Thicker Than Water

by P J Parrish

  “Boring case, Bev,” he said. “Nothing juicy this time.”

  “Damn.” She retreated to the kitchen. Louis took another drink of beer, his eyes wandering out the window. It was too dark now to see much further than the dock, but out in the black channel he could make out the red and green running lights of a boat making its way south.

  His thoughts drifted to the husband of the woman he had busted in Bonita Springs. The poor guy had looked at the photographs, taken out his checkbook, slid the check across the table to Louis and left. All without saying a word.

  Louis stared out at the black water. God, he hated it. He hated that woman, he hated that man, he hated sitting in a hot car waiting for people to prove they were human. He hated being a PI. He hated not being a cop.

  “Excuse me.”

  Louis looked up. A man was standing at his table. Tall, thin, wearing jeans and a faded green T-shirt.

  “Are you Louis Kincaid?” he asked.

  Louis nodded warily. It had been months since anyone had recognized him and he had begun to hope the notoriety was finally wearing off. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life answering questions from strangers who got off hearing about serial killers. The press had dubbed it the “Paint It Black” killings, after the Rolling Stones song. Once, when he was sitting at a bar, a drunk came up and even started singing it. Louis had almost punched the guy out. He just wanted to forget it, wanted his fifteen minutes to be up.

  He looked up now into this man’s eyes. What was the question going to be this time?

  “I’m Ronnie Cade. I heard about you.”

  Louis saw Bev looking at them. She had come to be a little protective of him.

  “I went to your house,” the man said. “Some weird French guy said you were probably here.”

  Great. Leave it to Pierre . . .

  “Can I sit down?” the man asked.

  “Look, man, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m getting ready to eat,” Louis began.

  “I want to hire you.”

  Louis blinked in surprise.

  “I know you caught that paint guy and that you’re doing private investigation stuff now.” The man looked around at another couple taking a nearby table. “Can I sit down?”

  Louis hesitated. He needed the work. There wasn’t a helluva lot of cases for a PI to take on here. But this guy looked like he was a little too desperate.

  He caught Bev’s eye again. And Carlo, the sumo-sized cook, had come out. Louis gave them a small wave to signal he was okay. His eyes moved back to the man standing in front of him.

  His dark hair was pulled into a ponytail and he had an eagerness in his expression that at first made him seem young, but from the fine web of lines around the eyes and the leathery skin of his arms, Louis guessed him to be in his late thirties.

  Cade was bouncing lightly on his toes, his lips moving back and forth between a smile and grimace, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to be tough or friendly.

  “All right. Sit down,” Louis said.

  Ronnie Cade dropped into a chair, started to extend a hand, then drew it back. He crossed his arms and leaned forward on the table.

  “I know you must get real good money for what you do,” Cade said, “but I was hoping maybe you would take what I got and let me make payments on the rest.”

  Louis stared at him. Good money? He rubbed the condensation off his beer bottle. “First things first. What kind of investigation do you want me to do?”

  “My father’s been arrested. They’ve charged him with murder.”

  Louis took a drink of his beer and waited just long enough to not look eager. “You want a beer?” he asked.

  Cade nodded quickly. “Bud.”

  Louis called over to Bev, trying to sound casual, but inside his heart was quickening. This was promising.

  “Who did your father allegedly kill?” Louis asked.

  “That lawyer Spencer Duvall.”

  Louis straightened slightly.

  “I thought that would get your attention,” Cade muttered.

  Bev brought the beers. Louis ignored the questions in her eyes. After she left, he asked, “How much can you pay to start?”

  “Five-hundred dollars,” Cade said.

  “Shit, man . . .”

  Cade’s hand shot out and he grabbed Louis’s wrist. Louis jerked his hand back and Cade threw his hands in the air.

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry, okay?”

  “Does your father have the same temper, Mr. Cade?”

  “I said I was sorry,” he said, his eyes low, his voice strained.

  Louis shook his head slowly. “Five-hundred dollars is a day’s work in a homicide investigation, Mr. Cade. Doesn’t your father have a lawyer?”

