Thicker Than Water

by P J Parrish

  “I thought you wanted to watch TV?” Louis asked.

  Benjamin gestured to his clothes. “Can’t sleep in this.”

  Louis followed him to the bedroom and stood at the door.

  “You don’t have to watch me every minute,” Benjamin said as he wriggled out of the jeans.

  “Yes I do.”

  “I’m not going to run away or something.”

  “Well, I’m responsible. I’m not taking any chances.” Benjamin gave him another withering look.

  Louis’s eyes wandered over the boy’s bedroom. It was beige, like his mother’s, with a brown spread, tan carpet and shelves of books and toys. The ceiling was studded with little green stars that probably glowed in the dark, and eight papier-mache replicas of the planets were strung from the ceiling. There was a small telescope at the window, Star Wars posters on the walls and a gleaming saxophone sitting in a stand. The room was surprisingly neat. Nothing like his own room back at the Lawrence house had been.

  “Nice room,” Louis said. “Very neat.”

  “I’m not a slob,” Benjamin said. He was buttoning his pajamas, one eye on Louis as he ventured farther into the room.

  “You make those?” Louis asked, pointing at the planets.

  “Yeah. Science project.”

  “I thought there were nine planets.”

  Benjamin shook his head. “Pluto is technically not a real planet. They think it’s really an asteroid. So I left it out. I only got a B because of it. But I’m right. It’s just an asteroid.”

  Louis nodded. He noticed a framed photograph on the dresser. It was of a striking black man with close-cropped hair and serious eyes. He was wearing a dark suit.

  He had to ask. “That your dad?”

  Benjamin was folding his clothes and he paused to glance at the photo. “Yeah. His name is Austin. He’s in England.”

  So now you know, Kincaid.

  “What’s he do?”

  “For work? He does financial stuff, kinda like working for a bank, but he like sets up companies in foreign places. He has a lot of money, but can’t use it ’cause it’s like tied up in big buildings and Ma says he’s cash poor. Whatever that means.”

  Louis was still looking at the photo. “How often does he get home?”

  “Never,” Benjamin said. He tossed his sneakers into the closet. “You wanna look at Venus?”

  Louis shook his head.

  Benjamin plopped down on his bed. “Probably too many clouds tonight anyway.”

  Louis came in and sat on the edge of the bed. “So . . . your mom and your dad . . .”

  Don’t ask, Kincaid. It’s not right.

  “They got divorced when I was little,” Benjamin said, rolling over onto his stomach. “I don’t remember him really, not in my real brain, but he sends me stuff. He sent me the telescope for Christmas and fifty dollars for my birthday. And that.” He pointed to a cast-iron replica of a double-decker bus.

  “I wanted a Nintendo Super Mario, but it’s like two hundred dollars. Guess he’s too cash poor to get that. But the bus is kinda cool.”

  Louis sensed a sadness in Benjamin’s voice. “You want some pudding?”

  Benjamin hesitated, looking at Louis. “Can I show you something first?” he asked.

  Louis shrugged. “Sure.”

  “You promise not to tell my mom?”

  “I don’t know. What if you show me drugs or cigarettes or—”

  “Oh man . . . it’s just a book.”

  Great. Was the kid going to show him pornography? Maybe it was only Playboy. Bare boobs, that was normal, wasn’t it? But damn, the kid was only eleven.

  Benjamin was rooting through his closet.

  “Has your mom ever seen stuff like the stuff in this book?”

  “All the time.”

  Benjamin emerged with a large hardcover book. He brought it back to the bed and sat down next to Louis, laying the book on his small knees.

  Louis had a hard time not letting his mouth hang open. The book was titled In the Presence of Evil, Mass Murderers and Serial Killers.

  “Where did you get this?” Louis asked, trying to gently wrestle it away.

  Benjamin held tight. “From the swap meet. I told the man my mom was a lawyer and she needed it for work.”

  “Have you read it?”

  “Four times.”

  “Jesus, kid. You shouldn’t be looking at that sh—” Louis stopped himself.

