by PJ Parrish
“Margery Laroche,” Louis said. “But she wouldn’t tell me the woman’s name. Think you can get it out of her?”
Swann looked up at Rosa’s door. “After that, I can face anything.”
Chapter Eighteen
They were gathered on Margery’s loggia. Louis and Mel were sitting on the rattan sofa. Swann was perched on an ottoman in the corner. Margery was ensconced on the lounge with the four pug dogs on her lap.
“I feel like Susan Hayward in I Want to Live,” she said.
Louis stifled a sigh. Mel didn’t bother.
Swann cleared his throat. “Mrs. Laroche,” he said, “we’re not interrogating you. We’re just asking for your help.”
She eyed them all and pulled the dogs closer. “Well, it feels like you’re ganging up on me, and I don’t like it,” she said.
Mel rose suddenly and went to one of the arched windows, his back to them. Swann looked pained. They had been there for a half hour, trying to get Margery to divulge the name of the woman Emilio Labastide had allegedly bedded, but Margery refused to tell them. Louis knew that Mel was about one minute away from scaring Margery with an obstruction-of-justice charge, even though he had no authority.
And Swann? Louis glanced over at the guy. He looked miserable, like someone was beating up on his mother.
“Margery,” Louis said firmly, “I want you to listen to me very carefully.”
“You, too, Louis?” she asked. There it was again, “Loo-EE.”
“Margery, you hired us to help Reggie Kent,” Louis said.
“But I already told you that he was at my birthday party that night,” she said. “That’s an alibi, right?”
“It’s not enough,” Louis said. “We can’t help him unless we can prove someone else killed Mark Durand. You saw that jail. If Reggie is convicted, he will be sent away to prison. I’ve been to Starke, and it makes the Palm Beach County jail look like, like…”
“The Bath and Tennis Club,” Swann said.
Louis glanced at him, then looked back at Margery. Her wide red mouth was still a hard line.
“You have to tell us the name of the woman Emilio Labastide was seeing,” Louis said.
“Louis, dear,” Margery said softly, “this is not like the real world. People here don’t have jobs, so they have to find ways to keep busy. They shop, drink, do drugs, eat lunch, screw around, and gossip.”
“Margery—”
“Let me finish,” Margery said. “Everyone loves to hear the dirt. But they’re afraid to death of being ostracized. If you talk too much, you’re out. I told you before, this is a very small island.”
She looked at Swann. “You know this,” she said. “Just last week, one of your men had to go down to the docks and pick up a certain gentleman who was sitting there naked, zozzled on coke, wearing handcuffs and a purple bra. Your man didn’t blink an eye, just put him in the backseat and drove him home.”
Swann pursed his lips, his face reddening slightly. Mel had turned around and was listening.
Louis knew he had to try another tactic. “Margery, you said that everyone has affairs but that people here don’t sleep down,” he said. “So, why would this woman bother with a man like Emilio Labastide?”
Margery glanced at the other men before coming back to Louis. “Power is everything here,” she said. “Men get their power from money. Women have to get it through their looks and who they marry. Well, that makes the women really jitzy—you know, anxious?”
“I need the name, Margery,” Louis said.
She ignored him. “See, there are always young women coming here to find rich men,” she said. “Every season, they swoop in like swallows, all these pretty-baby vamps with their fake blond hair and silicone boobs. It’s quite a ridiculous spectacle, really, these horny old coots chasing after them and then ditching their wives for younger models. Quel triste.”
Louis slumped back on the sofa.
“You see, status is everything to women here,” Margery said. “Where you sit at a ball, how big your jewels are, if you live north or south of Sloan’s Curve, whether you get into the B and T or not. Women here will do anything to preserve their place, to avoid becoming substrata.”
“Sub what?” Mel said.
“Not quite A-list,” Swann interjected from his ottoman.
Margery nodded vigorously. “I mean, look what happened to Bunny Norris. Her husband, Hap, took up with that Samantha woman and gave Bunny the icy mitt. Well, Bunny had no choice but to endure a sordid divorce, take her money, and hightail back it to Newport.”
