Louis wondered what Wainwright would do. They had no jurisdiction here and had beaten the sheriff’s department to the scene only because they heard Deputy Vargas’s call come in and had a shorter distance to drive.
This wasn’t Sereno Key, but Captiva, the barrier island on the gulf, one bay west of Sereno. Captiva didn’t have a police department of its own and relied on the sheriff’s office for law enforcement.
Louis saw Mobley’s face sour as he noticed Wainwright. Wainwright looked like he was ready for a fight. Louis decided to make himself scarce until the air cleared.
He turned and walked a few paces down the beach, careful to avoid the footprints in the area around the body. His eyes swept over the broad white beach. They were out on the northern end of the island, with only a few cottages set back at least twenty yards from the beach. The cottages were up on low dunes, hidden by waist-high tufts of sea oats and palms. The beach itself sloped gently toward the gulf and the body was further obscured from view by some rocks. The shoreline was not visible from the road. If there had been any witnesses, they would have had to have been right on the beach to see anything.
He walked farther down the beach, finally spotting a clearing in the trees. He went up the dune and through the sea oats. There was a restaurant, its rough-hewn exterior fronted by a patio that was obviously there to offer patrons a view of the sunsets on the gulf. The sign said THE MUCKY DUCK and listed the hours as 5:30 P.M. to 9:30 P.M. He peered in the windows, but saw no one inside. It was unlikely any customers might have been around late last night, but employees might have lingered. He made a mental note to come back and question possible witnesses.
He retraced his steps back to the beach. When he passed one of the cottages, he noticed a man standing on the bluff. He hadn’t been there before, and he was shielding his eyes against the sun, trying to see what was going on.
The man suddenly started down toward the water. Louis braced himself to rebuff him.
“What is going on?” the man demanded. He had an accent.
“Nothing, sir. Please go back up where you were.”
The man was fiftyish, fat and bald, wearing too-tight red swimming trunks and a pink guayabera shirt open over his tanned belly.
“Did someone drown?”
“No, sir—”
“But there is something bad?”
“No—”
“No? No? Les flics . . . the cops. They are there, no?”
The man started forward. Louis pushed gently against his shoulders.
“Yes, there’s been an accident. A man is dead.”
The man drew back slightly. “Dead? Here? Before my house? Grand Dieu!”
“You live here?”
“Yes, I am le proprio, the . . .” He frowned. “The landlord for the cottages there.” He pointed to the nearest one, a wood-frame place painted soft gray with a screened-in porch.
“Did you see anyone on the beach here late last night or very early this morning?” Louis asked.
“Moi? non . . . nothing. Rien.”
“You’re sure?”
He started to nod but then stopped. “A man, I saw a man on the beach last night.”
“What time?”
“Nine, ten? I don’t remember. He was walking near the cottages there. People do that. But this is propriété privée. I must run them away.”
“What did he look like?”
“I don’t know. It was dark. He . . . il a une sale tete.”
“What?”
He flapped a hand impatiently. “You know, ugly look.”
Louis stifled a sigh and pulled out a notebook. “Can I have your name and phone number, please?”
The man looked alarmed. “Why?”
“We might need to talk to you again.”
“Pierre Toussaint,” he said. “You can phone me at the office,” nodding to a rental sign with a number on it.
The place was called Branson’s on the Beach. It offered rentals by the week, month, or season. Louis jotted down the number and turned to leave.
“How did he die?” the Frenchman called out.
Louis turned back. “He was stabbed.”
“Sad, so sad,” the man said. “Mourir comme un chien.”
Louis nodded and started back toward the scene below. To die like a dog. His French was good enough to at least pick up that much.
Wainwright and the others looked up as he approached. “Where’d you go?” Wainwright asked.
“Thought I had a witness,” Louis said. “He saw someone but can’t give a description.”
Louis glanced at the sheriff and his detective, both hiding behind their sunglasses. Mobley had the sculptured arms of a bodybuilder and his skin was a golden bronze. He looked like a forty-year-old surfer in a uniform. Louis’s eyes were drawn to the shirt’s epaulettes. There were five stars, like a general would wear. Most sheriffs or chiefs settled for two.
Mobley nodded toward the body. “You’ve seen the other ones. This look the same?”
Louis glanced at Wainwright, surprised Mobley would ask. Wainwright didn’t say anything, so Louis spoke up.
“Black male, same approximate age, same manner of death.” He knelt to look closer. “There’s a tattoo on his right forearm.”
“Who’s this guy?” the suit demanded, jerking a thumb at Louis.
“He’s working for me,” Wainwright said. “You got a problem with that, Driggs?”
“I got a problem with you being here, Wainwright,” Driggs said, mopping his bald head. “Your prints are screwing up the scene.”
“So cast my shoes, asshole.” Wainwright squatted next to Louis. “Can you make out the tattoo?”
Louis nodded. It was old and faded but still visible on the corpse’s light brown skin. “It’s a dog, I think,” Louis said. “And the name ‘Bosco.’ ”
Louis avoided looking at the crushed face. “His shirt has old stains, pants are ripped, probably not from this struggle. No belt, badly worn sneakers. Not a tourist, I’d guess.”
“That’s a brilliant observation,” Driggs said.
Louis carefully checked the pockets. “No wallet.”
“Homeless, most likely,” Wainwright said.
“Right,” Driggs said. “How’d a homeless guy get out here on Fantasy Island?”
Wainwright rose slowly, dusting the sand from his hands. “He was probably abducted, Driggs. Quick was.”
Mobley pressed forward, edging Driggs out of the way. He gave them a tight smile of capped teeth. “I’ve heard enough. Driggs, go help Vargas with the crowd,” Mobley said.
Driggs trudged up the beach toward his squad car.
“Thanks, gentlemen,” Mobley said. “Nice of you to stop by.”
Louis rose. Wainwright didn’t even look at Mobley. “Fuck you, we’re staying around for a while.”
“I could have you removed from the scene,” Mobley said.
“Can the crap, Lance, there’s no cameras here.”
Mobley ignored him and bent to poke at the body. Louis pulled Wainwright off to the side. “What makes you think this one was abducted from somewhere else?”
“This isn’t like Sereno, Kincaid. Sanibel-Captiva is tourist territory, lots of money. You pay a three-buck toll just to get out here. No way this man is from here.”
“But why did he dump him here instead of Sereno?”
“Maybe he knows we’re watching the Sereno causeway.”
“Shit,” Louis muttered.
“What did you have going today?” Wainwright asked.
“I was going to go back to the marina and show Quick’s photo around again. But the boats will be out by the time I get there now. There’s a restaurant down the beach and I thought—”
“Let that go for now. I want you to check Matt Van Slate’s alibi for last night.”
“Dan, I’ve been tailing him. He’s been laying low. All he does is drink beer and shoot pool.”
“Check him anyway.”
Louis suppressed a sigh. “Anything new on Levon?”
Wainwright shook his head. “We thought we had a sighting in Cape Coral. Didn’t pan out.”
Wainwright looked back at the body. “We have to get an ID on this poor bastard. There’s a shelter over in Fort Myers. After you check out Van Slate, head on over there.”