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  Claire decided that he looked like a guy who could take care of himself with just about anybody at any time. Nobody would want to mess with a guy like him, huh uh. Former military, she would bet on it. They always kept that air of strength and invincibility even after they got out. Bud was now introducing the new man to her as Colton Reid.

  “Colt’s just out of the academy,” Bud was telling her. “Knows his stuff, too. Wants to join us in Homicide as soon as he can make the grade.”

  Colton Reid immediately jerked off his black leather gloves and grabbed Claire’s gloved right hand. He gave her one of those hard, I-mean-it arm pumps, which was really more of a jerk than a handshake. She closed her fingers and increased her own grip to show him that she could hold her own, even with a strong guy like him. “I am distinctly honored to meet you in person, Detective Morgan,” he was saying. “Your fame precedes you.”

  Claire smiled slightly but the praise surprised her. Other officers were not wont to heap accolades on detectives for doing their jobs, not much, anyway. He’d used her maiden name, too, but that was okay. Claire had decided early on to keep using her maiden name at work. On anything pertaining to legal documents or personal stuff, she was Mrs. Claire Morgan Black, but here in her work world, with its murders and mayhem, she was still Claire Morgan.

  “Nice to meet you, too. Sometimes that fame thing isn’t so much fun.”

  Then the new guy messed up about as bad as he could on such short acquaintance. “Ah, you’re talking about those National Enquirer photos, aren’t you? Man, I saw them this morning.” He started grinning, and oh yes, it was highly suggestive. Lascivious, even. Then he really stepped in it. “Tell you one thing, I felt like framing that cover of you and hanging it on my bedroom wall. That shrink you married? He’s some lucky guy.”

  At first, Claire could not believe he actually said all that. Was he truly that much of an idiot? How did he make it through the academy? She was of a higher rank and he was a newbie. Even worse, she was a woman officer and he was a man. There was something called sexual harassment in the workplace. Something called good manners, too. What the hell was he thinking? And in front of two experienced officers, potential eyewitnesses to his stupidity? Nope, Reid did not appear to be the brightest bulb on any string of Christmas lights. He was the bum bulb that didn’t light and ruined all the others. The one you had to throw away and replace. Colton Reid had a lot to learn, including good manners and office procedure and how not to talk to women. Bud and Corrigan were watching her, faces wary, no doubt with the expectation that she would double her fist and ram it into Colt’s big, dumb kisser. She had doubled her fists, all right, but mainly from controllable irritation. She had slugged people for less, true. Not often, but they always deserved it.

  But not today, no way, it was Christmastime. She was a happy camper, in a very good place, and fa la la la la, etcetera. Except for those stupid pictures that got Black all jealous. So, with some effort, she set her jaw and decided to let his ignorant remarks go by the wayside, with nary a physical or spiteful retort. Be mellow, Claire. Go with the flow. Practice what you preached to Black. Merry Christmas. Colt Reid is probably just as dumb as a stump, or even less so. She finally said, “Are you married, Officer Reid?”

  “Oh no, ma’am. I’m still looking.”

  What he was looking at was her, up and down, as if she were most definitely a prospective wife. Talk about obtuse. Mellow was mellow, but rude was rude. She adopted her best withering glower and held it on him until he looked highly uncomfortable. Then she locked her eyes on his face for about a minute longer so she could watch his outspoken machismo dry up and die a horrible death in front of two male colleagues. After that, she turned to Corrigan. “Do we know who owns this bright and cheerful residence?”

  Corrigan seemed glad at the change of subject. “No, but we’re trying to reach the lady who sets up the tours. See if she can give us the owner’s phone number. She hasn’t been picking up. But she handles the Tinsel Town elites who want a place around here where they can hide from the paparazzi.”

  Claire gazed up at the blinding house. “I sure hope it’s not some famous athlete or film star. They’re known to slink and slither into this gated community from time to time, as you well know.”

  Bud said, “It’s probably some jerk actor. Just look around. This guy is swimming in dough. This place is big enough to be a hotel.”

