Louis tried to recall what little he had read about serial killers. He had read something about how police departments were starting to use psychologists as consultants. They were calling them “profilers,” the idea being they could figure out the twisted minds of criminals by poking around in the messes they left.

“So you’re what’s called a profiler?” Louis asked.

She looked surprised he knew the term. “I prefer ‘forensic psychologist.’ ”

“Ah. A shrink,” Louis said.

She shook her head. “I’m not a doctor.”

You’re not a cop, either, Louis thought.

They were up on the bridge now, heading back toward Fort Myers.

“Wainwright doesn’t know any of this,” Emily said finally. “Unless he’s checked.”

“He hasn’t checked,” Louis said. “You going to tell him?”

She took off her glasses and began to clean them on the tail of her shirt. “I heard things about Dan Wainwright before I came. I think he is—” She stopped herself. “There are some people who aren’t open to new ideas.”

Louis let a few moments pass in silence. For a moment, he considered asking her what the hell OPR was. But he didn’t want Wainwright to think he was checking up on him. He also didn’t want to do anything to make this case harder than it already was. Men were dying and he didn’t want to waste time playing referee between Farentino and Wainwright. They needed to get going in the same direction.

“Listen, Farentino,” he said finally, “if I’ve learned one thing it’s that you don’t get much by muscling your way into things. We’re outsiders here, both of us. Wainwright is in charge, at least for now. You ought to respect that.”

She lasered her eyes back to Louis. “And how many more bodies do we bury while showing this respect?”

Louis tensed, a quick knot forming in his belly. How many more men are you going to bury, Chief Gibralter?

Did she know? Had she checked him out? Did she know what had happened back in Michigan? She knew about Wainwright. She had all the resources in the world at her fingertips. She could easily have checked out his background. He would have done the same thing.

He inhaled thinly, determined not to let her rattle him. He stared hard at the road, slowly allowing himself to digest her remark differently. He had to appreciate her sense of urgency; he felt the same thing. He was seeing faceless black men in his dreams. He didn’t want to see any more real ones.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “So let me hear your theory.”

“About what?” she asked.

“About how this guy picks his victims.”

“I need to study the pattern first.”

“There is no pattern,” Louis said. “We thought there was, but he keeps changing. Except for the day he kills.”

“Tuesday,” Emily said.

She was quiet for a moment. “He has two needs,” she said finally. “He needs a place to live where he won’t stand out. But he needs a place to do his work that’s secluded.”

Louis thought her choice of the word “work” was odd.

“I’d say he lives near Fort Myers Beach,” Emily went on. “It’s crowded there, with lots of tourists and transients, and he would blend in. He wouldn’t live on Captiva or Sereno. The locals would know him. Also, serial killers tend to dispose of bodies away from where they themselves live.”

“So you think he stalked them?”

“It fits the usual pattern. He seems very impatient. I don’t think he stalks them for days on end. I think he zeroes in on them and then follows them until he feels the moment is good.”

“Well, what about Tatum then?”

“What about him?”

“We think his murder was pure impulse.”

Emily closed the file on her lap. “Why would you think that?”

“Tatum was different than the other two. Tatum’s car broke down. When Wainwright’s men found it, the hood was still up, so we’re guessing Tatum was stranded there for a while before the killer came along.”

“Came along,” she said. “Just came along, conveniently armed with his shotgun and can of spray paint.”

Louis glanced at her, glad the sunglasses hid his eyes. “So you think Tatum was followed, like the others?”

“Yes.”

“From where?”

“That’s what we need to find out.”

Louis turned on his blinker as he slowed at a corner. She was making sense. Shit. Wainwright was going to love this.

Chapter Twenty-one

It was Emily’s idea to go see Roberta Tatum. When Louis told her that Roberta had already been questioned, Emily said simply, “Wives know things their husbands don’t know that they know.”

The Tatum home was a yellow stucco cottage, buried behind a riot of banana trees and purple bougainvillea vines. A storm was gathering over the bay by the time they arrived, and deep shadows moved in the junglelike yard where the windswept palm fronds played treble to the bass of approaching thunder.

They had called ahead and Roberta was waiting for them. She stood behind the wooden screen door, a stocky silhouette in a caftan of orange and green that billowed around her in the breeze. Her hair was concealed beneath a matching turban, giving her round, fresh-scrubbed face a stretched and youthful look.

Emily spoke first. “Mrs. Tatum, we’re sorry to bother you—”

“Have you found him?” Roberta said, her eyes going to Louis.

“Levon, or your husband’s killer?” Louis asked.

“Either.”

“No.”

Roberta sneered. “That’s what I thought.”

“May we come in, Mrs. Tatum?” Emily asked.

Roberta’s eyes slipped to Emily, then back to Louis. “Who’s she?”

“This is Agent Farentino. FBI.”

Roberta made no move to open the screen door. She was staring hard at Emily.

“Mrs. Tatum, please,” Louis said.

Roberta shoved open the door. “This is what they give Walter,” she said as she moved away. “A cookie and a meatball.”

Louis entered first and Emily followed slowly. He found himself in a small living room, with a kitchen off to his left. The rough-textured walls were painted a soft gold and the furniture was a pleasant mishmash of overstuffed sofas and rattan. A rainbow-hued Kilim rug covered the tile floor, and there were several beautiful wood sculptures around the room that looked to be good copies of African primitives. The jalousie windows were open to the breeze, and with each waft of air came the smell of stewing tomatoes and distant rain.

“You have a lovely home, Mrs. Tatum,” Emily said, edging forward through the archway. Louis followed, his gaze going past the tiny dining room to the open French doors that offered a glimpse of pool and greenery. He could hear wind chimes dancing.

Roberta grabbed a pack of cigarettes off an end table. “All right, what do you want?”

“The night your husband was killed—” Emily started.

Roberta’s sharp glance silenced her. Roberta waited until she was sure Emily didn’t plan to speak again, then looked at Louis.

“Where did Walter go when he left here?” Louis asked.

Roberta shrugged. “How would I know?”

“Give us a break here, Mrs. Tatum,” Louis said. “We’re here to help you. You told me you want this bastard found and we’re trying to do that.”

“You and I both know why they aren’t looking too damn hard.” Roberta turned away, picking a bit of tobacco carefully from her lip.

Louis could almost hear Emily bristle and he lifted a hand to keep her from intervening. She was no match for Roberta.

“We’re doing everything we can,” Louis said.

“It’s been almost a month,” Roberta said. “And what do you have? You can’t even find Levon.”

Louis rubbed his forehead. “We will.”

Roberta laughed softly. “I heard about your piggyback ride. I wish I could’ve seen it.”

“Mrs. Tatum,” Louis said slowly, “are you going to help us, or not?”

Roberta suddenly seemed deflated and she sat down, resting her forearms on her knees. The cigarette dangled from her long fingers.