The Little Death (18 page)
The clock chimed, its sweet sound carrying in the stillness of the house. She waited until she counted twelve chimes, then slid from the bed and went downstairs.
The marble was cold on her feet as she went quickly through the rooms. The white lights of the Christmas tree glowed in the dark. At the front door, she opened the small box and punched in the code to deactivate the alarm.
She hurried to the back of the house, passing the closed door of the study without a glance. At the French doors, she paused, looking out over the patio. The pool lights cast shimmering shadows on the swaying palm trees.
She switched off the lights, and the pool went dark. She unlocked the door.
Her heart was beating too fast, and she thought briefly of her doctor and his warnings. But she didn’t care. It felt good. And it had been a while since she felt good.
She retraced her steps through the house and up the sweeping staircase. All of the rooms were dark; she had made sure of that. There was no one in the huge house but her; she had made doubly sure of that, even sending Greg on his way early with the excuse that she was too tired to work.
Back in her bedroom, she paused. Everything was just right. Fresh new linens, the lights on dim. The candle, smelling of orange blossoms—
was that a cliché?
—glowed on the night table. She felt a twinge of guilt over
the candle—
what kind of woman spent $300 for one candle at Neiman’s?
—but she didn’t care. She had simply wanted it.
She went to the dressing table, looked down at the selection of perfume bottles, and picked up the small, square crystal bottle. She removed the stopper and ran it over the skin between her breasts, then put the bottle of Jicky perfume back in its place. She paused, looking at the larger bottle hidden behind the others. She picked it up, pulled out the stopper, and brought the bottle up to her lips. She closed her eyes as the scotch burned down her throat.
After wiping her lips, she replaced the stopper and put the bottle back in its place.
She moved to the French doors and opened them. She stepped out onto the balcony. A wafer-white moon hung over the ocean, and a cool wind was blowing in. She closed her eyes at the feel of her nipples hardening against the silk of her nightgown.
“Carolyn?”
She turned. He was standing in the doorway, as if waiting for her permission to come in. Which is exactly what he was doing, she realized suddenly.
How sweet. How different from the others.
“Come here,” she said.
As he came forward, his features were a blur. But that was as she had planned it. That was why she hadn’t bothered to put in her contacts. That is why she had broken her promise to herself and had the scotch. She wanted all of the edges to be gone. She wanted nothing but softness.
He held out the ceramic pot. “I was told to give this to you,” he said.
The accent… she had not heard him speak much that first time, and she hadn’t realized how lovely his accent was.
She took the ceramic pot and set it on the night table, then turned back to him. He was wearing jeans and a plain white dress shirt. He smelled like soap. Simple and clean, just the way she wanted it to be, just as she had requested.
“You’re English?” she asked.
“Irish.”
“What kind of name is Byrne?”
“It’s Gaelic. I think it means raven.”
His smile touched her.
“Byrne,” she whispered. And she closed her eyes.
She was grateful that he understood that it was a signal. She was grateful that when his hands encircled her waist, they were gentle. She was grateful that when his lips touched hers, they were soft.
His breath was warm at her ear. “Your husband?”
“Not here,” she whispered.
Then it was a dance as he firmly but slowly led her to the bed. She so loved being led. It was such a relief from the rest of her life.
She lay back in the fresh sheets. He was a beautiful blur as he undressed, just candle-gold skin and dark hair. When his body covered hers, she groaned and moved against him.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked.
“Whatever you want,” she said.
She closed her eyes and felt his hands at her neck and then moving down under the silk to her breast. As he removed her gown, his hands were rough, and she had a vision
of him as he might look when he was at work—tan and hard, pulling on the ropes.
“Tie me,” she whispered.
“What?”
“There’s rope… there by the bed. Tie me, please.”
She closed her eyes and raised her arms over her head. He was gentle as he looped the rope over her wrists and around the bedposts. His hands were trembling.
“Tighter,” she said.
“I don’t want—”
“Tighter.”
She cried out as he pulled the rope snug. Then he was kissing her, and she clung to an image of herself riding a sleek white yacht over huge blue ocean waves.
But it wasn’t enough. She was too nervous, she was
thinking
too much, she was always
thinking
too much. Why couldn’t she just let go? He would lose patience, just like the last one did, and it would all be ruined.
Tears formed in her eyes. She had to try it; she had to be brave and try it.
“Your hands,” she said. “Put your hands at my neck.”
“What?” he panted.
“Put your hands around my neck.”
“Listen, lady—”
“Carolyn, I’m Carolyn, oh, please.” She was crying.
“Don’t cry. Jesus, don’t cry. I… okay…”
She felt his hands encircle her neck.
“Tighter,” she said.
His hands pressed into her throat. “More, tighter…”
“You tell me when it’s—”
“Yes, yes,” she gasped. “Do it, do it, please.”
When he entered her, she cried out. And as he came,
his fingers closed tighter in a reflexive grip. The instinct to fight was there, but her hands were tied. When the orgasm came, she felt the world slipping away.
The next thing she remembered was the feel of something soft and wet on her face. She opened her eyes with a start. He was kneeling over her, sweating, holding a towel.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Good God,” he said. And he fell back against the headboard in relief.
She couldn’t move. Her head hurt. Her body felt like liquid. He undid the ropes and pulled her to his chest. He kissed her bruised wrists and her neck over and over.
She drifted into sleep, and when she woke, he was gone. She heard the clock downstairs chime twice. She picked up the phone and dialed the number.
“It’s Carolyn,” she said when the person picked up.
Her eyes fell on the red orchid on the night table.
“He was beautiful,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
Mr. Kincaid?”
Jesus, what time was it?
“Mr. Kincaid?”
“Hold on a sec.”
Louis moved the phone to his other ear and snatched his watch from the nightstand. Eight-fifteen in the morning.
