Paint It Black

by P J Parrish

The flatness in Wainwright’s eyes was chilling. “What about the girl?” Louis asked.

  “We found her when we popped his trunk. She was dead.”

  Louis looked away.

  “The other bodies turned up one by one when the snow started melting. I was called out for every single one.” He paused. “Then, one Saturday afternoon, I got the call again. I didn’t want to go because my kid had a basketball game, but I went. It was raining, windy, still cold like it can be in April. I drove down to Adrian, out to the woods. I parked at the bottom of the hill with all the other units.”

  Wainwright stopped, staring at this hands, clasped around the sweating beer bottle.

  “I got out and looked up the hill. It was foggy and all I could see was that damn yellow tape flapping in the wind.” He looked up at Louis. “Something happened. I couldn’t go up. I just couldn’t go up there and look at one more of those damn little bones.”

  A burst of laughter drifted over from the family at the next table.

  Wainwright cleared his throat. “The next day I asked to be reassigned. They sent me to OPR.”

  His blue eyes remained locked on Louis for a moment; then he raised the bottle to his lips. He closed his eyes as he drank. When he finally put the bottle down, it was empty.

  “Almost every agent I worked with paid a price in some way,” he said. “Ulcers, heart scares, divorce. It’s not so much dealing with the evil as what the evil leaves behind.”

  “Anita Quick and June Childers,” Louis said quietly.

  Wainwright nodded slowly. “The families,” he said. “That was the worst part for me, dealing with the families.”

  They fell quiet.

  “Dan, this thing with you and Farentino—”

  “What about it?”

  “You want me to talk to her, try to smooth things over?”

  “Why?”

  “Because we have to work together,” Louis said.

  Wainwright picked at the Bud label. “Do what you think is necessary,” he said.

  Louis wanted to say more, but he could tell from Wainwright’s eyes that the subject was closed.

  The bartender ambled over to the jukebox. A few seconds later, the bar filled up with the sound of Frankie Goes to Hollywood singing “Relax.”

  Wainwright was staring at the window. It was raining lightly, the neon Bud sign forming red streaks on the glass. Wainwright looked back at Louis.

  “What the fuck is this song about?” he asked.

  “Jerking off,” Louis said.

  Wainwright shook his head. “Man, I’m getting old.” He stood up, tossing a twenty on the table. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Patsy Cline’s contralto drifted out of the house, floated over the canal, and dissipated in the balmy night air. The mangroves were black lace against a lavender sky.

  Louis watched the family across the canal cleaning up after their barbecue, the kids rolling on the grass like puppies while the mother tried to herd them inside. They appeared to be acting out parts in a silent movie, their movements overlaid with music.

  The sliding glass door opened and Louis looked up to see Dodie coming out, a sandwich and beer in his hand.

  “I didn’t know you were home,” Dodie said. “We didn’t wait supper on ya. You ate yet?”

  Louis shook his head. “Not hungry, thanks.”

  “Mind if I sit?”

  Louis motioned toward the lounge. Patsy Cline had launched into “How Can I Face Tomorrow?” Louis heard Margaret’s voice warble in sync with Patsy’s.

  “Margaret really likes her country music,” Louis said.

  Dodie stared at him. “You don’t?”

  “It’s all about drunks and losers and ugly dogs. Pretty pathetic stuff, don’t you think?”

  “Some folks would think cop work is pretty pathetic, too. It’s just life.”

  “And death,” Louis said.

  Dodie nodded. “I suppose.”

  Louis stood up and went to the edge of the patio. The thick curtain of night had descended. The family across the way had gone in, turning off their porch lights. The glow of their television danced in the darkness.

  “Sam, I need some advice,” Louis said.

  “Sure.”

  “Dan’s not who I thought he was.”

  “Folk seldom are.”

  Louis turned. “No, I mean, he’s not strong as I thought. I think he’s losing his grip on this case.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” Dodie asked. “Is he sick?”

  “No, but he’s not handling things well,” Louis said. “He blew up at Mobley and today, he took off Farentino’s head. Told her she didn’t have a clue about what she was doing. But Farentino provokes him. Called him an old fart.”

