by P J Parrish
The study reminded Louis a little of Spencer Duvall’s law office. And he could almost see Duvall sitting across from the old man’s desk, striking his Faustian bargain. He could even make out the outline on the dusty floor where the desk would have been.
Louis’s eyes wandered up the blue wallpaper. What he first had thought was a pattern he now realized were just darker spots on the blue paper. He turned to the windows. They faced the east and he could imagine that when the shutters were open, the morning sun fell full-force on the opposite blue wall, fading the paper over the decades.
He looked back at it. The darker blue patches were silhouettes. Silhouettes of guns.
“Scott,” Louis said, “did your father collect guns?”
Scott was looking at the outlines on the wall. “Yes, he did.”
Louis looked back at Mobley and could tell he was thinking the same thing.
“Where are the guns now, Scott?” Mobley asked.
“We sold them to a dealer after Dad died,” Scott said.
He noticed Louis and Mobley exchange glances. “Duvall was shot with a collector’s gun,” he said quietly. He drew in a quick breath. “Wait a minute, if you think Brian—”
Mobley held up a hand. “Let’s take this one step at a time, Scott.”
A couple of the deputies came in at that moment. Mobley turned to the tech guy. “I want photos of this wall,” he said, pointing, then he looked at Louis.
“Let’s go look outside,” he said.
They exited the house by the French doors that Brian had taken Louis through on his first visit. For a moment, the three of them just stood on the coral rock patio. The night was ripe with the brackish smell of the river and night-blooming jasmine. At the end of the long yard, Louis could make out the white boathouse and the red lights of a boat making its way down the black ribbon of the Caloosahatchee River.
Mobley led the way down the crumbling steps to the overgrown path. The only light came from a half moon low in the night sky, and as they picked their way toward the cabana, Mobley flicked on a flashlight.
“Remember that party you had here, Scott,” Mobley said. “Homecoming, senior year. We snuck down to the boathouse with a six-pack of Pabst.”
Scott didn’t answer him.
They stopped. The pool was a gaping gray hole in the faint light, the cabana behind it a dark outline against the tall ficus hedges.
Mobley swung his flashlight beam into the pool. The dark green water was filmed with scum. The smell of decay hung in the still, humid air.
Louis looked back at the house. The deputies were searching the second floor, and the play of their flashlights on the palm trees looked almost festive. For a moment, he could see in his mind what the Brenner house must have looked like once, when boys in madras shirts and girls in gold paisley necked on the lawn and snuck off to sip beers in the boathouse. He could see what an outsider like Kitty must have seen that night.
“Any lights out here, Scott?” Mobley said.
“I . . . I don’t know if it still works.” Scott disappeared and, a moment later, a spotlight came on, illuminating the decrepit cabana and the cracked patio. The pool light had come on too, sending a beam out into the ghastly green water.
Louis moved toward the cabana and tugged on one of the French doors. It stuck, and Louis had to pull it open, scraping it across the patio stone.
He went inside.
It was dark, except for small lasers of light that came in through the shutters. He felt for a light and turned it on.
It was a simple room, about twelve-by-twelve. Old wicker furniture was piled against one wall, and over in one corner was a shower stall with a rusty shower head. The floor was cement painted gray, the walls tiled in blue and peach.
Len, one of the tech guys, came to the door, holding a plastic bottle and a portable light. “Is this the place?”
“Yeah,” Mobley said, coming in.
Len slipped in behind Louis and Louis heard Mobley let out a sigh. “You know what a long shot this is, right Kincaid?” Mobley said.
Louis nodded.
Len started in one corner, spraying the first wall, from the floor to about four feet above, with luminol. He nodded at Mobley, standing near the door.
Mobley hit the switch and the cabana went dark. Louis anticipated the glow of the phosphorescent blue that would have signaled the smallest speck of blood. Len flicked on the portable luminol light.
Nothing.
“Do the others,” Mobley said, flicking the lights back on.
Len sprayed the second and third walls. Again nothing. After the fourth wall, Mobley hit the lights again. Len ran the light over the tiles in a slow caress. Nothing.
