by P J Parrish
“FBI Agent Farentino. I’m a forensic psychologist.”
Mobley stared at Emily, then looked back at Horton. “Look, if you think I’m going to sit back and let a case like this be run by amateurs and psychics, you’re nuts.”
Louis and Wainwright got up. Horton slid off the desk.
“Sheriff Mobley, I think we should—” Emily began.
“Go play with your tarot cards, lady,” Mobley snapped. “And take Virgil Tibbs here with you.”
Louis started toward Mobley but Wainwright was quicker. In two strides he was chest-to-chest with Mobley. “Listen, you prick,” Wainwright said, his voice low. “While you’ve been baking in the tanning salon, this lady has been busting her hump plowing paper to track down three other cases. And Louis here has found a weapon and a suspect. If you got a problem with me, that’s fine.” He jabbed a finger into Mobley’s chest. “But until you have something to offer in this case, keep your fucking mouth shut.”
Mobley stared at Wainwright, his jaw muscles pulsating.
“You have a suspect?” he asked tightly.
Horton came forward and handed Mobley a copy of Gunther Mayo’s sheet.
“Where is he?” Mobley said, after scanning it quickly.
“He disappeared about a week ago,” Louis said.
Before Mobley could say anything else, there was a knock and the door opened a crack, hitting Mobley in the back. He moved and a woman’s face appeared.
“Chief, the press is here,” she said.
“Thanks, Karen. Put them in the briefing room. We’ll be right in.”
The door closed. Mobley stared at Horton. “You called a press conference?”
Horton nodded. “You in or out, Lance?”
Mobley’s eyes went to Wainwright and back to Horton. “All right,” he said quietly. “You’ll get every man I can give. But I get the collar.”
Horton glanced at Wainwright, who looked away. Horton nodded to Mobley. “I’ll take the lead here,” Horton said. “There are things we’re not telling them, you hear me, Lance?”
“I hear you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tin of Altoids. He popped one into his mouth, surveyed the room, and gave them a smile.
“Shall we?” he said.
The briefing room was not very large, and there were ten reporters, photographers, and cameramen waiting when Horton led them all in. Horton went to the lectern at the front of the room, motioning Wainwright and Mobley to his sides. Louis, Emily, Driggs, the Fort Myers Public Information Officer, and a few uniforms hovered in the background.
Horton glanced at the four mikes that had been set up on the lectern. All three local stations were here, WEVU, WBBH, WINK, plus the usual familiar faces from the News-Press, Sanibel Island Reporter, The Naples Daily News, and others.
“You guys ready?” Horton said.
“Sooner the better, Chief,” someone called out. “We’re trying to make the noon broadcast.”
The camera lights went on and Horton blinked in the glare. “Karen here has kept you all up to speed on the details so far in these three murder cases,” Horton began, nodding to his PIO.
“But I am here today to announce the formation of a task force,” he went on. “Its purpose is to better coordinate the efforts of the three law enforcement agencies involved in the case, and to make better use of our manpower. We’ve also established a hot line for tips, so we can coordinate our information. That number will be given to all of you at the conclusion of this press conference.”
Louis, standing behind Wainwright, watched as Horton went on to introduce Wainwright and Mobley. Wainwright stepped forward to add a few innocuous standard comments, looking ill at ease. Mobley took his turn before the mikes, cool as a Beltway pol, adding his assurances that the killer would be apprehended.
“Chief, who are your other players here?” a reporter asked, pointing a pencil at Louis and Emily.
Horton motioned to Wainwright. “This is Louis Kincaid, a special investigator temporarily attached to my office,” Wainwright said, drawing Louis forward by the arm.
Wainwright paused. “To my right is Agent Emily Farentino, a forensics psychologist with the FBI.”
Louis saw the cameras swing to Emily. “Spell the last name, please,” someone called out.
“F-a-r-r-e-n-t-i-n-o,” Wainwright said.
Emily leaned into the mike. “One R. Farentino with one R.” She backed away.
“Chief, do you have any new leads since Roscoe Webb’s escape?”
“We have a good lead on a new suspect we are looking at, but I can’t give you any details,” Horton said.
“Does he live here?”
Louis tensed, his eyes going to the Mayo sheet still in Mobley’s hand. He prayed Mobley had enough brains not to say anything. The last thing they needed now was for Gunther Mayo to get squirrelly and move on to new hunting grounds.
“No details,” Horton said.
Mobley didn’t move.
“Chief, have you figured out yet why all the murders have taken place on Tuesdays?”
“No, not yet. We’re still working on it.”
“Chief Horton,” a woman called out, “do you have any response to the NAACP charges that these are racially motivated crimes and your department is not doing enough?”
Louis could see Horton’s neck muscles tighten. “I gave you my response to that when it came out, Cheryl,” he said calmly. “This new task force is evidence that we are determined to do whatever it takes to catch this murderer. Now, if there’s nothing else—”
“I have a question for Agent Farentino.”
Louis blinked in the glare of the lights, finally seeing the source of the voice, a tall man standing in the back.
“What exactly is your role in this investigation?” the reporter asked.
