The Little Death (23 page)
The Osborn home was at the westernmost end of Worth Avenue. Margery had told him the home was one of the “significant” mansions on the island, set down in a neighborhood once known as Sue City, named after an heiress to the Listerine fortune whose family had once owned the entire strip of land on lower Worth Avenue.
Louis parked in the broad brick drive, his eyes taking in the four-car garage on the left side of the sprawling house. There was a blue Toyota Camry by the closed garage doors.
A maid let him into a bright entrance hall of white marble and pillars, where the only stab of color came from a flame-red orchid sitting on a mirrored table. As they passed through a high-ceilinged salon filled with antiques and sunlight, Louis’s eyes were drawn to a twenty-foot white Christmas tree, decorated in silver and white like a department-store display and packed beneath with gifts in matching silver wrappings. His thoughts flashed
briefly to Rosa Díaz’s tiny tree with the three ornaments. No presents under that one that he could remember.
He was taken to a study of dark paneling and shadows, the windows hidden by plantation shutters, a sharp contrast to the blinding-white decor of the rest of the house. The maid told him to wait and stopped to switch on a lamp before she left.
As his eyes adjusted, the room’s rich details emerged. A fancy carved desk on a zebra-skin rug. A full suit of medieval armor. A painted infantry drum. A glass display box filled with colorful medals. A spiked German helmet. Two cabinets in the dark corner filled with guns and knives…
Good God.
Louis moved closer to the desk. Above it hung a gleaming sword.
“Can I help you?”
Louis turned. The man at the door was tall, wearing gray dress slacks, a dark sports coat, and a white shirt.
“I’m waiting for Senator Osborn,” Louis said.
“I’m Tucker Osborn,” the man said. “And you are?”
“Louis Kincaid.”
Louis came forward, holding out his hand. The man was around sixty, still vital and handsome, with searing blue eyes and a thick shock of dark hair with a feather of gray at the temples. He shook Louis’s hand with an overly firm grip.
“You’re that detective,” Osborn said.
“Yes, I’m working for Reggie Kent,” Louis said.
The fact that the name brought no reaction made Louis believe that to Tucker Osborn, a man like Kent wasn’t even worth a blip on his mental radar. Substrata, as Margery would say.
“What is your business with my wife?” Osborn asked.
“I’m told she might know something,” Louis said.
“About what? That Durand joker?”
Louis thought it was odd that Osborn had mentioned Durand with no prompting. But then, it was also damn odd that Osborn had an antique sword in his study.
“Actually, I need to ask your wife about a different man,” Louis said. “His name is Emilio Labastide. He disappeared five years ago, October 31, 1984, to be exact.”
A flicker of emotion crossed Osborn’s face.
“I think I should talk to your wife, Mr. Osborn,” Louis said.
“Out of the question.”
“Suit yourself,” Louis said. “But this is what’s going to happen. I know that your wife had some kind of contact with Labastide. And I am, oh, maybe two steps ahead of the police. But once the fine fellows over at the sheriff’s department find out what I have, they will be knocking on your door. And they won’t be as quiet about it as I might be.”
Louis had seen Osborn’s face twitch at the word
contact.
He gave him a few more moments to think. “Now, can I talk to your wife?”
“She’s not here,” Osborn said.
“When will she be back?”
Osborn went to the desk, flipped open a silver box, and pulled out a cigarette. He offered one to Louis, who shook his head. Osborn lit the cigarette with a heavy silver lighter and drew on it so hard his cheeks went concave. He exhaled in a long, hard puff.
“What did you say your name was?” he asked.
“Kincaid. Louis Kincaid.”
“Well, why don’t you ask me the questions, Mr. Kincaid?” he said as he sat down in the leather chair behind the desk and switched on a lamp.
Louis caught a glint of metal. There was a tall Oriental vase in the corner. The hilts of five ornate swords were visible from its top. Louis looked back at Osborn.
“May I sit down?”
Osborn nodded at the chair opposite the desk.
