Thicker Than Water (17 page)

It was rare when he drank alone anymore. Since leaving Michigan, he had slacked off, and when he did drink, it was usually over at Timmy's Nook, where Bev treated him like a son and there were plenty of people to talk to. People who kept a man from thinking about the parts of his life that drove him to the bar in the first place.

But he wasn't in Timmy's now. He had wanted to go someplace where no one knew him and he didn't know anyone. So he had found his way over to Sereno Key and to the scarred wood bar of the Lazy Flamingo.

Louis picked up the Heineken and finished it off. He considered leaving, but didn't want to go home to the empty cottage. There was a ripple of laughter from the group in a booth as Billy Joel's “Innocent Man” came on the jukebox.

Louis waved at the bartender, a thin man with a shaggy mustache. “Hey, bring me a shot of brandy, would you?”

Louis's eyes drifted to the two men at the end of the bar. One was chubby, with a trim gray beard and a colorful tropical shirt. The other was younger, his blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. He wore a neon green tank top. They were laughing, the older man's arm on the younger man's shoulder.

The bartender set the shotglass in front of him. Louis reached for it, gulped it down and closed his eyes, giving a slight shiver as it burned its way down to his belly.

He was about to get up to go home when he felt a slap on the back and spun around.

Dan Wainwright's beefy face was grinning at him.

“Hey, Dan.” The words came out in an edgy breath.

“Jeez, you're jumpy. What the hell's the matter?” Wainwright said.

“Sorry. Thought you might be Jack Cade.”

“Cade? Why?”

“He's real pissed off at me right now.” Louis waved for the bartender. “What are you drinking? My treat.”

“I wasn't. I just got here and saw you sitting here. Bud's fine.”

Wainwright waited until the bartender brought their drinks. “I heard you're working for Cade's defense.”

Louis waited for the look of reproach, but there was none in the Sereno chief's eyes.

“I was. He fired me today.”

“What did you do to piss him off?”

“Long story,” Louis muttered.

Wainwright didn't press it. Instead, he gave Louis a smile. “It's good to see you,” he said. “I've been meaning to call you.”

“Same here,” Louis said.

They fell into an awkward silence that was broken by a trio of laughing women who had squeezed up next to Wainwright. Wainwright tapped Louis on the shoulder and motioned toward a booth, walking away.

Louis sucked down the second brandy, then picked up his water glass and followed.

Wainwright settled into the booth and Louis slid in across from him, his gaze drawn to the window. It was a pitch-black, moonless night, and the green and pink floodlights cast a surreal glow on the fluttering palms.

“So why'd Cade fire you?” Wainwright asked.

Louis rubbed his face. “I accused his son Ronnie of murdering Kitty Jagger.”

Wainwright's expression didn't change, but his eyebrow twitched. “Can you prove it?”

“There was a semen sample and it's disappeared. I can't prove shit without it.”

Wainwright took a drink. “What semen?”

“The shit inside her,” Louis said, irritated. Then he realized that Wainwright didn't have a clue as to what he was talking about. Susan was right. No one gave a rat's ass about the Kitty Jagger case. It was ancient history, yesterday's papers.

He let out a breath. “Sorry, Dan,” he said. “Bad day.”

Wainwright put up a hand. “No problem. Tell me about this sample thing.”

Louis hesitated. He wanted to talk about Kitty, but no one had wanted to hear it. Maybe Wainwright would understand.

“Two semen samples were taken,” he said. “One from Kitty Jagger's panties, the other vaginal. The results from the vaginal sample are missing from the original police files.”

“The state lab?”

“No record. I tried. No one has a record anywhere.”

“The prosecutor's office would have it.”

“Yeah, Vern Sandusky is just going to hand it over. Right.”

“He might.”

“Give me a break, Dan. There isn't a prosecutor in the world who would voluntarily reopen a case where there's been a conviction. You know that.”

“What about Spencer Duvall's records? He would have it too.”

Louis looked up, his mind trying to work through the slosh of the brandy. “Mobley has that.”

“What?”

