Paint It Black (7 page)

He could tell she was waiting for something from him, anything that might help her believe her brother was innocent.

“No,” he said finally. “Not yet.”

Her eyes bore into him. “I read there's another dead black man now. They think Levon killed that other man, too, don't they?”

“Mrs. Tatum, Chief Wainwright—”

“Wainwright,” she snapped. “He thinks Levon did it because it's easier. It's easier to think that 'cause Levon is sick he did it. It's easier 'cause black men kill black men every day and it's easier than finding who really did it.”

Louis turned away. His head was pounding and his ribs ached like a son of a bitch. “Your lawyer is waiting outside to take you home, Mrs. Tatum,” he said.

“I know, I know,” she said.

When he turned to look at her, she was facing the wall again, seemingly examining the plaques on Wainwright's walls. He sensed she wanted to say something more. He waited until she finally turned to face him.

“I suppose you're still expecting your money,” she said.

“Your lawyer already took care of that,” Louis said. Bledsoe had paid him the fifteen-hundred flat fee. Not bad for a week's work and he still had the return portion of his plane ticket.

“Who do you think killed Walter?”

The question caught him off guard. “I have no idea,” he said.

“Well, could you?”

“Could I what?”

“Have an idea? I mean, if you stayed around to look.”

She was staring at him, waiting for an answer.

“I think the police will work hard to find your husband's killer, Mrs. Tatum,” he said.

Roberta stared at him a moment, then shook her head. “You really believe white men care about black men laying dead in the swamps?”

When he didn't answer, she started for the door. She stopped and turned.

“I'm putting up a reward,” she said. “Twenty grand for anyone who finds out who killed my Walter. I want to know. Even if it is Levon.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Maybe that'll get you motivated.”

She turned on her heel and was gone. Louis watched her stalk out the front glass doors and get into Bledsoe's Honda waiting at the curb. He let out a sigh.

He went outside, lingering for a moment on the sidewalk, feeling the balmy night breeze on his face. Well, that was over. So where would he go from here? He sure as hell didn't want to go home to Michigan. But he had no job here and couldn't get one. Not without telling a potential employer everything. He had seen a few ads for security officers in the paper, but the thought turned his stomach. And no matter how desperate he got, he didn't want to work on his own, hanging up some shingle and busting cheating husbands for fifty bucks a day.

Hell, maybe he could go back to school. Get his law degree, make his foster mother proud. Prosecute these motherfuckers after people like Wainwright caught them.

He stared at the darkening sky.

God, he missed it. He missed the job.

The day out in the sun with Wainwright had brought it all back, and he had almost come right out and asked Wainwright if he wanted help on the case. But Wainwright was ex-FBI and he knew how that could be. Retired or not, he was obviously a one-man show. So Louis hadn't brought it up. But now here was Roberta Tatum, dangling her own twenty-thousand-dollar carrot.

He sat down on the station house steps.

He missed everything. The surge of energy that came from using his brain, the rush of adrenaline in the veins. The sifting through evidence to find that one shred someone else missed. The feel of a gun on his hip and the weight of the badge on his shirt. He missed, too, the feeling that at the end of the day, he had done something right. He missed all of it, despite everything that had happened in Michigan.

“Thought you were long gone.”

Louis hadn't heard Wainwright come out the door. “Evening, Dan.”

“You look like you were a hundred miles away.”

“Yeah.” Louis rose and took a deep breath. “I think you did the right thing droppping the charges against Roberta Tatum.”

“You're probably right,” Wainwright. “But I still got some concerns about the brother. I think it's possible Levon got pissed enough at Walter to kill him, and maybe that pushed him off the deep end and he took it out on Anthony Quick, too.”

“Maybe,” Louis said. “Roberta told me something interesting. Walter Tatum threw Levon out once for stealing from the store.”

“Levon did some jail time here and there for assault and he got into some court-ordered drug rehab program. I didn't know about the stealing though. It adds to motive.”

“It still doesn't explain why Levon would kill Quick. He was a stranger,” Louis said.

“Drugs can mess up your head,” Wainwright said.

Wainwright was staring off down the street, his brows furrowed. “Roberta put up a reward,” he said finally.

“She told me,” Louis said.

“Do you know what that'll do? The screwballs are going to come out of the woodwork now. People would turn in their mother if they thought they'd get some bucks out of it. Not to mention the reporters and PI's. Goddamn amateurs.”

Wainwright looked quickly at Louis. “Didn't mean you, Kincaid. You're not a real PI anyway.”

Louis forced a smile. He guessed that was a compliment.

Wainwright cleared his throat. “So, when you heading back to Michigan?”

“Soon,” Louis said.

“I guess that means you didn't send away for that PI license application then.”

Louis shook his head. He knew it was time to say his good-byes and walk away, but he didn't.

