P. Parrish - Paint It Black

“What?”

“That he didn’t kill her?”

“We thought the same thing.” Louis shook his head in frustration. “We seem to be just one step behind him.”

“You want to bounce some stuff off me?” Dodie asked.

Louis looked at Dodie. He was leaning forward, his eyes avid. Louis sighed. He told Dodie about the shrimp shack.

“You find anything helpful there?” Dodie asked.

“Blood, paint. Fresh prints. They’re not back yet.”

“What else?”

“Nothing. . just some trash, shrimp shit, and fish scales.”

“What kind of fish scales?”

“Jesus, Sam-snapper, mackerel, spit-tail, or something. What difference does it make? We know he’s a fisherman.”

Dodie sat back and took a sip of beer.

“What kind of mackerel?”

Louis closed his eyes. “I”m not sure. King?”

“King mackerel? Well. Them kings are big-ass fish,” Dodie said.

Louis put his hand over his eyes.

“I seen a king once,” Dodie went on. “We were out on one of them deep-sea boats. This was up near Tampa after I took Margie to Bush Gardens.”

Dodie leaned forward. “You should have seen it, Louis. Even the crew guys were excited ’cuz I guess it was a pretty rare bird, that fish. Fifty pounds. You ever seen a fifty-pound fish, Louis?”

Louis shook his head.

“Shit, it took that guy an hour to land that sucker. And it bled all over the damn boat.” He paused. “Damn trip cost me fifty bucks and I didn’t catch jack-shit.”

Louis didn’t say anything.

“Well, I’m going in to shower,” Dodie said. He rose and went inside.

Louis lowered his hand from his brow and stared after Dodie. Through the kitchen window, he could see him kiss Margaret and wander away.

Christ. That had been a pretty shitty thing to do. Dodie only wanted to help.

He shook his head. Big-ass fish.

Big fish. Rare bird. King mackerel. Deep sea.

Suddenly his brain kicked into a new gear.

He got up and went inside, going to the bathroom door. He opened it an inch.

“Sam!” he called.

“What the. . Louis?”

“Where did that deep-sea boat take you?”

Dodie stuck his head out of the curtain. “Where? Clear out to the Gulf of Mexico.”

Louis walked into the war room and drew up short. The bulletin board was gone. The table was clear. There was one box on the table.

Wainwright came out of his bathroom, saw the look on Louis’s face, and shrugged. “I had it all carted over to Horton’s office. We’ll work out of there.”

Louis nodded, understanding but not liking it. It had been their work. The faces on that bulletin board had kept him going.

“Dan,” Louis said, “I think I can put Mayo in the shrimp shack.”

“How?”

“Blood from a king mackerel was found in the shack. It was fresh, Dan. And the only place you can catch that fish is in the gulf. I checked with a guide today. There are five boats at the wharf. Only one-the Miss Monica -goes to the Gulf of Mexico. We know Mayo worked on the Miss Monica.”

Wainwright sat down. “Not bad. But I’d rather have something concrete, like Mayo’s prints on the chair.”

“Nothing back on that yet?”

Wainwright shook his head.

Louis sighed and looked back at the empty space where the board had been. “Horton have anything for us to do?” he asked.

Wainwright shook his head again.

Louis looked down at the box on the table. “What’s in this?”

“Just some of Farentino’s personal papers and useless files. I didn’t want to toss them. She wouldn’t be too happy about that.”

“Won’t be happy about what?” a voice said from behind them.

They turned to see Emily standing in the doorway. Louis went over to her.

“Hey, Farentino. How you doing?” he said.

“Hey, Kincaid. Not bad.” Her smile faded as she noticed the blank bulletin board. “Where’s all our stuff?” she asked.

“Everything’s downtown,” Wainwright said.

Emily looked at them. “Then why are we here?”

Louis slid his hip on a desk. “We’re on standby.”

“You mean we’re out of it,” Emily said.

Neither answered her.

“Louis has a theory,” Wainwright said.

Louis told her about the shrimp shack connection to Mayo. Emily looked unimpressed.

“What?” Louis asked.

“Fresh blood?” she asked. “Louis, Mayo hasn’t been on a boat in almost a month. We know that. We have every boat under surveillance.”

Louis paused, then turned away. “Fuck!” he said. He kicked a chair. It rolled and crashed into the wall. Wainwright and Emily just stared at him.

“Goddamn it,” Louis said, shaking his head, hands on hips.

“Louis-” Wainwright said.

“I was so fucking sure,” Louis said, staring at the empty bulletin board. They were all silent for a moment.

“Louis,” Wainwright said finally, “we’ll find another way to place him there.”

“Don’t try to handle me, Dan,” Louis said. “Please. Not now.”

“Look, if we have to go back to square one, turn over every lousy piece of evidence, we will,” Wainwright said.

Louis threw his arm out to the empty bulletin board. “We don’t have any fucking evidence!”

“Hold on,” Emily said.

She reached into the box, pulled out a legal pad, and tossed it at Wainwright. He caught it in his lap.

She turned to Louis. “Interview me again.”

“What?”

She pulled a chair up to the desk and sat down. “I’ve been thinking, trying to remember more details. I want to try something. Interview me again.”

“Are you sure?” Louis asked.

“Yes.”

Louis glanced at Wainwright and came back to the desk. He sat on the edge, facing Emily. Emily drew in a breath and closed her eyes. Louis waited, giving her a moment.

“Tell me what you hear,” he said.

She pressed her lips together. “I hear a motor running. . like a refrigerator kicking on.”

“That would be the freezer truck generator,” Wainwright said. “There was one a few feet away.”

“What else?” Louis asked.

She was silent for several seconds. “Nothing. Just water lapping.”

“What does it smell like?” Louis asked.

She shook her head. “It stunk, like fish but. .” Louis waited.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

The sounds of the outer office drifted in. Phones. Voices. Traffic outside the window. It was distracting her. Louis glanced around and saw a sweatshirt hanging on a hook behind the door. He walked over and grabbed it.

She opened her eyes as he approached her and saw him holding the shirt.

He hesitated. She nodded and he placed the sweatshirt over her head, backing away. Her breath quickened.

“You okay, Farentino?”

“Yes.”

He moved to her and placed her wrists on the arms of the chair, palms up. He waited almost a full minute.

“What does it smell like?”

“Old wet wood and fish-no, shrimp. I know it’s shrimp.”

“What is the first thing you hear?”

“He’s talking, to himself. And he’s dragging Heller. Then. . he starts talking to me.”

“What is he saying?”

“ ‘I want you to tell them something. Tell them I had to do this.’ ”

“You’re sure he said ‘them’?”

She nodded. “Yes. . I think he meant us. He wanted us to understand something about him. He was. . his voice sounded urgent. Then he said that thing about having to change his plan. And. . ‘He left me no choice.’ ”

Louis glanced at Wainwright. That was new. “Who do you think he was referring to?”

“I don’t know. . Heller?”

“What happened next? The stabbing?”