P. Parrish - The Little Death

“Swan,” Swann said.

Louis stared at him. “You speak Spanish?”

“Fluently.”

“And you still blew this woman off?” Louis asked. “Even after understanding every word she was trying to tell you?”

Swann dropped down on the edge of the bed. Louis could almost see his mental rifling of memories, and, given the pained expression on Swann’s face, his efforts to recall Rosa looked sincere.

“I think Emilio Labastide is dead,” Louis said. “And I think he was murdered.”

Swann looked up at him. “Then you did find him.”

Louis took a quick look out the bedroom door to make sure all of Barberry’s deputies were gone, then went back to Swann. It was time to bring him completely onboard the train or throw him under it.

“There was a decapitated body found over in Lee County in October of ’84, a short time after Labastide disappeared,” Louis said. “The man was buried without an ID, but I’m sure it’s Labastide.”

“How sure?”

“He matches the physical description, and he was found with a crucifix that looks a lot like the one his sister has.”

Swann sighed and leaned his head in his hands. Louis looked out at the patio, watching the easy roll of waves over the sand.

Louis knew that cops lived with regrets, all kinds of them. From not spending enough time with their families to losing their tempers with mouthy suspects. But one of the worst regrets was that one time when you found yourself standing over a dead person you had met before. And you realized that at some time in the past, maybe a month or maybe a year before, you could’ve done something better. Made one more phone call, asked one more question, stayed one more hour at your desk.

Louis watched Swann, wondering how he could lure him completely over to his side. He couldn’t help but think about that Officer of the Month certificate on Swann’s office wall and Swann’s “heroic act” of saving the drowning dog. Louis had no idea if Swann had the smarts or the mettle for a real homicide investigation. Or if he had the stones to buck his own chief.

Swann looked up at him. “What can I do to help?”

Hell, what did he have to lose?

“You ever wanted to be a spy?” Louis asked.

“Didn’t every kid?” Swann said. “Who would I be spying on?”

“Barberry.”

They met an hour later at a Dunkin’ Donuts out near the airport. Mel paid for coffee and a bag of six doughnuts, three plain and three with sprinkles. They spotted Swann sitting in the back. As they slid into the orange plastic booth, Louis noticed Swann looking around uncomfortably.

“What’s the matter?” Louis asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “I’ve never been in a Dunkin’ Donuts before.”

“We weren’t sure you’d even know what a Dunkin’ Donuts was,” Mel said. “That’s why we gave you such detailed directions.”

“Oh, I’ve heard about these places,” he said. “This is where the real cops hang out, right?”

For about three seconds, the table was uneasily silent, then Swann broke into a grin. “Relax, guys. Let’s get this meeting going. I’ve only got an hour.”

“First, we need to know what Barberry has told you that we might not know,” Louis said.

“I know he’s still looking for that luxury car that was seen in Clewiston. He told me to ask around the island about cars Kent could have borrowed.”

“Did you?”

“I questioned Kent, and he said he regularly borrowed cars from some of his ‘lady friends,’ as he calls them. They even give him extra keys. I checked and found out two of them are light-colored luxury cars that could match the one seen going through Clewiston. So I approached the two women at a party I was working last weekend and discreetly asked them about it. Both said Kent hadn’t asked to borrow their cars in quite some time.”

“That helps,” Mel said. “Is there anything else we can use to eliminate Reggie as a suspect?”

“Not with regard to Durand’s murder,” Swann said. “But what about that other guy? Labastide? When was he killed?”

“The ME speculated he was killed two nights before he was found,” Louis said. “That makes it October 31, 1984. But I don’t think that will do us much good. What kind of person knows exactly where they were on a given night five years ago?”

Swann smiled. “I can tell you where Kent probably was.”

“Where?”

“Margery Laroche’s birthday party. Every year, she throws herself a Halloween birthday bash,” Swann said. “We work security and parking. I’d bet my job Kent was there.”

“Please tell me she keeps guest lists,” Mel said.

“Even better. Most of the names would have been printed in the Shiny Sheet along with a slew of pictures. It’s a big deal because everyone’s in costumes. And knowing Margery Laroche, she would have kept a copy of the paper.”

“Great,” Louis said. “I’ll go back and ask her about them.”

“That’s useful only if we can tie these two murders together,” Mel said. “But for right now, we need to find something to clear him of Durand’s murder.”

“You guys know about the cowboys out at the Archer ranch?” Swann asked.

“Cowmen,” Mel said.

“What?”

“They like to be called cowmen.”

Swann just stared at him.

“We know they found Durand’s body and that Barberry took all of their whips,” Louis said.

“The reports said that none of the whips had any human blood on them, and Dr. Steffel said that the one used on Durand was leather. The ones Barberry confiscated were nylon,” Swann said.

“Doesn’t mean they didn’t have leather whips somewhere else,” Mel said.

“Did you get to read any of the statements Barberry took from them?” Louis asked.

Swann shook his head. “No. But as far as I know, Barberry never seriously pursued any of the Archer workers as suspects. Never even ran backgrounds on any of them.”

“Jesus,” Mel muttered.

“Did you two talk to any of them?” Swann asked.

“No,” Louis said. He picked up a doughnut. It had lost some sprinkles, and he wet his finger to dab them up as he talked. “But we talked to the boss, a guy named Burke Aubry. He seemed sure none of them was involved. Said they wouldn’t desecrate the ranch land like that.”

“Not just the ranch land, Rocky,” Mel said. “Devil’s Garden.”

“What’s Devil’s Garden?” Swann asked.

“The area of the ranch where Durand was killed,” Louis said. “The family gave it to the state as a preserve.”

“The guy found over in Lee County,” Swann said. “How far is that from this Devil’s Garden?”

“About thirty miles,” Louis said. “But the weirder thing is, that body was found by a cowboy who worked for the Archers.”

Swann’s brow wrinkled. “That’s a helluva coincidence. So, tell me again why we’re taking this Aubry guy’s word that his men are innocent?”

Again, Louis noticed Swann’s use of the pronoun we . The guy obviously wanted in on this.

“We’re not,” Louis said. “But we could save ourselves some time if we had their statements so we could check them out for ourselves. Can you do that for us?”

Swann nodded. “No problem.”

Louis pulled his notebook out again and flipped it open to the first empty page. For a cop, it was easy to sit down at a computer and summarize a witness interview or input leads and have it all at your fingertips when the puzzle pieces started to fall into place. But as a PI whose cases had ranged as far as the northern woods of Michigan, he had learned to rely on notebooks with colored tabs.

He flipped to the back. “What’s your home phone, Andrew?”

Swann reached into his wallet and pulled out a business card. Louis stuck it in his pocket.