The Little Death

Chapter Twelve

The choice was simple: Domino’s pizza or Captain D’s seafood. Louis couldn’t imagine how a hook-’em-and-cook-’em fry shack like Captain D’s stayed in business in a place like Florida. But he did know that once you ate fresh grouper at Timmy’s Nook, you just didn’t-as the folks in Palm Beach would say-lower yourself to beer-batter fish in a bag.

Mel would just have to eat pizza and like it.

The sky was pink and lavender as he parked the Mustang in the lot of their hotel. Louis grabbed the pizza box, the Styrofoam cooler he had filled with beer back at the 7-Eleven in West Palm, and the photograph of Emilio that Rosa had given him. As he hurried upstairs to the room, he wondered if Mel was feeling better and hoped he had forced himself to get out for a walk.

Mel didn’t look as if he’d gone anywhere. He was sprawled on his bed, one knee up, arms behind his head, eyes closed. He wore only a pair of baggy jogging shorts and a set of headphones. His cherished CD player sat on the bed next to him.

Louis set the pizza and cooler down and nudged him. Deep in either sleep or Coltrane’s jazz, Mel jumped. He propped himself on one elbow and reached for his glasses. It took him a moment to focus.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Almost eight. You been asleep all day?”

Mel pushed to a sitting position and discarded the headphones. His chest, arms, and face were so sunburnt the color looked painted on. And it looked painful.

“You go down to the beach?” Louis asked.

“Just for a few minutes.”

“Must’ve been longer than a few minutes,” Louis said. “You look like a lobster.”

“I am a sensitive man with sensitive skin,” Mel said.

“You’re a stale, pale male who lives like one of those underground creatures in that movie The Time Machine.”

“Morlocks.”

Louis snagged a beer from the cooler. “Why didn’t you buy some sunscreen?” he asked.

“Why are you nagging me?”

“Well, don’t bitch to me all night when you can’t sleep.”

“I won’t have any trouble sleeping.”

Louis flipped open the pizza box. There were no plates in the room, so he grabbed a couple of Domino’s napkins.

“How many slices you want?” Louis asked.

“Not hungry,” Mel said.

Louis started to ask where he’d eaten but paused when he saw a plate sitting on the nightstand between the beds. He picked up the linen napkin that lay on top. The food was a partially eaten bacon cheeseburger. The plate had the Ta-boo logo on the edge.

“You’re getting takeout from Ta-boo?” Louis asked.

“Sure, why not?”

Louis threw the napkin down. “A little pricy, isn’t it?”

Mel shrugged and started to put his headphones back on. Louis reached down to stop him.

“What’s your problem?” Mel asked.

“Have you gotten any money from Kent?”

“He says he’ll have some in a few weeks.”

“How much?” Louis asked.

“He didn’t say.”

Louis went back to the pizza box. “I don’t know how you expect us to get by here,” he said. “Eighty-five a night for the room, a couple hundred for tuxedo rentals, and now you’re laying around here eating takeout from the most expensive place in town.”

“It’s not the most expensive place,” Mel said.

“That’s not the point,” Louis said. “We haven’t even decided if we’re going to take this case yet, and we’re already five hundred bucks in the hole.”

Mel swung his feet to the floor. “You going to bail on me here?”

Louis had a slice of pizza to his mouth, but he stopped and lowered it. Despite his increasing blindness, Mel was the most independent and get-out-of-my-face guy Louis knew. But his voice now had an edge of panic, a don’t-quit-on-me kind of panic.

“I’m not walking away,” Louis said, “but I’d like to know if it’s going to be worth our while. This isn’t going to be an easy investigation.”

“There are no easy investigations, you know that,” Mel said. “It’s just a lot of begging and digging, and if you’re lucky, you sniff out a lead that cracks things open.”

Louis sat down on the edge of his bed and bit into the pizza. Mel started to pick at the cold French fries on the plate. For a couple of minutes, there was nothing but the soft crunch of their chewing.

“So, what did you find out today?” Mel finally asked. “Does this Emilio fellow exist?”

Louis nodded. “Yeah. His last name is Labastide. He’s a Mexican illegal who worked for the lawn company in 1984.”

“You found him?”

Louis rose, grabbed Rosa’s photo off the dresser, and tossed it to Mel. Mel turned on the lamp and held the picture under the bright light.

“I found his sister, Rosa,” Louis said. “She hasn’t seen him since October of eighty-four. Says one night he just didn’t come home.”

“Does she think he went back to Mexico?”

Louis was chewing, and he shook his head as he mumbled an answer. “No. They came to this country together, when she was sixteen. She says no way would he desert her.”

Mel was quiet, and Louis let him think about things while he finished a second slice of pizza and pulled two beers from the cooler. He set one on the nightstand for Mel.

“Do you think there is a connection between Labastide and Durand?” Mel asked.

“I don’t know,” Louis said. “Five years between murders is a long time in the killing business.”

“Then let’s lay it out,” Mel said. “Grab that pad of paper over there, and start writing.”

Louis pushed the remaining pizza crust into his mouth and picked up the legal pad. Mel started reciting the commonalities between Labastide and Durand, something any detective did when looking at the possibility of a single killer for multiple victims.

