Thicker Than Water (6 page)

“You're not a lawyer, are you?” she said.

“No.”

“You don't work with Brian either, do you?”

“No.”

“What are you doing here then?”

“I'm a private investigator.”

She nodded, pursing her lips. “Working for who?”

“Jack Cade.”

She stared blankly at him for a moment, then leaned forward and snuffed her cigarette out. When she sat back again, her eyes weren't so puppy-like anymore. “You work for the man who killed my husband and you come to my home expecting me to talk to you? What, are you nuts or just stupid?”

Okay. Fun and games were obviously over.

“I'm just trying to get to the bottom of some things, Mrs. Duvall,” he said. “I'd like to just ask you a few questions—”

“I'm sure you would.”

“Did you know your husband was divorcing you?”

He waited, watching Candace Duvall's face. Damn. Nothing. No surprise, no flinch, no nothing. If the woman knew anything, she was a hell of an actress.

A flash of color caught Louis's eye and he looked to the large windows over Candace Duvall's shoulder. Someone had come onto the patio. A young man in a red Speedo. Tall, tanned, lithe as an Olympic swimmer, with flowing dark hair. He stood at the pool for a moment, then dove in, slicing the water as cleanly as a dolphin.

“I think you should go.”

Louis looked back at Candace Duvall. There wasn't a trace of warmth left in those brown eyes now.

“Mrs. Duvall—”

She jumped to her feet. “Luisa!” she bellowed.

“Hey, calm down—”

“I gave my statement to the police,” she said. “I don't have to talk to you. Now get out. Luisa!”

Louis put up his hands. “All right, I'm going.”

The maid appeared.

“Show this man out,” Candace said. “If he won't go, call the police.”

Louis went quickly to the door, the little maid at his heels.

“You better go,” she whispered, opening the bronze door.

Louis put up a hand to prop the door open over the maid's head. He glanced back at the foyer. Candace Duvall had disappeared.

“Who else is staying here?” he asked the maid.

“What?” she said.

“Who was that guy out at the pool?”

The maid frowned. “There is no one else here.” She pushed on the door.

“Is that your car?” Louis pointed at the blue Toyota.

The maid looked like he had asked her if that was her hearse. “No! Is not mine. Now, please leave! Or I will—”

“Okay, okay.”

The door closed. Louis stood for a moment on the tiled portico. With a glance up at the security camera, he went back to his Mustang. He got in, sitting there without starting the engine. He looked back at the huge white house.

He hadn't expected the place to be draped with black cloth or anything. But Spencer Duvall had been killed just before filing for divorce and his widow wasn't exactly putting out grief vibes.

Hell, what kind of vibes had Candace Duvall been putting out? She hadn't been flirting; he knew when a woman was coming on to him, and she certainly wasn't. But there had been something clearly sexual about her.

The guy out at the pool. Did Candace have a lover?

Louis stared up at the white house, his mind and senses working. Her look, her hair, her smell—damn, that was it—her smell. Shit, he knew that smell. Candace Duvall had just been clearly, unquestionably, royally, laid.

Louis pulled out a notebook and jotted down the license number of the blue Toyota, noting it was from Dade, not Lee County. He started the Mustang and threw it into reverse. But then he paused.

Something was bugging him. His senses were clicking back, trying to recall what he had seen. What he had smelled.

The slender figure in the red bathing suit came into his head again.

Oh geez . . .

Candace Duvall had a lover all right. But it wasn't a man.

Louis leaned back against the headboard and put on his glasses. He was going through the newspaper clips again and he focused now on the feature about Spencer Duvall, the one with the local-boy-makes-good angle. He had only skimmed it before, but now, after what Ellie Silvestri had told him and what he had seen at the Duvall mansion, he wanted to try to get a better picture of the man himself.

Spencer Duvall, the article said, was from Matlacha, a tiny island north of Fort Myers. Matlacha was barely bigger than the two-lane causeway road that connected it to Pine Island on the west and the mainland on the east. Matlacha—it was pronounced Mat-la-SHAY, for some reason—was home to some old motels, a few downtrodden marinas, a number of psychics and more than a few colorful watering holes, including the infamous Lob Lolly and Mulletville. Louis only knew Matlacha because Dodie was always dragging him out there to his favorite restaurant, the Snook Inn.

Duvall's mother had been a waitress and his father a charter boat worker and fishing guide. Duvall's older brother had served time for armed robbery and died in a car accident when he was just twenty-three. Duvall, on the other hand, had gone to Florida State on scholarships and come home to open his law practice in downtown Fort Myers.

Duvall had married his college sweetheart, Candace Kolke, from Quincy, a small town up near Tallahassee. They had lived in Fort Myers until 1969, when they moved to a home on Bayview Lane on Sanibel Island. Two years ago, they had razed the old house, bought the lot next door and built the white monster. It had recently been on the cover of
Florida Design
magazine. The Duvalls also had a ski lodge in Aspen and a “small villa” overlooking Baie de Saint Jean on St. Barts.

Louis took off his glasses. Baloney sandwiches and sand in the shoes, Ellie Silvestri had said. Why was he getting the feeling
he
was the one being fed a bunch of baloney?