  “Yeah, court-appointed. Everyone knows how hard they work for people like us.”

  “People like who?” Louis asked.

  Cade paused to take a drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his calloused hand. “Look, I do lawn maintenance for a living. My kid and me live in a double-wide over on Sereno. I ain’t had many breaks in my life and I don’t blame anybody for that. But the law don’t work the same for everybody.” He paused again. “Do I have to start singing a sad song for you here?”

  Louis glanced around the restaurant. He had seen the news about Spencer Duvall on TV. A big-shot lawyer getting gunned down in his own office late at night would be news anywhere, let alone Fort Myers. He had seen the film of a man being hauled away in handcuffs, the talking head saying the suspect had been recently released from prison. Louis had just chalked it up to a revenge thing gone bad. Now here was the guy’s kid, begging for someone to believe his dad didn’t do it. Interesting. But not interesting enough that he could afford to work for near free.

  “Look, Mr. Cade, I don’t think I—”

  Cade leaned forward. “He’s my father,” he said. “I’ll give you anything I have.” He reached in a pocket and slapped a business card on the table. “Look, I’ve got my own business, I got a truck—”

  Louis shook his head. “Sorry, man.”

  Cade stared at Louis for a long time, then grabbed his beer and quickly drained it. He stood up slowly, digging for money in the pocket of his jeans.

  “Forget it,” Louis said. “It’s on me.”

  Cade didn’t move. His eyes flitted around the restaurant, then came back to Louis. “I lost him,” he said tightly.

  “What?” Louis said.

  “My father. He went to prison. I lost my father for twenty years.” Ronnie Cade’s eyes glittered in the florescent lights. “My father wasn’t there when I graduated high school, when I got married or when I had my boy. Twenty years, man. He just got out and now this.”

  Louis didn’t reply, the sounds of the restaurant suddenly dull and thick.

  Cade shook his head slowly. “Fuck, you haven’t got the faintest idea what the hell I’m talking about, do you?”

  He started away.

  “Hey, Cade,” Louis called out.

  The man turned.

  “I’m not making any promises, okay? But I’ll look into it.”

  Cade stared at him for a moment, then nodded briskly. He left, the screen door banging behind him. Louis picked up the business card. J.C. LANDSCAPING. It was dirt-smudged and the phone number was inked out and a new one scribbled in. He slipped it in his shorts pocket.

  Bev came over, setting the grouper sandwich down in front of him. “What was that all about?” she asked.

  “A job offer,” Louis said, picking a fry out of the basket.

  “For what?”

  “The guy’s father was arrested for murdering a lawyer.”

  Bev’s eyes darted to the door where Ronnie Cade had disappeared. “That was Jack Cade’s kid?”

  “I guess. He didn’t say what his father’s name was.”

  “Jack Cade. He just got out of prison and now they’re saying he killed Spencer Duvall,” Bev said, excitement creeping into her voice. “Wh
at, you don’t watch the news?”

  “I saw it.” Louis took a bite of the sandwich.

  “Don’t you think it’s kind of weird?” Bev pressed.

  “Bev, I think all cons dream of killing the guy who put them away. Maybe this one made his dream come true.”

  “But why would Jack Cade kill his own lawyer?”

  Louis looked up at her, wiping his chin with a paper napkin. “Duvall was Cade’s defense lawyer?”

  She nodded. “Twenty years ago. When Cade was on trial for murder.”

  Louis set his sandwich back in its plastic basket. “Who did Cade murder?”

  “A girl.” Bev’s brow furrowed. “Kathy something, I think. No, Kitty, her name was Kitty. She lived over in Fort Myers. It was big news around here at the time. I was working at the HoJo’s on Cleveland and the cook had this TV in the back and we followed it on the news. It was pretty bad stuff. That girl . . . he raped her, too, and left her body in a dump.” She paused. “So you gonna take the case?”

  Louis looked up at Bev. “I’m not sure.”

  “Why not?”

  “He can only pay me five hundred.”

  Bev shook her head slowly. “You should have taken it.”

