Paint It Black

Louis’s eyes went back to the chair. “Why didn’t he kill her?” he asked.

“Maybe your theory about the skin shades is wrong and he’s not working toward a white victim,” Wainwright said.

Louis shook his head. “No, I still think there’s something to it. Heller is lighter than the others and he killed him.”

“Then why did he even bother to take Farentino in the first place?” Wainwright asked.

“Maybe she was just in the way,” Louis said. “Maybe he was going to kill her but changed his mind.”

“Doesn’t make sense. Doesn’t fit his profile.” Wainwright paused. “Maybe it’s like all the paint this time. Maybe he wants to tell us something and Farentino was just the messenger.”

“What’s the message?”

Wainwright let out a weary sigh. “I don’t know. We’re both so fucking tired we can’t think straight.”

They were silent for a moment. “He’s not finished,” Louis said. “I still think he’s moving toward something.”

Wainwright’s eyes were focused on the bloodstain. “The question is, what?”

Louis woke and immediately looked at the clock. Two-thirty in the afternoon. He had fallen into bed after coming home from the storage shack and gotten a couple hours of fitful sleep. There was still grit behind his eyes but he knew he couldn’t sleep any more.

He showered, dressed, and went out to the kitchen. Empty. Issy looked up at him from her bowl of kibbles.

Louis heard country music from the patio and went outside. Margaret was cutting the dead blooms off one of her orchids.

“You’re up,” she said, turning.

“Anybody call?” he asked.

Margaret shook her head and slipped her pruning shears into her apron.

“How ’bout I fix you a sandwich?” she said, starting for the kitchen.

“No, Margaret, I’m fine,” he said quickly.

“Didn’t we talk about this before?”

Louis sighed. “Whatever you want to fix is fine. Where’s Sam?”

“Fishing,” Margaret said with a grimace.

Louis followed her into the kitchen. He picked up the wall phone and dialed Horton’s office. Horton picked up immediately.

“Any news?” Louis asked.

“Still no sign of Heller. The other crewman—Woody something—said Heller didn’t show for work this morning. We did a welfare check at Heller’s trailer. No sign of anything out of the ordinary. No sign of Heller’s truck either. We’ve got a BOLO out on it.”

“Mayo probably followed Heller to the Dockside,” Louis said. “Maybe he used the truck to take Heller to the storage shack and then abandoned it.”

“We thought of that. Got the whole wharf area covered. Nothing.”

Margaret came into the kitchen and began to busy herself at the refrigerator. Louis turned away and lowered his voice. “How’s Farentino?”

“Sleeping at her hotel,” Horton said. “I put a uniform outside her door.”

“Anything back from the scene yet?”

“There was a lot of old trash but nothing fresh. The owner says the place used to be a storage shed for the shrimping company nearby, but it’s been abandoned for years.”

Louis could hear Horton flipping some papers. “Let’s see . . . shrimp shells, rusted cans, fish scales, specifically snapper, spot-tail, king mackerel. Dozens of prints, but the only fresh ones were on the chair and we’re ru

“What about the blood?”

“AB-negative under the chair. Rare stuff,” Horton said. “It matches Farentino’s. The big stain was O-positive, but we don’t know what Heller is. The specks of blood on the floor turned out to be from king mackerel.”

Louis sighed. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I’ll tell you the same thing I told Dan this morning,” Horton said. “Get some rest. We’ll call.”

Louis hung up. When he turned, Margaret was standing there holding a plate.

“Eat this, damn it,” she said.

He thanked her and took the peanut butter and jelly sandwich out to the patio. Margaret came out a moment later and set a Dr Pepper at his side. She went to the small cassette player and turned her tape over. The song “Luckenbach, Texas” started playing.

Louis wolfed down the sandwich and set the plate aside, wishing Margaret had made two sandwiches. He tried to remember the last time he ate.

He laid his head back, closing his eyes, thinking about the events of the last twenty-four hours. What a night.

He had a sudden picture of Farentino’s tear-streaked face in his mind. She must be a wreck. Alone, in a strange town, scared to death. He wondered if she’d slept, if she’d be up for a visit.

He got up. Margaret looked over. “Where you going?”

“To visit Farentino,” he said.

Margaret wiped her hands on her apron. “I’ve got some fudge you can take her.”

Chapter Forty

The Sereno Key I

“Louis Kincaid, Sereno Key PD,” he said.

“Some ID, sir?”

Louis took out the card Wainwright had given him. The officer eyed it suspiciously.

“Just a moment, sir.” He keyed his radio. Louis waited patiently while he talked to his office.

“Sorry, sir,” he said, handing the card back. “Go ahead.”

Louis knocked on the door. It took a while for it to open. Farentino stood there, hair wet like she had just gotten out of a shower.

“Hey, Farentino.”

She smiled. “Hey, Kincaid. Come in.”

The cabin was furnished with old rattan and color prints of flamingos that looked like they had been lifted from a Miami Beach hotel, circa Jackie Gleason. The Mr. Coffee machine in the kitchenette was spurting out a fresh pot.

“Want some?” Farentino asked, seeing him eyeing it.

Louis shook his head. “Too much lately. I think my kidneys are shot.”

She smiled. She was wearing a black-and-red kimono that looked like it came from a thrift store. Her face was still pink from her shower. She was squinting at him.

“Oh, almost forgot,” he said. “Got some presents for you.” He pulled a Baggie from his pocket. “Fudge, from Margaret.”

“Nice lady,” Emily said, taking it.

“And from me,” he said, pulling her glasses out of his breast pocket.

Her grin widened. “Thank God,” she said, taking them and slipping them on. She glanced around the room. “Shit, this place is uglier than I remember.”

Louis laughed, then sobered, his eyes going to the gauze wrap on her arm. “So, how you doing?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I’m okay. Six stitches.” She went to the coffeemaker and poured a cup. “You didn’t bring my briefcase,” she said, turning back to him.

“It’s still in evidence.”

“Shit. I need it.”

“You’ll get it back.”

“I mean now. I want to get back to work.”

“Farentino—”

She held up a hand. “Look, Kincaid, I’m okay. The best thing I can do now is get my mind in gear again. I’m going crazy here, just staring at the walls, thinking . . . ” Her voice trailed off.

“Thinking about what?” Louis asked.

She sat down at the small table, setting the coffee aside. “Thinking about everything Mayo said. I’ve been turning it over and over in my head, trying to figure out if I’ve missed anything. I know there has to be more than what I told you. If I had the files here, maybe it would trigger something.” She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“You did the best you could, Farentino,” Louis said.

She looked up at him. “But I keep going back to the same question—why me? Why did he take me? And why did he let me go?”

The last words came out shaky. She wasn’t all right. He could hear from her voice that she was really thinking, Why am I still alive?