by P J Parrish
Driggs held out a card. “When you change your mind, give me a call.”
When Wainwright didn’t take it, Driggs slipped the card back in his pocket. He left, leaving the door open. The office was quiet. Wainwright could hear his own breathing. Officer Candy picked up the newspaper, scanned the story, then put it down.
“Chief,” Candy said, “what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.” Wainwright turned to look out the window.
Candy stood up. “Anything else you want me to do before I sign out?”
Wainwright turned and picked up the case folder. “Yeah, get Louis Kincaid on the phone.”
“Move, damn it.”
Louis pushed Issy off the bed, but the cat jumped back up, strolling across his open suitcase.
“Are you taking her back with you?”
Louis looked back over his shoulder at Margaret Dodie standing at the door.
“Unfortunately.”
“You could leave her, you know.”
Louis stood up, stretching his back. The cat was sprawled across his shirts, looking up at him with calm green eyes.
“No, I can’t do that.”
Margaret came into the bedroom and walked over to Issy, petting her gently. “How’d you end up with her? It’s obvious you don’t like her very much.”
Louis frowned. He had tried to be nice to it. “She was abandoned. A friend of mine left suddenly. I took her until . . .” Louis paused.
Until what? Until he saw Zoe again? Until she came back? Until he went back?
Margaret smiled and sat on the corner of the bed. Louis kept his eyes down, folding his things, hoping Margaret would leave, wishing she didn’t seem to know everything.
“We’ll miss you, Louis,” she said. “Sam especially.”
Louis busied himself rolling socks. “He’s a good man. I’m glad he’s happy down here.” Louis shoved his socks down the side of the suitcase.
“He likes you, Louis. He likes you a lot.”
“Well, I like him, too, Margaret.”
A screen door banged shut and Margaret rose as Dodie came to the bedroom door.
“All packed, eh?”
Louis scanned the room. There was nothing else to pack, but it was easier than beginning the good-byes. “I guess so.” He closed the suitcase and finally looked over at Dodie, who was scratching the cat’s head. Margaret was looking at her husband.
“So. What time is your plane?” Dodie asked finally.
Louis glanced at his watch. “Two hours. Guess we’d better get going.”
“I’ll make you a sandwich,” Margaret said, setting the cat aside. “They only give you crackers now, you know. Me, I’ve never been on a plane, but that’s what I heard.”
“Peanuts,” Dodie said.
Margaret looked confused.
“Peanuts. On the plane,” Dodie said. “They give you peanuts, Margie, not crackers.”
“Peanuts, crackers. Still not enough for a man to eat. You still need a sandwich.”
“It’s okay—” Louis said, but Margaret was gone. Issy jumped down after her. Dodie came into the room and handed Louis the newspaper.
“Still no suspects,” he said. “Or any sign of Levon. And the black folk are asking for answers.”
Louis looked at the headline and then tossed the paper aside. “They’ll catch him.”
“Not interested?”
“It would only drive me nuts.”
Dodie sat down on the bed. “You could get work down here, Louis. You don’t have to go back up North.”
“Sam, we both know I can’t work down here, not at what I want to do.”
“Can’t work up there at what you want to do, neither, Louis.”
“Sam . . . please.”
Dodie nodded and started for the door. “I reckon I overstepped. Sorry.”
“You didn’t overstep—”
But Dodie was gone. Damn it.
Louis grabbed the suitcase and the cat carrier and walked to the living room. Dodie was nowhere to be seen, but Louis could pick up the smell of his cigar coming from the patio. He called for Issy and heard her meow from the kitchen. He went to the kitchen. The cat looked at him from between Margaret’s thick ankles.
“Come here, cat.”
Issy trotted away into the laundry room.
“Damn it,” Louis said.
Louis started after the cat. The phone rang. Margaret was busy making the sandwich and motioned for Louis to pick it up. It was Wainwright.
