Paint It Black (23 page)

Damn it.
Where'd the game go?

He squinted up at the television above the bar. Who the hell was this asshole?

He looked down the bar, but nobody else seemed to care. He took a quick drink of beer and looked back up at the television.

What the fuck was this? An old man that looked like an army guy. A stupid-looking guy in a cop uniform. Some bitch with red hair. And a black guy standing in the background.

He strained his ears to hear what they were saying.

Task force. Cops. FBI. Task force?

For me?

He resisted the urge to smile, resisted the urge to laugh.

They were so stupid.

He heard the word “Tuesday.” They were telling people he killed on Tuesdays. But they didn't know why.

Stupid fuckers.
It was his day off. It was the only time he had. What other reason could there be?

The bitch was talking now . . . she was calling him a serial killer. She was describing the killer. Describing
him.

White, twenty to thirty, unskilled work. What the fuck did they mean, unskilled work? It was his work. His
life
. Unskilled. Like it meant nothing.
Fuck them.

He took a drink.

But she did say white. That was important.

Last week he had read they thought he was black.

They were learning.

His eyes focused on the black man again. The camera came in for a quick close-up.

Wait . . . wait . . . .

Yes . . . yes!

The camera picking up the white cop now.
Damn it! No! Go back to the black guy!

There! There he is again, in the background.

He looked . . . what? Uncomfortable . . . nervous . . . like he didn't belong. That tan face there among the other white faces. He
knew
he didn't belong. Oh, yes, he
knew
. He just didn't see it yet.

He wouldn't be easy.

He'd have a gun.

And he'd fight back.

But that was okay. That was part of the plan.

He took another drink, staring at the black cop over the rim of his glass.

Yes. Perfect. He's perfect.

The army guy finished talking. He was asking the public for help. He was done. He was fucking done!

The paint!

They didn't talk about the paint! Why didn't they talk about the paint?

He gripped the glass.

What the fuck was wrong with them? Didn't they know? Didn't they see it?

It was everything . . . the paint. It was everything!

He tightened, glaring into his beer.

Maybe the paint had washed off. Maybe he shouldn't have gotten them wet. But he had to get them wet.

Fuck.

Maybe he should tell them.

No. It didn't matter. They weren't important. They weren't part of the plan and they didn't matter.

He looked up, his eyes boring into the black cop.

He mattered.

But still . . . the paint was important.

His brain started pounding. This wasn't supposed to happen now.

No . . . not now. Stop. . . .

He put his hands to his temples.
Stop. Stop.

Water. He needed the water. The sound of the water.

He needed a kill.

And he would make sure they didn't miss the paint next time. He would make damn sure.

Emily came out of the bathroom and paused in front of the table, where Gunther Mayo's life was spread out before her. She picked up a mug shot of him, courtesy of the Atlantic City PD.

He had a frizzy bush of black hair and a ragged mustache. His gray eyes, too light for his hair, seemed to bore through the camera lens.

Emily tossed the photo down and looked at the clock. It was after eleven
P.M.
And it was Tuesday night.

Again they waited. Only tonight she was alone, stuck in the office with her notes, files, and Gunther Mayo.

Damn them, anyway.

After two weeks of hard work, it was still “them” on one side and her on the other, looking in. Even after Wainwright's defense of her work in Horton's office. Louis had seemed to accept her and Wainwright was coming around. But when it came down to the real work, the street work, they still didn't trust her to pull her weight.

Like tonight. Every available cop and detective, Lee County, Fort Myers, Sereno, was out tonight on surveillance, trying to track down Gunther Mayo.

She looked up at the wall map with a sigh. The canvassing of the rental neighborhoods around the wharf had yielded nothing, so they had expanded the search to the rentals and motel rooms over on the beach. At least they had listened to her on that.

“Evening, Agent Farentino,” Greg Candy said, coming through the door.

Emily looked at him. “You stuck here, too?”

“Hell no. I'm just coming off ten hours over on the beach.” He looked beat. “Why aren't you out there with the rest of them?”

