P. Parrish - Paint It Black

He had noticed it back at the 7-Eleven when he stopped to get coffee and study the map in an effort to figure out the easiest way over to Fort Myers Beach. He had never seen so many different names for bodies of water. It was like he had heard about Eskimos having a hundred different names for snow.

Hell Peckish Bay. Matlacha Pass. Hardworking Bayou. Pine Island Sound. Buck Key Channel. Big Dead Creek. Old Blind Pass. Kinzie Cove. Gator Slough. The Rock Hole. The Mud Hole. Long Cutoff. Short Cutoff. Glover Bight.

What the hell was a “bight” anyway?

It took one more look at the map before he found San Carlos Boulevard, the main drag leading to Fort Myers Beach. He drove through a commercial clot of marinas and stores, then over a high graceful bridge that deposited him onto the long narrow spit of land that formed the town of Fort Myers Beach.

Louis had to slow the car to a crawl as he started down congested Estero Boulevard.

Fort Myers Beach had little in common with its namesake city on the mainland and even less with Sereno. Out on the key, a glimpse of blue water and sky was never out of eyesight and the loudest noise was the squawk of a gull. Fort Myers Beach was a carnival crush of hotels, T-shirt shops, and fast-food joints. The sidewalks were choked with seared-skinned tourists who waddled along with the stomach-full, head-empty gaits of winter parolees. The air smelled of sea spray, caramel apples, pizza, and Coppertone.

Louis spotted the Holiday Inn and pulled in.

He parked under a palm and got out, his eyes scanning the crowded lot. It was black asphalt, freshly repaved, the oily smell baking in the sun. Most of the cars were basic sedans with out-of-state or lease plates.

The sheriff’s deputies had already questioned the hotel clerk and told Wainwright that nothing had come of the interview. Louis wasn’t sure what he expected to get out of the clerk, maybe some vibration someone else had missed.

A young man with neatly cropped hair looked up at him as he approached the front desk. His brightness quickly faded.

“Oh, man, another cop?”

“How’d you know?”

“Maybe it’s the walk.”

Louis smiled. “Sereno Key.” He glanced at the kid’s name tag. “You’re Kevin Grunow?”

“One and the same.” He sighed. “Look, I told everything I know to the other guys.”

“I’m just here to clarify some things,” Louis said.

Kevin stood up straight. “Okay. I was on duty that afternoon. I had just gotten off, around eight, and I heard a bang.”

“Go on.”

“I figured it was a car backfiring and I just forgot about it until the police showed up a week later. My boss called me in and they asked me what I saw. But I saw nothing, nada, zilch.”

“Do you know if there were any other witnesses?”

Kevin shrugged. “This is a hotel, man, people come and go. We were busy that weekend because of that computer convention. The boss gave them a list of everyone who was registered. I guess you’re trying to track them all down for questioning, huh?”

Louis nodded. Luckily, the kid wasn’t bright enough to figure out the sheriff’s department and Sereno Police Department weren’t the same thing. Most civilians weren’t.

“I made copies,” the kid said suddenly. “You need one? I got the guy’s phone list, too.”

“That would be helpful to us, Kevin.” Blind dumb luck.

Kevin disappeared and came back a few seconds later with a copy of a computer printout. Louis glanced at the phone list. Quick had made four calls, all back to his home in Toledo. Nothing.

“Anything unusual about Mr. Quick, Kevin? Did he have any visitors? Put anything in your safe?”

Kevin shook his head. “Not that I know of.”

Louis folded the papers and glanced around the lobby. “I understand Mr. Quick asked about going fishing the morning he was killed. Do you know where?”

“Well, there’s lots of fishing around here.”

“Such as?”

“You could do back bay, where you hire a guide. Or you can go on one of the charters that go out to the gulf. Or you could just go down to the pier and rent a pole.”

“What do most tourists do?”

“Charters. I think I remember him looking at those brochures.” He pointed to a rack behind Louis.

Louis plucked out the four brochures on fishing charters. There were trips on everything from small skiff rentals to large overnight charters that went to the Keys. Most of the charter boats were located at Fisherman’s Wharf, near the bridge he had passed over that led to the beach.

He thanked Kevin and left. As he backtracked to the bridge, he had a sinking feeling that this, like the trip to see Van Slate, was going to be another waste of time. If Quick had shown up at Fisherman’s Wharf, the sheriff’s deputies probably had it covered. Besides, there was no proof Quick had gone fishing the day he died. The check Wainwright had run on Quick’s credit cards had revealed no charges to fishing boats. And as the hotel clerk pointed out, Quick could have gone to any number of places to fish. To top it all off, Quick’s car was found back at the hotel.

The docks fronted a narrow baylike body of water that faced Fort Myers Beach. The slips were crowded with boats: fancy sailboats, fishing skiffs like Dodie’s, and at the far end a couple of shrimp boats, great hulking contraptions festooned with nets and huge poles extending outward like antennae.

Louis scanned the charter boat office and bar that fronted the docks. The office was closed but there was music and laughter coming from the bar.

He started by showing Anthony Quick’s picture at the bar, but no one could remember seeing him. Back outside, there was only one charter boat in dock, a beat-up-looking tub with a sign announcing CAP’T ED’S FISHING CHARTERS.

It appeared deserted but as he drew closer, Louis heard a banging sound inside the cabin.

“Hey! Anyone around?” he called out.

It took some more yelling before a man emerged brandishing a hammer. He was squat and bandy-legged, wearing grimy cutoffs and worn Docksiders. His bare chest was suntanned to a dark mahogany, his sparse hair bleached out to white.

“Ain’t hiring out today,” the man said.

Louis came forward. “I’m not here for fishing. I’m looking for some information.”

The man squinted up at him. “Oh, yeah? ’Bout what?”

Louis held out Quick’s photo. “You ever seen this man?”

The man didn’t move. “You a cop?”

“Yes.”

“What’d he do?”

“Nothing.” Louis extended the photo. “You seen him around here in the last two weeks?”

Slowly, the man came forward and took the picture, glanced at it, and held it out. “Nah. Never seen him.”

Louis took it back. “He was a tourist. You’re sure?”

The man shrugged. “Hell no, I ain’t sure. We get lots of tourists down here. I can’t say for certain he wasn’t one of them.”

Louis slipped the photo back in the file. “How many other boats are usually here?”

“Five of us. We come back ’bout four-thirty. I’d be out myself if it weren’t for the damn generator.”

Louis’s eyes wandered over the empty slips. Shit, he would have to come back. He started to his car, then doubled back to the bar and ordered a hamburger and beer. He stood at the open bar, sipping a beer and watching a large brown pelican waddle down the dock. There was a stink of rotting fish in the air. Louis thought of Dodie, who had been bugging him to go out fishing. As long as he lived, he would never understand the allure of sitting for hours waiting for a damn fish to bite.

He finished eating and returned to the parking lot. He was about to get in the car when he noticed a ramshackle wooden structure on the far edge of the lot. It had a loading dock open to the parking lot and a rusted corrugated-roof carport filled with junk. Fishing nets were strung below a sign that said DIXIE FISH CO. WHOLESALE AND RETAIL. WE SHIP UP NORTH. There was a toilet on the dilapidated porch. It was planted with bright pink geraniums.