“Jesus,” Mel muttered.
“Did you two talk to any of them?” Swann asked.
“No,” Louis said. He picked up a doughnut. It had lost some sprinkles, and he wet his finger to dab them up as he talked. “But we talked to the boss, a guy named Burke Aubry. He seemed sure none of them was involved. Said they wouldn’t desecrate the ranch land like that.”
“Not just the ranch land, Rocky,” Mel said. “Devil’s Garden.”
“What’s Devil’s Garden?” Swann asked.
“The area of the ranch where Durand was killed,” Louis said. “The family gave it to the state as a preserve.”
“The guy found over in Lee County,” Swann said. “How far is that from this Devil’s Garden?”
“About thirty miles,” Louis said. “But the weirder thing is, that body was found by a cowboy who worked for the Archers.”
Swann’s brow wrinkled. “That’s a helluva coincidence. So, tell me again why we’re taking this Aubry guy’s word that his men are innocent?”
Again, Louis noticed Swann’s use of the pronoun we. The guy obviously wanted in on this.
“We’re not,” Louis said. “But we could save ourselves some time if we had their statements so we could check them out for ourselves. Can you do that for us?”
Swann nodded. “No problem.”
Louis pulled his notebook out again and flipped it open to the first empty page. For a cop, it was easy to sit down at a computer and summarize a witness interview or input leads and have it all at your fingertips when the puzzle pieces started to fall into place. But as a PI whose cases had ranged as far as the northern woods of Michigan, he had learned to rely on notebooks with colored tabs.
He flipped to the back. “What’s your home phone, Andrew?”
Swann reached into his wallet and pulled out a business card. Louis stuck it in his pocket.
“I guess the next thing we need to do is positively identify the body found in Lee County,” Louis said.
“Get me his prints,” Swann said. “I can match them to the ID card.”
“Lee County screwed up and didn’t take any,” Louis said. “The only chance we have at an ID is digging him up and hoping there is enough of him left to compare.”
“Then let’s do it,” Swann said.
“You don’t know the asshole sheriff over there,” Louis said. “He doesn’t care about someone like Labastide, and he plays golf with the district attorney. If we want to dig Labastide up, we have to pay for it ourselves.”
“It’s a long shot, but I know a few people in the prosecutor’s office over there,” Mel said. “Let me give it a try.”
“I have a question,” Swann said.
“Shoot.”
“Actually, I have a lot of questions.” Swann lowered his voice. “You probably can guess I’ve never worked a homicide before.”
Louis felt a twinge of pity for Swann. “You’re working one now, Andrew.”
Swann gave a small smile. “Okay, why would anyone in Palm Beach drive their victim all the way out past Clewiston to kill him? Why not just dump him in a canal in West Palm?”
Louis glanced at Mel. They had wondered the same thing, but without a suspect or a clear motive, there was no urgency to find the answer. But now, because they had two victims, it was time to give it some thought.
“We might be dealing with a serial killer,” Mel said. “And they have unique ways of doing things-signatures, rituals, call it what you want. It’s weird little details that only they understand that complete the act of murder for them.”
“And being at that cattle pen could be some sort of sick staging?” Swann asked.
“Yeah.”
“And the whip?”
“It may be important, but there was no indication in his autopsy report that the John Doe was whipped or tortured.”
Swann looked confused. “Then why are we tying these two murders together?”
“Because there might be a relationship link,” Louis said.
“Between who?”
Louis sighed. “I wish we knew.”
“We’re thinking this might be homosexual homicides,” Mel said.
“Because of Kent?” Swann asked.
Mel shook his head. “No, because of certain patterns we’re seeing. Both victims were similar in age and physical appearance. Also, both murders were extremely violent, what we call overkill. Both victims had their throats slashed. The throat is a sort of pseudo sex organ among gays.”
“Ah, isn’t that true of straight people?” Swann asked.
Mel glanced at Louis. “Touché.”
Swann shook his head. “I still say, this just doesn’t sound like Reggie Kent.”
Mel was nodding. “I agree. When I was on the Miami force, I had some experience with this. I was one of the few cops who bothered to take the time to learn the psychology behind it.”
Now Louis was listening intently.
“Reggie told us that he and Mark didn’t really have a sexual relationship, that Mark was really straight,” Mel said. “But Mark Durand was a hustler with the record to prove it. In my experience, these guys are often heterosexuals who agree to gay sex as long as certain rules are obeyed.”
“And if someone breaks the rules?” Swann asked.
“Someone pays,” Mel said.
“But Durand was living with Kent. He didn’t need to hustle for money,” Swann said.
Mel looked at Louis and shrugged. “I didn’t say we had all the answers.”
Swann was quiet, deep in thought. “So, was Labastide gay?”
“We don’t know,” Louis said.
Swann’s eyes went from Louis to Mel. “Well, what the hell do you know?”
“Knowing that you don’t know what you should know is the first step to knowing, grasshopper,” Mel said.
Louis laughed.
Swann just stared at them, but then he smiled.
Louis flipped to a fresh page in his notebook. “Let’s figure out our next steps,” he said.
“Somebody has to go back to Rosa Díaz and ask her point-blank about her brother,” Mel said.
“I’ll do it,” Swann said.
Louis finished writing in his notebook. He looked up and held out his hand to Mel. “Give me the receipt.”
“For what?” Mel asked.
“The doughnuts and coffee. I’m keeping track of our expenses.”
“I threw it away.”
“Well, how much was it?”
“I don’t know. Put down four bucks.”
“You got a whole bag of doughnuts. It has to be more than that.”
Mel rolled his eyes. “You’re trying my patience here, Rocky.”
“Good grief. It’s my treat,” Swann said. He tossed a twenty across the table to Mel. “And I’ve been meaning to ask you, why do you call him Rocky?”
“Rocky King was a TV detective back in the fifties,” Mel said. “It’s my term of affection for my friend here. I thought it sounded better than fuck-face.”
Mel glanced at Louis. “You know, I think it’s time to give our friend here a nickname.”
“Mel-”
Mel gave Swann a smile. “Welcome to the team, Batzarro.”
Swann frowned. “Bat what?”
But before Mel could answer, Swann’s beeper went off. He checked the number and quickly got up. He flashed his badge to the clerk and picked up the phone behind the cash register.
Swann came back and slid into the booth.
“We’ve got a damsel in distress,” he said. He looked at Louis. “And she wants you to save her.”
Chapter Sixteen
Margery was waiting for him in the lobby of the Palm Beach County jail. She was wearing a suit the color of eggplant and a matching wide-brimmed hat. A necklace of purple ice-cube-sized stones caught the light from the fluorescents as she spun to him. In the echoing tile cavern of the lobby-with its wanted posters, metal detectors, and rows of forlorn people sitting on metal benches-she looked like an exotic butterfly trapped in a dog cage.
“Louis! Thank God!” She exhaled a cloud of gin as she floated over to him. “What took you so long?”
“I got here as soon as I could,” Louis said. “What’s wrong?”
“They won’t let me see Reggie,” she said. She waved toward a man behind the Plexiglas. “And that horrible old bull won’t take my check!”