Paint It Black

by P J Parrish

  “Louis,” Wainwright said finally, “what were you talking about back there?”

  “When?”

  “When you were telling her what happened in Michigan,” Wainwright said. “When you said you should have seen it coming.”

  Louis opened his eyes. Wainwright wasn’t looking at him. He was staring straight ahead.

  “I made a lot of mistakes,” Louis said.

  He could feel Wainwright’s eyes on him now. He drew in a long breath. “Mistakes I could have prevented if I had seen it coming.”

  Wainwright said nothing. Finally, Louis looked at him. Wainwright was staring straight ahead again, but his eyes were unfocused, distant.

  “Remember Skeen?” Wainwright asked after a moment.

  “The Raisin River killer.”

  “Right before the end, right before the last little girl was murdered, my wife Sarah committed suicide,” Wainwright said.

  Louis waited.

  “She had been depressed for a long time,” Wainwright went on. “I was away all the time then. She was holding everything together with the kids, the house, and she never said anything.”

  Louis remembered the photograph on the mantel back at Wainwright’s house, the one of the pretty brunette woman.

  “The signs were there,” Wainwright said quietly.

  “I saw that eventually. But I didn’t at the time. I didn’t see it coming.”

  Louis stared at Wainwright’s profile. For a long time, Wainwright just sat there, looking off at the parking lot across the street.

  “I’ve buried it, just buried it, for a lot of years,” Wainwright said. “It’s why I came down here, because I didn’t want to deal with it. My kids—” He stopped, wiping a hand roughly over his face. “I haven’t seen them for a while,” he went on. “After Sarah died, my oldest—Kevin—I think he blamed me. Gina didn’t, but Kevin . . . he was the one who found Sarah and . . .” His voice trailed off.

  Louis waited. Finally, when he was sure Wainwright was not going to say anything more, he put a hand on Wainwright’s shoulder.

  “Let’s go,” Louis said quietly.

  Wainwright shook his head. “I can’t sleep.”

  “I can’t either. Let’s go take a look at that shack.”

  Wainwright nodded. “Yeah . . . yeah. Good idea. Thanks.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  They stood at the door to the storage shack.

  The crime scene techs were almost finished. Louis had watched as they meticulously dusted every inch of the walls, the wooden table, the wooden crab traps, and the chair that still sat in the middle.

  Under the chair, they had scraped up blood Louis guessed would turn out to be Emily’s. From another area, they took samples of blood that Louis was sure belonged to Tyrone Heller. The techs had also found tiny specks of dried blood, probably from the tread of a shoe.

  Bags of evidence had been removed: fish scales and shrimp shells, hairs, fibers, some rusted cans, crumpled pieces of tissue, blue and white buoys, and some cigarette butts. On both arms of the chair, there were several loops of yellow plastic rope.

  Louis’s eyes swept over the tiny room, trying to get a feel for what had happened. No . . . a feel for the killer’s mind, that’s what he wanted. He focused for a moment on the chair, then moved to the bloodstain, rimmed with black paint. It was smaller than the bloodstain from Quick up on the overlook. But Mayo had dragged Heller out right after killing him. Louis’s eyes went now to the walls. The old gray planks were splattered with blood. There was more on the ceiling.

  He realized he was feeling nothing. No vibrations. And worse, no emotion.

  “We need something out of this mess to tie Mayo in,” Wainwright said. “We need proof he was here.”

  “Mayo’s prints are on file,” Louis said. “Maybe we’ll get a match from here.”

  “He’s using gloves. He hasn’t left his prints anywhere else.”

  Louis was looking at the bloodstain again, noticing something new. There was less blood than at the overlook but more paint.

  “He used a lot of paint on Heller,” Louis said.

  “I was thinking the same thing,” Wainwright said. “Why do you think he went overboard this time?”

  “Remember what Farentino said she heard him say? ‘Get it right this time, you fucking idiot.’ Maybe she heard it wrong. Maybe he said ‘idiots.’ ”

  “Plural?” Wainwright asked.

