Paint It Black (12 page)

Mobley looked at Wainwright. “I think you two have seen enough. Watch where you walk on the way out.”

“I've got a right to be here,” Wainwright said.

“Let's get real, Wainwright. You're out of your league here.”

Louis looked up.
Christ.

“The first two washed up in my territory, you asshole,” Wainwright said.

Mobley tilted his head up to the sun, his glasses catching the light. “Well, now we've got one, too.”

Wainwright reached up and pulled the sunglasses off Mobley's face. “You're an idiot if you think you can handle this alone, Mobley,” Wainwright said. “You're going to get eaten alive come election time.”

He shoved the glasses into Mobley's hands and turned, walking quickly up the hill. Louis hurried after him.

“Dan—”

“Later, Kincaid,” Wainwright said.

“No, now.”

Wainwright stopped.

“What difference does it make if we help him or he helps us?” Louis demanded.

“I know the man. You can't put him in charge,” Wainwright said. “He's got an eye on the DA's office and he'll drag this thing out forever just to keep his name in the papers. He doesn't care about those dead men because he doesn't care about people. It's all about him and how much face-time he gets on TV.”

Wainwright started walking again. “Besides, I have another idea.”

“What?”

“I'll tell you later.”

“Tell me now.”

Wainwright stopped. “We're dealing with a serial killer, Louis. That means we can get help. I'm calling the bureau. I still got a few friends over there. I'm going to ask for Malcolm Elliott. Great guy. Worked a half dozen of these things.”

Louis nodded. Good. That was good.

The sun was rising in the sky. Wainwright pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face as he looked back down at Mobley and the others.

“Dan,” Louis said, “did you notice the face on this one? He's getting madder.”

Wainwright nodded. “But you're wrong about the pattern changing,” he said. “He still killed on a Tuesday. That gives us six days to find the bastard.”

He stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket and trudged up to the street.

Louis stood there, not quite ready to leave, and not wanting to go back down to where the faceless body lay baking in the sand. The sun was hot on his neck, and the murmur of the crowd gathering behind the yellow tape mingled with the whisper of the waves on the beach. He heard something rise above it. It was Vince Carissimi. He was whistling “Sitting on the Dock of the Bay.” Louis looked out at the water. The sailboat was gone.

After leaving the beach on Captiva, Louis headed over to the homeless shelter in Fort Myers. No one there knew of a man who had a dog tattoo, but the director promised to post a notice about it. He also told Louis about a man nicknamed The Saint who ran a soup kitchen on Fort Myers Beach. Louis detoured over to the beach but The Saint had already packed up his makeshift operation by the time Louis arrived.

On the way back to the station, Louis made a quick stop at the boatyard, intending to question Van Slate about his whereabouts last night. But a secretary told him Van Slate was off on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. She cheerfully gave him Van Slate's home address.

Back at the station, he went directly to Wainwright's office. Wainwright was on the phone and motioned for Louis to wait. Louis walked to the watercooler and poured himself a cup. Wainwright had a photograph on the desk in front of him. It was of the homeless man's body lying on the beach. Louis was glad it wasn't a close-up of the face.

“Back from the shelter already?” Wainwright asked, hanging up the phone.

Louis nodded. “Nobody there recognized the tattoo, but the director promised to post a notice. Maybe someone will recognize it. Also found out about a soup kitchen over on Fort Myers Beach, but the guy was gone when I got there. I'll check into it tomorrow morning.”

“Good.”

“Van Slate's off work today. I'm heading over to his apartment,” Louis said. “You want to come?”

Wainwright stood up, groaning. “Can't. Mayor Westoff's coming by in twenty minutes.”

“No problem. I'll handle it,” Louis said, tossing the cup in the trash.

“Take Candy with you.”

Louis eyed him. “I can handle it.”

“Van Slate doesn't like you and he knows you're not a cop and he can do anything to you he wants,” Wainwright said. “Candy can step in if he gets out of line. Take backup, Louis.”

Louis bit back his response. Backup. That was a nice way to say “baby-sitter.” He knew Wainwright was right but he still didn't like it.

Outside, he spotted Candy waiting near the door. Candy tossed down his cigarette and fell into step with Louis as he walked to the cruiser. Candy walked to the driver's side and Louis paused, then climbed into the passenger side.

“Know where we're going?” Louis asked.

Candy nodded. “I arrested him the first time.”

Louis put on his sunglasses, hiding his souring mood.
Van Slate knows you're not a cop.

God, he was really beginning to hate this, trying to work in limbo, not knowing where his limits ended and the suspect's rights began. There had always been a definite line before. Now the line was drawn in sand, constantly shifting. It was all so much clearer with the badge.