  Dodie made a face.

  “They’re at each other’s throats, Sam,” Louis said, “and I’m sick of playing referee.”

  “You can’t talk to them?” Dodie asked.

  Louis shook his head. “But that’s not all. Dan told me some stuff today, some things that happened on the job in the past. He left the bureau as a burn-out after a tough case. He came down here to escape and for five years that’s what he’s done. Now this shit has hit him in the face and I think it’s getting to him.”

  Dodie had set his sandwich aside. “You saying he doesn’t know what he’s doing?”

  Louis frowned. “Not exactly. He’s worked a dozen homicides, but it’s like he’s lost his nerve. I’m not so sure he won’t break completely if we can’t catch this guy pretty soon.”

  “Maybe you ought to convince him to hand it off to that Sheriff Mobley fella.”

  Louis shook his head. “That would make things worse. Mobley’s an idiot.”

  “Well, somebody’s gotta lead, Louis.”

  “There’s Chief Horton over in Fort Myers,” Louis said. “He’s a good cop but he really doesn’t have a stake in this whole thing.” He drew in a breath. “This is a fucking mess.”

  Margaret had turned off the music inside. The frogs had filled the silence with their own chorus of creaks and peeps.

  “Louis,” Dodie said.

  Louis turned.

  “Come sit down.”

  Louis came back and took the chair next to Dodie. The Japanese lanterns weren’t lit and Louis could barely make out Dodie’s face in the light coming in from the kitchen. He was lying back in the lounge chair, the beer in his hand.

  “I was seventeen when my daddy was shot and killed,” Dodie said. “It happened real sudden and everyone in the family rushed over to the house, and there was a might good number of them, too. Aunts, uncles, nephews, and even my sister managed to get herself home that weekend.”

  Louis was glad Dodie couldn’t see his face clearly. He really didn’t want to hear one of Dodie’s old stories right now.

  “They all sat around crying and making promises to Momma,” Dodie went on. “Promises about taking care of the farm, making the car payments, bringing her food, and just plain making sure she didn’t suffer too much. I had an Uncle Isaac who said he’d take care of the finances for her.”

  Dodie looked down at his beer bottle. “A few weeks after the burial, the casseroles stopped coming, the car was repossessed, and Momma found out Uncle Isaac had taken all her money out of the bank and headed to New Orleans.”

  “What did you do?” Louis asked.

  Dodie pressed his lips together. “I wasn’t known for taking charge of things in those days, but I knew I couldn’t let the land go to the bank. So I quit school and went to work. Most folks thought I dropped out to marry Margie, but that wasn’t it.”

  A long-forgotten image came back to Louis. Ethel Mulcahey, hunched over her high school annual, showing him pictures of her classmate, Sam Dodie. He dropped out of school to marry Margaret Sue Purdy. We all knew she was pregnant.

  Louis shook his head. Small towns and their small secrets.

  “I did it to save that farm for Momma, so she could pass on
there,” Dodie said. “Which she did eight years later.”

  “You gave up a lot,” Louis said.

  Dodie gave a small shrug. “It wasn’t just saving the farm. It was saving Momma.”

  They sat for a few minutes, listening to the frogs. Louis lifted his bottle to his lips. It was empty. He heard the scrape of the lounge and looked over to see Dodie hoisting himself up.

  “Well, I’m going in,” he said.

  “Sam.”

  Dodie looked down.

  “What should I do?” Louis asked.

  “Save the farm,” Dodie said. He picked up the sandwich plate and the empty beer bottles. “See you in the morning, Louis.”

  Dodie went inside. Louis leaned his head back on the chair, closing his eyes. Save the farm. Okay, so maybe he had to take charge. But how? He had no real authority here. He didn’t even have a badge, just a damn ID card.

  He couldn’t do an end run around Wainwright. But he couldn’t just sit back and do nothing, hoping Dan could hold the investigation—and himself—together long enough to catch this monster.