Emily hesitated and slowly came to the mike. She had to stand on her tiptoes to reach it. “My role is to assist the officers in any way I can,” she said.
Louis glanced at Wainwright. He was staring at the floor.
“You do what’s called profiling, right?”
All the heads in the room had swung to the reporter now. Louis heard a Nikon motor drive whir off a couple of frames.
“Profiling is a layman’s term,” Emily said. “I—”
“What kind of man do you think this killer is?”
Emily glanced at Wainwright, then cleared her throat. “Serial killers are usually white men, twenty to thirty years old, unskilled workers, and loners.”
“But what kind of man do you think this killer is?”
Emily hesitated again. Louis could see a bead of sweat on her forehead. Shit, they were all sweating. Stay cool, Farentino, stay cool.
“I think he is a man who will eventually make a mistake,” Emily said. “A mistake that will lead to his apprehension. That’s all I am prepared to say right now.”
Louis let out a breath.
Horton took a few final questions and then turned it over to the PIO. They filed out of the room through a back door and paused in the hall.
“Next time you call a press conference, Al, I want more notice,” Mobley said. “And I want to be brought up to speed on everything you have—now.”
“You know where my office is, Lance,” Horton said. “I’ll be right there.”
Mobley stalked off, Driggs at his heels. Horton turned to Wainwright. “You don’t need to stay. I’ll handle this,” he said.
Wainwright nodded. Horton left, leaving the three of them standing alone in the hall.
“The press conference went well,” Louis said.
Wainwright looked at Emily. “It could have been worse. Come on, we’ve got work to do.”
Chapter Thirty-three
Damn it. Where’d the game go?
He squinted up at the television above the bar. Who the hell was this asshole?
He looked down the bar, but nobody else seemed to care. He took a quick drink of beer and looked back up at the television.
What the fuck was this? An old man that looked like an army guy. A stupid-looking guy in a cop uniform. Some bitch with red hair. And a black guy standing in the background.
He strained his ears to hear what they were saying.
Task force. Cops. FBI. Task force?
For me?
He resisted the urge to smile, resisted the urge to laugh.
They were so stupid.
He heard the word “Tuesday.” They were telling people he killed on Tuesdays. But they didn’t know why.
Stupid fuckers. It was his day off. It was the only time he had. What other reason could there be?
The bitch was talking now . . . she was calling him a serial killer. She was describing the killer. Describing him.
White, twenty to thirty, unskilled work. What the fuck did they mean, unskilled work? It was his work. His life. Unskilled. Like it meant nothing. Fuck them.
He took a drink.
But she did say white. That was important.
Last week he had read they thought he was black.
They were learning.
His eyes focused on the black man again. The camera came in for a quick close-up.
Wait . . . wait . . . .
Yes . . . yes!
The camera picking up the white cop now. Damn it! No! Go back to the black guy!
There! There he is again, in the background.
He looked . . . what? Uncomfortable . . . nervous . . . like he didn’t belong. That tan face there among the other white faces. He knew he didn’t belong. Oh, yes, he knew. He just didn’t see it yet.
He wouldn’t be easy.
He’d have a gun.
And he’d fight back.
But that was okay. That was part of the plan.
He took another drink, staring at the black cop over the rim of his glass.
Yes. Perfect. He’s perfect.
The army guy finished talking. He was asking the public for help. He was done. He was fucking done!
The paint!
They didn’t talk about the paint! Why didn’t they talk about the paint?
He gripped the glass.
What the fuck was wrong with them? Didn’t they know? Didn’t they see it?
It was everything . . . the paint. It was everything!
He tightened, glaring into his beer.
Maybe the paint had washed off. Maybe he shouldn’t have gotten them wet. But he had to get them wet.
Fuck.
Maybe he should tell them.
No. It didn’t matter. They weren’t important. They weren’t part of the plan and they didn’t matter.
He looked up, his eyes boring into the black cop.
He mattered.
But still . . . the paint was important.
His brain started pounding. This wasn’t supposed to happen now.
No . . . not now. Stop. . . .
He put his hands to his temples. Stop. Stop.
Water. He needed the water. The sound of the water.
He needed a kill.
And he would make sure they didn’t miss the paint next time. He would make damn sure.
Chapter Thirty-four
Emily came out of the bathroom and paused in front of the table, where Gunther Mayo’s life was spread out before her. She picked up a mug shot of him, courtesy of the Atlantic City PD.
He had a frizzy bush of black hair and a ragged mustache. His gray eyes, too light for his hair, seemed to bore through the camera lens.
Emily tossed the photo down and looked at the clock. It was after eleven P.M. And it was Tuesday night.
Again they waited. Only tonight she was alone, stuck in the office with her notes, files, and Gunther Mayo.
Damn them, anyway.
After two weeks of hard work, it was still “them” on one side and her on the other, looking in. Even after Wainwright’s defense of her work in Horton’s office. Louis had seemed to accept her and Wainwright was coming around. But when it came down to the real work, the street work, they still didn’t trust her to pull her weight.
Like tonight. Every available cop and detective, Lee County, Fort Myers, Sereno, was out tonight on surveillance, trying to track down Gunther Mayo.