  “You can say shit. Ma says it. Anyway, I wanted to ask your opinion on some of these cases.”

  Louis stared at him.

  “You know about these cases, don’t you?”

  “Well, yeah, I’ve read about some of them.”

  Benjamin flipped the book open. “This guy here says that the Boston Strangler probably wasn’t guilty. Did you know there’s some people who think another guy in prison killed all those women and that DeSalvo just wanted to be important so he took the blame?”

  Louis found himself staring at a black and white photo of a woman the caption identified as Mary Sullivan.

  “What do you think?” Benjamin asked. “You think he really killed her?”

  Louis rubbed his face and slowly stood up. “Put the book away, Benjamin.”

  “Yeah but I wanted to—”

  “Put it away.”

  Benjamin heaved a huge sigh. “I thought you were a private investigator.”

  “I am.”

  Jesus, when did he finally admit that to himself ?

  “So you solve murders, right?”

  Louis wanted this conversation to end real quick. “Yeah, I do.”

  “Is it hard to do?”

  “Yeah, it’s hard. Now—”

  “Do they ever tell you why?”

  “Who?”

  “The killers.”

  “What? No. Well, yeah, sometimes. Look, Benjamin—”

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Why do they do it?”

  Louis was silent. He wasn’t any expert, but this had to be weird for a kid to be asking these questions.

  “Maybe you should ask your mother about this,” Louis said.

  “I did. She said she doesn’t know.”

  Benjamin was looking up at him, waiting.

  “I don’t know either, Benjamin,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The beeper was buzzing against his side. He waited until he stopped at a light to look at the number. He was hoping it was Vince. It took him a moment to recognize the number as the Sereno Key Police Department, the chief’s private line.

  He pulled into a 7-Eleven, got a coffee to go, and called Dan Wainwright.

  “I have an address for you on that Lieberman woman,” he said. “Got a pen?”

  “Yeah, hold on, Dan.” Louis set the coffee down on the phone ledge. Wainwright read off an address. Louis wrote it on the styrofoam cup.

  Louis knew Wainwright was not supposed to run numbers for a civilian. “I owe you one, Dan,” he said.

  “No problem. How’s things going for you, Kincaid?”

  “It’s going,” Louis said.

  Wainwright was silent for a moment. “Call me. I’ll buy you a beer some night, okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ll do that.” He clicked off.

  Louis stood there for a moment, watching the traffic crawl by on Cleveland Avenue. He hadn’t seen Dan Wainwright in months, not since they had worked together on the Paint It Black case. The case had created a bond between them—the kind of bond that sparked between cops in the adrenaline-drench of a dangerous case. But Louis had not stayed in touch afterward. Maybe it was because the Sereno Key chief was one of the few people who knew how much Louis hated PI work, knew how badly he wanted to wear a uniform again. He didn’t like it when people knew too much about him, especially when it came with a dose of pity.

  Louis glanced at his watch. He was tempted to go over to the medical examiner’s office; it was only a couple blocks away. But he knew i
f Vince had found out anything about the semen sample, he would have called. He was also tempted to drive out to Immokalee to find Joyce Novick.

  He picked up the styrofoam cup and looked at the address. But a promise was a promise. He would go find this Lieberman woman.

  The address turned out to be one of the new developments out by the airport. This one was called The Villas of Lancaster Lakes, the lakes being a green-water pit scooped out of the limestone and the villas just more of the soulless gulags that were springing up all over the old pasture lands. Louis found building E and apartment 322, but there was no answer when he knocked. There was also nothing covering the windows.

  He peered in. The apartment was vacant. Recently vacant, if the little bits of debris on the carpet and nails on the walls were any indication. He found the rental office and the landlord who told him that Hayley Lieberman had moved out three days ago.

  “She broke her lease,” the man said. “Didn’t give me any notice.”

  “She didn’t say where she was going?” Louis asked.