Mobley turned on the light and looked at Louis.
“Check the ceiling,” Louis said.
Len glanced at Mobley. Mobley nodded. Len pulled an old wicker chair to the middle of the floor and climbed on it, spraying the ceiling. Again, there was nothing when the lights were turned off.
Louis was staring at the floor, his eyes drawn to the drain near the shower. “Try the shower stall. Near the drain.”
Just as Len was flicking on the portable light, Scott appeared at the cabana door. Louis looked back at him but couldn’t read his expression in the dark. A man came up behind Scott. It took Louis a moment to recognize Brian. Louis watched as Scott leaned over and whispered something to his brother. Then they stepped outside.
Louis watched. They had stopped by the pool. Brian was shaking his head; Scott was doing all the talking.
“Nothing here, Sheriff.”
Louis turned back to Len, who was on his knees by the shower stall holding the portable light. Mobley was kneeling next to him. When he looked up at Louis, his face was grim in the ghostly blue light.
“There’s nothing here, Kincaid.” He got to his feet and went to hit the wall switch. “Twenty years is a long time.”
Louis paused, looking at the wall. He was thinking about the ugly green tile in Susan’s kitchen and the cracked black and white tiles up in the mansion. He ran a hand over the peach and blue tiles and in the grout crevices between. These tiles looked clean in comparison.
He was remembering what Vince said: She had almost bled out. It would have left a big mess.
A mess that Brian had not been able to clean up. So his father had ordered all the old tile ripped out and new tile installed. Louis looked at Mobley.
“This isn’t the original tile,” he said.
He pursed his lips, then turned to Len. “Go get the axe from your cruiser, Len,” he said.
When Len returned, Louis held out a hand. Len looked at Mobley, who nodded. Len handed him the axe. Louis took a step back and aimed at a section of the wall near the shower.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
They turned to see Scott standing at the cabana door. “You can’t tear up walls,” Scott shouted.
“Read the warrant, Scott,” Mobley said.
Louis swung the axe. It cracked into the tile, scattering chips at his feet.
Louis swung again, and this time the axe cut through the wall and lodged in the empty space behind it. Louis pulled the axe free and looked at the sheet rock. Using the sharp edge of the axe, Louis began to pry off the tiles. Mobley came up next him and started popping them off with his pocket knife. When they had cleared a couple square feet up from the floor, Mobley waved Len to come over with the luminol.
Nothing. They moved onto another section, popping tiles, spraying the luminol and lighting the sheet rock. Still nothing. The sheet rock was clean.
They went on to the next wall, then the third, chipping out sections of the tiles and spraying the sheet rock beneath. Finally, after a half-hour, they stopped. The air was heavy with dust and the sound of ragged breathing.
A coughing sound made Louis turn. Brian was holding a Kleenex over his nose. Scott was just standing there, leaning against the doorjamb, his arms crossed, his mouth pulled in a tight line.
&nbs
p; “I think you’re done here, Sheriff,” Scott said.
Mobley nodded at Len, who started to pack up. Louis was staring at the walls, at the gashes, the gray sheet rock and the jagged tiles. He turned when Mobley put a hand on his shoulder.
“Enough,” Mobley said quietly. “There’s nothing here.”
“Damn it, Lance, she was stabbed twelve times,” Louis said tightly. He threw the axe down in frustration. “Not one fucking drop of blood on these walls.”
Mobley moved away, talking quietly to the other deputies who had gathered near the door. Louis could hear him giving orders to start packing up. He could hear Scott and Brian too, whispering.
Louis stared at the ravaged walls. She was here damn it. He knew she was here. He could almost feel her presence, almost see what had happened. He could almost see—
Walls. No walls.
He took a step closer, staring at a torn piece of sheet rock. Maybe there were no walls here when she was killed.
Louis grabbed the edge of a torn piece of sheet rock, and jerked backward, ripping off the entire board. There was nothing beyond it but studs and the old lath and plaster backing. No blood stains.
