by PJ Parrish
“Bitner, her assistant,” Swann said. “The senator would have never called.”
“You got anything else about the Osborns you think we ought to know now?” Mel asked.
Louis heard the sarcasm in Mel’s voice. He hoped Swann hadn’t.
“Tink Lyons told me her husband goes hunting with some guys here,” Louis said. “She didn’t mention Osborn, but I got the feeling she knew the guy.”
“You think Lyons and Osborn were in this together?” Swann asked.
Louis shrugged. “You know them. What do you think?’’
“I don’t think they know each other well,” Swann said, shaking his head. “I just don’t see it.” He turned back to the bulletin board, studying the photographs. When he spoke again, his voice was soft.
“You really think these two men are capable of torture and decapitation?”
“With the right motivation,” Louis said.
“Lots of women here cheat on their husbands. No one really cares,” Swann said.
“A guy might care if the other man is a Mexican immigrant who can’t even speak English,” Mel said.
Now Swann was staring at the photograph of Emilio Labastide. “There’s a five-year gap between Labastide’s and Durand’s murders,” he said. “Are you saying this is some organized thing?”
“You ever heard of hunting clubs?” Mel asked.
Swann shook his head.
“There’s this place up near Gainesville where rich guys go to hunt safari-style,” Mel said. “It’s private land stocked with everything from African antelope to water buffalo and you pay based on how big a trophy you want. They even have corporate packages so businessmen can entertain their buddies. There’s a big psychological element to hunting in a pack. Some guys really get off on it.”
“You think we’re dealing with some kind of murder club?” Swann asked.
“Like you said, Andrew, people here get bored easily.”
Swann looked like his head hurt. “Are there other husbands in this club?” he asked.
Louis and Mel exchanged glances.
“We don’t know,” Louis said.
“Are there other women?”
“We don’t know,” Louis said.
They were all quiet again. Swann was staring at the photograph of the sword now. “If Tucker Osborn’s sword wasn’t the murder weapon, what was it doing in Durand’s bedroom?” He looked back at Louis and Mel. “And why did he have Dickie Lyons’s humidor?”
“We’re thinking they were gifts, like the watch,” Mel said.
“We don’t know if Labastide or Wyeth got any gifts,” Louis said.
“What about the gold crucifix?” Swann said.
“Sex and religion… not a good mix,” Mel said.
They were all quiet, thinking. Louis laid his head back and closed his eyes. For a long time, the only sound came from the open sliding glass doors—the soft hiss of the waves breaking on the beach.
“Maybe they weren’t gifts,” Louis said quietly.
“What do you mean?” Swann asked.
Louis sat up, rubbing his face. “Except for the watch, the stuff Durand had didn’t seem like anything he would really want. An antique sword that he couldn’t sell. Ostrich boots two sizes too small. And expensive cigars that he wouldn’t smoke.”
Louis glanced at Mel. He could tell he had come to the same thought.
“He stole them,” Mel said.
Louis nodded.
“But why?” Swann asked.
Louis locked eyes with Mel. He knew Mel couldn’t read his expression but he suspected Mel could read his thoughts. “He knew that once he left that bedroom, he was nothing to them,” Louis said. “It was his way of kicking them—and maybe their husbands—in the teeth.”
Mel rose slowly and headed to the kitchen. Swann watched him, then turned back to Louis.
“So, the women paid these men for sex?” Swann asked.
Louis nodded. “Hernandez said they found eight grand in Wyeth’s apartment. There’s no proof it was drug money. Do you remember seeing anything in Durand’s file about a bank account?”
“Yeah,” Swann said. “But he had only about a hundred bucks in it. Maybe he stashed it somewhere around here.”
Louis had been thinking the same thing. But Barberry’s men had tossed the whole house and he himself had searched Durand’s room pretty thoroughly and found no money.
“What about Labastide?” Swann asked. “Rosa sure doesn’t have any money.”
“Yeah, but she told you that Emilio had a girlfriend back in Mexico. Maybe he was sending cash home.”
