Paint It Black (6 page)

“Strange guy,” Louis said.

“Vince knows his stuff,” Wainwright said. “Likes to try to impress you though, with the Latin shit.”

Louis looked up at the sign above the door. “
Mortui vivos docent
,” he read.

“ ‘The dead teach the living,' ” Wainwright said. “Come on, let's get out of here.”

They walked out into the bright sunshine toward the parking lot. It was about seventy-five and the breeze had a briny tang even though they were miles from any water. Louis pulled the air deep into his lungs, trying to clear his head of the smells from inside. He watched a small airplane lift off from nearby Page Field and hover like a balsa glider until it disappeared into the clouds.

“You need a ride?” Wainwright asked.

“No, thanks. I borrowed Sam Dodie's car,” Louis said.

“Nice folks, the Dodies,” Wainwright said. “I met 'em at a Rotary party.”

“Yeah,” Louis said with a slight smile. “I've been staying with them.”

“How's your ribs, by the way?”

“I'm okay.”

“I should have warned you about Levon,” Wainwright said. “He's got a history of drug abuse. From the looks of it, I'd guess he was on something yesterday. Maybe PCP. Like I said, you're lucky he didn't kill you.”

Louis slipped on his sunglasses. “You're still convinced he killed Tatum?”

Wainwright nodded. “Like I said, he's got a history.”

“Have you known Levon to ever carry a knife?”

“He had a switchblade on him last time we arrested him.”

“But these wounds aren't from a switchblade.”

“He could've used a different one.”

“But why Anthony Quick? Levon has no motive for that.”

Wainwright hesitated. “Like I said, Levon has a history. He's got some mental problems. And the MO was the same.”

“Except for the paint.”

Wainwright looked at Louis. “Maybe the paint means nothing. Maybe Quick painted his house or something before he got here.”

“His dossier said he sold software for Novel,” Louis said. “You ever know a computer geek who got his hands dirty?”

“Look, right now I don't even know if these two murders are related. Right now, I gotta find Levon.”

“Any sign of him yet?”

“No,” Wainwright said. “We got an APB out, and I have someone watching Roberta's house and the store. Levon stayed in a room in the back sometimes. But he's not coming back.”

“So what's your next move?” Louis asked.

Wainwright was looking out at the airstrip again. “I don't know,” he said tightly.

For several seconds, they just stood in the warm sun, soaking it in. Wainwright seemed absorbed in watching the planes.

“I came here to retire,” Wainwright said softly.

Louis waited, sensing Wainwright wanted to say something more. But Wainwright just let out a deep breath.

“Well, I gotta get back,” he said, turning.

Louis watched Wainwright walk toward his cruiser. He noticed he had a subtle limp.

Wainwright stopped and turned suddenly. “Hey, Kincaid,” he called. “I just thought of something. I think I know where Anthony Quick was killed. Wanna come along?”

He expected pine trees, mossy paths, and maybe a deer or two. That's what preserves looked like in Michigan. But he was in Florida now, where the earth smelled of rotting things and the spindly trees were packed dense, their branches twisting up to the sun like tortured fingers, their roots curving down into the water like inverted rib cages. Mangrove trees, Wainwright called them, as they drove past a sign that said
MATLACHA NATURE PRESERVE
. They didn't look like trees to Louis. They looked like skeletons frozen in the black water.

The reserve was on the southern tip of Sereno Key, where the neat little neighborhoods ended and the land trickled off to melt into the brackish water. The water here was different than over on the bay. There, out in the open, it caught the sun and was moved by the tides and the wake of human activity. Here, it was dark, still, and primordial, frosted with a thin layer of algae.

Louis looked out over the mangroves. “There's no way someone could get through those trees and wade out to the water,” he said. “Where do you think he threw him in?”

Wainwright lowered the visor as he took a curve in the narrow, hard-packed dirt road. “There's an old boat ramp up here somewhere.”

They passed a small wooden sign that said
NATURE WALK
. Louis craned back to look for a path but saw nothing but dense brush. “What the hell is there to see out here?”

“Birds mostly,” Wainwright said. “Tree huggers like this place. It's kept natural on purpose. I guess they feel it makes them one with God and all that shit. Me, all I see is a swamp.”

Wainwright took another curve and stopped suddenly. They had come to a clearing where the trees opened abruptly onto blue sky. In front of the squad car was a wooden boat ramp that dipped down into the tannin-brown water.

“This is it,” Wainwright said. “The only place he could have dumped him.”

Louis thought suddenly of the garbage on the causeway. “How do you know Quick wasn't dumped somewhere else and the tide carried the body to where it was found?” he asked as he got out.

“I checked with a fishing guide I know,” Wainwright said. “Bakers Point is a small basin, with little water movement. Plus I just got a feeling.”

Wainwright was walking the ramp, his eyes scouring the planks. Louis joined him. The warped wood was old and sun-bleached to gray. But there was no sign of blood or paint. The air was hot and still, with no sounds—from animals or water.

