P. Parrish - The Little Death

“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.”

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 Dickie 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.”