The Little Death (2 page)

His radio crackled, but he didn’t hear it. His brain
was far away, and suddenly, the memories he had tried so hard to bury were right there with him again. Another spread of blood, a different body. Once again, the outsiders would come here, men with guns, badges, and questions. Once again, he would have to stand silent and watch as the waves ate away yet more of his island.

The pain hit him, a knife to the heart, and he closed his eyes.

The wind died suddenly, and the quiet moved in.

He looked up, to where the fog had burned off, leaving a hole in the sky. He blinked rapidly to keep the tears away, watching the patch of sky until it turned from blue velvet to gray flannel.

An owl hooted. A hawk screamed. Then came the soft mewing cries of the catbirds. The day was coming alive in this place of death.

Chapter Two
 

The top was down on the Mustang, and the road ahead was empty. Louis Kincaid was not sure exactly where he was going.

He had never driven this road before. On all of his trips over to the east coast, he had taken Alligator Alley, which cut a straight, expedient slash across the Everglades from Naples to Fort Lauderdale. Always in the past, he had arrived quickly, done his job, and headed straight back home.

But this time, an impulse he did not understand had led him to the back roads.

The map told him he had to stay on US-80, but the highway had changed names several times already, narrowing to meander through cattle pastures and tomato farms, offering up a red-planked barbecue joint, a sun-burnt nursery, or a psychic’s bungalow. Three times, the speed limit dropped, and US-80 became Main Street, passing Alva’s white-steepled church, La Belle’s old courthouse, and Clewiston’s strip malls. From there, the towns fell away, leaving only the vast flat expanse of the sugarcane fields, broken by a row of high power lines, marching like giant alien soldiers to the horizon.

The wind was hot on Louis’s face and the scenery was a blur of color—the high green curtain of the cane and the denim of the December sky. The sun was behind him, and he had a strong urge to turn the car around and head back home. But he had made a promise and had to see this thing through.

Soon he reached the sprawling suburbs of West Palm Beach. The fast-food joints and gas stations grew denser the farther east the car went, ending in the pastel warren of old downtown West Palm Beach.

At the Intracoastal, Louis steered the Mustang onto a low-slung bridge that connected the mainland to the barrier island. He had the thought that the bridge looked nothing like the one that led from Fort Myers over to his island home on the Gulf. The Sanibel– Captiva causeway was a plain concrete expanse that leapfrogged across rocky beaches dotted with kids and wading fishermen.

This one looked like the drawbridge to a Mediterranean castle, complete with two ornamental guard towers.

The bridge emptied onto a broad boulevard lined with majestic royal palms and fortresslike buildings that looked like banks. There was no welcome sign, no signs anywhere. He guessed he was in Palm Beach now.

“Mel, wake up,” he said.

No sound or movement from the passenger seat.

Louis reached over and jabbed the lump. “Mel! Wake up!”

“What?”

“We’re here. Where do I go?”

Mel Landeta sat up with a grunt, adjusted his sunglasses, and looked around.

“Take a right on South County Road,” he said.

“Where? There’s no street signs.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t been here in a long time. The island’s only fourteen miles long and a mile wide. If you hit the ocean, you’ve gone too far.”

Louis spotted the street name painted on the curb and hung a right. The financial citadels of the boulevard gave way to boutiques and restaurants.

“Where we meeting this guy?” Louis asked.

“Some place called Ta-boo. Two more blocks and hang a right onto Worth Avenue. You can’t miss it, believe me.”

In the three years Louis had been in Florida—despite the fact his PI cases had taken him from Tallahassee to Miami—he had never made it over to Palm Beach. But he knew what Worth Avenue was: the Rodeo Drive of the South, minus the movie stars. He slowed the Mustang to a crawl, looking for a parking spot. Some of the store names he recognized—Armani, Gucci, Dior, Cartier—but most didn’t register. What did register was the almost
creepy cleanliness of the street. From the blinding white of the pavement to the gleaming metal of the Jaguars and Bentleys at curbside, Worth Avenue had the antiseptic look of an operating room.

