Paint It Black (26 page)

The Sereno Key Inn was a clot of wooden cabins clustered around a marina not far from the town center. It had a funky, fifties air, like time had not quite caught up. He spotted a Fort Myers patrol car in front of one of the cabins and parked next to it. An officer was sitting on a lawn chair on the porch and rose as Louis came forward.

“Louis Kincaid, Sereno Key PD,” he said.

“Some ID, sir?”

Louis took out the card Wainwright had given him. The officer eyed it suspiciously.

“Just a moment, sir.” He keyed his radio. Louis waited patiently while he talked to his office.

“Sorry, sir,” he said, handing the card back. “Go ahead.”

Louis knocked on the door. It took a while for it to open. Farentino stood there, hair wet like she had just gotten out of a shower.

“Hey, Farentino.”

She smiled. “Hey, Kincaid. Come in.”

The cabin was furnished with old rattan and color prints of flamingos that looked like they had been lifted from a Miami Beach hotel, circa Jackie Gleason. The Mr. Coffee machine in the kitchenette was spurting out a fresh pot.

“Want some?” Farentino asked, seeing him eyeing it.

Louis shook his head. “Too much lately. I think my kidneys are shot.”

She smiled. She was wearing a black-and-red kimono that looked like it came from a thrift store. Her face was still pink from her shower. She was squinting at him.

“Oh, almost forgot,” he said. “Got some presents for you.” He pulled a Baggie from his pocket. “Fudge, from Margaret.”

“Nice lady,” Emily said, taking it.

“And from me,” he said, pulling her glasses out of his breast pocket.

Her grin widened. “Thank God,” she said, taking them and slipping them on. She glanced around the room. “Shit, this place is uglier than I remember.”

Louis laughed, then sobered, his eyes going to the gauze wrap on her arm. “So, how you doing?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I'm okay. Six stitches.” She went to the coffeemaker and poured a cup. “You didn't bring my briefcase,” she said, turning back to him.

“It's still in evidence.”

“Shit. I need it.”

“You'll get it back.”

“I mean now. I want to get back to work.”

“Farentino—”

She held up a hand. “Look, Kincaid, I'm okay. The best thing I can do now is get my mind in gear again. I'm going crazy here, just staring at the walls, thinking . . . ” Her voice trailed off.

“Thinking about what?” Louis asked.

She sat down at the small table, setting the coffee aside. “Thinking about everything Mayo said. I've been turning it over and over in my head, trying to figure out if I've missed anything. I know there has to be more than what I told you. If I had the files here, maybe it would trigger something.” She shook her head. “I don't know.”

“You did the best you could, Farentino,” Louis said.

She looked up at him. “But I keep going back to the same question—why me? Why did he take me? And why did he let me go?”

The last words came out shaky. She wasn't all right. He could hear from her voice that she was really thinking,
Why am I still alive?

“He said, ‘Why were you there?' ” she said quietly.

“You already told us that,” Louis said.

“No, you don't understand. It was ‘why were
you
there?' Like I wasn't supposed to be.” She shook her head. “It means something.”

Louis hesitated. He thought about telling her what he and Wainwright had discussed, that her abduction and release was some kind of message on Gunther Mayo's part. But he didn't want her getting too worked up about it.

“It means you were just in the way,” Louis said. “That's why he let you go.”

She looked up at him, then nodded slightly. “You haven't found Heller's body yet?”

“No. We're concentrating on the water. Everyone's out looking—marine patrol, coast guard. I'll call you the moment we have news.”

“I want to help,” she said.

“It's too early,” he said.

She was quiet, staring at her coffee cup. He sensed she wanted to say something.

“Farentino, what's the matter?” he asked.

“Wainwright was right,” she said softly. “I didn't have a clue what I was doing out there. I could have ridden with the NYPD for two years and still not had a clue.”

“No cop really does until it happens,” Louis said. “Stop beating yourself up.” He paused, realizing she looked tired. He wondered how much she had slept.

“I've got to get going,” Louis said. “I'll check in with you tomorrow, okay?”

“Bring my briefcase,” she said.

 

 

By the time he got back to the Dodies', it was nearly four. Margaret was nowhere to be seen so he grabbed a Dr Pepper and a leg of leftover chicken from the refrigerator and headed out to the patio. Issy followed him, patiently waiting at his feet until he tossed her a sliver of chicken.

A boat was motoring slowly toward the dock. It was Dodie, his burnt face bright beneath the aqua Miami Dolphins cap. Louis went down to the dock.

“Need some help?” he asked.

“Yeah, tie that off,” Dodie said, tossing a line and cutting the engine.

Louis hesitated, then started to wrap the line around a piling. Dodie gave an impatient grunt and stepped onto the dock. He took the line and, in one quick move, knotted it off.

“I'm telling you, Louis, you gotta come fishing with me,” Dodie said, holding out a cooler.

Louis took the cooler while Dodie hauled up his gear and his catch for the day—two puny-looking gray fish.

“Why should I?” Louis said. “Doesn't strike me as worth the effort.”