  “They never do. They just pull a Robert Irsay on me. Just backed up the van in the middle of night and split. Women are the worst. They sign a lease, then three months later they find some guy to sponge off and they move in with him. And I gotta paint the place all over again.”

  Louis nodded. “Thanks for your help.”

  “If you see her, tell her she can kiss her security goodbye.”

  Louis got back in the car. Another dead-end. Nothing to do but report back in to Susan. He glanced down at the county map he had spread out on the seat. He was right near Immokalee Road, only about a half-hour drive to the town. At least it wouldn’t be a total waste of time.

  He drove out to Immokalee Road, but as he waited for the light, a thought hit him, something the landlord had said about women finding some guy to sponge off of.

  Hayley Lieberman had found someone to sponge off of, all right.

  Damn. Joyce Novick would have to wait. He turned left, heading back toward Fort Myers. It was just a hunch, but he owed it to Susan to follow up on it.

  He drove over the Sanibel-Captiva causeway and turned off Periwinkle Way, heading to the Duvall home.

  Bingo. The old Toyota was there in the drive of the big white house. And Candace’s yellow Mercedes convertible wasn’t. Dumb luck.

  At the front door, Louis paused, looking up at the security camera. No way was he going to get past that little maid. With a quick look around, he left the porticoed porch and followed a flagstone path around the side of the house. There was a small iron gate with a DELIVERIES sign on it. He opened it and went in.

  The huge house butted right up against the lot line, leaving just a small walkway to the back. He followed it toward the back yard.

  “You’ve scraped bottom, Kincaid,” he muttered to himself as he crouched down to get by a window.

  He could see San Carlos Bay beyond the hibiscus hedges. At the corner of the house, he heard something and stopped. A splash.

  He looked around the corner. Hayley Lieberman was doing laps in the pool. He looked around the patio. No sign of anyone else, just a towel, a book and some lotion on a lounge chair.

  He ventured onto the patio. It took Hayley another lap before she looked up and saw him. She stopped, squinting up at him as she treaded water.

  “You need me to get out?” she asked.

  She looked like a sleek dark seal, and she was smiling.

  Louis shrugged. “It would help,” he said.

  She went to the side and hoisted herself out. She was wearing the little red bathing suit bottom and nothing on top. She didn’t look back at Louis as she went to the lounge and grabbed the towel.

  “You’re using too much chlorine,” she said, turning.

  “Excuse me?” Louis said.

  She nodded at the pool. “Chlorine.”

  She was looking at him oddly now. He was trying hard to look at her face.

  “You’re not the pool boy?” she asked.

  Louis shook his head. “My name is Louis Kincaid. I’m a private investigator.”

  It took her a moment, but she smiled again. “Oh, sorry,” she said. She rubbed the towel over her dark hair and tossed it aside.

  She was maybe thirty, tall, almost his height, with a taut dancer’s body—boyish hips, finely muscled legs and no tits. Definitely good looking.

  Definitely not his type, he thought with relief as she nonchalantly stretched out on her back on a lounge chair, arms behind her head.

  “So, what are you investigating?” she asked. Her tone was almost playful.

  “Spencer Duvall’s death,” he said. Something told him to let her take the lead in this.

  She put on sunglasses. “Poor Spence,” she said. “Why ‘poor Spence’?”

  “Kind of . . . sad, don’t you think?”

  “Murder is rarely happy.”

  “I mean him. He was kind of sad.”

  Louis heard a door and looked back to see the maid coming toward them carrying a tray.

  “Candace should be back soon,” Hayley said. “She’s getting her nails done.”

  “I’d rather talk to you,” Louis said.

  The maid stopped abruptly when she recognized Louis. “Mrs. Duvall told you not to come back here,” she said.

  Hayley raised an eyebrow at Louis, then waved the maid forward. “Never mind, Luisa,” she said, “just give me the drink and go away.”

  The maid scowled at Louis and left.

  “I’m sorry,” Hayley said to Louis. “You want a Long Island iced tea? I told her to use the Belvedere this time. It’s really good.”

