Paint It Black (13 page)

“Then tell him.”

“It's hard to explain.”

“Tell me first then,” Dodie said. “It'll be easier the second time around.”

The darkness seemed overwhelming. Louis could feel the sweat on his forehead.

“It all came down to one night,” Louis began slowly.

Twenty minutes later, Dodie sat back in the lounge chair, his eyes leaving Louis's face for the first time. For a long time, Dodie just sat there, staring at his hands. Then he looked up at Louis.

“Sounds to me like you had no choice, Louis,” he said.

“Should I tell Dan?”

“If you feel like you need to, yeah. If it's bothering you that much, tell him.”

Louis shook his head. “But he's got so much on his mind right now. He doesn't need this.”

Dodie nodded. “You'll know when. It's your choice.” He rose, stretching. “Well, I'm going in to bed. Night, Louis.”

“Night, Sam.”

Dodie left. A few minutes later, the light in the bedroom went out.

Choice . . . had he had a choice that night in Michigan? Yes, he had plenty of choices he could have made. Not to go into the woods, not to pull the trigger. Men were dead because of his choices. And he was just now learning to live with that.

The question was, could others see it the way he had that night in the woods? Could a cop like Wainwright see it and not condemn him?

Louis gathered up the files. He would tell Wainwright. But not now, not until this case was over. They needed to catch a murderer and to do that, they had to believe in each other. The rest could wait. It would have to.

The large bulletin board took up the entire wall near the watercooler. Wainwright told Louis he had put it up that morning, and this was the first time Louis had seen it.

It was divided into three columns, one for each victim, and covered with photos and colored note cards. Wainwright had told him it was a method he learned back at the bureau.

Louis stared at the cards. If there was a system to the color code, he couldn't figure it out. He was reading a yellow card that detailed Anthony Quick's job when Wainwright came in from the bathroom.

“What are the yellow ones for?” Louis asked, pointing.

“Background. Maybe we'll find a thread,” Wainwright answered. “You want some coffee?”

Louis shook his head as he went back to reading the cards. Wainwright yelled out the door for Myrna the dispatcher to bring him a coffee.

“I got a call from the bureau yesterday,” Wainwright said. “We're not getting Elliott.”

“Why not?” Louis asked, turning.

“They didn't say. They're sending someone else, though. Named Farentino. Out of the Miami office.”

Wainwright fell silent. His old chair squeaked as he rocked it back and forth. Louis took a chair opposite the desk and stared at the colored cards on the bulletin board.

“How you doing with those NAACP files?” Wainwright asked.

“I've gone through all hundred and five and pulled out about thirty that could be legitimate suspects,” Louis said.

“Christ, thirty?”

Louis nodded. “But of those, there are only five that I think we should really concentrate on.” He pulled his notebook out of his jeans pocket and flipped it open, slipping on his glasses.

“I've got a Fort Myers man who used to run a white supremacist group in Texas, but he's fifty-seven with emphysema. Two other men who were arrested for starting a brawl at a Jessie Jackson speech. And there's a twenty-two-year-old guy named Travis Durring suspected of a 1984 church burning in Immokolee. Where's that?”

“Town southeast of here in Collier County. You check into him?”

“Yeah. The file says he is also suspected of spray-painting racial slurs on a synagogue in Naples.”

“Travis gets around. Coincidence?”

“The paint? I think so.”

“You sound like you don't think this one is worth pursuing.”

“Churches, synagogues . . . they're vulnerable targets of white rage,” Louis said. “But the rage behind these murders is more focused. Like you said, they're personal.”

“Is Van Slate in the files?” Wainwright asked.

Louis nodded, taking off his glasses. “He's one of the five I pulled out. They've been keeping an eye on him since he was in high school. He's got a mouth and he uses it.”

Wainwright sighed. “I got a call from Hugh Van Slate today,” Wainwright said.

“Matt's father?” Louis asked.

Wainwright nodded. “Warned me to lay off his damn kid. Shit . . . kid. The
kid
is thirty years old and still has to have his daddy clean up his messes.”

“Can he apply pressure?”

“He's got the mayor's ear, if that's what you mean. And you can find three generations of Van Slate tombstones in the key's cemetery. Hugh's the biggest fish in our little pond here.”

Wainwright's face creased in a deep frown. “Sereno used to be like Captiva, getting its police protection from the county. Five years ago, the council voted to start its own force. Hugh was the only dissenting vote. He's never quite warmed up to me. It got worse after we arrested Matt for that beating.”

“How does everyone else here feel?” Louis asked.

“Crime is low, property values are high. Folk here like living in the Emerald City and are happy to let me stand behind the curtain and pull the switches. At least, they were.”

“I don't think we should give up on Van Slate,” Louis said.

“Me either.” Wainwright let out a deep sigh. “God-damn it, where's my coffee? Myrna!”

It was Officer Candy who appeared at the door a moment later. “Chief, someone here to see you,” he said.

“Who?”

“Agent Farentino.” Candy blinked rapidly several times. “FBI, Chief.”

“Well, get him in here,” Wainwright said, rising quickly and straightening his tie.

Candy disappeared and was back a second later. “Agent Farentino, sir,” he said.

Louis turned. It took every ounce of his self-control not to show his shock.

