Thicker Than Water

by P J Parrish

  “Wait a minute, Vince.”

  Vince turned, throwing his arms out. “Louis, Louis, Louis. Unlike the rest of the people around here, I have a life. Let me live it.”

  “Just tell me, did you find anything new?”

  “Yeah, one thing,” he said. “We found clay in her hair.”

  “In her hair? Why didn’t the mortician wash it out?”

  “Well, she had the blunt trauma wound on the back of her head. I guess whoever did her couldn’t get it all.”

  “Clay,” Louis said slowly. “Why the hell would she have clay in her hair? Did she get it in the dump?”

  “I doubt it,” Vince said. “It had traces of silica quartz and vinyl acetate mixed in. It wasn’t clay, like dirt. It was like what they use for cement work.”

  “Cement work?”

  “Yeah, you know, the stuff they use to stick tiles on the wall.”

  Louis was quiet, thinking.

  “One more thing,” Vince said. “Remember I told you I thought that the head wound was not what killed her? I was right. She died from the stab wounds and she almost bled out. She was very dead by the time the body was moved to the dump.”

  “So wherever she was killed, there was a lot of blood,” Louis said.

  “It would have left a mess, I would think.”

  Vince started away. Louis rubbed his brow, trying to think. This couldn’t be all there was.

  “Vince,” Louis called. “If she was already dead when the killer put her in the landscapers’ dump, how did she breathe in the fertilizer?”

  Vince turned. “What fertilizer?”

  Louis flipped through the report as he walked to Vince. “Here. Right here, the potassium monopersulfate.”

  Vince took the report and looked at the listing. “Who told you this was fertilizer?”

  “We looked it up.”

  “Well, potassium is in fertilizer, but when you add monopersulfate to it, it’s a different chemical compound.”

  “What is it used for?” Louis asked.

  “Pools. They use it to chemically balance swimming pools.” Vince handed him back the report. “I’d guess your girl probably went swimming just before she was killed and took some water into her lungs.”

  Louis ran a hand over his brow. Shit, one little mistake.

  Vince mistook his contrition for fatigue and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Louis, give it a rest. Go home.”

  Louis nodded, folding the report. He watched Vince disappear down the hallway and leaned back against the cool wall. He was thinking about Brian and he was seeing the Brenner house. Not as the rotting place it was now but as Kitty must have seen it twenty years ago. A beautiful mansion where she could swim in a moonlit pool, pretending she was Lady Kitrina Jaspers.

  He knew now what had happened. Now he just had to find a way to prove it to Mobley.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Louis searched O’Sullivan’s for Mobley and when he didn’t see him, he looked at his watch. Mobley had said eight o’clock. Where was he?

  Then, through the smoke and bodies, he saw him sitting in his usual booth in the back. The glass in front of him was empty and Louis stopped at the bar before going back. Sticking his manila folder under his arm, he carried Mobley a scotch and water and brought a Heineken for himself.

  Mobley looked up at Louis as he sat down, but then his gaze dropped to the fresh scotch. He picked it up, downing nearly all of it in one swallow. His face looked drawn, and there was something in his eyes Louis couldn’t quickly place.

  Two men came by the table, heading toward the restrooms. Mobley looked up at them.

  “Hey, guys,” he said.

  They kept walking.

  Mobley’s eyes drifted down to the glass in his hands. It hit Louis at that moment that what he was seeing in Mobley’s face was the sting of exclusion. And maybe even a little fear that he wasn’t going to survive this.

  Mobley drank the last drop of scotch and settled back against the booth. “Okay, what was so damn important?”

  “I know who killed Kitty and I know where,” Louis said, sitting down across from him.

  Mobley eyes narrowed. “I just got the damn case reopened and you’ve got it all solved.”

  Louis put the folder on the table. “I think Duvall sold Jack Cade out in 1967,” he began. “Sometime during the investigation and trial, Duvall latched onto Brian Brenner as a suspect—”

  “Brian Brenner? Give me a fucking break, Kincaid.”