  Louis nodded. “Maybe he was talking to us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe he saw the press conference. Maybe he’s pissed that we didn’t mention the paint. It’s important to him and he wants us to notice it this time.”

  Wainwright nodded. “Farentino said he might react to anything. I guess we found out.”

  The techs moved out, taking the table. They told Wainwright they would return for the chair and to tear up the stained floorboards and walls.

  Louis’s eyes went back to the chair. “Why didn’t he kill her?” he asked.

  “Maybe your theory about the skin shades is wrong and he’s not working toward a white victim,” Wainwright said.

  Louis shook his head. “No, I still think there’s something to it. Heller is lighter than the others and he killed him.”

  “Then why did he even bother to take Farentino in the first place?” Wainwright asked.

  “Maybe she was just in the way,” Louis said. “Maybe he was going to kill her but changed his mind.”

  “Doesn’t make sense. Doesn’t fit his profile.” Wainwright paused. “Maybe it’s like all the paint this time. Maybe he wants to tell us something and Farentino was just the messenger.”

  “What’s the message?”

  Wainwright let out a weary sigh. “I don’t know. We’re both so fucking tired we can’t think straight.”

  They were silent for a moment. “He’s not finished,” Louis said. “I still think he’s moving toward something.”

  Wainwright’s eyes were focused on the bloodstain. “The question is, what?”

  Louis woke and immediately looked at the clock. Two-thirty in the afternoon. He had fallen into bed after coming home from the storage shack and gotten a couple hours of fitful sleep. There was still grit behind his eyes but he knew he couldn’t sleep any more.

  He showered, dressed, and went out to the kitchen. Empty. Issy looked up at him from her bowl of kibbles.

  Louis heard country music from the patio and went outside. Margaret was cutting the dead blooms off one of her orchids.

  “You’re up,” she said, turning.

  “Anybody call?” he asked.

  Margaret shook her head and slipped her pruning shears into her apron.

  “How ’bout I fix you a sandwich?” she said, starting for the kitchen.

  “No, Margaret, I’m fine,” he said quickly.

  “Didn’t we talk about this before?”

  Louis sighed. “Whatever you want to fix is fine. Where’s Sam?”

  “Fishing,” Margaret said with a grimace.

  Louis followed her into the kitchen. He picked up the wall phone and dialed Horton’s office. Horton picked up immediately.

  “Any news?” Louis asked.

  “Still no sign of Heller. The other crewman—Woody something—said Heller didn’t show for work this morning. We did a welfare check at Heller’s trailer. No sign of anything out of the ordinary. No sign of Heller’s truck either. We’ve got a BOLO out on it.”

  “Mayo probably followed Heller to the Dockside,” Louis said. “Maybe he used the truck to take Heller to the storage shack and then abandoned it.”

  “We thought of that. Got the whole wharf area covered. Nothing.”

  Margaret came into the kitchen and began to busy herself at the refrigerator. Louis turned away and lowered his voice. “How’s Farentino?”

  “Sleeping at her hotel,” Horton said. “I put a uniform outside her door.”

  “Anything back from the scene yet?”

&nb
sp; “There was a lot of old trash but nothing fresh. The owner says the place used to be a storage shed for the shrimping company nearby, but it’s been abandoned for years.”

  Louis could hear Horton flipping some papers. “Let’s see . . . shrimp shells, rusted cans, fish scales, specifically snapper, spot-tail, king mackerel. Dozens of prints, but the only fresh ones were on the chair and we’re running them.”

  “What about the blood?”

  “AB-negative under the chair. Rare stuff,” Horton said. “It matches Farentino’s. The big stain was O-positive, but we don’t know what Heller is. The specks of blood on the floor turned out to be from king mackerel.”

  Louis sighed. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “I’ll tell you the same thing I told Dan this morning,” Horton said. “Get some rest. We’ll call.”

  Louis hung up. When he turned, Margaret was standing there holding a plate.

  “Eat this, damn it,” she said.

  He thanked her and took the peanut butter and jelly sandwich out to the patio. Margaret came out a moment later and set a Dr Pepper at his side. She went to the small cassette player and turned her tape over. The song “Luckenbach, Texas” started playing.