  “Why?”

  “End of the month. I gotta collect on your tab, hon. Five hundred bucks can buy a lot of grouper sandwiches.”

  “I’ll settle up at the end of the week, I promise.”

  Bev picked up his empty Heineken bottle. “I’ll bring you another.” She stopped. “Kitty Jagger, that was her name.” She shook her head absently. “Wow. Twenty years. I can’t believe that was twenty years ago. Where’s the time go?”

  She went back to the kitchen. Louis picked up his sandwich, took another bite and set it aside. He looked out the window, out at the black moonless night and the inky water of the channel lapping against the dock.

  Twenty years was a long time. But not long for rape and murder. Spencer Duvall apparently had done a good enough job to have kept his client out of the chair. Why would Jack Cade turn around and kill the guy who had saved his neck?

  He fished out the business card Cade had left. J.C. LANDSCAPING. Louis guessed the J.C. stood for Jack Cade. Twenty years ago, Ronnie Cade would have been, what?—fifteen maybe? What goes through a kid’s head when he finds out his father is a rapist and murderer? How the hell do you forgive that?

  He’s my father. I lost him. . . .

  A green bottle appeared in front of him. Louis looked up at Bev.

  “Today’s my birthday,” he said.

  “No shit?” Bev said.

  Louis took a quick swig of beer. “Yeah, no shit.”

  Chapter Three

  The glass doors to the Lee County jail reflected the sun like mirrors and Louis paused on the sidewalk, still not used to seeing himself in what he had come to think of as his new “uniform.” This morning, it was fresh khaki slacks, a yellow polo shirt and a blue blazer. It was what he always wore when he was meeting a client for the first time.

  Not that he was sure Jack Cade was going to be a client.

  He had spent a fitful night turning Ronnie Cade’s situation over in his head. He couldn’t afford to take a charity case, that much was certain. He had just deposited the check from the Bonita Springs case, but there was nothing else on the horizon and he knew he’d have to live off that money for a while. He glanced back at the white ’65 Mustang parked at the curb.

  He shouldn’t have spent so much getting it fixed. New brakes, new transmission, and the body work and paint job. It had taken a huge chunk out of his meager savings. He should have listened to Dodie and junked the old thing and bought something new and reliable.

  He shook his head. “Man, I’ll walk before I have to drive a damn Civic,” he muttered as he started for the door.

  He stopped, spotting the News-Press box. The Spencer Duvall murder was the lead story again. This time, however, there was a picture of Jack Cade.

  Louis popped in a quarter and pulled out a paper. Jack Cade looked to be on the downslope of fifty, with the same long, thin face and hooded eyes as his son. Louis knew you couldn’t read much from a mug shot. Except when the person was innocent. Then you could see it in the eyes, the indignation, shock or bewilderment of the falsely accused. Jack Cade looked simply blank—bored, if anything.

  He knew what had kept him tossing and turning all night. It wasn’t the money. It was that he didn’t think he could get past the fact that Jack Cade had been convicted of rape and murder. But he had made a promise to Ronnie Cade. Maybe if he met the father face to face he could find a good reason to walk away from this.

  Folding the paper under his arm, he went in. At the glass window, he tapped lightly on the wall microphone to get the clerk’s attention.

  “Morning, Zach.”

  Zach turned and keyed the mike on his side. Reddish-blond spikes of hair sprouted from a sun-burned square head that melted into the collar of his dark green shirt. Zach Dombrowski was a dead-ringer for Barney Rubble.

  “Hey, Louis. Haven’t seen you for a while. How goes it?”

  “Okay,” Louis said as he picked up a pen to sign in.

  Zach leaned close to the mike so the other deputy behind the glass could not hear him.

  “I heard a rumor we might be adding guys in February, Louis. Why don’t you put in?”

  Louis looked at Zach in surprise. The others around here weren’t usually so friendly. “I don’t think I could work for Mobley.”

  Zach nodded. “He has an Eight Ball on his desk. He uses it to make decisions. ‘Should I take a shit? Signs Point To Yes.’ ”

  Louis smiled and tossed the pen down.

