Free The Little Death by P.J. Parrish Page A

head last night. Sex with Sam had been just a white heat of need, not just of physical desire but to cauterize the wound Joe had left.
    “What road am I looking for?” Louis asked.
    “Reef Road,” Mel said. “Reggie said to look for a white house with portholes.”
    Louis spotted the white house on the corner by the small round windows. He pulled into the circular drive and cut the engine. Reggie came out through the front door. He was wearing crumpled white linen pants and a loose shirt the color of the ocean. He was barefoot and holding a tumbler of what looked like lemonade.
    “Welcome to my humble little castle,” he said with a smile. “Come on in. I hope you haven’t eaten lunch yet. I’ve set out a little snack.”
    Louis followed Mel inside. It wasn’t a big house by any Palm Beach standard, and though it had none of the overwrought luxury of Sam’s guesthouse, it was a place designed for comfort and with great taste. The living room of white tile and walls opened up to a small dining room with a rattan dining table and chairs. Beyond that, the open sliding-glass doors offered a view of the ocean. The furnishings looked slightly dated—a light blue sectional sofa and Danish modern chairs and teak tables. The place smelled of salt spray, mustiness, and Frenchcigarettes. The walls were covered with paintings, gaudy Technicolor tropical landscapes.
    Reggie noticed Louis staring at a painting of two panthers surrounded by fruit trees.
    “Do you like it?” Reggie asked.
    “Yeah, it’s very… colorful,” Louis said.
    “It’s by Jean-Claude Paul,” Reggie said. “He’s Haitian. These are all Haitian. I’ve been collecting them for years.”
    Mel was standing close to a painting of a nude, squinting. “Nice,” he said, turning back to Reggie.
    Reggie shrugged. “People here wouldn’t be caught dead with this sort of thing on their walls. But I love them.” His eyes lingered on the panthers for a moment, then he smiled. “Let’s go out on the lanai, shall we?”
    Reggie led the way out onto a small patio. It was surrounded by orange bougainvillea hedges and crowded with potted flowering plants. Over the top of one hedge, Louis could see a construction crane and the skeleton of a three-story mansion.
    “What are they building over there, a bank?” Louis asked.
    Reggie turned back from the buffet table, a pitcher of lemonade in his hand. “Oh, that,” he said. “It’s my new neighbors. I think they are Russian. They bought four lots, tore down the houses, and are putting up that monstrosity. What can you do? Some people have all the money but absolutely no taste.”
    Louis thought that it didn’t look any worse than some of the other places he had seen on the south end of the island last night, but he kept quiet.
    “What can I get you to drink?” Reggie asked.
    “A beer?” Louis asked.
    Reggie grimaced. “I’ll have to check. I might have—”
    “Lemonade’s fine,” Louis said.
    “Same here,” Mel said from the chaise in the corner where he had stretched out.
    Reggie handed them each a slender tumbler, and they took seats near Mel. Louis took a drink of the lemonade. It was heavy with vodka.
    Reggie’s mini-buffet was set up on the table between them. The centerpiece was a glass bowl set in ice and filled with what looked like mud. Also on the table were tiny cups of minced onion and chopped egg and a carefully arranged assortment of toast wedges.
    “Please, help yourself,” Reggie said.
    Mel sat forward and picked up one of the tiny pearl-handled spoons and began to heap some caviar onto a toast wedge. Louis watched him, surprised. Louis had never seen him eat anything but bloody steaks, grouper sandwiches, and tacos.
    “Is this osetra?” Mel asked.
    Reggie’s face reddened slightly. “Yes. I’m sorry, but beluga is a bit out of my price range these days.”
    “Don’t apologize,” Mel said, helping himself to another toast wedge. “It’s good. Tastes like