  Claire sighed. She just did not like celebrities. Not even when she tried. She detested them, in fact. Except for Black, but he was the down-to-earth sort. He was generous and kind and didn’t act like he was some kind of a god. Even though he did look like one. Apollo, maybe. “Yes, Bud, there are rooms galore in this mighty edifice for a multitude of stoned, drunken Hollywood stars and hangers-on. Not a good scenario for us now, or in the immediate future.”

  Bud stomped his boots in the snow and clapped his gloved hands together. His breath vaporized and hung around awhile. Shivering inside his heavy winter clothing, Bud had never grown accustomed to the hardships of winter, being a born-and-bred Georgia boy and all. “This just gets worse and worse,” he said. “Not gonna have fun tonight. Goodbye Merry Christmas.”

  Colt, aka “Dumb-as-Hell Dolt,” as Claire now liked to think of Reid, was still watching her. Exclusively, too, as if he had x-ray vision and could see right through her bulky winter coat, all the way down to yellow bikini level. This guy was now on the verge of creeping her out. He just kept smiling and smiling, like he had this great big secret about her that he wasn’t ever gonna tell. Man, he had a gigantic problem with the female sex. Bet on it. Then she wondered why Charlie would hire such a misogynist. That was a good question, and one she meant to ask the good sheriff if he ever got over the flu and came back to work—but only if he was in a good mood.

  On the other hand, she wouldn’t have to work with Reid after this brief and unpleasant encounter, so why should she give a damn? Somebody like him was a nonentity in her life, and thankfully so. What she wanted to do was to get started on the investigation. She still felt that little niggle of anxious anticipation, which told her she had missed her job as homicide detective more than she had thought. And she had missed living at the lake, too, a lot more than she had expected. All that stuff sobered her, and now she was second-guessing her decision to become a private detective. She missed the camaraderie in her department, Dolt being the exception, of course.

  Corrigan was a guy who liked to joke around. So when he also brought up the article, she didn’t mind quite as much. Didn’t like it, mind you, but she knew he would never overstep his boundary. “Saw People magazine when I was in the Kroger checkout line, Claire. Guess you snagged the sexiest man alive. Congratulations.”

  “Shut up, Tim. Better not be a smartass and mention that to Black, or you might have to charge him with assaulting an officer.”

  He laughed. “No offense meant. I just hope the press gets you two out of their sights and gives you some breathing space.”

  “Amen to that.” But enough about her and Black. “Okay, tell us what happened here. I take it the body’s inside the house?”

  “Yeah, back in the library. We’re not sure who she is yet. They got her with what looks like blunt force trauma. Buckeye can determine if that’s the official cause of death when he gets here.”

  Buckeye Boyd was the Canton County medical examiner, and the best one in the state of Missouri, that being Claire’s humble opinion. “So he didn’t leave the murder weapon?”

  “No, but he left a wrapped Christmas gift in front of the tree addressed to us. Didn’t touch it. Waited for you to open it.”

  “Are you shittin’ me?” Bud said, shivering. Claire had bought him an entire set of L.L. Bean inner and outer wear for Christmas last year. This year, too, and it was wrapped and ready for the Christmas party that Black wanted to have. Maybe she should let him have it early. It seemed as if nothing ever kept him warm
enough, though.

  “To us. By name?” Claire asked Corrigan, half afraid to hear the answer.

  “No, to the police. We’ve put in calls to all the necessary people. The realtor who takes care of this place, the tour director. Got their numbers off some business cards left on the kitchen island. Should be hearing back from somebody soon.”

  “Okay, let’s go inside, Claire. This damn sleet is really coming down hard,” Bud told her.

  “Where exactly is the body?” she asked Corrigan.

  “When you get inside the front foyer, you’ll see a door at the back end of the hall. She’s back there. You can’t miss her, trust me. The body’s posed. He went to a lot of trouble, too. We got ourselves a real dramatic killer here.”