He leaned back in the seat. No. That wasn't really true. He had learned that much in Michigan. They had all been cops but they had not known their limits. And he had almost allowed himself to be pulled right in with them.

They pulled out and turned onto a narrow asphalt road, shaded by a tunnel of trees. Louis glanced out the window, catching occasional glimpses of the water between the houses. Candy started whistling a tune. Louis glanced over at him, trying to place it.

“What is that?”

“What?” Candy asked.

“That song.”

“ ‘I Walk the Line.' Johnny Cash.”

“Right.”

“I keep a close watch on this heart of mine . . .”

Louis looked away.

Candy kept singing, sounding less like Johnny Cash and more like a bullfrog. He nudged Louis. “C'mon . . . because you're mine . . .”

“I walk the line,” Louis sang softly.

Candy laughed. “Man, you got a terrible voice.”

Louis smiled.

Candy was quiet for moment as he slowed for a stop sign. “Chief going to take you on eventually?”

Louis was surprised he asked. “Nah, I think I'm going home after this.”

“Where's home?” Candy asked.

Louis was about to answer, but hesitated. Who knew anymore?

“Up North,” Louis said finally.

“I'm from a place called Everglades City,” Candy went on. “Ever hear of it?”

“I'd guess it's in the Everglades.”

“Yeah. Armpit city. I came up to Fort Myers to go to college, got my bachelor's, met the girl I'm going to marry, and landed this job. I figure in three years I'll have one of those cool old condos on the Atlantic and be wearing a Miami-Dade patch on my arm.”

“Why Miami?” Louis asked.

“That's where all the shit happens, Louis. Sereno's great and so is the chief, but I'd be bored to death if I had to spend the rest of my career here.”

“You call this case boring?”

“Well, no, but I'm twenty-three, man. I want to be where life really happens. That's why I have it all planned out, right down to the month.”

Louis smiled to himself.

Planned out. Right.

Just like all those great plans he had made for himself. Prelaw at Michigan but always with an eye to the police academy. Then the first job with the Ann Arbor force and the plan was officially launched. Two quick seasons in the minors and he'd move up to the Detroit PD, the real work. A couple more years in uniform, making his mark, and then a nice gold detective badge hanging on his dress shirt. All without ever having to leave the great state of Michigan. Nice and neat.

Life is what happens when you're busy making plans, Louis.

Who was it who had told him that? Phillip Lawrence . . . his foster father. He remembered now. A rainy afternoon in May 1980. College graduation ceremony. It was what Phillip had said after Louis had finally worked up the guts to tell him he wasn't going on to law school after all.

I've got it all planned out, Phillip. It's what I want. I want to be a cop and stay here in Michigan, near you and Frances.

Phillip Lawrence had been disppointed. Frances had cried. But they supported his plan. It was three years later when Phillip finally told Louis what he really thought, that Louis's life plan was “safe.”

Safe? What's safe about being a cop?

You're looking for what you didn't have as a kid, Louis, assurances that life is neat and tidy and safe. But life, real life, is messy. It's what happens when you're busy making plans.

He sat up in the seat. A thought that had been just a swirl in his brain was starting to coalesce. He wasn't going back to Michigan. He could see that now. He didn't know where he would go when this was done. But he knew now that he wasn't going back.

“We're here.”

Candy pulled to a stop in front of a pale pink apartment building. There were four units. Louis got out and followed Candy to the door of one on the ground floor. They knocked and waited. Candy was tapping his nightstick lightly against his thigh, whistling softly.

Van Slate opened the door, squinting into the sun.

“Oh, Jesus Christ . . .”

“May we come in, Mr. Van Slate?” Candy asked.

“What do you think?”

Candy glanced at Louis. “Where were you last night after eleven?”

Van Slate started to close the door. Candy shoved his foot in to brace it. Van Slate looked down at Candy's shiny black shoe, then up, his eyes sliding to Louis.

“Get off my property. You're trespassing.”

“He's with me,” Candy said.

“Ain't that too bad.” Van Slate shoved on the door and Candy was forced to withdraw his foot. The door shut in their faces.

“So much for cooperating,” Louis said, turning. He spotted Van Slate's truck in the drive and walked to it. It was a new Chevy pickup, painted a bright custom blue. Louis went to it, his eyes scanning the flatbed. It was immaculate. Not a speck of dirt, let alone an empty spray paint can.

He moved to the doors and peered in the dark-tinted windows, tempted to try the door handle. He knew he couldn't open the doors as a cop, but he wasn't sure where he stood as a private citizen. He also knew it would bring Van Slate storming from his apartment. He decided to take the chance.

He opened the truck door. The interior was clean, except for sand on the driver's-side floorboards.

“You can't touch that without a warrant!” Van Slate shouted, bursting from his apartment.

