P. Parrish - Paint It Black

Louis stifled a sigh and pulled out a notebook. “Can I have your name and phone number, please?”

The man looked alarmed. “Why?”

“We might need to talk to you again.”

“Pierre Toussaint,” he said. “You can phone me at the office,” nodding to a rental sign with a number on it.

The place was called Branson’s on the Beach. It offered rentals by the week, month, or season. Louis jotted down the number and turned to leave.

“How did he die?” the Frenchman called out.

Louis turned back. “He was stabbed.”

“Sad, so sad,” the man said. “ Mourir comme un chien .”

Louis nodded and started back toward the scene below. To die like a dog. His French was good enough to at least pick up that much.

Wainwright and the others looked up as he approached. “Where’d you go?” Wainwright asked.

“Thought I had a witness,” Louis said. “He saw someone but can’t give a description.”

Louis glanced at the sheriff and his detective, both hiding behind their sunglasses. Mobley had the sculptured arms of a bodybuilder and his skin was a golden bronze. He looked like a forty-year-old surfer in a uniform. Louis’s eyes were drawn to the shirt’s epaulettes. There were five stars, like a general would wear. Most sheriffs or chiefs settled for two.

Mobley nodded toward the body. “You’ve seen the other ones. This look the same?”

Louis glanced at Wainwright, surprised Mobley would ask. Wainwright didn’t say anything, so Louis spoke up.

“Black male, same approximate age, same manner of death.” He knelt to look closer. “There’s a tattoo on his right forearm.”

“Who’s this guy?” the suit demanded, jerking a thumb at Louis.

“He’s working for me,” Wainwright said. “You got a problem with that, Driggs?”

“I got a problem with you being here, Wainwright,” Driggs said, mopping his bald head. “Your prints are screwing up the scene.”

“So cast my shoes, asshole.” Wainwright squatted next to Louis. “Can you make out the tattoo?”

Louis nodded. It was old and faded but still visible on the corpse’s light brown skin. “It’s a dog, I think,” Louis said. “And the name ‘Bosco.’ ”

Louis avoided looking at the crushed face. “His shirt has old stains, pants are ripped, probably not from this struggle. No belt, badly worn sneakers. Not a tourist, I’d guess.”

“That’s a brilliant observation,” Driggs said.

Louis carefully checked the pockets. “No wallet.”

“Homeless, most likely,” Wainwright said.

“Right,” Driggs said. “How’d a homeless guy get out here on Fantasy Island?”

Wainwright rose slowly, dusting the sand from his hands. “He was probably abducted, Driggs. Quick was.”

Mobley pressed forward, edging Driggs out of the way. He gave them a tight smile of capped teeth. “I’ve heard enough. Driggs, go help Vargas with the crowd,” Mobley said.

Driggs trudged up the beach toward his squad car.

“Thanks, gentlemen,” Mobley said. “Nice of you to stop by.”

Louis rose. Wainwright didn’t even look at Mobley. “Fuck you, we’re staying around for a while.”

“I could have you removed from the scene,” Mobley said.

“Can the crap, Lance, there’s no cameras here.”

Mobley ignored him and bent to poke at the body. Louis pulled Wainwright off to the side. “What makes you think this one was abducted from somewhere else?”

“This isn’t like Sereno, Kincaid. Sanibel-Captiva is tourist territory, lots of money. You pay a three-buck toll just to get out here. No way this man is from here.”

“But why did he dump him here instead of Sereno?”

“Maybe he knows we’re watching the Sereno causeway.”

“Shit,” Louis muttered.

“What did you have going today?” Wainwright asked.

“I was going to go back to the marina and show Quick’s photo around again. But the boats will be out by the time I get there now. There’s a restaurant down the beach and I thought-”

“Let that go for now. I want you to check Matt Van Slate’s alibi for last night.”

“Dan, I’ve been tailing him. He’s been laying low. All he does is drink beer and shoot pool.”

“Check him anyway.”

Louis suppressed a sigh. “Anything new on Levon?”

Wainwright shook his head. “We thought we had a sighting in Cape Coral. Didn’t pan out.”

Wainwright looked back at the body. “We have to get an ID on this poor bastard. There’s a shelter over in Fort Myers. After you check out Van Slate, head on over there.”

Louis heard a car door slam and looked up to see a white van with D.M.E. on the side. Vince Carissimi was coming down the sandy slope through the sea oats.

“Hey, Doc,” Wainwright said. “What are you doing here?”

Vince was holding a Styrofoam cup from 7-Eleven. “When the call came in, I decided to come out with Ted,” he said, nodding toward the ME office’s investigator making his way down from the road carrying a black case. “I wanted to see it firsthand,” Vince added.

Vince went over to the body. “Morning, Sheriff.”

“Took your time, Vincenzo,” Mobley said.

Vince ignored him and took off his sunglasses, letting them dangle on his chest by their neon-green cord. “Would you mind?” he said to Louis, holding out the cup. Louis took the coffee and stepped back. Vince knelt beside the body.

“Who found him?” he asked.

“A jogger,” Deputy Vargas said. “Honeymooner staying over at ’Tween Waters. She went out for her morning run and stumbled on it. Literally.”

Vince looked up. “This one wasn’t shot.”

“You sure?” Louis asked quickly.

“Won’t know for sure till we get the clothes off, but look at the legs. No wounds.”

For several seconds, they were quiet. Louis heard only the lapping of the waves. His gaze traveled over the sand, up to the road, and beyond. He was thinking about the woman jogger and the horror she must have felt when she finally realized what she was looking at. Some honeymoon.

“How long you think he’s been dead?” Mobley asked, drawing Louis’s attention back.

Vince shrugged. “He’s cool to the touch. Quick guess. . less than four hours.”

That would set the time of death at about 3 A.M., hours after the Frenchman saw the trespasser and long after anyone would have been on the beach.

“Can I have my coffee back now?” Vince asked.

Louis handed him the cup. The investigator was starting his work now, taking Polaroids. Louis heard a car door slam and looked up to see the CSU guys coming down the slope.

“He’s changing his pattern,” Louis said quietly to Wainwright.

Wainwright nodded, staring at the body.

“He shot the others but not this one. And he killed Tatum where he came upon him,” Louis went on. “But he picked up Quick in Fort Myers Beach and killed him on Sereno. Now he dumped this one here. Why?”

“Why not?” Wainwright said.

“Seems like more of a gamble he’d get caught here,” Louis said. He thought of the map back in his car. “There’s a million little bays and swamps he could have dumped him instead. Why here?”

Wainwright was looking out at the gulf.

“Why is he changing his pattern?” Louis asked.

“Christ, I don’t know, Louis,” Wainwright said. “Maybe he didn’t need to shoot this guy. Maybe he forgot his gun this time. Maybe he dumped him here because he works here. Maybe he just likes the water. We don’t need to read the fucker’s mind to catch him. We need physical evidence.”

Louis remained silent. He knew Wainwright’s sharpness came from frustration. Shit, he felt the same. Three dead men and they had nothing concrete to go on. He had followed Van Slate. Nothing. They had taken photos at Tatum’s funeral and staked out the cemetery for eighteen hours hoping the killer would show. Nothing. They had manned the Sereno causeway around the clock and the bastard had just moved to another one.