Paint It Black (8 page)

Louis ducked under the Japanese lanterns and joined Wainwright and Dodie out on the lawn by the barbecue. Dodie was turning pieces of chicken. The sauce sizzled onto the coals, sending magnificent smells into the evening air.

Wainwright nudged Louis. “Can he cook?”

“I don't know. Only food he ever offered me in Mississippi was a bowl of crawfish.”

Dodie glanced at him. “I never told you this, Louis, but you're not suppose to eat the heads.”

Louis smiled. “I know that. Now.”

Wainwright looked confused and Dodie told the tale of how Louis bit off the head of a crawfish.

“Trying to impress me, he was,” Dodie said. “Well, better let this bird bake a few. Let's go pop open some brews.”

They retreated to the patio and sat watching the sky darken, listening to the evening's overture of frogs and crickets. Margaret came out, glanced at the three men, then went over to check the chicken.

“I just turned it, Margie.”

Margaret turned it again, then disappeared back into the house. Louis watched Dodie's eyes as they followed her round body with open affection.

Wainwright sat forward in his chair. “Louis, you see this morning's
News-Press
?”

Louis nodded.

“They're calling it a racially motivated crime. A fucking anonymous source in the sheriff's department,” Wainwright said. “Someone leaked it on purpose. They knew the reporter would jump on it.”

“But why would someone inside leak it?” Dodie asked.

“To put the screws on me, Sam,” Wainwright said. “Mobley wants the case and he knows if there's enough pressure, I'll have to give it to them.”

“That kind of talk is only gonna make everyone nervous,” Dodie said quietly.

“Just black men,” Louis said, taking a sip of beer.

“Well, do y'all believe that's what it is?” Dodie asked.

Louis glanced at Wainwright, but he didn't seem inclined to answer. “Racially motivated crimes are usually messages,” Louis said. “The offender is sending a message to a certain group that they are . . . unwelcome. The crimes are usually generalized and not normally filled with such rage.”

Wainwright was nodding. “Which is why I don't think these murders fit. They seem
personal
somehow. My money's still on Levon.”

“But you haven't found any connection between the two men, have you?” Dodie asked.

“Just their race,” Wainwright said.

Louis hesitated. “It's got to be more,” he said. “I think Tatum and Quick
are
connected, but only in the killer's mind. They are symbols.”

“Of what?” Dodie asked.

“I don't know. Maybe they are symbolic threats. Maybe the killer believes black men are taking something away from him, usurping his place.”

Margaret came back out and the three men remained silent while she gathered up empty beer bottles. When she was gone, Dodie spoke.

“How does this Levon fit in then?”

“I'm not so sure he does,” Louis said.

Wainwright took a drink of beer. “Well, I'm not ready to give up on Levon yet. He's fucked up in the head. He's capable of murder.”

“Levon doesn't have motive. The
why
just isn't there,” Louis countered.

Margaret came out onto the patio. “Sam, I'm almost ready in here. You keeping an eye on those birds?”

Dodie got up reluctantly and trudged out to the barbecue. Margaret went back inside.

“He wants to be included,” Wainwright said quietly, nodding after Dodie.

“I know,” Louis said. “I don't know how much to tell him.”

“Have you told him about the details, like the black paint?”

Louis nodded. “But I explained that we're keeping that from the press as a control.”

Wainwright nodded. They were silent for a moment.

“You know,” Louis said, “we have to consider the possibility that we have two perps.”

“We don't have any evidence to indicate that.”

“We don't have evidence to the contrary either,” Louis said. “The rain messed up the Tatum scene. And there was nothing at the overlook to say one way or the other.”

“The stab wounds are consistent with one killer. Same angle, same knife.”

Louis shook his head slowly. “That doesn't mean someone else didn't help. Most hate crimes aren't committed by individuals. It's usually a couple guys together.”

Wainwright gave a grunt and drained his beer. Dodie came back onto the patio.

“Couple of guys what?” Dodie asked, sitting down.

“Hate crimes,” Louis said. “It's usually a group effort.”

“He's right, Dan,” Dodie said. “These types are cowards and need to gather up their courage in packs. I mean, if I was you, I'd be looking for somebody with a hard-on toward black folk with a couple of buddies to help him out.”

“You got anybody like that around here?” Louis asked Wainwright.

Wainwright leaned back in the lawn chair. “A couple months ago, I arrested a guy named Van Slate.”

“What for?”

