Текст книги "Paint It Black"

Автор книги: P. J. Parrish

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

Chapter Forty-five

Someone draped a blanket around his shoulders. He didn’t look up. He kept his eyes on the distant wharf. He could see it now, make it out through the rain. He could see the muted colors of the boats, the gray of the restaurant. He could see the blue bubble lights.

They were waiting for him.

The engines of the coast guard boat vibrated with power under his feet. He heard the door of the cabin slide open and footsteps come near.

“We’re almost back.”

Louis nodded.

“Your friend, the other officer . . . what’s his name?”

“Candy,” Louis said. “Greg Candy.”

He could see yellow raincoats swarming the docks now. He got up slowly, wincing in pain, holding the blanket around him as best he could with his bandaged hands. Slowly, he went over to the stretcher.

Candy’s eyes were closed, his face ashen. Louis watched for the rise and fall of his chest but saw nothing beneath the dark blue wool blanket.

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” a voice behind him said.

Louis turned to look at the young coast guard officer. “Is he going to make it?”

“We’re doing what we can. We’re almost back.”

Hang in there, Candy....

His eyes drifted to the other stretcher where Tyrone Heller lay strapped in. He was moaning, muttering something incoherent.

Like fragments from a dream, the details started swirling back to Louis in that moment. The heaviness of Heller’s body, the fury of his fists, the feel of the blade as it cut through his palm.

His stomach begin to churn.

The cold wet metal of the bang stick in his hand. The trembling in his arms as he held it against Heller’s throat.

Die, you fucker! Die!

No . . . no. I’m not going to help you commit suicide.

The agonizing relief when Heller’s head crashed into the floor and he went limp.

Louis moved slowly away, going to stand at the window. They were at the dock. Men were throwing lines. Voices were barking out commands. The sounds of boots on the metal deck outside. The door opened again and four paramedics came in, followed by two cops. The cops wore heavy slickers and Louis couldn’t make out where they were from. They swarmed the stretchers, the paramedics picking up Candy and carefully carrying him out. The cops pushed by the other two paramedics, cuffing Heller to the gurney. Louis watched as they moved as a group to the ambulances waiting out in the lot.

The young coast guard officer was standing there holding out a raincoat.

“Paramedics are standing by for you, Officer Kincaid,” he said.

Louis nodded woodenly and allowed the man to drape the raincoat over his shoulders.

The first person he saw was Wainwright, hovering over Candy until they closed the doors on the ambulance. Then Wainwright’s eyes swiveled back to the boat. He moved forward, waiting at the end of the dock for Louis. Emily was a small figure in bright green behind him. He went to them.

“Jesus,” Wainwright said, his expression going slack.

Emily’s eyes filled with tears as she stared at his face.

“I’m okay,” Louis mumbled.

Wainwright took his arm and led him toward the ambulance. The paramedics hurried to get the stretcher out, but Louis waved them off and they opened the door for him.

An officer in a Fort Myers raincoat came rushing up. “Chief, the coast guard says they found a body onboard the Miss Monica.”

“Who is it?” Wainwright asked.

“They don’t know. It was down in the hold, wrapped in a blanket. Looks like it had been there for a while. The face has black paint all over it, but it looks to be a white male, about sixty.”

Louis shut his eyes briefly, then looked at the officer. “Tell them to look at his left hand,” he said slowly. “Ask them if there’s a finger missing.”

The cop stared at Louis for a moment, then keyed his radio. A moment later, he heard the reply come back.

“That’s affirmative. Left pinkie missing.”

“It’s Lynch,” he said softly.

Emily turned away. Louis closed his eyes.

He heard a siren and opened his eyes in time to see a Lee County sheriff’s car swing into the lot. Mobley climbed out and hurried toward Heller as they were lifting him into the ambulance.

Wainwright watched him. “He’s too late again,” he said. “My guys have him in custody. It’s our collar.”

Louis nodded, grabbing the edge of the door to climb into the ambulance. Another siren made them turn.

Candy’s ambulance was moving. Louis watched it until it pulled from the lot.

“He’ll make it, Louis,” Wainwright said. “You get in there and I’ll see you at the hospital. I’ve got to go ride with Heller.”

Louis nodded.

“I’ll go with Louis,” Emily said quickly.

“Good,” Wainwright said.

The paramedics helped Louis into the ambulance. He didn’t protest as they strapped him into the stretcher and started an IV. The doors closed, the sirens wailed.