He pulled the Mustang in behind a black and gold Corniche. Mel sniffed the air like a dog. “Ah, the sweet smell of money.”

The only thing Louis could smell was perfume. It took him a moment to realize it was wafting out on an arctic stream of air-conditioning from the open door of the Chanel boutique. A security guard, dressed in blue suit and tie, was stationed just inside the door.

Mel got out and stretched. He pulled his black sports coat from the backseat and slipped it on, then looked at Louis.

“Did you bring a jacket?” he asked.

Louis stared at him.

“A sports coat,” Mel said. “I told you to pack one.”

“It’s eighty degrees,” Louis said.

“Get it,” Mel said.

Stifling a sigh, Louis popped the trunk and shook out his blue blazer. The Chanel guard had come out to stand just outside the door and was watching him.

“Hey, buddy,” Mel called out. “Which way is Ta-boo?”

The guard’s eyes swung to Mel, giving him the once-over before he spoke. “Two blocks back,” he said.

They headed east down the wide sidewalk, pausing at a corner for a Mercedes to turn. Louis’s gaze traveled up the imposing coral stone façade of the Tiffany & Co. building to the statue of Atlas balancing a clock. It was one-forty. They were late.

“You still haven’t told me how you know this guy,” Louis said as they started across the street.

“I knew him when I was with Miami PD,” Mel said. “I helped him out once when he got in a jam.”

This was certainly more than a jam, Louis thought. Reggie Kent was the prime suspect in a murder. A murder gruesome enough to have made the papers over in Fort Myers. A decapitated body had been found in the fields on the westernmost fringe of Palm Beach County. The head had not been found, but the mutilated corpse was identified as a Palm Beach man named Mark Durand.

The sheriff’s department had connected the dots, and they had led sixty miles east and across the bridge, right to Reggie Kent’s island doorstep.

That was all he knew, Mel had said. Other than Reggie Kent was scared shitless. And that he was innocent, of course.

“This must be the place,” Mel said.

The restaurant’s large open window framed two blond women sitting at a table sipping drinks. Inside, it was as cool and dark as a tomb, the long, narrow room dominated by a sleek bar. Beyond, through a latticed entrance, Louis could see a main dining room.

Louis knew that Mel probably couldn’t see well. His retinitis pigmentosa allowed him to see blurred images if the light was bright, but at night or in the dimness of a bar, he needed help. Not that Mel would ask.

“What’s this Reggie guy look like?” Louis asked.

“I haven’t seen him in ten years. Blond, stocky. Nice-looking guy, I guess.”

The bar was packed, mainly with more blondes, who
had given them a quick, dismissive once-over. There was a man sitting at the far end, waving a hand. Louis led Mel through a sea of silk and tanned legs.

The guy who had signaled them slid off his zebra-print bar stool. “Mel,” he said, “My God, you haven’t changed a bit.”

“Neither have you, Reggie,” Mel said, sticking out his hand.

Louis knew Mel couldn’t see the guy well, but the lie brought a smile to Reggie Kent’s face as he shook Mel’s hand. In the blue reflected light of the saltwater aquarium behind the bar, Louis could see Reggie’s face clearly. He was probably about fifty, but his round, pale face had an oddly juvenile look. His skin was pink and shiny, almost like the slick skin of a burn victim. Wisps of blond hair hung over wide blue eyes. He wore a pink oxford shirt beneath a light blue linen blazer and white slacks.

As Reggie Kent hefted himself back onto the bar stool he revealed a glimpse of bare pink ankle above soft navy loafers. The whole effect made Louis think of a giant Kewpie doll.

“You’ve saved my life,” Reggie Kent said.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Mel said.

“Yes, yes, of course.” Reggie ran a hand over his brow. The bar was frigid, but Louis could see a sheen of sweat on the man’s face.

“This is Louis Kincaid, the guy I told you about,” Mel said, nodding.

Reggie focused on Louis. “You’re the private investigator.”

His voice had dropped to a whisper, and his blue eyes
honed in on Louis with intense curiosity before darting away. “You need a drink. How rude of me. Yuba!”

