“Since I am the attorney of record for my brother, I am ending this conversation now,” he said.

“Scott, c’mon,” Mobley said. “You’re a civil lawyer. Get him somebody who can help him, for chrissake.”

“Brian and I have a standing retainer with each other. He’s my attorney and I am his. Now get out. Now.”

Mobley shook his head. “Not yet, Scott. I have search warrants here.”

“For what?”

Mobley stepped forward and laid them one by one on Scott’s desk.

“For Brian’s office. For his apartment. And for the house on Shaddlelee Lane.”

Chapter Forty

The sun was going down by the time they got to the Brenner mansion. The circular drive around the fountain was crowded with squad cars from the Sheriff’s Department and Fort Myers Police.

The deputies and detectives, waiting near the front door, turned to look as Louis got out of Mobley’s car. Scott’s gray Mercedes pulled up and he got out. The three of them went up the steps to the old wood door.

Mobley turned to Scott. “You got the key?”

Scott unlocked the door and stepped back. Mobley pushed it open and went through first. Louis followed.

The smell of mildew and must swirled up like a cool vapor in the close, dark foyer.

Mobley turned to Scott. “I told FP amp;L to turn on the power. Where’s the light switch?”

Scott hit a wall and the foyer lit up. Louis looked up at the wrought iron chandelier. Only a couple of the bulbs still worked and the weak light followed the black chain up, disappearing into the shadows three stories above.

“How many rooms, Scott?” Mobley asked.

Scott hesitated. “Five bedrooms upstairs, the baths. .” His voice trailed off. He was looking around, solemn-faced, like childhood memories were crowding out all other thoughts. Louis watched him carefully, wondering if he was seeing Brian in his mind, his young brother bringing Kitty into their house.

“Len, take a couple guys and go upstairs,” Mobley said to one of the deputies. “Chris, you start on the downstairs rooms.”

The men split up, leaving the three of them in the foyer. Mobley’s eyes were traveling over the cracked plaster walls. Without a word, he walked slowly into the dark living room. The thud of his boots on the old wood floors echoed through the empty room. He punched a wall switch and one of the two sconces over the fireplace lit up, bathing the room in a sickly yellow glow.

Louis saw Scott’s eyes take in the obscenity the vandals had scribbled on the wall.

Mobley was on the move again, and Louis followed him through the dining room, where a crystal chandelier hung dark and the china cabinets stood empty. In the stale air of the kitchen, Mobley punched another light. The florescent bulbs gave out a feeble flicker that made the place look unnervingly like Vince’s autopsy room. Louis scanned the kitchen, with its scarred wood counters and old black and white tiles, veined with age.

Louis heard a creaking sound above his head and looked up. It was just the footsteps of the deputies searching the bedrooms. Louis looked back at Mobley’s face. He knew what he was thinking. The old house was filled with mold and decay, but it held no secrets. Whatever had happened that April night twenty years ago had happened out in the cabana.

“What else is down here, Scott?” Mobley asked.

“Just my father’s study,” Scott said.

“Point the way.”

Scott led them back to a closed door off the living room. It opened with a groan and Scott found a wall switch. A chandelier came to life, illuminating a wood-paneled room. Mahogany bookcases lined three walls, broken by windows with dusty old plantation shutters. The third wall was papered in a dusky blue. The plaster ceiling was cracked, with bits of it laying on the old wood floor.

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.