Paint It Black

Chapter Thirty-one

Patsy Cline’s contralto drifted out of the house, floated over the canal, and dissipated in the balmy night air. The mangroves were black lace against a lavender sky.

Louis watched the family across the canal cleaning up after their barbecue, the kids rolling on the grass like puppies while the mother tried to herd them inside. They appeared to be acting out parts in a silent movie, their movements overlaid with music.

The sliding glass door opened and Louis looked up to see Dodie coming out, a sandwich and beer in his hand.

“I didn’t know you were home,” Dodie said. “We didn’t wait supper on ya. You ate yet?”

Louis shook his head. “Not hungry, thanks.”

“Mind if I sit?”

Louis motioned toward the lounge. Patsy Cline had launched into “How Can I Face Tomorrow?” Louis heard Margaret’s voice warble in sync with Patsy’s.

“Margaret really likes her country music,” Louis said.

Dodie stared at him. “You don’t?”

“It’s all about drunks and losers and ugly dogs. Pretty pathetic stuff, don’t you think?”

“Some folks would think cop work is pretty pathetic, too. It’s just life.”

“And death,” Louis said.

Dodie nodded. “I suppose.”

Louis stood up and went to the edge of the patio. The thick curtain of night had descended. The family across the way had gone in, turning off their porch lights. The glow of their television danced in the darkness.

“Sam, I need some advice,” Louis said.

“Sure.”

“Dan’s not who I thought he was.”

“Folk seldom are.”

Louis turned. “No, I mean, he’s not strong as I thought. I think he’s losing his grip on this case.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Dodie asked. “Is he sick?”

“No, but he’s not handling things well,” Louis said. “He blew up at Mobley and today, he took off Farentino’s head. Told her she didn’t have a clue about what she was doing. But Farentino provokes him. Called him an old fart.”

Dodie made a face.

“They’re at each other’s throats, Sam,” Louis said, “and I’m sick of playing referee.”

“You can’t talk to them?” Dodie asked.

Louis shook his head. “But that’s not all. Dan told me some stuff today, some things that happened on the job in the past. He left the bureau as a burn-out after a tough case. He came down here to escape and for five years that’s what he’s done. Now this shit has hit him in the face and I think it’s getting to him.”

Dodie had set his sandwich aside. “You saying he doesn’t know what he’s doing?”

Louis frowned. “Not exactly. He’s worked a dozen homicides, but it’s like he’s lost his nerve. I’m not so sure he won’t break completely if we can’t catch this guy pretty soon.”

“Maybe you ought to convince him to hand it off to that Sheriff Mobley fella.”

Louis shook his head. “That would make things worse. Mobley’s an idiot.”

“Well, somebody’s gotta lead, Louis.”

“There’s Chief Horton over in Fort Myers,” Louis said. “He’s a good cop but he really doesn’t have a stake in this whole thing.” He drew in a breath. “This is a fucking mess.”

Margaret had turned off the music inside. The frogs had filled the silence with their own chorus of creaks and peeps.

“Louis,” Dodie said.

Louis turned.

“Come sit down.”

Louis came back and took the chair next to Dodie. The Japanese lanterns weren’t lit and Louis could barely make out Dodie’s face in the light coming in from the kitchen. He was lying back in the lounge chair, the beer in his hand.

“I was seventeen when my daddy was shot and killed,” Dodie said. “It happened real sudden and everyone in the family rushed over to the house, and there was a might good number of them, too. Aunts, uncles, nephews, and even my sister managed to get herself home that weekend.”

Louis was glad Dodie couldn’t see his face clearly. He really didn’t want to hear one of Dodie’s old stories right now.

“They all sat around crying and making promises to Momma,” Dodie went on. “Promises about taking care of the farm, making the car payments, bringing her food, and just plain making sure she didn’t suffer too much. I had an Uncle Isaac who said he’d take care of the finances for her.”

Dodie looked down at his beer bottle. “A few weeks after the burial, the casseroles stopped coming, the car was repossessed, and Momma found out Uncle Isaac had taken all her money out of the bank and headed to New Orleans.”

“What did you do?” Louis asked.

Dodie pressed his lips together. “I wasn’t known for taking charge of things in those days, but I knew I couldn’t let the land go to the bank. So I quit school and went to work. Most folks thought I dropped out to marry Margie, but that wasn’t it.”