Wainwright leaned against the railing, looking out at the parking lot. Across the street, some people were coming out of the Lazy Flamingo, laughing as they piled into a car.

“Whoever it is, I don't think he's finished,” Wainwright said.

Louis nodded. “I had the same feeling.”

Wainwright looked at him. “You ever work a case like this before?”

Louis shook his head. The car peeled out of the Flamingo's lot, trailing laughter in the warm night air.

“You don't realize at first what it can do,” Wainwright said. “You're working, trying to catch the fucker, doing your job, and you don't even notice what it's doing to you. It gets inside you until one day you realize looking at stiffs isn't any harder than cleaning up cat shit.”

Louis stared at him.
Ask me to stay.

The moment lengthened. “I better get going,” Louis said finally.

“You wanna go across the street and get a beer?” Wainwright asked.

“Margaret locks up at ten. I'd better go.”

Wainwright nodded and started up the steps. Louis turned to the parking lot.

“Hey, Kincaid. Have a nice flight,” Wainwright said.

Wainwright sifted slowly through the autopsy photos. Tatum's battered face. Quick's bloated body. Two men. Two strong, healthy men without enemies. Men from different states and different professions. And nothing to link them but the color of their skin.

Across from him, Officer Greg Candy craned his neck to look at them. Wainwright noticed Candy made no move to turn them around for a better viewing.

“The doc call yet with his final report?”

“No, sir,” Candy said. “You want me to try him again?”

Before Wainwright could answer, there was a knock. Wainwright hollered, “Come in” and a man entered. He wore a suit, and Wainwright knew instantly he was a cop.

Officer Candy started to rise, but Wain wright waved his man back into his seat.

“Can I help you?” Wainwright asked.

“Sergeant Driggs,” the man said. He flipped open his badge and slapped it shut in one flick of his wrist. But not before Wainwright saw the Lee County Sheriff's emblem.

Wainwright looked at Candy over the desk and smiled. “I've always wanted to learn how to do that.” He looked back at Driggs. “Can you do that again?”

Driggs sneered at him. He was short and balding and looked stretched too tight, as if he felt the need to constantly overcompensate for both his lack of height and hair.

“I'm here on behalf of Sheriff Mobley,” Driggs said.

“And what business does Mobley have with me?” Wainwright said.

“Homicide,” Driggs said.

Wainwright looked at Driggs and calmly gathered the photos and slipped them back into the manila file. “Really. Who died?”

“You know what I'm talking about. Two dead men in less than three weeks.”

“True enough, true enough. But I don't see why you're interested, Driggs. Both bodies were dumped here on Sereno Key. There's a whole lot of water and a big-ass causeway between Sereno Key and your turf, isn't there?”

“Anthony Quick's car was found at the Holiday Inn on Fort Myers Beach,” Driggs said. “That's unincorporated, so he was abducted from our
turf
.”

“Who's to say Mr. Quick didn't go voluntarily?” Wainwright said.

“You and I both know the odds are against that.”

“Right now, we have no reason to believe he didn't. Therefore, I don't think you have any jurisdiction here, Sergeant Driggs.”

The top of Driggs's head was red. “Look, Chief Wainwright. You don't have the resources to work this alone.”

Wainwright looked down at the manila folder. Part of him wanted to hand off the file and forget about it. Let the jokers have it. He knew Mobley. He was an ambitious son of a bitch who was probably looking to use the murders as a springboard for reelection or even DA. The county did have the technology, the money, and the manpower. What did it matter who caught the bastard?

“Don't make me embarrass you here, Chief,” Driggs said softly.

Wainwright's eyes shot up. “Excuse me?”

Driggs glanced at Candy, who was sitting off to one side, failing miserably at looking disinterested. “Chief,” Driggs said calmly, “you have three men on your force here, one who's near retirement and two who never wore a badge before you took them on.” He paused just a beat. “And you are retired from the FBI, the OPR, to be exact. Why don't you just give us what you've got and let us do our job?”

Wainwright took a breath. “You mean let you do
my
job. They're my bodies on my island. Now why don't you see if you can get yourself safely back across the bridge without driving into the goddamn bay?”

Driggs pulled a folded newspaper from under his arm and slapped it down on the desk. “Okay, Chief. Have it your way. But when this case blows up in your face, you'll reconsider.”

Wainwright looked down at it. It was that morning's
News-Press
with a headline big enough to be read from a car speeding by a newsstand box:
NAACP: MURDERS ARE HATE CRIMES

Wainwright had already read the story. An anonymous source in the sheriff's office was quoted as saying they were looking at a racially motivated crime. The Southwest Florida NAACP was demanding swift investigation.

Driggs held out a card. “When you change your mind, give me a call.”