Both were young, dark-haired, and handsome.

Both had little money.

Both were looking to improve their financial situations.

Both had personal contact with rich married women.

“We’re missing what could be the biggest link,” Mel said. “Did you ask Rosa if her brother was gay?”

“No,” Louis said. “It seemed like a lousy thing to throw at her, so I danced around it and asked about a girlfriend. She said she was sure he had no girlfriend, so I asked about a buddy. She said his best pal had gone back to Mexico.”

“So, we don’t know which way he swung,” Mel said.

Louis rose again to get another beer. “First time in my life I ever needed to know something like that about someone.”

“We need to know, Louis,” Mel said. “If Labastide was gay, that will indicate a very likely hate-crime connection.”

“Hate crimes are spontaneous and not usually planned. Hard to consider someone killing like that five years apart.”

“Maybe it wasn’t five years apart,” Mel said. “There was a case up in Virginia a few years ago where a married man who hated gays was picking up young guys in bars and taking them home and killing them. He got away with it for eight years, because the bodies in between didn’t turn up.”

Louis took a drink of his beer. Mel’s hate-crime theory was not one he was comfortable with. It felt far-fetched, almost as improbable as believing that Emilio had become some kind of boy toy who spent his afternoons lying on Egyptian sheets and sipping mimosas.

And there was still the fact that as far as they knew, Durand swung both ways. Was it possible that Labastide did, too? And if so, who was more likely to kill him? A jealous male lover or a jealous husband?

“We need to find out what happened to Labastide,” Louis said. “If he’s dead and it was a homicide, then we’ll know where to go.”

“We could call Barberry and ask him to research his database of John Does.”

Louis shook his head. “I don’t want to let that asshole know what direction we’re looking. I’ll call Dr. Steffel and see what she can dig up. If Labastide was murdered, it’s likely he was dumped in Palm Beach County.”

“If that doesn’t work,” Mel said, “we may have to resort to begging favors from Lance Mobley.”

Louis sighed. Mobley was the Lee County sheriff on the western side of the state, their home territory. Sometimes friend, sometimes adversary, but always a man looking for a microphone and a camera. Also one who did not know the meaning of the word discretion.

But if they had to play nice with Mobley, then so be it. There was no way to make a connection to Durand or Palm Beach until they knew what happened to Labastide.

Even if the cases turned out not to be related and Labastide had met some other kind of tragic end, Louis had still made a promise to Rosa Díaz. He said he would come back. And he didn’t intend to do that until he had something to tell her.

O’Sullivan’s was a cop bar. Conveniently located within walking distance of the Fort Myers police station, it had become, over the years, much like a married guy’s cherished den. Stale, smoky air, cigarette burns on the tabletops, shelves of softball and bowling trophies, a floor of crushed peanut shells, and a big-screen TV permanently turned to ESPN.

And like all primitive habitats, it had a pecking order.

City detectives had staked claim to the back end of the bar; county detectives, out of legendary necessity, owned the three tables near the men’s-room door. The slew of small round tables arranged down the center of the bar belonged to the rank-and-file officers, usually two kinds: those who dropped in only long enough to feed their egos by telling embellished stories of near-death experiences and those who had nothing else to go home to but dried-up cartons of Chinese takeout and an empty bed.

Lance Mobley, Lee County sheriff, sat in the back booth on his throne of tattered green vinyl, a vision of leonine golden hair, golfer’s tan, and an oppressively starched white uniform shirt. With one arm across the back of the seat and a booted ankle on his knee, he looked like a sultan surveying his realm.

As Louis and Mel had feared, Dr. Steffel had not turned up any medical examiner’s records for an Emilio Labastide, nor could she find any John Does matching the physical description. Late yesterday afternoon, Louis had resorted to calling Mobley. Louis gave him Labastide’s general information and, to reel him in, added something to whet the sheriff’s investigative appetite: “See if you have any decapitated corpses.”

It had taken Mobley less than two hours to call back and tell them he didn’t have a deceased person by that name, but he did have a young, headless John Doe, found about thirty miles east of Fort Myers, just this side of the Lee/Hendry county line.

When Louis pressed him for details on the cause of death, Mobley told him he would have to come back to Fort Myers and buy him a drink. That was Mobley’s way of saying, I got what you need, and I want a piece of this.

Mobley spotted them and waved them over. He didn’t rise when they got to the table.

“If it isn’t the Lone Ranger and Tonto,” Mobley said.

“Nice to see you again, too, Dudley,” Mel said.

Mobley grabbed a chair from the nearby table for Mel. Louis sat down across from Mobley, taking note of a thin manila folder on the table between them.

Mobley saw Louis’s gaze and slapped a protective hand down on the folder. “So, what’s this case all about?” he asked.

“Just a routine homicide, Lance,” Louis said. “Missing man with suspicious circumstances.”

“Nothing is routine in Palm Beach, Kincaid,” Mobley said. “Tell me the truth. Who is this Labastide? A Spanish count or just some piece of Euro trash who OD’d in The Breakers and was dumped out in the middle of nowhere to cover it up?”

