Paint It Black

by P J Parrish

  “Yes, there’s been an accident. A man is dead.”

  The man drew back slightly. “Dead? Here? Before my house? Grand Dieu!”

  “You live here?”

  “Yes, I am le proprio, the . . .” He frowned. “The landlord for the cottages there.” He pointed to the nearest one, a wood-frame place painted soft gray with a screened-in porch.

  “Did you see anyone on the beach here late last night or very early this morning?” Louis asked.

  “Moi? non . . . nothing. Rien.”

  “You’re sure?”

  He started to nod but then stopped. “A man, I saw a man on the beach last night.”

  “What time?”

  “Nine, ten? I don’t remember. He was walking near the cottages there. People do that. But this is propriété privée. I must run them away.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “I don’t know. It was dark. He . . . il a une sale tete.”

  “What?”

  He flapped a hand impatiently. “You know, ugly look.”

  Louis stifled a sigh and pulled out a notebook. “Can I have your name and phone number, please?”

  The man looked alarmed. “Why?”

  “We might need to talk to you again.”

  “Pierre Toussaint,” he said. “You can phone me at the office,” nodding to a rental sign with a number on it.

  The place was called Branson’s on the Beach. It offered rentals by the week, month, or season. Louis jotted down the number and turned to leave.

  “How did he die?” the Frenchman called out.

  Louis turned back. “He was stabbed.”

  “Sad, so sad,” the man said. “Mourir comme un chien.”

  Louis nodded and started back toward the scene below. To die like a dog. His French was good enough to at least pick up that much.

  Wainwright and the others looked up as he approached. “Where’d you go?” Wainwright asked.

  “Thought I had a witness,” Louis said. “He saw someone but can’t give a description.”

  Louis glanced at the sheriff and his detective, both hiding behind their sunglasses. Mobley had the sculptured arms of a bodybuilder and his skin was a golden bronze. He looked like a forty-year-old surfer in a uniform. Louis’s eyes were drawn to the shirt’s epaulettes. There were five stars, like a general would wear. Most sheriffs or chiefs settled for two.

  Mobley nodded toward the body. “You’ve seen the other ones. This look the same?”

  Louis glanced at Wainwright, surprised Mobley would ask. Wainwright didn’t say anything, so Louis spoke up.

  “Black male, same approximate age, same manner of death.” He knelt to look closer. “There’s a tattoo on his right forearm.”

  “Who’s this guy?” the suit demanded, jerking a thumb at Louis.

  “He’s working for me,” Wainwright said. “You got a problem with that, Driggs?”

  “I got a problem with you being here, Wainwright,” Driggs said, mopping his bald head. “Your prints are screwing up the scene.”

  “So cast my shoes, asshole.” Wainwright squatted next to Louis. “Can you make out the tattoo?”

  Louis nodded. It was old and faded but still visible on the corpse’s light brown skin. “It’s a dog, I think,” Louis said. “And the name ‘Bosco.’ ”

  Louis avoided looking at the crushed face. “His shirt has old stains, pants are ripped, probably not from this struggle. No belt, badly worn sneakers. Not a tourist, I’d guess.”

  “That’s a brilliant observation,” Driggs said.

  Louis carefully checked the pockets. “No wallet.”

  “Homeless, most likely,” Wainwright said.

  “Right,” Driggs said. “How’d a homeless guy get out here on Fantasy Island?”

  Wainwright rose slowly, dusting the sand from his hands. “He was probably abducted, Driggs. Quick was.”

  Mobley pressed forward, edging Driggs out of the way. He gave them a tight smile of capped teeth. “I’ve heard enough. Driggs, go help Vargas with the crowd,” Mobley said.

  Driggs trudged up the beach toward his squad car.

  “Thanks, gentlemen,” Mobley said. “Nice of you to stop by.”

  Louis rose. Wainwright didn’t even look at Mobley. “Fuck you, we’re staying around for a while.”

  “I could have you removed from the scene,” Mobley said.

  “Can the crap, Lance, there’s no cameras here.”

