Free Thicker Than Water by P.J. Parrish

downtown, in an old residential enclave sandwiched between McGregor Boulevard and the river. The lane, paralleling the river, was dense with old-growth trees and lined with gracious homes. Most weren’t large, but their lots were, great sweeps of tamed jungle that buffered them from their neighbors’ windows and brought back an air of a slower time.
    Louis drove slowly, looking for a FOR SALE sign. He didn’t see one, but saw a wrought iron gate with a large B on it. There was a small weathered tile plaque on one of the stone pillars that said CASA COLIBRI. The gate was open and at the end of the long driveway, Louis could see a large home with a black BMW parked in front.
    â€œWhat the hell,” he murmured, and swung the car in. He pulled up next to the black car and killed the engine.
    He got out. He saw no one, but the Beemer’s vanity plate said B2. He thought about calling out Brenner’s name, but the quiet was so intimidating he decided against it. He looked around.
    The grounds were a riot of tropical vegetation—thickets of purple bougainvillea, gaudy crotons, hibiscus trees with their pink ballerina-skirt blossoms, orange trees stooped with fruit, and palms of every size and shape. It looked like Eden after everyone had left.
    The house itself was three stories, Mediterranean in style, with wrought iron balconies, arched doorways and fanciful turrets. The white stucco was peeling and many of the windows were shuttered. It was obvious that someone had once taken great care to build it—it was there in the details, the Spanish tile borders, the leaded windows, the coral fountain topped with a hummingbird. But like the grounds, there was a forsaken feel about the house.
    The sound of footsteps on the crushed shell drive made him turn.
    â€œIt’s about time,” the man said firmly.
    He was tall, in his mid-thirties, thinning brown hair around a large tanned face. Stylish Bolle sunglasses and a suit that looked too expensive for a real estate appraiser. Brian Brenner, Louis decided.
    â€œMr. Brenner?”
    â€œI thought Janice was coming,” Brenner said.
    â€œI’m not the appraiser,” Louis said. “I’m a private investigator.”
    Brenner stared at him through the iridescent sunglasses.
    â€œI called your office,” Louis said, “but they said you were going out of town and I had to talk to you.”
    â€œAbout what?”
    â€œSpencer Duvall.”
    Not a twitch in Brenner’s face.
    â€œYou have time to talk now?”
    Brenner consulted his gold Patek Philippe. “I’m afraid I don’t. I have to take care of this.” He flapped an impatient hand up at the house.
    â€œWell, it looks like your appraiser is running a little late,” Louis said.
    Brenner adjusted his sunglasses. “You’re a PI? I’ve never seen you before. Where did Susan find you?”
    Okay, he would let him think he was working for Susan Outlaw. Lawyers ran in packs, even if they were on opposite sides.
    â€œI’ve only been in town a couple months.”
    â€œWho did you say you were?”
    â€œKincaid. Louis.” He was glad that Brenner didn’t seem to recognize his name.
    â€œAll right,” Brenner said, “but we’ll have to talk while I walk. I’ve got to check out the inside. We’ve had some break-ins here since it’s been vacant.”
    Louis waited while Brenner unlocked the heavy wood front door. They stepped into the dim, cool interior.
    The small, circular foyer had an iron staircase spiraling upward. Beyond, Louis could see a living room with large arched windows, shuttered against the light. The place smelled musty and wet. Louis thought of his cottage with its leaky roof.
    Brenner had taken off his sunglasses and was scanning the walls. “Jesus,” he said softly. “I’d forgotten what a mess this place was.”
    â€œNice old house,” Louis said, trying to