Mel came back, carrying a martini glass filled with orange juice. He set it in front of Louis.
“What’s that?” Louis asked.
“Call it a peace offering. Enjoy it because there’s no more vodka. But I promise I will go buy some tomorrow, dear.”
Louis smiled and took a drink of the screwdriver. “I don’t suppose there is any food in the house?”
“There’s some French Muenster cheese in there,” Mel said.
“I refuse to put something in my mouth that smells like a dirty jockstrap.”
“I swear, Rocky, sometimes you’re just—”
“Can I interrupt?” Swann asked.
Louis looked at Swann. He was holding the photograph of Rosa and her brother and looking like a man who needed to think about anything but facing his boss tomorrow morning.
“What is it?” Louis said.
“I’ve got one more question,” Swann said. “Maybe we can link the men. But these two women have nothing in common. They aren’t even friends. How the hell did they come to share the same lover?”
Louis glanced at Mel. Swann’s question was one they had not yet asked themselves and at the moment, it seemed a glaringly stupid thing to miss.
He rose and went to the bulletin board. He looked at the photographs of Tink Lyons and Carolyn Osborn. One woman older and neurotic; the other attractive and successful. What were they missing?
He remembered something Margery had told him, about how easy it was for men to manage their affairs but how hard it was for the women to do the same.
Louis reached into his pocket and pulled out the orchid sprig. It was wilted, now the color of dried blood.
“What’s that?” Swann asked.
“Our link,” Louis said.
Chapter Twenty-seven
The first thing Margery did was to fling open the doors of a huge black lacquer armoire that held her vast store of prized liquor. They all helped themselves to their choice of “joy juice,” as Margery called it.
Swann grabbed a bottle of Pasión Azteca tequila. Mel took his time and chose a Lustau amontillado. When Louis couldn’t find any Courvoisier, he settled on a fat crystal bottle of Louis XIII de Rémy Martin. Margery stayed with the Hendrick’s gin she had been cuddling up with most of the afternoon.
The second item on the agenda was food. Louis suggested they call out for pizzas, but Margery snorted and sent Franklin off in the Rolls. He returned with everything from the dinner menu of Ta-boo.
Now they were spread out in the loggia amid a wasteland of half-eaten steak tartar, cold poached salmon, Maine lobster, and portobello mushroom salad.
Everyone was drunk and, as Margery called it, “grummy.” A pink-streaked sky was visible through the archways, but no one was looking. The phone was ringing, but no one was listening. The pug dogs were gnawing on leftover sirloin tips, but no one cared.
On the drive over, Louis had shared his theory with Mel and Swann about the devil orchid, which he believed was a symbol of something between the women. Swann had offered another tantalizing detail. He remembered that the red flowering plant outside Rosa’s apartment was an orchid.
Louis was hoping that Margery could tell them how Bianca Lee—the only person on Palm Beach who sold the devil orchid—figured into the equation. Was she supplying more than just orchids?
But Margery had been less than helpful. To
her, Bianca Lee simply owned a lovely shop on “Worthless Avenue” and did the flower arrangements for the best parties and all of the charity balls.
“Margery, are you sure you’re not forgetting anything?” Louis asked.
“I told you, Louis,” she said. “She’s like, well, like a chiropractor or a policeman. You don’t even notice them until you really need them.”
Louis glanced at Mel. They both looked at Swann. He hadn’t said a word in the last twenty minutes and was slumped on the sofa, slit-eyed, one of the pugs curled by his side. Louis wondered if he had even heard Margery’s comment. Did he even understand that just like Franklin—that “utter ghost of a man”—Swann was invisible to people like Margery?
“Let’s get back to Carolyn,” Louis said.
Margery let out a dramatic sigh.
“You’re sure Carolyn and Tink aren’t friends?”
“Yes, I am sure,” Margery said testily. “As I told you already, Carolyn doesn’t mingle much. Her whole world is her political career.”
“What about Tucker?” Louis asked.