  Claire grimaced, not liking the sound of that. Or anything else, so far. She turned her back to the wind-flung sleet hitting her in the face and bowed her head against the barrage. “Keep us posted if you hear anything else. We don’t want the owner or any relatives showing up and blundering into the crime scene.”

  “Got it. We’re stationed out here until you release us. Ben’s inside. He’ll show you the way. We checked out the house when we got here. Didn’t find anybody else. Didn’t find much sign of this place being lived in, either, but we’ll do a more in-depth search after you give us the go.”

  “Good. Thanks.”

  Claire ignored the stupid guy and headed for the front porch. Colt just might not be a deputy very long if he didn’t get his act together, and pretty damn fast.

  Play Time

  Still lazing around on her float, Junior’s mom was going on and on about his dad to whoever was on the other end of the phone. As usual when she mentioned him, her voice was slurred and boozy and caustic. She talked on the phone incessantly, usually trying to manipulate party invites to celebrity homes. A few minutes later, she finally hung up. She rose up on one elbow and found his place on the chaise longue.

  “Junior! Go fetch me a cold drink! Hurry it up, I’m dying of thirst out here!”

  Oh, yeah. Junior wished. He sat up. She had turned over on her stomach now. He’d never seen anybody wear a bikini bottom that tiny, not even in the porn flicks he sometimes watched. His father had called her a slut the night he walked out for good. Junior had viewed their knock-down-drag-out fight through the upstairs bannisters. That had been the very moment she started on her way to being the richest divorcée in Los Angeles, and there were lots of wealthy women in that First Wives Club in southern California. All Junior liked about her anymore was her cash, so he had to remain docile and obedient until his twenty-fifth birthday, when his gigantic trust fund kicked in. That’s the only thing his dad had ever done for him, but Junior should really send the thank-you note to his mom’s greedy attorneys. He stood up and walked down the patio to the outside kitchen area. He pulled a frosted cocktail glass out of the fridge, poured booze all the way to the brim, and popped in the green olives and lemon twist, just the way she liked it. She hardly ate anything anymore, just drank, all day, every day. Her goal was to be the skinniest woman in her group of anorexic skeletons. She really was so unbelievably neurotic. Absolutely pathetic. She needed a shrink in the worst way possible.

  Good old Lucky had disappeared now, probably inside the house, stealing their silverware or waiting naked in his mom’s bed. Nauseating, all of it. Junior walked to the edge of the pool. “Here you go, Mom. I fixed it just the way you like it.”

  His mother didn’t deign to open her eyes. “Well, bring it out here to me. You sure as the devil need to get some exercise. All you do is lounge around the pool or hide yourself down in that dark and gloomy game room. You act like you’re some kind of creepy vampire or something. You better start swimming laps. You’re getting pudgy.”

  Junior resented that. He was not getting pudgy. Not even close. She just said things like that to put him down. He had some weights downstairs that he lifted every day after school. He swam laps every morning while she slept till noon. Truth was, he was probably as strong as Lucky. He just didn’t have those kinds of bulging muscles, but he was smart. He was going to be the valedictorian. He got off on knowing more than anyone else, understanding everything thrown at him. That’s why he loved to play games. Especially brain games, board games, or video games. Any kind that made you have to think.

  “Well, what are you waiting for, Junior? Get out here with that drink. I said I was thirsty. Can’t you hear me? What the hell’s the matter with you? You’ve been moping around for months.”

  Sometimes when Junior had to listen to her degradation and insults, he got this weird feeling twisting up inside his gut. It struck like lightning and burned, a rapid internal streak of tamped-down fury, red and lethal and hot. This time, too. His throat went dry and his palms got sweaty. He tried to shake off the murderous impulse sliding into his mind, but it wasn’t easy. He’d been lying out there for hours internalizing his rage. Day after day after day.

  Junior took a deep breath, then descended the steps in the shallow end and waded out to where his mom was floating. Her body looked hard and shiny, and the smell of the tropics enveloped him. He hated that smell now. He hated anything with lime or coconut in it, too. Even coconut cream pie. He held out her glass. “Here you go, Mom.”

