The Little Death (35 page)

Swann was standing there. His khakis were wrinkled, his pink polo shirt stained, his jaw stubbled with whiskers. But it was his expression that worried Louis.

“You sick, Andrew?”

Swann shook his head slowly. “No. I just called my answering machine. My chief is looking for me. He wants to see me this afternoon.”

“Did he say why?” Louis asked.

Swann shook his head again. “I guess I better go home and get cleaned up.”

His eyes, red-rimmed and empty, drifted toward the ocean. Louis knew he was thinking that when he came back, he might not have a badge.

He watched Swann walk away.

And what did a cop do when he couldn’t make it even in a place like this?

Chapter Thirty
 

Swann waited in the hall outside Chief Hewitt’s office. He wore clean khakis, a white dress shirt, and blue blazer. But this afternoon, for the first time since his job interview six years ago, he had a bright pink visitor’s badge clipped to his lapel.

The chief’s door opened, and Hewitt poked his head out. He was a small man, with trimmed salt-and-pepper hair and a narrow mustache so perfect in its shape and color that some of the officers joked that it was fake.

“Andrew, good of you to be on time,” Hewitt said. “Come on in.”

It was the largest office in the building, designed to make a tasteful but unquestioned statement about the importance of the man who occupied it. On one side of the room was a long glass conference table set with twelve high-back chairs of blue leather. The right side belonged to Chief Hewitt. The glass and chrome was standard in this place, but Hewitt had things that were uniquely his and, Swann realized, unique to this place, such as a framed photo of Hewitt and Prince Charles and a coat-rack with an array of “emergency” clothing: fresh shirt and jacket, a ceremonial dress uniform, and a tuxedo.

The walls held an arrangement of awards and certificates and the chief’s cherished display of celebrity letters
from Douglas Fairbanks Jr., astronaut Edgar Mitchell, and Jimmy Buffett, plus one of his most prized pieces, a note from Donald Trump, thanking the chief for providing security during the renovation of Mar-a-Lago.

“This situation saddens me greatly, Andrew,” Hewitt said.

Swann looked back at Hewitt. His chief was standing near his desk, his hand resting on a green personnel file. The lettering on the tab was easy to read:
SWANN, ANDREW T
.

“It’s unpleasant for me, too, sir,” Swann said.

Hewitt pursed his lips, nodding as if he was mulling something over, but Swann suspected he was simply stalling. With a sliver of hope that he might remain employed, Swann stayed silent and tried to look relaxed.

“We do things a little differently on this island, Andrew,” Hewitt said. “I thought you knew that.”

“I do.”

“The people here expect a higher standard of service than you might see elsewhere,” Hewitt said.

“Pardon me, sir,” Swann said, “but what could be better service than fighting to save an innocent man?”

Hewitt was quiet, his fingers dancing lightly on the file.

“Determining Mr. Kent’s guilt or innocence isn’t up to you.”

“Making sure all the facts are brought to light is my job, sir,” Swann said.

“The case is not in our jurisdiction.”

“But Mr. Kent is,” Swann said. “I couldn’t stand by and watch that jerk in the Sheriff’s Office railroad him because of what he is.”

Hewitt’s eyes were steady on his. Swann didn’t look away. Somewhere from another part of the station, Swann could hear Muzak playing. Christmas carols.

“Before you came in today, I was having second thoughts about my decision to let you go,” Hewitt said. “But given this new attitude of yours, I think this is for the best.”

“May I ask exactly why I am being fired?” Swann asked.

Hewitt stared at him, as if that had been the last question he expected.

“Did I break a specific rule, sir?”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Hewitt said. “You failed to conduct yourself in a way that reflects positively on your department and your community.”

“I was trying to be a police officer,” Swann said. “I was trying to do what was right, not just what looked right.”

Hewitt’s mouth drew into a hard line. “I’m sorry this didn’t work out, Andrew. I am a great admirer of your father. Please give him my best.”

Swann looked at the wall of letters, then at the tuxedo hanging behind Hewitt.

“I need to have your keys, badge, ID, and gun,” Hewitt said. “You know the gun’s city property.”

Swann pulled out his police wallet and keys and laid them on the desk. He unhooked his holster and set it next to his badge. Hewitt gathered them up and put everything in his desk drawer. He picked up a plain white envelope.

“Your final paycheck and two weeks’ severance,” Hewitt said.

Swann accepted it. “I need to get some personal things from my office,” he said. “Do you want to call an officer in to oversee things?”

Hewitt shook his head. “Of course not,” he said. “I trust you completely.”

Swann shook Hewitt’s hand and left. He went to his office. The drapes were still adjusted to where he liked them. No one had packed up his clock, his books, the picture of his dog, or the sweaters and jackets in the closet.

His in-box held a neat stack of yesterday’s paperwork. Apparently, his admin clerk had not yet been advised to send the daily logs and reports on to someone else.

Let it go. Just pack and leave.

Swann found an empty box in the hall and packed up his things. He took his certificates and Officer of the Year plaque down, hesitating only a second before tossing them into the trash. He took a few minutes to go through his Rolodex and pull out a few personal numbers he wanted to keep. As he stuffed the cards into his pocket, he looked again at the daily reports.

Screwed or not by the department, he felt it wasn’t professional to let the reports sit there. The detectives or the city attorney might need them to process a case, and if the reports sat too long, something might get misplaced.

