P. Parrish - The Little Death

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.

“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-”