  He felt something brush his leg and he looked down. Issy was curling against his shin. The cat sat down and looked up at him, its eyes catching the kitchen light like road reflectors.

  Damn. He knew what he had to do. The only problem was getting up the guts to do it. He glanced at his watch. With a sigh, he hoisted himself up from the chair, went inside, and grabbed the car keys off the kitchen counter.

  The porch light went on and the door opened.

  “Kincaid, what are you doing here?” Wainwright asked.

  “I’d like to talk, Dan. Can I come in?”

  Wainwright swung the screen wide. “Sure, sure.”

  Louis paused in the small foyer. The living room off to his right was small but comfortable looking. The worn furniture looked more suited to a northern colonial than a Florida bungalow. There were a few generic landscapes on the walls and a bookcase filled with books that looked untouched. On the mantel above the coral rock fireplace there were three framed photographs, a teenage boy and girl that looked like graduation pictures, and a formal portrait of a pretty brunette woman. A TV tray was set up in front of a battered Barcalounger. Cheers was on.

  “Am I interrupting your dinner?” Louis asked.

  “No, I’m finished,” Wainwright said, going to the tray and picking up his plate. He started to the kitchen. “You want anything? Beer? Soda?”

  “No, nothing. Thanks.”

  Wainwright reappeared. “Sit down, sit down,” he said, moving a stack of papers off a chair and turning the sound off on the TV.

  Louis perched on the edge of the chair, his eyes wandering to the television screen. Carla was beating Cliff Clavin on the head with a dishrag.

  “So?” Wainwright said.

  “What do you think of the idea of forming a task force?” Louis asked.

  Wainwright looked down at his beer, pursing his lips. “Okay,” he said quietly.

  “I think we need to coordinate all the efforts, Dan,” Louis said. “We’re spinning our wheels here.”

  Wainwright looked up at him. “Is that all?”

  “What do you mean?” Louis asked.

  “I mean, is that your only reason?”

  “We need—” Louis looked over at the television for a moment, then came back to Wainwright. “We need all the help we can get on this.”

  “And who do you see heading this task force?” Wainwright asked.

  Louis forced himself to meet Wainwright’s eyes. “Someone neutral,” he said.

  “Horton,” Wainwright said.

  “I think that would be best,” Louis said.

  Wainwright’s blue eyes didn’t blink. But he gave an almost imperceivable nod of his head. “You sure you don’t want a beer?” he asked.

  Louis shook his head.

  “Well, I do.” He rose slowly and went to the kitchen. Louis heard the refrigerator opening. He glanced down and saw a stack of case files on the floor next to the lounger. They looked untouched.

  Wainwright came back, holding the can of beer. He didn’t sit down.

  “We’ll call Horton in the morning.” He paused. “Thanks for coming by.”

  Louis hesitated. Wainwright’s voice had a slightly clipped sound to it. Louis was being dismissed. He started to say something, but changed his mind. He rose and went to the door. Wainwright followed him.

  As he stepped outside, Louis turned. “Dan—”

  “Good night, Louis.”

  Wainwright closed the door.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  The cruiser crested the top of the causeway and Louis looked over at Wainwright. His eyes were focused straight ahead and his hands were loose on the wheel. If he was still pissed about last night, at least he was being enough of a pro not to show it. Louis hadn’t been in the office when Wainwright made the call to Al Horton. But later, Wainwright had come out and announced simply, “Let’s go, Al’s waiting.”

  Still, the ride across the causeway had been silent.

  There was a flutter of papers in the backseat. “Damn it, can you please close your window, Kincaid?” Emily said.

  Louis rolled up the window, glancing back at her. She had her briefcase open at her feet, and a lap full of faxes and files.

  “Here it is,” she said, shaking a paper at him. “I knew it was in here.”

  “What is it?” Louis asked.

  “Gunther Mayo’s sheet. It came in just as we were leaving.”

  “Read it,” Wainwright said.

  “Burglary in seventy-eight, assault in eighty, possession in eighty-one, and indecent exposure in eighty-two. I’ve dug up some personal stuff—”

  Louis looked at her. “Can I see that?”