Swann gathered them up and started toward the door, intending to return them to the clerk so she could redirect them to the right supervisor. Habit drew his eye to the activity log as he walked.

Out-of-service traffic light at South County and Royal Way.

Barking dog.

Intruder.

Swann stopped so he could read the details of the intruder call. False alarms and prowler calls were common enough, but few ever resulted in an actual person getting inside one of the businesses or homes.

Time: 1:34
A.M.

Address: 67 South Ocean Boulevard.

Reporting party: Tricia (Tink) Lyons.

Disposition: Intruder located and removed from property.

Tink Lyons?

Swann turned back and dumped the reports on the desk, looking for the separate report that would contain the details of the incident. He found it quickly. Across the top of the page was the officer’s name, Gavin Mead, plus Lyons’s address and the name and address of the intruder, Byrne Kavanagh.

Swann read on.

I, Officer Gavin Mead, responded to a call of an intruder at a residence on South Ocean Boulevard. I encountered Mr. Richard Lyons and unknown subject in the front yard. Subject was unarmed, cooperative and provided ID in the name of Byrne Kavanagh. Mr. Lyons declined to press charges and I removed the subject Kavanagh from the premises and took no further action. End report.

Swann sighed. Patrolman Mead was young and, like all service people here, well trained. One of his skills as a cop was the art of knowing the difference between what he saw and what he was
supposed
to see.

And Swann had no doubt that Mead had seen a lot more than he had written.

He checked his watch. It was almost four
P.M.
and the swing-shift officers, including Mead, would be wandering in soon. Swann knew Mead was always on time and always got dropped off by his girlfriend across the street at Hamburger Heaven. Swann would wait for him there.

Mead saw him as soon as he shut the car door. With a glance at the station, he took off his sunglasses and came toward Swann. He had the look of a boy who’d just learned his father had been charged with a crime.

Swann understood. Like everyone in the department, Mead knew Swann had been suspended and maybe had already heard he’d been let go. It had to rattle the kid a little. Swann had been his training officer and then his boss for the last four years. If there was anyone to trust in that building, it was this kid.

“Did they fire you?” Mead asked.

“Yeah,” Swann said. “But I’ll be fine. You just need to keep going in there every day and do your job. Understand?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you for being here so you could tell me yourself.”

“Well, that’s not the only reason I’m here,” Swann said. “I wanted to ask you some questions about a call you took last night at the Lyons house.”

“Oh, wow,” Mead said. “That was a weird one.”

“I need to know exactly what the scene looked like when you walked up.”

Mead’s eyes slipped to the station across the street. “You sure I can tell you all this?”

“It’s important, Gavin.”

Mead nodded. “Well, you know it’s a long walk from the cruiser up their drive. I was hustling, because Dispatch said there might be an altercation between the intruder and Mr. Lyons, but as soon as I got there, I saw Mr. Lyons already had the subject subdued and was trying to drag him somewhere.”

“In which direction?”

Mead shrugged. “I wasn’t sure,” he said. “Maybe around the side of the house. It was hard to tell, with the place looking like a jungle and all.”

“Was Kavanagh fighting him? Struggling?”

“No, sir,” Mead said. “Mr. Kavanagh wasn’t in any shape to fight anyone. Mr. Lyons had already kicked the crap out of him.”

“What did he look like?” Swann asked.

“Who?”

“Byrne Kavanagh.”

“I told you, he was beat up.”

“No, physical characteristics. Clothing.”

“Oh,” Mead said. “He was wearing jeans and a nice white shirt, but it was all bloody. I recall from his stats, he was twenty-three, six foot, and one-sixty.”

“Was he a good-looking guy?”

“Sir?”

“The kind of guy women would like?”

Mead shrugged. “He looked like the kind of guy you see in a catalogue.”

“Where was Mrs. Lyons while you were in the yard?”

“She was hanging around the open front door,” Mead said. “One time, when she came out into the porch light, I caught a glimpse of her. It was a little freaky.”

“Why? Was she hurt, too?”

“No, but she was all dressed up,” Mead said. “Hair ribbons and this ruffly white dress.”

“A wedding dress?”

“No, it looked more like one of those old-fashioned doll dresses.”

“Did Mrs. Lyons say anything?”

“She just whimpered and mumbled a lot,” Mead said. “Mostly about making sure Mr. Kavanagh wasn’t hurt—wait—she called him Byrne.”

“So, she knew him?”

Mead looked away for a moment, then sighed. “I really hate assuming things, sir, and I know we’re supposed to keep our thoughts to ourselves, but…”

“Say it, Gavin.”

“I got the impression that Mr. Lyons had come home unexpectedly and interrupted Mrs. Lyons and Mr. Kavanagh playing some sort of… um… sexual game, if you get my drift.”

“You don’t think Mr. Lyons knew him?”

“Mr. Lyons was pretty drunk, sir,” Mead said. “It was hard to understand most of what he was yelling, but I can say with some certainty that he didn’t.”

“Why are you so sure?”

“Because when I walked up, I noticed Mr. Lyons had Mr. Kavanagh’s wallet in his hand. When I told him I couldn’t leave without removing Mr. Kavanagh, Mr. Lyons threw the wallet down and said, ‘It doesn’t matter, I know who he is now, anyway.’”

“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.