didn’t mention that reason a minute ago.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“That’s an expensive car. From what you’ve said, the two of them didn’t sound happy enough together for her to spend that kind of money on him.”
“Everyone is different in the way they choose to show their love for another.”
“What is Gil Serna like?”
“He’s insanely jealous. She kept trying to make him feel secure in her love but without much luck.”
“Insanely? Is that your professional opinion? Do you think Gil Serna is capable of murder?”
“You know what they say. Everybody’s capable of murder under the right circumstances. I’m sure you’ve encountered that kind of person yourself, Detective.”
The remark hit too close to home, and I fought back rising memories and the pain they brought with them.
Black noticed that, too. He frowned slightly and narrowed his eyes. “If Serna is the one, Detective Morgan, I hope you can prove it.”
“Rest assured, Doctor,” I said.
“You’re very confident, aren’t you? And now that I’ve met you, somehow I think you will solve this case. You’ve got steel in your eyes. Were you born around here?”
“If you don’t mind, sir, I prefer to ask the questions.”
“Fine.”
“Did you say Ms. Border was making progress under your care?”
“Yes. She was feeling much better. We’d made some important breakthroughs. She was rethinking how she felt about things.”
“She had a tendency to blame herself for her problems?”
“Sometimes, especially in romantic situations. She was insecure.”
“Yet she seemed to have it all—looks, money, fame.”
“Sometimes people hide their misery behind those kinds of facades. It’s called self-preservation.”
Something about the way he looked at me made me wonder if I should slap on some more bricks and mortar to my own facade.
“Has the cause of death been determined?” he asked suddenly. This time I could see his pain quite clearly. He had cared about Sylvie Border, and a hunch told me there was more to their relationship than what he intimated.
“Not officially. Why do you ask?”
“Miki described how she was found. It cuts me to think she suffered long.”
My cell phone began to play the “Mexican Hat Dance” song, and I pulled it off my belt.
Bud said, “It’s me, and we got a hit on the surveillance tapes. A busboy showed up at Sylvie’s place around ten-thirty, went in the gate, and didn’t come out. Guess who has a rape record and didn’t show up for work today? Our old friend Troy Inman. Meet me at the station, and we’ll go get him.”
“I’ll be there in ten.”
Nicholas Black watched me stand up and replace my phone. “Something important has come up, I presume?”
“Doctor Black, I’d like to continue this later, if you’ll grant me the time.”
He stood and retrieved a white linen business card from a gold desk holder. He took a pen and scribbled something on the back of it. “This is my private cell phone number. You can reach me on it at any time. I’ll do anything I can to help you find out who did this.”
I nodded, glad to hear it, and took his card, because I wasn’t done with him yet, not by a long shot.
8
“Where the hell is this place?” Bud asked me twenty minutes after I’d left Nicholas Black’s resort palace. We avoided maybe a million potholes as we jounced down a gravel road about ten miles outside the town of Camdenton.
“Inman lives about half a mile down this road in a trailer court. I ran him in on a domestic last January right after the Super Bowl. He beat up his wife when the Rams lost in the last three minutes of the game.”
Soon the King Camelot Court loomed up in all its glory. The regal name was lost on the place. Most of the trailers were the small travel kind, shabby, rusted, and dirty. I had a feeling that rent was paid with first-of-the-month welfare checks.
Resident children had a playground in a weed-choked field in the middle of the
“No, I didn’t.”
“That’s an expensive car. From what you’ve said, the two of them didn’t sound happy enough together for her to spend that kind of money on him.”
“Everyone is different in the way they choose to show their love for another.”
“What is Gil Serna like?”
“He’s insanely jealous. She kept trying to make him feel secure in her love but without much luck.”
“Insanely? Is that your professional opinion? Do you think Gil Serna is capable of murder?”
“You know what they say. Everybody’s capable of murder under the right circumstances. I’m sure you’ve encountered that kind of person yourself, Detective.”
The remark hit too close to home, and I fought back rising memories and the pain they brought with them.
Black noticed that, too. He frowned slightly and narrowed his eyes. “If Serna is the one, Detective Morgan, I hope you can prove it.”
“Rest assured, Doctor,” I said.
“You’re very confident, aren’t you? And now that I’ve met you, somehow I think you will solve this case. You’ve got steel in your eyes. Were you born around here?”
“If you don’t mind, sir, I prefer to ask the questions.”
“Fine.”
“Did you say Ms. Border was making progress under your care?”
“Yes. She was feeling much better. We’d made some important breakthroughs. She was rethinking how she felt about things.”
“She had a tendency to blame herself for her problems?”
“Sometimes, especially in romantic situations. She was insecure.”
“Yet she seemed to have it all—looks, money, fame.”
“Sometimes people hide their misery behind those kinds of facades. It’s called self-preservation.”
Something about the way he looked at me made me wonder if I should slap on some more bricks and mortar to my own facade.
“Has the cause of death been determined?” he asked suddenly. This time I could see his pain quite clearly. He had cared about Sylvie Border, and a hunch told me there was more to their relationship than what he intimated.
“Not officially. Why do you ask?”
“Miki described how she was found. It cuts me to think she suffered long.”
My cell phone began to play the “Mexican Hat Dance” song, and I pulled it off my belt.
Bud said, “It’s me, and we got a hit on the surveillance tapes. A busboy showed up at Sylvie’s place around ten-thirty, went in the gate, and didn’t come out. Guess who has a rape record and didn’t show up for work today? Our old friend Troy Inman. Meet me at the station, and we’ll go get him.”
“I’ll be there in ten.”
Nicholas Black watched me stand up and replace my phone. “Something important has come up, I presume?”
“Doctor Black, I’d like to continue this later, if you’ll grant me the time.”
He stood and retrieved a white linen business card from a gold desk holder. He took a pen and scribbled something on the back of it. “This is my private cell phone number. You can reach me on it at any time. I’ll do anything I can to help you find out who did this.”
I nodded, glad to hear it, and took his card, because I wasn’t done with him yet, not by a long shot.
8
“Where the hell is this place?” Bud asked me twenty minutes after I’d left Nicholas Black’s resort palace. We avoided maybe a million potholes as we jounced down a gravel road about ten miles outside the town of Camdenton.
“Inman lives about half a mile down this road in a trailer court. I ran him in on a domestic last January right after the Super Bowl. He beat up his wife when the Rams lost in the last three minutes of the game.”
Soon the King Camelot Court loomed up in all its glory. The regal name was lost on the place. Most of the trailers were the small travel kind, shabby, rusted, and dirty. I had a feeling that rent was paid with first-of-the-month welfare checks.
Resident children had a playground in a weed-choked field in the middle of the
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