“He and two friends almost beat a black guy to death. It started at the Lob Lolly over on Pine Island. The black guy was with a white girl and Van Slate was shit-faced and made some remarks. They followed the couple out of the bar, tailed them back here, forced them off the road, and whaled on him.”

“Does Van Slate have a record other than this?” Louis asked.

“No, but he's a hothead.”

“He lives here on Sereno?”

Wainwright nodded. “His father owns a big boatyard here on the key, and he's had enough pull in the past to keep his kid out of jail.”

“I still can't believe whoever killed these two men is living right here among us,” Dodie said quietly.

“Sam, you had killers living right next to you in Black Pool,” Louis said.

Dodie looked at his beer. “True enough.”

The crickets had stopped. It was quiet until a fish jumped out in the canal.

“Have you noticed the dates?” Wainwright said finally.

“What dates?” Dodie asked.

“Tatum was killed on Tuesday, March first. Quick was found on Thursday, nine days later, and the doc says he was in the water about two days.”

“Could be just a coincidence,” Louis said.

“Could be Tuesday's the killer's day off from his regular job,” Dodie interjected. “If he has one.”

Louis looked at him. “Well, Tuesday is three days away,” he said.

Wainwright drained his beer and sat forward. “Okay, this is what we're going to do,” he said. “Louis, you check out Van Slate. We'll put twenty-four-hour surveillance on the causeway to check every suspicious vehicle. If anyone sees anything, he'll radio me to do a stop.”

“We don't have the manpower,” Louis said.

“Chief Horton over in Fort Myers is a friend of mine and might lend some uniforms,” Wainwright said. “And I know my guys will do what it takes on our end.”

“I'll pull a shift, Dan,” Dodie said quickly.

Wainwright paused and glanced at Louis. “Sure, I'll fit you in, Sam.”

Wainwright pulled out his notebook and began to draw a diagram of the causeway and key. “Okay, we've got the Sereno Key causeway with two lanes going into the town center and—”

Margaret came back out carrying a platter. Wainwright fell silent. The three men looked up at her.

She gave them a stern look, then went out to get the chicken off the grill. She came back onto the patio, holding the platter, and paused, looking at them.

“You'd think y'all were CIA or something,” she said. “It's not like I don't know anything. I read the paper. I watch
Hill Street Blues.”

Louis glanced at Wainwright, who lowered his head. Dodie sat very still. The silence lengthened.

Louis looked up at Margaret. “So, you think Furillo and Joyce will ever get married?” he asked.

Margaret smiled. “Yes, I do, and if y'all would get your butts inside to supper, I'll tell you why.”

She went in. Louis glanced at Dodie, who looked mildly embarrassed. He looked at Wainwright. He was gripping his beer bottle, staring out at the black canal beyond, his face tight in the spare light of the Japanese lanterns.

Louis stood outside the chain-link fence of the boatyard, watching Matthew Van Slate. If Van Slate had noticed him, he didn't show it. He was up on a ladder, sanding the wooden hull of a sailboat that was propped on scaffolding. The yard was crowded with dry-docked boats—everything from beat-up bas-sers to a forty-foot white Hatteras that hung in a massive metal lift like some exotic captured bird. At the entrance was a large sign:
VAN SLATE BOAT WORKS
.

Louis opened Van Slate's criminal folder. Van Slate and two other boatyard employees had been arrested last May by Wainwright's officers for assault and battery on Joshua Zengo. Van Slate had served ten months of an eighteen-month sentence, and his two friends had served seven. According to Zengo's girlfriend, the drunken Van Slate had picked a fight with Zengo in the bar, making racial slurs about him being with a white woman. The couple left, but about ten minutes later they noticed a car following them. Van Slate ran Zengo's car off the road in Sereno and pulled him out of his car. The girlfriend said the three men beat Zengo unconscious before fleeing.

According to a witness statement from a patron in the bar, Van Slate was angry because his wife had recently left him and Van Slate suspected she was seeing a black man.

Louis closed the file and stared back at Van Slate. He looked to be about thirty, at least six feet, with a body honed by day labor and nights spent in a gym. He was wearing paint-stained jeans and an old denim shirt with the sleeves cut off. His knotty shoulders glistened in the sun and his oily blond hair hung over his forehead.

Louis could see two other men painting a hull. From what he could tell from the mug shots in the case folder, they looked to be Van Slate's two friends. Louis tossed the file in the car and went through the gate.

