P. Parrish - The Little Death

The image of a police officer dumping a bloody Kavanagh on the street brought Mel’s story to mind, the one he had told Louis about Reggie sitting on a curb in Miami, beaten and left by cops to find his own way home.

“Forget it,” Louis said. “Nothing you can do about that now.”

They returned to the main room and just stood there, staring at the bed. One side was heaped with clothes, and the other side was rumpled. Blanket pulled back, blood-streaked pillow bunched against the headboard.

“He slept here last night,” Louis said.

Swann sighed and took a long look around. “But if he was in such bad shape, why did he get up today and go anywhere?”

“Maybe he went to work,” Louis said.

“You saw that bathroom. Looks like he lost a quart of blood,” Swann said. “And if he was getting money from the women, why did he need to work?”

“Well, from the looks of this place, I’d say he hasn’t been in the sex business very long. Look through his desk and see what can you find.”

Swann started sorting through envelopes and papers. Louis opened the closet and sifted through the hanging clothes. A Sears sports coat. A pair of old Levi’s and a windbreaker. Three pastel Italian shirts, a pair of Sergio Valente jeans, and two more white Armani shirts like the bloody one on the bed. Dumped at the bottom was a pile of dirty shorts, T-shirts, sneakers, and sandals. But there was also one pair of soft black loafers. Louis picked one shoe up. Bruno Magli.

“He’s a yacht monkey,” Swann said.

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” Swann said. “That’s slang for those guys who crew on yachts. It looks like his last job was for a yacht brokerage called Seven Seas. Here’s his pay stub. This check is a few weeks old.”

Louis looked back at the bloody pillowcase. He wanted to believe Kavanagh had gone to work today, but he was having a real hard time with the idea that the kid had the strength to get out of bed, let alone spend eight hours swabbing down a yacht.

“Should we call Seven Seas?” Swann asked.

Louis looked around the room. “You see a phone, Andrew?”

Swann looked around, then started moving clothes and pillows. He found a cord and followed it to the space between the bed and the wall. He came up with an old rotary phone and a black answering machine. The machine’s red message light was blinking.

“Play it,” Louis said.

Swann set the answering machine on the bed and pushed the tab. A female voice squeaked from the box, telling Kavanagh he had one new message. A male voice followed.

“Yo, Byrne, buddy, this is the boss. Where the hell were you this morning? Hey, look, I don’t care that you’re taking a better job. But you promised you’d finish this last run to Bermuda for me before you quit. Anyway, give me a call if you want your final check.”

The message ended.

Louis suddenly remembered something he had seen outside. The pickup truck with the cluttered bed. “I’ll be right back,” he said.

The stuff in the back of the truck was boating equipment-heavy blue ropes, pulleys, cleaning equipment, a pair of old Top-Siders. Louis tried the driver’s-side door, surprised to find it unlocked. The registration was in the glove box. The truck belonged to Kavanagh.

Louis searched through the stuff in the cab, looking for anything to connect Kavanagh to Dickie, Tink, Carolyn Osborn, or any of the men who had been murdered. But all he found was an empty 7-Eleven cup, half a bag of chips, and a pair of flip-flops.

He went back inside. “Kavanagh’s truck is outside.”

“Maybe some friends picked him up and they went out for a few beers,” Swann offered.

Everything Swann was suggesting was logical. But something in his gut was telling him none of those things had happened. Kavanagh didn’t pick up his last pay check. His drawers were filled with clean clothes, and his toothbrush was in the bathroom, so he hadn’t left town.

Louis heard a cry and looked down.

The kitten looked up at him and trotted toward the kitchenette. Louis followed. The litter box in the corner held a couple days’ worth of poop, and the plastic food dish was licked dry. So was the water dish.

Damn.

Louis opened the cabinet over the sink, looking for some cat food. He spotted a box of Tender Vittles in the back. When he pulled out one of the bags of food, an envelope fell out.

It was letter-sized, a heavy cream-colored paper. Louis slipped a finger under the flap and opened it.

Money. A thin stack of bills. But all of them hundreds.

“Andrew!”

Swann came up to his side. “Jesus. How much is there?”

“Two thousand dollars,” Louis said.

“Payment from Tink Lyons?”

“Who knows?” Louis said. “Might be one night’s work or a week’s worth.”

Louis turned his attention to the envelope, hoping for initials or something, but there was nothing. He was about to slip the money back inside when he saw the embossing on the back flap. The Scotch tape had damaged part of the design, and he had to hold the envelope up to the light to define the pattern.

It was a three-petal stylized flower tied with a band. A fleur-de-lis. The same image glazed on the door of Bianca Lee’s flower shop.

“Get Mel on the phone,” Louis said. “Tell him to get his ass over to Bianca Lee’s flower shop and see if Kavanagh’s with her.”

“You think he’d go to her?” Swann asked.

Louis looked at the bloody shirt on the bed. “I don’t know,” he said. “But if she’s his new boss, I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s where he went.”

While Swann made the phone call, Louis took another look around the room to make sure they hadn’t missed anything. Just in case Kavanagh had stashed more cash, he checked everything in the kitchenette, the bottoms of the desk drawers, the base of the lamp, and under the bed.

Swann hung up. “Mel says he’s getting Yuba to drive him over there right now. I told him we’d call back in about thirty minutes to see what he found out.”

Louis pushed to his feet. “Then let’s go.”

Swann pocketed the envelope, turned off the light, and followed Louis outside. It was raining now, big fat drops that hit the ground like small water balloons. Louis waited under the overhang while Swann fiddled with the doorknob to make sure it would lock again.

Suddenly, two gold eyes appeared in the window.

“Ah, shit,” Louis whispered.

“What’s the matter?”

“Don’t lock the door yet,” Louis said.

“Why?”

Louis headed back inside. “We have to take the cat,” he said. “I have a bad feeling Kavanagh might not be coming home tonight.”

Bianca Lee stood at the window looking down at the courtyard. He was still there. What was the matter with him? Then she remembered some gossip she had heard. The guy was blind or something. Maybe he couldn’t see the closed sign she had put on the window of the flower shop.

She wondered where the black guy was. And why the hell was his partner banging on her door?

It was starting to rain. The bald guy looked up toward her window, pulled up the collar of his jacket, and scurried to a Honda waiting at the curb. Bianca caught a glimpse of the dark-haired woman at the wheel before the car pulled away down Worth Avenue.

Bianca let the drape fall and turned back to her small living room, to the man lying on her sofa.

“How’s your head?” she asked.

He didn’t look at her, didn’t even move.

She sat down next to him and took the folded towel from his head. The gash on his scalp was deep, matting his dark hair with blood. His right eye was swollen shut, the ugly purple bruise spreading down his cheek. His lip was split and probably needed stitches. But she couldn’t risk taking him to the hospital. She was almost shaking with anger as she looked down at Byrne Kavanagh’s beautiful, shattered face.