Samantha?
Margery was prattling on. It took Louis a moment to catch up. Something about Samantha being “basically Boca” but that everyone accepted her as Hap’s new wife only because he was “core people” and they adored him.
“And that weasel who’s always on her arm,” Margery said. “She tells people he’s one of Hap’s lawyers, but, well, really. How many lawyers ‘live in’ for days at a time?”
Margery sipped her drink. “Trash,” she whispered. “You can dress it up in Dior, but it’s still trash.”
Louis was silent. He could feel Mel’s eyes on him, waiting for him to press Margery further. He ran a hand over his face and leaned forward so he was only a few feet from Margery.
“I’ll ask you again. Why would a woman bother with a man like Labastide?” he asked.
Margery’s gray eyes held his. “It’s the old double standard, ducky. The men can just set their little honeys up in a suite at The Breakers and hide it by charging it to the company. The women… well, they have to be creative.”
She dropped dramatically back against the chaise cushions, sending the dogs into a frenzy of snorting and shuffling. “Are you sure you boys wouldn’t like a little shampoo?” she asked.
“No, thanks,” Louis said quietly.
He rose and walked over to Mel. They stood, staring out at the ocean.
“Time to take off the gloves, Rocky,” Mel said.
Louis was silent, his mind on Sam.
“Louis?”
He looked at Mel.
“You want me to do it?” Mel asked.
“No, I’ll do it,” Louis said.
Louis went back to the sofa, but he didn’t sit down. He picked up a manila folder from the table and stood over Margery.
“Margery, you knew Mark Durand, right?”
Margery stared up at him. “Not well. Reggie brought him to dinner once. He drank a little too—”
Louis pulled out an eight-by-ten photograph and tossed it onto the table.
Margery’s eyes widened.
He tossed a second crime-scene photograph onto the table. “This is Emilio. What they found of him, at least. He was tortured with a whip and then beheaded. He has a sister who’s been looking for him.”
Margery’s face had gone gray. She sat motionless, looking at the top photograph. Then she leaned over and picked it up. She stared at it for a long time.
Then she slowly set it, facedown, on the table. When she looked up, her eyes were brimming. “I think I need a drink,” she said.
She brushed the dogs from her lap, rose, and walked stiffly to the door.
“Franklin!” she yelled. “Bring me the Hendrick’s!”
She came back to the lounge and sat on its edge, her long, bony hands clasped in her lap. The four dogs sat at her feet, looking up at her.
She pulled in a deep breath. “The woman is Carolyn Osborn.”
Louis heard a gasp and looked over at Swann. His mouth was hanging open as his eyes swiveled from Margery to Louis.
“Senator Carolyn Osborn,” he said.
Franklin appeared and placed a silver tray on the table in front of Margery. She pulled a bottle from the ice bucket and picked up one of the glasses.
“Now, does anyone need a drink?” she asked.
Chapter Nineteen
The Osborn home was at the westernmost end of Worth Avenue. Margery had told him the home was one of the “signif
icant” mansions on the island, set down in a neighborhood once known as Sue City, named after an heiress to the Listerine fortune whose family had once owned the entire strip of land on lower Worth Avenue.
Louis parked in the broad brick drive, his eyes taking in the four-car garage on the left side of the sprawling house. There was a blue Toyota Camry by the closed garage doors.
A maid let him into a bright entrance hall of white marble and pillars, where the only stab of color came from a flame-red orchid sitting on a mirrored table. As they passed through a high-ceilinged salon filled with antiques and sunlight, Louis’s eyes were drawn to a twenty-foot white Christmas tree, decorated in silver and white like a department-store display and packed beneath with gifts in matching silver wrappings. His thoughts flashed briefly to Rosa Díaz’s tiny tree with the three ornaments. No presents under that one that he could remember.
He was taken to a study of dark paneling and shadows, the windows hidden by plantation shutters, a sharp contrast to the blinding-white decor of the rest of the house. The maid told him to wait and stopped to switch on a lamp before she left.
