Paint It Black

by P J Parrish

  It was still there in her voice, that subtle exclusionary accent in “we.” But her eyes had changed; the anger was backlit by fear. Roberta Tatum didn’t need him to tell her she had a good chance of spending the rest of her life in prison.

  An image jumped up at him out of his memory. Women. Dark-skinned women, shaking the faded paper walls of a house with their high-pitched shrieks and angry words. His mother and sister? It was loud, loud enough to make him hide under a bed. Then it was over, like a summer squall, and they were laughing. God, could they laugh.

  “Did you hit each other that night?” he asked.

  Roberta snubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray and sat back. “No. We watched TV, had a few beers. He started mouthing off at me so I shoved him. We argued; then he left.”

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  She shook her head. “He always left after we fought. Said he needed to get away from me to think.”

  “Were you drunk?”

  “I wasn’t, but yeah, I guess Walter was.” She paused, looking away. “I should’ve hid the keys.”

  “After he was found, do you know if anything was missing from the car?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing in there to take.”

  “Was he missing any jewelry?”

  “Never wore none.” Her voice had grown small.

  “What did you do after he left the house?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” she whispered, not looking at him.

  “You must’ve done something,” Louis said. “Did you go to sleep? Watch TV?”

  Her eyes moved slowly up to his face. Her lips parted and the words came out softly. “I took my naked ass to bed and waited for him, like I always did after we fought,” she said. “I expected . . .” She ran a hand over her face. “Shit. . . .”

  Louis watched her. She was staring at the far wall, shaking her head, eyes bright, jaw set hard.

  “Mrs. Tatum, your lawyer told me your brother is also a suspect. There’s a warrant out for his arrest.”

  That seemed to bring her back. “Levon doesn’t got the balls to kill anyone.”

  “Where was he that night?”

  The anger snapped back into her eyes. “I dunno. Probably passed out somewhere. The son of a bitch is crazy.” She paused. “But he didn’t kill Walter.”

  “Three months ago, your brother attacked your husband,” Louis said. According to the file, the Sereno Key police had been called to the Tatum home five times in the last year, always by neighbors. Three times, police had arrived to find that Walter Tatum had left. Roberta Tatum had never once pressed charges.

  Roberta looked at him, surprised that he knew. “That was nothing,” she said quickly. “Walter and me was going at it and Levon was there, so he thinks he’s gonna help me by slapping Walter around.” She shook her head. “I yelled at him to mind his own business, but that damn bitch next door called the cops again.”

  “They were both arrested,” Louis said.

  “I’m telling you, it was nothing.”

  “Your brother has a record?” Louis asked.

  “You know he does,” she said quickly.

  “Your husband has life insurance?”

  The anger flashed back into her eyes. “I expect you know that, too,” she snapped. But then she closed her eyes, shaking her head. “A hundred grand,” she said slowly. “Walter always had this fear, this premonition, that some kid was going to walk in the store someday and blow him away for a bottle of Jack. That man is . . . was so damn stupid sometimes.”

  “They’re saying that’s your motive,” Louis said. “They say you devised a plan to kill your husband and hired your brother to carry it out. They believe your brother did something to the car’s engine so it would stall out. They believe you purposely got your husband drunk, then started a fight with him, knowing he would leave. Then you sent your brother after him.”

  Roberta was staring at him, her eyes wide, her mouth agape.

  “That’s crazy,” she said.

  She jumped to her feet, flinging the chair back against the wall. She turned sharply and went to the corner, her back to Louis. She stood there, her shoulders hunched, head down.

  Finally, she spun back to face Louis. “Did they tell you what was done to him?” she shouted. “Did they tell you his leg had a ten-inch hole blown in it? Did they tell you he didn’t have any blood left in his body by the time they found him? Did they tell you he was beaten so hard the skin came off his face?”

  Her eyes welled. “I saw it!” she said. “I had to go over to that place and identify him. But I couldn’t! Because Walter didn’t have a face!” The tears fell down her cheeks. “Does that sound like something I planned? Does that even sound normal?”

