Thicker Than Water (23 page)

Louis waited in the first floor lobby of Brenner's office building, watching the glass doors for Mobley. It was ten minutes after five. Where was he? A Lee County cruiser pulled up and Mobley got out. Louis held the door open for him.

“You ready for this?” Mobely asked.

Louis nodded.

At the elevator, Mobley jabbed at the button. His dark green uniform looked fresh from its dry-cleaner plastic. He looked rested but grim. Louis's eyes dropped to the folder in Mobley's hands. He wished he knew how Mobley was going to handle this. What the hell did he plan to say?

The doors opened and they stepped into the Brenner reception area. The receptionist's desk was empty; Mobley led the way past it, down the short hall to Scott's office. The door was open.

Scott was picking up his suit coat and paused, his eyes moving from Mobley to Louis. Louis knew he was trying his damndest to figure out what they were doing here together.

“Evening, guys,” Scott said, shrugging on his coat. “Something I can do for you?”

“Is Brian here, Scott?” Mobley asked.

“No, he left early,” Scott said, looking again at Louis. “Is there something wrong?”

Mobley hesitated. “We need to talk to you.”

Scott looked puzzled, but motioned to the chairs in front of his desk. “Please, sit down.”

Mobley didn't move. “There's been a couple things come up in the Kitty Jagger investigation I thought you should know about.”

Scott's face brightened. “Oh, well. Good. I need all the leverage I can get for the motion to retry.”

Mobley drew in a breath. “Scott, we think Brian raped and murdered Kitty Jagger.”

Scott froze, his eyes locked on Mobley's face. Then placing both hands on his desk, slowly sat down.

“Lance, you've known Brian and me since high school,” he said quietly. “You know he couldn't have . . .” Scott's voice trailed off.

Mobley glanced at Louis, then stepped forward. “Scott, listen to me.”

“No,” Scott said, shaking his head. “You're wrong.”

“We're not wrong,” Mobley said. “We think Brian picked Kitty up after work and took her to your house. Then something went wrong.”

Louis resisted the urge to cut in.
Jesus Christ, how much was he going to tell him?

“After he killed her,” Mobley went on, “he threw her body in the dump, and tossed the panties in Cade's truck, which we know he saw every morning in your neighborhood.”

Scott tightened, closing his eyes, trying to hold himself together.

“Scott, we need your help on this,” Mobley said. “Brian was a kid. We understand that.”

“He didn't do this,” Scott said, his voice stronger.

“Then ask him to submit to a blood test.”

Scott's head was down and his eyes were closed. It was quiet enough that Louis could hear the ring of a telephone out on the secretary's desk. It rang for a long time before the person finally gave up.

Scott pushed himself up from his desk. Slowly, he straightened his lapels and touched his tie. A change came over his expression, like he had suddenly slipped on a mask that didn't quite fit.

“Since I am the attorney of record for my brother, I am ending this conversation now,” he said.

“Scott, c'mon,” Mobley said. “You're a civil lawyer. Get him somebody who can help him, for chrissake.”

“Brian and I have a standing retainer with each other. He's my attorney and I am his. Now get out. Now.”

Mobley shook his head. “Not yet, Scott. I have search warrants here.”

“For
what?”

Mobley stepped forward and laid them one by one on Scott's desk.

“For Brian's office. For his apartment. And for the house on Shaddlelee Lane.”

The sun was going down by the time they got to the Brenner mansion. The circular drive around the fountain was crowded with squad cars from the Sheriff's Department and Fort Myers Police.

The deputies and detectives, waiting near the front door, turned to look as Louis got out of Mobley's car. Scott's gray Mercedes pulled up and he got out. The three of them went up the steps to the old wood door.

Mobley turned to Scott. “You got the key?”

Scott unlocked the door and stepped back. Mobley pushed it open and went through first. Louis followed.

The smell of mildew and must swirled up like a cool vapor in the close, dark foyer.