As his eyes adjusted, the room’s rich details emerged. A fancy carved desk on a zebra-skin rug. A full suit of medieval armor. A painted infantry drum. A glass display box filled with colorful medals. A spiked German helmet. Two cabinets in the dark corner filled with guns and knives…
Good God.
Louis moved closer to the desk. Above it hung a gleaming sword.
“Can I help you?”
Louis turned. The man at the door was tall, wearing gray dress slacks, a dark sports coat, and a white shirt.
“I’m waiting for Senator Osborn,” Louis said.
“I’m Tucker Osborn,” the man said. “And you are?”
“Louis Kincaid.”
Louis came forward, holding out his hand. The man was around sixty, still vital and handsome, with searing blue eyes and a thick shock of dark hair with a feather of gray at the temples. He shook Louis’s hand with an overly firm grip.
“You’re that detective,” Osborn said.
“Yes, I’m working for Reggie Kent,” Louis said.
The fact that the name brought no reaction made Louis believe that to Tucker Osborn, a man like Kent wasn’t even worth a blip on his mental radar. Substrata, as Margery would say.
“What is your business with my wife?” Osborn asked.
“I’m told she might know something,” Louis said.
“About what? That Durand joker?”
Louis thought it was odd that Osborn had mentioned Durand with no prompting. But then, it was also damn odd that Osborn had an antique sword in his study.
“Actually, I need to ask your wife about a different man,” Louis said. “His name is Emilio Labastide. He disappeared five years ago, October 31, 1984, to be exact.”
A flicker of emotion crossed Osborn’s face.
“I think I should talk to your wife, Mr. Osborn,” Louis said.
“Out of the question.”
“Suit yourself,” Louis said. “But this is what’s going to happen. I know that your wife had some kind of contact with Labastide. And I am, oh, maybe two steps ahead of the police. But once the fine fellows over at the sheriff’s department find out what I have, they will be knocking on your door. And they won’t be as quiet about it as I might be.”
Louis had seen Osborn’s face twitch at the word contact. He gave him a few more moments to think. “Now, can I talk to your wife?”
“She’s not here,” Osborn said.
“When will she be back?”
Osborn went to the desk, flipped open a silver box, and pulled out a cigarette. He offered one to Louis, who shook his head. Osborn lit the cigarette with a heavy silver lighter and drew on it so hard his cheeks went concave. He exhaled in a long, hard puff.
“What did you say your name was?” he asked.
“Kincaid. Louis Kincaid.”
“Well, why don’t you ask me the questions, Mr. Kincaid?” he said as he sat down in the leather chair behind the desk and switched on a lamp.
Louis caught a glint of metal. There was a tall Oriental vase in the corner. The hilts of five ornate swords were visible from its top. Louis looked back at Osborn.
“May I sit down?”
Osborn nodded at the chair opposite the desk.
“Five years ago, a man was chased from your house,” Louis said.
“Oh, for God’s sake, not this shit again,” Osborn said.
“Again?”
“Look, that was an ugly rumor started years ago by one of my wife’s political enemies,” Osborn said. “It’s bullshit.”
Louis reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out a photo, tossing it onto the desk. “Do you recognize this man?”
It was a copy of the photo Rosa had given him of Emilio. Osborn’s eyes flicked to it, and he shook his head. “Who is it?”
“The man your wife was supposedly having an affair with,” Louis said. “The man you supposedly chased out of here.”
Osborn stared hard at Louis. “Are you working for Morty Akers? Is that loser running again?”
“Who’s Morty Akers?”
“I have nothing to say about this.”
“Who is Morty Akers?” Louis asked. When Osborn didn’t say anything, Louis leaned back and propped a foot on his knee. “You might as well tell me. I’m going to find out.”
Osborn sat forward and snuffed the cigarette out in a crystal ashtray. “My wife was up for reelection five years ago. Akers was running against her. He’s a slimeball, and he ran a sleazy campaign.”