  Louis stared at her. She was waiting for an answer. He closed the notebook.

  “No,” he said. “It doesn’t.”

  She stood there, her chest heaving. Finally, she walked slowly back to the table and dropped into the chair. The tears had stopped as quickly as they had come, leaving gray streaks down her face. For several minutes, she didn’t move; then she slowly raked her red nails through her black hair.

  “Look,” she whispered, not looking up. “Levon is crazy but he didn’t do this. I didn’t do this. I loved Walter. And if you don’t believe me, then you might as well head back to Michigan, because you’re fired.”

  She wiped her face and folded her arms across her chest, her eyes trained fiercely on the ashtray on the table. Her eyes were dry but he could see the veins pulsing in her temples.

  Louis got up slowly.

  Roberta’s eyes rose to met his.

  “You coming back?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Louis said.

  Roberta ran a hand under her runny nose and turned her focus back on the ashtray. The guard opened the door, and Louis left. Bledsoe was nowhere to be seen.

  Louis started down the hall, then turned and went back to the door. He looked in through the small window and saw her sitting in the chair, her arms wrapped around her chest, eyes closed. She was rocking slowly.

  Chapter Four

  He found Bledsoe out in the lobby, staring at the wanted posters. Bledsoe turned when he heard Louis approach.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Well what?”

  “Did she talk to you?”

  Louis leveled his eyes at the lawyer. “I don’t think I’m the ‘brother’ you thought I was.”

  “I was hoping—”

  “I know what you were hoping,” Louis interrupted. “It’s not going to work. Your client couldn’t care less what color I am.”

  Bledsoe let out a sigh and bent to pick up his briefcase. He straightened, gazed out the glass doors, then looked back at Louis. “I’m sorry you had to come such a long way for nothing,” he said. “I’ll make sure you’re reimbursed for your expenses thus far.” He stuck out his hand.

  Louis stared at it. “I’m fired?”

  Bledsoe blinked. “But you said—”

  “All I said was your client doesn’t like me,” Louis said. “I don’t like her either. But I don’t think she’s guilty.”

  Bledsoe dropped his hand. “So you’re taking the case?”

  Louis paused. “Yeah, yeah, I guess I am.”

  Bledsoe’s lips tipped upward and he thrust out his hand again. Louis returned his sweaty handshake.

  “I need to talk to the police chief,” Louis said.

  “Dan Wainwright,” Bledsoe said quickly. “I already told him about you. He’s retired FBI, a bit of a hardass, unfortunately.”

  Louis suppressed a sigh. “Great. How’s he feel about private investigators?”

  Bledsoe was steering him toward the front offices. “I don’t know. All I know is he isn’t crazy about me.”

  Dan Wainwright’s door was open and Bledsoe led Louis to it. Louis watched as Bledsoe stammered out an introduction and left, actually backing out the door like some supplic
ant. Louis turned his attention to the man before him. Wainwright’s pale blue eyes were steady on Louis’s face.

  “You’re trapped in a room with a tiger, a rattlesnake, and a lawyer and you have a gun with two bullets,” Wainwright said. “What should you do?”

  Louis shrugged.

  “You shoot the lawyer. Twice.”

  Louis didn’t smile.

  Wainwright stared at Louis, shook his head, then dropped down in his chair with a sigh.

  “Okay, I told Bledsoe I’d give you ten minutes. Clock’s running.”

  Louis considered the man sitting across the desk from him. Dan Wainwright was about fifty-five but had the air of an older man. It wasn’t his face. It was heavily creased but ruddy with health and topped with an unruly but striking shock of thick white hair. It wasn’t his body either. Wainwright was six-five, maybe two-thirty, linebacker-gone-lax, and his head almost looked too small for his robust frame. It was something intangible, like the man were some plodding, primeval creature whose species was losing the gene wars. Louis thought of Ollie Wickshaw in that moment and how his old partner used to say that some people just seemed to have old souls. Dan Wainwright looked like he had been stalking the earth for eons.

  “I just saw Roberta Tatum,” Louis said.