  “Thank you, sweetie.” She took off her sunglasses and actually smiled at him. “See, darling? You can be adorable when you want to. You were the most darling little boy. I really hate it that you grew up to be such a pain in my ass. Please try to do better.”

  “I will, I promise.”

  They shared a phony smile that had not one iota of true feelings. Sometimes she was okay. Not often, but right now, she was sort of, almost, okay. Well, not really. He still hated her guts and wished she were dead. Sometimes he just wanted to kill her, wring her scrawny neck and be done with it. He envisioned putting his hands around her throat and pressing his thumbs into her gullet until he heard bones crunch, then watching her face turn purple. Just the idea made him feel good inside. He often gazed at her and wondered if he could get away with it. Right now, even. Wouldn’t that just be great? To just do it, end her, once and for all? That sounded downright sublime.

  While Junior stood beside his mother’s raft, she took a long drink of the martini he’d prepared. Then she turned over onto her back again. She relaxed and closed her eyes. That meant he was summarily dismissed, menial labor done, so get the hell away. Junior gritted his teeth. She was displaying her body for Lucky to see, as if she were up for sale, even right in front of him, her own son. More anger erupted inside his chest. Suddenly, and almost before he knew what he was doing, he grabbed her by the fat bun of bleached blond hair on top of her head and jerked her body off the raft. For the first few seconds, she seemed too shocked to fight back. Then she started screaming and struggling and cursing him. That’s when he grabbed her oil-slick shoulders and pushed her head down under the water. Clamping his jaw, he exerted all his strength and held her under so she couldn’t come up for air.

  When his mom finally managed to jerk out of his brutal grip and make it up long enough to suck in a big lungful of air, her big brown eyes were bulging with anger and panic. After that, she fought against his tight hold for all she was worth. Probably because she was close to death now, and at the hands of her very own son. She knew that any minute could be her last on earth. She knew all that full well, and somehow Junior found that gratifying, that she would die knowing he hated her and wanted her dead. That he was ending her life with his own two hands and watching it happen, calmly and objectively, with no emotion whatsoever. Actually, that even surprised him a little bit. His mom had never been a quitter, though, and she fought harder and harder. Her legs came out of the water, kicking furiously as she jerked her body from side to side, splashing and roiling the water like a freakin’ alligator, for God’s sake. She was so oily and slick that Junior was afraid for a second that he wouldn’t be able to hold her und
er long enough, not now that she was in this all-out, to-the-death fight. The actual act of murder wasn’t turning out at all like those fantasies he’d enjoyed when he was in bed at night. Maybe he should have murdered her in her bed with a pillow.

  Somewhere outside the roar filling his head, he heard someone shouting at him. The sound burned through his blood enough to make him look up. That’s when he saw the pool boy. Lucky was standing on the side of the pool, yelling and gesturing, but Junior couldn’t hear anything over the splashing and the noise in his ears and his own determination to put his mother down for good. He tightened his grip when he saw Lucky jump in the water and head out toward them. Junior continued to wrestle her under, yelling for Lucky to back off and mind his own business.

  “Get outta here, Lucky! I mean it!”

  Lucky was already to him, but he didn’t do anything, just laughed and watched and didn’t try to help Junior’s mother at all. At first, Junior couldn’t believe his eyes. Then the pool boy grabbed his mother’s legs and trapped them under one arm. The violent kicking stopped. Then he grinned at Junior. “If you lay on top of her to hold her down, she’s not gonna have bruises that’ll look suspicious to the cops. Hold her head down by her hair. Then you won’t leave marks around her neck, either.”

  Junior was more than happy to give Lucky’s suggestions a whirl. As it turned out, Lucky’s techniques worked rather well. Lucky held tightly to her legs while she bucked and tried to twist loose. After a minute, he started chuckling. “Your mom’s such a freakin’ bitch. I saw the way she bossed you around and called you names. But she’s stronger than she looks. You better be glad I forgot my phone and came back to get it or she would’ve gotten loose and sicced the cops on you. You’d’ve spent the rest of your life in Folsom Prison.”