“I'm still in detention,” she said, sliding into a chair and staring down at Gunther Mayo.

Candy gave her a frown. “Detention?”

“Never mind,” Emily said.

“Well, I'm dead on my feet. Going home to catch a nap.”

Candy disappeared. Emily lowered her head to her arms. She closed her eyes, and lost herself in the beat of her heart and the light ticking of the clock on the wall.

Tuesday night. Would she ever be able to think of it in a normal light after this was all over?

The phone rang and she jumped, then picked it up.

“Agent Farentino,” she said.

“Officer Kincaid, please,” a man said.

Emily rubbed her eyes. “He's on patrol. Can I help you?”

The man hesitated. “Are you a police officer?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, I am.”

“My name is George Lynch and my man is missing.”

“Your man?”

“My employee, Ty. We were supposed to meet for dinner and he was just going home to clean up. But it's been two hours and I think something's happened to him.”

Emily picked up a pen and pulled her notepad closer. “How old is he?”

“Twenty-five.”

She tossed the pen down.
Christ.

“Mr. Lynch, two hours is hardly enough time to report someone missing. Why don't you call us back—”

“Is that other cop there?” Lynch said.

“No, you're stuck with me.”

“Then why can't you take some kind of report or whatever it is you do? What's wrong with you people?”

Emily picked up the pen. “Okay, tell me about your friend.”

“His name is Ty Heller and he's a black man who works for me. We were supposed to have dinner at the Dockside Pub and he never showed.”

Emily wrote down the name. A man going missing for two hours was no big deal. But a black man going missing on a Tuesday could be. Even if he was too young to fit the victim profile.

“Your name again, sir?”

“George Lynch. You gonna do something or not?”

“Just a minute, please.” She put a hand over the receiver, thinking she would call Candy. But then she remembered he said he was tired and heading home. She thought of radioing to Louis or Wainwright, but she knew Wainwright would probably dismiss whatever she had to offer. Sending an officer to talk to this guy could waste valuable time and manpower.

Shit, she would go talk to Lynch herself, calm him down. She would go take the report herself.

“Where are you, Mr. Lynch?”

“I'm still at the bar. It's in Fort Myers Beach, on First Street, just under the bridge. I'll be out on the porch.”

“I'll be there in twenty minutes.”

 

 

When Emily got to the Dockside Pub the lot was filled, so she parked across the road in front of a closed bait shop. She got out of the car. It was dark, but she could see the lights of the marina flickering on the water. Across Matanza Pass, she could see the empty, dark charter boats at their docks at Fisherman's Wharf.

She shoved a police radio in her briefcase and started across the street, shifting the heavy bag to her left shoulder. Eleven forty-five. It had taken her longer than she had expected to get over to the beach. She hoped this Lynch guy had waited. Hell, if he hadn't, at least she'd get a burger or something. She hadn't eaten since breakfast.

The Dockside Pub was a rustic tavern with a screened porch facing the docks. She went in, hoping Lynch would signal her.

He did, giving her a small wave from a table across the room. She moved toward him, half hoping to see that his employee had arrived safely. But when she got there, the other side of the table was empty. She sat down and stuck out her hand.

“Mr. Lynch?”

“Yeah.” His weathered face looked stricken as he shook her hand.

“I'm Agent Farentino, FBI.” She slid into a chair, hoisting her briefcase up into an empty chair beside her. “I take it your friend's still not here?”

Lynch shook his head and watched Emily dig through her briefcase for a notebook and pen. When she looked up, he leaned forward. “You ready?” he asked.

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Lynch?”

“I'm a charter boat captain. Tyrone is one of my crewmen.”

Emily looked up at him. “You work on the docks?”

Lynch nodded. “Yeah, thirty years now. I'm retiring in May and—”

“Your employee's name is Heller?”

“Yeah, Tyrone Heller. I call him Ty. I've always called him Ty, for all the years he's been with me.” There was an untouched glass of beer in front of Lynch. He was picking at a cocktail napkin.

“So you and your employee were meeting here for dinner?” Emily asked.

He nodded, his eyes intent on Emily. “Shouldn't you put out one of those bulletins for him?”

