Paint It Black

Louis nodded.

She came slowly into the office, a small woman in a blue dress, carrying a black wool coat over her arm. Her soft brown eyes went from Wainwright to Louis questioningly.

“I . . . I spoke to someone on the phone a couple days ago,” she began. “I’m Anita Quick, Anthony’s wife.”

Wainwright came forward, holding out a chair. “That was me you spoke with, Mrs. Quick, I’m Chief Dan Wainwright. Sit down, please.”

Louis watched her closely. He had seen the look on her face before, back on the force in A

Anita Quick looked like her mask was about to break. Louis glanced at Wainwright. He looked suddenly wound too tight, and his blue eyes, even as they were focused on the woman before him, signaled that he was somewhere else.

Anita Quick was waiting—for one of them to speak, tell her that there had been a mistake, that the man they had pulled out of the water was not her husband after all. Suddenly, she began to cry, putting one hand over her eyes.

Ah, shit. Louis felt something give in his chest.

“Mrs. Quick . . .” he said.

The crying grew into sobs.

“I’ll get her some water,” Wainwright said. He hurried out, leaving the office door open.

Louis went to the bathroom, grabbed some Kleenex, and came back to sit down in the chair next to Mrs. Quick. He gently pushed the Kleenex into her palm, lying open in her lap. She didn’t seem to notice it. The lap of her blue dress was spotted with tears.

Louis looked up at the door. Damn it, where is Wainwright? His eyes focused on the watercooler by the wall. Why did he leave to get water?

He went to the cooler and drew a cup, taking it to Anita Quick. Her sobs had slackened to weeping punctuated with sharp intakes of breath.

“Mrs. Quick, take this, please.”

She finally accepted the cup. She took a sip and handed it back. “I would have been here sooner,” she whispered, “but I couldn’t find anyone to stay with the boys.”

“You didn’t have to come,” Louis said gently.

“Yes, I did. I have to take Anthony home.” She hesitated. “I can do that now, can’t I?”

“Yes. I’ll make the call.” Louis hesitated. “Will you be all right here for a moment?”

She nodded, wiping her eyes with the Kleenex.

Louis rose and started for the door.

“Officer?”

He turned.

“Did Anthony . . .” Her eyes welled. “Did Anthony suffer?”

“No,” Louis said.

She nodded slightly. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Louis left, pausing outside the door to let out a deep breath. He knew that the Toledo police had been instructed to tell her as little as possible. He knew, too, that few people really wanted to hear the truth, even when they asked. He was thankful that whoever had gone to her home that day to break the news had been kind.

He glanced around the outer office but there was no one there except the dispatcher. Wainwright was gone.

“Myrna, did you see where Dan went?” he asked.

“He left a few minutes ago, but didn’t say where,” she replied. “Maybe to see the mayor?”

More likely he just didn’t want to face Anita Quick, Louis thought grimly. He had known other cops like that, cops who were as cold as ice when confronted with decomposed bodies but who fell apart when they had to talk to a mother whose teenage kid had just been pulled out of a smashed car. Wainwright’s steely exterior was apparently just that—a shell.

Well, so what? Wainwright had enough on his plate with the mayor, Van Slate, and the NAACP. He’d give him a pass on this, and handle Anita Quick himself.

He picked up the phone to call Vince Carissimi. He just hoped they’d get a break soon. He didn’t want to lie to any more widows.

Chapter Fifteen

Shit. Look at him.

Just sitting there. Just waiting for me . . . Ready to die.

A surge of power raced up through his chest. He slid the truck to a quiet stop, his eyes jumping around quickly. A 7-Eleven sign loomed to the left, but back here, behind the store, no one would see. No one ever saw.

He slipped out of the truck, grabbed the stick from the back, and walked up to the man slumped against the bricks. He had seen him on the beach and known he was perfect. He had followed him, down the crowded sidewalks, staying back, waiting, until now.

The bum lifted a soggy head and squinted at him.

“Hey, you got some change, man?” he asked.

He looked down at him. This was too fucking easy. The shit wanted money. He’d offer him something better.

“Got beer,” he said.

The bum smiled as he tried to lift himself up.

He extended a hand and the bum took it, rising. He pulled the bum toward his truck, opened the door, and pushed him inside.

Down the busy street, past the moms and dads and kiddies, moving silently under the flashing neon lights, past the cars. Past the fucking cops. Stupid fucking cops.

The bum started talking.

Shut up . . . Shut the fuck up!

This was all wrong. What the hell were all these people doing out so late? It was busy here. Too busy to stop and kill the bum. He would have to drive farther.

Water . . . he wanted the water. It always helped, having the water there. It quieted the pounding in his head, made things clear enough so he could do it. The water. He needed the water.

Slowing down at the booth . . . the woman inside not even looking at him as he handed over the money. Not like the other causeway, where they were waiting for him now.

Moving on now, slowly. Moving through the dark tu

He opened the window and the ripe night air rushed in. The sting of the salt was in his nostrils, seeping up into his brain.

He killed the ignition. The water . . . faint . . . he could hear it.

It wasn’t hard dragging the bum out. He thought he was going to drink.

Stupid nigger. You’re going to die.

He shoved him and the bum hit the sand with a thud. The bum’s eyes were glazed, not with the booze, but with a confused fear.

He stepped forward, his knife glinting in the moonlight. He dropped to his knees, straddled him, and pushed the knife quickly into the bum’s chest. Then again. And again.

Yeah . . . Yeah.

Fuck! No! No! Shit! Motherfucking piece of shit!

He stopped. Damn it, damn it. Where is it? Where did it go?

Stupid . . . stupid!

The stench of blood drifted to his nostrils.

Find it! Find it!

There was too much blood, too much blood, he couldn’t find it. The murmur of the waves at his feet was drowned out by the pounding in his head.

He looked up at the moon just as it slipped behind the clouds. He pulled the can of paint from his jacket.

Finish it!

Chapter Sixteen

The body lay faceup at the waterline, the skin dusted with sand that glistened in the slanting early morning sun. The waves crept up, gently rocking the body and then recoiling, as if in horror at the gruesome discovery.

There was no face.

The cheekbones and eye sockets had disappeared into the mushy tissue, and what was left was blackened and puddled with foaming water. Only the teeth were left, smashed and distorted against swollen lips. What little skin remained was speckled with black paint.

Louis wet his lips, his stomach queasy. Tatum and Quick had been beaten, but this one . . . this time the face was gone. He steadied himself by taking a few steps away and looking out over the gulf. He concentrated on a lone sailboat, on its shape, a crisp white triangle against the brilliant blue of the sky.