  “Stay with me for a minute. I think Duvall was afraid of the fallout if he accused the sixteen-year-old son of the city’s most prominent family of murder. So he went to Senator Brenner and struck a deal to protect Brian. Jack Cade got twenty years in prison and Spencer Duvall got rich.”

  Mobley stared at Louis. “You got proof of this supposed deal?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so,” Mobley said. He motioned to the waitress for another drink.

  “The vaginal semen sample taken from Kitty was AB-negative blood. Brian Brenner is AB-negative.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Louis hesitated. “How I know isn’t admissable. You’ll have to test him yourself when you arrest him.”

  “Arrest him? What are you talking about?”

  Louis searched through the folder and pulled out Kitty’s original autopsy report. “There was potassium monopersulfate in Kitty’s lungs. Vince told me it’s a common pool chemical. Kitty’s friend Joyce told me Kitty liked to go swimming at night. Then when Vince did the second autopsy he found silica quartz and vinyl acetate in her hair. That’s a cement mix they used to put up tiles.”

  “So?”

  Louis pushed another paper across the table.

  “What’s this?”

  “A building permit. I went over to the planning department and pulled it. It’s for the Brenner house on Shaddlelee Lane, specifically to renovate the pool cabana.” Louis pointed to a date. “It was pulled by Leyland Brothers Construction November 1, 1965.”

  “Kitty wasn’t killed until April 9th of the following year, right?” Mobley asked.

  “Maybe the work got stalled or something. We can call Leyland Brothers to find out. But that isn’t what’s interesting. Look at this.” Louis slapped a second permit in front of Mobley. “A new permit was pulled for the same job by a different contractor, Delacarpini and Sons.”

  Mobley was looking at the date on the second permit. “April 30, 1966.”

  “I think the cabana was still under construction when Brian killed Kitty there,” Louis said. “That’s why she had cement powder in her hair. And then, after Brian dumped Kitty’s body, the second permit was pulled and the cabana work was completed.”

  Mobley looked up at Louis.

  “Maybe Brian got scared and told his father. That’s why Charles Brenner made the deal with Duvall to set up Cade and then he hid the evidence by bringing in new workers to finish the cabana.”

  Mobley was rubbing his temple, looking at the permit. “I was in that house once, for a party in high school,” he said quietly.

  “Brian’s been trying to sell it,” Louis said. “He knew this might all come out if Cade brought suit against Duvall.”

  Mobley looked up. “So you think Brian killed Duvall too?”

  Louis nodded. “Duvall was treated for depression right around the time of the Cade trial. I think he always felt guilty about what he did, and when Cade got out and threatened to sue him, it all came back.” Louis paused. “Maybe Duvall was going to come clean, maybe he even told Brian. Brian had no choice. His father wasn’t around to clean up his mess this time.”

  Louis finally picked up his Heineken. It tasted good, and for a second, that surge of adrenaline he had been expecting with Vince came forward.

  “But why Jack Cade? Why’d they set him up?” Mobley asked.

  But before Louis could answer, Mobley spoke again. “Never mind. I can guess. Cade did the Brenners’
lawn, right?”

  Louis nodded slowly. “I called Cade and asked him. Cade was always losing his tools. Brian probably found the Clot Buster in his yard and realized he could make it look like Cade did it.”

  “What about the panties? They had Cade’s blood type on them, not Brian’s,” Mobley said.

  “Cade told me he found the panties in his truck the next morning and figured Ronnie left them there. He used them to jack-off in. I think Brian put the panties in Cade’s truck to set him up.” Louis paused. “The semen inside Kitty was AB-negative. It’s a rare blood type, Lance, only five percent of the population. That’s what is important.”

  Mobley was quiet, looking down at his glass.

  “Jack Cade was the perfect murderer,” Louis said. “He was the man any jury would love to hate.”

  Mobley took a long, slow drink of his scotch, then looked off across the bar. It was a moment before he looked back at Louis.

  “What about Scott? Is he involved?” Mobley asked quietly.

  Louis shook his head. “First of all, he was away at school at Florida State. And second, he’s the wrong blood type.”