“First things first, Mr. Lynch.”

Lynch tossed down the shredded napkin and ran a hand over his face. “Look, miss, I'm sure something's happened to Ty. He's a good kid, a real good kid. He's kinda like a son to me, you know?”

“When did you last speak to him?” Emily asked.

“About six, when we closed down for the day. We always come here for dinner every Tuesday night, ever since we've been coming to Fort Myers. Tonight, at the last minute, Woody changed his mind so it was just Ty and me. Ty wanted to go get cleaned up. He said he'd meet me back here at nine.”

“Have you tried to contact him?”

“He doesn't have a phone. I went over to his place about nine-thirty, but he wasn't there.”

“His address, please?”

Lynch gave it to her. “So I came back here, hoping I just missed him.” He paused. “I didn't want to call the police right away, but with these killings and all . . .” He hesitated. “Ty can sometimes be too damn trusting, you know what I mean?”

“Describe him, please.”

“Jeez . . . about six-foot, with brown hair and light skin, for a black man. He was wearing cutoffs and a white T-shirt when he left work. Probably would be wearing the same thing, just clean if he changed.”

“Tell me about Woody. Real name? Address?”

“Woody? Why do you need to know about Woody?”

“He might be with him.”

Lynch shook his head. “Woody said he had a date.” “Why don't you give me his name and address anyway?” After Lynch did, she asked, “Does Tyrone have any relatives here?”

“None that I know of.”

Emily looked up from her notes. “If you were to guess, where do you think he might go?”

“If he's not home, he's usually on the boat. He's kind of a simple guy.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me about Tyrone?” Emily said.

“Just that he's a fine young man.” Lynch was picking at the shredded napkin again.

“Does he own a vehicle?”

“A truck, I think. I don't know the make.”

“How can I reach you, Mr. Lynch?”

Lynch gave her a number. “Or over at Fisherman's Wharf, the
Miss Monica.”

Emily blinked. “The
Miss Monica
?”

“Yeah,” Lynch said.

“You have another employee . . . Gunther Mayo?” Emily asked.

“Did. Haven't seen him in weeks. What's that got—”

Emily slid the notebook back into her briefcase. She needed to call Wainwright, but she couldn't do it here in front of Lynch. The guy was alarmed enough already.

“Mr. Lynch, I think you should go home,” she said, rising quickly.

“Home? What—”

“We'll check it out and call you if we find anything.”

“But—”

Farentino hurried away, hefting her briefcase to her shoulder. As she started to the parking lot, she rummaged through the briefcase for the police radio. She couldn't find it and stopped short.

“Shit!” she said.

She plunked the briefcase down on the hood of the nearest car and yanked the briefcase wide open, digging for the radio. Finally, her fingers found it and she pulled it out.

Suddenly everything went dark. There was something slick and damp over her head and an arm under her throat. A hand clamped down on her mouth.

Her heart surged up against her sternum. Her hands shot to her face as she tried to claw at the cloth. She twisted, trying to get free, but the hands tightened.

She felt a sudden sharp blow to her head. Her knees buckled and she went out.

Louis screeched the cruiser to a stop, grabbed a flashlight, and climbed out. A man standing at the rear of a car came forward as he saw Louis emerge.

“It's over there,” the man said, pointing.

Louis hurried to the red Honda. He immediately saw Farentino's briefcase on the hood.

“I didn't touch it,” the man said quickly, coming up behind him. “I mean, I didn't move it after I started looking inside for a wallet. As soon as I saw that police radio I called you guys.”

“Did you see anyone?” Louis asked. “A woman, about five-two, red hair—”

But the man was shaking his head. “The lot across the street was full when I got here, so I parked over here. It was deserted when I came out. I figured some broad just left it on my hood and drove off—”

“This Honda is your car?”

The man nodded.

Louis surveyed the area. They were standing in a small parking lot in front of a bait store. There were only two cars in the lot, the red Honda and, about twenty feet away, Farentino's rental, a black Nissan. The entrance to the Dockside Pub was about thirty yards away, across the street. The pub's entrance faced the street, but there were no other businesses open and the street was quiet. The pub's own parking lot was around the side. If someone had been standing in the pub's lot, they would not have seen what was going on in the lot of the bait shop.