Mobley turned to Scott. “I told FP&L to turn on the power. Where's the light switch?”

Scott hit a wall and the foyer lit up. Louis looked up at the wrought iron chandelier. Only a couple of the bulbs still worked and the weak light followed the black chain up, disappearing into the shadows three stories above.

“How many rooms, Scott?” Mobley asked.

Scott hesitated. “Five bedrooms upstairs, the baths . . .” His voice trailed off. He was looking around, solemn-faced, like childhood memories were crowding out all other thoughts. Louis watched him carefully, wondering if he was seeing Brian in his mind, his young brother bringing Kitty into their house.

“Len, take a couple guys and go upstairs,” Mobley said to one of the deputies. “Chris, you start on the downstairs rooms.”

The men split up, leaving the three of them in the foyer. Mobley's eyes were traveling over the cracked plaster walls. Without a word, he walked slowly into the dark living room. The thud of his boots on the old wood floors echoed through the empty room. He punched a wall switch and one of the two sconces over the fireplace lit up, bathing the room in a sickly yellow glow.

Louis saw Scott's eyes take in the obscenity the vandals had scribbled on the wall.

Mobley was on the move again, and Louis followed him through the dining room, where a crystal chandelier hung dark and the china cabinets stood empty. In the stale air of the kitchen, Mobley punched another light. The florescent bulbs gave out a feeble flicker that made the place look unnervingly like Vince's autopsy room. Louis scanned the kitchen, with its scarred wood counters and old black and white tiles, veined with age.

Louis heard a creaking sound above his head and looked up. It was just the footsteps of the deputies searching the bedrooms. Louis looked back at Mobley's face. He knew what he was thinking. The old house was filled with mold and decay, but it held no secrets. Whatever had happened that April night twenty years ago had happened out in the cabana.

“What else is down here, Scott?” Mobley asked.

“Just my father's study,” Scott said.

“Point the way.”

Scott led them back to a closed door off the living room. It opened with a groan and Scott found a wall switch. A chandelier came to life, illuminating a wood-paneled room. Mahogany bookcases lined three walls, broken by windows with dusty old plantation shutters. The third wall was papered in a dusky blue. The plaster ceiling was cracked, with bits of it laying on the old wood floor.

The study reminded Louis a little of Spencer Duvall's law office. And he could almost see Duvall sitting across from the old man's desk, striking his Faustian bargain. He could even make out the outline on the dusty floor where the desk would have been.

Louis's eyes wandered up the blue wallpaper. What he first had thought was a pattern he now realized were just darker spots on the blue paper. He turned to the windows. They faced the east and he could imagine that when the shutters were open, the morning sun fell full-force on the opposite blue wall, fading the paper over the decades.

He looked back at it. The darker blue patches were silhouettes. Silhouettes of guns.

“Scott,” Louis said, “did your father collect guns?”

Scott was looking at the outlines on the wall. “Yes, he did.”

Louis looked back at Mobley and could tell he was thinking the same thing.

“Where are the guns now, Scott?” Mobley asked.

“We sold them to a dealer after Dad died,” Scott said.

He noticed Louis and Mobley exchange glances. “Duvall was shot with a collector's gun,” he said quietly. He drew in a quick breath. “Wait a minute, if you think Brian—”

Mobley held up a hand. “Let's take this one step at a time, Scott.”

A couple of the deputies came in at that moment. Mobley turned to the tech guy. “I want photos of this wall,” he said, pointing, then he looked at Louis.

“Let's go look outside,” he said.

They exited the house by the French doors that Brian had taken Louis through on his first visit. For a moment, the three of them just stood on the coral rock patio. The night was ripe with the brackish smell of the river and night-blooming jasmine. At the end of the long yard, Louis could make out the white boathouse and the red lights of a boat making its way down the black ribbon of the Caloosahatchee River.

Mobley led the way down the crumbling steps to the overgrown path. The only light came from a half moon low in the night sky, and as they picked their way toward the cabana, Mobley flicked on a flashlight.