  Zach looked at the log. “You here to see Jack Cade?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  Zach shrugged. “Well, I guess not, except the Sheriff left orders to be notified when anyone visits Cade.”

  “Then notify him.”

  “He’s off duty but he’s over at the Dinkle Center.”

  “Lucky break for me.”

  “I better call him anyway. Hold on a minute.”

  As he waited, Louis read the Duvall story. It recapped Cade’s arraignment with a few comments from the prosecutor, State Attorney Vern Sandusky, assuring Southwest Florida “that the case was progressing as expected and that I will do everything in my power to make sure that Jack Cade spends the rest of his life in prison.”

  Zach tapped the glass. “Sheriff says you can go up, but he wants to see you at O’Sullivan’s in an hour.”

  Louis nodded, tucking the newspaper under his arm as he headed to the elevator.

  The doors opened and a deputy stepped in. He gave Louis the once-over, focusing on his VISITOR badge. Louis glanced at the deputy’s name plate. LOVETT. He remembered Lovett had been the arresting officer on a deadbeat father case he had worked several months ago. He felt Lovett’s eyes on him and wondered if the deputy remembered him, too.

  “Kincaid, right?” Lovett asked.

  Louis nodded. He waited, but the deputy’s eyes stared straight ahead at the closed doors.

  “You remember that case we worked together on a few months back?” Louis said finally.

  Lovett’s eyes didn’t waver. “No.”

  Great. The silent treatment again.

  “What about Jack Cade? What’s the talk?” Louis asked.

  Lovett’s eyes slid to Louis, then snapped back to the doors.

  “The way I see it, killers like Cade are no better than garbage, and lawyers like Duvall are no better than the maggots that feed off it.”

  The doors opened. Louis moved to step off.

  “You working for or against that asshole?” Lovett asked.

  “Neither,” Louis said.

  The doors closed with a wheeze of air. The deputy posted on the fourth floor saw Louis and jerked his head to the right. Louis followed him down a dim hall done in the same chipped beige paint as the iron-bar door that clanged shut behind them. The deputy stopped at a
metal door and motioned for Louis to go inside.

  “He’s in five, down at the end.”

  A long table split the room, a plexiglass divider running its length with privacy partitions. Louis stopped at the end and looked at the man seated behind the glass.

  Jack Cade’s head was down, his stringy, ink-black hair shading his face. His arm was slung across the back of the wooden chair and his ankle was propped on his knee. Louis cleared his throat.

  Cade lifted his head, running thick fingers through his hair to move it from his forehead. His gray-green eyes peered at Louis from under lazy lids for several seconds before dropping away. He drew his thin lips into a grimace.

  “I told them I didn’t want to see any reporters.”

  His voice sounded hollow, strained through the small holes in the plexiglass.

  “I’m not a reporter.”

  “Funny. You look like one.”

  “I’m a private investigator, Louis Kincaid. Your son Ronnie wants to hire me to help in your defense.”

  “Kincaid? Yeah . . .” Cade cocked his head. “Ronnie told me you were too expensive. What changed your mind?”

  “Your son makes a compelling argument for family values.”

  Cade narrowed his eyes, then flicked his hand toward the empty chair. Louis sat down, studying Cade.

  His eyes were dulled with disinterest and his large body, all sinew and muscle beneath the orange jumpsuit, was draped over the chair like he was home watching a football game. Except for his right foot. The foot, propped on his left knee, was moving in a nonstop, rhythmic jerking motion.

  “You got any smokes?” Cade asked.

  “Sorry.”

  “So you working for me or not?”

  “I don’t know. Talk to me.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  Louis pulled a small notebook from his back pocket. “I’m coming in cold, Mr. Cade, so you’re going to have to start at the beginning. All I know is Spencer Duvall was shot Monday night around nine-thirty in his office and you were arrested the following afternoon.”

  Cade didn’t reply.

  “So why did they arrest you?” Louis asked.

  “I went to see Duvall that morning.”