It was starting to rain again, just as it had almost every night this week. He tossed the article aside and got up off the bed. In the kitchen, he exchanged the empty Dr Pepper for a Heineken and shut the refrigerator, leaning against it.

Spencer Duvall might have started out humble, but it looked like he got used to living the good life pretty easily, no matter what Ellie Silvestri chose to believe.

He took a drink of beer. Rich people. He had dealt with them before—many of his PI clients had more money than God. And then there were the Lillihouses back in Mississippi, putting on a facade as fancy as the one on their antebellum mansion. The rich he had known went around making their messes and then hiring other people—people like him—to clean them up.

He took another drink of the beer. Why was he in such a sour mood? He knew the answer. The deeper he got into the case, the more disgusted he was getting with the players in it.

Spencer Duvall, the warrior lawyer who made a bundle getting killers and rapists off. Candace, his bitchy-itchy wife. Lyle Bernhardt, the squirrely partner, and Brian Brenner, the weasel house-wrecker. And the Cades . . . pathetic Ronnie and his creepo father.

God, what a bunch of losers.

The rain was beating on the roof. Palmetto pounders, that's what they called big storms here. He looked back at his hand, flexed it and started back to the bedroom.

He heard the slam of the screen door and quickly after, a woman's voice.

“Kincaid?”

Louis squinted, seeing a shadow in the gloom out on the porch.

“Kincaid? It's me, Susan Outlaw.”

He moved to the open front door. She was standing on the porch, soaked, her hair matted to head, water running down her face.

“Mrs. Outlaw,” he said, stepping back to let her enter.

She didn't move. “Just what the hell are you and Jack Cade trying to pull?” she said.

“What?”

“What did you tell him?”

Damn, he had forgotten that he had told Ronnie Cade to run interference.

“What did you tell him?” she repeated. “What did you tell him you could do for him that I couldn't?”

Louis put up a hand. “I didn't tell him anything. I haven't talked to Jack Cade.”

“Well, somebody sure the hell did!”

A puddle was forming at her feet. Her mascara had left streaks down her face.

“Come on in,” he said. “I'll get you a towel.”

She came inside. Louis didn't know if she was shaking because she was cold or angry. He moved toward the bathroom, snagged a towel off the rack and came back to her.

“What did Jack Cade say to you?” he asked, holding out the towel.

She grabbed it. “He told me he would fire me if I didn't take you on,” she said.

Great . . .

“That's not all,” she said. “He also said women didn't have the balls to do what it would take to get him off.”

She wiped her face with the towel. “Tell me you didn't put those thoughts into his head,” she said.

“I didn't,” he said simply.

“Bullshit.”

Louis had to fight not to match her anger. What was it with this broad, anyway? He was willing to meet her halfway; that's all he wanted when he had asked Ronnie Cade to intercede. He took a drink of beer.

“Well, answer me,” she said, her voice rising.

“I don't have to answer to you. Or anyone else,” Louis said.

She glared at him, then threw the towel at him. He caught it against his chest. She stalked off toward the porch.

“Wait,” Louis called out.

She turned.

“Look, Cade has spent the last twenty years in prison working up a hate for the legal system and all lawyers.” He tipped his beer toward her. “That includes you, lady.”

Susan's body remained rigid.

Louis took a breath and made an effort to soften his voice. “I went to see Ronnie Cade yesterday,” he said.

She took a step back in the room. “Ronnie? Why?”

“I asked him to talk to you, to get you to . . .” he hesitated just long enough.

“To
what?”

“Man, to back off,” he said, shaking his head. “Look, we're on the same side here!” He paused. “I've decided to take the case.”

She was just standing there, staring at him. Then he saw her shoulders relax some and she brushed the wet hair from her face. Her skirt was wrinkled and she had a run in her stocking. He wondered if she had come straight from the jail to his cottage. He motioned toward a chair. She shook her head.

“I'll get it wet,” she said.

“It doesn't matter. The whole place leaks. Sit down.”

She slumped into the chair. “Why'd you change your mind about the case?”

“I don't know.”

She gave him a withering look.

“It's the truth,” he said. “I don't know why I changed my mind. Maybe I feel sorry for Ronnie.”

She snorted out a laugh.

“Maybe I'm bored, maybe I'm broke,” Louis said. “Maybe I'm crazy.”

She didn't reply and he noticed her eyeing the bottle. “You want one?” he asked.

She nodded.

When he returned from the kitchen, she had taken off her sodden high heels and was rubbing her toes. He set the beer on the table next to her and waited while she took a long drink. He watched a tiny rivulet of beer trickle from the corner of her lips. She wiped it away and looked up at him.

“Look, I could use some help on this,” she said. “I fought to get this case and I want to keep it. I've been working like a dog, but I haven't got anything.”

He could see this was hard for her. “Can Cade fire you?” he asked.

“It takes some maneuvering, but yes, he can.” She hesitated. “I could use some more help.”

“You want me to work for you?”

She looked him in the eye. “Yes, I do.”