“The Osborns are old money.” Margery sniffed. “Tucker has never worked a day in his life. He’s a charter member of the lucky sperm club.”
Swann suddenly rose. “I need some air,” he said.
Louis watched him stagger out through the archway. He turned back to Margery. “Osborn told me he and his wife were separated,” he said. “Do you know why?”
Margery shook her head as she sipped her gin. “Years ago, there were rumors they were getting a divorce, but once she became a senator, well, that was out of the question. They have one of those make-believe marriages. He makes believe he’s a good husband, and Carolyn makes like she believes it.”
“Tell us about Tink Lyons,” Mel said.
“Poor, sad Tink, banging around in that big, ghastly house,” Margery said.
Louis waited for her to go on, but she fell silent again. He knew she was worried to death about Reggie. Her lawyer, Harvey, hadn’t been able even to get Reggie moved to solitary to protect him. Their only hope was Barberry.
“What is their marriage like?” Mel asked.
Margery shrugged. “What can I say? The man is a pig. He made wads of money building ugly houses, and now he puts on these rock-and-roll concerts and monster-truck rallies over in West Palm Beach. The first time I saw him—good Lord, it must have been fifteen years ago—Tink brought him to a party right after they got married. He was strictly the full Cleveland.”
“What?” Louis asked.
“He was wearing a brown polyester suit and this awful tie and brown shoes.”
“We call it the full Barberry,” Mel said.
“Why’d she marry him?” Louis pressed.
“Well, you have to understand something about Tink. Her family is old Philly Main Line but brittle stock. So when they all died off, she was alone.” Margery heaved a big sigh. “She was forty-plus when they got married. I suspect Dickie was the first man ever to look at her twice.”
Margery stared into her tumbler. “Poor Tink. I think she’s a bit wobbly in the noggin.”
Louis was quiet. If Tink Lyons was the doormat Margery was suggesting, it was hard to imagine her having secret trysts. But like Mel said, if the drought was long enough and the need for affection great enough, a person could do anything.
“Did Dickie Lyons hang out with Tucker?” Mel asked.
Margery shook her head. “There’s a pecking order on the island, Marvin,” she said. “At the top are the core people, the old guard. Then you have the A-listers like Tucker’s family, who’ve lived here forever, get into the right clubs, and show up on the Fanjuls’ Christmas-card list. Below that, there’s a whole smattering of celebrities, dubious royalty, and Trump, of course. Then there’s your basic parvenus and arrivistes—tolerated but still NOCDs.”
“Come again?” Mel asked.
“Not Our Class, Dear. Tucker Osborn would never associate with someone like Lyons.”
Louis’s head was fogged with alcohol. He needed some fresh air. And he was worried about Swann. He rose and went out onto the patio. Swann was nowhere to be seen. The sun was almost gone, leaving a reflecting wash of pale pink over the ocean. Louis rubbed his face, and when he looked back toward the water, he spotted Swann down on the beach.
Louis went down the stone steps and across the lawn. At the road, he had to wait for a gap in the slow but steady stream of cars clogging South Ocean Boulevard. Bentleys, Rollses, Jags, and sleek Italian exotics. He was wondering who had died when he remembered that Margery had said there was a big event at Mar-a-Lago just down the road. Whenever Trump wasn’t in town, he rented the place out to whoever could fork over big bucks, NOCD or not.
Louis crossed the road and went down onto the sand. Swann saw him coming.
“Hey, Louis.”
“You okay?”
“I feel like I need to puke.”
“Go ahead.”
“Not allowed. If you even fart too loud in this town, you get a ticket.”
“Andrew, you’re the one who gives out the tickets.”
“Not right now.”
Swann walked to the water’s edge, squatted, and splashed water on his face. When he stood up, his pink polo shirt was soaked, and his hair was spiked up.
“You’re not much of a drinker, are you?” Louis asked.
Swann looked at him. “I’ve had my moments,” he said. “When I was twenty-four, I drove my car off a fishing wharf and almost killed myself.”
