by PJ Parrish
Swann sighed. Patrolman Mead was young and, like all service people here, well trained. One of his skills as a cop was the art of knowing the difference between what he saw and what he was supposed to see.
And Swann had no doubt that Mead had seen a lot more than he had written.
He checked his watch. It was almost four P.M. and the swing-shift officers, including Mead, would be wandering in soon. Swann knew Mead was always on time and always got dropped off by his girlfriend across the street at Hamburger Heaven. Swann would wait for him there.
Mead saw him as soon as he shut the car door. With a glance at the station, he took off his sunglasses and came toward Swann. He had the look of a boy who’d just learned his father had been charged with a crime.
Swann understood. Like everyone in the department, Mead knew Swann had been suspended and maybe had already heard he’d been let go. It had to rattle the kid a little. Swann had been his training officer and then his boss for the last four years. If there was anyone to trust in that building, it was this kid.
“Did they fire you?” Mead asked.
“Yeah,” Swann said. “But I’ll be fine. You just need to keep going in there every day and do your job. Understand?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you for being here so you could tell me yourself.”
“Well, that’s not the only reason I’m here,” Swann said. “I wanted to ask you some questions about a call you took last night at the Lyons house.”
“Oh, wow,” Mead said. “That was a weird one.”
“I need to know exactly what the scene looked like when you walked up.”
Mead’s eyes slipped to the station across the street. “You sure I can tell you all this?”
“It’s important, Gavin.”
Mead nodded. “Well, you know it’s a long walk from the cruiser up their drive. I was hustling, because Dispatch said there might be an altercation between the intruder and Mr. Lyons, but as soon as I got there, I saw Mr. Lyons already had the subject subdued and was trying to drag him somewhere.”
“In which direction?”
Mead shrugged. “I wasn’t sure,” he said. “Maybe around the side of the house. It was hard to tell, with the place looking like a jungle and all.”
“Was Kavanagh fighting him? Struggling?”
“No, sir,” Mead said. “Mr. Kavanagh wasn’t in any shape to fight anyone. Mr. Lyons had already kicked the crap out of him.”
“What did he look like?” Swann asked.
“Who?”
“Byrne Kavanagh.”
“I told you, he was beat up.”
“No, physical characteristics. Clothing.”
“Oh,” Mead said. “He was wearing jeans and a nice white shirt, but it was all bloody. I recall from his stats, he was twenty-three, six foot, and one-sixty.”
“Was he a good-looking guy?”
“Sir?”
“The kind of guy women would like?”
Mead shrugged. “He looked like the kind of guy you see in a catalogue.”
“Where was Mrs. Lyons while you were in the yard?”
“She was hanging around the open front door,” Mead said. “One time, when she came out into the porch light, I caught a glimpse of her. It was a little freaky.”
“Why? Was she hurt, too?”
“No, but she was all dressed up,” Mead said. “Hair ribbons and this ruffly white dress.”
“A wedding dress?”
“No, it looked more like one of those old-fashioned doll dresses.”
“Did Mrs. Lyons say anything?”
“She just whimpered and mumbled a lot,” Mead said. “Mostly about making sure Mr. Kavanagh wasn’t hurt—wait—she called him Byrne.”
“So, she knew him?”
Mead looked away for a moment, then sighed. “I really hate assuming things, sir, and I know we’re supposed to keep our thoughts to ourselves, but…”
“Say it, Gavin.”
“I got the impression that Mr. Lyons had come home unexpectedly and interrupted Mrs. Lyons and Mr. Kavanagh playing some sort of… um… sexual game, if you get my drift.”
“You don’t think Mr. Lyons knew him?”
“Mr. Lyons was pretty drunk, sir,” Mead said. “It was hard to understand most of what he was yelling, but I can say with some certainty that he didn’t.”
“Why are you so sure?”
“Because when I walked up, I noticed Mr. Lyons had Mr. Kavanagh’s wallet in his hand. When I told him I couldn’t leave without removing Mr. Kavanagh, Mr. Lyons threw the wallet down and said, ‘It doesn’t matter, I know who he is now, anyway.’”