  “A real sweetheart,” Wainwright said.

  “You think she did it,” Louis said.

  Wainwright nodded. “It’s classic. There was a pattern.”

  “She has no record. Not even a speeding ticket.”

  “I mean the abuse,” Wainwright said. “He knocked her around, she took it for years. Finally, she just snapped and bit him back.”

  “I don’t get that feeling,” Louis said.

  “Well, I guess that’s what she’s paying you for.”

  Louis stared at Wainwright, trying to read what was in his eyes. He couldn’t tell if the man was annoyed or amused.

  “You got your license?” Wainwright asked.

  “What?”

  “Your PI license. You gotta have one to operate in this state.”

  “No,” Louis said.

  “What about your gun? You need paper for that, too.”

  “I’m not carrying right now,” Louis said, avoiding Wainwright’s gaze.

  Wainwright pursed his lips, twirling slightly in his beat-up vinyl chair. He scribbled something on a paper and slid it across the desk. “Here’s the number in Tallahassee. Call them. I won’t bust your balls over the license for now.”

  Louis slipped the scrap in his pocket. The phone rang and Wainwright answered it. Louis used the break to look around the office. Unlike that of his last chief’s, it offered no clues to the personality of its occupant. The furniture was old and spartan, a couple of scarred metal filing cabinets and a watercooler. On the walls, there was the usual glass case with police patches from across the country, a departmental photo that looked ten years old, several engraved IN APPRECIATION plaques, one from an Adrian, Michigan, civic group. There was also a glass box that held an FBI badge, a well-worn FBI sleeve patch and ID card, all mounted on a light green matte board that was scribbled with good-byes.

  On the desk, there was one framed photograph of two kids, a boy of about six and a girl about eight. The only other personal item sat on a filing cabinet—an old deflated football encased in Plexiglas.

  “Bledsoe said you’re from Michigan,” Wainwright said, hanging up the phone.

  “I grew up around Detroit, worked in a small force up North,” Louis said. He wondered if Wainwright knew about his three months with the Loon Lake police. He hoped not. He needed this man’s cooperation; he didn’t need him to know why he had had to leave.

  “I was born in Mt. Clemens,” Wainwright said. “I was with the bureau in Detroit from fifty-seven till I retired in seventy-nine.” He paused. “Detroit was a great town in those days. A doubleheader at Briggs, a couple of coneys at Lafayette.”

  He saw the blank look on Louis’s face.

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  Louis tried not to bristle. “Twenty-six.”

  “And you got a feeling about Roberta.”

  “I’d just like to explore some things,” Louis said. When Wainwright didn’t say anything, he added, “And it would be easier with your help.”

  Wainwright let out a sigh. “Look, Mr. . . .”

  “Kincaid. Louis Kincaid.”

  “We all know what happened here.”

  “Apparently. You moved awful fast on that arrest.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with Roberta Tatum being black. It’s just the pattern.”

  “I don’t know about patterns. I’m just after the truth here,” Louis said.

  Wainwright’s pale blue eyes locked on Louis. “The truth. Interesting concept.”

  He reached behind him and tossed a file folder across the desk. “Okay, here’s the truth.”

  Louis didn’t move.

  “Take it. Look at it. Whoever killed this poor bastard was really pissed. That’s passion, Mr. Kincaid. Strangers . . . muggers . . . whatever, they don’t have passion. Wives, now they’re a whole different story.”

  Louis opened the folder. It was neatly organized and he flipped immediately to the crime scene photos.

  Walter Tatum was on his back, spread-eagled. What looked like a green or blue shirt was soaked in blood and his face was a brown blur against the tan sand.

  Louis felt his stomach quiver and he swallowed dryly. He turned the pages slowly. Knife wounds, some deep, some surface . . . gaping wounds in dead flesh. A shotgun blast to the thigh. Tatum’s skin ripped apart, leaving a tattered, fleshy hole splattered with blood.

  Then a close-up of his face. Roberta was wrong; Walter Tatum still had a face but it wasn’t the face she had known. It was swollen with black patches visible beneath Tatum’s cinnamon-colored skin.

