Paint It Black (22 page)

Patsy Cline's contralto drifted out of the house, floated over the canal, and dissipated in the balmy night air. The mangroves were black lace against a lavender sky.

Louis watched the family across the canal cleaning up after their barbecue, the kids rolling on the grass like puppies while the mother tried to herd them inside. They appeared to be acting out parts in a silent movie, their movements overlaid with music.

The sliding glass door opened and Louis looked up to see Dodie coming out, a sandwich and beer in his hand.

“I didn't know you were home,” Dodie said. “We didn't wait supper on ya. You ate yet?”

Louis shook his head. “Not hungry, thanks.”

“Mind if I sit?”

Louis motioned toward the lounge. Patsy Cline had launched into “How Can I Face Tomorrow?” Louis heard Margaret's voice warble in sync with Patsy's.

“Margaret really likes her country music,” Louis said.

Dodie stared at him. “You don't?”

“It's all about drunks and losers and ugly dogs. Pretty pathetic stuff, don't you think?”

“Some folks would think cop work is pretty pathetic, too. It's just life.”

“And death,” Louis said.

Dodie nodded. “I suppose.”

Louis stood up and went to the edge of the patio. The thick curtain of night had descended. The family across the way had gone in, turning off their porch lights. The glow of their television danced in the darkness.

“Sam, I need some advice,” Louis said.

“Sure.”

“Dan's not who I thought he was.”

“Folk seldom are.”

Louis turned. “No, I mean, he's not strong as I thought. I think he's losing his grip on this case.”

“What's wrong with him?” Dodie asked. “Is he sick?”

“No, but he's not handling things well,” Louis said. “He blew up at Mobley and today, he took off Farentino's head. Told her she didn't have a clue about what she was doing. But Farentino provokes him. Called him an old fart.”

Dodie made a face.

“They're at each other's throats, Sam,” Louis said, “and I'm sick of playing referee.”

“You can't talk to them?” Dodie asked.

Louis shook his head. “But that's not all. Dan told me some stuff today, some things that happened on the job in the past. He left the bureau as a burn-out after a tough case. He came down here to escape and for five years that's what he's done. Now this shit has hit him in the face and I think it's getting to him.”

Dodie had set his sandwich aside. “You saying he doesn't know what he's doing?”

Louis frowned. “Not exactly. He's worked a dozen homicides, but it's like he's lost his nerve. I'm not so sure he won't break completely if we can't catch this guy pretty soon.”

“Maybe you ought to convince him to hand it off to that Sheriff Mobley fella.”

Louis shook his head. “That would make things worse. Mobley's an idiot.”

“Well, somebody's gotta lead, Louis.”

“There's Chief Horton over in Fort Myers,” Louis said. “He's a good cop but he really doesn't have a stake in this whole thing.” He drew in a breath. “This is a fucking mess.”

Margaret had turned off the music inside. The frogs had filled the silence with their own chorus of creaks and peeps.

“Louis,” Dodie said.

Louis turned.

“Come sit down.”

Louis came back and took the chair next to Dodie. The Japanese lanterns weren't lit and Louis could barely make out Dodie's face in the light coming in from the kitchen. He was lying back in the lounge chair, the beer in his hand.

“I was seventeen when my daddy was shot and killed,” Dodie said. “It happened real sudden and everyone in the family rushed over to the house, and there was a might good number of them, too. Aunts, uncles, nephews, and even my sister managed to get herself home that weekend.”

Louis was glad Dodie couldn't see his face clearly. He really didn't want to hear one of Dodie's old stories right now.

“They all sat around crying and making promises to Momma,” Dodie went on. “Promises about taking care of the farm, making the car payments, bringing her food, and just plain making sure she didn't suffer too much. I had an Uncle Isaac who said he'd take care of the finances for her.”

Dodie looked down at his beer bottle. “A few weeks after the burial, the casseroles stopped coming, the car was repossessed, and Momma found out Uncle Isaac had taken all her money out of the bank and headed to New Orleans.”