He heard Scott call to Mobley, but he didn’t turn. He moved to the next piece of sheet rock, curling his fingers over the side edge.
“Sheriff, this is fucking crazy,” Scott said.
Then he felt a hand on his back.
“Kincaid—” Mobley said.
Louis shrugged Mobley off and yanked at another piece of sheet rock, breaking it off. He threw it down and pulled again.
“Louis!”
The wood groaned and the rest of the panel popped off, sending Louis stumbling backward.
A flash of red caught his eye and he struggled to gain his balance. The cabana fell silent, a film of white dust in the air.
He moved closer.
Fabric. A billow of red. And a yellow cloth that seemed suspended in the air between the two-by-fours.
Then he saw the bones. It was a full skeleton, bent in a fetal position. The arm and leg bones had dropped away but most of it was still intact, the skull lodged against a stud, balanced on top of the vertebrae.
A strange cry pierced the silence and Louis spun around.
Brian was staring at the bones in the wall, his face white.
“I left her in the dump!” he shouted. “How could she be here? I left her in the dump!”
Scott grabbed his brother’s shoulder. “Shut up,” he hissed, pushing him backward. “Shut up!”
Louis and Mobley followed them from cabana. Brian was muttering Kitty’s name, waving his arms. Scott finally grabbed his shoulders, drawing Brian so close he had no choice but to walk with him. Scott led him toward the grass, and eased him down.
Brian was crying.
Mobley started toward them, but Scott waved him off. Scott knelt in front of Brian, leaned close and said something to him. After a moment, Brian shuddered and gently placed his forehead against his brother’s.
Mobley gave them a few seconds, then walked over.
“Stand up, Brian. You’re under arrest.”
Brian didn’t move. Finally, Scott helped his brother to his feet. Brian stood there, wavering, his face streaked, his eyes panicked. Scott took his brother’s face in his hands, looking him in the eyes.
“Brian, listen to me,” Scott said. “Don’t say a word, not one damn word. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Do you hear me?”
Brian closed his eyes.
Scott shook him. “Brian! Do you hear me?”
Brian nodded weakly. Scott let go.
Louis watched as a deputy led Brian away, Scott following. Mobley was giving orders to the deputies. Louis turned and walked back into the cabana.
He went back to the hole in the wall. He stared at the skeleton. The tilt of the skull made it look almost like it was in mourning.
He moved closer. He could see it was a female.
The red fabric was a skirt, deep brown stains of dried blood running down the front of it. The yellowed cloth was streaked with brown splotches. There was a pink band around the skull and a necklace of some kind hung between the clavicle and sternum.
Louis squatted down so he could see the necklace.
Dear God.
He heard the crunch of Mobley’s boots on the broken tile behind him.
Mobley let out a slow breath. “Who the hell is that?” he said softly.
Louis couldn’t take his eyes off the necklace. “I know who she is.”
Chapter Forty-One
The bones were laid out on the steel table.
She had been tall, Louis thought, as he stared at them. Just like her father, Bob Ahnert.
Louis sipped his coffee, his eyes going to the items that Vince had carefully laid out on a table nearby. A ragged red skirt, the yellowed blouse stained with brown blood. A beaded pink headband they had taken from the skull. The small white puka beads taken from around her vertebrae.
Louis stared at the skull, at the crack, high on the cheekbone. Vince had told him someone had hit Lou Ann Ahnert hard, hard enough to crack her face open.
Shit. He threw the empty styrofoam cup in the trash.
He thought he had it all figured out.
He had spent hours at the house, watching the techs dismantle the wall, carefully sorting the bones and scraping the hard dried blood off the plywood behind them. He had stayed as they went back through the house, searching for anything that might have been missed. They were working two homicides now—Kitty Jagger’s and Lou Ann Ahnert’s. They still had found no evidence that Kitty had been killed there. And they didn’t know who had killed Lou Ann Ahnert. But at least they knew now that Brian Brenner had something to hide.
A sound behind him made Louis turn. Christ, it was Bob Ahnert.
