P. Parrish - Paint It Black

Now the killer was switching his MO and they didn’t know a damn thing about whom they were looking for. And no matter what Wainwright believed, he knew they would never find him until they did.

Mobley looked at Wainwright. “I think you two have seen enough. Watch where you walk on the way out.”

“I’ve got a right to be here,” Wainwright said.

“Let’s get real, Wainwright. You’re out of your league here.”

Louis looked up. Christ.

“The first two washed up in my territory, you asshole,” Wainwright said.

Mobley tilted his head up to the sun, his glasses catching the light. “Well, now we’ve got one, too.”

Wainwright reached up and pulled the sunglasses off Mobley’s face. “You’re an idiot if you think you can handle this alone, Mobley,” Wainwright said. “You’re going to get eaten alive come election time.”

He shoved the glasses into Mobley’s hands and turned, walking quickly up the hill. Louis hurried after him.

“Dan-”

“Later, Kincaid,” Wainwright said.

“No, now.”

Wainwright stopped.

“What difference does it make if we help him or he helps us?” Louis demanded.

“I know the man. You can’t put him in charge,” Wainwright said. “He’s got an eye on the DA’s office and he’ll drag this thing out forever just to keep his name in the papers. He doesn’t care about those dead men because he doesn’t care about people. It’s all about him and how much face-time he gets on TV.”

Wainwright started walking again. “Besides, I have another idea.”

“What?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Tell me now.”

Wainwright stopped. “We’re dealing with a serial killer, Louis. That means we can get help. I’m calling the bureau. I still got a few friends over there. I’m going to ask for Malcolm Elliott. Great guy. Worked a half dozen of these things.”

Louis nodded. Good. That was good.

The sun was rising in the sky. Wainwright pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face as he looked back down at Mobley and the others.

“Dan,” Louis said, “did you notice the face on this one? He’s getting madder.”

Wainwright nodded. “But you’re wrong about the pattern changing,” he said. “He still killed on a Tuesday. That gives us six days to find the bastard.”

He stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket and trudged up to the street.

Louis stood there, not quite ready to leave, and not wanting to go back down to where the faceless body lay baking in the sand. The sun was hot on his neck, and the murmur of the crowd gathering behind the yellow tape mingled with the whisper of the waves on the beach. He heard something rise above it. It was Vince Carissimi. He was whistling “Sitting on the Dock of the Bay.” Louis looked out at the water. The sailboat was gone.

After leaving the beach on Captiva, Louis headed over to the homeless shelter in Fort Myers. No one there knew of a man who had a dog tattoo, but the director promised to post a notice about it. He also told Louis about a man nicknamed The Saint who ran a soup kitchen on Fort Myers Beach. Louis detoured over to the beach but The Saint had already packed up his makeshift operation by the time Louis arrived.

On the way back to the station, Louis made a quick stop at the boatyard, intending to question Van Slate about his whereabouts last night. But a secretary told him Van Slate was off on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. She cheerfully gave him Van Slate’s home address.

Back at the station, he went directly to Wainwright’s office. Wainwright was on the phone and motioned for Louis to wait. Louis walked to the watercooler and poured himself a cup. Wainwright had a photograph on the desk in front of him. It was of the homeless man’s body lying on the beach. Louis was glad it wasn’t a close-up of the face.

“Back from the shelter already?” Wainwright asked, hanging up the phone.

Louis nodded. “Nobody there recognized the tattoo, but the director promised to post a notice. Maybe someone will recognize it. Also found out about a soup kitchen over on Fort Myers Beach, but the guy was gone when I got there. I’ll check into it tomorrow morning.”

“Good.”

“Van Slate’s off work today. I’m heading over to his apartment,” Louis said. “You want to come?”

Wainwright stood up, groaning. “Can’t. Mayor Westoff’s coming by in twenty minutes.”

“No problem. I’ll handle it,” Louis said, tossing the cup in the trash.

“Take Candy with you.”

Louis eyed him. “I can handle it.”

“Van Slate doesn’t like you and he knows you’re not a cop and he can do anything to you he wants,” Wainwright said. “Candy can step in if he gets out of line. Take backup, Louis.”

Louis bit back his response. Backup. That was a nice way to say “baby-sitter.” He knew Wainwright was right but he still didn’t like it.

Outside, he spotted Candy waiting near the door. Candy tossed down his cigarette and fell into step with Louis as he walked to the cruiser. Candy walked to the driver’s side and Louis paused, then climbed into the passenger side.

“Know where we’re going?” Louis asked.

Candy nodded. “I arrested him the first time.”

Louis put on his sunglasses, hiding his souring mood. Van Slate knows you’re not a cop.

God, he was really beginning to hate this, trying to work in limbo, not knowing where his limits ended and the suspect’s rights began. There had always been a definite line before. Now the line was drawn in sand, constantly shifting. It was all so much clearer with the badge.

He leaned back in the seat. No. That wasn’t really true. He had learned that much in Michigan. They had all been cops but they had not known their limits. And he had almost allowed himself to be pulled right in with them.

They pulled out and turned onto a narrow asphalt road, shaded by a tunnel of trees. Louis glanced out the window, catching occasional glimpses of the water between the houses. Candy started whistling a tune. Louis glanced over at him, trying to place it.

“What is that?”

“What?” Candy asked.

“That song.”

“ ‘I Walk the Line.’ Johnny Cash.”

“Right.”

“I keep a close watch on this heart of mine. .”

Louis looked away.

Candy kept singing, sounding less like Johnny Cash and more like a bullfrog. He nudged Louis. “C’mon. . because you’re mine. .”

“I walk the line,” Louis sang softly.

Candy laughed. “Man, you got a terrible voice.”

Louis smiled.

Candy was quiet for moment as he slowed for a stop sign. “Chief going to take you on eventually?”

Louis was surprised he asked. “Nah, I think I’m going home after this.”

“Where’s home?” Candy asked.

Louis was about to answer, but hesitated. Who knew anymore?

“Up North,” Louis said finally.

“I’m from a place called Everglades City,” Candy went on. “Ever hear of it?”

“I’d guess it’s in the Everglades.”

“Yeah. Armpit city. I came up to Fort Myers to go to college, got my bachelor’s, met the girl I’m going to marry, and landed this job. I figure in three years I’ll have one of those cool old condos on the Atlantic and be wearing a Miami-Dade patch on my arm.”

“Why Miami?” Louis asked.

“That’s where all the shit happens, Louis. Sereno’s great and so is the chief, but I’d be bored to death if I had to spend the rest of my career here.”

“You call this case boring?”

“Well, no, but I’m twenty-three, man. I want to be where life really happens. That’s why I have it all planned out, right down to the month.”