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?”
“I’m calling you a lousy cop with a real bad attitude.”
Barberry stepped to him and poked a finger at Louis’s chest. “Tough talk coming from a down-and-out colored boy with a paper PI license.”
Louis flexed his hand, then inhaled slowly. “Someone ought to euthanize you and put you out of your misery.”
“Huh?”
Louis walked away from him, a slow burn creeping up the back of his neck. As much as he wanted to deck Barberry and as good as he knew it would feel, he didn’t want Mel worrying about getting two people out of jail.
“I hate that fucker,” Louis said as he reached Mel.
“We need to help Reggie find a lawyer.”
“You know one who will work for free?”
Mel shook his head and reached for his cigarettes. Louis had one idea about the lawyer, but he didn’t want to mention it to Mel yet. It was a long shot, and he wasn’t sure Margery Laroche would actually back up her affection for “poor dear Reggie” with a hundred grand for legal fees.
And in the end, even the best lawyer wouldn’t be able to help Reggie Kent if there was no one looking for other evidence and other possible killers.
Louis looked to the house. The search was winding down. Officers were closing the doors on the back of the county evidence van, and the uniforms were heading to their cruisers. The cop by the door was gone.
“Did you see where Swann went?” Louis asked.
“Back in the house.”
Louis went inside. The place was empty, but it was clear it been searched. Most departments didn’t require or even ask that the officers replace anything moved during a search, and Barberry’s guys were no different. Rifled drawers hung open, books were dumped on chairs, and sofa pillows were strewn across the floor.
“Lieutenant Swann?” Louis called.
“Back here.”
Louis followed the voice to a bedroom at the end of the hall. The room had lemon-colored walls and bright floral-print curtains. The cops had given the room a thorough toss. The spread was heaped on the terra-cotta floor, along with pillows, magazines, and books. Drawers were still open, the contents searched. Even the Haitian painting had been taken off the wall and flung into a corner.