“Okay, okay.”
The door closed. Louis stood for a moment on the tiled portico. With a glance up at the security camera, he went back to his Mustang. He got in, sitting there without starting the engine. He looked back at the huge white house.
He hadn’t expected the place to be draped with black cloth or anything. But Spencer Duvall had been killed just before filing for divorce and his widow wasn’t exactly putting out grief vibes.
Hell, what kind of vibes had Candace Duvall been putting out? She hadn’t been flirting; he knew when a woman was coming on to him, and she certainly wasn’t. But there had been something clearly sexual about her.
The guy out at the pool. Did Candace have a lover?
Louis stared up at the white house, his mind and senses working. Her look, her hair, her smell-damn, that was it-her smell. Shit, he knew that smell. Candace Duvall had just been clearly, unquestionably, royally, laid.
Louis pulled out a notebook and jotted down the license number of the blue Toyota, noting it was from Dade, not Lee County. He started the Mustang and threw it into reverse. But then he paused.
Something was bugging him. His senses were clicking back, trying to recall what he had seen. What he had smelled.
The slender figure in the red bathing suit came into his head again.
Oh geez. .
Candace Duvall had a lover all right. But it wasn’t a man.
Chapter Nine
Louis leaned back against the headboard and put on his glasses. He was going through the newspaper clips again and he focused now on the feature about Spencer Duvall, the one with the local-boy-makes-good angle. He had only skimmed it before, but now, after what Ellie Silvestri had told him and what he had seen at the Duvall mansion, he wanted to try to get a better picture of the man himself.
Spencer Duvall, the article said, was from Matlacha, a tiny island north of Fort Myers. Matlacha was barely bigger than the two-lane causeway road that connected it to Pine Island on the west and the mainland on the east. Matlacha-it was pronounced Mat-la-SHAY, for some reason-was home to some old motels, a few downtrodden marinas, a number of psychics and more than a few colorful watering holes, including the infamous Lob Lolly and Mulletville. Louis only knew Matlacha because Dodie was always dragging him out there to his favorite restaurant, the Snook Inn.
Duvall’s mother had been a waitress and his father a charter boat worker and fishing guide. Duvall’s older brother had served time for armed robbery and died in a car accident when he was just twenty-three. Duvall, on the other hand, had gone to Florida State on scholarships and come home to open his law practice in downtown Fort Myers.
Duvall had married his college sweetheart, Candace Kolke, from Quincy, a small town up near Tallahassee. They had lived in Fort Myers until 1969, when they moved to a home on Bayview Lane on Sanibel Island. Two years ago, they had razed the old house, bought the lot next door and built the white monster. It had recently been on the cover of Florida Design magazine. The Duvalls also had a ski lodge in Aspen and a “small villa” overlooking Baie de Saint Jean on St. Barts.
Louis took off his glasses. Baloney sandwiches and sand in the shoes, Ellie Silvestri had said. Why was he getting the feeling he was the one being fed a bunch of baloney?
It was starting to rain again, just as it had almost every night this week. He tossed the article aside and got up off the bed. In the kitchen, he exchanged the empty Dr Pepper for a Heineken and shut the refrigerator, leaning against it.
Spencer Duvall might have started out humble, but it looked like he got used to living the good life pretty easily, no matter what Ellie Silvestri chose to believe.
He took a drink of beer. Rich people. He had dealt with them before-many of his PI clients had more money than God. And then there were the Lillihouses back in Mississippi, putting on a facade as fancy as the one on their antebellum mansion. The rich he had known went around making their messes and then hiring other people-people like him-to clean them up.
He took another drink of the beer. Why was he in such a sour mood? He knew the answer. The deeper he got into the case, the more disgusted he was getting with the players in it.
Spencer Duvall, the warrior lawyer who made a bundle getting killers and rapists off. Candace, his bitchy-itchy wife. Lyle Bernhardt, the squirrely partner, and Brian Brenner, the weasel house-wrecker. And the Cades. . pathetic Ronnie and his creepo father.
God, what a bunch of losers.
The rain was beating on the roof. Palmetto pounders, that’s what they called big storms here. He looked back at his hand, flexed it and started back to the bedroom.
He heard the slam of the screen door and quickly after, a woman’s voice.
“Kincaid?”
Louis squinted, seeing a shadow in the gloom out on the porch.
“Kincaid? It’s me, Susan Outlaw.”
He moved to the open front door. She was standing on the porch, soaked, her hair matted to head, water running down her face.
“Mrs. Outlaw,” he said, stepping back to let her enter.
She didn’t move. “Just what the hell are you and Jack Cade trying to pull?” she said.
“What?”
“What did you tell him?”
Damn, he had forgotten that he had told Ronnie Cade to run interference.
“What did you tell him?” she repeated. “What did you tell him you could do for him that I couldn’t?”
Louis put up a hand. “I didn’t tell him anything. I haven’t talked to Jack Cade.”
“Well, somebody sure the hell did!”
A puddle was forming at her feet. Her mascara had left streaks down her face.
“Come on in,” he said. “I’ll get you a towel.”
She came inside. Louis didn’t know if she was shaking because she was cold or angry. He moved toward the bathroom, snagged a towel off the rack and came back to her.
“What did Jack Cade say to you?” he asked, holding out the towel.
She grabbed it. “He told me he would fire me if I didn’t take you on,” she said.
Great. .
“That’s not all,” she said. “He also said women didn’t have the balls to do what it would take to get him off.”
She wiped her face with the towel. “Tell me you didn’t put those thoughts into his head,” she said.
“I didn’t,” he said simply.
“Bullshit.”
Louis had to fight not to match her anger. What was it with this broad, anyway? He was willing to meet her halfway; that’s all he wanted when he had asked Ronnie Cade to intercede. He took a drink of beer.
“Well, answer me,” she said, her voice rising.
“I don’t have to answer to you. Or anyone else,” Louis said.
She glared at him, then threw the towel at him. He caught it against his chest. She stalked off toward the porch.
“Wait,” Louis called out.
She turned.
“Look, Cade has spent the last twenty years in prison working up a hate for the legal system and all lawyers.” He tipped his beer toward her. “That includes you, lady.”
Susan’s body remained rigid.
Louis took a breath and made an effort to soften his voice. “I went to see Ronnie Cade yesterday,” he said.
She took a step back in the room. “Ronnie? Why?”
“I asked him to talk to you, to get you to. .” he hesitated just long enough.
“To what?”
“Man, to back off,” he said, shaking his head. “Look, we’re on the same side here!” He paused. “I’ve decided to take the case.”
She was just standing there, staring at him. Then he saw her shoulders relax some and she brushed the wet hair from her face. Her skirt was wrinkled and she had a run in her stocking. He wondered if she had come straight from the jail to his cottage. He motioned toward a chair. She shook her head.