Agent Farentino was small, maybe five-three, with milky white skin, short curly hair the color of a bright copper penny, and large black-rimmed glasses perched on a small freckled nose. The black suit and white shirt showed the wear and tear of the drive from Miami, but there was no mistaking what it didn't hide. Agent Farentino was a woman.

Louis rose slowly and glanced at Wainwright. Wainwright's face was gray, his mouth slightly agape. Agent Farentino didn't wait for things to get worse.

“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.”

Vince lifted the sheet covering the body from the feet, leaving the face covered.

“The man sorely neglected himself,” Vince said. “Don't imagine he'd been to a doctor in years, didn't bathe regularly. He had a scrape that had been infected for weeks.”

“Unless the infection killed him, I don't think we care about that,” Driggs said.

Vince looked over at Driggs, then went on. “He's about forty, maybe less, no drugs, but a BAC of point-two.”

“I don't suppose that killed him either,” Driggs said. “Get to the point.”

Vince didn't even give Driggs the courtesy of a look this time. He lifted the corpse's hand. “He had motor oil on his palms and on his clothing. Might give you a starting point for a pickup. Unlike the last one, he had no defense wounds. And I was right. No sign of a shotgun wound this time.”

Driggs sighed loudly.

“Eighteen stab wounds in the chest cavity and shoulders, but here's the kicker, my friends . . .”

Vince paused. “The wounds are different sizes,” he said. “At first I thought I was seeing two different knives, but upon closer inspection, I discovered the killer had broken his knife about halfway through his rage. Look.”

Vince pointed to a gaping split in the neck. “This was done with what was left of the knife. The wound depth is only three inches as opposed to up to twelve for the others. Those bruises were made from the butt hitting the skin.”

“He broke the knife and he just kept stabbing?” Louis asked.

“Apparently.”

Emily squeezed forward between Louis and Driggs. “Tell me we have the blade,” she said.

Vince turned and picked up an object wrapped in plastic. He opened it to reveal a thin, bloody blade, with an upward bow to its nine-inch length. “It was stuck in his spine. I believe the killer tried to retrieve it with his hand. I found massive injury to internal tissue that was inconsistent with knife wounds.”

Louis felt sick.

“You make the knife yet?” Wainwright asked.

Vince shook his head. “Not yet. But at least I've got the blade to send to the lab now.
Ignotum per ignotius
.”

“So he was stabbed to death,” Driggs said.

“Technically,” Vince said.

Vince lifted the sheet off the face. Louis tensed, feeling his stomach begin to swirl. Without the blood and seawater, the sunken face looked like a pile of week-old hamburger meat and mushy shredded wheat.

“The beating was postmortem, just like the others,” Vince went on. “And he was painted, as you can tell from the flecks still visible. Most of the paint washed away with the tide.”

“Same kind of paint?” Wainwright asked.

“Consistent with glossy black Krylon. He used satin on Mr. Quick.”

“At least that part of the pattern still holds,” Wainwright said.

“It didn't match the boatyard paint?” Louis asked Vince.

“Nope. Definitely plain old Home Depot spray paint.”

“That still doesn't eliminate Van Slate,” Wainwright said.

“Who's Van Slate?” Driggs demanded.

Wainwright ignored him.

Driggs stepped forward. “Look, Wainwright, I don't care if you bring in half of Quantico's graduating class. If you're holding out—”

“Could this wait, gentlemen?” Vince interrupted. “I moved this case to the top drawer for you boys and now I've got bodies stacked up like 747s at Newark. Let's move on here.”

Driggs stepped back. Louis glanced at Farentino. She was staring at Driggs.

Vince cleared his throat. “Now, here's something really interesting. I found nonhuman tissue in the chest wounds.”

“Nonhuman?” Wainwright asked. “Like what? Animal?”

“Don't know yet. Give me a couple of days.”

Driggs scratched at his bald head. “So, what are you telling us? We got some kind of supernatural monster here?”

Vince smiled and Louis thought he detected a wink in Farentino's direction. “I don't speculate, Sergeant. That's your job.”

Driggs slapped his notebook shut. “Send me your full report.” He headed for the door.

“Sergeant Driggs,” Farentino called out.

He turned impatiently. “What?”

“What kind of bullets you got in that gun?” she asked.

“Copper-jacketed hollow-points. Why?”

Farentino gave him a smile. “Maybe you should pick up some silver ones. And some garlic.”

Louis laughed. Driggs stared at Emily, then at Louis. He turned quickly and left.

Louis glanced at Wainwright. He wasn't smiling. Wainwright's radio went off and he turned away, moving out of earshot. Louis turned his attention back to Vince.

“You think the lab can match that knife to something in their catalogs?” he asked.

Vince shrugged. “It's a really odd blade. I'm guessing foreign made. I'll get you some photos of it so you can show it around on your end.”

“Kincaid.”

Louis turned to Wainwright.

“Some guy at the homeless shelter recognized the tattoo,” Wainwright said. “He says he doesn't know who the man is, but he remembers seeing him hanging out at that soup kitchen on Fort Myers Beach.”

“The place run by The Saint?”

“Yeah. The guy says The Saint is there right now. But he says to hurry because he folds up his tent right after he's done dishing out lunch.”

“I'm on my way,” Louis said, starting for the door.

“I'm going with you,” Emily said quickly.

Louis glanced at Wainwright. He couldn't hide it. He looked glad to be rid of her.