“So. What time is your plane?” Dodie asked finally.

Louis glanced at his watch. “Two hours. Guess we’d better get going.”

“I’ll make you a sandwich,” Margaret said, setting the cat aside. “They only give you crackers now, you know. Me, I’ve never been on a plane, but that’s what I heard.”

“Peanuts,” Dodie said.

Margaret looked confused.

“Peanuts. On the plane,” Dodie said. “They give you peanuts, Margie, not crackers.”

“Peanuts, crackers. Still not enough for a man to eat. You still need a sandwich.”

“It’s okay—” Louis said, but Margaret was gone. Issy jumped down after her. Dodie came into the room and handed Louis the newspaper.

“Still no suspects,” he said. “Or any sign of Levon. And the black folk are asking for answers.”

Louis looked at the headline and then tossed the paper aside. “They’ll catch him.”

“Not interested?”

“It would only drive me nuts.”

Dodie sat down on the bed. “You could get work down here, Louis. You don’t have to go back up North.”

“Sam, we both know I can’t work down here, not at what I want to do.”

“Can’t work up there at what you want to do, neither, Louis.”

“Sam . . . please.”

Dodie nodded and started for the door. “I reckon I overstepped. Sorry.”

“You didn’t overstep—”

But Dodie was gone. Damn it.

Louis grabbed the suitcase and the cat carrier and walked to the living room. Dodie was nowhere to be seen, but Louis could pick up the smell of his cigar coming from the patio. He called for Issy and heard her meow from the kitchen. He went to the kitchen. The cat looked at him from between Margaret’s thick ankles.

“Come here, cat.”

Issy trotted away into the laundry room.

“Damn it,” Louis said.

Louis started after the cat. The phone rang. Margaret was busy making the sandwich and motioned for Louis to pick it up. It was Wainwright.

“Kincaid,” he said, “I just had a visit from one of the sheriff’s boys and I kind of put my foot in it. They want to help and I threw him out of my office. He pissed me off, Kincaid. I probably shouldn’t have done it, but it gave me a chance to do something I’ve been wanting to do since I met you.”

“Who is it?” Margaret asked.

“Go on, Chief,” Louis said.

Margaret scurried out of the room. Louis could hear her calling to Dodie.

“Do you want to stay and help me with this case?” Wainwright asked.

“Are you offering me a job?” Louis asked.

“Well, yeah, there’s one thing, though.”

Jesus. Background check. Reference check. Why did you leave your last job? He had to tell him.

“I can’t pay you much,” Wainwright said. “I got a little money in petty cash that I can funnel your way, and I’ll have to label you as a consultant or something until I can get the town to approve you being hired as anything else.”

Louis fell back against the wall. He glanced over to see Dodie and Margaret standing at the door.

“Kincaid? Can you live with that?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis said, smiling. “I can live with that.”

Chapter Eleven

Louis ducked under the Japanese lanterns and joined Wainwright and Dodie out on the lawn by the barbecue. Dodie was turning pieces of chicken. The sauce sizzled onto the coals, sending magnificent smells into the evening air.

Wainwright nudged Louis. “Can he cook?”

“I don’t know. Only food he ever offered me in Mississippi was a bowl of crawfish.”

Dodie glanced at him. “I never told you this, Louis, but you’re not suppose to eat the heads.”

Louis smiled. “I know that. Now.”

Wainwright looked confused and Dodie told the tale of how Louis bit off the head of a crawfish.

“Trying to impress me, he was,” Dodie said. “Well, better let this bird bake a few. Let’s go pop open some brews.”

They retreated to the patio and sat watching the sky darken, listening to the evening’s overture of frogs and crickets. Margaret came out, glanced at the three men, then went over to check the chicken.

“I just turned it, Margie.”

Margaret turned it again, then disappeared back into the house. Louis watched Dodie’s eyes as they followed her round body with open affection.

Wainwright sat forward in his chair. “Louis, you see this morning’s News-Press?”

Louis nodded.

“They’re calling it a racially motivated crime. A fucking anonymous source in the sheriff’s department,” Wainwright said. “Someone leaked it on purpose. They knew the reporter would jump on it.”

“But why would someone inside leak it?” Dodie asked.

“To put the screws on me, Sam,” Wainwright said. “Mobley wants the case and he knows if there’s enough pressure, I’ll have to give it to them.”

“That kind of talk is only gonna make everyone nervous,” Dodie said quietly.

“Just black men,” Louis said, taking a sip of beer.

“Well, do y’all believe that’s what it is?” Dodie asked.

Louis glanced at Wainwright, but he didn’t seem inclined to answer. “Racially motivated crimes are usually messages,” Louis said. “The offender is sending a message to a certain group that they are . . . unwelcome. The crimes are usually generalized and not normally filled with such rage.”

Wainwright was nodding. “Which is why I don’t think these murders fit. They seem personal somehow. My money’s still on Levon.”

“But you haven’t found any connection between the two men, have you?” Dodie asked.

“Just their race,” Wainwright said.

Louis hesitated. “It’s got to be more,” he said. “I think Tatum and Quick are connected, but only in the killer’s mind. They are symbols.”

“Of what?” Dodie asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe they are symbolic threats. Maybe the killer believes black men are taking something away from him, usurping his place.”

Margaret came back out and the three men remained silent while she gathered up empty beer bottles. When she was gone, Dodie spoke.

“How does this Levon fit in then?”

“I’m not so sure he does,” Louis said.

Wainwright took a drink of beer. “Well, I’m not ready to give up on Levon yet. He’s fucked up in the head. He’s capable of murder.”

“Levon doesn’t have motive. The why just isn’t there,” Louis countered.

Margaret came out onto the patio. “Sam, I’m almost ready in here. You keeping an eye on those birds?”

Dodie got up reluctantly and trudged out to the barbecue. Margaret went back inside.

“He wants to be included,” Wainwright said quietly, nodding after Dodie.

“I know,” Louis said. “I don’t know how much to tell him.”

“Have you told him about the details, like the black paint?”

Louis nodded. “But I explained that we’re keeping that from the press as a control.”

Wainwright nodded. They were silent for a moment.

“You know,” Louis said, “we have to consider the possibility that we have two perps.”

“We don’t have any evidence to indicate that.”

“We don’t have evidence to the contrary either,” Louis said. “The rain messed up the Tatum scene. And there was nothing at the overlook to say one way or the other.”

“The stab wounds are consistent with one killer. Same angle, same knife.”

Louis shook his head slowly. “That doesn’t mean someone else didn’t help. Most hate crimes aren’t committed by individuals. It’s usually a couple guys together.”

Wainwright gave a grunt and drained his beer. Dodie came back onto the patio.

“Couple of guys what?” Dodie asked, sitting down.

“Hate crimes,” Louis said. “It’s usually a group effort.”

“He’s right, Dan,” Dodie said. “These types are cowards and need to gather up their courage in packs. I mean, if I was you, I’d be looking for somebody with a hard-on toward black folk with a couple of buddies to help him out.”

“You got anybody like that around here?” Louis asked Wainwright.

Wainwright leaned back in the lawn chair. “A couple months ago, I arrested a guy named Van Slate.”