“They talked to me. But I didn’t talk to them.”

“Why not?”

She smiled. “They didn’t buy my jumbos.”

Chapter Fourteen

Louis walked in the door to the Sereno Key station and paused, looking around for somewhere to put the shrimp. Greg Candy looked up from his desk, spotting the bag in Louis’s hand.

“Those look good. Where’d you get them?” he asked.

“From the shrimp woman at the wharf. Cost me forty-five bucks to find out Quick stopped there after his fishing trip. You guys got a fridge?” Louis asked.

“Yeah.” Candy came forward and took them from Louis.

Louis headed toward the bathroom to wash his hands. He walked into Wainwright’s office, still drying them. He stopped short at the door. Wainwright was seated at his desk and two black men stood in front of him, both in dark suits and ties. The taller of the two was slender and bald, with an earring in his right ear. The other one was built like a wrestler.

Wainwright caught Louis’s eye and waved him in.

“Kincaid, this is Oscar Mills,” Wainwright said, motioning toward the taller one. “And Wallace Seaver. Southwest Florida NAACP. Gentlemen, Louis Kincaid.”

Mills looked back at Wainwright. “And his position is?”

“Consultant.”

Seaver and Mills gave Louis the once-over as he came farther into the room.

Wainwright handed Louis a newspaper, folded to an inside page. Louis scanned it quickly. It was an editorial that took all the local law enforcement agencies to task for their failure to officially acknowledge the two murders as hate crimes.

Louis looked back at Seaver and Mills. “I see their point,” he said. “But right now, we’re not sure what we’re looking at.”

“The chief already made that point,” Mills said. “We disagree.”

Louis glanced at Wainwright.

“We’re doing all we can,” Wainwright said. “We’ve committed as much manpower as we can to the case, and we’ve got a couple of solid leads we’re pursuing.”

It wasn’t true. They didn’t have anything really, and Louis resisted the urge to look at Wainwright again.

“We’re not here to bust your chops, Chief,” Mills said. “We’re here to offer our help.”

“How?” Wainwright asked.

Mills set his briefcase on the desk and withdrew a file. He held it out to Louis, who stepped forward to take it. It was filled with computer sheets, mailing lists, bad copies of white supremacist literature, and photos of white men.

“We’ve compiled this over the last few years,” Mills said. “We like to know who’s hiding under the proverbial rocks, if you get my meaning. There are a hundred and five names there, all confirmed to be members of various white power organizations or convicted of race-related crimes.”

Louis looked up from the file, glancing at Wainwright. He looked mildly annoyed.

“Have you shown this file to anyone else?” Louis asked Mills.

“No. We hoped you would act on it first. We don’t want to have to release these men’s names to the media. But we will if we have to.”

Louis stared at Mills. “They’re not suspects yet, Mr. Mills,” he said. “At least not in these murders.”

“We just want you to do your job.”

Louis glanced at Wainwright. It was obvious Wainwright was going to let him take the lead on this.

“We’ll check into all of them. You have our word,” Louis said.

Mills nodded and snapped his briefcase shut. He extended his hand. Wainwright rose and shook both men’s hands. They left.

Louis waited for Wainwright to say something. Wainwright moved to the watercooler.

“Do our jobs,” he muttered.

“They’re just doing theirs,” Louis said.

“I know, but I just hate outside interference, especially from people who don’t know a damn thing about police work. Everything’s so damn political with them.”

“Them?”

Wainwright turned. “Outsiders. District attorneys. Civil liberty groups. Activists. Bleeding hearts. Reporters. Mayors. All of them.”

“You getting more pressure?”

Wainwright came back to the desk and slid into his chair. “Mayor Westoff called this morning. Said he’d been hounded by reporters and he’s tired of listening to Hugh Van Slate. Wanted to know if we had any suspects.”

Louis held out the folder. “Tell him we got a hundred and five of them.”

Wainwright smiled weakly. “Right. I guess I should go over there and talk to him, try to calm him down.”

Candy poked his head in the door. “Chief, someone wants to see you.”

“Now who?”

“Matt Van Slate,” Candy said.

Wainwright glanced up at Louis. “Did you see Van Slate today?”

“This morning. Didn’t get anything.”

“Let him in,” Wainwright said to Candy. Wainwright stood up as Van Slate appeared at the door.

Van Slate’s eyes shot to Louis.

“I want to file a complaint against him,” he said, pointing.

“Really?” Wainwright said. “What’d he do?”

“He hassled me. Put me in a choke hold.”

“And I’ll bet you didn’t do anything to provoke it, right, Van Slate?”

Van Slate came toward them. “That’s right. Nothing.”

“Why do I find that hard to believe, Van Slate?”

“I got witnesses that’ll say I never touched him,” Van Slate said. “And I know my rights and I know what you guys can do and can’t do. I want his file to have a complaint in it. I want him suspended or something.”

Wainwright put his hands on his hips. “Well, Matt, my friend, we got a problem then. I can’t discipline him for anything. Kincaid is not a cop. He’s a private citizen. If you got a beef with him, you’ll have to sue him.”

Van Slate glared at Louis. Then he thrust a finger at Louis.

“We’ll meet again.”

“You’re starting to repeat yourself, Van Slate,” Louis said.

Van Slate turned and stalked out.

“He’s a jerk,” Louis said.

“Did he take a swing at you? Draw a weapon?” Wainwright asked.

“No.”

“Did you?”

Louis hesitated. “I used a show of force.”

Wainwright moved to the door, closing it softly. He faced Louis.

“Look, Louis, I know this might be hard, but you have to play it smart right now.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s like I told you at the hospital after you chased down Levon. You don’t have the protection of a badge anymore. That means little credibility for you when it comes to who’s telling the truth. If he had been smart enough to want to press criminal charges, I would’ve had to take his statement.”

Louis sighed. Neither he, Wainwright, nor the investigation needed shit like this right now.

Louis nodded slowly. “Sorry.”

“No more assaults on suspects,” Wainwright said. “Not in front of witnesses, anyway.”

There was a knock on the door.

“Now what?” Wainwright said in exasperation. “Come in!”

Candy poked his head in. “Chief, there’s someone else here to see you.”

“Jesus, can’t it wait, Candy? I’ve got to—”

“I don’t think so, Chief. It’s Mrs. Quick.”

“Mrs. Quick? Anthony Quick’s wife? Shit,” he said softly. “Show her in, Candy.” Wainwright looked at Louis. “Stick around, okay?”

Louis nodded.

She came slowly into the office, a small woman in a blue dress, carrying a black wool coat over her arm. Her soft brown eyes went from Wainwright to Louis questioningly.

“I . . . I spoke to someone on the phone a couple days ago,” she began. “I’m Anita Quick, Anthony’s wife.”

Wainwright came forward, holding out a chair. “That was me you spoke with, Mrs. Quick, I’m Chief Dan Wainwright. Sit down, please.”

Louis watched her closely. He had seen the look on her face before, back on the force in Ann Arbor. It was a stunned look of calm that took over people when they were trying to hold on to reality while their brains were screaming in disbelief. He had come to think of it as the grief mask.

Anita Quick looked like her mask was about to break. Louis glanced at Wainwright. He looked suddenly wound too tight, and his blue eyes, even as they were focused on the woman before him, signaled that he was somewhere else.