  Louis wolfed down the sandwich and set the plate aside, wishing Margaret had made two sandwiches. He tried to remember the last time he ate.

  He laid his head back, closing his eyes, thinking about the events of the last twenty-four hours. What a night.

  He had a sudden picture of Farentino’s tear-streaked face in his mind. She must be a wreck. Alone, in a strange town, scared to death. He wondered if she’d slept, if she’d be up for a visit.

  He got up. Margaret looked over. “Where you going?”

  “To visit Farentino,” he said.

  Margaret wiped her hands on her apron. “I’ve got some fudge you can take her.”

  Chapter Forty

  The Sereno Key Inn was a clot of wooden cabins clustered around a marina not far from the town center. It had a funky, fifties air, like time had not quite caught up. He spotted a Fort Myers patrol car in front of one of the cabins and parked next to it. An officer was sitting on a lawn chair on the porch and rose as Louis came forward.

  “Louis Kincaid, Sereno Key PD,” he said.

  “Some ID, sir?”

  Louis took out the card Wainwright had given him. The officer eyed it suspiciously.

  “Just a moment, sir.” He keyed his radio. Louis waited patiently while he talked to his office.

  “Sorry, sir,” he said, handing the card back. “Go ahead.”

  Louis knocked on the door. It took a while for it to open. Farentino stood there, hair wet like she had just gotten out of a shower.

  “Hey, Farentino.”

  She smiled. “Hey, Kincaid. Come in.”

  The cabin was furnished with old rattan and color prints of flamingos that looked like they had been lifted from a Miami Beach hotel, circa Jackie Gleason. The Mr. Coffee machine in the kitchenette was spurting out a fresh pot.

  “Want some?” Farentino asked, seeing him eyeing it.

  Louis shook his head. “Too much lately. I think my kidneys are shot.”

  She smiled. She was wearing a black-and-red kimono that looked like it came from a thrift store. Her face was still pink from her shower. She was squinting at him.

  “Oh, almost forgot,” he said. “Got some presents for you.” He pulled a Baggie from his pocket. “Fudge, from Margaret.”

  “Nice lady,” Emily said, taking it.

  “And from me,” he said, pulling her glasses out of his breast pocket.

  Her grin widened. “Thank God,” she said, taking them and slipping them on. She glanced around the room. “Shit, this place is uglier than I remember.”

  Louis laughed, then sobered, his eyes going to the gauze wrap on her arm. “So, how you doing?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “I’m okay. Six stitches.” She went to the coffeemaker and poured a cup. “You didn’t bring my briefcase,” she said, turning back to him.

  “It’s still in evidence.”

  “Shit. I need it.”

  “You’ll get it back.”

  “I mean now. I want to get back to work.”

  “Farentino—”

  She held up a hand. “Look, Kincaid, I’m okay. The best thing I can do now is get my mind in gear again. I’m going crazy here, just staring at the walls, thinking . . . ” Her voice trailed off.

  “Thinking about what?” Louis asked.

  She sat down at the small table, setting the coffee aside. “Thinking about everything Mayo said. I’ve been turning it over and over in my head, trying to figure out if I’ve missed anything. I know there has to be more than what I told you. If I had the files here, maybe it would trigger something.” She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “You did the best you could, Farentino,” Louis said.

  She looked up at him. “But I keep going back to the same question—why me? Why did he take me? And why did he let me go?”

  The last words came out shaky. She wasn’t all right. He could hear from her voice that she was really thinking, Why am I still alive?

  “He said, ‘Why were you there?’ ” she said quietly.

  “You already told us that,” Louis said.

  “No, you don’t understand. It was ‘why were you there?’ Like I wasn’t supposed to be.” She shook her head. “It means something.”

  Louis hesitated. He thought about telling her what he and Wainwright had discussed, that her abduction and release was some kind of message on Gunther Mayo’s part. But he didn’t want her getting too worked up about it.

  “It means you were just in the way,” Louis said. “That’s why he let you go.”