A long-forgotten image came back to Louis. Ethel Mulcahey, hunched over her high school annual, showing him pictures of her classmate, Sam Dodie. He dropped out of school to marry Margaret Sue Purdy. We all knew she was pregnant.

Louis shook his head. Small towns and their small secrets.

“I did it to save that farm for Momma, so she could pass on there,” Dodie said. “Which she did eight years later.”

“You gave up a lot,” Louis said.

Dodie gave a small shrug. “It wasn’t just saving the farm. It was saving Momma.”

They sat for a few minutes, listening to the frogs. Louis lifted his bottle to his lips. It was empty. He heard the scrape of the lounge and looked over to see Dodie hoisting himself up.

“Well, I’m going in,” he said.

“Sam.”

Dodie looked down.

“What should I do?” Louis asked.

“Save the farm,” Dodie said. He picked up the sandwich plate and the empty beer bottles. “See you in the morning, Louis.”

Dodie went inside. Louis leaned his head back on the chair, closing his eyes. Save the farm. Okay, so maybe he had to take charge. But how? He had no real authority here. He didn’t even have a badge, just a damn ID card.

He couldn’t do an end run around Wainwright. But he couldn’t just sit back and do nothing, hoping Dan could hold the investigation-and himself-together long enough to catch this monster.

He felt something brush his leg and he looked down. Issy was curling against his shin. The cat sat down and looked up at him, its eyes catching the kitchen light like road reflectors.

Damn. He knew what he had to do. The only problem was getting up the guts to do it. He glanced at his watch. With a sigh, he hoisted himself up from the chair, went inside, and grabbed the car keys off the kitchen counter.

The porch light went on and the door opened.

“Kincaid, what are you doing here?” Wainwright asked.

“I’d like to talk, Dan. Can I come in?”

Wainwright swung the screen wide. “Sure, sure.”

Louis paused in the small foyer. The living room off to his right was small but comfortable looking. The worn furniture looked more suited to a northern colonial than a Florida bungalow. There were a few generic landscapes on the walls and a bookcase filled with books that looked untouched. On the mantel above the coral rock fireplace there were three framed photographs, a teenage boy and girl that looked like graduation pictures, and a formal portrait of a pretty brunette woman. A TV tray was set up in front of a battered Barcalounger. Cheers was on.

“Am I interrupting your dinner?” Louis asked.

“No, I’m finished,” Wainwright said, going to the tray and picking up his plate. He started to the kitchen. “You want anything? Beer? Soda?”

“No, nothing. Thanks.”

Wainwright reappeared. “Sit down, sit down,” he said, moving a stack of papers off a chair and turning the sound off on the TV.

Louis perched on the edge of the chair, his eyes wandering to the television screen. Carla was beating Cliff Clavin on the head with a dishrag.

“So?” Wainwright said.

“What do you think of the idea of forming a task force?” Louis asked.

Wainwright looked down at his beer, pursing his lips. “Okay,” he said quietly.

“I think we need to coordinate all the efforts, Dan,” Louis said. “We’re spinning our wheels here.”

Wainwright looked up at him. “Is that all?”

“What do you mean?” Louis asked.

“I mean, is that your only reason?”

“We need-” Louis looked over at the television for a moment, then came back to Wainwright. “We need all the help we can get on this.”

“And who do you see heading this task force?” Wainwright asked.

Louis forced himself to meet Wainwright’s eyes. “Someone neutral,” he said.

“Horton,” Wainwright said.

“I think that would be best,” Louis said.

Wainwright’s blue eyes didn’t blink. But he gave an almost imperceivable nod of his head. “You sure you don’t want a beer?” he asked.

Louis shook his head.

“Well, I do.” He rose slowly and went to the kitchen. Louis heard the refrigerator opening. He glanced down and saw a stack of case files on the floor next to the lounger. They looked untouched.

Wainwright came back, holding the can of beer. He didn’t sit down.

“We’ll call Horton in the morning.” He paused. “Thanks for coming by.”

Louis hesitated. Wainwright’s voice had a slightly clipped sound to it. Louis was being dismissed. He started to say something, but changed his mind. He rose and went to the door. Wainwright followed him.

As he stepped outside, Louis turned. “Dan-”

“Good night, Louis.”

Wainwright closed the door.