The bartender appeared, a tall woman with long, sleek black hair and almond-colored skin, wearing a white shirt and a black vest.

“You need a refill?” she said in a softly accented voice.

“Yes, another Rodnik gimlet. And whatever my friends are having. Just put it on my tab.”

The woman hesitated.

“What?” Reggie asked.

“Don says I can’t run a tab for you anymore,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry, Reggie.”

Even in the dim light, Louis could see the red creep into Reggie’s face. Louis pulled out his wallet and tossed a twenty onto the bar. “Bring us two Heinekens and the gimlet,” he said.

The bartender nodded and left.

Reggie was staring at something beyond Louis’s shoulder. Louis turned and saw two women looking at Reggie and whispering.

The bartender brought the drinks and eyed the twenty. “That’s fifty-six dollars, sir.”

“What?” Louis said.

Mel laughed.

Louis dug out two more twenties. “Keep the change.”

The woman took the bills and left.

“Nice tip,” Mel said.

“It’s all I had,” Louis said.

Mel took a drink of beer. “All right, Reggie, why don’t you tell us exactly what is going on?”

Reggie was still staring at the two women, and when
his eyes came back to Mel, they were moist. “Let’s move to a table,” he said.

They picked up their drinks and followed Reggie from the bar. He paused at the latticed entrance to the dining room, then veered right into an alcove. When they were seated, Reggie took a thin blue pack of Gauloises from his jacket and lit a cigarette. He nodded toward the other room.

“That used to be my table, that one by the fireplace,” he said. “They’re trying to slowly kill me. Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?”

Mel looked at Louis. “Who’s ‘they’?”

“Everyone,” Reggie said. “This whole town.”

“Why don’t we start at the beginning?” Mel said.

Reggie took a big drink of the gimlet. “Well, it’s like I told you on the phone. Four days ago, they found Mark’s body out in the fields, and then they just showed up at my door and told me I had to come into the police station to answer some questions.” He paused, shutting his eyes. “I had to go to that place and identify him. He… had no head. But he had this birthmark on his chest and—”

Mel interrupted him. “This Mark guy was a friend of yours?”

Reggie managed a nod.

“A good friend?” Mel asked.

Reggie picked up his glass and drained it. “Not really. I only knew him for a year, I guess.”

“So why were the police so interested in talking to you?” Louis asked.

Reggie took a moment to meet Louis’s eyes. “We were kind of in business together.”

“What kind of business?”

Reggie looked to Mel.

“You have to tell to us, Reggie,” Mel said.

Reggie blew out a long stream of cigarette smoke. “I’m a walker.”

“What, like a dog walker?” Louis asked.

“Dog? Oh, good Lord, no,” Reggie said. “A walker is… well, an escort of sorts.” Reggie saw the look on Louis’s face and held up a hand. “Not what you are thinking, I assure you. It’s rather hard to explain.”

Louis and Mel exchanged looks.

“Suppose you try,” Mel said. “You know, like we’re in fifth grade?”

Reggie looked to the dining room. “See that woman sitting by the fireplace? That blonde in the chartreuse Chanel suit?”

Louis and Mel swiveled to look. Louis focused on a woman in green with cotton-candy hair. Her face had the same taut look as Reggie’s, and had the lighting been kinder, she might have been mistaken for being in her fifties. But her neck and hands betrayed her as somewhere past seventy.

“That’s Rusty Newsome,” Reggie said. “I was supposed to escort her to the Heart Ball on Saturday. Her husband, Chick, never goes to anything, so I always take her.” He met Louis’s eyes. “That’s what I do. I take women to dinner or charity balls or the club. I pay attention to them if their husbands are too bored… or too dead.”

“You make a living at this?” Louis asked.

Reggie gave him a small smile. “There’s a lot of clubs in this town and a lot of widows in each club.”

“They pay you?” Louis asked.

Reggie tilted his chin up. “Sometimes they give me a little cash. Sometimes they give me little gifts. It’s not just about the money, you see. It’s about having a door into a life I could not really afford on my own.”