by P J Parrish
Louis saw something move in the corner of his eye and glanced over to see Eric Cade standing at the door. He had changed into cutoffs and a frayed man’s dress shirt that looked too big for him. He was holding a pair of leather work gloves, staring at his father.
Ronnie saw him and look a deep breath. “Eric, go get started. I’ll be there in a minute.”
The boy hesitated.
“Go! Now!”
The boy spun and disappeared outside. A low rumble of thunder came from the west.
“Shit,” Ronnie whispered.
Louis stood there, not knowing what to say.
“I’m sorry, man,” Ronnie said. “I lose it sometimes.” His lips twisted into a grimaced smile. “Brat attacks, Cindy used to call them.”
Ronnie’s eyes focused again on the leaf blower on the bench and came back to Louis. “They want half a million bail for my dad,” he said.
“You’d only have to come up with fifty thousand,” Louis said.
“Fifty thousand,” Ronnie said softly, his eyes still on the leaf blower. “I was thinking I could get a mortgage. The land’s free and clear. It’s the only thing I own, except my truck and that piece of shit trailer.”
Louis didn’t know how mortgages worked, but he suspected that it would be tough for a man like Ronnie to get a bank to even listen to him. It started to rain, a soft tattoo on the roof of the woodshed.
“I don’t want to lose this place,” Ronnie said.
“I can understand that,” Louis said.
“My dad bought this land in the fifties after he got back from Korea,” Ronnie said. “There was nothing on the key in those days, but he knew it was going to be worth something someday. He was always good at taking care of plants, so he started growing some palm trees. We were the first landscaping business on Sereno.”
Ronnie picked up the screwdriver again, making a half-hearted poke at the metal. “It was tough at first, but Dad and me, we made it work. After a couple years, we had contracts at the golf courses and built up a good client base taking care of the yards over in Hyde Park.”
Louis recognized the name. It was a neighborhood of old homes along the Caloosahatchee River, an enclave of grace that had survived the financial vagaries that plagued Fort Myers’ downtown core.
“What happened?” Louis asked.
Ronnie’s hand paused over the metal, but he didn’t look up. “What happened?” he said. “They found that girl’s body in the dump, that’s what happened. Everything changed after that day.”
Louis wished he had more details about the Jagger case. “What made them think your father killed her?” he asked.
Ronnie was silent.
“Ronnie?”
“A tool,” he said. “They found one of his tools next to her body.”
The rain had stopped. Louis could hear a grunting sound out in the yard. Through the open door, he caught a glimpse of Eric Cade stacking slabs of sod onto a flatbed.
“He didn’t do it,” Ronnie said softly. “I don’t know much else about what happened but I know that much. He didn’t do it.”
Eric Cade appeared at the door, the front of his shirt streaked with mud. “Dad, you want that Bahia grass loaded too?”
“Yeah, we gotta take it over to Frencko this afternoon.”
Eric was staring at Louis, brows knitted slightly.
“Go finish up,” Ronnie said quietly. When the boy didn’t move, Ronnie added, “Go finish up and I’ll let you drive out to the corner.”
Eric’s face lit up. “You mean it?”
Ronnie smiled slightly. “I’ll be there in a minute and we’ll head out.”
Eric left. Ronnie put down the screwdriver and turned to Louis. “Look, I don’t know what the bank is going to say about the mortgage thing. If that doesn’t pan out, there’s this developer that’s been bugging me. If I have to, I’ll sell off some of the land.” He paused. “I’ll find a way to pay you.”
Louis hesitated. “All right. I’ll see what I can do.”
Ronnie didn’t smile, but wiped his hand on his jeans, then held it out. Louis shook it; it was hard and calloused, the grip firm.
“I need your help with something,” Louis said.
“What’s that?”
“Susan Outlaw,” Louis said. “I need you to run interference for me.”
Ronnie nodded slightly. “I’ll talk to her.”
A truck’s engine roared to life outside, followed by a horn beeping. Louis looked out the door and saw Eric Cade sitting behind the steering wheel of the truck.