  She handed him the papers. Louis flipped through them. “Dan, listen. Gunther joined up with a boat called the Liberty Belle in eighty-two, then boat-hopped for four years, working up and down the coast. He hooked up with Lynch in Barnegat Light last April.”

  “Was he ever questioned in any of the murders up North?” Wainwright asked.

  “I’ve been through those files and I never saw his name,” Emily said.

  Wainwright stopped at a traffic light. “Where’s this creep from?”

  Emily stuck her head in between them. “He was born in Camden, New Jersey.”

  Louis looked up from reading Mayo’s dossier. “Dan, this guy was a member of a gang called The Brotherhood. Ever heard of it?”

  Wainwright shook his head.

  “It was a teenage white supremacist gang from South Philly,” Emily said from the back.

  “No shit?” Louis said.

  “It was a short-lived venture,” Emily said. “They were busted by the local cops for spray-painting racial slurs on churches. Mayo was fifteen.”

  Louis glanced back at her. “Farentino, this guy fits your profile, doesn’t he?”

  She looked at him over her glasses, arms crossed. “He’s a white male, age twenty-eight, low achiever, unskilled laborer, seventh of eight kids, father a drunk and felon. What do you think?”

  Louis pointed to a date in June of last year. “Why is this underlined?”

  Emily came forward. “It’s when his grandmother died.”

  “So?”

  “Mayo was thirteen when his father went to prison and he was shipped off to live with his grandmother. They were close.”

  “His stressor?” Louis said.

  “That’s what I think,” Farentino said, falling back into the seat.

  “Farentino, what’s your guess on where he lives?” Wainwright asked.

  Emily hesitated. Louis knew it was because she was surprised Wainwright was asking her for an opinion.

  “I’m convinced it’s Fort Myers Beach, Chief,” she said. “It’s in his comfort zone. Even if it’s not out in the beach area itself, it’ll be close by.”

  Wainwright was nodding thoughtfully.

  “Lynch told me there are a lot of seasonal rental
s near the wharf,” Louis said. “I sent Candy over to Buttonwood Street to show Mayo’s picture around.” He paused. “I hope we don’t scare the bastard away.”

  Farentino leaned forward again. “We may do just that if you swarm the neighborhood or wharf with uniforms. I think a more subtle approach is necessary.”

  “It ain’t gonna look like a military parade, Farentino,” Wainwright said.

  Wainwright pulled into the parking lot of the Fort Myers PD and jerked the car to a stop. “Okay, first and ten,” Wainwright said without looking at either of them. “Let’s go see if we can turn this game around.”

  Inside the lobby of the station, the receptionist behind the glass recognized Wainwright and buzzed them through. Al Horton was waiting for them at his open door. “Come on in, Dan. Mobley’s not here yet.”

  “But he agreed to come?” Louis asked.

  “I told him you and I were thinking about working together on the case,” Horton said. “He’ll show.”

  They all took chairs around Horton’s desk.

  “Anything new on this Mayo character?” Horton asked.

  Louis quickly filled him in. Emily was about to add something when there was a noise in the hallway. A moment later, Lance Mobley appeared at the door. Driggs was behind him.

  Mobley surveyed the office and turned to Driggs. “Wait outside,” he said. He came in, shutting the door. He leaned back against it, folding his arms. “Okay, I’m here, Al. What’s this all about?”

  Horton was sitting on the edge of his desk. With a glance at Wainwright, he looked at Mobley.

  “We’re forming a task force, Lance,” he said.

  Mobley’s eyes went from Wainwright to Louis, bounced across Emily, and came to rest back on Horton. He smiled.

  “Okay . . . ” he said.

  “And I’m in charge,” Horton said.

  Mobley’s smile faded. “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “Six dead men,” Horton said. “It’s time to start working together.”

  “Six?” Mobley said.

  “Yeah, six,” Wainwright said. “Not exactly up to speed, are you, Lance?”

  “We found three related cases in New Jersey and over in Broward,” Emily said.

  Mobley turned to Emily. “Who are you?” he demanded.