When Wainwright didn't take it, Driggs slipped the card back in his pocket. He left, leaving the door open. The office was quiet. Wainwright could hear his own breathing. Officer Candy picked up the newspaper, scanned the story, then put it down.

“Chief,” Candy said, “what are you going to do?”

“I don't know.” Wainwright turned to look out the window.

Candy stood up. “Anything else you want me to do before I sign out?”

Wainwright turned and picked up the case folder. “Yeah, get Louis Kincaid on the phone.”

 

 

“Move, damn it.”

Louis pushed Issy off the bed, but the cat jumped back up, strolling across his open suitcase.

“Are you taking her back with you?”

Louis looked back over his shoulder at Margaret Dodie standing at the door.

“Unfortunately.”

“You could leave her, you know.”

Louis stood up, stretching his back. The cat was sprawled across his shirts, looking up at him with calm green eyes.

“No, I can't do that.”

Margaret came into the bedroom and walked over to Issy, petting her gently. “How'd you end up with her? It's obvious you don't like her very much.”

Louis frowned. He had
tried
to be nice to it. “She was abandoned. A friend of mine left suddenly. I took her until . . .” Louis paused.

Until what? Until he saw Zoe again? Until she came back? Until he went back?

Margaret smiled and sat on the corner of the bed. Louis kept his eyes down, folding his things, hoping Margaret would leave, wishing she didn't seem to
know
everything.

“We'll miss you, Louis,” she said. “Sam especially.”

Louis busied himself rolling socks. “He's a good man. I'm glad he's happy down here.” Louis shoved his socks down the side of the suitcase.

“He likes you, Louis. He likes you a lot.”

“Well, I like him, too, Margaret.”

A screen door banged shut and Margaret rose as Dodie came to the bedroom door.

“All packed, eh?”

Louis scanned the room. There was nothing else to pack, but it was easier than beginning the good-byes. “I guess so.” He closed the suitcase and finally looked over at Dodie, who was scratching the cat's head. Margaret was looking at her husband.

“So. What time is your plane?” Dodie asked finally.

Louis glanced at his watch. “Two hours. Guess we'd better get going.”

“I'll make you a sandwich,” Margaret said, setting the cat aside. “They only give you crackers now, you know. Me, I've never been on a plane, but that's what I heard.”

“Peanuts,” Dodie said.

Margaret looked confused.

“Peanuts. On the plane,” Dodie said. “They give you peanuts, Margie, not crackers.”

“Peanuts, crackers. Still not enough for a man to eat. You still need a sandwich.”

“It's okay—” Louis said, but Margaret was gone. Issy jumped down after her. Dodie came into the room and handed Louis the newspaper.

“Still no suspects,” he said. “Or any sign of Levon. And the black folk are asking for answers.”

Louis looked at the headline and then tossed the paper aside. “They'll catch him.”

“Not interested?”

“It would only drive me nuts.”

Dodie sat down on the bed. “You could get work down here, Louis. You don't have to go back up North.”

“Sam, we both know I can't work down here, not at what I want to do.”

“Can't work up there at what you want to do, neither, Louis.”

“Sam . . . please.”

Dodie nodded and started for the door. “I reckon I overstepped. Sorry.”

“You didn't overstep—”

But Dodie was gone. Damn it.

Louis grabbed the suitcase and the cat carrier and walked to the living room. Dodie was nowhere to be seen, but Louis could pick up the smell of his cigar coming from the patio. He called for Issy and heard her meow from the kitchen. He went to the kitchen. The cat looked at him from between Margaret's thick ankles.

“Come here, cat.”

Issy trotted away into the laundry room.

“Damn it,” Louis said.

Louis started after the cat. The phone rang. Margaret was busy making the sandwich and motioned for Louis to pick it up. It was Wainwright.

“Kincaid,” he said, “I just had a visit from one of the sheriff's boys and I kind of put my foot in it. They want to help and I threw him out of my office. He pissed me off, Kincaid. I probably shouldn't have done it, but it gave me a chance to do something I've been wanting to do since I met you.”

“Who is it?” Margaret asked.

“Go on, Chief,” Louis said.

Margaret scurried out of the room. Louis could hear her calling to Dodie.

“Do you want to stay and help me with this case?” Wainwright asked.

“Are you offering me a job?” Louis asked.

“Well, yeah, there's one thing, though.”

Jesus. Background check. Reference check. Why did you leave your last job?
He had to tell him.

“I can't pay you much,” Wainwright said. “I got a little money in petty cash that I can funnel your way, and I'll have to label you as a consultant or something until I can get the town to approve you being hired as anything else.”

Louis fell back against the wall. He glanced over to see Dodie and Margaret standing at the door.

“Kincaid? Can you live with that?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis said, smiling. “I can live with that.”