Louis went to the kitchen and came back with a fresh beer.

“So where were you planning to start?” she asked as he took a drink.

“I already have,” Louis said, sitting on the sofa across from her. “I went and saw Bernhardt this morning.”

“A real prince, isn't he. You get anything useful?”

“Not from him. But Duvall's secretary told me she thought Duvall was getting ready to divorce his wife.”

“The secretary? She didn't mention anything like that when I talked to her.”

“I saw Duvall's lawyer to make sure, some guy named Brenner.”

“Scott or Brian?”

“There's two?”

She nodded. “Brothers. They come from good lawyer stock. Their father was an attorney here for centuries and went into politics as a state senator. He died a while back. The sons stayed local, kept the family practice going. They've made a fortune in civil work, suing doctors, insurance carriers and pharmaceutical companies.”

“Brian Brenner confirmed that Duvall was getting ready to draw up papers,” Louis said. “But get this—he claims Candace didn't know about the divorce.”

“Oh, right,” Susan said. She was frowning slightly, like she was perturbed she had missed all this.

“I found out something else,” Louis said. “Candace Duvall has a lover.”

Susan's eyes shot up. “Who is he?”

“She. It's a she.”

It took Susan a second before his comment registered.

“Fuck a duck,” she whispered. “How do you know?”

“I went to her house.”

“She let you in? How in the hell did you find out she has a lover? Did you see them?”

“Not exactly.”

“She told you?”

“No.”

Susan sat forward. “Well, how, damn it? This could be important stuff.”

Louis shifted slightly, playing with the Heineken label. “It's hard to explain.”

“Try,” Susan said dryly.

“I smelled it.”

She burst out laughing and fell back in the chair. She looked back at him. “You're kidding me, right?”

“No. It's true. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about here.”

She picked up the beer bottle, still chuckling.

“Look, I saw a woman at the house,” Louis said. “She was out at the pool, topless.”

Susan arched an eyebrow.

“Well, if Candace does have something going on the side and if she knew she was about to be dumped, wouldn't you say that could give her motive?” Louis asked.

“Motive is not a requirement to prove your prima facie case,” Susan said.

“But money is important to Candace and Florida is not a community property state,” Louis said. “Spencer could have divorced her and not given her a dime, right?”

“Theoretically,” Susan said slowly.

“I thought all you needed was to dig up something to prove reasonable doubt. This doesn't do it?”

“Only if we can prove Candace has a lover. And last time I looked, smells were not admissible evidence, Kincaid.”

She was smiling. She was enjoying this.

It took a moment, but he finally smiled. “Okay, so I'll find the topless babe.”

Susan was still smiling. “Kind of gives new meaning to the term ‘the other woman' doesn't it.”

“No shit.” Louis took a swig of beer.

Susan pulled out a business card and set it on the table. “Call me in the morning at my office and we'll work out a way to pay you.”

“I'll go see Cade tomorrow and set him straight,” Louis said.

She nodded, like she still wasn't quite comfortable accepting his help. The rain stopped. The sudden silence was deafening.

“I gotta get home,” she said, slipping on her shoes.

Louis followed her out to the porch. A strong breeze swept in from the water, catching him full in the face. He turned to look at her. Her hair was a mess, plastered to her head, but her face looked clean and smooth.

“You sure you can do this?” she asked.

“What?”

“Work the other side of the fence?”

Louis hesitated.

“If you take this job,” Susan said, “you've got to operate under the assumption that Jack Cade is innocent.”

“He killed once before. Hard for me to forget that.”

“He served his time,” Susan said.

“Twenty years isn't near enough justice.”

“That's your cop brain talking, Kincaid. Cops have their own warped idea of justice and how it should be served up.”

“That's because they see firsthand the damage these assholes do.”

“Cops seem to forget they don't work for the prosecutor.”

Louis leaned against the door jamb. “If you believe that, why are you hiring me?

She cocked her head. “I'm not sure. I get the feeling you operate with a different kind of compass. One that keeps you from crossing certain lines.”

“You don't know me, counselor.”

“I know what happened to you. I know why you're not the most popular guy in O'Sullivan's.”

Her eyes were steady on his, and he felt his chest tighten. He took a quick drink of beer to stay cool.

“Who told you?”

“A deputy I know. Then I went and did some research, read some old newspaper articles. I know that you killed a cop to protect a kid, a punk kid no one cared about.”

Louis looked past her, out at the swaying dark palms, lost in a wave of images he had thought were long buried. A blue uniform in the snow. A gun, cold in his hand.

“It was a long time ago,” Louis said.

“It cost you a lot.”

When he didn't say anything, she asked, “Do you ever think what would've happened to you if you hadn't done what you did?”

He didn't like talking about this. He hadn't talked to anyone about it, except Sam Dodie. But something made him answer.

“I don't think I could've put on a uniform again, for one thing.”

“You haven't.”

He shrugged. “I will, when the time's right.”

Susan was silent.

Louis sighed, then looked at her. “Look, I've got to be honest here. I don't like dirtbags like Cade. I don't like lawyers either. But I'm a good investigator and that's what you'll get.”