“I’m here to see Mrs. Duvall,” Louis said. He looked directly up into the camera lens. “My name is Louis Kincaid.”

There was a pause. “Mrs. Duvall is expecting you?”

“No. But I’m here on behalf of Mr. Duvall’s lawyer, Brian Brenner.” Another lie. It was becoming frighteningly easy.

It was at least a minute before the door opened. A small bronze-skinned woman in a white uniform motioned him in.

“Wait here, please.”

The woman disappeared, her Aerosoles squeaking on the marble like sneakers on a gym floor. It gave Louis a chance to look around.

He was standing in a soaring circular foyer, right in the center of an elaborate mosaic of stars made of onyx, lapis and some kind of gold stone. A twin staircase curved up around him, a sinuous U of glass and chrome. Under it, the foyer opened onto what he guessed was the living room, a cathedral of blinding white light dotted with sleek pale blue furniture. Through the huge windows beyond, he could see a turquoise rectangle-the pool. And beyond that, a shimmer of blue that was San Carlos Bay.

He turned at the sound of squeaking soles.

“Mrs. Duvall says to wait for her in the living area.”

Ah. Living area.

Louis followed the maid into the white light.

The maid left him alone again. He looked around, debating whether to actually sit in one of the unforgiving silk chairs. He decided to remain standing. His eyes wandered over the room’s severely elegant furniture and down to the white carpet with its little gold star design. This wasn’t a place people lived in; it was some designer’s wet dream. Everything was perfect. The perfect pleats of the white sheers. The perfect fingerprint-free glass tables. The perfect slant of the white orchids in their crystal vase.

He was trying to reconcile all this with Duvall’s cozy old office when a waft of cold air caused him to turn. Candace Duvall was standing at the foyer.

He knew Candace Duvall was in her mid-forties but she was trying real hard not to look like it. She had a tumble of heavily frosted blond curls around a small, deeply tanned face with big eyes and a pug nose. Her body was just thin enough to be called lush instead of plump, and ill-concealed in a loosely belted robe. The robe was white silk dotted with little gold stars. He wondered if she always coordinated her clothes with her carpet.

“Luisa didn’t tell me your name,” she said.

“Louis Kincaid.”

She was leaning against a pillar, a languid pose. More Mae West than mourning wife.

“You work with Brian?”

Brian? Well, Brenner had said they were social acquaintances.

“I’ve never seen you before,” she said.

“I’m new,” he said.

She came slowly into the room. From her pocket, she extracted a cigarette and a blue Bic. She lit the cigarette and drew quickly on it.

“You don’t look like a lawyer,” she said, her eyes locked on his. They were brown and puppy-like. Her face had the shiny taut look of a recent peel. Coupled with the eyes, it made her look like one of those little Pekinese dogs.

“What are lawyers supposed to look like?” he asked.

“You know, Brooks Brothers. Or Savile Row, in Spencer’s case.”

Savile Row? That didn’t square with sand in the shoes either.

Suddenly, Candace moved toward him, stopping just inches away. Louis resisted the urge to move back. Her smell-a potent brew of flowers, cigarettes and something musty he couldn’t quite place-filled his nostrils.

She took a step back. “You don’t smell like a lawyer either,” she said.

“Lawyers have a smell?”

“Everyone has a smell, their own unique human perfume,” she said. “My first boyfriend, he smelled like sawdust and Necco wafers. Not unpleasant, really.”

She went to a sofa and sat down, crossing her well-muscled, tanned legs. “Spence, he smelled like shoe polish.” She drew heavily on the cigarette as she stared up at him.

He suddenly could remember the smell of the shoe polish he used to shine his shoes with when he was a cop. Okay, he’d play along.

“Roll-on or paste?” he asked.

“What?”

“Shoe polish. Roll-on or paste? The roll-on stuff smells like burnt tires. The paste smells more like turpentine.”

She stared at him for a moment, then laughed. She leaned forward to tap her cigarette in a crystal ashtray. The robe opened to a clear view of her tanned left breast and a large brown nipple. Louis didn’t look away. She leaned back, still smiling slightly.

“You’re not a lawyer, are you?” she said.

“No.”

“You don’t work with Brian either, do you?”

“No.”

“What are you doing here then?”

“I’m a private investigator.”

She nodded, pursing her lips. “Working for who?”

“Jack Cade.”

She stared blankly at him for a moment, then leaned forward and snuffed her cigarette out. When she sat back again, her eyes weren’t so puppy-like anymore. “You work for the man who killed my husband and you come to my home expecting me to talk to you? What, are you nuts or just stupid?”

Okay. Fun and games were obviously over.

“I’m just trying to get to the bottom of some things, Mrs. Duvall,” he said. “I’d like to just ask you a few questions-”

“I’m sure you would.”

“Did you know your husband was divorcing you?”

He waited, watching Candace Duvall’s face. Damn. Nothing. No surprise, no flinch, no nothing. If the woman knew anything, she was a hell of an actress.

A flash of color caught Louis’s eye and he looked to the large windows over Candace Duvall’s shoulder. Someone had come onto the patio. A young man in a red Speedo. Tall, tanned, lithe as an Olympic swimmer, with flowing dark hair. He stood at the pool for a moment, then dove in, slicing the water as cleanly as a dolphin.

“I think you should go.”

Louis looked back at Candace Duvall. There wasn’t a trace of warmth left in those brown eyes now.

“Mrs. Duvall-”

She jumped to her feet. “Luisa!” she bellowed.

“Hey, calm down-”

“I gave my statement to the police,” she said. “I don’t have to talk to you. Now get out. Luisa!”

Louis put up his hands. “All right, I’m going.”

The maid appeared.

“Show this man out,” Candace said. “If he won’t go, call the police.”

Louis went quickly to the door, the little maid at his heels.

“You better go,” she whispered, opening the bronze door.

Louis put up a hand to prop the door open over the maid’s head. He glanced back at the foyer. Candace Duvall had disappeared.

“Who else is staying here?” he asked the maid.

“What?” she said.

“Who was that guy out at the pool?”

The maid frowned. “There is no one else here.” She pushed on the door.

“Is that your car?” Louis pointed at the blue Toyota.

The maid looked like he had asked her if that was her hearse. “No! Is not mine. Now, please leave! Or I will-”

“Okay, okay.”

The door closed. Louis stood for a moment on the tiled portico. With a glance up at the security camera, he went back to his Mustang. He got in, sitting there without starting the engine. He looked back at the huge white house.

He hadn’t expected the place to be draped with black cloth or anything. But Spencer Duvall had been killed just before filing for divorce and his widow wasn’t exactly putting out grief vibes.

Hell, what kind of vibes had Candace Duvall been putting out? She hadn’t been flirting; he knew when a woman was coming on to him, and she certainly wasn’t. But there had been something clearly sexual about her.

The guy out at the pool. Did Candace have a lover?

Louis stared up at the white house, his mind and senses working. Her look, her hair, her smell-damn, that was it-her smell. Shit, he knew that smell. Candace Duvall had just been clearly, unquestionably, royally, laid.

Louis pulled out a notebook and jotted down the license number of the blue Toyota, noting it was from Dade, not Lee County. He started the Mustang and threw it into reverse. But then he paused.