Paint It Black

by P J Parrish

  “Don’t forget, you’re only an observer,” Wainwright said.

  Louis nodded and the cruiser’s doors opened. Wainwright started across the street at a stiff trot, Louis a few feet to his left. Levon heard the doors slam and looked up at them.

  A thick stream of smoke rose from his lips as his mind tried to grasp what was happening. His eyes scoured the street for an escape route.

  He chose backward, through the store.

  Louis ran up the wooden steps, slamming into the door ahead of the others. Someone screamed and a bottle fell somewhere behind him. A flash of orange and another slammed door.

  Louis jumped over a stack of Budweiser, skidded around a corner, and stopped cold in a dimly lit storage room. He pulled in a quick breath, then ran forward, hearing a clamor of footsteps behind him. Radio traffic filled the small store and suddenly there was a rush of voices and bodies.

  A door banged open, flooding the room with sunlight, and Levon was gone. Louis followed him out, blinking against the sun.

  He spotted Levon sprinting down the dusty street, his powerful legs pumping. Louis knew he wasn’t going to catch him. Then, suddenly, there was a kid on a bike, and Levon went crashing into him.

  The kid skidded into the dirt and Levon scrambled to his feet. There was just enough time. Louis launched himself, sailed over a trash can, and fell on Levon’s back. It knocked the air out of him but he hung on. But Levon was not going down. Louis clung to his back, feeling the man tense to buck him off.

  One of Wainwright’s men caught up and grabbed Levon’s arm, but Levon threw him into a fence as if he were a bag of laundry. Louis clung to Levon’s back.

  “Stop!” Louis grunted. “Stop!”

  “Fuck you! Get off me!”

  Levon veered and slammed his shoulder—and Louis—into a tree.

  “Shit!” Louis yelled, gripping Levon’s thick neck.

  Levon lunged to his right now, crushing Louis again against another palm tree.

  Pain shot through his back. He couldn’t breathe. But he hung on as Levon dragged him down the street.

  Suddenly they were out in bright sun. Louis could see a flash of silver blue. Water, they were near water. He was slipping and he dug his fingers into Levon’s neck, trying to put pressure on his throat, but he couldn’t get a grip. Levon staggered out onto a dock, jerked around, and slammed his body into a piling. Louis lost his grip and flew off the dock.

  He bounced against a boat and hit the water face-first. Salt water rushed into his nose and he fought his way to the surface. He shook the water off, gasping for breath. It took a second for him to realize he could touch bottom.

  Suddenly, he heard the sound of a motor. He spun around and saw Levon crouched in a small motorboat. Levon hit the throttle and the boat churned away.

  Louis dragged himself up onto the dock. His face was hot with humiliation, his shoulder was on fire, and there was a strong ache creeping up his back. He heard voices and looked up to see Wainwright and the deputy who had been hurled into the fence running down the dock toward him.

  They stopped short and watched as Levon’s motorboat became a glint against the shimmering water.

  “Notify the sheriff, Candy,” Wainwright said tightly. “Tell him Levon is heading east from Sutter’s Marina toward the mainland. Kill the roadblocks on the causeway. And see if you can find the owner of that boat. Go!”

  Candy spun away. Wainwright went over to Louis, who was sitting on the dock, head bowed.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I think.” He couldn’t move his shoulder. It was probably dislocated. “You have any idea where he’s going?” Louis asked.

  Wainwright squinted toward the far shore. “Depends on how much gas he’s got. There’s a million places he could put in.”

  Louis wiped his face. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t hold him.”

  Wainwright pulled his gaze from the shoreline back to Louis. He held out a hand. “You’re lucky he didn’t kill you,” he said flatly. “You saved me a lot of paperwork.”

  Chapter Six

  Louis slid off the X-ray table and stepped out the door, squinting into the bright lights of the hallway. At first, all he could see was Wainwright’s bulky silhouette standing near the door to exam room one. He slowly came into focus, the look of irritation on his face unmistakable.

