Paint It Black

Chapter Five

There was garbage everywhere. Beer bottles, soda cans, bits of Styrofoam coolers, McDonald’s wrappers, fishing line, broken flip-flops, Cheet-Os bags, rotting bait fish, and used Pampers. It lay there in the rocks at the water’s edge, a blob of color and stench, baking in the hot sun. Up on the causeway, the sun glistened on the silvery water. But there, just three feet below, the place where Walter Tatum had taken his last breath was a cesspool of human detritus.

Louis stood up on the swale looking down at it. Someone had already ripped down the yellow police tape and it lay tangled in with the junk. The rest of the shoreline didn’t appear so littered. Wainwright came up to stand beside him.

“How come there’s so much junk here?”

Wainwright shrugged. “The way the tide goes. It gets caught here for some reason. Usually, the crews clean it out.”

“Were you able to get anything from this?” Louis asked.

“We hauled two bags out of here after we took the body. This stuff is all new.” Wainwright kicked a bottle down into the rocks. “People are pigs,” he said.

Louis shielded his eyes to look down the causeway road. There was light traffic, a few fishermen casting nets in the surf a couple hundred yards away. “Who found the body?” he asked.

“Some kid fishing. It hadn’t been here long, the ME figures less than twelve hours maybe.”

Louis stared at the nearby trees-some sea grapes and tall scraggly pines that didn’t offer any real cover. “I don’t think this was planned,” Louis said. “If someone had planned to kill Walter Tatum, they wouldn’t have picked this place.”

“They would if they were following him,” Wainwright said. “The wires on the distributor cap were loose. We know someone pulled up behind him, but it was too wet to get a tread.”

Wainwright motioned toward the sand and gravel alongside the road. “He was shot here, then he was dragged, still alive, over there. That’s where he was stabbed and beaten.”

Louis kicked at the shells and gravel. Why shoot someone in the leg out in the open on the road? Why not shoot him in the chest and get it over with? Why use precious time to stab someone you could have killed instantly with a shotgun? And why the torturous postmortem beating? Maybe Wainwright was right. Maybe the murder was personal.

“What gauge shotgun?” Louis asked.

“Don’t know. ME isn’t done yet. I’m expecting the report later today or tomorrow.”

Louis glanced at Wainwright. “You really think Roberta Tatum is this smart? Or even this lucky?” he asked.

“I think she’s that mean.”

Louis sighed and started back toward Wainwright’s cruiser. He heard Wainwright’s radio go off and someone say something about a suspect.

Wainwright shoved the radio back in his belt. “We got him.”

“Who?” Louis asked. “The brother?”

“Yup. Walked right up in front of my surveillance team at Roberta’s store. Let’s go.”

He didn’t act like a wanted man. Hanging out in the shade of a gumbo limbo tree, Levon Baylis drew slowly on his cigarette and watched the blue puffs drift lazily above his head. He glanced to his right, not suspiciously, but out of boredom, tired of waiting on someone.

Reaching under a baggy orange T-shirt, he scratched at his stomach, hefted his balls, then walked a few feet across the sandy parking lot, coming out of the shadows. The sun glinted off his bald head. He was a big man, no less than six-three, with gleaming biceps and thick legs.

For a moment, Louis thought he was heading into the grocery. It was a small wooden structure, painted blue and white, with ISLAND DELI AND LIQUOR above the window. But then Levon headed toward the back.

Louis glanced at Wainwright. He calmly picked up the mike and radioed the surveillance car to stand by. He killed the ignition.

“Don’t forget, you’re only an observer,” Wainwright said.

Louis nodded and the cruiser’s doors opened. Wainwright started across the street at a stiff trot, Louis a few feet to his left. Levon heard the doors slam and looked up at them.

A thick stream of smoke rose from his lips as his mind tried to grasp what was happening. His eyes scoured the street for an escape route.

He chose backward, through the store.

Louis ran up the wooden steps, slamming into the door ahead of the others. Someone screamed and a bottle fell somewhere behind him. A flash of orange and another slammed door.

Louis jumped over a stack of Budweiser, skidded around a corner, and stopped cold in a dimly lit storage room. He pulled in a quick breath, then ran forward, hearing a clamor of footsteps behind him. Radio traffic filled the small store and suddenly there was a rush of voices and bodies.

A door banged open, flooding the room with sunlight, and Levon was gone. Louis followed him out, blinking against the sun.

He spotted Levon sprinting down the dusty street, his powerful legs pumping. Louis knew he wasn’t going to catch him. Then, suddenly, there was a kid on a bike, and Levon went crashing into him.

The kid skidded into the dirt and Levon scrambled to his feet. There was just enough time. Louis launched himself, sailed over a trash can, and fell on Levon’s back. It knocked the air out of him but he hung on. But Levon was not going down. Louis clung to his back, feeling the man tense to buck him off.

One of Wainwright’s men caught up and grabbed Levon’s arm, but Levon threw him into a fence as if he were a bag of laundry. Louis clung to Levon’s back.

“Stop!” Louis grunted. “Stop!”

“Fuck you! Get off me!”

Levon veered and slammed his shoulder-and Louis-into a tree.

“Shit!” Louis yelled, gripping Levon’s thick neck.

Levon lunged to his right now, crushing Louis again against another palm tree.

Pain shot through his back. He couldn’t breathe. But he hung on as Levon dragged him down the street.

Suddenly they were out in bright sun. Louis could see a flash of silver blue. Water, they were near water. He was slipping and he dug his fingers into Levon’s neck, trying to put pressure on his throat, but he couldn’t get a grip. Levon staggered out onto a dock, jerked around, and slammed his body into a piling. Louis lost his grip and flew off the dock.

He bounced against a boat and hit the water face-first. Salt water rushed into his nose and he fought his way to the surface. He shook the water off, gasping for breath. It took a second for him to realize he could touch bottom.

Suddenly, he heard the sound of a motor. He spun around and saw Levon crouched in a small motorboat. Levon hit the throttle and the boat churned away.

Louis dragged himself up onto the dock. His face was hot with humiliation, his shoulder was on fire, and there was a strong ache creeping up his back. He heard voices and looked up to see Wainwright and the deputy who had been hurled into the fence running down the dock toward him.

They stopped short and watched as Levon’s motorboat became a glint against the shimmering water.

“Notify the sheriff, Candy,” Wainwright said tightly. “Tell him Levon is heading east from Sutter’s Marina toward the mainland. Kill the roadblocks on the causeway. And see if you can find the owner of that boat. Go!”

Candy spun away. Wainwright went over to Louis, who was sitting on the dock, head bowed.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I think.” He couldn’t move his shoulder. It was probably dislocated. “You have any idea where he’s going?” Louis asked.

Wainwright squinted toward the far shore. “Depends on how much gas he’s got. There’s a million places he could put in.”

Louis wiped his face. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t hold him.”

Wainwright pulled his gaze from the shoreline back to Louis. He held out a hand. “You’re lucky he didn’t kill you,” he said flatly. “You saved me a lot of paperwork.”