P. Parrish - Paint It Black

Lynch shook his head. “He didn’t say much about anyone or anything. Quiet, moody kind of guy.”

“I don’t suppose you’d have a picture of him.”

Lynch started to shake his head, then paused. “You know, I might, I just might. Hold on.”

Lynch disappeared and came back with a stack of photos. He sifted through them and held one out to Louis. “That’s him behind the fat guy, holding the hose.”

It was a photo of four tourists standing at the rail of the Miss Monica, holding up their catches. Mayo was visible in the background, a blur of profile and dark hair worn in a ponytail.

“Can I see the others?” Louis asked, nodding at the stack in Lynch’s hand.

“You can have them,” Lynch said, handing them over. “These are just extras the tourists didn’t buy.”

Louis stuck the photos in his pocket. His fingers closed around a business card and he pulled it out. It was one of Farentino’s FBI cards on which she had scribbled the Sereno Key Police Department number. He printed his own name on the back and handed it to Lynch.

“Call me if you think of anything else or if Mayo shows up,” Louis said.

Lynch looked at the card. “Wow. . FBI.”

Louis turned to leave. His eyes locked on the fishing gear now stowed neatly on the aftdeck. A question floated into his mind, but he knew no matter how he asked it, it would sound stupid. What the hell.

“Captain Lynch?”

The captain turned back to him.

“Do you ever have reason to use guns when you fish?”

“What?”

“Do you ever use a shotgun onboard?”

For a moment, Lynch looked at him like he was nuts; then he held up a hand. “Hang on.”

He went below and when he came back on deck, he was holding a slender metal pole about six feet long. Louis instantly knew it was the pole Roscoe Webb had seen.

“What is it?” he asked Lynch.

“A bang stick. We use it on sharks mainly.”

Louis came forward and gingerly took the pole.

“It ain’t loaded,” Lynch said.

“How-”

Lynch pointed to a cylinder on the top. “You load the shell in here and it kind of sits cocked on a spring device that is triggered by touching the tip to the target. In our case, the shark.” He pointed to a pin. “That’s the safety pin. Keeps you from shooting yourself in the foot.”

“It takes a shotgun shell?” Louis asked.

“Standard variety.”

“What about blanks?”

Lynch frowned. “Well, I heard of alligator hunters using blanks ’cause they don’t want the hides messed up. But a blank would only stun a shark.”

“Or a man,” Louis said, staring at the pole’s lethal tip. “Do all of your crewmen have one of these things?”

Lynch shook his head. “No need to. Most boats just keep one onboard.”

“Can I borrow this?” Louis asked.

Lynch shrugged. “Sure, we don’t use them much down here. But bring it back, okay? We need it for up North.”

Louis heard a car horn and looked to the lot. Wainwright was waiting in the squad car. Louis took one last look around the docks. For the first time, he felt a sense of progress. They had a fresh suspect. They had a weapon. Now all they had to do was put together the why behind it.

The shrieks of seagulls drew his eye back to the Miss Monica . Ty was washing down the cleaning bench, tossing the fish guts into the water. The gulls swarmed on them, screaming.

When they got back to the office, Candy was waiting for them. Wainwright took one look at his officer’s face and asked, “Now what?”

“There’s a woman waiting to see you.”

“About what?”

Candy was staring at the bang stick in Louis’s hand. “She says she might know who the homeless man is. I put her in your office, Chief.”

Wainwright went into the office. Louis detoured to pick up the case file and joined him. The woman was sitting in a chair in front of Wainwright’s desk and turned to look as they came in. She was about twenty-five, a pretty woman in a green business suit, with close-cropped black hair, gold earrings, and the same tawny-toned skin as the homeless man. Her large brown eyes went expectantly from Wainwright to Louis.

Wainwright extended his hand. “I’m Sheriff Wainwright. You’re here about a possible identification?”

She took his hand, nodding. “My father,” she said softly.

Wainwright glanced back at Louis. Louis set the bang stick against a cabinet and came forward.

“I’m June Childers,” she said. “My father’s name is Harold. Is he-” She paused, seeing the look on Wainwright’s face. Her eyes filled with tears.

Wainwright pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, saw it was stained, and wadded it up. Louis rose, went to the bathroom, and came back with some tissues. Shit, he prayed June Childers wouldn’t lose it like Anita Quick did. He couldn’t stand another one.

But June Childers’s eyes were dry and she managed to give Louis a small smile as she took the Kleenex. “I saw an article in the Palm Beach Post ,” she said. “I live over in West Palm.” She hesitated. “It said you had a man here with a tattoo of a dog on his arm.”

“There’s also a word.” Wainwright said. “Can you tell us what it was?”

“Bosco,” she said softly.

Wainwright glanced over at Louis. He rose and went to the watercooler. For a long time, it was quiet in the room.

Then Wainwright spoke, without turning. “Miss Childers, did your father have any other identifying marks?”

She turned to look at Wainwright. So did Louis. Other identifying marks? Wainwright knew there were none except the tattoo. What was going on here?

“No,” she said.

Wainwright filled a Dixie cup and slowly took a drink. He stood there, sipping and staring at the wall. June Childers looked back at Louis, her eyes questioning. Louis pulled a photo out of the file.

“Is this the tattoo?” he asked.

The photo showed only a forearm with a ruler lying next to it, but something changed in June Childers’s eyes as she stared at it.

“It was our dog’s name,” she whispered. “Bosco. . you know, like that chocolate stuff kids drink.” Her eyes welled again.

Louis looked up at Wainwright. There were still routine questions that needed to be asked, but Wainwright was just standing there, staring at the wall.

“Dan-” Louis said.

Wainwright looked at him, as if coming out of a trance. “Let me know when you’re done,” he said. He tossed the cup in the trash and left, closing the door behind him. Louis stared at the door in disbelief for a moment.

Shit. Not again.

For a second, he considered going after Wainwright. But he turned back to June Childers. She wasn’t crying, but she still had the spent look of someone who had just come to the end of a long and wearisome journey.

“Miss Childers, do you know where your father was living?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I haven’t seen him in almost ten years,” she said softly. “We-my brother Billy and I-we lost track of him. He wasn’t himself after Mama died and we looked, but we lost. .” Her eyes welled but she pulled in a deep breath, keeping her emotions inside.

“He was from West Palm Beach?”

She shook her head. “We grew up in Clewiston, west of there.”

“Why do you think he came over here?” Louis asked gently.

“When we were kids, he used to bring us here,” she said. “Daddy loved it here. He loved the water.”

“If you could, can you please supply us with any other records you have. . dental or medical records, maybe?”

She nodded.

Louis hesitated, not knowing what else to ask. There was nothing she could really help them with. She pulled in a deep breath and looked at him.