Emily sat hunched across from him, her wet hair plastered to her head, her eyes locked on him. She took off her glasses to try to wipe them dry. He saw the tears in her eyes.

“Farentino, I’m going to be all right,” he said softly. “It’s over.”

“I feel like this is my fault,” she said.

He saw the guilt etched in her face. He knew it would be a while before it would fade.

Chapter Forty-six

Louis woke to the smell of strong coffee. He grimaced as he sat up, and looked down at his hand.

The tips of his fingers protruded from a thick bandage. His palm still throbbed. His forearm was bandaged in thick gauze. He hurt everywhere.

He slid his legs gingerly over the side of the bed and looked at the clock on the nightstand. Four-fifteen. Jesus, he had slept almost all day.

He used the bedpost to stand. Issy was curled in the covers at the foot of the bed. Someone had left an old plaid robe on the bedpost. He slipped it on and shuffled to the kitchen.

Dodie jumped up from his chair. “Here, lemme help you, Louis.”

He put a hand on Louis’s arm, pulling out a chair. Louis sat, letting out a sigh that rippled through his bruised muscles.

“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 dunno. Maybe I’ll write my memoirs someday,” she said.

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 Vinny. Later, guys.”

She left.

Louis turned to look at Wainwright. “Vinny?” he asked.

“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.’ ”

Louis stared at Wainwright.

“It’s twenty grand, Louis. You earned it.”

Louis didn’t answer. He rose slowly and held out his hand.

“Thanks, Dan,” he said. “For everything.”

Wainwright rose, hesitated, then came around the desk. He gave Louis a quick but gentle clasp around the shoulders.

“Thanks for all your help,” Wainwright said. “Keep in touch. Let me know when you get settled somewhere or if you ever come back to Sereno.”

Louis nodded quickly and went to the door, closing it softly behind him.

The rain was finally letting up as Louis stopped to pay the toll. He went across the causeway and headed slowly down the tree-tunneled road through Sanibel. He crossed the low-slung bridge over Blind Man’s Pass onto Captiva Island.

By the time the road took a bend toward the water, the rain had stopped. He glanced to his left as he drove, watching the orange smudge of sun creep toward the gray-green water.

At the tiny town center, he pulled up in front of the Island Deli and Liquor and went in. A bell tinkled over his head as he closed the door.

The store’s narrow aisles were crammed with boxes. More boxes were stacked along the back in front of the coolers of wine and beer. To his right there was a shelf crowded with cheap ceramic birds, dolphins, and assorted shells. Colorful beach towels, embroidered with the words Captiva Island, hung along a wall.

Roberta was behind the counter ringing up a loaf of bread and a six-pack of Bud for a man in a flowered shirt. She glanced at Louis as she took the man’s money. The man gathered up his bag and moved past Louis, out the door. The bell tinkled again.

There was no anger in Roberta’s eyes as she looked at him across the counter. Fatigue maybe. Or relief. But the anger was gone.

“Evening,” he said.

She came around the counter. “I see you got my message.”

Louis nodded.

Roberta hollered toward the back. “Levon!”

Levon came around a corner. “Yeah?”

“Levon, you remember Mr. Kincaid, don’t you?”

Levon came forward slowly, an apron around his waist, a price-punch in his hand. His eyes settled on Louis’s bruised face. “Did I do that to you?”

Louis shook his head. “No.”

Levon sighed. “Good.”

Roberta tapped him on the arm. “Tell the man.”

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I got my meds back now.”

Louis nodded slightly. “I hope not.”

Roberta turned toward the cash register. “Watch the front, Levon. I’ll be right back.”

Roberta motioned for Louis to follow her to the back. She led him to an office that was so small he could barely get the door closed behind him.

“Sorry for the mess. Today’s delivery day.” She sat down at a desk and opened her checkbook.

“You look like shit,” she said, writing. “You doing okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” he said.

She scribbled her name with elaborate curves and ripped the check from the book, holding it out to him.

“There you go.”

He looked down at it. All the way over here he had thought about what he would do with the money. He had told himself it was his, fair and square. But now it wasn’t that easy. He lifted his gaze to her face and let out a small sigh.

She heard it and narrowed her eyes. “Take it.”

Louis hesitated. “Mrs. Tatum . . .”

She stood and slapped it in his hand. “Don’t be stupid. Somebody offers you money, you take it.”

He fingered it, then met her eyes. “It just doesn’t seem right to take money from you when you’ve lost . . . your husband.”