“Kincaid,” he said, “I just had a visit from one of the sheriff’s boys and I kind of put my foot in it. They want to help and I threw him out of my office. He pissed me off, Kincaid. I probably shouldn’t have done it, but it gave me a chance to do something I’ve been wanting to do since I met you.”
“Who is it?” Margaret asked.
“Go on, Chief,” Louis said.
Margaret scurried out of the room. Louis could hear her calling to Dodie.
“Do you want to stay and help me with this case?” Wainwright asked.
“Are you offering me a job?” Louis asked.
“Well, yeah, there’s one thing, though.”
Jesus. Background check. Reference check. Why did you leave your last job? He had to tell him.
“I can’t pay you much,” Wainwright said. “I got a little money in petty cash that I can funnel your way, and I’ll have to label you as a consultant or something until I can get the town to approve you being hired as anything else.”
Louis fell back against the wall. He glanced over to see Dodie and Margaret standing at the door.
“Kincaid? Can you live with that?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Louis said, smiling. “I can live with that.”
Chapter Eleven
Louis ducked under the Japanese lanterns and joined Wainwright and Dodie out on the lawn by the barbecue. Dodie was turning pieces of chicken. The sauce sizzled onto the coals, sending magnificent smells into the evening air.
Wainwright nudged Louis. “Can he cook?”
“I don’t know. Only food he ever offered me in Mississippi was a bowl of crawfish.”
Dodie glanced at him. “I never told you this, Louis, but you’re not suppose to eat the heads.”
Louis smiled. “I know that. Now.”
Wainwright looked confused and Dodie told the tale of how Louis bit off the head of a crawfish.
“Trying to impress me, he was,” Dodie said. “Well, better let this bird bake a few. Let’s go pop open some brews.”
They retreated to the patio and sat watching the sky darken, listening to the evening’s overture of frogs and crickets. Margaret came out, glanced at the three men, then went over to check the chicken.
“I just turned it, Margie.”
Margaret turned it again, then disappeared back into the house. Louis watched Dodie’s eyes as they followed her round body with open affection.
Wainwright sat forward in his chair. “Louis, you see this morning’s News-Press?”
Louis nodded.
“They’re calling it a racially motivated crime. A fucking anonymous source in the sheriff’s department,” Wainwright said. “Someone leaked it on purpose. They knew the reporter would jump on it.”
“But why would someone inside leak it?” Dodie asked.
“To put the screws on me, Sam,” Wainwright said. “Mobley wants the case and he knows if there’s enough pressure, I’ll have to give it to them.”
“That kind of talk is only gonna make everyone nervous,” Dodie said quietly.
“Just black men,” Louis said, taking a sip of beer.
“Well, do y’all believe that’s what it is?” Dodie asked.
Louis glanced at Wainwright, but he didn’t seem inclined to answer. “Racially motivated crimes are usually messages,” Louis said. “The offender is sending a message to a certain group that they are . . . unwelcome. The crimes are usually generalized and not normally filled with such rage.”
&n
bsp; Wainwright was nodding. “Which is why I don’t think these murders fit. They seem personal somehow. My money’s still on Levon.”
“But you haven’t found any connection between the two men, have you?” Dodie asked.
“Just their race,” Wainwright said.
Louis hesitated. “It’s got to be more,” he said. “I think Tatum and Quick are connected, but only in the killer’s mind. They are symbols.”
“Of what?” Dodie asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe they are symbolic threats. Maybe the killer believes black men are taking something away from him, usurping his place.”
Margaret came back out and the three men remained silent while she gathered up empty beer bottles. When she was gone, Dodie spoke.
“How does this Levon fit in then?”
“I’m not so sure he does,” Louis said.
Wainwright took a drink of beer. “Well, I’m not ready to give up on Levon yet. He’s fucked up in the head. He’s capable of murder.”
“Levon doesn’t have motive. The why just isn’t there,” Louis countered.
Margaret came out onto the patio. “Sam, I’m almost ready in here. You keeping an eye on those birds?”
Dodie got up reluctantly and trudged out to the barbecue. Margaret went back inside.