“What did you do?” Louis asked.

Dodie pressed his lips together. “I wasn't known for taking charge of things in those days, but I knew I couldn't let the land go to the bank. So I quit school and went to work. Most folks thought I dropped out to marry Margie, but that wasn't it.”

A long-forgotten image came back to Louis. Ethel Mulcahey, hunched over her high school annual, showing him pictures of her classmate, Sam Dodie.
He dropped out of school to marry Margaret Sue Purdy. We all knew she was pregnant.

Louis shook his head. Small towns and their small secrets.

“I did it to save that farm for Momma, so she could pass on there,” Dodie said. “Which she did eight years later.”

“You gave up a lot,” Louis said.

Dodie gave a small shrug. “It wasn't just saving the farm. It was saving Momma.”

They sat for a few minutes, listening to the frogs. Louis lifted his bottle to his lips. It was empty. He heard the scrape of the lounge and looked over to see Dodie hoisting himself up.

“Well, I'm going in,” he said.

“Sam.”

Dodie looked down.

“What should I do?” Louis asked.

“Save the farm,” Dodie said. He picked up the sandwich plate and the empty beer bottles. “See you in the morning, Louis.”

Dodie went inside. Louis leaned his head back on the chair, closing his eyes. Save the farm. Okay, so maybe he had to take charge. But how? He had no real authority here. He didn't even have a badge, just a damn ID card.

He couldn't do an end run around Wainwright. But he couldn't just sit back and do nothing, hoping Dan could hold the investigation—and himself—together long enough to catch this monster.

He felt something brush his leg and he looked down. Issy was curling against his shin. The cat sat down and looked up at him, its eyes catching the kitchen light like road reflectors.

Damn. He knew what he had to do. The only problem was getting up the guts to do it. He glanced at his watch. With a sigh, he hoisted himself up from the chair, went inside, and grabbed the car keys off the kitchen counter.

The porch light went on and the door opened.

“Kincaid, what are you doing here?” Wainwright asked.

“I'd like to talk, Dan. Can I come in?”

Wainwright swung the screen wide. “Sure, sure.”

Louis paused in the small foyer. The living room off to his right was small but comfortable looking. The worn furniture looked more suited to a northern colonial than a Florida bungalow. There were a few generic landscapes on the walls and a bookcase filled with books that looked untouched. On the mantel above the coral rock fireplace there were three framed photographs, a teenage boy and girl that looked like graduation pictures, and a formal portrait of a pretty brunette woman. A TV tray was set up in front of a battered Barcalounger.
Cheers
was on.

“Am I interrupting your dinner?” Louis asked.

“No, I'm finished,” Wainwright said, going to the tray and picking up his plate. He started to the kitchen. “You want anything? Beer? Soda?”

“No, nothing. Thanks.”

Wainwright reappeared. “Sit down, sit down,” he said, moving a stack of papers off a chair and turning the sound off on the TV.

Louis perched on the edge of the chair, his eyes wandering to the television screen. Carla was beating Cliff Clavin on the head with a dishrag.

“So?” Wainwright said.

“What do you think of the idea of forming a task force?” Louis asked.

Wainwright looked down at his beer, pursing his lips. “Okay,” he said quietly.

“I think we need to coordinate all the efforts, Dan,” Louis said. “We're spinning our wheels here.”

Wainwright looked up at him. “Is that all?”

“What do you mean?” Louis asked.

“I mean, is that your only reason?”

“We need—” Louis looked over at the television for a moment, then came back to Wainwright. “We need all the help we can get on this.”

“And who do you see heading this task force?” Wainwright asked.

Louis forced himself to meet Wainwright's eyes. “Someone neutral,” he said.

“Horton,” Wainwright said.

“I think that would be best,” Louis said.

Wainwright's blue eyes didn't blink. But he gave an almost imperceivable nod of his head. “You sure you don't want a beer?” he asked.

Louis shook his head.