“Jack Cade's old legal file. It was on Spencer Duvall's desk when he was shot, so the cops took it.”

Wainwright took a long swallow of beer. “Kiss that idea goodbye. Mobley's an idiot.”

Louis shook his head. “Maybe not. I might be able to convince Mobley to let me take a look.”

Wainwright leaned back in the booth, considering Louis. “I got to ask you this, Louis.”

“What?”

“Why bother? Why bust your balls on a closed case?”

Louis stared at him. “Because someone has to, damn it.”

Wainwright drew back ever so slightly. And the look on his face was the same as the one Louis had seen on Susan's, like he was nuts or obsessed or something.

Louis rose abruptly and went to the bar. He returned with another shot and a beer. He didn't look at Wainwright as he sat down.

“Look, Louis,” Wainwright said. “Cade probably did you a favor. He's a loser, so is his son. So's the case.”

Louis took a breath. He didn't want to be angry at Wainwright. He wanted him to understand. “Dan, it's important to know who killed her,” he said slowly.

“To who, Louis? The girl's dead twenty years and I hear her old man is just a walking zombie. Who cares?”

Louis reached for the shotglass, hesitated, then brought it to his lips. It went down easier than the last.

“A piece of advice, Louis,” Wainwright said. “Let it go.”

“Can't,” Louis said, his eyes on the scarred wood tabletop. He knew Wainwright was looking at him. He heard him let out a sigh.

“I gotta take a piss. Be right back.”

Louis watched Wainwright trudge off to the rear of the bar. He leaned back, shutting his eyes. Shit, maybe he was going nuts. He was seeing things in his head, that much was clear. He was seeing the lonely confusion in Willard Jagger's eyes. He was seeing the shadow of sadness in Joyce Novick's eyes. He was seeing the question in Eric Cade's angry eyes as he watched his father and grandfather: Which one of you killed her?

And he was seeing her. She was in his head, day and night now, walking around like a ghost, pink checks and peppermint lipstick, whispering to him.

“Louis?”

He looked up. Wainwright's face was green in the neon light.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” He sat up, pulling the beer bottle toward him.

Wainwright slid back in across from him. A new song drifted above the murmur of the bar, Van Morrison singing about his Tupelo honey. Louis watched two young guys and their dates playing the ring-toss game over in the corner. The two guys were drunk and weren't coming even close to swinging the ring up to catch the hook. The girls were doubled over with laughter.

“They don't know how fast it all can change,” Louis murmured.

“What?”

Louis glanced at Wainwright. “Nothing.”

They sat in uneasy silence for a long time. Finally, Wainwright cleared his throat. “So, you talked to Farentino at all?”

Emily Farentino had been the Miami FBI agent who had worked the Paint It Black case with them. Louis had promised to keep in touch, but he hadn't.

“No,” Louis said. “Have you?”

“Yeah, I called her awhile back. She's doing okay. She asked how you were.”

The conversation stalled again. Louis ran a hand over his eyes. What the hell was the matter with him? Why was he always pushing people away? Farentino, Wainwright, even the Dodies. Why was he afraid to let anyone get close?

He glanced at Wainwright, who was gazing out over the bar. Shit, he knew why he hadn't called Wainwright in the last six months. It was because he had never worked up the guts to tell him the truth about what had happened up in Michigan. He had been too damn afraid of another cop's censure. Especially a cop he liked and respected.

“Dan,” Louis said.

Wainwright looked back at him.

“There's something I need to tell you.” Louis drew in a deep breath, shaking his head. “Man, this is hard,” he said softly.

Wainwright just waited.

“I never told you what I did when I was working up in Michigan,” Louis said.

“I already know, Louis,” Wainwright said. “We all do.”

Louis sat back in the booth. “You don't condemn me?”

“Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. Even cops.”

Louis saw something pass over Wainwright's eyes. He remembered the case that had caused Wainwright to crack when he was with the FBI—the Raisin River serial child killer, Harlan Skeen. Wainwright had cornered Skeen in a bathroom and shot him to death.

