Free Thicker Than Water by P.J. Parrish Page B

one side by mangroves and lined with waterfront homes on the other.
    He slowed the Mustang in front of an open gate. He had considered calling ahead, but he had finally decided to just show up. He wanted to meet Candace Duvall cold, with no time for her to prepare neat little answers.
    He turned into the drive, stopping the Mustang and letting out a low whistle. Before him loomed a huge three-story house. It gleamed white in the sun, aggressively modern, with big empty windows. All the native sea grapes had been cleared, leaving a patch of Astro Turf–like lawn and two new royal palms, propped up with tripods of two-by-fours.
    Louis stared at the place in disbelief. He had been expecting something else, maybe a nice old beach place with the same pleasantly seedy elegance of Duvall’s office. This place was a monstrosity, madly out of proportion with the homes around it. Zero-lot-line McMansions crowding out picturesque bungalows. And they called it progress.
    So much for sand in the shoes, Louis thought as he pulled in the drive.
    He parked next to a canary yellow Mercedes convertible. The vanity tag read CANDY 1. A second car was parked nearby, a modest older-model blue Toyota.
    At the massive bronze doors, Louis found an intercom and rang. He waited, his eyes wandering up to the small camera above. A woman’s accented voice came back.
    â€œDeliveries around the side, please.”
    â€œI’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?”
    â€œNo. 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.
    â€œWait 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.
    â€œMrs. 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.
    â€œLuisa didn’t tell me your name,” she said.
    â€œLouis Kincaid.”
    She was leaning against a pillar, a languid pose. More Mae