His heart was racing. There was no way Farentino would have left that briefcase. He could hear approaching sirens.

He went quickly to Farentino's Nissan and shined the light inside. Still locked. He swung the light to the ground, looking for signs of struggle, keys, anything.

He returned to the red Honda, swinging his flashlight over the ground. The beam picked up a flash. Farentino's glasses on the asphalt, just under the Honda. He gingerly picked them up with his shirttail and placed them on the hood of the Honda next to the briefcase.

The whoop of the sirens became deafening and the lot lit up with whirling lights. Louis looked over to see Lance Mobley bound out of a patrol car and sprint over to Louis. A deputy trailed behind.

“What do we got?” he asked tersely.

“Farentino's missing.”

“Farentino?”

“The FBI agent.”

Mobley nodded quickly. “How do you know?”

Louis pointed the light at the glasses on the hood. “Those are hers. So's the briefcase.”

Mobley peered into the open briefcase. Louis saw Wainwright hurrying toward them.

“You got gloves on you?” Louis asked as Wainwright came up to him.

Wainwright pulled a pair of latex gloves from his hind pocket and handed them to Louis.

“You should wait for CSU,” Mobley said.

“We don't have time,” Wainwright said. “Put the briefcase on the ground, Louis. We need to dust the car.”

The man who had found the briefcase pressed forward. “What? What you going to do to my car?”

“Just look for fingerprints,” Wainwright said. “Please step back, sir.”

“Oh, man . . .”

Louis pulled on the gloves and set the briefcase on the asphalt. He gingerly began going through the briefcase as Wainwright held the flashlight.

“I think she stopped here and set the briefcase down to look for something and that's when she was abducted,” Louis said.

“Why didn't he take the briefcase?” Mobley said.

“He didn't want it. He wanted her,” Louis said.

“That's her rental,” Wainwright said, pointing to the Nissan. “Why don't you go check it out, Lance?”

“It's still locked,” Louis said.

Mobley stared at Wainwright for a moment, then moved away, yelling to his deputy, “Howard, bring me the punch.”

Louis pulled Emily's wallet out of the briefcase. “Money's still here,” he said, laying the wallet on the ground. He took out the folders of case files and laid them aside. He set a small makeup bag and a hairbrush next to the files.

“No keys,” he said.

He pulled out a small notepad. It was open, and he scanned the top page. Farentino had tiny, hen-scratch handwriting.

“Dan, shine that here.”

The words jumped out at him.
Dockside Inn. George Lynch. Tyrone Heller. Miss Monica. Missing since eight
P.M.
Twenty-five years old.

“Jesus, Dan,” Louis said. “She was here to meet Lynch.”

“Why?” Wainwright asked.

Louis rose. “I think Lynch called the station to report his crewman missing. Farentino came here to take the report.”

“What the fuck was she doing down here taking a report?”

“Maybe she was just trying to help.”

Wainwright turned away. “Shit . . .”

“Dan,” Louis said, “we have two missing.” When Wainwright looked at him, Louis went on. “This crewman—his name is Tyrone Heller—he's black.”

Mobley came back. “There's nothing in the car or trunk.”

“Sheriff,” Louis said, “we need to find a man named George Lynch.”

“Who's Lynch? A suspect?”

Louis paused just a beat. “Damn it, do you read anything we send over?”

“You badgeless punk,” Mobley said. “I have a hundred men under my command.”

Louis wanted to slug him. “Then fucking use them.”

“What for?” Mobley shouted.

“Lynch is a boat captain. His black crewman is missing. Someone needs to get to Lynch fast.”

“What's the hurry? If this sicko did this, his crewman is already dead. So's the woman,” Mobley said.

He snatched his radio from his belt and walked away, barking out commands.

Louis yanked off the latex gloves. He looked at Wainwright and knew he was thinking the same thing. Mobley was right.