“Matthew Van Slate?” he called as he approached him.

Van Slate looked down, the sander in his hand. His knuckles were dirty and raw, several scraped nearly to the bone.

“Who are you?” Van Slate asked, turning off the sander.

“Louis Kincaid. I'm working with the Sereno Key Police Department. I need to ask you a few questions.”

Van Slate's eyes narrowed. “Get lost,” he said. He went back to his sanding.

Louis waited, knowing Van Slate would eventually turn around again. After almost a full minute, Van Slate looked back down at Louis.

“I thought I told you to get lost.”

“All you have to do is answer a few questions.” Louis could tell Van Slate was trying his damnedest to figure out who he was—and what authority he actually had here.

Finally, Van Slate set the sander on the ladder and climbed down. His eyes locked on Louis, and he reached into his back jeans pocket for a cigarette. Louis waited while he lit it. The pungent smell of paint thinner drifted on the breeze.

“Be careful, you might go up in flames,” Louis said.

Van Slate slipped the lighter back in his pocket and blew out smoke. “Okay, what?”

“Two black men were found murdered here in the last month. Both were beaten. You heard about it?”

“Why would I care?” Van Slate's lips, gripping the cigarette, barely moved when he spoke.

“Past history.”

Van Slate pointed the cigarette at Louis. “Look, that shit with my old lady is over with. I don't care anymore how many—who she fucks.” Van Slate looked at the gravel, then out over the yard. “I got a new life now.”

“Must be hard, though.”

“What?”

“Your buddies still talk about it?”

Van Slate's eyes drilled into Louis. “Get the fuck out of here.”

Louis glared back, feeling a surge of anger. Van Slate stepped forward. For a second Louis thought he was going to hit him and he braced himself.

“You'd like to kick my ass, wouldn't you?” Van Slate said.

“Yeah,” Louis said.

“But you can't. Cops got rules. Too bad.”

Van Slate took a drag from his cigarette. Louis focused on Van Slate's bruised knuckles. Images of Anthony Quick's battered face came to his mind. He inhaled and forced his words out evenly, meeting Van Slate's eyes.

“Where were you a week ago Tuesday, about six-thirty
P.M.
?”

Van Slate shook his head. “I don't have to talk to you.”

“You'll talk, Mr. Van Slate. If not to us, then to the sheriff's department.”

“You fucking people . . .” Van Slate muttered, turning away.

Louis reached out and hit his shoulder, spinning him around. “What?”

Van Slate stared at him, shocked, then smiled. “Cops. You fucking cops.”

Over Van Slate's shoulder, Louis noticed the two friends staring at them. Van Slate followed his gaze, then said, “Touch me again and they'll be all over your ass, you son of a bitch. This is my boatyard. There's not one fucker in here who will come to help you. You understand that?”

Van Slate's friends were edging forward. Louis resisted the urge to look around.

“Don't threaten me, Van Slate,” Louis said.
Cops have rules
. Little did this asshole know.

Van Slate flicked the ashes of his cigarette at Louis and they landed on his chest.

“I don't feel sorry for either of those two . . .” Van Slate deliberately let his voice trail off, eyeing Louis.

Louis reached out and threw an arm around Van Slate's neck, spinning him into a quick choke hold and backing up against the boat so he could see the other two across the yard.

“This is police brutality. I'll report your ass,” Van Slate hissed.

Louis pulled tighter, keeping his eyes on Van Slate's friends. “I'm going to ask you again. Where were you last Tuesday night?”

Van Slate gagged. “I was at home, watching a basketball game.”

“Who was playing?”

“Shit, I don't remember. I was drinking. Let me go, you're fucking choking me.”

“Anyone with you?”

Again, silence.

“Anyone with you?” Louis shouted, jerking on Van Slate's neck.

“Yeah! Both of them guys. Now let me go!” Van Slate yelled, bucking against him. Louis released him and Van Slate stumbled away. He spun back to face him.

“I'll have your fucking badge!” he screamed.

Louis watched the friends, who suddenly didn't look too eager to deal with a cop.

“Good luck,” Louis said.

“I'll see you again!” Van Slate shouted. “You can bet on that!”

“I'll be holding my breath.”

Louis walked toward the gate, hearing the crunch of his shoes on the gravel, listening for a rush of bodies behind him. But there was nothing except the beating of his heart and the clang of the boatyard gate as he slammed it behind him.