  “What is he?”

  “I don’t know, but I guarantee he’s not negative.” Louis paused. “I don’t think Scott knows anything. My guess is the old man never told Scott, just in case something ever did come to light. If Brian went under, at least the favorite son wouldn’t. The heir and the spare.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what Ellie Silvestri called Scott and Brian.”

  Mobley’s shoulders slumped slightly as his gaze drifted over all the evidence Louis had laid before him.

  “Jesus H Christ,” he said. “Why the hell would Duvall do it?”

  “Money, success, status.” Louis paused, deciding not to bring up Candace right now. “He knew what he was doing.”

  “Faust selling his soul to the devil,” Mobley said, shaking his head.

  “He sold it to Dr. Mephisto. I looked it up.”

  Mobley just stared at him. Then he picked up his glass, finished off the scotch and set the glass down. The laughter of the bar floated around them. Mobley ran both hands across his face.

  Louis watched him, not knowing what to say. There was nothing he could do now. He had taken things as far as he could. It was all up to Mobley now.

  “Sheriff?” Louis asked.

  “Scott and I have known each other a long time,” Mobley said, without looking up. “I want to talk to him first. Before we go after Brian.”

  Louis tensed. “Look, I like Scott, but Brian’s his brother. If we tip—”

  Mobley’s head shot up. “This is my call, Kincaid. You want to be there, fine. But we handle it my way.”

  Mobley started gathering up the papers. When Louis tried to help, Mobley jerked the folder away. “I can do it, goddamn it,” he said.

  Louis sat back in the booth. Jesus, don’t let him blow this.

  Mobley rose, picking up the folder. His eyes traveled over the crowded bar and came back to Louis. “Five P.M. tomorrow,” he said. “Brian Brenner’s office.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Louis waited in the first floor lobby of Brenner’s office building, watching the glass doors for Mobley. It was ten minutes after five. Where was he? A Lee County cruiser pulled up and Mobley got out. Louis held the door open for him.

  “You ready for this?” Mobely asked.

  Louis nodded.

  At the elevator, Mobley jabbed at the button. His dark green uniform looked fresh from its dry-cleaner plastic. He looked rested but grim. Louis’s eyes dropped to the folder in Mobley’s hands. He wished he knew how Mobley was going to handle this. What the hell did he plan to say?

  The doors opened and they stepped into the Brenner reception area. The receptionist’s desk was empty; Mobley led the way past it, down the short hall to Scott’s office. The door was open.

  Scott was picking up his suit coat and paused, his eyes moving from Mobley to Louis. Louis knew he was trying his damndest to figure out what they were doing here together.

  “Evening, guys,” Scott said, shrugging on his coat. “Something I can do for you?”

  “Is Brian here, Scott?” Mobley asked.

  “No, he left early,” Scott said, looking again at Louis. “Is there something wrong?”

  Mobley hesitated. “We need to talk to you.”

  Scott looked puzzled, but motioned to the chairs in front of his desk. “Please, sit down.”

  Mobley didn’t move. “There’s been a couple things come up in the Kitty Jagger investigation I thought you should know about.”

  Scott’s face brightened. “Oh, well. Good. I need all the leverage I can get for the motion to retry.”

  Mobley drew in a breath. “Scott, we think Brian raped and murdered Kitty Jagger.”

  Scott froze, his eyes locked on Mobley’s face. Then placing both hands on his desk, slowly sat down.

  “Lance, you’ve known Brian and me since high school,” he said quietly. “You know he couldn’t have . . .” Scott’s voice trailed off.

  Mobley glanced at Louis, then stepped forward. “Scott, listen to me.”

  “No,” Scott said, shaking his head. “You’re wrong.”

  “We’re not wrong,” Mobley said. “We think Brian picked Kitty up after work and took her to your house. Then something went wrong.”

  Louis resisted the urge to cut in. Jesus Christ, how much was he going to tell him?

  “After he killed her,” Mobley went on, “he threw her body in the dump, and tossed the panties in Cade’s truck, which we know he saw every morning in your neighborhood.”