Louis smiled. “Labastide was a twenty-five-year-old immigrant gardener.”

The glint in Lance’s eyes dimmed. “But you told me this guy was from Palm Beach.”

“I told you he might have disappeared from Palm Beach,” Louis said.

Mobley sat back and crossed his arms. “I can’t believe I had guys digging around in our records room for a fuckin’ Mexican.”

“Jesus Christ, Lance,” Mel said, “clean up your mouth. You’re a public servant, for crissake.”

“Fuck you, Landeta,” Mobley said. “You don’t like the talk in here, don’t let the door hit you in the ass.”

“Shut up, both of you,” Louis said, reaching across the table to grab the folder. He didn’t care about the reports. He wanted to see the fingerprint card. Every unidentified body was fingerprinted before it was buried. The card was usually stapled to the inside cover. And it wasn’t here.

“Lance, where’s the print card?” Louis asked.

“It’s not there?” Mobley said.

“No. Where is it?”

Mobley shrugged. “Looks like the ME forgot to do one.” He stood up. “I’m getting another cup of coffee,” he said, pushing from the booth. “You want anything, asshole?”

“Coke,” Mel said.

Louis flipped through the folder’s contents. It was pretty thin, but it said the body had been found November 3, which matched Rosa’s memory. The autopsy report revealed the John Doe was between eighteen and thirty-five, weight 170, height six-one.

“Read it to me, man,” Mel said.

“Same height and weight that was listed on Labastide’s Palm Beach ID card,” Louis said. “Manner of death was seven stab wounds to the chest, one right to the heart.”

“Any signs he was tortured or beaten? Any whip marks?”

“Nope.”

“Clothed?” Mel asked.

“Yeah, jeans and a T-shirt. Pockets rifled, probably to remove money or his identification. Here’s something interesting. His hands and nails were clean and trim. I wouldn’t expect that of a guy who did lawn work.”

“Maybe the women he was screwing expected it,” Mel said.

Louis nodded and read on. “The ME didn’t offer much on the weapon used to sever the head, just that it was consistent with a large blade.” His eyes dipped to the name on the autopsy. It was signed by somebody named T. Cartwright. It had to be the ME who ran the Lee County office before Vince Carissimi took over. His friend Vince would have never neglected printing a body.

“Got any pictures?” Mel asked.

Louis shifted through the crime-scene photos. There were just four showing the headless body from different angles. None of the corpse taken in the autopsy room. Sloppy work all around.

“How long had he been out there before they found him?” Mel asked.

“He was found Nov. 3,” Louis said. “Rosa told me Emilio disappeared on Halloween.”

“That area out near the county line is all state land, right?” Mel asked.

Louis started to nod again, then stopped when he saw a short note written by the responding officer to the dead-body call. The John Doe was discovered by a guy who worked for Archer Ranch.

Archer…

Where had he heard that name before?

He remembered. There had been a sign out at Devil’s Garden near the cattle pen where Durand had been found. Something about state land and a preserve.

Mobley slid back in the booth, sloshing coffee as he set a can of Sprite in front of Mel.

“I asked for a Coke,” Mel said.

“That’s all they had.”

“What kind of bar runs out of Coke?”

“Tell it to the owner.”

“Lance,” Louis said. “Do you know a family named Archer that lives out near Hendry County or Lake Okeechobee?”

“No, why?”

Louis didn’t want to tell him that there was another headless body dumped in the same general area. The idea of a decapitating serial killer operating in Mobley’s backyard was not something that needed to be pinballing around in the sheriff’s brain. Right now, Mobley had no interest in the John Doe, and it was better for everyone if it was left that way.

“No reason,” Louis said. “Just thought I recognized the name.”

“Did the head ever turn up?” Mel asked.

“Not in my county.” Mobley’s beeper went off. He looked down at the number, then back at Louis. “If you don’t need anything else from me, then clear out,” he said. “I got a couple of DAs coming by in five minutes. Got that triple murder case on the burner next week.”

Louis closed the folder and slid it back to Mobley. “Any chance we can dig this John Doe up and try to ID him?”

“Not on my dime,” Mobley said.

“What if we can get some TV cameras out there to film you pushing the casket into the hearse?” Mel asked.

“Get out of my bar,” Mobley said. “Both of you.”

Louis and Mel rose together and paused outside. It was only a few minutes after noon, and the sun was high and warm. Louis pulled his sunglasses from his shirt pocket.

“Why’d you ask about the print card?” Mel asked. “What good would that do us?”

“I forgot to tell you something. You know those ID cards I told you about, the ones Swann kept on the workers? They had fingerprints.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” Mel said.

Louis put on his sunglasses. “It would have been nice and easy just to match up two sets of prints.”

“What was that stuff about Archer?” Mel asked.

“Mobley’s John Doe was found by a guy who worked for the Archer Ranch,” Louis said. “That’s the same name I saw on a sign near the cattle pen.”

“But the Hendry County line and the cattle pen are at least thirty miles apart.”

“I know,” Louis said. “Which makes the coincidence too big to ignore. You up for a trip to a ranch?”

“As long as I don’t have to ride a frickin’ horse,” Mel said.