by PJ Parrish
“Good God,” he said. And he fell back against the headboard in relief.
She couldn’t move. Her head hurt. Her body felt like liquid. He undid the ropes and pulled her to his chest. He kissed her bruised wrists and her neck over and over.
She drifted into sleep, and when she woke, he was gone. She heard the clock downstairs chime twice. She picked up the phone and dialed the number.
“It’s Carolyn,” she said when the person picked up.
Her eyes fell on the red orchid on the night table.
“He was beautiful,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
Chapter Fifteen
Mr. Kincaid?”
Jesus, what time was it?
“Mr. Kincaid?”
“Hold on a sec.”
Louis moved the phone to his other ear and snatched his watch from the nightstand. Eight-fifteen in the morning.
“Mr. Kincaid? Are you there?”
“Yeah, Kent, I’m here. Start over. I missed what you said.”
Reggie’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The police are here,” he said. “That detestable man Barberry and Lieutenant Swann. But they brought others with them, and they’re everywhere.”
“Calm down. Did they show you a search warrant?”
“They showed me a piece of paper. Can’t you and Mel just come here and do something?”
Louis put a foot against Mel’s mattress and shook the bed. Mel grumbled and rolled to his side.
“Do you know a lawyer you can call, Kent?” Louis asked.
“I know a hundred, but they all cost money,” Reggie said. “Please. Are you coming?”
Louis wanted to tell him private eyes cost money, too, but he didn’t. “Yeah. Sit tight, and don’t get in Barberry’s way, or he’ll arrest you. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Thank you, Mr. Kincaid. Thank you so much.”
Louis hung up and grabbed his jeans, kicking Mel’s bed two more times before he finished dressing. Mel finally came to life, crawled from the bed, and stumbled to the bathroom. Through a crack in the door and over the sound of gargling, Louis told Mel about the search warrant being served at Reggie Kent’s house.
Fifteen minutes later, they pulled the Mustang to a stop at the end of Reggie’s driveway, behind a Palm Beach police car. One of Barberry’s deputies stood on the porch, arms crossed, eyes shaded by mirrored sunglasses.
Louis was debating how to get past the guy when Reggie emerged from the house. He was barefoot and still in his robe, a white terry-cloth thing haphazardly tied. His wispy yellow hair was electrified with static. He stopped in front of Louis and thrust the search warrant into his hand.
“They’re tearing apart Mark’s room,” Reggie said. “Can they do that?”
Louis scanned the warrant. It was standard stuff—the right to confiscate any and all possible evidence related to the disappearance and homicide of Mark Durand. It went on to list every conceivable thing human beings could have in their homes.
Louis gave the warrant back to Reggie and looked at the house. The front door was open, but Louis couldn’t see much inside. It looked like Barberry had a full team of officers and techs.
“Have they taken anything of interest?” Louis asked. “Anything you think might look bad for you?”
Reggie shook his head. “How could they? There is no evidence. I didn’t kill Mark. I told you that.”
“Calm down.”
Barberry came out the front door. He wore a mustard-yellow sports coat and chocolate-colored pants. Louis’s eyes locked on the items he was carrying.
In one hand, he held a clear plastic evidence bag that contained a pair of men’s work boots caked with dried mud. They were the kind of heavy-treaded boot that left a distinct print in soft ground. In his other hand, Barberry held an exotic-looking sword in an elaborate gold scabbard.
Barberry came down the drive, stopped near Reggie, and held up the plastic bag. “You recognize these, Mr. Kent?”
Reggie seemed to have a hard time tearing his stunned gaze from the sword. Louis wasn’t sure how to read his surprise. Did he not know that either of these things was in the house, or was he horrified that he hadn’t thought to dispose of them?
“Answer me, Kent,” Barberry said. “Do you recognize these boots?”
“You don’t have to answer anything, Reg,” Mel said.
Barberry looked at Mel. “When did you become a goddamn lawyer?”