“Five years ago, a man was chased from your house,” Louis said.
“Oh, for God’s sake, not this shit again,” Osborn said.
“Again?”
“Look, that was an ugly rumor started years ago by one of my wife’s political enemies,” Osborn said. “It’s bullshit.”
Louis reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out a photo, tossing it onto the desk. “Do you recognize this man?”
It was a copy of the photo Rosa had given him of Emilio. Osborn’s eyes flicked to it, and he shook his head. “Who is it?”
“The man your wife was supposedly having an affair with,” Louis said. “The man you supposedly chased out of here.”
Osborn stared hard at Louis. “Are you working for Morty Akers? Is that loser running again?”
“Who’s Morty Akers?”
“I have nothing to say about this.”
“Who is Morty Akers?” Louis asked. When Osborn didn’t say anything, Louis leaned back and propped a
foot on his knee. “You might as well tell me. I’m going to find out.”
Osborn sat forward and snuffed the cigarette out in a crystal ashtray. “My wife was up for reelection five years ago. Akers was running against her. He’s a slimeball, and he ran a sleazy campaign.”
“What did he do?” Louis asked.
Osborn gave a snort. “You name it. He made these TV ads, taking every speech she did and editing it to make her sound like some Nazi brownshirt. He sent detectives to dig up shit on her family, her pastor, even her doctor because the guy’s wife worked for the ACLU, for God’s sake.” He shook his head. “They call it ‘opposition research,’ you know.”
“What does this have to do with the rumor about the man running from your house?” Louis asked.
“None of it was working, so Akers decided he needed to get personal.” Osborn’s jaw ground in anger. “About six years ago, my son got busted for having a couple of ounces of pot. No big deal here, but it happened down in Boca, and there was a police report. Akers claimed Carolyn engineered a cover-up with the cops. Plus, he hit her hard on the family-values shit.” Osborn shook his head slowly. “My son was only fifteen. Yeah, he was stupid, but he didn’t deserve what that asshole did, putting it on radio and TV.”
Osborn pulled out another cigarette and lit it. He blew out the smoke in a slow stream, like he was trying to calm himself.
“Akers went to work on the household staff next,” he said. “He tried to bribe them. And then he had private investigators hanging around with cameras wherever Carolyn went.”
His icy blue eyes zeroed in on Louis. “How do you guys sleep at night?”
Louis met Osborn’s stare. “So, Akers started the rumor that your wife was sleeping with someone?”
Osborn gave a hard nod. “Carolyn and I were separated at the time, and he must have found out. We were going through a rough patch and had decided it would be best if we lived apart for a while. I wasn’t even living here in the house. This is a small town. Anybody here could verify that.”
Louis had the sense the guy was overly touchy, like he was hiding something. Guys who had something to hide were always daring you to ask around. But those types were usually your everyday criminals, high on bravado and low on brainpower. Osborn didn’t fit that.
Osborn drew on his cigarette and gave a wry smile. “Too bad you don’t work for Akers.”
“Why?” Louis asked.
“You could give him a message for me,” Osborn said. “You could tell him thanks.”
“For what?”
“When a guy is attacking your wife, you have a duty to hit back. If Akers hadn’t done what he did to Carolyn, I might never have come home.” He stabbed out the cigarette. “Ironic, isn’t it? The asshole probably saved my marriage.”
The phone rang. Osborn glanced at it but didn’t pick it up. Someone in the house did. The extension button began to blink.
There was a soft knock on the door.
“Tucker?”
Louis turned at the sound of the woman’s voice. She
stood outside the door, head poked in. She gave Louis a glance of curiosity and then looked to Osborn.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Am I interrupting something important?”
Osborn rose and came out from behind the desk. “No, Carolyn. We’re finished.” He looked at Louis. “Right?”
Louis rose. It was clear Osborn was not going to introduce him to his wife. Louis extended his hand.
“Senator Osborn, I’m Louis Kincaid.”
