P. Parrish - Paint It Black

“Emily Farentino,” she said, coming forward and thrusting out a hand.

Her voice was deep and melodious, like a late-night disk jockey. Louis had half expected a high-pitched peep. He watched as Emily Farentino’s tiny hand disappeared into Wainwright’s mitt.

Wainwright pulled himself together enough to mutter out a greeting and ask her to sit down. He glanced at Louis, and coughed up a quick introduction, adding that Louis was a “consultant” on the case. Louis came forward, offering his hand to Agent Farentino. Her handshake was overly firm.

Louis glanced at Wainwright, whose eyes seemed to be pleading for something. He gave Wainwright an imperceivable shake of the head and slid into a chair.

Agent Farentino set her briefcase down next to the chair. She sat back, elbows resting lightly on the arms, fingers interlaced. She was making things easy for Wainwright, tossing out bits of small talk about how nice Sereno Key was, how different it was from Miami. She looked at ease. Or at least she was putting on a damn good show of it, Louis thought. Unlike Wainwright, who still looked like he was having a bad hemorrhoid attack.

The small talk suddenly trailed off.

“So, where do we start?” Farentino said briskly.

Wainwright sat forward in his chair, picking up a file folder. “Well, I guess I should fill you in-”

“I’ve already read the case file,” she said quickly.

Wainwright dropped the file and settled back in his chair. He was staring at Farentino, like she was some alien life-form. Louis also saw something else there in Wainwright’s eyes. Disappointment? Anger? He couldn’t tell. He glanced at Farentino, suddenly feeling sorry for her.

He saw Emily Farentino’s eyes drift up to the colored note cards and back to Wainwright.

“There are some things we should probably go over,” she said, hoisting the huge, battered briefcase onto her lap and snapping it open.

Wainwright held up a hand. “We have plenty of time, Agent Farentino,” he said. Louis watched in amazement as Wainwright squeezed out a smile.

“Actually, Chief Wainwright, from what I have read in your files, the last thing we have is time,” she said firmly.

Wainwright’s smile faded. “What I meant was, I suspect you’d like to get settled first. You have a hotel yet?”

Emily Farentino blinked twice behind the large glasses. “Well, no, I didn’t-”

Wainwright rose quickly. “You might try the Sereno Key Inn down the road,” he said briskly. “I can have one of the men-”

Farentino paused, glanced at Louis, then back at Wainwright. She closed the briefcase latch. “I have a car, thank you,” she said.

She rose and started for the door. She turned back. “What is the activity for the day?” she said.

“Activity?” Wainwright asked.

“What were you and Mr. Kincaid going to do? Before I arrived.”

Wainwright hesitated. “We’re due at the medical examiner’s at eleven.”

“Good,” Farentino said. “I’ll meet you there.”

And she was gone. Wainwright sank down into his chair.

“Jesus H Christ,” he said softly.

Louis hated reading in the car, but he forced himself to concentrate. He had nearly filled one spiral book with notes about the three dead men and now, as Wainwright’s cruiser zigzagged through the choked traffic on Cleveland Avenue, he tried to make some sense out of what he had written.

Friday. Today was Friday. Four days before he would strike again, if the pattern held true.

The last thing we have is time.

She was right.

He felt nauseated and closed the notebook. He looked over at Wainwright.

His jaw was set, almost clenched, and he hadn’t said much since Emily Farentino had walked out of his office. He didn’t need to say what Louis suspected, that he was embarrassed about the choice his friends at the bureau had made. Farentino was a rook. And she was female. Was Wainwright’s reputation worth no more than that?

“Dan,” Louis said softly.

Wainwright grunted.

“About Farentino. .”

“What about her?”

“She must have something going for her for them to send her.”

Wainwright grunted again, this time more softly.

“At least they sent someone,” Louis said.

Wainwright glanced at him, then looked back at the road. “It’s a token offer of assistance, Louis. In the old days, a request from someone like me would’ve carried some weight.”

They stopped at a light. Louis watched a small plane take off from Page Field and lift quickly into the cloudless blue sky. It gave him a moment to work up the guts to ask the question that had been on his mind all morning.

“Dan, what division did you work?” Louis asked.

Wainwright didn’t look at him and didn’t answer until the light turned green and they started moving. “OPR,” he said. “Office of Professional Responsibility. Retired early on a medical.”

Louis stared out the window, lightly tapping his notebook on his knee. Office of Professional Responsibility? Man, he had thought Wainwright’s past was a colorful blaze of manhunts, priority investigations, and high-tech forensics. What was this OPR thing?

“We’re here. And so is she.”

Louis saw Emily Farentino waiting for them outside the medical examiner’s building. She was talking to a man in a suit whom Louis recognized as Driggs.

They climbed out and Farentino turned to watch them approach, pushing her glasses up her nose with her middle finger.

“Chief, this is-” Emily began, motioning to the suit.

“We know each other,” Wainwright mumbled, without looking at Driggs.

Driggs was staring at Louis. A wind gust off the nearby airstrip made his comb-over take sudden flight. When he saw Louis looking at it, he smoothed it down over his sunburned head.

“Let’s get this over with,” Wainwright said.

They followed him inside, down a tiled hall to the autopsy room. Louis trailed, watching Emily Farentino walk-strong, determined steps, a sense of purpose to her stride. She was still dragging that big briefcase but her small shoulders handled it well.

She had changed into jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt that Louis suspected might be a man’s. Her tiny ankles were pale and bare, her feet covered in black slip-on flats.

Odd uniform. Odd cop.

Octavius was at his station at the door and nodded silently as they approached. When he held the door for Emily, she thanked him.

“He’s the diener,” Louis said. “It’s German-”

“For servant. I know,” she said.

There was no sign of Vince Carissimi except the tape player on the counter. Louis could make out Lynyrd Skynyrd singing “That Smell.” He realized suddenly that the sickly sweet death smell that had surrounded Anthony Quick’s water-bloated corpse was absent this time. The room now smelled just vaguely musty, like a refrigerator that wasn’t quite clean. He looked at Emily Farentino. She didn’t seem fazed by it or anything in the room, including the body on the table.

Vince came in. “Welcome back, guys,” he said. His eyes immediately picked up Emily. “And you are. .?”

There was no sarcasm to his voice, Louis thought, just a hint of. . what? Interest?

Emily motioned toward the badge hung on a chain around her neck. “Agent Farentino. FBI.”

“FBI? Well. Good to meet you. What office?”

“Miami.”

“Let’s get to it, Doc,” Wainwright said.

Vince drew his eyes off Farentino and went to the fiberglass table where the corpse lay, head slanting toward the stainless-steel sink. “No name yet for victim number three?” Vince asked.

Wainwright shook his head. “Got his description, prints, and that dog tattoo posted all across the Southeast. Nothing.”