“I gotta get going,” Ronnie said.
Louis followed him out into the yard. Ronnie paused by the passenger door of the old truck, his eyes traveling over the grounds of the nursery. “I was just trying to keep things afloat until Dad came back,” he said. “Things are rough right now, but they’ll get better. I’ll get you your money.”
“I believe you,” Louis said.
Ronnie got in. Eric gunned the engine. Ronnie leaned out the window and gave a tentative smile. “Thanks, man.”
Louis nodded. He watched the old Ford bump out of the lot and jerk slowly up Mantanza Trail, the brake lights blinking every few feet. He took a final glance around the downtrodden nursery. He had the feeling that J.C. Landscaping wasn’t the only thing Ronnie Cade was trying to keep afloat.
Chapter Seven
The elevator jerked to a stop and the door wheezed open, letting Louis out on the ninth floor. He was in a plain, uncarpeted hallway. A sign with an arrow pointed left to DUVALL AND BERNHARDT, ATTORNEYS AT LAW.
He had expected a hotshot lawyer like Spencer Duvall to have an office in one of the new buildings on Jackson Street overlooking the river. But Duvall’s address turned out to be an old building on a side street just off Martin Luther King Boulevard.
He found the entrance and went in. It was nice inside compared to the exterior. Hushed, tasteful, lots of dark mahogany and framed prints of English hunting scenes. The blue carpet gave like a sponge. The receptionist’s desk was empty, but there was a lipstick-ringed Garfield coffee mug on it.
Louis went to the window. Nothing to see but the tarred and tiled roofs of downtown Fort Myers with a glimpse of the green-gray Caloosahatchee beyond. No view for the hotshot either.
“Can I help you?”
Louis turned and looked down at a tiny woman with a fluff of gray hair. She was in her sixties, wearing a tan suit with glasses dangling from a chain around her neck.
“I’m Louis Kincaid. I have an appointment with Mr. Bernhardt,” Louis said.
The woman’s eyes swept over him. “Mr. Bernhardt had to leave early. I called your office but there was no answer.”
Office . . . it was his home phone. He had to get an answering machine. He stifled a sigh at the wasted trip. He was hoping to at least get a look at Duvall’s office. He glanced at the closed door over the secretary’s shoulder. Damn Bernhardt. He was probably in there, ducking him.
He thought about trying a smile, but then realized it wasn’t going to break the ice with this old biddy. “Look,” he said, “I really need to see Mr. Bern—”
“Ellie?”
The secretary jumped to her desk and punched a button.
“Yes?”
“Is Pearson here yet?”
“Is that your boss?” Louis asked.
The old lady ignored Louis. “No, he’s not, Mr. Bernhardt,” she said into the phone, “but Mr. Kincaid is.”
There was no answer. The secretary hung up and gave Louis a frown. “I hate lying for him,” she said.
Louis was about to speak when a man in a blue suit appeared. He was short, overweight, about fifty but looked older, with thin gray-blond hair and the ashy skin of a future coronary patient.
“Lyle Bernhardt,” he said briskly, extending a hand.
Louis accepted the soft, damp handshake. “Louis Kincaid.”
“I don’t appreciate being strong-armed,” he said.
“I had an appointment,
” Louis said calmly.
Bernhardt frowned. “Well, come in, then,” he said, motioning Louis toward his office.
“I was hoping I could see Spencer Duvall’s office,” Louis said.
Bernhardt hesitated. “What? Why?”
“It’s just routine, Mr. Bernhardt. Part of any investigation.”
Bernhardt pursed his lips and glanced at the secretary. She was watching him closely.
“I don’t think that would be proper,” he said. “Besides, it’s all been cleaned up now anyway.”
“The scene’s been cleared?” Louis asked.
“Yes, thank God. Terribly distracting, if you know what I mean. Our clients were most uncomfortable. Why don’t you come into my office?”
Bernhardt led Louis into a large office done in the same pseudo-English manor style as the reception area. Louis took a chair across from Bernhardt’s imposing desk. The desk was heaped with papers and fat legal files. Bernhardt stared at the piles for a moment, as if confused.