She looked up at the wall map with a sigh. The canvassing of the rental neighborhoods around the wharf had yielded nothing, so they had expanded the search to the rentals and motel rooms over on the beach. At least they had listened to her on that.
“Evening, Agent Farentino,” Greg Candy said, coming through the door.
Emily looked at him. “You stuck here, too?”
“Hell no. I’m just coming off ten hours over on the beach.” He looked beat. “Why aren’t you out there with the rest of them?”
“I’m still in detention,” she said, sliding into a chair and staring down at Gunther Mayo.
Candy gave her a frown. “Detention?”
“Never mind,” Emily said.
“Well, I’m dead on my feet. Going home to catch a nap.”
Candy disappeared. Emily lowered her head to her arms. She closed her eyes, and lost herself in the beat of her heart and the light ticking of the clock on the wall.
Tuesday night. Would she ever be able to think of it in a normal light after this was all over?
The phone rang and she jumped, then picked it up.
“Agent Farentino,” she said.
“Officer Kincaid, please,” a man said.
Emily rubbed her eyes. “He’s on patrol. Can I help you?”
The man hesitated. “Are you a police officer?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, I am.”
“My name is George Lynch and my man is missing.”
“Your man?”
“My employee, Ty. We were supposed to meet for dinner and he was just going home to clean up. But it’s been two hours and I think something’s happened to him.”
Emily picked up a pen and pulled her notepad closer. “How old is he?”
“Twenty-five.”
She tossed the pen down. Christ.
“Mr. Lynch, two hours is hardly enough time to report someone missing. Why don’t you call us back—”
“Is that other cop there?” Lynch said.
“No, you’re stuck with me.”
“Then why can’t you take some kind of report or whatever it is you do? What’s wrong with you people?”
Emily picked up the pen. “Okay, tell me about your friend.”
“His name is Ty Heller and he’s a black man who works for me. We were supposed to have dinner at the Dockside Pub and he never showed.”
Emily wrote down the name. A man going missing for two hours was no big deal. But a black man going missing on a Tuesday could be. Even if he was too young to fit the victim profile.
“Your name again, sir?”
“George Lynch. You gonna do something or not?”
“Just a minute, please.” She put a hand over the receiver, thinking she would call Candy. But then she remembered he said he was tired and heading home. She thought of radioing to Louis or Wainwright, but she knew Wainwright would probably dismiss whatever she had to offer. Sending an officer to talk to this guy could waste valuable time and manpower.
Shit, she would go talk to Lynch herself, calm him down. She would go take the report herself.
“Where are you, Mr. Lynch?”
“I’m still at the bar. It’s in Fort Myers Beach, on First Street, just under the bridge. I’ll be out on the porch.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
When Emily got to the Dockside Pub the lot was filled, so she parked across the road in front of a closed bait shop. She got out of the car. It was dark, but she could see the lights of the marina flickering on the water. Across Matanza Pass, she could see the empty, dark charter boats at their docks at Fisherman’s Wharf.
She shoved a police radio in her briefcase and started across the street, shifting the heavy bag to her left shoulder. Eleven forty-five. It had taken her
longer than she had expected to get over to the beach. She hoped this Lynch guy had waited. Hell, if he hadn’t, at least she’d get a burger or something. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
The Dockside Pub was a rustic tavern with a screened porch facing the docks. She went in, hoping Lynch would signal her.
He did, giving her a small wave from a table across the room. She moved toward him, half hoping to see that his employee had arrived safely. But when she got there, the other side of the table was empty. She sat down and stuck out her hand.
“Mr. Lynch?”
“Yeah.” His weathered face looked stricken as he shook her hand.
“I’m Agent Farentino, FBI.” She slid into a chair, hoisting her briefcase up into an empty chair beside her. “I take it your friend’s still not here?”
Lynch shook his head and watched Emily dig through her briefcase for a notebook and pen. When she looked up, he leaned forward. “You ready?” he asked.
“What do you do for a living, Mr. Lynch?”
“I’m a charter boat captain. Tyrone is one of my crewmen.”
Emily looked up at him. “You work on the docks?”
Lynch nodded. “Yeah, thirty years now. I’m retiring in May and—”
“Your employee’s name is Heller?”
“Yeah, Tyrone Heller. I call him Ty. I’ve always called him Ty, for all the years he’s been with me.” There was an untouched glass of beer in front of Lynch. He was picking at a cocktail napkin.
“So you and your employee were meeting here for dinner?” Emily asked.
He nodded, his eyes intent on Emily. “Shouldn’t you put out one of those bulletins for him?”
“First things first, Mr. Lynch.”
Lynch tossed down the shredded napkin and ran a hand over his face. “Look, miss, I’m sure something’s happened to Ty. He’s a good kid, a real good kid. He’s kinda like a son to me, you know?”
“When did you last speak to him?” Emily asked.
“About six, when we closed down for the day. We always come here for dinner every Tuesday night, ever since we’ve been coming to Fort Myers. Tonight, at the last minute, Woody changed his mind so it was just Ty and me. Ty wanted to go get cleaned up. He said he’d meet me back here at nine.”
“Have you tried to contact him?”