“Jesus, this place stinks,” Louis said.

“Tide's out. That's nature for you,” Wainwright said. “Lots of things in nature stink.”

Louis chuckled. “See anything?”

“Nothing,” Wainwright said, crouching to peer at the planks. “Shit, there has to be some blood. He was stabbed eighteen times.”

Louis wandered over to the edge of the road, scanning the dirt around the ramp. It was flat and smooth, as if it hadn't been walked on in years.

“When did it rain last?” he called back.

“The night Tatum was killed,” Wainwright said. “But even so, a man bleeds this much, it doesn't matter. There would still be something to see on this old dried-up stuff.”

Louis turned. “Like spray paint?”

“Spray paint? Why do you think it was spray paint?”

“I doubt he'd take the time to use a brush.”

Wainwright started to stand up with a groan and Louis extended a hand. Wainwright accepted it, rising to his feet.

“I still don't think the paint means anything,” he said.

“Maybe it does to the killer,” Louis said.

“Then why didn't he paint Tatum?”

“I don't know,” Louis said.

Wainwright glanced around. “Shit, I was so sure this was the place.”

Louis wiped his sweating brow. The boat ramp emptied into a narrow channel of mangroves. Louis spotted a beer can in the mangrove roots. From far off came the faint whine of a boat's motor. Louis thought of the fishermen who had found Quick's bloated body. They probably thought they were looking at a clot of trash, like the garbage caught in the rocks up on the causeway.

He turned to Wainwright suddenly. “Dan, could you call your office and have them pull the evidence sheet from the Tatum scene?”

Wainwright stared at him. “Why?”

“I got a hunch about something.”

Wainwright radioed in and Louis waited until Wainwright's man had the evidence sheet. Louis started to speak, but Wainwright held up a hand. “Never mind, I think I just figured out what you're looking for. Jones, check the sheet of all that garbage we picked up around Tatum on the causeway and tell me if you got a can of spray paint on it.”

They waited. Something splashed. Louis eyed the trees, expecting to see a gator come crashing out.

Finally Jones's voice came back. “Yes, sir. One half-full can of Krylon spray paint. Black satin. No prints.”

Wainwright looked at Louis. “The motherfucker dropped it in the rain,” he said softly. He told Jones to run the can over to the lab, then signed off. He slid the radio back and looked at Louis.

“Any other ideas?” Wainwright asked.

“Yeah. The Nature Trail,” Louis said.

They backtracked to the trail sign and parked. The trail itself was a primitive, twisting boardwalk of old planks over the swampy ground, seemingly heading nowhere.

Louis opened his shirt, growing hot from the afternoon sun, and wiped his brow with his sleeve. Wainwright forged ahead on the boardwalk, unfettered by the heat, making his way through the tunnel of mangroves like a bear in the woods.

As they walked, Louis eyed the planks for signs of a struggle, drops of blood, ripped clothing, but there was nothing.

“Watch out for snakes, Kincaid,” Wainwright called back. “Don't worry about the gators. They're usually asleep in the heat of the day.”

Louis stopped, his eyes darting to the brush. He heard Wainwright chuckle but then go silent as he came to a stop.

“Well, I'll be damned,” Wainwright said softly.

Louis hurried up behind Wainwright. Wainwright stood next to a sign that said
SCENIC OVERLOOK
. In front of him was a wooden platform.

“I didn't even know this was here,” Wainwright said.

“Well, you're not into this nature shit,” Louis said, walking ahead.

They went to the base of the platform and stopped cold. There were dark brown stains on the gray wooden steps.

“Bingo,” Wainwright said.

Some of the bloodstains were splatters, others streaks. “It looks like he dragged him up,” Wainwright said. “Careful going up.”

Slowly, avoiding the bloodstains, they ascended the ten steps. The platform was about six-foot square and it left them just above the tree line. To the east, across the narrow inlet, there was another body of land. But Louis didn't focus on it. His eyes were drawn immediately to the large brown bloodstain in the middle of the platform. It radiated out nearly three feet. On one edge of the stain, black overlapped the brown.

“Paint,” Louis said, pointing.

Wainwright nodded.

For several long seconds, neither man said a word. Louis was rooted, unable to take his eyes off the huge brown stain. It was hard to believe Anthony Quick had any life in him when he was thrown into the water.

“Kincaid, over here.”

He looked up to see Wainwright standing by the railing. The rail was peppered with blood splatters and there was one large brown smudge.

“This has to be where he threw him in,” Wainwright said.

Louis stretched to look down into the water, dark as coffee grounds. “Where exactly did they find the body?” he asked.

Wainwright looked around, then pointed to a spot about ten yards away where the mangroves formed a point.

“So the tides didn't move him,” Louis said. “Your hunch was right.”

“Yeah,” Wainwright said quietly. There was something in his eyes, but he blinked it away. “Well, I guess I'd better get a tech unit out here and call Bledsoe. He and the DA will need to know about this.”