“Well, I do.” He rose slowly and went to the kitchen. Louis heard the refrigerator opening. He glanced down and saw a stack of case files on the floor next to the lounger. They looked untouched.

Wainwright came back, holding the can of beer. He didn't sit down.

“We'll call Horton in the morning.” He paused. “Thanks for coming by.”

Louis hesitated. Wainwright's voice had a slightly clipped sound to it. Louis was being dismissed. He started to say something, but changed his mind. He rose and went to the door. Wainwright followed him.

As he stepped outside, Louis turned. “Dan—”

“Good night, Louis.”

Wainwright closed the door.

The cruiser crested the top of the causeway and Louis looked over at Wainwright. His eyes were focused straight ahead and his hands were loose on the wheel. If he was still pissed about last night, at least he was being enough of a pro not to show it. Louis hadn't been in the office when Wainwright made the call to Al Horton. But later, Wainwright had come out and announced simply, “Let's go, Al's waiting.”

Still, the ride across the causeway had been silent.

There was a flutter of papers in the backseat. “Damn it, can you please close your window, Kincaid?” Emily said.

Louis rolled up the window, glancing back at her. She had her briefcase open at her feet, and a lap full of faxes and files.

“Here it is,” she said, shaking a paper at him. “I knew it was in here.”

“What is it?” Louis asked.

“Gunther Mayo's sheet. It came in just as we were leaving.”

“Read it,” Wainwright said.

“Burglary in seventy-eight, assault in eighty, possession in eighty-one, and indecent exposure in eighty-two. I've dug up some personal stuff—”

Louis looked at her. “Can I see that?”

She handed him the papers. Louis flipped through them. “Dan, listen. Gunther joined up with a boat called the
Liberty Belle
in eighty-two, then boat-hopped for four years, working up and down the coast. He hooked up with Lynch in Barnegat Light last April.”

“Was he ever questioned in any of the murders up North?” Wainwright asked.

“I've been through those files and I never saw his name,” Emily said.

Wainwright stopped at a traffic light. “Where's this creep from?”

Emily stuck her head in between them. “He was born in Camden, New Jersey.”

Louis looked up from reading Mayo's dossier. “Dan, this guy was a member of a gang called The Brotherhood. Ever heard of it?”

Wainwright shook his head.

“It was a teenage white supremacist gang from South Philly,” Emily said from the back.

“No shit?” Louis said.

“It was a short-lived venture,” Emily said. “They were busted by the local cops for spray-painting racial slurs on churches. Mayo was fifteen.”

Louis glanced back at her. “Farentino, this guy fits your profile, doesn't he?”

She looked at him over her glasses, arms crossed. “He's a white male, age twenty-eight, low achiever, unskilled laborer, seventh of eight kids, father a drunk and felon. What do you think?”

Louis pointed to a date in June of last year. “Why is this underlined?”

Emily came forward. “It's when his grandmother died.”

“So?”

“Mayo was thirteen when his father went to prison and he was shipped off to live with his grandmother. They were close.”

“His stressor?” Louis said.

“That's what I think,” Farentino said, falling back into the seat.

“Farentino, what's your guess on where he lives?” Wainwright asked.

Emily hesitated. Louis knew it was because she was surprised Wainwright was asking her for an opinion.

“I'm convinced it's Fort Myers Beach, Chief,” she said. “It's in his comfort zone. Even if it's not out in the beach area itself, it'll be close by.”

Wainwright was nodding thoughtfully.

“Lynch told me there are a lot of seasonal rentals near the wharf,” Louis said. “I sent Candy over to Buttonwood Street to show Mayo's picture around.” He paused. “I hope we don't scare the bastard away.”

Farentino leaned forward again. “We may do just that if you swarm the neighborhood or wharf with uniforms. I think a more subtle approach is necessary.”

“It ain't gonna look like a military parade, Farentino,” Wainwright said.

Wainwright pulled into the parking lot of the Fort Myers PD and jerked the car to a stop. “Okay, first and ten,” Wainwright said without looking at either of them. “Let's go see if we can turn this game around.”