  She looked up at him, then nodded slightly. “You haven’t found Heller’s body yet?”

  “No. We’re concentrating on the water. Everyone’s out looking—marine patrol, coast guard. I’ll call you the moment we have news.”

  “I want to help,” she said.

  “It’s too early,” he said.

  She was quiet, staring at her coffee cup. He sensed she wanted to say something.

  “Farentino, what’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Wainwright was right,” she said softly. “I didn’t have a clue what I was doing out there. I could have ridden with the NYPD for two years and still not had a clue.”

  “No cop really does until it happens,” Louis said. “Stop beating yourself up.” He paused, realizing she looked tired. He wondered how much she had slept.

  “I’ve got to get going,” Louis said. “I’ll check in with you tomorrow, okay?”

  “Bring my briefcase,” she said.

  By the time he got back to the Dodies’, it was nearly four. Margaret was nowhere to be seen so he grabbed a Dr Pepper and a leg of leftover chicken from the refrigerator and headed out to the patio. Issy followed him, patiently waiting at his feet until he tossed her a sliver of chicken.

  A boat was motoring slowly toward the dock. It was Dodie, his burnt face bright beneath the aqua Miami Dolphins cap. Louis went down to the dock.

  “Need some help?” he asked.

  “Yeah, tie that off,” Dodie said, tossing a line and cutting the engine.

  Louis hesitated, then started to wrap the line around a piling. Dodie gave an impatient grunt and stepped onto the dock. He took the line and, in one quick move, knotted it off.

  “I’m telling you, Louis, you gotta come fishing with me,” Dodie said, holding out a cooler.

  Louis took the cooler while Dodie hauled up his gear and his catch for the day—two puny-looking gray fish.

  “Why should I?” Louis said. “Doesn’t strike me as worth the effort.”

  “Well, with fishing, it ain’t the destination, it’s the journey,” Dodie said, heading toward the house.

  Louis deposited the cooler on the patio. Dodie dropped into his lounge chair and pulled a beer can from the cooler. “Last one. You want it?”
he asked, holding it out.

  “Got my soda,” Louis said.

  “Where’s Margaret?” Dodie whispered.

  “I heard the washer go on,” Louis said.

  “Good.” He popped the top and took a swig.

  Louis sat down in the nearby chair.

  “I saw the news this morning,” Dodie said. “You found Miss Farentino. TV said she’s okay.”

  “He didn’t hurt her,” Louis said.

  “Thank God.”

  “I went over to see her earlier. She’s doing as good as can be expected.”

  Dodie shook his head. “Seems kinda weird, don’t it?”

  “What?”

  “That he didn’t kill her?”

  “We thought the same thing.” Louis shook his head in frustration. “We seem to be just one step behind him.”

  “You want to bounce some stuff off me?” Dodie asked.

  Louis looked at Dodie. He was leaning forward, his eyes avid. Louis sighed. He told Dodie about the shrimp shack.

  “You find anything helpful there?” Dodie asked.

  “Blood, paint. Fresh prints. They’re not back yet.”

  “What else?”

  “Nothing . . . just some trash, shrimp shit, and fish scales.”

  “What kind of fish scales?”

  “Jesus, Sam—snapper, mackerel, spit-tail, or something. What difference does it make? We know he’s a fisherman.”

  Dodie sat back and took a sip of beer.

  “What kind of mackerel?”

  Louis closed his eyes. “I”m not sure. King?”

  “King mackerel? Well. Them kings are big-ass fish,” Dodie said.

  Louis put his hand over his eyes.

  “I seen a king once,” Dodie went on. “We were out on one of them deep-sea boats. This was up near Tampa after I took Margie to Bush Gardens.”

  Dodie leaned forward. “You should have seen it, Louis. Even the crew guys were excited ’cuz I guess it was a pretty rare bird, that fish. Fifty pounds. You ever seen a fifty-pound fish, Louis?”

  Louis shook his head.

  “Shit, it took that guy an hour to land that sucker. And it bled all over the damn boat.” He paused. “Damn trip cost me fifty bucks and I didn’t catch jack-shit.”