They headed down to the squad car and Wainwright radioed in to his office. Louis leaned against the car, staring back at the wooden platform, trying both to see and not see what Quick must have gone through up there. Had he been able to comprehend what was happening to him as he was dragged up those steps? Had he known his killer? That was unlikely, given the fact that the same man probably also killed Tatum. Unless there was some link between the two dead men. But what could a liquor-store owner from Sereno Key and a computer salesman from Toledo have in common?

“Well, the county guys are on their way over,” Wainwright said. “By the way, Sheriff found Quick's rental in the Holiday Inn lot, keys on the ground. And they found a clerk who said Quick asked about going fishing. He was supposed to get back by six for some awards dinner but never showed.”

“Can we talk to the clerk?”

Wainwright pursed his lips. “Sheriff says they're handling it.” He looked out over the water. “Damn,” he said softly. “I hate to have them in on this.”

“This is your jurisdiction, isn't it?” Louis asked.

“Technically. But I don't have the men to do this kind of work and that asshole Mobley knows it. I have three uniforms on my little force, Kincaid. None of them has ever done anything harder than trying to take down Levon the other day.”

Louis guessed Mobley was the Lee County Sheriff and that there was some bad blood between the two men. Or maybe Wainwright was just embarrassed about having to admit his department's inadequacies. The same thing had happened back in Michigan. What was it with cops and turf wars?

“Kincaid,” Wainwright said.

Louis glanced back at him.

“You've got good instincts.”

“Thanks.”

“Why'd you give up the badge?”

Louis felt himself tighten. The words
I didn't have a choice
came to his mind
,
but he didn't say them.

“I needed a break,” Louis replied.

Wainwright was looking at him. Louis waited, hoping he'd let it drop. Finally, Wainwright just nodded.

“Yeah, this shit can get to anybody,” he said.

 

 

It had been Margaret Dodie's idea to bring Roberta Tatum some fresh clothes. Margaret said she didn't think Roberta had any kin who cared about her—outside of her dead husband and her brother. And it didn't seem right, she said, that an innocent woman should have to go home wearing dirty clothes. So she had Wainwright take her to the Tatum home and she selected an outfit. She asked Louis to deliver it.

Roberta had eyed him suspiciously when he handed her a blue linen pantsuit, shoes, and underwear. She offered no thanks.

Louis waited for her in Wainwright's office. He paced, left alone with images of Quick's splattered blood and Walter Tatum's battered face. It was unfamiliar and unsettling, and he allowed himself to wonder if, given another twenty years, he would have the same sense of coolness that Wainwright had.

His eyes fell to the photo on the desk. Two kids but no wife. Where was she and how old were the kids now? Teenagers or young adults, far removed from their old man's life?

“You still here?”

Louis turned to face Roberta Tatum. The linen pantsuit and matching shoes were probably meant for a dressy occasion and Roberta had not been able to do anything with her hair. Still, she looked different.

“You look . . . nice,” Louis offered.

She grimaced and tried to smooth back her hair. He sensed he amused her. “I suppose you think I should thank you,” she said.

“I didn't do anything. Chief Wainwright is the one who got the state's attorney to move on dismissal.”

“They think I'm capable of killing one man but not two?” she said.

“Something like that,” he said. He didn't see the need to explain the legal thinking behind it, that this case was no longer a domestic gone bad. It was obviously beyond that now, turning into something very different.

“You find my brother yet?” she asked.

Louis shook his head. “You want to tell us where he might be hiding?”

“You still think he did this?”

Louis stared at her evenly. “We've got two violent homicides that are, at this point, without motive. They seem to be the work of someone who is . . . unbalanced.”

Roberta Tatum held his eyes for a second, then looked away.

“Mrs. Tatum, is there anything you're not telling us about your brother?”

“Levon ain't been right in the head for a while now,” she said slowly.

“What do you mean?”

“It started when he was about sixteen, when we were living over in Fort Myers,” she said. “He got in with a bad bunch. Then the drugs started and Mama and me couldn't do anything with him after that.”

Louis waited, not sure she was going to offer anything more.

Finally, she sighed. “Levon wasn't a bad boy. He still isn't when he's clean.”

“That's not often, is it?” Louis said.

She shook her head slowly. “I've tried to look out after him. Me and Walter moved over here to make a fresh start. We put every dime we had into the store on Captiva, and finally started making a little money.” She paused. “Levon kind of came and went. We gave him a room in the back of the store and Walter paid him to do some work. He was okay for a while, but then he got messed up again and stole some stuff and Walter threw him out.”

Louis wondered how much of this Wainwright knew.

“Mrs. Tatum,” he said, “I have to ask you again. Do you believe your brother could kill someone?”

She didn't answer. She didn't even look at him. “You got a cigarette?” she asked softly.

“I don't smoke. Sorry.”

Roberta pulled in a deep breath and turned to face him. Her black eyes glistened but she had retreated back into her hard shell. “You got any other suspects besides my brother?” she demanded.