Paint It Black

Chapter Eighteen

The large bulletin board took up the entire wall near the watercooler. Wainwright told Louis he had put it up that morning, and this was the first time Louis had seen it.

It was divided into three columns, one for each victim, and covered with photos and colored note cards. Wainwright had told him it was a method he learned back at the bureau.

Louis stared at the cards. If there was a system to the color code, he couldn’t figure it out. He was reading a yellow card that detailed Anthony Quick’s job when Wainwright came in from the bathroom.

“What are the yellow ones for?” Louis asked, pointing.

“Background. Maybe we’ll find a thread,” Wainwright answered. “You want some coffee?”

Louis shook his head as he went back to reading the cards. Wainwright yelled out the door for Myrna the dispatcher to bring him a coffee.

“I got a call from the bureau yesterday,” Wainwright said. “We’re not getting Elliott.”

“Why not?” Louis asked, turning.

“They didn’t say. They’re sending someone else, though. Named Farentino. Out of the Miami office.”

Wainwright fell silent. His old chair squeaked as he rocked it back and forth. Louis took a chair opposite the desk and stared at the colored cards on the bulletin board.

“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 penny, and large black-rimmed glasses perched on a small freckled nose. The black suit and white shirt showed the wear and tear of the drive from Miami, but there was no mistaking what it didn’t hide. Agent Farentino was a woman.

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 Inn down the road,” he said briskly. “I can have one of the men-”

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.