Paint It Black

“Coffee?”

Louis nodded. He pulled the newspaper over to him.

Heller was being arraigned today. He saw his own picture on the bottom of the page. He pushed the newspaper away as Dodie came back with the coffee. Margaret was on his heels.

“You shouldn’t be up,” she said.

“I’ve slept for two days,” Louis said. The pain in his jaw began to pound again. He sipped at the coffee, but it burned the cuts on his lips.

“You hungry? I can fix you something,” Margaret said.

Louis shook his head. He wasn’t sure he could chew.

“Scrambled eggs,” Margaret said. “Soft scrambled eggs.”

She disappeared.

Louis’s eyes flicked to Dodie sitting across the table. He was staring at him.

“I’m okay, Sam.”

“Just checking.”

The smell of eggs filled the kitchen. It made Louis’s stomach churn.

“Oh, Louis,” Margaret said, “Emily Farentino called. She came over yesterday but you were asleep. She has to leave today and she wants to say good-bye. She said you could reach her at Dan’s office till five tonight.”

“Thanks, Margaret.”

Dodie was staring at him again. “You decide yet what you’re going to do?” he asked. “I mean, after you heal up and all.”

“I don’t know. Go home for a while, I guess.”

“Why? You can’t work there.”

Louis tried another sip of coffee. “I have applications out, Chicago PD, Cleveland. I’ll find something.”

Dodie stirred his coffee.

“Besides, my car’s up there,” Louis said.

“Go get it.”

Louis sighed.

Margaret returned with the eggs. She started to tuck a napkin into Louis’s pajama top, and he let her, too tired to argue. He started to eat slowly.

“You could find work here, Louis,” Dodie said.

“Sam’s right,” Margaret added quickly.

He looked up at them. “I’m not a PI.” He looked away, shaking his head. “It wouldn’t work.”

“Well, what about Dan?” Dodie pressed.

Louis shook his head again.

“Dan could find something for you, Louis. Lord knows he could use a good man and—”

Margaret put a hand on Dodie’s arm. “Sam, you’ve been chewing on his ear for two days now about this. Let the man be.”

Dodie sat back in his chair. Margaret moved back to the stove.

Louis felt something rub his leg. He looked down to see Issy. The cat looked up at him, then trotted off toward the laundry room. Louis glanced up at the wall clock. It was after four-thirty.

He took another bite of eggs, then slowly rose.

“Where you going?” Dodie asked.

“To say good-bye to Farentino.”

Emily was sitting in the chair facing Wainwright when Louis came in. They were laughing. Wainwright sobered when he saw Louis at the door. Emily turned.

“You still look like shit,” she said.

“You should see me from this side,” Louis said. “What were you two laughing about?”

“Mobley,” Wainwright said. “He’s still pissed he didn’t get the collar.”

“He’ll live,” Louis said. He eased into a chair and looked over at Emily. The briefcase was sitting next to her chair. She saw him looking at it.

She shrugged. “I du

He studied her face. She looked like she hadn’t slept well. Or maybe like she wouldn’t ever truly sleep well again. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want her to leave, but he didn’t know what to say that could keep her here any longer. She hadn’t been a partner, at least not in the real sense. But he knew he was going to miss her. He’d miss her energy and dedication, the way her mind worked. He smiled slightly. Shit, he was even going to miss her balls.

She was looking at him. “Well, I’ve got a long drive ahead,” she said. She hesitated, then held out her hand to Wainwright.

“Thanks, Chief,” she said. “It’s been . . . an education.”

Wainwright stood up and took her hand. “For both of us.”

She turned to Louis and extended her hand. “Hey, Kincaid.”

He held up his bandaged hand. She smiled and shook his thumb.

“Hey, Farentino,” he said.

“Drive careful,” Wainwright said.

She picked up her green rain slicker and started to the door.

“Farentino,” Louis said.

She turned.

“Got time to go get some coffee or something?”

She smiled. “Sorry. Got a date with Vi

She left.

Louis turned to look at Wainwright. “Vi

“Vince. The ME,” Wainwright said.

Louis shook his head, smiling.

“I went to see Candy this morning,” Wainwright said. “He was asking about you.”

“I feel bad I haven’t been over to see him yet,” Louis said.

“Don’t be. He wasn’t really up for visitors until today.” Wainwright paused. “He’s going to be all right, by the way. The knife missed everything important.”

“Thank God.”

“He said he can’t wait to come back to work,” Wainwright said. “Said something weird, too. Said he was rethinking the Miami thing. You know what he meant?”

Louis nodded, smiling slightly.

His eyes wandered over the office, falling finally on the bulletin board. It was empty. His gaze came to the framed photograph of Wainwright’s two kids. He looked up to see Wainwright looking at him.

“You feeling any better?” Wainwright asked.

Louis shrugged. “How about you?” he asked.

Wainwright nodded slowly. “Better.”

It was quiet except for the rain on the window and voices filtering in from the outer office.

“I found out something interesting today,” Wainwright said. “It’s about the Broward cases. I found out why there was a gap between the first New Jersey killing and the two near Fort Lauderdale. After the Jersey fishing season was over, the Miss Monica headed south and put in at Fort Lauderdale for repairs. They were there for a month.”

“Enough time for Heller to kill twice,” Louis said.

“And then the boat came here for the winter,” Wainwright said.

They were quiet again for a moment.

“They’re saying Heller’s mentally incompetent, that he won’t get the death penalty,” Louis said.

“I know,” Wainwright said. “I still think he should fry.” He leaned back in his chair.

Wainwright let a moment or two pass. “Why didn’t you do it?” he asked.

“Do what?”

“Kill him.”

Louis held Wainwright’s gaze, then looked away. He had asked himself the same question in the last two days. He couldn’t come up with an answer. He couldn’t come up with an answer either about why he felt nothing but ambivalence when he thought of Tyrone Heller being locked up for life rather than dying in the chair.

He looked back at Wainwright. “That day you had Skeen cornered in the bathroom,” he said. “You said you killed him. Why?”

“I told you,” Wainwright said softly, his eyes unwavering. “I had to.”

Louis nodded slowly. It fell silent again. Voices drifted in from the outer office. There was a knock.

“Yeah?” Wainwright called out.

Myrna poked her head in the door. “Chief? This just came for Louis.” She handed Louis a paper and left.

Louis unfolded the paper and read it. “Goddamn it,” he said softly.

“What?”

“Mobley,” Louis said. “It’s a summons. He’s busting me for not having a goddamn PI license.”

He crumpled it and threw it across the room.

“Don’t sweat it,” Wainwright said. “It’s just a small fine.”

The room was quiet again. Louis knew it was time to say his good-byes and get out, but he didn’t want to leave.

“So, what will you do now, Louis?” Wainwright asked finally.

“I don’t know.”

“I’d offer you something, but—”

“It’s okay, Dan.”

Louis’s gaze drifted to the window.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Wainwright said. “Roberta Tatum called this morning. Wanted me to give you a message.”

“What?” Louis asked.

“She said, ‘Tell the cookie to come get his money.’ ”