Reggie suddenly found some courage. He straightened his shoulders, pushed out his chest, and pointed to the boots. “Lots of men I know wear those kinds of boots,” he said. “On any given night of the week, you can go over to Kashmir’s and find half a dozen. But those are not mine. I’ve never even owned a pair like that.”
“Maybe you borrowed them the night you took Durand for a ride out to the middle of nowhere and chopped off his head with this.”
With the flair of a B-movie detective, Barberry raised the sword. Reggie leaned backward.
“I’ve never see that before, either. And I certainly didn’t use it to cut off anyone’s head.”
Barberry snorted and turned to Swann, who had come up behind him. He handed off the sword and the plastic bag and looked back at Reggie as he reached for his handcuffs.
“You can put it all in a statement down at the jail,” Barberry said. “You’re under arrest.”
Reggie’s eyes widened, and he started to back-pedal, any indignation suddenly evaporating. Barberry grabbed his arm, and Reggie’s eyes swung to Louis and Mel for help. Louis knew Reggie was one step away from having his face pushed into the concrete.
“Kent, relax,” Louis said.
“But he’s arresting me!”
Barberry spun Reggie around and shoved him toward a palmetto palm. Reggie stumbled, and Louis was going to catch him, but Mel was faster. He caught Reggie by the shoulders and held on to him as he threw Barberry a glare. Then he bent down and whispered something in Reggie’s ear.
Breathless, Reggie nodded and slowly put both of his shaking hands behind his back. Barberry snapped on the cuffs and started a clenched-jaw recitation of Reggie’s rights. But Reggie, head down and fighting tears, was listening to Mel’s quiet advice.
“Come on, Kent,” Barberry said. “Let’s go.”
Barberry dragged Reggie toward the unmarked cruiser, and Louis followed. He had a few things he wanted to say, but he needed to wait until Reggie was in the backseat.
Barberry pushed Reggie into the car and slammed the door. He knew Louis was hanging nearby, but he walked around the car to the driver’s-side door and opened it.
“Detective,” Louis called. “Can you give me a minute?”
“What for?”
“Got a question.”
Barberry slammed the door hard enough to jiggle the car, making it clear he didn’t want Reggie to overhear any of this. “Make it quick.”
“Why didn’t you tell us that you have twenty other suspects?”
“What the fuck you talking about?”
“The workers at the Archer Ranch. Twenty guys with whips.”
“None of them cowboys killed Durand.”
“And even if they did, you wouldn’t break much of a sweat trying to make a case against them, would you?”
Barberry’s upper lip curled. “You calling me a bigot or some kind of fairy hater?”
“I’m calling you a lousy cop with a real bad attitude.”
Barberry stepped to him and poked a finger at Louis’s chest. “Tough talk coming from a down-and-out colored boy with a paper PI license.”
Louis flexed his hand, then inhaled slowly. “Someone ought to euthanize you and put you out of your misery.”
“Huh?”
Louis walked away from him, a slow burn creeping up the back of his neck. As much as he wanted to deck Barberry and as good as he knew it would feel, he didn’t want Mel worrying about getting two people out of jail.
“I hate that fucker,” Louis said as he reached Mel.
&nb
sp; “We need to help Reggie find a lawyer.”
“You know one who will work for free?”
Mel shook his head and reached for his cigarettes. Louis had one idea about the lawyer, but he didn’t want to mention it to Mel yet. It was a long shot, and he wasn’t sure Margery Laroche would actually back up her affection for “poor dear Reggie” with a hundred grand for legal fees.
And in the end, even the best lawyer wouldn’t be able to help Reggie Kent if there was no one looking for other evidence and other possible killers.
Louis looked to the house. The search was winding down. Officers were closing the doors on the back of the county evidence van, and the uniforms were heading to their cruisers. The cop by the door was gone.
“Did you see where Swann went?” Louis asked.
“Back in the house.”
Louis went inside. The place was empty, but it was clear it been searched. Most departments didn’t require or even ask that the officers replace anything moved during a search, and Barberry’s guys were no different. Rifled drawers hung open, books were dumped on chairs, and sofa pillows were strewn across the floor.