“Well, with fishing, it ain't the destination, it's the journey,” Dodie said, heading toward the house.

Louis deposited the cooler on the patio. Dodie dropped into his lounge chair and pulled a beer can from the cooler. “Last one. You want it?” he asked, holding it out.

“Got my soda,” Louis said.

“Where's Margaret?” Dodie whispered.

“I heard the washer go on,” Louis said.

“Good.” He popped the top and took a swig.

Louis sat down in the nearby chair.

“I saw the news this morning,” Dodie said. “You found Miss Farentino. TV said she's okay.”

“He didn't hurt her,” Louis said.

“Thank God.”

“I went over to see her earlier. She's doing as good as can be expected.”

Dodie shook his head. “Seems kinda weird, don't it?”

“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?”

She nodded. “It went on for a while . . . the stabbing. And the beating.”

“Did Mayo say anything during this time?”

It took her a minute to answer. “He said, ‘Motherfucking piece of shit. Don't look at me.' It must have been Heller he was talking to.”

She paused. “And he said, ‘Get it right this time, you idiots.' ”

“ ‘Idiots'? Plural?”

She nodded slowly. “Yes,
idiots.”

“You were right, Louis,” Wainwright whispered.

“What happened next?” Louis asked.

“He dragged Heller out. I heard the door and Mayo came back. He asked me who I was and I told him I was an FBI agent and that I was there to take the missing person's report.” She hesitated.

“What is it?”

“I'm not sure,” she said slowly. “It was his voice. There was something in his voice that made me think I
shouldn't
have been there.”

“Then what?” Louis asked.

She hung her head slightly. Louis watched the shirt breathe with her.

“I . . . oh. Oh. He wanted to know what Lynch said about Tyrone Heller. He seemed very interested in
how
Lynch described Heller.”

Louis looked over at Wainwright, who was still taking notes. “What did you tell him Lynch said?”

“I told him Lynch thought Tyrone was a fine young man.”

“Did that seem to anger him?”

“No . . . no. Wait . . . wait. But then he asked me if Lynch had described Tyrone as a black man. He stressed
black.
I heard it in his voice.”

Louis glanced at Wainwright. This was new, too. But what did it mean? Louis waited for Emily to go on.

“At some point . . .” she said, “it was near the end . . . he said that he didn't want to do this. He was . . .” She paused. “He was almost kind about it, like he was apologizing.”

Her voice had grown small.

“What did that mean to you?” Louis asked.

“That he didn't want to kill Heller . . . or me. I'm not sure.”

“Go on.”

She was quiet for a minute. Wainwright stood up and came over to them.

“Farentino?” Louis said gently.

Her breath quickened. “He got mad. He was furious and he wanted to know if I knew what it was like to be black.”

Emily stopped but Louis didn't say a word.

“He was shouting,” Emily said, “and then he asked me about fucking a black man.” Her words rushed out. “And then he said that thing about scraping people from wombs.” She shook her head slowly. “It was like a different person had come into the room.”

Her chest was heaving and Wainwright looked at Louis, concerned. Louis held up a hand to him.

“Then what?”

Her hands were curled into fists. “Nothing.”

“Think. What else did he say?”

She bowed her head. “I don't know. Nothing. There was no more talk.”

Louis glanced at Wainwright, mouthing the word “gloves.” Wainwright understood immediately and rose. He returned from his office a few moments later with a pair of brown leather gloves. Louis slipped them on.

Louis picked up a letter opener and ran the tip lightly across Emily's forearm. Her head shot up, and she sucked the cloth to her face, but she didn't move.

He wrapped his gloved hand around the invisible cut, held it there for a second, and backed away. They waited.

“No,” she said softly.

A few more seconds passed.

“No, that's not right,” she said finally. “Do it again. Without the gloves. He wasn't wearing gloves when he touched me.”

Louis took them off and repeated the move, wrapping his fingers around her wrist.

Emily shook her head.

Louis looked down at his fingers wrapped around her arm. Tan against white. Suddenly he knew.

“What about this?” he asked.

He made the “cut” again with the opener, this time placing his own wrist flat against hers, rubbing.

“Yes!” she said. “That's it. That's what he did.”

Louis turned away. There was a rock in his stomach. The germ of an idea was there, but his brain couldn't work fast enough to make sense of it.

It was like a different person had come into the room.

He stood with his back to them, eyes closed.

Do you ever think about what it must be like to be black?

Emily, on Dodie's patio:
He's black.

Roscoe Webb:
This was a white man talking to me.

“Louis?” Wainwright asked.

He turned. Emily had taken the shirt off her head. She was staring at him. So was Wainwright.

“He's not white,” Louis said. “And he's not black. He's both.”

“Explain,” Wainwright said.

“He's biracial,” Louis said.

“How do you know?” Emily asked.

“All of it,” Louis said. “He has two sides, almost like two people, living inside him.”

He paused. A sudden image rushed into his head. A man at the wharf. A knife flashing in the sun. Fish guts being dumped into the water.

He looked at Emily and Wainwright. “Tyrone Heller isn't a victim,” he said. “He's the killer.”