  Mobley ignored him and bent to poke at the body. Louis pulled Wainwright off to the side. “What makes you think this one was abducted from somewhere else?”

  “This isn’t like Sereno, Kincaid. Sanibel-Captiva is tourist territory, lots of money. You pay a three-buck toll just to get out here. No way this man is from here.”

  “But why did he dump him here instead of Sereno?”

  “Maybe he knows we’re watching the Sereno causeway.”

  “Shit,” Louis muttered.

  “What did you have going today?” Wainwright asked.

  “I was going to go back to the marina and show Quick’s photo around again. But the boats will be out by the time I get there now. There’s a restaurant down the beach and I thought—”

  “Let that go for now. I want you to check Matt Van Slate’s alibi for last night.”

  “Dan, I’ve been tailing him. He’s been laying low. All he does is drink beer and shoot pool.”

  “Check him anyway.”

  Louis suppressed a sigh. “Anything new on Levon?”

  Wainwright shook his head. “We thought we had a sighting in Cape Coral. Didn’t pan out.”

  Wainwright looked back at the body. “We have to get an ID on this poor bastard. There’s a shelter over in Fort Myers. After you check out Van Slate, head on over there.”

  Louis heard a car door slam and looked up to see a white van with D.M.E. on the side. Vince Carissimi was coming down the sandy slope through the sea oats.

  “Hey, Doc,” Wainwright said. “What are you doing here?”

  Vince was holding a Styrofoam cup from 7-Eleven. “When the call came in, I decided to come out with Ted,” he said, nodding toward the ME office’s investigator making his way down from the road carrying a black case. “I wanted to see it firsthand,” Vince added.

  Vince went over to the body. “Morning, Sheriff.”

  “Took your time, Vincenzo,” Mobley said.

  Vince ignored him and took off his sunglasses, letting them dangle on his chest by their neon-green cord. “Would you mind?” he said to Louis, holding out the cup. Louis took the coffee and stepped back. Vince knelt beside the body.

  “Who found him?” he asked.

  “A jogger,” Deputy Vargas said. “Honeymooner staying over at ’Tween Waters. She went out for her morning run and stumbled on it. Literally.”

  Vince looked up. “This one wasn’t shot.”

  “You sure?” Louis asked quickly.

  “Won’t know for sure till we get the clothes off, but look at the legs. No wounds.”

  For several seconds, they were quiet. Louis heard only the lapping of the waves. His gaze traveled over the sand, up to the road, and beyond. He was thinking about the woman jogger and the horror she must have felt when she finally realized what she was looking at. Some honeymoon.

  “How long you think he’s been dead?” Mobley asked, drawing Louis’s attention back.

  Vince shrugged. “He’s cool to the touch. Quick guess . . . less than four hours.”

  That would set the time of death at about 3 A.M., hours after the Frenchman saw the trespasser and long after anyone would have been on the beach.

  “Can I have my coffee back now?” Vince asked.

  Louis handed him the cup. The investigator was starting his work now, taking Polaroids. Louis heard a car door slam and looked up to see the CSU guys coming down the slope.

  “He’s changing his pattern,” Louis said quietly to Wainwright.

  Wainwright nodded, staring at the body.

>   “He shot the others but not this one. And he killed Tatum where he came upon him,” Louis went on. “But he picked up Quick in Fort Myers Beach and killed him on Sereno. Now he dumped this one here. Why?”

  “Why not?” Wainwright said.

  “Seems like more of a gamble he’d get caught here,” Louis said. He thought of the map back in his car. “There’s a million little bays and swamps he could have dumped him instead. Why here?”

  Wainwright was looking out at the gulf.

  “Why is he changing his pattern?” Louis asked.

  “Christ, I don’t know, Louis,” Wainwright said. “Maybe he didn’t need to shoot this guy. Maybe he forgot his gun this time. Maybe he dumped him here because he works here. Maybe he just likes the water. We don’t need to read the fucker’s mind to catch him. We need physical evidence.”