Inside the lobby of the station, the receptionist behind the glass recognized Wainwright and buzzed them through. Al Horton was waiting for them at his open door. “Come on in, Dan. Mobley's not here yet.”

“But he agreed to come?” Louis asked.

“I told him you and I were thinking about working together on the case,” Horton said. “He'll show.”

They all took chairs around Horton's desk.

“Anything new on this Mayo character?” Horton asked.

Louis quickly filled him in. Emily was about to add something when there was a noise in the hallway. A moment later, Lance Mobley appeared at the door. Driggs was behind him.

Mobley surveyed the office and turned to Driggs. “Wait outside,” he said. He came in, shutting the door. He leaned back against it, folding his arms. “Okay, I'm here, Al. What's this all about?”

Horton was sitting on the edge of his desk. With a glance at Wainwright, he looked at Mobley.

“We're forming a task force, Lance,” he said.

Mobley's eyes went from Wainwright to Louis, bounced across Emily, and came to rest back on Horton. He smiled.

“Okay . . . ” he said.

“And I'm in charge,” Horton said.

Mobley's smile faded. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“Six dead men,” Horton said. “It's time to start working together.”

“Six?” Mobley said.

“Yeah, six,” Wainwright said. “Not exactly up to speed, are you, Lance?”

“We found three related cases in New Jersey and over in Broward,” Emily said.

Mobley turned to Emily. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“FBI Agent Farentino. I'm a forensic psychologist.”

Mobley stared at Emily, then looked back at Horton. “Look, if you think I'm going to sit back and let a case like this be run by amateurs and psychics, you're nuts.”

Louis and Wainwright got up. Horton slid off the desk.

“Sheriff Mobley, I think we should—” Emily began.

“Go play with your tarot cards, lady,” Mobley snapped. “And take Virgil Tibbs here with you.”

Louis started toward Mobley but Wainwright was quicker. In two strides he was chest-to-chest with Mobley. “Listen, you prick,” Wainwright said, his voice low. “While you've been baking in the tanning salon, this
lady
has been busting her hump plowing paper to track down three other cases. And Louis here has found a weapon and a suspect. If you got a problem with me, that's fine.” He jabbed a finger into Mobley's chest. “But until you have something to offer in this case, keep your fucking mouth shut.”

Mobley stared at Wainwright, his jaw muscles pulsating.

“You have a suspect?” he asked tightly.

Horton came forward and handed Mobley a copy of Gunther Mayo's sheet.

“Where is he?” Mobley said, after scanning it quickly.

“He disappeared about a week ago,” Louis said.

Before Mobley could say anything else, there was a knock and the door opened a crack, hitting Mobley in the back. He moved and a woman's face appeared.

“Chief, the press is here,” she said.

“Thanks, Karen. Put them in the briefing room. We'll be right in.”

The door closed. Mobley stared at Horton. “You called a press conference?”

Horton nodded. “You in or out, Lance?”

Mobley's eyes went to Wainwright and back to Horton. “All right,” he said quietly. “You'll get every man I can give. But I get the collar.”

Horton glanced at Wainwright, who looked away. Horton nodded to Mobley. “I'll take the lead here,” Horton said. “There are things we're not telling them, you hear me, Lance?”

“I hear you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tin of Altoids. He popped one into his mouth, surveyed the room, and gave them a smile.

“Shall we?” he said.

The briefing room was not very large, and there were ten reporters, photographers, and cameramen waiting when Horton led them all in. Horton went to the lectern at the front of the room, motioning Wainwright and Mobley to his sides. Louis, Emily, Driggs, the Fort Myers Public Information Officer, and a few uniforms hovered in the background.

Horton glanced at the four mikes that had been set up on the lectern. All three local stations were here, WEVU, WBBH, WINK, plus the usual familiar faces from the
News-Press, Sanibel Island Reporter, The Naples Daily News,
and others.

“You guys ready?” Horton said.

“Sooner the better, Chief,” someone called out. “We're trying to make the noon broadcast.”