  Scott tightened, closing his eyes, trying to hold himself together.

  “Scott, we need your help on this,” Mobley said. “Brian was a kid. We understand that.”

  “He didn’t do this,” Scott said, his voice stronger.

  “Then ask him to submit to a blood test.”

  Scott’s head was down and his eyes were closed. It was quiet enough that Louis could hear the ring of a telephone out on the secretary’s desk. It rang for a long time before the person finally gave up.

  Scott pushed himself up from his desk. Slowly, he straightened his lapels and touched his tie. A change came over his expression, like he had suddenly slipped on a mask that didn’t quite fit.

  “Since I am the attorney of record for my brother, I am ending this conversation now,” he said.

  “Scott, c’mon,” Mobley said. “You’re a civil lawyer. Get him somebody who can help him, for chrissake.”

  “Brian and I have a standing retainer with each other. He’s my attorney and I am his. Now get out. Now.”

  Mobley shook his head. “Not yet, Scott. I have search warrants here.”

  “For what?”

  Mobley stepped forward and laid them one by one on Scott’s desk.

  “For Brian’s office. For his apartment. And for the house on Shaddlelee Lane.”

  Chapter Forty

  The sun was going down by the time they got to the Brenner mansion. The circular drive around the fountain was crowded with squad cars from the Sheriff’s Department and Fort Myers Police.

  The deputies and detectives, waiting near the front door, turned to look as Louis got out of Mobley’s car. Scott’s gray Mercedes pulled up and he got out. The three of them went up the steps to the old wood door.

  Mobley turned to Scott. “You got the key?”

  Scott unlocked the door and stepped back. Mobley pushed it open and went through first. Louis followed.

  The smell of mildew and must swirled up like a cool vapor in the close, dark foyer.

  Mobley turned to Scott. “I told FP&L to turn on the power. Where’s the light switch?”

  Scott hit a wall and the foyer lit up. Louis looked up at the wrought iron chandelier. Only a couple of the bulbs still worked and the weak light followed the black chain up, disappearing into the shadows three stories above.

  “How many rooms, Scot
t?” Mobley asked.

  Scott hesitated. “Five bedrooms upstairs, the baths . . .” His voice trailed off. He was looking around, solemn-faced, like childhood memories were crowding out all other thoughts. Louis watched him carefully, wondering if he was seeing Brian in his mind, his young brother bringing Kitty into their house.

  “Len, take a couple guys and go upstairs,” Mobley said to one of the deputies. “Chris, you start on the downstairs rooms.”

  The men split up, leaving the three of them in the foyer. Mobley’s eyes were traveling over the cracked plaster walls. Without a word, he walked slowly into the dark living room. The thud of his boots on the old wood floors echoed through the empty room. He punched a wall switch and one of the two sconces over the fireplace lit up, bathing the room in a sickly yellow glow.

  Louis saw Scott’s eyes take in the obscenity the vandals had scribbled on the wall.

  Mobley was on the move again, and Louis followed him through the dining room, where a crystal chandelier hung dark and the china cabinets stood empty. In the stale air of the kitchen, Mobley punched another light. The florescent bulbs gave out a feeble flicker that made the place look unnervingly like Vince’s autopsy room. Louis scanned the kitchen, with its scarred wood counters and old black and white tiles, veined with age.

  Louis heard a creaking sound above his head and looked up. It was just the footsteps of the deputies searching the bedrooms. Louis looked back at Mobley’s face. He knew what he was thinking. The old house was filled with mold and decay, but it held no secrets. Whatever had happened that April night twenty years ago had happened out in the cabana.

  “What else is down here, Scott?” Mobley asked.

  “Just my father’s study,” Scott said.

  “Point the way.”

  Scott led them back to a closed door off the living room. It opened with a groan and Scott found a wall switch. A chandelier came to life, illuminating a wood-paneled room. Mahogany bookcases lined three walls, broken by windows with dusty old plantation shutters. The third wall was papered in a dusky blue. The plaster ceiling was cracked, with bits of it laying on the old wood floor.