“Lieutenant Swann?” Louis called.
“Back here.”
Louis followed the voice to a bedroom at the end of the hall. The room had lemon-colored walls and bright floral-print curtains. The cops had given the room a thorough toss. The spread was heaped on the terra-cotta floor, along with pillows, magazines, and books. Drawers were still open, the contents searched. Even the Haitian painting had been taken off the wall and flung into a corner.
There was a glass étagère on one side of the room. The top shelf held a variety of things: a colorfully beaded apple, a snow globe from New York, a green speckled bowl, a gold pen set, a crystal Eiffel Tower, and a wooden box.
On the other side of the room, the double closet doors stood open. There were some pastel shirts and slacks still hanging, but the cops had thrown most of the clothes onto the bed and had rifled though the shoe boxes on the closet shelf. A Vuitton duffel sat open in the middle of the floor. Louis noticed the tag said M. DURAND.
“Is this Durand’s room?” he asked.
“Yeah.” Swann picked up the painting, looked around for a place to hang it, and finally just carefully propped it up on the floor against the dresser.
“I thought we had an arrangement here, Andrew,” Louis said.
Swann sighed. “I can’t argue with a search warrant, you know that. I came along to make sure Mr. Kent didn’t, either.”
Louis did know that, but he wasn’t going to cut Swann any slack. “What else do they have on Kent besides what they took out of here?” he asked. “Did Barberry tell you?”
Swann shook his head. “He walked into my office this morning waving the warrant and said I could come along or not. He didn’t offer any more information.”
Louis glanced again at the closet, noticing now that the bottom was bare. He was sure Barberry had taken all of Reggie Kent’s shoes, and he had apparently taken all of Durand’s as well. It was smart to take all of the shoes and hope for a match on something.
“Did you find that guy Labastide?” Swann asked.
“Not exactly, but I found his sister.”
“Sister?”
“Yeah. You met her once. Rosa Labastide.”
Swann’s brows knit in confusion. “When?”
“Five years ago,” Louis said. “She came to you to report her brother Emilio missing. She said you didn’t seem interested and that you told her Emilio probably just went back to Mexico.”
“I was just a patrolman five years ago,” Swann said. “How does she know it was me?”
“She remembered your name. Said it first in Spanish—Cisne. That means—”
“Swan,” Swann said.
Louis stared at him. “You speak Spanish?”
“Fluently.”
“And you still blew this woman off?” Louis asked. “Even after understanding every word she was trying to tell you?”
Swann dropped down on the edge of the bed. Louis could almost see his mental rifling of memories, and, given the pained expression on Swann’s face, his efforts to recall Rosa looked sincere.
“I think Emilio Labastide is dead,” Louis said. “And I think he was murdered.”
Swann looked up at him. “Then you did find him.”
Louis took a quick look out the bedroom door to make sure all of Barberry’s deputies were gone, then went back to Swann. It was time to bring him completely onboard the train or throw him under it.
“There was a decapitated body found over in Lee County in October of ’84, a short time after Labastide disappeared,” Louis said. “The man was buried without an ID, but I’m sure it’s Labastide.”
“How sure?”
“He matches the physical description, and he was found with a crucifix that looks a lot like the one his sister has.”
Swann sighed and leaned his head in his hands. Louis looked out at the patio, watching the easy roll of waves over the sand.
Louis knew that cops lived with regrets, all kinds of them. From not spending enough time with their families to losing their tempers with mouthy suspects. But one of the worst regrets was that one time when you found yourself standing over a dead person you had met before. And you realized that at some time in the past, maybe a month or maybe a year before, you could’ve done something better. Made one more phone call, asked one more question, stayed one more hour at your desk.
Louis watched Swann, wondering how he could lure him completely over to his side. He couldn’t help but think about that Officer of the Month certificate on Swann’s office wall and Swann’s “heroic act” of saving the drowning dog. Louis had no idea if Swann had the smarts or the mettle for a real homicide investigation. Or if he had the stones to buck his own chief.