“What happened next?” Swann asked.
“I asked Mr. Lyons if he wanted me to arrest Mr. Kavanagh for trespassing or anything, and he said no, just take him away. So, I helped Mr. Kavanagh to my cruiser and escorted him across the bridge to the Circle K.”
Swann knew that the Circle K, a block from the bridge in West Palm, was their drop-off point for vagrants, drunks, and anyone else they wanted to throw off the island.
“Did Kavanagh say anything to you during the ride?” Swann asked.
“Not a word, until I asked him if he felt he needed medical attention,” Mead said. “He said no, all he wanted to do was go home and make a call.”
Swann ran a hand through his hair, trying to make sense of Mead’s story. If this case was about what they thought it was, then Byrne Kavanagh would turn out to be the latest in a series of young men who were being employed by older, rich women for sex. And based on what they knew so far, at least two—maybe three—of the men who had come before Byrne had ended up dead.
“Sir,” Mead said, “did I do anything wrong last night?”
“No,” Swann said. “You did exactly what the department would expect us to do.”
Mead stuck out a hand. “It’s been great working with you, Lieutenant,” he said. “You let me know where you end up, would you?”
Swann said he would, and Mead trotted off across the street. Swann stood there for a moment, then turned and went inside Hamburger Heaven. He got five dollars in quarters and stepped outside to the pay phone. He needed to call Louis and let him know what he had just found out.
But there was one other call he needed to make first. If not for Reggie, then for himself.
He dropped in eight quarters and dialed the number. On the sixth or seventh ring, he started to wonder if maybe he had misdialed it, but then a man answered.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Dad,” Swann said. “It’s Andrew.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Byrne Kavanagh’s apartment was at the end of an L-shaped building of pink stucco and blue doors. A rusty piece of tin mounted on the roof still tagged the place as the Breezy Palms Motor Court, but a newer and bigger sign near the driveway read CORONADO EFFICIENCIES—RENT BY WEEK OR MONTH.
Louis had the passenger door open before Swann put the BMW in park. When they stepped from the car, Louis unsnapped the holster on his belt and chambered a round in his Glock. He caught Swann looking at him.
Swann hadn’t said much on the ride over to West Palm Beach, but Louis knew what he was feeling. He had just been fired. He had no gun, no badge, no legal authority to be here.
“You don’t happen to have any plastic gloves in the car, do you?” Louis asked.
“Gloves?”
“Yeah,” Louis said. “If Kavanagh doesn’t answer, we’re going in.”
Swann went to his trunk. Louis looked up at the sky. It was only a little after six P.M., but it felt much later. Storm clouds were curling in from the west, billows of black and gray, made freakier by the lasers of lightning deep within.
Swann returned with two pairs of latex gloves. Louis couldn’t help but notice that they were top-of-the-line, dusted on the inside with talc to make them easy to slip on.
Louis led Swann to apartment twelve and knocked on the door. They had stopped at the Lyons home before coming out to West Palm, hoping to grill Dic
kie on last night’s altercation with Kavanagh, but there had been no answer. Mel had stayed back in Palm Beach, his assignment to keep trying to contact Dickie or Tink.
Their job was to find Kavanagh. Maybe to get some answers about how this prostitution ring ran and what had happened to the other three men. Even more important, they had to make sure Kavanagh himself wasn’t going to become victim number four.
Louis knocked again. No answer.
Swann went to the window. The drapes were drawn, so he cupped his hands to peer through the slit between the panels.
“I can’t see much, but I don’t think there’s anyone in there,” Swann said.
Louis pounded on the door. “Kavanagh! You in there?” he yelled.
Nothing.
“Andrew, you know how to jimmy a lock?” Louis asked.
“Sure, don’t you?”
Louis didn’t answer him, not wanting to admit he’d never gotten the hang of it. Swann dug into his pockets, and while he worked the lock with a Swiss Army knife, Louis scanned the parking lot. There were six cars, a van with a flat, and a pickup with a bed full of junk. Across the street was a liquor store and a café. Light traffic, no pedestrians, and no police cars.