“You talking about Skeen?” Louis asked.

“Yeah. I took things into my own hands that day. It was the only way there was going to be any justice.” He took a drink of beer. “I don't regret it.”

Louis was quiet. He couldn't tell Wainwright what he was thinking. Wainwright had done more than take justice into his own hands; he had broken the law. It wasn't the same as what he himself had done in Michigan; he had killed another cop to save a kid nobody cared about. But he hadn't broken the law.

Louis studied Wainwright's creased face. Even through the brandy haze, he could see that something had changed since he had last seen Wainwright. The Paint It Black case had stirred up a lot of hard memories for Wainwright. But he looked better now, almost peaceful.

“How things going for you lately, Dan?” he asked.

Wainwright looked at him surprised. “What do you mean?”

“I haven't seen you in a while, that's all. Just wanted to know how things have been.”

Wainwright shrugged. “Same old shit. Job's good. Things are real quiet.” He took a drink of his beer and set the bottle down. He was tapping his fingers lightly on the table.

“I went back to Michigan and saw my son over Thanksgiving,” Wainwright added suddenly.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I called him, and he seemed open to a visit. So I went up there.”

Louis nodded. He remembered that Wainwright had not seen his grown son in years, not since the death of Wainwright's wife. He could only imagine how hard it had been for an emotionally constipated guy like Wainwright to make an overture toward an estranged son.

“So, it went okay?” Louis asked.

“Yeah,” Wainwright said. “It was . . . good.”

Louis picked at the label on the Heineken bottle. “What made you do it?” he asked.

Wainwright just looked at him.

“Sorry. It's none of my business.”

“What made me call my son?”

“Yeah.”

Wainwright put his arm across the back of the booth, making a poor attempt to look cool.

Louis raised his beer bottle. “Never mind. Forget I asked.”

“No, I want to answer you, I'm just trying to figure out how.”

Wainwright drew his arm off the booth. “I don't know why the fuck I finally did it,” he said. “I think it was because deep down I knew I had been a lousy father, that I hadn't been there for my kid.”

Louis blinked slowly, trying to clear his mind. It was weird hearing personal stuff come out of Wainwright's mouth.

“I mean, I knew I couldn't change the past,” Wainwright went on, “but I wanted to try to do something about the future. My son has his own son now. I didn't want him not knowing me, not knowing who he came from.”

A man should know what kind of blood flows through his veins.

The beer and the brandy were making his stomach churn. Louis leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes to steady things. For a moment, he just sat as still as possible, trying to let the room catch up. When he finally opened his eyes, Wainwright was gone. Louis saw him at the bar getting two more shots. He sat down, setting one shot in front of Louis.

“I was a foster child,” Louis said suddenly.

Wainwright seemed to go stiff and his eyes wavered. Then he dropped his gaze to the table, his fingers drawing the cocktail napkin into his fist.

Louis could feel his heart pounding. He wanted the words back. It was like admitting he was a fucking leper or something. Shit, talk about emotionally constipated.

“Did you know your father?” Wainwright asked.

“No.”

Louis started to reach for the shot, but drew his hand back, wiping his mouth. He didn't need any more. His belly burned and he wanted to move, get up, go home, but he wasn't sure he could stand.

“What's his name?” Wainwright asked.

“Jordan Kincaid.”

“You ever try to find him?”

Louis shook his head slowly. The jukebox sounds seemed dull and distorted. The neon lights above the bar began to quiver and the palm fronds were flapping against the window.

“You want me to try?” Wainwright asked.

Louis didn't trust himself to look at Wainwright. He just shook his head and stared at the palm fronds beating against the dark glass.

He heard Wainwright let out a heavy sigh, then ease himself up out of the booth. He could feel Wainwright's eyes on him.

“You ready?”

Louis looked up.

Wainwright picked up his shot, took one last swig and set it down. “Come on. I'll drive you.”

“I can get home.”

“You'll put that Mustang of yours in the bay, if you try. Let's go.”

Louis struggled to his feet, reaching back for the shotglass, but Wainwright put a hand on his arm.