  Louis remained silent. He knew Wainwright’s sharpness came from frustration. Shit, he felt the same. Three dead men and they had nothing concrete to go on. He had followed Van Slate. Nothing. They had taken photos at Tatum’s funeral and staked out the cemetery for eighteen hours hoping the killer would show. Nothing. They had manned the Sereno causeway around the clock and the bastard had just moved to another one.

  Now the killer was switching his MO and they didn’t know a damn thing about whom they were looking for. And no matter what Wainwright believed, he knew they would never find him until they did.

  Mobley looked at Wainwright. “I think you two have seen enough. Watch where you walk on the way out.”

  “I’ve got a right to be here,” Wainwright said.

  “Let’s get real, Wainwright. You’re out of your league here.”

  Louis looked up. Christ.

  “The first two washed up in my territory, you asshole,” Wainwright said.

  Mobley tilted his head up to the sun, his glasses catching the light. “Well, now we’ve got one, too.”

  Wainwright reached up and pulled the sunglasses off Mobley’s face. “You’re an idiot if you think you can handle this alone, Mobley,” Wainwright said. “You’re going to get eaten alive come election time.”

  He shoved the glasses into Mobley’s hands and turned, walking quickly up the hill. Louis hurried after him.

  “Dan—”

  “Later, Kincaid,” Wainwright said.

  “No, now.”

  Wainwright stopped.

  “What difference does it make if we help him or he helps us?” Louis demanded.

  “I know the man. You can’t put him in charge,” Wainwright said. “He’s got an eye on the DA’s office and he’ll drag this thing out forever just to keep his name in the papers. He doesn’t care about those dead men because he doesn’t care about people. It’s all about him and how much face-time he gets on TV.”

  Wainwright started walking again. “Besides, I have another idea.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  “Tell me now.”

  Wainwright stopped. “We’re dealing with a serial killer, Louis. That means we can get help. I’m calling the bureau. I still got a few friends over there. I’m going to ask for Malcolm Elliott. Great guy. Worked a half dozen of these things.”

  Louis nodded. Good. That was good.

  The sun was rising in the sky. Wainwright pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face as he looked back down at Mobley and the others.

  “Dan,” Louis said, “did you notice the face on this one? He’s getting madder.”

  Wainwright nodded. “But you’re wrong about the pattern changing,” he said. “He still killed on a Tuesday. That gives us six days to find the bastard.”

  He stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket and trudged up to the street.

  Louis stood there, not quite ready to leave, and not wanting to go back down to where the faceless body lay baking in the sand. The sun was hot on his neck, and the murmur of the crowd gathering behind the yellow tape mingled with the whisper of the waves on the beach. He heard something rise above it. It was Vince Carissimi. He was whistling “Sitting on the Dock of the Bay.” Louis looked out at the water. The sailboat was gone.

  Chapter Seventeen

  After leaving the beach on Captiva, Louis headed over to the homeless shelter in Fort Myers. No one there knew of a man who had a dog tattoo, but the director promised to post a notice about it. He also told Louis about a man nicknamed The Saint who ran a soup kitchen on Fort Myers Beach. Louis detoured over to the beach but The Saint had already packed up his makeshift operation by the time Louis arrived.

  On the way back to the station, Louis made a quick stop at the boatyard, intending to question Van Slate about his whereabouts last night. But a secretary told him Van Slate was off on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. She cheerfully gave him Van Slate’s home address.

  Back at the station, he went directly to Wainwright’s office. Wainwright was on the phone and motioned for Louis to wait. Louis walked to the watercooler and poured himself a cup. Wainwright had a photograph on the desk in front of him. It was of the homeless man’s body lying on the beach. Louis was glad it wasn’t a close-up of the face.

  “Back from the shelter already?” Wainwright asked, hanging up the phone.

  Louis nodded. “Nobody there recognized the tattoo, but the director promised to post a notice. Maybe someone will recognize it. Also found out about a soup kitchen over on Fort Myers Beach, but the guy was gone when I got there. I’ll check into it tomorrow morning.”

  “Good.”

  “Van Slate’s off work today. I’m heading over to his apartment,” Louis said. “You want to come?”

  Wainwright stood up, groaning. “Can’t. Mayor Westoff’s coming by in twenty minutes.”