Swann looked up at him. “What can I do to help?”
Hell, what did he have to lose?
“You ever wanted to be a spy?” Louis asked.
“Didn’t every kid?” Swann said. “Who would I be spying on?”
“Barberry.”
They met an hour later at a Dunkin’ Donuts out near the airport. Mel paid for coffee and a bag of six doughnuts, three plain and three with sprinkles. They spotted Swann sitting in the back. As they slid into the orange plastic booth, Louis noticed Swann looking around uncomfortably.
“What’s the matter?” Louis asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “I’ve never been in a Dunkin’ Donuts before.”
“We weren’t sure you’d even know what a Dunkin’ Donuts was,” Mel said. “That’s why we gave you such detailed directions.”
“Oh, I’ve heard about these places,” he said. “This is where the real cops hang out, right?”
For about three seconds, the table was uneasily silent, then Swann broke into a grin. “Relax, guys. Let’s get this meeting going. I’ve only got an hour.”
“First, we need to know what Barberry has told you that we might not know,” Louis said.
“I know he’s still looking for that luxury car that was seen in Clewiston. He told me to ask around the island about cars Kent could have borrowed.”
“Did you?”
“I questioned Kent, and he said he regularly borrowed cars from some of his ‘lady friends,’ as he calls them. They even give him extra keys. I checked and found out two of them are light-colored luxury cars that could match the one seen going through Clewiston. So I approached the two women at a party I was working last weekend and discreetly asked them about it. Both said Kent hadn’t asked to borrow their cars in quite some time.”
“That helps,” Mel said. “Is there anything else we can use to eliminate Reggie as a suspect?”
“Not with regard to Durand’s murder,” Swann said. “But what about that other guy? Labastide? When was he killed?”
“The ME speculated he was killed two nights before he was found,” Louis said. “That makes it October 31, 1984. But I don’t think th
at will do us much good. What kind of person knows exactly where they were on a given night five years ago?”
Swann smiled. “I can tell you where Kent probably was.”
“Where?”
“Margery Laroche’s birthday party. Every year, she throws herself a Halloween birthday bash,” Swann said. “We work security and parking. I’d bet my job Kent was there.”
“Please tell me she keeps guest lists,” Mel said.
“Even better. Most of the names would have been printed in the Shiny Sheet along with a slew of pictures. It’s a big deal because everyone’s in costumes. And knowing Margery Laroche, she would have kept a copy of the paper.”
“Great,” Louis said. “I’ll go back and ask her about them.”
“That’s useful only if we can tie these two murders together,” Mel said. “But for right now, we need to find something to clear him of Durand’s murder.”
“You guys know about the cowboys out at the Archer ranch?” Swann asked.
“Cowmen,” Mel said.
“What?”
“They like to be called cowmen.”
Swann just stared at him.
“We know they found Durand’s body and that Barberry took all of their whips,” Louis said.
“The reports said that none of the whips had any human blood on them, and Dr. Steffel said that the one used on Durand was leather. The ones Barberry confiscated were nylon,” Swann said.
“Doesn’t mean they didn’t have leather whips somewhere else,” Mel said.
“Did you get to read any of the statements Barberry took from them?” Louis asked.
Swann shook his head. “No. But as far as I know, Barberry never seriously pursued any of the Archer workers as suspects. Never even ran backgrounds on any of them.”
“Jesus,” Mel muttered.
“Did you two talk to any of them?” Swann asked.
“No,” Louis said. He picked up a doughnut. It had lost some sprinkles, and he wet his finger to dab them up as he talked. “But we talked to the boss, a guy named Burke Aubry. He seemed sure none of them was involved. Said they wouldn’t desecrate the ranch land like that.”
“Not just the ranch land, Rocky,” Mel said. “Devil’s Garden.”
“What’s Devil’s Garden?” Swann asked.