P. Parrish - Paint It Black

Louis let out a breath.

Horton took a few final questions and then turned it over to the PIO. They filed out of the room through a back door and paused in the hall.

“Next time you call a press conference, Al, I want more notice,” Mobley said. “And I want to be brought up to speed on everything you have-now.”

“You know where my office is, Lance,” Horton said. “I’ll be right there.”

Mobley stalked off, Driggs at his heels. Horton turned to Wainwright. “You don’t need to stay. I’ll handle this,” he said.

Wainwright nodded. Horton left, leaving the three of them standing alone in the hall.

“The press conference went well,” Louis said.

Wainwright looked at Emily. “It could have been worse. Come on, we’ve got work to do.”

Damn it. Where’d the game go?

He squinted up at the television above the bar. Who the hell was this asshole?

He looked down the bar, but nobody else seemed to care. He took a quick drink of beer and looked back up at the television.

What the fuck was this? An old man that looked like an army guy. A stupid-looking guy in a cop uniform. Some bitch with red hair. And a black guy standing in the background.

He strained his ears to hear what they were saying.

Task force. Cops. FBI. Task force?

For me?

He resisted the urge to smile, resisted the urge to laugh.

They were so stupid.

He heard the word “Tuesday.” They were telling people he killed on Tuesdays. But they didn’t know why.

Stupid fuckers. It was his day off. It was the only time he had. What other reason could there be?

The bitch was talking now. . she was calling him a serial killer. She was describing the killer. Describing him.

White, twenty to thirty, unskilled work. What the fuck did they mean, unskilled work? It was his work. His life . Unskilled. Like it meant nothing. Fuck them.

He took a drink.

But she did say white. That was important.

Last week he had read they thought he was black.

They were learning.

His eyes focused on the black man again. The camera came in for a quick close-up.

Wait. . wait. .

Yes. . yes!

The camera picking up the white cop now. Damn it! No! Go back to the black guy!

There! There he is again, in the background.

He looked. . what? Uncomfortable. . nervous. . like he didn’t belong. That tan face there among the other white faces. He knew he didn’t belong. Oh, yes, he knew . He just didn’t see it yet.

He wouldn’t be easy.

He’d have a gun.

And he’d fight back.

But that was okay. That was part of the plan.

He took another drink, staring at the black cop over the rim of his glass.

Yes. Perfect. He’s perfect.

The army guy finished talking. He was asking the public for help. He was done. He was fucking done!

The paint!

They didn’t talk about the paint! Why didn’t they talk about the paint?

He gripped the glass.

What the fuck was wrong with them? Didn’t they know? Didn’t they see it?

It was everything. . the paint. It was everything!

He tightened, glaring into his beer.

Maybe the paint had washed off. Maybe he shouldn’t have gotten them wet. But he had to get them wet.

Fuck.

Maybe he should tell them.

No. It didn’t matter. They weren’t important. They weren’t part of the plan and they didn’t matter.

He looked up, his eyes boring into the black cop.

He mattered.

But still. . the paint was important.

His brain started pounding. This wasn’t supposed to happen now.

No. . not now. Stop. .

He put his hands to his temples. Stop. Stop.

Water. He needed the water. The sound of the water.

He needed a kill.

And he would make sure they didn’t miss the paint next time. He would make damn sure.

Emily came out of the bathroom and paused in front of the table, where Gunther Mayo’s life was spread out before her. She picked up a mug shot of him, courtesy of the Atlantic City PD.

He had a frizzy bush of black hair and a ragged mustache. His gray eyes, too light for his hair, seemed to bore through the camera lens.

Emily tossed the photo down and looked at the clock. It was after eleven P.M. And it was Tuesday night.

Again they waited. Only tonight she was alone, stuck in the office with her notes, files, and Gunther Mayo.

Damn them, anyway.

After two weeks of hard work, it was still “them” on one side and her on the other, looking in. Even after Wainwright’s defense of her work in Horton’s office. Louis had seemed to accept her and Wainwright was coming around. But when it came down to the real work, the street work, they still didn’t trust her to pull her weight.

Like tonight. Every available cop and detective, Lee County, Fort Myers, Sereno, was out tonight on surveillance, trying to track down Gunther Mayo.

She looked up at the wall map with a sigh. The canvassing of the rental neighborhoods around the wharf had yielded nothing, so they had expanded the search to the rentals and motel rooms over on the beach. At least they had listened to her on that.

“Evening, Agent Farentino,” Greg Candy said, coming through the door.

Emily looked at him. “You stuck here, too?”

“Hell no. I’m just coming off ten hours over on the beach.” He looked beat. “Why aren’t you out there with the rest of them?”

“I’m still in detention,” she said, sliding into a chair and staring down at Gunther Mayo.

Candy gave her a frown. “Detention?”

“Never mind,” Emily said.

“Well, I’m dead on my feet. Going home to catch a nap.”

Candy disappeared. Emily lowered her head to her arms. She closed her eyes, and lost herself in the beat of her heart and the light ticking of the clock on the wall.

Tuesday night. Would she ever be able to think of it in a normal light after this was all over?

The phone rang and she jumped, then picked it up.

“Agent Farentino,” she said.

“Officer Kincaid, please,” a man said.

Emily rubbed her eyes. “He’s on patrol. Can I help you?”

The man hesitated. “Are you a police officer?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, I am.”

“My name is George Lynch and my man is missing.”

“Your man?”

“My employee, Ty. We were supposed to meet for dinner and he was just going home to clean up. But it’s been two hours and I think something’s happened to him.”

Emily picked up a pen and pulled her notepad closer. “How old is he?”

“Twenty-five.”

She tossed the pen down. Christ.

“Mr. Lynch, two hours is hardly enough time to report someone missing. Why don’t you call us back-”

“Is that other cop there?” Lynch said.

“No, you’re stuck with me.”

“Then why can’t you take some kind of report or whatever it is you do? What’s wrong with you people?”

Emily picked up the pen. “Okay, tell me about your friend.”

“His name is Ty Heller and he’s a black man who works for me. We were supposed to have dinner at the Dockside Pub and he never showed.”

Emily wrote down the name. A man going missing for two hours was no big deal. But a black man going missing on a Tuesday could be. Even if he was too young to fit the victim profile.

“Your name again, sir?”

“George Lynch. You gonna do something or not?”

“Just a minute, please.” She put a hand over the receiver, thinking she would call Candy. But then she remembered he said he was tired and heading home. She thought of radioing to Louis or Wainwright, but she knew Wainwright would probably dismiss whatever she had to offer. Sending an officer to talk to this guy could waste valuable time and manpower.