He was standing at the door, his beefy face drawn, his eyes red. Louis knew that Mobley had already told him that remains had been found and that it was suspected the puka beads belonged to Lou Ann. It could all be confirmed through dental records later. But Louis had not expected Ahnert to show up here.
Damn. Mobley had gone down the hall for a cup of coffee. Louis started toward Ahnert.
“Is that her?”
Ahnert’s words stopped Louis in his tracks. Something told him to just step aside. Bob Ahnert’s eyes were fixed on the table. He came forward slowly.
He stared at the bones for a long time, his face slack, his eyes empty. There was nothing there, nothing in his expression.
“Detective—” Louis said.
Ahnert was shaking his head slowly. “That’s not Lou Ann, it’s just bones,” he said. “Just bones.”
Then, his eyes skittered to the table where the clothes lay.
He went to the table. Louis moved to his side. Ahnert was looking at the clothing. Something in his expression changed, shifted slightly, like he was focusing in on one small thing.
“Oh, Jesus,” he whispered.
He started to reach for the puka beads, but Louis grabbed his wrist.
“Don’t,” he said gently. “It’s evidence.”
Ahnert looked at Louis. His eyes teared and he moved away. Louis let him go.
Louis stood there, looking down at the clothing. He heard weeping. He turned and went to Bob Ahnert, putting a hand on the detective’s shoulders. Ahnert continued to sob softly until they both heard the snap of Mobley’s boots in the tiled hall way.
Ahnert turned, wiping at his face, drawing quick breaths.
The door opened and Mobley stopped, seeing Ahnert. He sized things up immediately and cleared his throat.
“Bob, I’m sorry—”
Head bowed, Ahnert brushed past him and was gone.
Mobley watched him go, then turned to Louis. “How’d he take it?”
“Hard.”
Mobley walked to the table, looking down at the bones. Louis came up next to him.
“Hard to believe it about Brian,” Mobley said. “You think you know people.”
/> Mobley moved away. When Louis turned to look, Mobley had sagged into a chair, hands on his knees. Louis went to sit down next to him, leaned his head back against the wall and shut his eyes. For a long time, neither spoke.
“The heir and the spare,” Mobley murmured.
Louis looked over at him.
“I keep thinking of that, what you called them,” Mobley said. “It was true. Brian was always kind of . . . an afterthought.” He let out a tired sigh. “I remember he used to come and watch us at football practice, this chubby zit-faced kid standing out by the chain-link fence by himself, watching his brother. He always wanted to hang with us afterward. We didn’t want him around. But Scott, he’d drag him along anyway.”
Louis was thinking of Kitty and what Brian had done to her. And what he might have done to Lou Ann Ahnert. He didn’t want to hear anything about how tough Brian had it.
“It must have been hard,” Mobley went on. “Your mom’s dead, your father’s gone all the time. And your only role model is a brother who’s smarter, more popular, better looking, than you ever had a prayer of being. Shit, do you love him or hate him?”
Louis closed his eyes, fatigue beginning to take over his body. Mobley nudged him.
“You okay?”
“I just want to go home.”
“Brian will be home before we are.”
“He made bail already?”
Mobley shrugged. “He will in a few hours, you watch. Come on. I’ll drive you back to your car.”
Louis followed Mobley outside and they headed toward his cruiser. It was past three in the morning and the air was wet and still, enveloping him like a warm blanket.
Louis settled back in the seat and closed his eyes, lulled by the squawks and chattering from Mobley’s radio. But even that did not stop the snapping in his brain.
The images were fast-forwarding like a high-speed slide show, propelled by Mobley’s talk of Brian Brenner. He saw Kitty’s empty grave. Willard Jagger’s worn face. A pink dress on a lifeless body. Bones in a cabana wall. And the tortured look on Brian’s face when he saw them.
The car stopped and Louis sat up. They were in the parking lot in front of the Brenner law offices. Mobley mumbled something about getting some sleep and Louis got out. As Mobley drove off, Louis stopped in the street, looking up at the top floor of the granite building in front of him.