“What did he do?” Louis asked.
Osborn gave a snort. “You name it. He made these TV ads, taking every speech she did and editing it to make her sound like some Nazi brownshirt. He sent detectives to dig up shit on her family, her pastor, even her doctor because the guy’s wife worked for the ACLU, for God’s sake.” He shook his head. “They call it ‘opposition research,’ you know.”
“What does this have to do with the rumor about the man running from your house?” Louis asked.
“None of it was working, so Akers decided he needed to get personal.” Osborn’s jaw ground in anger. “About six years ago, my son got busted for having a couple of ounces of pot. No big deal here, but it happened down in Boca, and there was a police report. Akers claimed Carolyn engineered a cover-up with the cops. Plus, he hit her hard on the family-values shit.” Osborn shook his head slowly. “My son was only fifteen. Yeah, he was stupid, but he didn’t deserve what that asshole did, putting it on radio and TV.”
Osborn pulled out another cigarette and lit it. He blew out the smoke in a slow stream, like he was trying to calm himself.
“Akers went to work on the household staff next,” he said. “He tried to bribe them. And then he had private investigators hanging around with cameras wherever Carolyn went.”
His icy blue eyes zeroed in on Louis. “How do you guys sleep at night?”
Louis met Osborn’s stare. “So, Akers started the rumor that your wife was sleeping with someone?”
Osborn gave a hard nod. “Carolyn and I were separated at the time, and he must have found out. We were going through a rough patch and had decided it would be best if we lived apart for a while. I wasn’t even living here in the house. This is a small town. Anybody here could verify that.”
Louis had the sense the guy was overly touchy, like he was hiding something. Guys who had something to hide were always daring you to ask around. But those types were usually your everyday criminals, high on bravado and low on brainpower. Osborn didn’t fit that.
Osborn drew on his cigarette and gave a wry smile. “Too bad you don’t work for Akers.”
“Why?” Louis asked.
“You could give him a message for me,” Osborn said. “You could tell him thanks.”
“For what?”
“When a guy is attacking your wife, you have a duty to hit back. If Akers hadn’t done what he did to Carolyn,
I might never have come home.” He stabbed out the cigarette. “Ironic, isn’t it? The asshole probably saved my marriage.”
The phone rang. Osborn glanced at it but didn’t pick it up. Someone in the house did. The extension button began to blink.
There was a soft knock on the door.
“Tucker?”
Louis turned at the sound of the woman’s voice. She stood outside the door, head poked in. She gave Louis a glance of curiosity and then looked to Osborn.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Am I interrupting something important?”
Osborn rose and came out from behind the desk. “No, Carolyn. We’re finished.” He looked at Louis. “Right?”
Louis rose. It was clear Osborn was not going to introduce him to his wife. Louis extended his hand.
“Senator Osborn, I’m Louis Kincaid.”
She accepted his handshake with a cool smile, but her eyes darted to her husband for some sort of confirmation. She was a handsome woman of about fifty, tall and thin, in a dark blue pantsuit. Her hair was a silver blond, her face youthful but without the awful wind-tunnel stretched look that Louis had seen on so many Palm Beach matrons.
“You’re the one who’s working for Reggie,” she said.
Louis nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Her eyes lingered as her brows knitted, like she was trying to figure out why he was standing in her home. But she finally looked to her husband.
“Tucker, you really have to get started on your packing,” she said.
“I don’t think I’m going to be able to get away,” he said.
“Tucker, you said…”
“We’ll talk about this later, dear.” He took her elbow and started to steer her away. But her eyes had dropped to the desk, to the photograph of Emilio. She quickly looked back up to her husband.
Louis picked up the photograph. “Senator Osborn, do you recognize this man?”
He was holding it out, but she didn’t take it. “No,” she said.
Then she gave him another smile. Louis wondered if politicians practiced their smiles in front of mirrors. How else could a human face so easily subdivide itself—warmth from the mouth and utter coldness in the eyes?