  “No thanks. Tell me more about Spencer. How well did you know him?”

  She took a sip of the drink. “Not well. We moved in different circles.”

  “Your circles intersected,” Louis said.

  Hayley smiled and gave a small shrug. “I flunked geometry.”

  There was nothing to do but go for the throat. “How long have you and Candace Duvall been together?” he asked.

  He couldn’t see her eyes behind the dark glasses, but she was still smiling.

  “About a year,” she said finally. “We met at the Body Works. I teach yoga and aerobics there.”

  “Did her husband know about you?”

  She shrugged again. “Candy didn’t want me coming over here when he was home. One time he came home early when I was here and she introduced me as her personal trainer.” Her smile had faded.

  “So Candace isn’t . . .” Louis hesitated.

  “Out of the closet?” Hayley reached for the suntan lotion. “Nope.”

  Something sour had crept into Hayley’s voice. “Are you?” Louis asked.

  “Since high school.”

  Hayley was rubbing lotion on her chest. Louis was trying not to look at her.

  “Did Candace know her husband was going to file for divorce?” he asked finally.

  “Yeah, she knew.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Hayley nodded. “She said one night that when she got the papers, she was gonna go stuff them up Brian’s ass.”

  “Brian? Brian Brenner?”

  “Yeah. You know him?”

  Louis shook his head. “So Candace didn’t want a divorce?”

  “Nope. She was perfectly happy playing the game.”

  That bitter tone had returned to her voice again.

  “Did Spencer tell Candace why he wanted a divorce?” Louis asked.

  “If he did, she didn’t tell me.”

  Hayley was looking at the house. Louis followed her gaze. The maid was standing at the French doors, staring at them.

  “God, I hate that woman,” Hayley murmured. “She speaks Spanish because she thinks I don’t know what she’s saying. Shit, I learned what tortillera meant in ninth grade.”

  She looked back at Louis, shielding her eyes. “You mind sitting down? You’re blocking my sun.”

  Louis sat on the edge of the lounge chair next t
o hers. At least he had found out Candace knew about the divorce. But he had the feeling there was more and that Hayley, for whatever reason, was willing to talk.

  “Your landlord told me to tell you not to expect your security deposit back,” he said.

  She laughed. “I got all the security I need now.” She took a big gulp of her drink. “So, what did you do to piss Candy off?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I didn’t smell nice enough.”

  Hayley laughed again, a big whoop this time. “Yeah, she’s big on smells.”

  Louis looked at the house. The maid was still there, watching him. He had the feeling that if he didn’t leave soon, he was going to end up in jail for trespassing. Candace could show up any minute.

  “I think I better get going,” he said, rising.

  “Wise choice,” Hayley said. She took off her sunglasses and laid back in the lounge, closing her eyes.

  He started to leave, then turned back. “Why did you call Spencer Duvall ‘sad’?” he asked.

  Hayley looked at him. “Because he was.”

  “Why? Because his wife was cheating on him?”

  A slow smile came to Hayley’s face, and Louis had the feeling that she was humoring him, like she might a boy who had just figured out what sex was.

  “Spencer was gay,” she said.

  Louis was dumbstruck. Which made her smile even more.

  “And he didn’t want to be,” she added.

  He could think of only one thing to ask. “Did Candace know?”

  “What do you think?”

  She was grinning, enjoying his bewilderment. “Candy was his beard,” she said. “Or he was hers. I’m not sure how it worked, to be honest. All I know is that they found each other in college and kind of struck a bargain to prop up each other’s lies.”

  “So their marriage—”

  “. . . was pretend,” Hayley finished. “You know, like a fairy tale.” She let out a whoop of laughter again.

  Louis couldn’t conceal his surprise, and that made Hayley laugh even harder.

  “So who was Spencer . . . ?” he asked.

  “Sleeping with?” She smiled. “I don’t have a clue. Do you?”

  Louis’s eyes wandered up over the huge white house, across the glistening pool and out over sparkling San Carlos Bay.