  Louis tightened his facial muscles to keep from gagging. He closed the file and put it down.

  Wainwright was watching him. He nodded toward the watercooler. Louis went to it and filled a Dixie Cup. He stood with his back to Wainwright, staring at a Rotary Club plaque while he drank it.

  He heard Wainwright hoist his large body out of the swivel chair and turned.

  “Come on, then, if you’re ready.”

  “Where?”

  “You want to see the crime scene, don’t you?”

  Chapter Five

  There was garbage everywhere. Beer bottles, soda cans, bits of Styrofoam coolers, McDonald’s wrappers, fishing line, broken flip-flops, Cheet-Os bags, rotting bait fish, and used Pampers. It lay there in the rocks at the water’s edge, a blob of color and stench, baking in the hot sun. Up on the causeway, the sun glistened on the silvery water. But there, just three feet below, the place where Walter Tatum had taken his last breath was a cesspool of human detritus.

  Louis stood up on the swale looking down at it. Someone had already ripped down the yellow police tape and it lay tangled in with the junk. The rest of the shoreline didn’t appear so littered. Wainwright came up to stand beside him.

  “How come there’s so much junk here?”

  Wainwright shrugged. “The way the tide goes. It gets caught here for some reason. Usually, the crews clean it out.”

  “Were you able to get anything from this?” Louis asked.

  “We hauled two bags out of here after we took the body. This stuff is all new.” Wainwright kicked a bottle down into the rocks. “People are pigs,” he said.

  Louis shielded his eyes to look down the causeway road. There was light traffic, a few fishermen casting nets in the surf a couple hundred yards away. “Who found the body?” he asked.

  “Some kid fishing. It hadn’t been here long, the ME figures less than twelve hours maybe.”

  Louis stared at the nearby trees—some sea grapes and tall scraggly pines that didn’t offer any real cover. “I don’t think this was planned,” Louis said. “If someone had planned to kill Walter Tatum, they wouldn’t have picked this place.”
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  “They would if they were following him,” Wainwright said. “The wires on the distributor cap were loose. We know someone pulled up behind him, but it was too wet to get a tread.”

  Wainwright motioned toward the sand and gravel alongside the road. “He was shot here, then he was dragged, still alive, over there. That’s where he was stabbed and beaten.”

  Louis kicked at the shells and gravel. Why shoot someone in the leg out in the open on the road? Why not shoot him in the chest and get it over with? Why use precious time to stab someone you could have killed instantly with a shotgun? And why the torturous postmortem beating? Maybe Wainwright was right. Maybe the murder was personal.

  “What gauge shotgun?” Louis asked.

  “Don’t know. ME isn’t done yet. I’m expecting the report later today or tomorrow.”

  Louis glanced at Wainwright. “You really think Roberta Tatum is this smart? Or even this lucky?” he asked.

  “I think she’s that mean.”

  Louis sighed and started back toward Wainwright’s cruiser. He heard Wainwright’s radio go off and someone say something about a suspect.

  Wainwright shoved the radio back in his belt. “We got him.”

  “Who?” Louis asked. “The brother?”

  “Yup. Walked right up in front of my surveillance team at Roberta’s store. Let’s go.”

  He didn’t act like a wanted man. Hanging out in the shade of a gumbo limbo tree, Levon Baylis drew slowly on his cigarette and watched the blue puffs drift lazily above his head. He glanced to his right, not suspiciously, but out of boredom, tired of waiting on someone.

  Reaching under a baggy orange T-shirt, he scratched at his stomach, hefted his balls, then walked a few feet across the sandy parking lot, coming out of the shadows. The sun glinted off his bald head. He was a big man, no less than six-three, with gleaming biceps and thick legs.

  For a moment, Louis thought he was heading into the grocery. It was a small wooden structure, painted blue and white, with ISLAND DELI AND LIQUOR above the window. But then Levon headed toward the back.

  Louis glanced at Wainwright. He calmly picked up the mike and radioed the surveillance car to stand by. He killed the ignition.