  Louis let out a breath and went toward Wainwright, holding his shoulder. He was bare-chested but still wearing his damp jeans and soggy Nikes. As he neared Wainwright, Wainwright heard the squeaking and looked up, his eyes dropped to Louis’s bruised chest.

  “That’s going to hurt in the morning.”

  Louis nodded as he passed him, going into the exam room. “I know.”

  Wainwright followed him, leaning on the door. Louis slipped onto the table, grimacing as he put weight on his left arm.

  “Any sign of Levon?” Louis asked.

  “Not yet. He’s not smart enough to evade us for long. We’ll find him.”

  Louis rubbed his shoulder, wishing the doctor would hurry up. He’d been here over an hour. “You don’t have to wait,” he told Wainwright. “I’ll get home.”

  “How? Cabs will charge you an arm and a leg to take you out to the islands. I brought you here, I’ll wait.”

  Louis glanced at the mirror above the sink, and could see Wainwright staring at him. He wished Wainwright would just go. His ribs were throbbing and he felt like a fool. Tossed into the water like a damn fish.

  “Louis, we need to get a few things clear here.”

  Don’t lecture me.

  “Have you ever done PI work before?” Wainwright asked.

  “No.”

  “The first thing you learn is that you don’t have a badge on anymore.”

  “I know that.”

  “I’m not so sure you do. You had no right to chase Levon, no authority to apprehend him or anyone else. I told you that you were just an observer, there out of courtesy. You don’t listen very well.”

  Louis stirred with anger. “I figured I could catch him.”

  “And what if you had hurt him in the process? What if you had choked the fucker by accident? What if he fell into the water and drowned? What then? You’d be charged with assault or manslaughter and my department would be sued and I’d be fired. And I don’t want to be fired.”

  Jesus. His instincts had just taken over. When Levon ran, he went after him. He hadn’t given it a second thought.

  “I don’t have a problem with you hanging around trying to help Roberta Tatum,” Wainwright said. “But you don’t have the right to detain people, assault anyone, or run after goddamn suspects. You can hang out at the office, and ask all the questions you want. But that’s all. The next time you touch a suspect, you better make damn sure it’s in self-defense.”

  “I just reacted, that’s all.”

  “You’re not hearing me. It’s more than that. I don’t want you dead, either.” Wainwright turned toward the wall. When he didn’t say anything for several seconds, Louis snuck a glance at him.

  “I can take care of myself,” he said.

  Wainwright turned. “Before I joined the bureau, I spent a few years on a beat in Michigan. We had this hotshot reporter who begged us to take him on ride-alongs. Most times, he was bored stiff. Then one night, we got caught up in a domestic where shots were fired. I told him to stay in the car. He didn’t.”

  Louis shook his head slowly. “He wasn’t a cop.”

  Wainwright stared at him. He didn’t have to say it. It was in his eyes. Neither are you.

  The doctor came in, holding the X ray. “It’s not dislocated, nothing’s broken,” he told Louis. “It’s bruised and you’ve strained the tendons, but it’ll be fine after the swelling goes down. I’d keep it stationary for a few days, though.”

  Louis slid off the table and picked up his shirt. He tried to put it on without straining the shoulder, but it dropped behind his back and he couldn’t reach it. Wainwright stepped forward and held th
e sleeve out for him. Louis slipped into it.

  The doctor looked at Wainwright. “You want the bill sent to the department, Chief?”

  Wainwright nodded.

  The doctor handed Louis a prescription. “Be careful, Officer.”

  The doctor left and Louis started to button his shirt slowly. Okay, the doc was wrong; he wasn’t a cop. But Wainwright was wrong, too; he wasn’t a PI, either. So what the hell was he?

  He remembered a cold night not so long ago. A cop named Jesse, talking as they drove through the dark Michigan woods.

  It’s what we are, Louis. Taking the uniform off at night doesn’t change a damn thing.

  It’s not what I am, Jess. I’m a man first, a cop second.

  Talk to me in twenty years, Louis, and tell me then what you see when you look in the mirror.

  He had been so sure. But that was before he met Gibralter, who wore the badge like a warrior shield, and before Jesse, whose life had been both saved and destroyed by the badge.

