P. Parrish - Paint It Black

Shit, she would go talk to Lynch herself, calm him down. She would go take the report herself.

“Where are you, Mr. Lynch?”

“I’m still at the bar. It’s in Fort Myers Beach, on First Street, just under the bridge. I’ll be out on the porch.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

When Emily got to the Dockside Pub the lot was filled, so she parked across the road in front of a closed bait shop. She got out of the car. It was dark, but she could see the lights of the marina flickering on the water. Across Matanza Pass, she could see the empty, dark charter boats at their docks at Fisherman’s Wharf.

She shoved a police radio in her briefcase and started across the street, shifting the heavy bag to her left shoulder. Eleven forty-five. It had taken her longer than she had expected to get over to the beach. She hoped this Lynch guy had waited. Hell, if he hadn’t, at least she’d get a burger or something. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

The Dockside Pub was a rustic tavern with a screened porch facing the docks. She went in, hoping Lynch would signal her.

He did, giving her a small wave from a table across the room. She moved toward him, half hoping to see that his employee had arrived safely. But when she got there, the other side of the table was empty. She sat down and stuck out her hand.

“Mr. Lynch?”

“Yeah.” His weathered face looked stricken as he shook her hand.

“I’m Agent Farentino, FBI.” She slid into a chair, hoisting her briefcase up into an empty chair beside her. “I take it your friend’s still not here?”

Lynch shook his head and watched Emily dig through her briefcase for a notebook and pen. When she looked up, he leaned forward. “You ready?” he asked.

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Lynch?”

“I’m a charter boat captain. Tyrone is one of my crewmen.”

Emily looked up at him. “You work on the docks?”

Lynch nodded. “Yeah, thirty years now. I’m retiring in May and-”

“Your employee’s name is Heller?”

“Yeah, Tyrone Heller. I call him Ty. I’ve always called him Ty, for all the years he’s been with me.” There was an untouched glass of beer in front of Lynch. He was picking at a cocktail napkin.

“So you and your employee were meeting here for dinner?” Emily asked.

He nodded, his eyes intent on Emily. “Shouldn’t you put out one of those bulletins for him?”

“First things first, Mr. Lynch.”

Lynch tossed down the shredded napkin and ran a hand over his face. “Look, miss, I’m sure something’s happened to Ty. He’s a good kid, a real good kid. He’s kinda like a son to me, you know?”

“When did you last speak to him?” Emily asked.

“About six, when we closed down for the day. We always come here for dinner every Tuesday night, ever since we’ve been coming to Fort Myers. Tonight, at the last minute, Woody changed his mind so it was just Ty and me. Ty wanted to go get cleaned up. He said he’d meet me back here at nine.”

“Have you tried to contact him?”

“He doesn’t have a phone. I went over to his place about nine-thirty, but he wasn’t there.”

“His address, please?”

Lynch gave it to her. “So I came back here, hoping I just missed him.” He paused. “I didn’t want to call the police right away, but with these killings and all. .” He hesitated. “Ty can sometimes be too damn trusting, you know what I mean?”

“Describe him, please.”

“Jeez. . about six-foot, with brown hair and light skin, for a black man. He was wearing cutoffs and a white T-shirt when he left work. Probably would be wearing the same thing, just clean if he changed.”

“Tell me about Woody. Real name? Address?”

“Woody? Why do you need to know about Woody?”

“He might be with him.”

Lynch shook his head. “Woody said he had a date.” “Why don’t you give me his name and address anyway?” After Lynch did, she asked, “Does Tyrone have any relatives here?”

“None that I know of.”

Emily looked up from her notes. “If you were to guess, where do you think he might go?”

“If he’s not home, he’s usually on the boat. He’s kind of a simple guy.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me about Tyrone?” Emily said.

“Just that he’s a fine young man.” Lynch was picking at the shredded napkin again.

“Does he own a vehicle?”

“A truck, I think. I don’t know the make.”

“How can I reach you, Mr. Lynch?”

Lynch gave her a number. “Or over at Fisherman’s Wharf, the Miss Monica.”

Emily blinked. “The Miss Monica ?”

“Yeah,” Lynch said.

“You have another employee. . Gunther Mayo?” Emily asked.

“Did. Haven’t seen him in weeks. What’s that got-”

Emily slid the notebook back into her briefcase. She needed to call Wainwright, but she couldn’t do it here in front of Lynch. The guy was alarmed enough already.

“Mr. Lynch, I think you should go home,” she said, rising quickly.

“Home? What-”

“We’ll check it out and call you if we find anything.”

“But-”

Farentino hurried away, hefting her briefcase to her shoulder. As she started to the parking lot, she rummaged through the briefcase for the police radio. She couldn’t find it and stopped short.

“Shit!” she said.

She plunked the briefcase down on the hood of the nearest car and yanked the briefcase wide open, digging for the radio. Finally, her fingers found it and she pulled it out.

Suddenly everything went dark. There was something slick and damp over her head and an arm under her throat. A hand clamped down on her mouth.

Her heart surged up against her sternum. Her hands shot to her face as she tried to claw at the cloth. She twisted, trying to get free, but the hands tightened.

She felt a sudden sharp blow to her head. Her knees buckled and she went out.

Louis screeched the cruiser to a stop, grabbed a flashlight, and climbed out. A man standing at the rear of a car came forward as he saw Louis emerge.

“It’s over there,” the man said, pointing.

Louis hurried to the red Honda. He immediately saw Farentino’s briefcase on the hood.

“I didn’t touch it,” the man said quickly, coming up behind him. “I mean, I didn’t move it after I started looking inside for a wallet. As soon as I saw that police radio I called you guys.”

“Did you see anyone?” Louis asked. “A woman, about five-two, red hair-”

But the man was shaking his head. “The lot across the street was full when I got here, so I parked over here. It was deserted when I came out. I figured some broad just left it on my hood and drove off-”

“This Honda is your car?”

The man nodded.

Louis surveyed the area. They were standing in a small parking lot in front of a bait store. There were only two cars in the lot, the red Honda and, about twenty feet away, Farentino’s rental, a black Nissan. The entrance to the Dockside Pub was about thirty yards away, across the street. The pub’s entrance faced the street, but there were no other businesses open and the street was quiet. The pub’s own parking lot was around the side. If someone had been standing in the pub’s lot, they would not have seen what was going on in the lot of the bait shop.

His heart was racing. There was no way Farentino would have left that briefcase. He could hear approaching sirens.

He went quickly to Farentino’s Nissan and shined the light inside. Still locked. He swung the light to the ground, looking for signs of struggle, keys, anything.

He returned to the red Honda, swinging his flashlight over the ground. The beam picked up a flash. Farentino’s glasses on the asphalt, just under the Honda. He gingerly picked them up with his shirttail and placed them on the hood of the Honda next to the briefcase.