“Sorry for the mess. Things have been in such an uproar since . . .” Bernhardt’s voice trailed off. “The police don’t seem to appreciate the fact that business must go on no matter what.”
“It was just you and Mr. Duvall, right?” Louis said.
Bernhardt nodded. “That’s the way it’s been for almost twenty years now. I wanted to expand, but Spencer wouldn’t hear of it. Now I’m left with all of it.”
“You could hire someone now,” Louis offered.
Bernhardt looked at him like he was nuts. “You don’t just go out and find someone overnight. At least not someone who can handle the kind of cases Spencer did.”
He was rubbing the spot between his eyebrows. “What a mess he left me with,” he muttered, staring at the files on the desk.
Finally, he looked up at Louis. “Ellie said you’re a private investigator. For whom?”
“Ronnie Cade.”
“Ronnie? He doesn’t have any money. He’s nothing but a lousy mow-and-blow guy. And his father is broke. You’re wasting your time, son.”
Bernhardt made a point of looking at his watch. Louis felt himself starting to bristle.
“Just because a man’s broke doesn’t mean he isn’t entitled to a decent defense,” Louis said.
Bernhardt’s expression was piteous. “Oh, come on. Don’t start with that liberal claptrap.”
“Jack Cade—”
“—is a lying, murdering sonofabitch who should have been electrocuted twenty years ago. If he had, my partner would still be alive right now.”
Bernhardt began rubbing vigorously at the spot between his eyebrows again.
“Your partner was the one who got Cade the plea bargain that kept him alive,” Louis said. He could hear his words, but it was almost like someone else was saying them. Being on the other side was going to take some getting used to.
“I don’t need you or anyone to remind me of that.” Bernhardt leaned forward. “Look, Cade is an ungrateful moron. He should have gotten down on his knees and kissed Spencer’s shoes. Do I think Cade shot him? Yes, I do. He’s as guilty of shooting Spencer as he was of killing that girl twenty years ago.”
“You weren’t involved in that case, Mr. Bernhardt ?” Louis asked.
Bernhardt shook his head. “Spencer was working alone in those days. We got together about a year later. I would have never defended a man like Jack Cade. But Spencer, well, he never could resist a challenge.”
“Do you think Cade really intended to sue your partner?”
“No, he intended to kill him. Revenge is a powerful, primitive emotion, and Jack Cade is a primitive man.”
The phone intercom beeped. Bernhardt punched the button. The secretary’s voice came on. “Mr. Pearson’s here.”
“Send him in,” Bernhardt said. He rose. “I’m sorry, but I have a client to see.”
Louis pushed himself out of the chair. “Thanks for your cooperation,” he said, not bothering to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
“Of course.”
Louis left, passing a burly man in a business suit. The door closed behind him. Louis stood there for a moment, collecting his thoughts. What there was to collect anyway.
He felt someone’s eyes on him and looked over to see the secretary staring at him.
“Do you want to make another appointment?” she asked.
“Think it will do me any good?”
“Nope.” The intercom buzzed. “Yes, Mr. Bernhardt?”
“Ellie, where’s my Rules of Court?”
“On the shelf where it always is, Mr. Bernhardt.”
“No, it’s not. I looked—”
“The shelf to your left, Mr. Bernhardt.”
“What? Oh. Here it is.” He clicked off.
She looked up at Louis. “His regular secretary is out on maternity leave. I’m filling in.”
Something clicked in Louis’s head. Ellie . . . he remembered the name from the newspaper articles. Ellie Silvestri had been Duvall’s secretary.
Louis watched as she busied herself with some papers. It occurred to him that she had the air of someone in mourning. The newspaper article said she had been with the firm for twenty-five years . . . a long time to work for one man, longer than most marriages. He suddenly remembered that Ellie Silvestri had found Duvall’s body when she came to work the next morning. Gunshot to the head. He knew what that could look like.
