud said, “if he avoided about ninety security cameras and twice that many employees scurryin’ around this place.”
“Have a uniform walk the property after we finish in here. And crime scene needs to sweep the woods. Tell them to grid the woods behind the bungalow.”
“Rained some over the weekend. Maybe the ground’s soft enough to get a footprint.” Bud held his blue silk tie with one hand while he carefully straightened the knot. He did that, maybe, say, one hundred times a day, a nervous habit that had grown since he’d stopped smoking. Bud said, “Might get lucky and get a shoe size. If he’s a stalker watchin’ her, he might’ve left a cigarette butt or gum wrapper behind.”
“This guy’s not that careless. He gets off on the act itself, treats it like a photo shoot, down to every detail. My guess is he thought this out in advance, fantasized it over and over. Control, effect, power, that’s what he’s into. Look how much time he took setting this up. He wants us to wonder why he offed her this way. That’s his message to us, and all we’ve got to do is figure out the why. One thing for sure, this isn’t any crime of passion. This guy has ice water in his veins.”
I looked outside and saw the dive team readying underwater cameras. “It’d be easy enough to bring a boat in here. Cut the motor out a ways and glide in to the dock or bank. Or a canoe could’ve come in anywhere along here. If he’d waited until after dark, nobody would’ve been out on the water.”
“Uh-uh. Security’s too tight out here. You did notice the surveillance cameras at the top of the driveway?”
I nodded. “Tag the film for review, but I doubt if he’d be that stupid.”
“Already done. Told the manager we’d be up to the main lodge sometime this mornin’ to screen the tapes.”
I shook my head. “This place is too damn neat. It looks like something out of House Beautiful. Or your house.”
“So I’m neat. Is that a crime? Come look at the master bedroom. Looks like the maids bypassed it for some reason.”
“They wouldn’t do that unless they were ordered to.”
“The guest room’s spotless and so are the bathrooms. Both bedrooms have private decks with hot tubs, but the big hot tub’s out on the back deck. Beds’re made. Kitchen’s clean, all the dishes put away. Except for her bedroom, Miss Border was a tidy lady.”
“Or the killer wiped the place clean after he was done with her.” A growing foreboding twisted up some knots in my belly. “My bet is he’s not going to make any mistakes, make it as hard for us as he can. He’s playing games, first with his victims, now with us.”
“Victims? You think he’s serial?”
“Yeah. He’s got her staged like he’s spent lots of time fantasizing, and my gut tells me he’s had enough practice to do it right.”
Bud said, “Like a little girl posin’ Barbie dolls. That’s what she looks like, a damn Malibu Barbie.”
“Okay, let’s see what we can turn up before Buckeye gets here. Maybe the guy got careless, but I doubt it.”
“I’ll take the desk.” Bud headed across the oak floor to a slender-legged secretary pushed up against the far wall.
“Make sure you don’t disturb anything. I want the crime scene photos to be exact. If he is playing with us, he might leave clues on purpose.” I was lead in the case because of my experience in homicide, but Bud had four years vice under his belt with the Atlanta PD. Undercover had given him good instincts. Too bad he made Colin Powell look unkempt.
I searched the living room for anything even remotely out of place. An oversized sofa dominated the room. Pale yellow sectional. Pricey leather. High quality like everything else at Black’s resort. Exact same shade as the walls, it curved in a nine-foot arc around a brown fieldstone fireplace. Five navy blue chenille pillows were propped in perfect alignment against the plush back. A glass-topped cocktail table was positioned inside the C of the sofa, held aloft by a fantastic chunk of driftwood. A shallow, black stone bowl was the only object atop the glass. I knelt and looked under the glass. There were no visible fingerprints on the glass surface. Probably wiped clean by the killer. Buckeye would find them if they were there.
Inside the bowl was a complicated television remote control and a set of keys. I got out my ballpoint pen and snagged the key ring. Three keys—all gold—one emblazoned with the cedar tree emblem of the resort, obviously the bungalow’s key. A Mercedes car key. The third looked like a tiny luggage key. A round gold medallion dangled from the key ring, stamped with the NBC peacock logo. I wondered how the NBC head honchos in New York would take the demise of their star. I carefully replaced the keys. Maybe publicity drove the perpetrator. Maybe he was sitting in some dark hole, glued to a television set, salivating for his fifteen minutes of fame.
A huge entertainment center held a 50-inch, flat-screen TV and state-of-the-art stereo equipment I could almost kill for. I had few pleasures outside work anymore, but music was something I enjoyed. Soft music at night when I lay awake and remembered the bad things. The entertainment center, constructed from gleaming grained oak, was built between two giant, undraped side windows. It was wiped down, too, with not a speck of dust anywhere. Even the artificial silk ivy flowing from a brass pot was clean and glossy. I slid open the top drawer and sorted through an extensive selection of CDs and DVDs. Variety of films, including a dozen or more porno flicks. The second drawer was deeper and held nothing. I pressed the button on the DVD player. The drawer slid out, empty.
The adjoining kitchen revealed more polished oak and shiny beige marble. Fully stocked wet bar with cushioned stools near a window seat overlooking the deep woods. I stared through the leafy branches and heavy underbrush, wondering if the killer had stood out there in the darkness, fascinated by the famous TV star, making his plans, fantasizing about the sick things he’d do. Or had Sylvie known the person who sent her to the bottom of the lake? A friend, a jealous lover, an unknown enemy?
An answering machine was on the counter under a beige wall phone. Unplugged. Side-by-side refrigerator with ice and water and orange juice on the door. Inside, I counted six liter bottles of Perrier and five packaged bags of salad greens. Diet Italian dressing and half a bottle of California