“Remember that party you had here, Scott,” Mobley said. “Homecoming, senior year. We snuck down to the boathouse with a six-pack of Pabst.”

Scott didn't answer him.

They stopped. The pool was a gaping gray hole in the faint light, the cabana behind it a dark outline against the tall ficus hedges.

Mobley swung his flashlight beam into the pool. The dark green water was filmed with scum. The smell of decay hung in the still, humid air.

Louis looked back at the house. The deputies were searching the second floor, and the play of their flashlights on the palm trees looked almost festive. For a moment, he could see in his mind what the Brenner house must have looked like once, when boys in madras shirts and girls in gold paisley necked on the lawn and snuck off to sip beers in the boathouse. He could see what an outsider like Kitty must have seen that night.

“Any lights out here, Scott?” Mobley said.

“I . . . I don't know if it still works.” Scott disappeared and, a moment later, a spotlight came on, illuminating the decrepit cabana and the cracked patio. The pool light had come on too, sending a beam out into the ghastly green water.

Louis moved toward the cabana and tugged on one of the French doors. It stuck, and Louis had to pull it open, scraping it across the patio stone.

He went inside.

It was dark, except for small lasers of light that came in through the shutters. He felt for a light and turned it on.

It was a simple room, about twelve-by-twelve. Old wicker furniture was piled against one wall, and over in one corner was a shower stall with a rusty shower head. The floor was cement painted gray, the walls tiled in blue and peach.

Len, one of the tech guys, came to the door, holding a plastic bottle and a portable light. “Is this the place?”

“Yeah,” Mobley said, coming in.

Len slipped in behind Louis and Louis heard Mobley let out a sigh. “You know what a long shot this is, right Kincaid?” Mobley said.

Louis nodded.

Len started in one corner, spraying the first wall, from the floor to about four feet above, with luminol. He nodded at Mobley, standing near the door.

Mobley hit the switch and the cabana went dark. Louis anticipated the glow of the phosphorescent blue that would have signaled the smallest speck of blood. Len flicked on the portable luminol light.

Nothing.

“Do the others,” Mobley said, flicking the lights back on.

Len sprayed the second and third walls. Again nothing. After the fourth wall, Mobley hit the lights again. Len ran the light over the tiles in a slow caress. Nothing.

Mobley turned on the light and looked at Louis.

“Check the ceiling,” Louis said.

Len glanced at Mobley. Mobley nodded. Len pulled an old wicker chair to the middle of the floor and climbed on it, spraying the ceiling. Again, there was nothing when the lights were turned off.

Louis was staring at the floor, his eyes drawn to the drain near the shower. “Try the shower stall. Near the drain.”

Just as Len was flicking on the portable light, Scott appeared at the cabana door. Louis looked back at him but couldn't read his expression in the dark. A man came up behind Scott. It took Louis a moment to recognize Brian. Louis watched as Scott leaned over and whispered something to his brother. Then they stepped outside.

Louis watched. They had stopped by the pool. Brian was shaking his head; Scott was doing all the talking.

“Nothing here, Sheriff.”

Louis turned back to Len, who was on his knees by the shower stall holding the portable light. Mobley was kneeling next to him. When he looked up at Louis, his face was grim in the ghostly blue light.

“There's nothing here, Kincaid.” He got to his feet and went to hit the wall switch. “Twenty years is a long time.”

Louis paused, looking at the wall. He was thinking about the ugly green tile in Susan's kitchen and the cracked black and white tiles up in the mansion. He ran a hand over the peach and blue tiles and in the grout crevices between. These tiles looked clean in comparison.

He was remembering what Vince said:
She had almost bled out. It would have left a big mess.

A mess that Brian had not been able to clean up. So his father had ordered all the old tile ripped out and new tile installed. Louis looked at Mobley.

“This isn't the original tile,” he said.