  And before Fred Lovejoy, the ex-cop who lived alone with his dog on the edge of a frozen lake, spending his days fishing and polishing his service revolver, waiting to die.

  He glanced up at a mirror above the sink.

  Tell me what you see, Louis.

  He looked at Wainwright.

  “It won’t happen again,” he said.

  Wainwright’s lips drew into a thin line. “Come on, I’m driving you back to the Dodies’.”

  Chapter Seven

  The buzzing sound filled his head, making it hurt. Where was it coming from? Damn it, it hurt, the buzzing hurt.

  He looked around, left, right, but there was no one in the parking lot, just cars. He looked up. The green neon of the Holiday Inn sign towered above him. Some of the letters were missing and the neon sign was spitting, buzzing, blinking in the night.

  HOLI INN HOLI INN

  He covered his ears, against the buzzing, until finally it blended with the dull roar of the waves in his brain. When he took his hands down, it was gone. But the waves were still there, pounding.

  He looked again at the blue car. He had followed it here, followed it for the last two hours. He had seen the man and had known instantly that he was perfect. But then, but then, he had to wait. He had to wait, wait until the man finished and got back in his car. He had to wait through the traffic. Had to wait until the fucker ate his damn burritos, bought his fucking postcards. He had to wait. And now, it was time.

  What’s taking him so long? Why doesn’t he get out?

  Finally, the taillights went dead. The driver’s door opened. He heard the faint pinging of the car’s ignition alarm. The man emerged.

  Move! Do it now! Quick! Quick!

  In three swift strides, he was at the car. The man heard him and turned. There was just enough time for something to register on the man’s face—fear? confusion?—before the pole hit his leg.

  A shot split the silence. The man crumbled to the asphalt, holding his thigh.

  Ha! Easy now! The rest is easy! Oh, yes!

  The man was moaning, writhing. Making noise. The pinging sound from the car, someone would hear it. They were far in the corner of the lot but someone could hear it.

  Too much noise. Get away from here. Too much light, too much noise. Get away!

  He grabbed the man’s right arm and dragged him to the truck. With a grunt, he hoisted him up. Light. He was so light. He threw him in the flatbed along with the pole. The man’s head made a loud clunk as it hit metal.

  The man was moaning and groping at the air. He slammed his fist into the man’s head and he was quiet.

  He stared at the man’s face. It looked green in the neon of the sign overhead.

  He frowned.

  Too . . . too . . . is it too? It looked different in the daylight. No . . . no, it’s perfect. Finish it!

  He pulled the tarp up over the man’s body and got in the truck. He started the truck but then paused. He reached under the seat. It was still there. The knife was there. And the can of paint. He wasn’t going to fuck it up this time. This time, he would do it right.

  Chapter Eight

  Louis woke to the smell of strong coffee. He grimaced as he sat up, the ache in his chest worse than it had been last night. He reached for the prescription bottle and gulped down a Percodan. Pulling on some clothes, he followed the coffee smell to the kitchen where Dodie and Margaret sat at the table, hidden behind sections of newspapers.

  “Morning,” Louis mumbled.

  Margaret’s face appeared around the edge of the newspaper. “How’s your shoulder this morning?” she asked.

  “Better,” he lied. He had told Dodie about the episode with Levon but had told Margaret only that he had slipped on the dock. There was something about her that made him feel as if he were twelve years old and he didn’t want her fussing over him.

  Louis settled into the chair opposite Dodie, who acknowledged him with a grunt from behind the Sports section.

  Margaret put a mug of coffee in front of him. “You want some toast and eggs?” she asked.

  “That would be great,” Louis said, rubbing his face. He glanced up at the clock above the sink. It was after ten. He hadn’t slept so long or so soundly in years. Probably the Percodan. He felt something rub his calf and looked down to see Issy. He gently pushed the cat away with his foot. It trotted away to the bowl of kibbles Margaret had set out by the refrigerator.