  “No problem. I’ll handle it,” Louis said, tossing the cup in the trash.

  “Take Candy with you.”

  Louis eyed him. “I can handle it.”

  “Van Slate doesn’t like you and he knows you’re not a cop and he can do anything to you he wants,” Wainwright said. “Candy can step in if he gets out of line. Take backup, Louis.”

  Louis bit back his response. Backup. That was a nice way to say “baby-sitter.” He knew Wainwright was right but he still didn’t like it.

  Outside, he spotted Candy waiting near the door. Candy tossed down his cigarette and fell into step with Louis as he walked to the cruiser. Candy walked to the driver’s side and Louis paused, then climbed into the passenger side.

  “Know where we’re going?” Louis asked.

  Candy nodded. “I arrested him the first time.”

  Louis put on his sunglasses, hiding his souring mood. Van Slate knows you’re not a cop.

  God, he was really beginning to hate this, trying to work in limbo, not knowing where his limits ended and the suspect’s rights began. There had always been a definite line before. Now the line was drawn in sand, constantly shifting. It was all so much clearer with the badge.

  He leaned back in the seat. No. That wasn’t really true. He had learned that much in Michigan. They had all been cops but they had not known their limits. And he had almost allowed himself to be pulled right in with them.

  They pulled out and turned onto a narrow asphalt road, shaded by a tunnel of trees. Louis glanced out the window, catching occasional glimpses of the water between the houses. Candy started whistling a tune. Louis glanced over at him, trying to place it.

  “What is that?”

  “What?” Candy asked.

  “That song.”

  “ ‘I Walk the Line.’ Johnny Cash.”

  “Right.”

  “I keep a close watch on this heart of mine . . .”

  Louis looked away.

  Candy kept singing, sounding less like Johnny Cash and more like a bullfrog. He nudged Louis. “C’mon . . . because you’re mine . . .”

  “I walk the line,” Louis sang softly.

  Candy laughed. “Man, you got a terrible voice.”

  Louis smiled.

  Candy was quiet for
moment as he slowed for a stop sign. “Chief going to take you on eventually?”

  Louis was surprised he asked. “Nah, I think I’m going home after this.”

  “Where’s home?” Candy asked.

  Louis was about to answer, but hesitated. Who knew anymore?

  “Up North,” Louis said finally.

  “I’m from a place called Everglades City,” Candy went on. “Ever hear of it?”

  “I’d guess it’s in the Everglades.”

  “Yeah. Armpit city. I came up to Fort Myers to go to college, got my bachelor’s, met the girl I’m going to marry, and landed this job. I figure in three years I’ll have one of those cool old condos on the Atlantic and be wearing a Miami-Dade patch on my arm.”

  “Why Miami?” Louis asked.

  “That’s where all the shit happens, Louis. Sereno’s great and so is the chief, but I’d be bored to death if I had to spend the rest of my career here.”

  “You call this case boring?”

  “Well, no, but I’m twenty-three, man. I want to be where life really happens. That’s why I have it all planned out, right down to the month.”

  Louis smiled to himself.

  Planned out. Right.

  Just like all those great plans he had made for himself. Prelaw at Michigan but always with an eye to the police academy. Then the first job with the Ann Arbor force and the plan was officially launched. Two quick seasons in the minors and he’d move up to the Detroit PD, the real work. A couple more years in uniform, making his mark, and then a nice gold detective badge hanging on his dress shirt. All without ever having to leave the great state of Michigan. Nice and neat.

  Life is what happens when you’re busy making plans, Louis.

  Who was it who had told him that? Phillip Lawrence . . . his foster father. He remembered now. A rainy afternoon in May 1980. College graduation ceremony. It was what Phillip had said after Louis had finally worked up the guts to tell him he wasn’t going on to law school after all.

  I’ve got it all planned out, Phillip. It’s what I want. I want to be a cop and stay here in Michigan, near you and Frances.

  Phillip Lawrence had been disppointed. Frances had cried. But they supported his plan. It was three years later when Phillip finally told Louis what he really thought, that Louis’s life plan was “safe.”