“He wants to be included,” Wainwright said quietly, nodding after Dodie.
“I know,” Louis said. “I don’t know how much to tell him.”
“Have you told him about the details, like the black paint?”
Louis nodded. “But I explained that we’re keeping that from the press as a control.”
Wainwright nodded. They were silent for a moment.
“You know,” Louis said, “we have to consider the possibility that we have two perps.”
“We don’t have any evidence to indicate that.”
“We don’t have evidence to the contrary either,” Louis said. “The rain messed up the Tatum scene. And there was nothing at the overlook to say one way or the other.”
“The stab wounds are consistent with one killer. Same angle, same knife.”
Louis shook his head slowly. “That doesn’t mean someone else didn’t help. Most hate crimes aren’t committed by individuals. It’s usually a couple guys together.”
Wainwright gave a grunt and drained his beer. Dodie came back onto the patio.
“Couple of guys what?” Dodie asked, sitting down.
“Hate crimes,” Louis said. “It’s usually a group effort.”
“He’s right, Dan,” Dodie said. “These types are cowards and need to gather up their courage in packs. I mean, if I was you, I’d be looking for somebody with a hard-on toward black folk with a couple of buddies to help him out.”
“You got anybody like that around here?” Louis asked Wainwright.
Wainwright leaned back in the lawn chair. “A couple months ago, I arrested a guy named Van Slate.”
“What for?”
“He and two friends almost beat a black guy to death. It started at the Lob Lolly over on Pine Island. The black guy was with a white girl and Van Slate was shit-faced and made some remarks. They followed the couple out of the bar, tailed them back here, forced them off the road, and whaled on him.”
“Does Van Slate have a record other than this?” Louis asked.
“No, but he’s a hothead.”
“He lives here on Sereno?”
Wainwright nodded. “His father owns a big boatyard here on the key, and he’s had enough pull in the past to keep his kid out of jail.”
“I still can’t believe whoever killed these two men is living right here among us,” Dodie said quietly.
“Sam, you had killers living right next to you in Black Pool,” Louis said.
Dodie looked at his beer. “True enough.”
The crickets had stopped. It was quiet until a fish jumped out in the canal.
“Have you noticed the dates?” Wainwright said finally.
“What dates?” Dodie asked.
“Tatum was killed on Tuesday, March first. Quick was found on Thursday, nine days later, and the doc says he was in the water about two days.”
“Could be just a coincidence,” Louis said.
“Could be Tuesday’s the killer’s day off from his regular job,” Dodie interjected. “If he has one.”
Louis looked at him. “Well, Tuesday is three days away,” he said.
Wainwright drained his beer and sat forward. “Okay, this is what we’re going to do,” he said. “Louis, you check out Van Slate. We’ll put twenty-four-hour surveillance on the causeway to check every suspicious vehicle. If anyone sees anything, he’ll radio me to do a stop.”
“We don’t have the manpower,” Louis said.
“Chief Horton over in Fort Myers is a friend of mine and might lend some uniforms,” Wainwright said. “And I know my guys will do what it takes on our end.”
“I’ll pull a shift, Dan,” Dodie said quickly.
Wainwright paused and glanced at Louis. “Sure, I’ll fit you in, Sam.”
Wainwright pulled out his notebook and began to draw a diagram of the causeway and key. “Okay, we’ve got the Sereno Key causeway with two lanes going into the town center and—”
Margaret came back out carrying a platter. Wainwright fell silent. The three men looked up at her.
She gave them a stern look, then went out to get the chicken off the grill. She came back onto the patio, holding the platter, and paused, looking at them.
“You’d think y’all were CIA or something,” she said. “It’s not like I don’t know anything. I read the paper. I watch Hill Street Blues.”
Louis glanced at Wainwright, who lowered his head. Dodie sat very still. The silence lengthened.
Louis looked up at Margaret. “So, you think Furillo and Joyce will ever get married?” he asked.
Margaret smiled. “Yes, I do, and if y’all would get your butts inside to supper, I’ll tell you why.”
