P. Parrish - The Little Death

Except Byrne.

A splash of red caught Carolyn’s eye. There was a potted red orchid sitting on a workbench.

How had this happened? How had she allowed it to get so out of control? How had something so normal turned into something so ugly?

Normal… was that even the right word?

She stared at the orchid.

Was finding comfort in a man’s arms normal? Was trying to feel beautiful normal? Was feeling wanted and needed normal?

Was sex normal, if you had to pay for it?

She wondered if Tucker ever thought of things like this when he was with one of his women. No, it was different for men. They had their affairs, hid the costs in the company books, and left no tracks or traces. Even if they got careless, there were snickers in the cabanas and whispers in the banquettes of Au Bar but no one was ever kicked out of the fraternity.

But the women… they couldn’t ever be careless.

They couldn’t just book at room at the Brazilian Court.

They couldn’t just write a check.

They couldn’t do it alone.

So, they had formed a sorority. They shared lovers, and they shared the secret. Bianca funneled the women’s checks through her florist shop books under the guise of a charity, taking a handsome cut for her trouble. They called it the Orchid Society.

Five years, five men. A new one each season. Bianca found the men, checked their backgrounds, groomed them, dressed them. Bianca knew what each of the women liked. She knew what the men could do, because she had bedded each man herself.

And by the time a man walked into one of the bedrooms on the island, he was as rare and perfect a specimen as the red orchid he carried.

Carolyn looked away from the orchid to Tink. She had to take control again.

“Where’s Byrne?” Carolyn asked quietly, moving away from Tink.

“Upstairs,” Bianca whispered.

“Is he all right?”

Bianca gave a tired shrug. “I gave him a couple of Percocets.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him what you told me to say, that he’d get his money and he could leave.” She paused. “But I think we need to do more for him.”

“More? Like what?”

“More money,” Bianca said.

“How much?”

“Fifty grand.”

Carolyn just stared at her. “Are you insane? Why should we give him that much money? He didn’t even make it through the season, for God’s sake. He’s trying to blackmail us.”

Bianca shook her head. “All he wants to do is take his cat, go buy a boat, and start over somewhere.”

“What makes you think he’ll keep his mouth shut? What makes you think he won’t be back here in six months asking for more money?”

“He’s not like Mark, Carolyn. He’s a good kid.”

Carolyn was silent. She had been with Byrne only once, and he did seem harmless enough. Maybe he would be content just to drift away like Paul and the others had. But there was no way to be sure, no way to know she could trust him. And after what had happened with Mark, she had to be certain.

As for Bianca, she wasn’t sure she could even trust her anymore. Even if they managed to get fifty grand in cash together tonight, how could they be sure it wouldn’t end up in Bianca’s bank account?

No, there was no room for error now. There was no room for trust.

A soft groan drew Carolyn’s eyes to the corner. Tink…

They should never have allowed her into the society in the first place. She certainly couldn’t be trusted now. Maybe they could convince her that Byrne had simply left, but Carolyn knew Tink was too fragile mentally. And now that those detectives were on Dickie’s trail, they would be after Tink. And if Tink was pushed, she would break. She would tell them what happened to Mark.

A sound in the front part of the shop made Carolyn jump. The door opening and closing. She felt Bianca come up beside her, and they both looked toward the curtain.

It parted, and a woman stood there, hands on hips. She jerked off her rain hat and shook out her red hair.

“All right, which one of you bitches called this meeting?” Sam said.

As usual, Barberry made them wait. They were sit- ting on a bench in an empty hallway a short distance away from the double doors of the Violent Crimes squad room. The background noise was a familiar mix of radio chatter, men’s voices, and distant sirens.

Louis had just gotten off the pay phone with Mel. There had been no lights on in Fleur de Lee and no answer at the door. Mel told him he also called the shop, hoping the business phone might be forwarded to Bianca’s home, but there had been no answer.

Since none of them had any law-enforcement authority, there was no way to locate a home address for Bianca or issue an APB for Byrne Kavanagh. They had no choice but to come back begging to Barberry.

Louis watched two deputies come down the hall. Their yellow slickers were dripping. Evidently, it was still raining like hell.

Swann was hunched forward, elbows on his knees, his hair still dripping water into the collar of his shirt. Louis had his head back against the wall, eyes closed. The kitten was in the Mustang, sleeping peacefully in a pillowcase. It was a trick Louis had learned a few years ago when he had to transport Issy to the vet and couldn’t find the cat carrier.

The bang of a door drew Louis’s eyes up. Barberry came toward them, an ugly tweed jacket slung over his shoulder and a pack of Camel cigarettes in his shirt pocket. So much for willpower, Louis thought.

Barberry kept his eyes on Swann as he came forward, taking obvious pleasure that there was no badge on Swann’s chest or belt.

“Guess things didn’t work out for you so well over there on Fantasy Island, huh?” Barberry asked.

Swann crossed his arms, and Louis watched the two of them stare at each other. Swann had come close to slugging Barberry once, and that was when he still had a job to worry about. Now that he didn’t, Louis wasn’t sure how much he was going to take from this dimwit, and he didn’t need Swann tossed in jail on an assault charge.

“Detective,” Louis said, “we need your help.”

Barberry turned to Louis. “What for?”

“We have a young man who’s missing,” Louis said. “He fits the same victim profile as the others, and he got the crap beat out of him last night by a jealous husband.”

Barberry sighed. “And I care about this why?”

Louis drew a slow breath before he went on. “Look, Detective,” he said, “we have three guys we think were fooling around with married women. They’re dead. Now we have a fourth man who was doing the same thing, and he’s missing. All we want from you is help finding him before he ends up dead.”

Barberry pulled at his chin. “Okay, I’ll give you a few minutes to convince me to call out the troops, but this time, I want to know everything you got on this. Everything.”

Louis had no faith that Barberry would do them any favors, but he also had no choice but to give him what he wanted and hope he had a sliver of decency. Finding Kavanagh would take a statewide APB, massive man-hours, and some legal authority to bust open a few doors. Things only Barberry could do.

“Talk, Kincaid.”

As Louis recapped the entire investigation, Barberry listened, his brow arching with interest at the mention of Senator Carolyn Osborn but then furrowing with skepticism when Louis tried to explain Bianca’s role as a madam.

But even as Louis wound his story down, he saw from Barberry’ superior expression that he had just surrendered whatever leverage he had.

Suddenly, Louis understood the man. Barberry wasn’t stupid, incompetent, or small-minded. He was just plain lazy, wanting others to do his work for him and then pissing on them so he could take the credit.