Paint It Black

“How you doing with those NAACP files?” Wainwright asked.

“I’ve gone through all hundred and five and pulled out about thirty that could be legitimate suspects,” Louis said.

“Christ, thirty?”

Louis nodded. “But of those, there are only five that I think we should really concentrate on.” He pulled his notebook out of his jeans pocket and flipped it open, slipping on his glasses.

“I’ve got a Fort Myers man who used to run a white supremacist group in Texas, but he’s fifty-seven with emphysema. Two other men who were arrested for starting a brawl at a Jessie Jackson speech. And there’s a twenty-two-year-old guy named Travis Durring suspected of a 1984 church burning in Immokolee. Where’s that?”

“Town southeast of here in Collier County. You check into him?”

“Yeah. The file says he is also suspected of spray-painting racial slurs on a synagogue in Naples.”

“Travis gets around. Coincidence?”

“The paint? I think so.”

“You sound like you don’t think this one is worth pursuing.”

“Churches, synagogues . . . they’re vulnerable targets of white rage,” Louis said. “But the rage behind these murders is more focused. Like you said, they’re personal.”

“Is Van Slate in the files?” Wainwright asked.

Louis nodded, taking off his glasses. “He’s one of the five I pulled out. They’ve been keeping an eye on him since he was in high school. He’s got a mouth and he uses it.”

Wainwright sighed. “I got a call from Hugh Van Slate today,” Wainwright said.

“Matt’s father?” Louis asked.

Wainwright nodded. “Warned me to lay off his damn kid. Shit . . . kid. The kid is thirty years old and still has to have his daddy clean up his messes.”

“Can he apply pressure?”

“He’s got the mayor’s ear, if that’s what you mean. And you can find three generations of Van Slate tombstones in the key’s cemetery. Hugh’s the biggest fish in our little pond here.”

Wainwright’s face creased in a deep frown. “Sereno used to be like Captiva, getting its police protection from the county. Five years ago, the council voted to start its own force. Hugh was the only dissenting vote. He’s never quite warmed up to me. It got worse after we arrested Matt for that beating.”

“How does everyone else here feel?” Louis asked.

“Crime is low, property values are high. Folk here like living in the Emerald City and are happy to let me stand behind the curtain and pull the switches. At least, they were.”

“I don’t think we should give up on Van Slate,” Louis said.

“Me either.” Wainwright let out a deep sigh. “God-damn it, where’s my coffee? Myrna!”

It was Officer Candy who appeared at the door a moment later. “Chief, someone here to see you,” he said.

“Who?”

“Agent Farentino.” Candy blinked rapidly several times. “FBI, Chief.”

“Well, get him in here,” Wainwright said, rising quickly and straightening his tie.

Candy disappeared and was back a second later. “Agent Farentino, sir,” he said.

Louis turned. It took every ounce of his self-control not to show his shock.

Agent Farentino was small, maybe five-three, with milky white skin, short curly hair the color of a bright copper pe

Louis rose slowly and glanced at Wainwright. Wainwright’s face was gray, his mouth slightly agape. Agent Farentino didn’t wait for things to get worse.

“Emily Farentino,” she said, coming forward and thrusting out a hand.

Her voice was deep and melodious, like a late-night disk jockey. Louis had half expected a high-pitched peep. He watched as Emily Farentino’s tiny hand disappeared into Wainwright’s mitt.

Wainwright pulled himself together enough to mutter out a greeting and ask her to sit down. He glanced at Louis, and coughed up a quick introduction, adding that Louis was a “consultant” on the case. Louis came forward, offering his hand to Agent Farentino. Her handshake was overly firm.

Louis glanced at Wainwright, whose eyes seemed to be pleading for something. He gave Wainwright an imperceivable shake of the head and slid into a chair.

Agent Farentino set her briefcase down next to the chair. She sat back, elbows resting lightly on the arms, fingers interlaced. She was making things easy for Wainwright, tossing out bits of small talk about how nice Sereno Key was, how different it was from Miami. She looked at ease. Or at least she was putting on a damn good show of it, Louis thought. Unlike Wainwright, who still looked like he was having a bad hemorrhoid attack.

The small talk suddenly trailed off.

“So, where do we start?” Farentino said briskly.

Wainwright sat forward in his chair, picking up a file folder. “Well, I guess I should fill you in—”

“I’ve already read the case file,” she said quickly.

Wainwright dropped the file and settled back in his chair. He was staring at Farentino, like she was some alien life-form. Louis also saw something else there in Wainwright’s eyes. Disappointment? Anger? He couldn’t tell. He glanced at Farentino, suddenly feeling sorry for her.

He saw Emily Farentino’s eyes drift up to the colored note cards and back to Wainwright.

“There are some things we should probably go over,” she said, hoisting the huge, battered briefcase onto her lap and snapping it open.

Wainwright held up a hand. “We have plenty of time, Agent Farentino,” he said. Louis watched in amazement as Wainwright squeezed out a smile.

“Actually, Chief Wainwright, from what I have read in your files, the last thing we have is time,” she said firmly.

Wainwright’s smile faded. “What I meant was, I suspect you’d like to get settled first. You have a hotel yet?”

Emily Farentino blinked twice behind the large glasses. “Well, no, I didn’t—”

Wainwright rose quickly. “You might try the Sereno Key I

Farentino paused, glanced at Louis, then back at Wainwright. She closed the briefcase latch. “I have a car, thank you,” she said.

She rose and started for the door. She turned back. “What is the activity for the day?” she said.

“Activity?” Wainwright asked.

“What were you and Mr. Kincaid going to do? Before I arrived.”

Wainwright hesitated. “We’re due at the medical examiner’s at eleven.”

“Good,” Farentino said. “I’ll meet you there.”

And she was gone. Wainwright sank down into his chair.

“Jesus H Christ,” he said softly.

Chapter Nineteen

Louis hated reading in the car, but he forced himself to concentrate. He had nearly filled one spiral book with notes about the three dead men and now, as Wainwright’s cruiser zigzagged through the choked traffic on Cleveland Avenue, he tried to make some sense out of what he had written.

Friday. Today was Friday. Four days before he would strike again, if the pattern held true.

The last thing we have is time.

She was right.

He felt nauseated and closed the notebook. He looked over at Wainwright.

His jaw was set, almost clenched, and he hadn’t said much since Emily Farentino had walked out of his office. He didn’t need to say what Louis suspected, that he was embarrassed about the choice his friends at the bureau had made. Farentino was a rook. And she was female. Was Wainwright’s reputation worth no more than that?

“Dan,” Louis said softly.

Wainwright grunted.

“About Farentino . . .”

“What about her?”

“She must have something going for her for them to send her.”

Wainwright grunted again, this time more softly.

“At least they sent someone,” Louis said.