Paint It Black

Wainwright looked at him and nodded.

Vince was slicing open a thin membrane in the chest. “Oh, by the way, I found something else strange. He had minute traces of paint on him. In the pores on the neck and face.”

“Paint?” Wainwright said, blinking. “What kind of paint?”

“I don’t know. It was black.”

“New? Old?”

Vince shrugged. “Hard to say. There wasn’t much, but it could have washed off. You want me to send it out?”

Wainwright nodded, lost in thought. Louis was looking again at the corpse. If there was black paint on the mutilated, mottled body he sure couldn’t see it.

“Did Tatum have paint on him?” Louis asked.

Vince’s blue eyes met his. “Not a trace.”

“You’re sure?” Wainwright asked.

“Of course I’m sure. After I found the paint on this one, I went back and checked. No paint on Tatum.”

Wainwright shook his head. “Damn.”

Vince snapped off his gloves. “Well, I’m done here. You guys wa

“That’s it?” Louis asked.

“Oh, no,” Vince said, taking off his scrub shirt. He was wearing a gaudy Hawaiian shirt beneath. “Octavius runs the gut.”

They followed Vince Carissimi out into the hall. The large black man was still there, reading a paperback copy of Edith Hamilton’s The Greek Way.

“He’s all yours, Octo,” Vince said. “Don’t forget to tie off the subclavian. I don’t want to get a call from some pissed-off mortuary jockey in Ohio.”

The man grunted and went into the autopsy room. Vince saw Louis watching him.

“Octavius is the diener,” Vince explained.

“What’s a diener?” Louis asked.

“It’s a German word that means servant, but he’s really an assistant. Octo’s been here forever. Sometimes I think he knows more about carving than I do. Experto crede . . . trust one who has experience.” Vince turned to Wainwright. “So, breakfast or lunch?”

“Already ate, thanks,” Wainwright said. “You go if you want, Kincaid.”

Louis shook his head.

Vince looked disappointed. “Well, next time you make it over to the mainland, my treat.” He held out a hand to Louis. “Good to meet you.” The ME disappeared, trailing Hendrix after him.

“Strange guy,” Louis said.

“Vince knows his stuff,” Wainwright said. “Likes to try to impress you though, with the Latin shit.”

Louis looked up at the sign above the door. “Mortui vivos docent,” he read.

“ ‘The dead teach the living,’ ” Wainwright said. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

They walked out into the bright sunshine toward the parking lot. It was about seventy-five and the breeze had a briny tang even though they were miles from any water. Louis pulled the air deep into his lungs, trying to clear his head of the smells from inside. He watched a small airplane lift off from nearby Page Field and hover like a balsa glider until it disappeared into the clouds.

“You need a ride?” Wainwright asked.

“No, thanks. I borrowed Sam Dodie’s car,” Louis said.

“Nice folks, the Dodies,” Wainwright said. “I met ’em at a Rotary party.”

“Yeah,” Louis said with a slight smile. “I’ve been staying with them.”

“How’s your ribs, by the way?”

“I’m okay.”

“I should have warned you about Levon,” Wainwright said. “He’s got a history of drug abuse. From the looks of it, I’d guess he was on something yesterday. Maybe PCP. Like I said, you’re lucky he didn’t kill you.”

Louis slipped on his sunglasses. “You’re still convinced he killed Tatum?”

Wainwright nodded. “Like I said, he’s got a history.”

“Have you known Levon to ever carry a knife?”

“He had a switchblade on him last time we arrested him.”

“But these wounds aren’t from a switchblade.”

“He could’ve used a different one.”

“But why Anthony Quick? Levon has no motive for that.”

Wainwright hesitated. “Like I said, Levon has a history. He’s got some mental problems. And the MO was the same.”

“Except for the paint.”

Wainwright looked at Louis. “Maybe the paint means nothing. Maybe Quick painted his house or something before he got here.”

“His dossier said he sold software for Novel,” Louis said. “You ever know a computer geek who got his hands dirty?”

“Look, right now I don’t even know if these two murders are related. Right now, I gotta find Levon.”

“Any sign of him yet?”

“No,” Wainwright said. “We got an APB out, and I have someone watching Roberta’s house and the store. Levon stayed in a room in the back sometimes. But he’s not coming back.”

“So what’s your next move?” Louis asked.

Wainwright was looking out at the airstrip again. “I don’t know,” he said tightly.

For several seconds, they just stood in the warm sun, soaking it in. Wainwright seemed absorbed in watching the planes.

“I came here to retire,” Wainwright said softly.

Louis waited, sensing Wainwright wanted to say something more. But Wainwright just let out a deep breath.

“Well, I gotta get back,” he said, turning.

Louis watched Wainwright walk toward his cruiser. He noticed he had a subtle limp.

Wainwright stopped and turned suddenly. “Hey, Kincaid,” he called. “I just thought of something. I think I know where Anthony Quick was killed. Wa

Chapter Nine

He expected pine trees, mossy paths, and maybe a deer or two. That’s what preserves looked like in Michigan. But he was in Florida now, where the earth smelled of rotting things and the spindly trees were packed dense, their branches twisting up to the sun like tortured fingers, their roots curving down into the water like inverted rib cages. Mangrove trees, Wainwright called them, as they drove past a sign that said MATLACHA NATURE PRESERVE. They didn’t look like trees to Louis. They looked like skeletons frozen in the black water.

The reserve was on the southern tip of Sereno Key, where the neat little neighborhoods ended and the land trickled off to melt into the brackish water. The water here was different than over on the bay. There, out in the open, it caught the sun and was moved by the tides and the wake of human activity. Here, it was dark, still, and primordial, frosted with a thin layer of algae.

Louis looked out over the mangroves. “There’s no way someone could get through those trees and wade out to the water,” he said. “Where do you think he threw him in?”

Wainwright lowered the visor as he took a curve in the narrow, hard-packed dirt road. “There’s an old boat ramp up here somewhere.”

They passed a small wooden sign that said NATURE WALK. Louis craned back to look for a path but saw nothing but dense brush. “What the hell is there to see out here?”

“Birds mostly,” Wainwright said. “Tree huggers like this place. It’s kept natural on purpose. I guess they feel it makes them one with God and all that shit. Me, all I see is a swamp.”

Wainwright took another curve and stopped suddenly. They had come to a clearing where the trees opened abruptly onto blue sky. In front of the squad car was a wooden boat ramp that dipped down into the ta

“This is it,” Wainwright said. “The only place he could have dumped him.”

Louis thought suddenly of the garbage on the causeway. “How do you know Quick wasn’t dumped somewhere else and the tide carried the body to where it was found?” he asked as he got out.

“I checked with a fishing guide I know,” Wainwright said. “Bakers Point is a small basin, with little water movement. Plus I just got a feeling.”

Wainwright was walking the ramp, his eyes scouring the planks. Louis joined him. The warped wood was old and sun-bleached to gray. But there was no sign of blood or paint. The air was hot and still, with no sounds—from animals or water.

“Jesus, this place stinks,” Louis said.

“Tide’s out. That’s nature for you,” Wainwright said. “Lots of things in nature stink.”