P. Parrish - The Little Death

“Barney still among the living?” Louis asked.

“Yeah. He’s got a current PI license out of Okaloosa County up in the Panhandle, but his listed employer, Sax and Sax Services, went out of business a few months ago. So, I haven’t been able to zero in on Barney, yet but I got feelers out.”

Louis swung up to a sitting position. “Osborn told me Lassiter did stakeouts and surveillance,” he said. “What do you think the chances are he caught anything on film?”

“Not very likely,” Swann offered. “If he had, he would have used it against the senator. I’ve never heard one piece of dirt on her. In fact, she’s made her name drafting ethics reform and touting family values.”

“That don’t make her a saint, Andrew,” Mel said.

“I never said she was,” Swann said. “I’m just saying she seems like a pretty unlikely candidate for the kind of sleazy adultery we’re talking about here.”

“Let me tell you something, son,” Mel said. “When it comes to sex, no one is an unlikely candidate. Anyone with working genitals can be enticed if the drought has been long enough.”

Swann turned back to the bulletin board. Louis sensed that the conversation embarrassed him. Or maybe he had heard the slight condescension in Mel’s voice. He forgot that Mel didn’t know about Swann’s suspension yet.

“Did you ever hear of those monkeys called bonobos?” Mel asked.

“Spare us,” Louis said.

“They’re a lot like chimpanzees,” Mel went on unfazed, “but unlike chimps and gorillas, the bonobos are almost completely nonviolent and nonterritorial. And do you know why?”

“I said spare us.”

“They’re sex maniacs,” Mel said. “They have sex at every opportunity, as a greeting, a goodbye, before they eat, after they eat. They can even be passing a strange monkey in the jungle and they’ll stop and-”

“We get the picture,” Louis said. “What’s your point?”

“My point is, maybe if people were more like bonobos, they wouldn’t find themselves curled in a fetal position on a therapist’s couch. Or end up killing each other.”

Mel’s pontificating left the room in a tired kind of silence. Swann stayed at the board, studying the photographs with the expression of someone trying to figure out a piece of op art.

“I have something else to share,” Mel said.

“Enough with the bonobos,” Louis said.

Mel ignored him. “I found the manufacturer of those ostrich boots. It’s a company called Safari Soles. I called their factory in Minnesota and although the lady was very nice, she told me we would need a warrant to get access to sales records.”

“Shit,” Louis murmured.

“You know any judges here we could convince, Andrew?” Mel asked.

Swann shook his head. “Not anymore.”

Mel looked to Louis with questions, but Louis held up a hand, telling Mel not to push it. Mel shrugged and turned back to his notes.

“I’ve saved the best for last,” Mel said. “I spoke with Dr. Steffel today. Since the sword didn’t match the wounds, I wanted to ask her if she’d had any time to compare other blades and come up with something that was at least consistent.”

“Did she?”

“She thinks it was a machete,” Mel said.

Louis sat forward. “Like a cane machete?”

“She couldn’t be that specific,” Mel said. “But when she told me that, I had the same thought you’re probably having. Who in Palm Beach would have a machete lying around the mansion?”

“Tucker Osborn has one,” Swann said.

They both turned to stare at him.

“How do you know, Andrew?” Louis asked.

Swann let out a long breath. “About four years ago, I got called to a domestic there. The senator was crying, and Mr. Osborn was pretty drunk. He was waving a gun and yelling.”

Swann got quiet.

“There’s no such thing as privacy in a murder case, Andrew,” Louis said.

Swann nodded. “I had to get Mr. Osborn quieted down, so I took him into his study. That’s when I saw all the swords and stuff. He’s got a closet full of them, including machetes.”

“Who called you?” Mel asked.

“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.”