He pursed his lips, then turned to Len. “Go get the axe from your cruiser, Len,” he said.

When Len returned, Louis held out a hand. Len looked at Mobley, who nodded. Len handed him the axe. Louis took a step back and aimed at a section of the wall near the shower.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

They turned to see Scott standing at the cabana door. “You can't tear up walls,” Scott shouted.

“Read the warrant, Scott,” Mobley said.

Louis swung the axe. It cracked into the tile, scattering chips at his feet.

Louis swung again, and this time the axe cut through the wall and lodged in the empty space behind it. Louis pulled the axe free and looked at the sheet rock. Using the sharp edge of the axe, Louis began to pry off the tiles. Mobley came up next him and started popping them off with his pocket knife. When they had cleared a couple square feet up from the floor, Mobley waved Len to come over with the luminol.

Nothing. They moved onto another section, popping tiles, spraying the luminol and lighting the sheet rock. Still nothing. The sheet rock was clean.

They went on to the next wall, then the third, chipping out sections of the tiles and spraying the sheet rock beneath. Finally, after a half-hour, they stopped. The air was heavy with dust and the sound of ragged breathing.

A coughing sound made Louis turn. Brian was holding a Kleenex over his nose. Scott was just standing there, leaning against the doorjamb, his arms crossed, his mouth pulled in a tight line.

“I think you're done here, Sheriff,” Scott said.

Mobley nodded at Len, who started to pack up. Louis was staring at the walls, at the gashes, the gray sheet rock and the jagged tiles. He turned when Mobley put a hand on his shoulder.

“Enough,” Mobley said quietly. “There's nothing here.”

“Damn it, Lance, she was stabbed twelve times,” Louis said tightly. He threw the axe down in frustration. “Not one fucking drop of blood on these walls.”

Mobley moved away, talking quietly to the other deputies who had gathered near the door. Louis could hear him giving orders to start packing up. He could hear Scott and Brian too, whispering.

Louis stared at the ravaged walls. She was
here
damn it. He knew she was here. He could almost feel her presence, almost see what had happened. He could almost see—

Walls.
No walls.

He took a step closer, staring at a torn piece of sheet rock.
Maybe there were no walls here when she was killed.

Louis grabbed the edge of a torn piece of sheet rock, and jerked backward, ripping off the entire board. There was nothing beyond it but studs and the old lath and plaster backing. No blood stains.

He heard Scott call to Mobley, but he didn't turn. He moved to the next piece of sheet rock, curling his fingers over the side edge.

“Sheriff, this is fucking crazy,” Scott said.

Then he felt a hand on his back.

“Kincaid—” Mobley said.

Louis shrugged Mobley off and yanked at another piece of sheet rock, breaking it off. He threw it down and pulled again.

“Louis!”

The wood groaned and the rest of the panel popped off, sending Louis stumbling backward.

A flash of red caught his eye and he struggled to gain his balance. The cabana fell silent, a film of white dust in the air.

He moved closer.

Fabric. A billow of red. And a yellow cloth that seemed suspended in the air between the two-by-fours.

Then he saw the bones. It was a full skeleton, bent in a fetal position. The arm and leg bones had dropped away but most of it was still intact, the skull lodged against a stud, balanced on top of the vertebrae.

A strange cry pierced the silence and Louis spun around.

Brian was staring at the bones in the wall, his face white.

“I left her in the dump!” he shouted. “How could she be here? I left her in the dump!”

Scott grabbed his brother's shoulder. “Shut up,” he hissed, pushing him backward. “Shut up!”

Louis and Mobley followed them from cabana. Brian was muttering Kitty's name, waving his arms. Scott finally grabbed his shoulders, drawing Brian so close he had no choice but to walk with him. Scott led him toward the grass, and eased him down.

Brian was crying.

Mobley started toward them, but Scott waved him off. Scott knelt in front of Brian, leaned close and said something to him. After a moment, Brian shuddered and gently placed his forehead against his brother's.