“Mrs. Silvestri—”
She looked up at him, surprised he knew her name. “It’s Miss.”
She had clear green eyes, unclouded by age. Eyes that probably didn’t miss much.
“I was wondering if you’d be willing to answer a few questions,” Louis began.
“About what?”
“Your boss.”
Something shifted in her expression. Then, suddenly, she teared up. She yanked a Kleenex from the box on her desk.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“No need to apologize,” Louis said.
She blew her nose. “What did you want to ask me?”
He wanted to ask her about finding Duvall’s body, what the scene had looked like, but that was out of the question for the moment. “That elevator,” he said, pointing out the glass doors. “Is it locked after hours?”
“No, the building is filled with attorneys and they come and go at all hours. The downstairs lobby is always open too.”
“Did Mr. Duvall normally work late?”
She smiled wanly. “A man doesn’t become a legend working a mere forty hours.”
“Besides Jack Cade, did Mr. Duvall receive any threats recently? Maybe from dissatisfied clients?”
The secretary shook her head slowly. “The police already asked me that, and that woman defense attorney.”
“What can you tell me about the relationship between Mr. Duvall and Mr. Bernhardt? How did they meet?”
“In law school at Tallahassee, I think. But they didn’t become partners until 1968.” She sighed. “It was just Mr. Duvall and me in the beginning. It was very hard in those days, let me tell you. Mr. Duvall did all his own investigative work. He was very good at it, better than Matlock, I think. Some weeks I didn’t get paid. We both ate a lot of baloney sandwiches.” She fell silent again, lost in memories.
“But business picked up,” Louis prodded.
She smiled slightly. “Oh yes. Mr. Duvall was very, very good at what he did. Word got out, especially after the Cade case.”
She teared up again.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen now,” she said softly, staring off at the rooftops. “I mean, I don’t know what we’re going to do.”
She hadn’t said it, but he could see it there in her eyes. She meant she didn’t know what she was going to do.
“Miss Silvestri,” Louis said gently, “are you going to lose your job here?”
She grabbed another Kleenex. Louis felt like kicking himself. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That was—”
She waved a hand. “No, it�
�s all right. Fact is, I’m an old dinosaur here. Lyle will let enough time go by to look decent, then he’ll hire some young thing with big boobs.” She grimaced. “Lyle is big on appearances.”
He noticed she had switched to calling Bernhardt by his first name. “And Spencer Duvall wasn’t?” Louis asked.
She smiled slightly as she shook her head. “Not at all. I mean, even after the money started coming in, Mr. Duvall didn’t change. He was born and raised here. He never got the sand out of his shoes.”
Her eyes drifted to the hallway, toward Lyle Bernhardt’s closed door. “Come with me,” she said.
“Where?”
“You said you wanted to see Mr. Duvall’s office.”
He followed her down the hall, passing Lyle Bernhardt’s door. At the end of the corridor, she slipped a key from her pocket and unlocked the door. She ushered Louis quickly inside, shutting the door behind them.
The office was larger than Bernhardt’s, but it couldn’t have looked more different. A massive old cherry desk dominated the room, with a pair of well-worn wing chairs and a small round table facing it. The floor had been left uncarpeted and the rich oak planks were covered with a softly faded Persian carpet. The lamps were brass, the walls a sun-bleached moss green paper. On the wall behind the desk, there was a framed degree from Florida State School of Law. On the wall opposite the desk was a group of old photographs of Fort Myers street scenes and a Victorian beach house. There was a scarred wood glass-front bookcase, its shelves filled not with books but with carefully displayed conch shells. The place looked more like the den of somebody’s eccentric old uncle than a law office.
“Nice,” Louis said, turning.
Ellie Silvestri was staring at the room. “My God,” she said softly.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’ve never seen it this . . . clean.” She came forward, scanning the old furniture and walls. “Mr. Duvall was a pack rat and he hated it when I tried to tidy up. He didn’t even like the cleaning lady coming in here.”
Ellie moved to the desk. It was clean; the crime scene technicians had taken everything. She was looking at the powder smudges.