The lock snapped, and Louis drew his Glock and looked back at Swann, indicating that he wanted to go in first. He didn’t expect a confrontation, but there was always a chance that Kavanagh was hunkered down inside with his own weapon, so spooked he would shoot at anything that came through his door.
Louis eased the door open and stepped quickly inside. The room was gray with shadows, but he could see what he needed to see: bed, dresser, desk, nightstand. In the back of the efficiency was an exposed kitchenette. The bathroom door was wide open.
“It’s clear, Andrew,” Louis said.
Swann stepped in, closed the door, and hit the light switch.
If someone was paying Byrne Kavanagh good money for sex, he sure wasn’t spending it on his living arrangements. The place was a classic cheap Florida rental: white walls, ugly green shag, tropical-print bedspread, and plastic bamboo lamp. Clothes were strewn near the bathroom door and across the bed.
A small cry broke the silence.
Both of them spun to the bed. At first, Louis saw only a heap of clothes; then the small orange and white ball of fur took shape. A kitten, looking at him the way his own cat did each time he walked in the door: relief that its human was home and food was on its way.
The kitten jumped off the bed, and Louis saw what it had been sleeping on—a dirty white shirt with red smears.
Louis held the shirt up so Swann could see it. The spatter across the torn front was definitely blood. The lapel said EMPORIO ARMANI. It was a good guess that this was the same shirt Kavanagh had worn last night.
“Well, we know he made it home,” Louis said.
Swann nodded, holding up a pair of jeans he’d found on the floor. The knees were grass-stained, the thighs dotted with blood. Swann tossed the jeans onto the bed and turned toward the desk.
“Hold on a minute, Andrew.”
Searching someone’s correspondence was always a good way to learn more about them, but in this case, Louis wanted Swann to wait. It was important that they know what happened last night.
“Let’s take a minute and walk through this like Kavanagh would have,” Louis said. “I like to keep things linear.”
Swann looked confused but nodded.
“Okay, Kavanagh was dropped off at the Circle K, a long way from here,” Louis said. “Either he took a cab or hitched a ride. He probably didn’t get home until after three A.M.”
“Right.”
Louis motioned to the bed. “So, he stripped off his clothes here and headed to the john.”
Swann moved to the bathroom door and reached in to turn on the light. Louis stepped up next to him.
The room was a mess. Dried blood in the white basin, smears on the faucet handles, and perfect crimson fingerprints on the edge of the mirror where Kavanagh had opened the medicine cabinet.
The floor was littered with crumpled red tissues, bloody towels, and a bottle of aspirin, its contents scattered across the floor like beads from a broken necklace.
“Damn,” Swann whispered.
“What’s the matter?” Louis asked.
“Gavin should have done more,” Swann said softly. “You don’t just drop somebody who’s hurting like this on the other side of the bridge and drive away.”
The image of a police officer dumping a bloody Kavanagh on the street brought Mel’s story to mind, the one he had told Louis about Reggie sitting on a curb in Miami, beaten and left by cops to find his own way home.
“Forget it,” Louis said. “Nothing you can do about that now.”
They returned to the main room and just stood there, staring at the bed. One side was heaped with clothes, and the other side was rumpled. Blanket pulled back, blood-streaked pillow bunched against the headboard.
“He slept here last night,” Louis said.
Swann sighed and took a long look around. “But if he was in such bad shape, why did he get up today and go anywhere?”
“Maybe he went to work,” Louis said.
“You saw that bathroom. Looks like he lost a quart of blood,” Swann said. “And if he was getting money from the women, why did he need to work?”
“Well, from the looks of this place, I’d say he hasn’t been in the sex business very long. Look through his desk and see what can you find.”
Swann started sorting through envelopes and papers. Louis opened the closet and sifted through the hanging clothes. A Sears sports coat. A pair of old Levi’s and a windbreaker. Three pastel Italian shirts, a pair of Sergio Valente jeans, and two more white Armani shirts like the bloody one on the bed. Dumped at the bottom was a pile of dirty shorts, T-shirts, sneakers, and sandals. But there was also one pair of soft black loafers. Louis picked one shoe up. Bruno Magli.
