P. Parrish - Paint It Black

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.

“Where were you a week ago Tuesday, about six-thirty P.M.?”

Van Slate shook his head. “I don’t have to talk to you.”

“You’ll talk, Mr. Van Slate. If not to us, then to the sheriff’s department.”

“You fucking people. .” Van Slate muttered, turning away.

Louis reached out and hit his shoulder, spinning him around. “What?”

Van Slate stared at him, shocked, then smiled. “Cops. You fucking cops.”

Over Van Slate’s shoulder, Louis noticed the two friends staring at them. Van Slate followed his gaze, then said, “Touch me again and they’ll be all over your ass, you son of a bitch. This is my boatyard. There’s not one fucker in here who will come to help you. You understand that?”

Van Slate’s friends were edging forward. Louis resisted the urge to look around.

“Don’t threaten me, Van Slate,” Louis said. Cops have rules . Little did this asshole know.

Van Slate flicked the ashes of his cigarette at Louis and they landed on his chest.

“I don’t feel sorry for either of those two. .” Van Slate deliberately let his voice trail off, eyeing Louis.

Louis reached out and threw an arm around Van Slate’s neck, spinning him into a quick choke hold and backing up against the boat so he could see the other two across the yard.

“This is police brutality. I’ll report your ass,” Van Slate hissed.

Louis pulled tighter, keeping his eyes on Van Slate’s friends. “I’m going to ask you again. Where were you last Tuesday night?”

Van Slate gagged. “I was at home, watching a basketball game.”

“Who was playing?”

“Shit, I don’t remember. I was drinking. Let me go, you’re fucking choking me.”

“Anyone with you?”

Again, silence.

“Anyone with you?” Louis shouted, jerking on Van Slate’s neck.

“Yeah! Both of them guys. Now let me go!” Van Slate yelled, bucking against him. Louis released him and Van Slate stumbled away. He spun back to face him.

“I’ll have your fucking badge!” he screamed.

Louis watched the friends, who suddenly didn’t look too eager to deal with a cop.

“Good luck,” Louis said.

“I’ll see you again!” Van Slate shouted. “You can bet on that!”

“I’ll be holding my breath.”

Louis walked toward the gate, hearing the crunch of his shoes on the gravel, listening for a rush of bodies behind him. But there was nothing except the beating of his heart and the clang of the boatyard gate as he slammed it behind him.

Louis drove aimlessly, turning the encounter with Van Slate over in his head. Van Slate didn’t seem too bright. Most likely, Van Slate senior ran the office, leaving junior to bust his nuts sanding hulls. It occurred to Louis suddenly that the hull of the huge white Hatteras was painted a nice shining black. Vince Carissimi still hadn’t reported back on whether the Krylon can found near Tatum matched the paint on Anthony Quick’s body. Maybe it wasn’t spray paint after all. He made a mental note to bring it up to Wainwright.

Louis glanced at his watch. Just after nine-thirty. He decided to go check in with whoever was pulling surveillance on the causeway.

Louis spotted Officer Candy’s face behind the wheel of a Toyota in the small parking lot nearby where fishermen routinely left their boat trailers. Candy was sifting through that morning’s News-Press, looking tired after what was probably a long and boring shift. He smiled as he saw Louis approach.

“You didn’t bring any coffee, did you?” Candy asked.

“Sorry, man,” Louis said, leaning into the window. “Anything going on?”

Candy yawned. He was in civvies and looked like a tourist, not a cop. “Not a thing. We had four cars come over all night and I knew every one of them.”

A Cadillac came by and Candy eyed the occupants: an elderly couple with a Chihuahua hanging out the window. He dutifully recorded their Palm Beach County tag number as they passed through.

“You here to relieve me?” Candy asked hopefully.

“Sorry,” Louis said. “I’m thinking of heading over to Fort Myers Beach to talk to the hotel clerk.”

Candy nodded and looked out over the sun-silvered bay. “You really think we’re gonna catch this guy?” he asked.

“We’re going to try,” Louis said. He slipped his sunglasses on. “Later, man.”

Traffic was light on the mainland but twice Louis had to resort to the map spread on the passenger seat. The map had been his bible in the last two weeks as he labored to familiarize himself with the area. Fort Myers wasn’t a big town by any standard, but he had managed to get lost in its tangle of two-named streets, subdivisions, and waterways.

Water. . it seemed to touch everything here. Dodie had told him that life here revolved around the water, that you were never very far from it, what with the gulf, the Caloosahatchee River, and all the bays and inlets. What God or glaciers hadn’t carved out, man had added, with canals and waterways that interlaced every neighborhood.

Back in Michigan, water had been a simple thing he had never given much thought to-rivers, lakes, and creeks. But here-here, water was like a pantheon of exotic-named deities.