Louis turned, facing him. Candy was standing to Van Slate's left, watching.

“Get away from my truck.”

“Where were you last night?” Louis asked.

Van Slate was panting. Louis glanced back at the truck. There was definitely something in there that Van Slate didn't want them to see. What was it? Gloves? A knife hidden under the seat?

“Where were you last night?”

Van Slate took a step toward Louis and Candy gently slapped the nightstick sideways against his belly. Van Slate looked down at it.

“I can puncture your spleen and never leave a bruise with this, Van Slate,” Candy said calmly. “Want to see?”

Van Slate took a step back.

“Answer the man,” Candy said.

“I went out drinking with my friends. I was at the Lob Lolly till after two. Then we went to the beach.”

“What beach?”

Van Slate glared at him. “Fort Myers.”

“You weren't on Captiva?”

“Captiva? Hell no.”

Louis was looking behind the seat now. On the floor, he saw what looked like the handle of a knife, but he wasn't sure.

Damn.

He wondered what the chances were of getting a quick warrant for the truck. He looked over at Candy.

“Watch him.”

He walked back to the cruiser and radioed Wainwright, and told him about what he thought he saw. He asked about a search warrant.

“All we got is his past crimes,” Wainwright said. “Unless you can break his alibi, it's weak. Damn weak.”

“I know.”

“Can you call it plain view exception?” Wainwright asked.

Louis glanced back. “Yeah. Let's try it.”

He clicked off and returned to the truck, reaching under the seat.

“What are you doing?” Van Slate yelled.

Louis used a pen to carefully extract the knife handle so he could see the blade. But it wasn't a blade. It was a putty knife, dull and gobbed with a hard mud-brown paste.

Louis let the seat fall back into place.
Damn it.

“What? What?” Van Slate asked.

“Let's go,” Louis said to Candy.

They got back in the cruiser and pulled away. Louis was watching as Van Slate moved quickly to his truck and started rummaging inside.

“What a nightmare,” Louis muttered.

“What?” Candy asked.

“He might be destroying evidence and there's not a damn thing we can do about it.”

 

 

It was late when he got home that night. Inside, the house was quiet and dark except for the patio lanterns out back.

Louis grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, picked up his files and notes, and slipped out the sliding glass door to the patio. He dropped into a chair and took a drink. It was pitch-black, no moon, no stars. A cool breeze drifted in from the mangroves bringing with it the dank smell of low tide. The quiet was broken only by the groan of Dodie's boat against the pilings.

Serial killer.

When Wainwright had come out and said those two words, something had ignited inside him—horror, fear. He wasn't afraid to admit it. More dead men, more dead black men, more crushed faces and broken families.

But with the horror had come something else—a ripple of adrenaline coursing through his veins.

He had spent most of the day after the visit to Van Slate wading through the NAACP files. One hundred and five angry white men, all with axes to grind, rage to vent. All looking for someone to blame for their own misery.

He thought back to the encounter with Van Slate. The guy hated blacks, that much was obvious. But did he hate them enough to kill? He didn't know that much about serial killers, but he did know enough about people in general, that sometimes what you saw on the surface wasn't what simmered beneath. Did enough rage boil below Matt Van Slate's bigotry to turn him into a murderer? Was there a seed of evil there?

“You're in late.”

Louis turned to see Dodie standing near the patio door. He was wearing boxers, a T-shirt, and white socks. His little spikes of gray hair shimmered in the lantern light.

“Need a fresh one?” he asked, nodding at Louis's beer.

Louis shook his head. “No, thanks. Did I wake you?”

“Nah, I was watching the news in bed. The guy said cops think it's a serial killer now. That true?”

Louis nodded and took a drink.

Dodie sat down across from Louis. “You know much about serial killers?”

“Just a little, from reading,” Louis said. “They weren't such a hot topic when I was in school. Kind of a new breed.”

“They caught Bundy down here, you know.”

“I know. Stopped by a traffic cop. We could stop our killer tomorrow and not know it was him. We have no idea who he is.”

“You'll catch him. You and Wainwright make a good team. He's got a damn good reputation down here.”

Louis laid his head back. “He's calling in his buddy from the bureau.”

“Well, that's gotta help.”

Louis got up abruptly. He tossed his beer into the trash can and stood there, staring out at the canal. It was so dark out here. So quiet.

“What's the matter, Louis?”

“Nothing.”

Dodie was quiet for a minute; then Louis heard the chair squeak as Dodie got up. Louis turned and watched him walk toward the sliding glass door.

“I need to tell Wainwright about Michigan.”

Dodie came back and sat down across from Louis.

“I don't want him to hear it from someone else. I want him to know why I had to quit the force.” Louis looked away. This was hard. “I don't want to lose his respect.”