She went in. Louis glanced at Dodie, who looked mildly embarrassed. He looked at Wainwright. He was gripping his beer bottle, staring out at the black canal beyond, his face tight in the spare light of the Japanese lanterns.
Chapter Twelve
Louis stood outside the chain-link fence of the boatyard, watching Matthew Van Slate. If Van Slate had noticed him, he didn’t show it. He was up on a ladder, sanding the wooden hull of a sailboat that was propped on scaffolding. The yard was crowded with dry-docked boats—everything from beat-up bas-sers to a forty-foot white Hatteras that hung in a massive metal lift like some exotic captured bird. At the entrance was a large sign: VAN SLATE BOAT WORKS.
Louis opened Van Slate’s criminal folder. Van Slate and two other boatyard employees had been arrested last May by Wainwright’s officers for assault and battery on Joshua Zengo. Van Slate had served ten months of an eighteen-month sentence, and his two friends had served seven. According to Zengo’s girlfriend, the drunken Van Slate had picked a fight with Zengo in the bar, making racial slurs about him being with a white woman. The couple left, but about ten minutes later they noticed a car following them. Van Slate ran Zengo’s car off the road in Sereno and pulled him out of his car. The girlfriend said the three men beat Zengo unconscious before fleeing.
According to a witness statement from a patron in the bar, Van Slate was angry because his wife had recently left him and Van Slate suspected she was seeing a black man.
Louis closed the file and stared back at Van Slate. He looked to be about thirty, at least six feet, with a body honed by day labor and nights spent in a gym. He was wearing paint-stained jeans and an old denim shirt with the sleeves cut off. His knotty shoulders glistened in the sun and his oily blond hair hung over his forehead.
Louis could see two other men painting a hull. From what he could tell from the mug shots in the case folder, they looked to be Van Slate’s two friends. Louis tossed the file in the car and went through the gate.
“Matthew Van Slate?” he called
as he approached him.
Van Slate looked down, the sander in his hand. His knuckles were dirty and raw, several scraped nearly to the bone.
“Who are you?” Van Slate asked, turning off the sander.
“Louis Kincaid. I’m working with the Sereno Key Police Department. I need to ask you a few questions.”
Van Slate’s eyes narrowed. “Get lost,” he said. He went back to his sanding.
Louis waited, knowing Van Slate would eventually turn around again. After almost a full minute, Van Slate looked back down at Louis.
“I thought I told you to get lost.”
“All you have to do is answer a few questions.” Louis could tell Van Slate was trying his damnedest to figure out who he was—and what authority he actually had here.
Finally, Van Slate set the sander on the ladder and climbed down. His eyes locked on Louis, and he reached into his back jeans pocket for a cigarette. Louis waited while he lit it. The pungent smell of paint thinner drifted on the breeze.
“Be careful, you might go up in flames,” Louis said.
Van Slate slipped the lighter back in his pocket and blew out smoke. “Okay, what?”
“Two black men were found murdered here in the last month. Both were beaten. You heard about it?”
“Why would I care?” Van Slate’s lips, gripping the cigarette, barely moved when he spoke.
“Past history.”
Van Slate pointed the cigarette at Louis. “Look, that shit with my old lady is over with. I don’t care anymore how many—who she fucks.” Van Slate looked at the gravel, then out over the yard. “I got a new life now.”
“Must be hard, though.”
“What?”
“Your buddies still talk about it?”
Van Slate’s eyes drilled into Louis. “Get the fuck out of here.”
Louis glared back, feeling a surge of anger. Van Slate stepped forward. For a second Louis thought he was going to hit him and he braced himself.
“You’d like to kick my ass, wouldn’t you?” Van Slate said.
“Yeah,” Louis said.
“But you can’t. Cops got rules. Too bad.”
Van Slate took a drag from his cigarette. Louis focused on Van Slate’s bruised knuckles. Images of Anthony Quick’s battered face came to his mind. He inhaled and forced his words out evenly, meeting Van Slate’s eyes.