Louis leaned on the doorbell again. They had been standing outside the Osborn house for almost ten minutes, and so far no one had answered. In the driveway was a white Bentley, a silver Mercedes, and the same blue Camry Louis had seen on his first visit. The Mercedes, Louis noticed, had a government plate, so he assumed it belonged to Carolyn. Louis hit the doorbell again.
Swann let out a belch and a groan.
“Tequila will kill you, you know,” Louis said.
“I’m okay, damn it. Let’s just get this over with and get out of here, okay?”
The door clicked, and a face poked out. It took Louis a second to retrieve the guy’s name from his fuzzed brain.
“Good morning, Greg,” Louis said.
Bitner’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”
“Greg, Greg, where’s your holiday spirit?” Louis said.
“The senator isn’t here,” Bitner said.
“I’m not here to see your boss,” Louis said. “We want to talk to her husband.”
Bitner glanced at Swann. “Is this official police business?”
Swann nodded. “We just need to talk to Mr. Osborn.”
Bitner hesitated, then opened the door. They stepped into the cool white entranceway. The red orchid was still there on the table.
“Wait here,” Bitner said. “I’ll go-”
Louis’s eyes swung upward. Tucker Osborn was coming down the stairs. He was dressed in white shorts, shirt, and tennis shoes, his hair wet, his face flushed. He slowed as he saw them.
“What’s going on here?” he asked.
Swann took the initiative. “I’m Lieutenant Swann, Palm Beach PD. We just need a few moments of your time, sir.”
Osborn was looking at Swann, and Louis wondered if he recognized him from the domestic incident years before. Louis could almost see Osborn weighing his options. Finally, Osborn turned to Bitner.
“Go find something to do,” he said.
Bitner reddened, his eyes flicking to Louis. Then, without a word, he turned and left.
“Now, what is it?” Osborn demanded.
“How about we go talk in your study?” Louis said.
Osborn stared at him for a moment, shrugged, and walked away. Louis and Swann followed.
The study was just as it was the first time Louis saw it, the heavy shutters closed, the lights off. Osborn flicked a lamp on as he entered. He went to the leather chair behind his desk and sat down. Swann assumed a position near the door, sunglasses in his hand, eyes in a squint, fighting the throb in his head. Louis took one of the chairs opposite the desk without being invited.
“Make it quick,” Osborn said. “I have a tennis date in ten minutes.”
It was an excuse; the guy looked like he had just gotten off the courts. But Louis wasn’t about to let this asshole dismiss them like he had poor Greg.
Louis pulled the photograph of the sword from his pocket and laid it on the desk. “Do you recognize this?”
Osborn grabbed the photograph. Louis watched the guy’s face, but there was nothing except impatience.
“This is a German officer’s sword,” Osborn said. “I have one-”
He froze.
“You have one just like it, right?” Louis said.
Osborn looked at Swann. “Yes, I have one.”
“Can we see it?” Louis asked.
Something crossed Osborn’s eyes, a cloud of confusion, maybe, but the irritation was close behind. He pushed himself from the chair and went to a dark corner of the large study. He hit a switch, illuminating the inside of the glass-faced cabinets Louis had noticed on his first visit. One cabinet held antique handguns, and Louis guessed that several were German Lugers. But the other cabinet held a display of bladed weapons.
Osborn opened the second cabinet and peered at the weapons for a moment before he turned back to Louis.
“It’s not here,” he said.
Louis rose and went to the cabinet. There were six swords mounted on brackets. There was one set of empty brackets. There were also four daggers, a bayonet-and two machetes.
When Louis looked back at Osborn, he couldn’t tell if the guy was a great actor or genuinely surprised that the sword was gone. But Louis could almost see the gears in his head turning.
“I like your machetes,” Louis said. “Can I take a look at them?”
“They’re quite valuable,” Osborn said.
“I’ll be careful.”
Osborn took the smaller of the two machetes off its brackets and handed it to Louis. It was a good eighteen inches long, and its wood handle was topped with a carving of a dog’s head.
“Very nice. Where is it from?” Louis asked.
“The Philippines,” Osborn said. “It’s late-eighteenth-century.”
“It’s a military weapon?”
“The natives used it against their colonial invaders,” Osborn said. “Now, if you don’t mind-”
Louis swung the machete in a slow arc, making Osborn back away. “What’s with the dog’s head?”
“The head prevented it from slipping from the user’s grasp,” Osborn said tightly. “The end of the blade is rounded so that after it was embedded, it wouldn’t get trapped in the opponent’s body.”
Louis glanced back at Swann. He was still standing by the door, looking even greener than before.
“May I have that back?” Osborn asked, holding out his hand.
Louis ignored him and set the machete back on its brackets. He lifted the second one out. It was very heavy, the blade more than two feet long and four inches wide.
Louis let out a low whistle. “What was this one used for?”
“It’s Mexican,” Osborn said. “It might have been used for clearing brush.” He paused. “Or slaughtering cattle.”
The machete felt awkward and too heavy and unbalanced to swing with one hand. Louis switched to a two-handed grip, holding the machete chest high, aiming it at the floor. He could almost feel the power such a blade would deliver.
He glanced at Osborn. The guy was sweating. Louis smiled and carefully set the Mexican machete back in its place.
Osborn closed the cabinet. “If you don’t have any other questions, I have-”
“Just a few more, Mr. Osborn, and then we’ll let you get to your tennis game.”
Osborn just stood there, his eyes locked on Louis.
“Any idea where your sword went?” Louis asked.
“I don’t have to answer any questions from you,” Osborn said.
“Maybe not, but you’ll have to tell the police here if you want to make an insurance claim.”
Osborn looked at Swann and back at Louis. “Look, anybody could have come in here and taken the damn thing. The cleaning lady, the cable guy. You know how those people are. We’ve had things go missing from this house before.”
“Maybe you should put some locks on your doors,” Louis said.
“Maybe I will,” Osborn said.
The phone rang. Osborn made no move to pick it up, and after three rings, it stopped. The button stayed lit and began to blink. Osborn glanced at it, then back at Louis.
“Do you know Dickie Lyons?” Louis asked.
“Lyons? Yes, I know him. Why are you asking me about him?”
“Is he a good friend of yours?”
Osborn gave a snort of disgust. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Never more serious. Is he a good friend of yours?”
Osborn’s eyes went to Swann, still standing behind Louis. When he looked back at Louis, he was smiling.
“Dickie Lyons is a turd.”
“In what way?”
Osborn was looking at Swann again. “Maybe you can explain it, Lieutenant. Tell this young man how things are here.”
Swann was silent.
“So, you don’t have any associations with Lyons?” Louis asked. “No business deals, no little hunting trips with the boys.”
“Hunting?” Osborn shook his head. “Look, I don’t know what this is about, but I’ve never had anything to do with Dickie Lyons. He’s a two-bit circus huckster who thinks he can buy his way onto the A-list.”
The phone rang again. This time, Osborn pounced on it. He grunted a few impatient words into the receiver and hung up.
“Are we done?” he said.
Louis knew there was only one strategy left. It was the pigpen philosophy: Throw shit at the wall, and see if anything sticks.