P. Parrish - Paint It Black

Louis held out the folder. “Tell him we got a hundred and five of them.”

Wainwright smiled weakly. “Right. I guess I should go over there and talk to him, try to calm him down.”

Candy poked his head in the door. “Chief, someone wants to see you.”

“Now who?”

“Matt Van Slate,” Candy said.

Wainwright glanced up at Louis. “Did you see Van Slate today?”

“This morning. Didn’t get anything.”

“Let him in,” Wainwright said to Candy. Wainwright stood up as Van Slate appeared at the door.

Van Slate’s eyes shot to Louis.

“I want to file a complaint against him,” he said, pointing.

“Really?” Wainwright said. “What’d he do?”

“He hassled me. Put me in a choke hold.”

“And I’ll bet you didn’t do anything to provoke it, right, Van Slate?”

Van Slate came toward them. “That’s right. Nothing.”

“Why do I find that hard to believe, Van Slate?”

“I got witnesses that’ll say I never touched him,” Van Slate said. “And I know my rights and I know what you guys can do and can’t do. I want his file to have a complaint in it. I want him suspended or something.”

Wainwright put his hands on his hips. “Well, Matt, my friend, we got a problem then. I can’t discipline him for anything. Kincaid is not a cop. He’s a private citizen. If you got a beef with him, you’ll have to sue him.”

Van Slate glared at Louis. Then he thrust a finger at Louis.

“We’ll meet again.”

“You’re starting to repeat yourself, Van Slate,” Louis said.

Van Slate turned and stalked out.

“He’s a jerk,” Louis said.

“Did he take a swing at you? Draw a weapon?” Wainwright asked.

“No.”

“Did you?”

Louis hesitated. “I used a show of force.”

Wainwright moved to the door, closing it softly. He faced Louis.

“Look, Louis, I know this might be hard, but you have to play it smart right now.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s like I told you at the hospital after you chased down Levon. You don’t have the protection of a badge anymore. That means little credibility for you when it comes to who’s telling the truth. If he had been smart enough to want to press criminal charges, I would’ve had to take his statement.”

Louis sighed. Neither he, Wainwright, nor the investigation needed shit like this right now.

Louis nodded slowly. “Sorry.”

“No more assaults on suspects,” Wainwright said. “Not in front of witnesses, anyway.”

There was a knock on the door.

“Now what?” Wainwright said in exasperation. “Come in!”

Candy poked his head in. “Chief, there’s someone else here to see you.”

“Jesus, can’t it wait, Candy? I’ve got to-”

“I don’t think so, Chief. It’s Mrs. Quick.”

“Mrs. Quick? Anthony Quick’s wife? Shit,” he said softly. “Show her in, Candy.” Wainwright looked at Louis. “Stick around, okay?”

Louis nodded.

She came slowly into the office, a small woman in a blue dress, carrying a black wool coat over her arm. Her soft brown eyes went from Wainwright to Louis questioningly.

“I. . I spoke to someone on the phone a couple days ago,” she began. “I’m Anita Quick, Anthony’s wife.”

Wainwright came forward, holding out a chair. “That was me you spoke with, Mrs. Quick, I’m Chief Dan Wainwright. Sit down, please.”

Louis watched her closely. He had seen the look on her face before, back on the force in Ann Arbor. It was a stunned look of calm that took over people when they were trying to hold on to reality while their brains were screaming in disbelief. He had come to think of it as the grief mask.

Anita Quick looked like her mask was about to break. Louis glanced at Wainwright. He looked suddenly wound too tight, and his blue eyes, even as they were focused on the woman before him, signaled that he was somewhere else.

Anita Quick was waiting-for one of them to speak, tell her that there had been a mistake, that the man they had pulled out of the water was not her husband after all. Suddenly, she began to cry, putting one hand over her eyes.

Ah, shit . Louis felt something give in his chest.

“Mrs. Quick. .” he said.

The crying grew into sobs.

“I’ll get her some water,” Wainwright said. He hurried out, leaving the office door open.

Louis went to the bathroom, grabbed some Kleenex, and came back to sit down in the chair next to Mrs. Quick. He gently pushed the Kleenex into her palm, lying open in her lap. She didn’t seem to notice it. The lap of her blue dress was spotted with tears.

Louis looked up at the door. Damn it, where is Wainwright? His eyes focused on the watercooler by the wall. Why did he leave to get water?

He went to the cooler and drew a cup, taking it to Anita Quick. Her sobs had slackened to weeping punctuated with sharp intakes of breath.

“Mrs. Quick, take this, please.”

She finally accepted the cup. She took a sip and handed it back. “I would have been here sooner,” she whispered, “but I couldn’t find anyone to stay with the boys.”

“You didn’t have to come,” Louis said gently.

“Yes, I did. I have to take Anthony home.” She hesitated. “I can do that now, can’t I?”

“Yes. I’ll make the call.” Louis hesitated. “Will you be all right here for a moment?”

She nodded, wiping her eyes with the Kleenex.

Louis rose and started for the door.

“Officer?”

He turned.

“Did Anthony. .” Her eyes welled. “Did Anthony suffer?”

“No,” Louis said.

She nodded slightly. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Louis left, pausing outside the door to let out a deep breath. He knew that the Toledo police had been instructed to tell her as little as possible. He knew, too, that few people really wanted to hear the truth, even when they asked. He was thankful that whoever had gone to her home that day to break the news had been kind.

He glanced around the outer office but there was no one there except the dispatcher. Wainwright was gone.

“Myrna, did you see where Dan went?” he asked.

“He left a few minutes ago, but didn’t say where,” she replied. “Maybe to see the mayor?”

More likely he just didn’t want to face Anita Quick, Louis thought grimly. He had known other cops like that, cops who were as cold as ice when confronted with decomposed bodies but who fell apart when they had to talk to a mother whose teenage kid had just been pulled out of a smashed car. Wainwright’s steely exterior was apparently just that-a shell.

Well, so what? Wainwright had enough on his plate with the mayor, Van Slate, and the NAACP. He’d give him a pass on this, and handle Anita Quick himself.

He picked up the phone to call Vince Carissimi. He just hoped they’d get a break soon. He didn’t want to lie to any more widows.

Shit. Look at him.

Just sitting there. Just waiting for me. . Ready to die.

A surge of power raced up through his chest. He slid the truck to a quiet stop, his eyes jumping around quickly. A 7-Eleven sign loomed to the left, but back here, behind the store, no one would see. No one ever saw.

He slipped out of the truck, grabbed the stick from the back, and walked up to the man slumped against the bricks. He had seen him on the beach and known he was perfect. He had followed him, down the crowded sidewalks, staying back, waiting, until now.

The bum lifted a soggy head and squinted at him.

“Hey, you got some change, man?” he asked.

He looked down at him. This was too fucking easy. The shit wanted money. He’d offer him something better.