  “Twins lost to the Yanks in ten,” Dodie muttered. He put down the paper and took a slurp of his coffee. “You wanna go see a spring training game? It’s right over in Fort Myers.”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “I’ll get us some tickets. Margaret hates baseball. It’ll be nice to have someone to go with.” Dodie went back to his reading.

  Louis hid his smile. It was strange, this new relationship with Sam Dodie. Dodie was only forty-five, but during the last week of living in his home, Louis sometimes felt as if the man was trying to play father to a long-lost son.

  The kitchen filled with the smell of bacon. The sun slanted through the sliding glass doors leading out to the patio. Louis pulled the Lifestyles section out of the Fort Myers News-Press and tried to lose himself in the mundane tribulations of Dear Abby’s disciples.

  “Jesus,” Dodie said suddenly.

  Louis looked up.

  “They found another body,” Dodie said.

  “When?”

  “Yesterday. Floated up out by Bakers Point.” He held out the front page. Louis took it and quickly read the story. It was a tourist, another black man, but the story didn’t say anything more other than that he was stabbed to death.

  “Where’s Bakers Point?” Louis asked.

  “South end of Sereno. It’s the tip of the key, part of Matlacha Wildlife Preserve. Might not be related.”

  “Two stabbings in two weeks. Two black men. In a town that you say has never had a murder? Too coincidental for comfort, I’d say,” Louis said.

  Dodie nodded grimly.

  Margaret set a plate in front of Louis. “I can’t believe it,” she said quietly. “I mean, this place is so . . . quiet.” She turned back to the stove, shaking her head.

  Dodie looked at Louis, then returned to reading the story. Louis took a bite of bacon and rose quickly, going to the phone on the wall.

  “Who you calling?” Dodie asked.

  “Wainwright,” Louis answered.

  Louis waited, eating the bacon, while the operator tried to locate Wainwright. Finally, she patched Louis through to the chief’s squad car.

  “I thought you might be calling,” Wainwright said.

  “Is it the same MO?” Louis asked.

  “Come see for yourself. I’m on my way to the county morgue.”

  Louis got directions and hung up. He picked up his coffee and took a quick drink.

  “Where you going?” Dodie asked.

  “Autopsy’s this morning,” Louis said as he put three pieces of bacon between toast. “Wainwright said
I could be there.”

  Dodie nodded at the food in Louis’s hand. “I’d forget about that if I was you.”

  Louis looked at the bacon sandwich in his hand, then put it back on the plate.

  It was past eleven by the time Louis got to the Lee County morgue, a squat municipal building on the edge of the Page Field airport. He found his way down the yellow-tiled hallway to the autopsy room. There was a large black man leaning against the wall outside, dressed in green medical scrubs. He took a sip from his Star Trek coffee mug and eyed Louis as he approached.

  “Wainwright’s in there,” he said in a flat voice, jerking his head toward the door.

  Louis looked through the glass to the autopsy room. He could see Wainwright’s broad back in its black uniform. There was another man in green scrubs and a white apron on the opposite side of the waist-high fiberglass table, his face hidden behind what looked like a large grocery scale. On the table between them was the body, though Louis could see only the corpse’s legs sticking out. He noticed a small sign above the door: MORTUI VIVOS DOCENT. Pulling in a breath, he went in.

  The smell hit him square in the face, a nostril-numbing brew that immediately conjured up things and places that he couldn’t quite remember. He resisted the urge to cover his nose and mouth.

  Wainwright turned. “Kincaid. You’re just in time for the fun part,” he said.

  Louis slowly approached the table. The corpse’s chest had already been cut open, the Y-shaped incision running from the front of each shoulder to the bottom of the breastbone and down to the genitals. The skin, muscles, and tissue had already been peeled back, the largest flap of skin pulled upward, hiding the face.

  Louis stared at the red cavity of the rib cage. A memory bubbled up from childhood, a woman’s back to him as she worked at a chipped white sink and the sight of freshly skinned rabbit. And the smell . . . he could suddenly place that. Dead rats in summer, caught in the walls of their house.

  He looked up and saw Wainwright staring at him with a slightly bemused look.

  “First time?” Wainwright asked.

  “Yes,” Louis said.