She accepted his handshake with a cool smile, but her eyes darted to her husband for some sort of confirmation. She was a handsome woman of about fifty, tall and thin, in a dark blue pantsuit. Her hair was a silver blond, her face youthful but without the awful wind-tunnel stretched look that Louis had seen on so many Palm Beach matrons.
“You’re the one who’s working for Reggie,” she said.
Louis nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Her eyes lingered as her brows knitted, like she was trying to figure out why he was standing in her home. But she finally looked to her husband.
“Tucker, you really have to get started on your packing,” she said.
“I don’t think I’m going to be able to get away,” he said.
“Tucker, you said…”
“We’ll talk about this later, dear.” He took her elbow and started to steer her away. But her eyes had dropped to the desk, to the photograph of Emilio. She quickly looked back up to her husband.
Louis picked up the photograph. “Senator Osborn, do you recognize this man?”
He was holding it out, but she didn’t take it. “No,” she said.
Then she gave him another smile. Louis wondered if politicians practiced their smiles in front of mirrors. How else could a human face so easily subdivide itself—warmth from the mouth and utter coldness in the eyes?
“Carolyn—”
Louis’s eyes swung to the door. A young man in a suit and tie stood there, holding a leather binder.
“Yes, Greg?” she said.
The young man’s pale face colored slightly. “Ah,” he said, “I need a couple of minutes to go over your schedule, Senator.”
“Of course,” she answered. “I need to speak to my husband. Why don’t you show Mr. Kincaid out?”
The man with the binder finally seemed to realize Louis was in the room. He hesitated, his eyes swinging between Carolyn Osborn and her husband. Then he closed the binder and gestured to the door.
Louis said his goodbyes to the Osborns and followed the young man out. The door closed behind them. Louis heard Tucker Osborn’s voice rise, but he couldn’t make out the words.
“This way,” the young man said curtly.
“Sure, Greg. Whatever you say.”
The man led Louis back through the big room with the Christmas tree and out into the white entrance hall. He walked fast, his gait as sharp as the part in his red hair.
He opened the door and stepped back. But Louis didn’t move.
“Yes?” he asked impatiently.
“Greg, I was wondering—”
“Bitner,” he said. “My name is Mr. Bitner.”
Louis nodded. “And you work for Carolyn Osborn?”
“I work for the senator, yes.”
“Assistant?”
“Personal secretary.”
Louis nodded again. He pointed to the leather binder. “You keep track of where the senator is all the time?”
Bitner clutched the binder to his chest. “I make all of her appointments.”
“How long have you worked for her?”
“Almost six years. Now, if you would—”
Louis held up the photograph of Emilio. “Did you ever schedule an appointment for this man?”
Bitner glanced at the photo. “No, he has never had an appointment with Senator Osborn.”
“What about Mark Durand?”
Bitner’s eyes narrowed. “Mark Durand?”
“Yeah, did she maybe let Durand escort her to a ballet or—”
Bitner tried to nudge him out the door. Louis shrugged off his hand.
“Greg, Greg… let’s not get ugly here.” He nodded at the leather binder. “How about we make an appointment for me to talk to your boss?”
“I’m sorry, but she’s leaving soon for a family trip to Aspen,” Bitner said. “After the holidays, she goes back to Washington. All questions from the media must be directed to her press secretary.”
He whipped out a business card, and Louis took it. It
listed a name and an office in Washington. Louis pocketed the card.
“I’d rather talk to you, Greg.”
Bitner’s face reddened. “I must insist that you leave.”
Louis shrugged and stepped out onto the porch.
“And please don’t bother the senator again.”
The door closed. Louis figured Greg Bitner would have slammed it had it not been so heavy. He walked slowly down the brick driveway. At the Mustang, he paused to put on his sunglasses. He looked back at the house.
Just sitting there in the den, he had counted eight swords—seven in the holder and one on the wall. And in a house this size, there were probably more.
He wondered if Tucker Osborn was missing one.
