There was a glass étagère on one side of the room. The top shelf held a variety of things: a colorfully beaded apple, a snow globe from New York, a green speckled bowl, a gold pen set, a crystal Eiffel Tower, and a wooden box.
On the other side of the room, the double closet doors stood open. There were some pastel shirts and slacks still hanging, but the cops had thrown most of the clothes onto the bed and had rifled though the shoe boxes on the closet shelf. A Vuitton duffel sat open in the middle of the floor. Louis noticed the tag said M. DURAND.
“Is this Durand’s room?” he asked.
“Yeah.” Swann picked up the painting, looked around for a place to hang it, and finally just carefully propped it up on the floor against the dresser.
“I thought we had an arrangement here, Andrew,” Louis said.
Swann sighed. “I can’t argue with a search warrant, you know that. I came along to make sure Mr. Kent didn’t, either.”
Louis did know that, but he wasn’t going to cut Swann any slack. “What else do they have on Kent besides what they took out of here?” he asked. “Did Barberry tell you?”
Swann shook his head. “He walked into my office this morning waving the warrant and said I could come along or not. He didn’t offer any more information.”
Louis glanced again at the closet, noticing now that the bottom was bare. He was sure Barberry had taken all of Reggie Kent’s shoes, and he had apparently taken all of Durand’s as well. It was smart to take all of the shoes and hope for a match on something.
“Did you find that guy Labastide?” Swann asked.
“Not exactly, but I found his sister.”
“Sister?”
“Yeah. You met her once. Rosa Labastide.”
Swann’s brows knit in confusion. “When?”
“Five years ago,” Louis said. “She came to you to report her brother Emilio missing. She said you didn’t seem interested and that you told her Emilio probably just went back to Mexico.”
“I was just a patrolman five years ago,” Swann said. “How does she know it was me?”
“She remembered your name. Said it first in Spanish-Cisne. That means-”
“Swan,” Swann said.
Louis stared at him. “You speak Spanish?”
“Fluently.”
“And you still blew this woman off?” Louis asked. “Even after understanding every word she was trying to tell you?”
Swann dropped down on the edge of the bed. Louis could almost see his mental rifling of memories, and, given the pained expression on Swann’s face, his efforts to recall Rosa looked sincere.
“I think Emilio Labastide is dead,” Louis said. “And I think he was murdered.”
Swann looked up at him. “Then you did find him.”
Louis took a quick look out the bedroom door to make sure all of Barberry’s deputies were gone, then went back to Swann. It was time to bring him completely onboard the train or throw him under it.
“There was a decapitated body found over in Lee County in October of ’84, a short time after Labastide disappeared,” Louis said. “The man was buried without an ID, but I’m sure it’s Labastide.”
“How sure?”
“He matches the physical description, and he was found with a crucifix that looks a lot like the one his sister has.”
Swann sighed and leaned his head in his hands. Louis looked out at the patio, watching the easy roll of waves over the sand.
Louis knew that cops lived with regrets, all kinds of them. From not spending enough time with their families to losing their tempers with mouthy suspects. But one of the worst regrets was that one time when you found yourself standing over a dead person you had met before. And you realized that at some time in the past, maybe a month or maybe a year before, you could’ve done something better. Made one more phone call, asked one more question, stayed one more hour at your desk.
Louis watched Swann, wondering how he could lure him completely over to his side. He couldn’t help but think about that Officer of the Month certificate on Swann’s office wall and Swann’s “heroic act” of saving the drowning dog. Louis had no idea if Swann had the smarts or the mettle for a real homicide investigation. Or if he had the stones to buck his own chief.
Swann looked up at him. “What can I do to help?”
Hell, what did he have to lose?
“You ever wanted to be a spy?” Louis asked.
“Didn’t every kid?” Swann said. “Who would I be spying on?”
“Barberry.”
They met an hour later at a Dunkin’ Donuts out near the airport. Mel paid for coffee and a bag of six doughnuts, three plain and three with sprinkles. They spotted Swann sitting in the back. As they slid into the orange plastic booth, Louis noticed Swann looking around uncomfortably.
“What’s the matter?” Louis asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “I’ve never been in a Dunkin’ Donuts before.”
“We weren’t sure you’d even know what a Dunkin’ Donuts was,” Mel said. “That’s why we gave you such detailed directions.”
“Oh, I’ve heard about these places,” he said. “This is where the real cops hang out, right?”
For about three seconds, the table was uneasily silent, then Swann broke into a grin. “Relax, guys. Let’s get this meeting going. I’ve only got an hour.”
“First, we need to know what Barberry has told you that we might not know,” Louis said.
“I know he’s still looking for that luxury car that was seen in Clewiston. He told me to ask around the island about cars Kent could have borrowed.”
“Did you?”
“I questioned Kent, and he said he regularly borrowed cars from some of his ‘lady friends,’ as he calls them. They even give him extra keys. I checked and found out two of them are light-colored luxury cars that could match the one seen going through Clewiston. So I approached the two women at a party I was working last weekend and discreetly asked them about it. Both said Kent hadn’t asked to borrow their cars in quite some time.”
“That helps,” Mel said. “Is there anything else we can use to eliminate Reggie as a suspect?”
“Not with regard to Durand’s murder,” Swann said. “But what about that other guy? Labastide? When was he killed?”
“The ME speculated he was killed two nights before he was found,” Louis said. “That makes it October 31, 1984. But I don’t think that will do us much good. What kind of person knows exactly where they were on a given night five years ago?”
Swann smiled. “I can tell you where Kent probably was.”
“Where?”
“Margery Laroche’s birthday party. Every year, she throws herself a Halloween birthday bash,” Swann said. “We work security and parking. I’d bet my job Kent was there.”
“Please tell me she keeps guest lists,” Mel said.
“Even better. Most of the names would have been printed in the Shiny Sheet along with a slew of pictures. It’s a big deal because everyone’s in costumes. And knowing Margery Laroche, she would have kept a copy of the paper.”
“Great,” Louis said. “I’ll go back and ask her about them.”
“That’s useful only if we can tie these two murders together,” Mel said. “But for right now, we need to find something to clear him of Durand’s murder.”
“You guys know about the cowboys out at the Archer ranch?” Swann asked.
“Cowmen,” Mel said.
“What?”
“They like to be called cowmen.”
Swann just stared at him.
“We know they found Durand’s body and that Barberry took all of their whips,” Louis said.
“The reports said that none of the whips had any human blood on them, and Dr. Steffel said that the one used on Durand was leather. The ones Barberry confiscated were nylon,” Swann said.
“Doesn’t mean they didn’t have leather whips somewhere else,” Mel said.
“Did you get to read any of the statements Barberry took from them?” Louis asked.
Swann shook his head. “No. But as far as I know, Barberry never seriously pursued any of the Archer workers as suspects. Never even ran backgrounds on any of them.”