Soon he reached the sprawling suburbs of West Palm Beach. The fast-food joints and gas stations grew denser the farther east the car went, ending in the pastel warren of old downtown West Palm Beach.
At the Intracoastal, Louis steered the Mustang onto a low-slung bridge that connected the mainland to the barrier island. He had the thought that the bridge looked nothing like the one that led from Fort Myers over to his island home on the Gulf. The Sanibel- Captiva causeway was a plain concrete expanse that leapfrogged across rocky beaches dotted with kids and wading fishermen.
This one looked like the drawbridge to a Mediterranean castle, complete with two ornamental guard towers.
The bridge emptied onto a broad boulevard lined with majestic royal palms and fortresslike buildings that looked like banks. There was no welcome sign, no signs anywhere. He guessed he was in Palm Beach now.
“Mel, wake up,” he said.
No sound or movement from the passenger seat.
Louis reached over and jabbed the lump. “Mel! Wake up!”
“What?”
“We’re here. Where do I go?”
Mel Landeta sat up with a grunt, adjusted his sunglasses, and looked around.
“Take a right on South County Road,” he said.
“Where? There’s no street signs.”
“I don’t know. I haven’t been here in a long time. The island’s only fourteen miles long and a mile wide. If you hit the ocean, you’ve gone too far.”
Louis spotted the street name painted on the curb and hung a right. The financial citadels of the boulevard gave way to boutiques and restaurants.
“Where we meeting this guy?” Louis asked.
“Some place called Ta-boo. Two more blocks and hang a right onto Worth Avenue. You can’t miss it, believe me.”
In the three years Louis had been in Florida-despite the fact his PI cases had taken him from Tallahassee to Miami-he had never made it over to Palm Beach. But he knew what Worth Avenue was: the Rodeo Drive of the South, minus the movie stars. He slowed the Mustang to a crawl, looking for a parking spot. Some of the store names he recognized-Armani, Gucci, Dior, Cartier-but most didn’t register. What did register was the almost creepy cleanliness of the street. From the blinding white of the pavement to the gleaming metal of the Jaguars and Bentleys at curbside, Worth Avenue had the antiseptic look of an operating room.
He pulled the Mustang in behind a black and gold Corniche. Mel sniffed the air like a dog. “Ah, the sweet smell of money.”
The only thing Louis could smell was perfume. It took him a moment to realize it was wafting out on an arctic stream of air-conditioning from the open door of the Chanel boutique. A security guard, dressed in blue suit and tie, was stationed just inside the door.
Mel got out and stretched. He pulled his black sports coat from the backseat and slipped it on, then looked at Louis.
“Did you bring a jacket?” he asked.
Louis stared at him.
“A sports coat,” Mel said. “I told you to pack one.”
“It’s eighty degrees,” Louis said.
“Get it,” Mel said.
Stifling a sigh, Louis popped the trunk and shook out his blue blazer. The Chanel guard had come out to stand just outside the door and was watching him.
“Hey, buddy,” Mel called out. “Which way is Ta-boo?”
The guard’s eyes swung to Mel, giving him the once-over before he spoke. “Two blocks back,” he said.
They headed east down the wide sidewalk, pausing at a corner for a Mercedes to turn. Louis’s gaze traveled up the imposing coral stone façade of the Tiffany amp; Co. building to the statue of Atlas balancing a clock. It was one-forty. They were late.
“You still haven’t told me how you know this guy,” Louis said as they started across the street.
“I knew him when I was with Miami PD,” Mel said. “I helped him out once when he got in a jam.”
This was certainly more than a jam, Louis thought. Reggie Kent was the prime suspect in a murder. A murder gruesome enough to have made the papers over in Fort Myers. A decapitated body had been found in the fields on the westernmost fringe of Palm Beach County. The head had not been found, but the mutilated corpse was identified as a Palm Beach man named Mark Durand.
The sheriff’s department had connected the dots, and they had led sixty miles east and across the bridge, right to Reggie Kent’s island doorstep.
That was all he knew, Mel had said. Other than Reggie Kent was scared shitless. And that he was innocent, of course.
“This must be the place,” Mel said.
The restaurant’s large open window framed two blond women sitting at a table sipping drinks. Inside, it was as cool and dark as a tomb, the long, narrow room dominated by a sleek bar. Beyond, through a latticed entrance, Louis could see a main dining room.
Louis knew that Mel probably couldn’t see well. His retinitis pigmentosa allowed him to see blurred images if the light was bright, but at night or in the dimness of a bar, he needed help. Not that Mel would ask.
“What’s this Reggie guy look like?” Louis asked.
“I haven’t seen him in ten years. Blond, stocky. Nice-looking guy, I guess.”
The bar was packed, mainly with more blondes, who had given them a quick, dismissive once-over. There was a man sitting at the far end, waving a hand. Louis led Mel through a sea of silk and tanned legs.
The guy who had signaled them slid off his zebra-print bar stool. “Mel,” he said, “My God, you haven’t changed a bit.”
“Neither have you, Reggie,” Mel said, sticking out his hand.
Louis knew Mel couldn’t see the guy well, but the lie brought a smile to Reggie Kent’s face as he shook Mel’s hand. In the blue reflected light of the saltwater aquarium behind the bar, Louis could see Reggie’s face clearly. He was probably about fifty, but his round, pale face had an oddly juvenile look. His skin was pink and shiny, almost like the slick skin of a burn victim. Wisps of blond hair hung over wide blue eyes. He wore a pink oxford shirt beneath a light blue linen blazer and white slacks.
As Reggie Kent hefted himself back onto the bar stool he revealed a glimpse of bare pink ankle above soft navy loafers. The whole effect made Louis think of a giant Kewpie doll.
“You’ve saved my life,” Reggie Kent said.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Mel said.
“Yes, yes, of course.” Reggie ran a hand over his brow. The bar was frigid, but Louis could see a sheen of sweat on the man’s face.
“This is Louis Kincaid, the guy I told you about,” Mel said, nodding.
Reggie focused on Louis. “You’re the private investigator.”
His voice had dropped to a whisper, and his blue eyes honed in on Louis with intense curiosity before darting away. “You need a drink. How rude of me. Yuba!”
The bartender appeared, a tall woman with long, sleek black hair and almond-colored skin, wearing a white shirt and a black vest.
“You need a refill?” she said in a softly accented voice.
“Yes, another Rodnik gimlet. And whatever my friends are having. Just put it on my tab.”
The woman hesitated.
“What?” Reggie asked.
“Don says I can’t run a tab for you anymore,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry, Reggie.”
Even in the dim light, Louis could see the red creep into Reggie’s face. Louis pulled out his wallet and tossed a twenty onto the bar. “Bring us two Heinekens and the gimlet,” he said.
The bartender nodded and left.
Reggie was staring at something beyond Louis’s shoulder. Louis turned and saw two women looking at Reggie and whispering.
The bartender brought the drinks and eyed the twenty. “That’s fifty-six dollars, sir.”
“What?” Louis said.
Mel laughed.
Louis dug out two more twenties. “Keep the change.”
The woman took the bills and left.
“Nice tip,” Mel said.