“He’s a yacht monkey,” Swann said.
“What?”
“I’m sorry,” Swann said. “That’s slang for those guys who crew on yachts. It looks like his last job was for a yacht brokerage called Seven Seas. Here’s his pay stub. This check is a few weeks old.”
Louis looked back at the bloody pillowcase. He wanted to believe Kavanagh had gone to work today, but he was having a real hard time with the idea that the kid had the strength to get out of bed, let alone spend eight hours swabbing down a yacht.
“Should we call Seven Seas?” Swann asked.
Louis looked around the room. “You see a phone, Andrew?”
Swann looked around, then started moving clothes and pillows. He found a cord and followed it to the space between the bed and the wall. He came up with an old rotary phone and a black answering machine. The machine’s red message light was blinking.
“Play it,” Louis said.
Swann set the answering machine on the bed and pushed the tab. A female voice squeaked from the box, telling Kavanagh he had one new message. A male voice followed.
“Yo, Byrne, buddy, this is the boss. Where the hell were you this morning? Hey, look, I don’t care that you’re taking a better job. But you promised you’d finish this last run to Bermuda for me before you quit. Anyway, give me a call if you want your final check.”
The message ended.
Louis suddenly remembered something he had seen outside. The pickup truck with the cluttered bed. “I’ll be right back,” he said.
The stuff in the back of the truck was boating equipment—heavy blue ropes, pulleys, cleaning equipment, a pair of old Top-Siders. Louis tried the driver’s-side door, surprised to find it unlocked. The registration was in the glove box. The truck belonged to Kavanagh.
Louis searched through the stuff in the cab, looking for anything to connect Kavanagh to Dickie, Tink, Carolyn Osborn, or any of the men who had been murdered. But all he found was an empty 7-Eleven cup, half a bag of chips, and a pair of flip-flops.
He went back inside. “Kavanagh’s truck
is outside.”
“Maybe some friends picked him up and they went out for a few beers,” Swann offered.
Everything Swann was suggesting was logical. But something in his gut was telling him none of those things had happened. Kavanagh didn’t pick up his last pay check. His drawers were filled with clean clothes, and his toothbrush was in the bathroom, so he hadn’t left town.
Louis heard a cry and looked down.
The kitten looked up at him and trotted toward the kitchenette. Louis followed. The litter box in the corner held a couple days’ worth of poop, and the plastic food dish was licked dry. So was the water dish.
Damn.
Louis opened the cabinet over the sink, looking for some cat food. He spotted a box of Tender Vittles in the back. When he pulled out one of the bags of food, an envelope fell out.
It was letter-sized, a heavy cream-colored paper. Louis slipped a finger under the flap and opened it.
Money. A thin stack of bills. But all of them hundreds.
“Andrew!”
Swann came up to his side. “Jesus. How much is there?”
“Two thousand dollars,” Louis said.
“Payment from Tink Lyons?”
“Who knows?” Louis said. “Might be one night’s work or a week’s worth.”
Louis turned his attention to the envelope, hoping for initials or something, but there was nothing. He was about to slip the money back inside when he saw the embossing on the back flap. The Scotch tape had damaged part of the design, and he had to hold the envelope up to the light to define the pattern.
It was a three-petal stylized flower tied with a band. A fleur-de-lis. The same image glazed on the door of Bianca Lee’s flower shop.
“Get Mel on the phone,” Louis said. “Tell him to get his ass over to Bianca Lee’s flower shop and see if Kavanagh’s with her.”
“You think he’d go to her?” Swann asked.
Louis looked at the bloody shirt on the bed. “I don’t know,” he said. “But if she’s his new boss, I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s where he went.”
While Swann made the phone call, Louis took another look around the room to make sure they hadn’t missed anything. Just in case Kavanagh had stashed more cash, he checked everything in the kitchenette, the bottoms of the desk drawers, the base of the lamp, and under the bed.