“Mr. Kincaid? Are you there?”
“Yeah, Kent, I’m here. Start over. I missed what you said.”
Reggie’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The police are here,” he said. “That detestable man Barberry and Lieutenant Swann. But they brought others with them, and they’re everywhere.”
“Calm down. Did they show you a search warrant?”
“They showed me a piece of paper. Can’t you and Mel just come here and do something?”
Louis put a foot against Mel’s mattress and shook the bed. Mel grumbled and rolled to his side.
“Do you know a lawyer you can call, Kent?” Louis asked.
“I know a hundred, but they all cost money,” Reggie said. “Please. Are you coming?”
Louis wanted to tell him private eyes cost money, too, but he didn’t. “Yeah. Sit tight, and don’t get in Barberry’s way, or he’ll arrest you. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Thank you, Mr. Kincaid. Thank you so much.”
Louis hung up and grabbed his jeans, kicking Mel’s bed two more times before he finished dressing. Mel finally came to life, crawled from the bed, and stumbled to the bathroom. Through a crack in the door and over the sound of gargling, Louis told Mel about the search warrant being served at Reggie Kent’s house.
Fifteen minutes later, they pulled the Mustang to a stop at the end of Reggie’s driveway, behind a Palm Beach police car. One of Barberry’s deputies stood on the porch, arms crossed, eyes shaded by mirrored sunglasses.
Louis was debating how to get past the guy when Reggie emerged from the house. He was barefoot and
still in his robe, a white terry-cloth thing haphazardly tied. His wispy yellow hair was electrified with static. He stopped in front of Louis and thrust the search warrant into his hand.
“They’re tearing apart Mark’s room,” Reggie said. “Can they do that?”
Louis scanned the warrant. It was standard stuff—the right to confiscate any and all possible evidence related to the disappearance and homicide of Mark Durand. It went on to list every conceivable thing human beings could have in their homes.
Louis gave the warrant back to Reggie and looked at the house. The front door was open, but Louis couldn’t see much inside. It looked like Barberry had a full team of officers and techs.
“Have they taken anything of interest?” Louis asked. “Anything you think might look bad for you?”
Reggie shook his head. “How could they? There is no evidence. I didn’t kill Mark. I told you that.”
“Calm down.”
Barberry came out the front door. He wore a mustard-yellow sports coat and chocolate-colored pants. Louis’s eyes locked on the items he was carrying.
In one hand, he held a clear plastic evidence bag that contained a pair of men’s work boots caked with dried mud. They were the kind of heavy-treaded boot that left a distinct print in soft ground. In his other hand, Barberry held an exotic-looking sword in an elaborate gold scabbard.
Barberry came down the drive, stopped near Reggie, and held up the plastic bag. “You recognize these, Mr. Kent?”
Reggie seemed to have a hard time tearing his stunned gaze from the sword. Louis wasn’t sure how to read his surprise. Did he not know that either of these things was in the house, or was he horrified that he hadn’t thought to dispose of them?
“Answer me, Kent,” Barberry said. “Do you recognize these boots?”
“You don’t have to answer anything, Reg,” Mel said.
Barberry looked at Mel. “When did you become a goddamn lawyer?”
Reggie suddenly found some courage. He straightened his shoulders, pushed out his chest, and pointed to the boots. “Lots of men I know wear those kinds of boots,” he said. “On any given night of the week, you can go over to Kashmir’s and find half a dozen. But those are not mine. I’ve never even owned a pair like that.”
“Maybe you borrowed them the night you took Durand for a ride out to the middle of nowhere and chopped off his head with this.”
With the flair of a B-movie detective, Barberry raised the sword. Reggie leaned backward.
“I’ve never see that before, either. And I certainly didn’t use it to cut off anyone’s head.”
Barberry snorted and turned to Swann, who had come up behind him. He handed off the sword and the plastic bag and looked back at Reggie as he reached for his handcuffs.
“You can put it all in a statement down at the jail,” Barberry said. “You’re under arrest.”
Reggie’s eyes widened, and he started to back-pedal, any indignation suddenly evaporating. Barberry grabbed his arm, and Reggie’s eyes swung to Louis and Mel for help. Louis knew Reggie was one step away from having his face pushed into the concrete.
“Kent, relax,” Louis said.
“But he’s arresting me!”
Barberry spun Reggie around and shoved him toward a palmetto palm. Reggie stumbled, and Louis was going to catch him, but Mel was faster. He caught Reggie by the shoulders and held on to him as he threw Barberry a glare. Then he bent down and whispered something in Reggie’s ear.
Breathless, Reggie nodded and slowly put both of his shaking hands behind his back. Barberry snapped on the cuffs and started a clenched-jaw recitation of Reggie’s rights. But Reggie, head down and fighting tears, was listening to Mel’s quiet advice.
“Come on, Kent,” Barberry said. “Let’s go.”
Barberry dragged Reggie toward the unmarked cruiser, and Louis followed. He had a few things he wanted to say, but he needed to wait until Reggie was in the backseat.
Barberry pushed Reggie into the car and slammed the door. He knew Louis was hanging nearby, but he walked around the car to the driver’s-side door and opened it.
“Detective,” Louis called. “Can you give me a minute?”
“What for?”
“Got a question.”
Barberry slammed the door hard enough to jiggle the car, making it clear he didn’t want Reggie to overhear any of this. “Make it quick.”
“Why didn’t you tell us that you have twenty other suspects?”
“What the fuck you talking about?”
“The workers at the Archer Ranch. Twenty guys with whips.”
“None of them cowboys killed Durand.”
“And even if they did, you wouldn’t break much of a sweat trying to make a case against them, would you?”
Barberry’s upper lip curled. “You calling me a bigot or some kind of fairy hater?”