“Were you drunk?”
Swann nodded. “Blood alcohol of one-point-nine.”
“Jesus.”
“It gets worse,” Swann said. “The car was a Florida state cruiser, I was on the job, and it was intentional.”
Louis took a step back, looking at Swann with new respect. Not that driving a ten-thousand-dollar cruiser into the ocean merited a reward, but it was so ballsy that it deserved some level of guy admiration.
“They fire you?” Louis asked.
Swann nodded. “My father, the esteemed Major Marshall Weston Swann, did it himself, in front of six other commanders. Guess he just decided that enough was enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“The car was the last of a whole bunch of fuckups. I didn’t show up in court half the time, slept with a woman I arrested, failed a drug test—”
“What for?”
“Cocaine,” Swann said.
“Christ, Andrew.”
Swann didn’t answer. He lowered himself to the sand; Louis sat down beside him. It was quiet for a long time, just the sound of the waves rolling in at their feet.
“I always thought I wanted to be a cop,” Swann said softly. “My mom died when I was three, and my dad raised me and my sisters. I was… in charge of the household, and every night when he came home, we had this ritual where I had to pass inspection.”
“Lot of responsibility,” Louis said.
Swann shrugged. “You know what I remember most? Standing at his bedroom door, watching him take his uniform off. He’d unpin each medal and lay them in a row on the dresser. His badge was always last. He put it on a folded handkerchief next to my mother’s picture.”
Swann wiped his eyes.
“From the time I was nine, I attended every ceremony,” he said. “Every police picnic, every funeral. I couldn’t wait until it was me standing in front of that mirror. But when I got to the academy, I hated it.”
“Everyone hates it,” Louis said.
But Swann wasn’t listening. “Freakin’ hours of memorizing meaningless statutes,” he said. “That stupid us-against-them mentality and that zombielike loyalty to complete fuckin’ strangers just because they wore the same fuckin’ uniform.”
“Andrew, take a breath.”
Swann lowered his head into his hands.
“Why didn’t you just quit?” Louis asked.
“It took me a while to figure that one out,” Swann said. “It was easier for me to
get my ass fired than it was to tell my father that I hated doing the one thing he loved.”
Swann blinked. “I left Tallahassee three hours after he fired me. For the next two years, I just bounced around the beaches trying to figure out what I wanted to do.”
“How’d you end up here?”
Swann took a moment to answer. “Being a cop was the only thing I knew how to do,” he said. “And I realized that I still wanted that badge back on my chest.”
“You’re not making any sense, Andrew.”
“It… shit, this sounds corny as hell, but it gave me a sense of purpose and self-respect that nothing else ever could.”
“Even here in Palm Beach?”
Swann sighed deeply. “Even here.”
“How the hell did you get hired with your record?”
“My father sanitized my file,” Swann said. “So, all Palm Beach saw was an average police officer who’d resigned for personal reasons.”
Swann closed his eyes and leaned forward, elbows on knees. Louis had the thought that if the guy understood what a gift his father had given him, he didn’t seem ready to acknowledge it. But then he remembered that Swann had asked his father to expedite that computer search that turned up Paul Wyeth. Had they repaired the relationship?
“Andrew,” Louis said, “let me ask you something.”
“What?”
“Would you consider calling your father and asking him to intervene with the prosecutor on Kent’s behalf?”
Swann shook his head slowly, not looking up. “I haven’t talked to my father in eight years.”
“You said he helped you locate Wyeth.”
“No, I said I threw his name around to get someone to help me find Wyeth. Dad was never involved. And I don’t want him to be.”
“Not even to get a shot at getting Kent out of jail?”
Swann just shook his head slowly.
Louis decided to let it go. Maybe he could bring it up again when Swann wasn’t feeling so raw.
“You know, you shouldn’t let what Margery said bother you,” Louis said.
“Remember when you told me I wasn’t part of their world?” Swann let out a tired breath. “I thought you were just being an asshole. But you were right. These people don’t even see us.”