The camera lights went on and Horton blinked in the glare. “Karen here has kept you all up to speed on the details so far in these three murder cases,” Horton began, nodding to his PIO.

“But I am here today to announce the formation of a task force,” he went on. “Its purpose is to better coordinate the efforts of the three law enforcement agencies involved in the case, and to make better use of our manpower. We've also established a hot line for tips, so we can coordinate our information. That number will be given to all of you at the conclusion of this press conference.”

Louis, standing behind Wainwright, watched as Horton went on to introduce Wainwright and Mobley. Wainwright stepped forward to add a few innocuous standard comments, looking ill at ease. Mobley took his turn before the mikes, cool as a Beltway pol, adding his assurances that the killer would be apprehended.

“Chief, who are your other players here?” a reporter asked, pointing a pencil at Louis and Emily.

Horton motioned to Wainwright. “This is Louis Kincaid, a special investigator temporarily attached to my office,” Wainwright said, drawing Louis forward by the arm.

Wainwright paused. “To my right is Agent Emily Farentino, a forensics psychologist with the FBI.”

Louis saw the cameras swing to Emily. “Spell the last name, please,” someone called out.

“F-a-r-r-e-n-t-i-n-o,” Wainwright said.

Emily leaned into the mike. “One R. Farentino with one R.” She backed away.

“Chief, do you have any new leads since Roscoe Webb's escape?”

“We have a good lead on a new suspect we are looking at, but I can't give you any details,” Horton said.

“Does he live here?”

Louis tensed, his eyes going to the Mayo sheet still in Mobley's hand. He prayed Mobley had enough brains not to say anything. The last thing they needed now was for Gunther Mayo to get squirrelly and move on to new hunting grounds.

“No details,” Horton said.

Mobley didn't move.

“Chief, have you figured out yet why all the murders have taken place on Tuesdays?”

“No, not yet. We're still working on it.”

“Chief Horton,” a woman called out, “do you have any response to the NAACP charges that these are racially motivated crimes and your department is not doing enough?”

Louis could see Horton's neck muscles tighten. “I gave you my response to that when it came out, Cheryl,” he said calmly. “This new task force is evidence that we are determined to do whatever it takes to catch this murderer. Now, if there's nothing else—”

“I have a question for Agent Farentino.”

Louis blinked in the glare of the lights, finally seeing the source of the voice, a tall man standing in the back.

“What exactly is your role in this investigation?” the reporter asked.

Emily hesitated and slowly came to the mike. She had to stand on her tiptoes to reach it. “My role is to assist the officers in any way I can,” she said.

Louis glanced at Wainwright. He was staring at the floor.

“You do what's called profiling, right?”

All the heads in the room had swung to the reporter now. Louis heard a Nikon motor drive whir off a couple of frames.

“Profiling is a layman's term,” Emily said. “I—”

“What kind of man do you think this killer is?”

Emily glanced at Wainwright, then cleared her throat. “Serial killers are usually white men, twenty to thirty years old, unskilled workers, and loners.”

“But what kind of man do you think
this
killer is?”

Emily hesitated again. Louis could see a bead of sweat on her forehead. Shit, they were all sweating.
Stay cool, Farentino, stay cool.

“I think he is a man who will eventually make a mistake,” Emily said. “A mistake that will lead to his apprehension. That's all I am prepared to say right now.”

Louis let out a breath.

Horton took a few final questions and then turned it over to the PIO. They filed out of the room through a back door and paused in the hall.

“Next time you call a press conference, Al, I want more notice,” Mobley said. “And I want to be brought up to speed on everything you have—now.”

“You know where my office is, Lance,” Horton said. “I'll be right there.”

Mobley stalked off, Driggs at his heels. Horton turned to Wainwright. “You don't need to stay. I'll handle this,” he said.

Wainwright nodded. Horton left, leaving the three of them standing alone in the hall.

“The press conference went well,” Louis said.

Wainwright looked at Emily. “It could have been worse. Come on, we've got work to do.”