Roberta put her hands on her hips. “You had nothing to do with me losing Walter. But you have a whole lot to do with how I get past it. Put the damn money in your pocket.”

She reached for the door, then looked at him. “I can afford it. Does that make you feel better?”

Louis smiled. “I guess. Thank you.”

She pulled open the door. “Now get out of here. I got a shitload of stuff to get out on those shelves out there.”

He followed her out, toward the front, putting the check in his pocket. She moved to a box of canned peas and he paused to watch her. She bent to rip open the box and started stacking the cans on the shelf. If she knew he was still there, she wasn’t going to say anything. Life was moving forward, he was now a part of her past.

“Excuse me, please.”

He turned to see a woman standing behind him. Her round body was draped in a bright muumuu, her eyes hidden behind black sunglasses. Silver bracelets tinkled on her wrists like the bell above the door.

“I just want to get to those,” she said, pointing.

Louis moved so she could get to the shelf of plastic trinkets.

“What do you think about this?” the woman said, holding out an ugly bird made out of shells.

“Very nice,” Louis said.

“I want to get a souvenir of this place,” the woman said. “I’ve enjoyed it so. It’s so nice and peaceful here.”

She put the bird back and plucked out a conch shell instead. She stared at it, heaving a heavy sigh.

“It’s so hard to go back to Wisconsin. All that snow and everything.” She looked up at him. “You know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I do,” he said.

Chapter Forty-seven

He left the car in the deli’s lot and walked down the street to the beach. The cloud cover had broken and shards of pink sun cut through the gray, but the beach was empty, the shell seekers abandoning the sand, the tourists retreating to the bars. Only a few hardy souls were walking along the surf, waiting to see if there might yet be a sunset worth witnessing.

Louis paused on the crest of the small dune. He hadn’t been back here since the day he and Emily had talked. He was remembering what she had said about being alone, about having to build a family if you didn’t have one. It occurred to him that he had never done that. As much as he cared for Phillip and Frances, he had always kept them at arm’s length, as if he didn’t quite trust himself to love them. They had put locks on his doors, always afraid he would run away. But he had anyway, even without leaving.

The storm had left the water green and churning, and the surf crashed and foamed on the hard, wet sand.

Down the beach, a little to the south, he could see the place where Harold Childers’s body had been found. He went to it and looked down. The sand was washed of footprints. It looked clean, pristine, untouched, and new.

He sat down among the swaying sea oats. He watched a group of sandpipers play tag with the surf and then turned his gaze out to the gulf.

So what will you do, Louis?

Go home.

To what? The rented cabin in Loon Lake? Another empty apartment in Detroit or some other city where he knew no one? The hope that, in ten or fifteen years, he might have a gold shield to hang on his shirt?

Twenty grand . . .

A cop didn’t take rewards. But he wasn’t a cop. Well, what the hell am I then?

“Excuse me.”

Louis turned. A man was standing on the dune behind him, hands on hips. He was wearing shorts, a bulky white sweater, and a plaid tam on his head. It took Louis a moment to recognize him. It was the Frenchman who had come down to the beach the morning they had found Harold Childers’s body.

“You can’t be here,” the Frenchman said. “This is propriété privée.”

“Can I sit down there?” Louis asked, pointing down toward the water.

“If you want,” the Frenchman said with a shrug. He paused, peering at Louis.

“I know you,” he said. “You were here with the dead man. You are le flic.”

“Yeah, I’m the flic,” Louis said.

“Things are better now, no?”

“Things are better now, yes.”

“Bon.”

Louis started to get up.

“No,” the Frenchman said. “You stay here.”

Louis nodded, easing himself back down to the sand. He looked back out at the churning green gulf. The wind was picking up and he zipped his jacket up to his chin. The pink streaks that had promised a sunset had faded, leaving only the gray bank of clouds low over the water.

“I don’t think there’s going to be a sunset,” Louis said.

The Frenchman shrugged. “There will be another tomorrow.” He turned and trudged back up toward the cabins.

Louis watched him go. He looked back out at the water.

Okay. All right. Maybe . . .

Maybe it was time to stop running away.

He glanced at his watch. Margaret would be waiting dinner on him. He could make it if he hurried.

He rose, dusting the sand from his jeans. He took one more look out at the water. The sun had slipped below the gray cloud bank. Maybe there would be a real sunset tomorrow.

He would come back and see.