Horton left and they made their way back to the lobby and outside. They stood on the sidewalk, breathing in the cool, damp night air.

“He might go underground after this,” Wainwright said, breaking the silence.

“Why?” Louis asked.

“This one got away. It could make him nervous.”

“Or just madder,” Louis said. “I’ve got a feeling this isn’t going to make a difference one way or the other. I think he’s going right back out hunting.”

Wainwright shook his head, looking at the squad cars parked at the curb.

“White,” Louis said. “He said he’s white.”

“Yeah, a white guy with long, greasy hair,” Wainwright said quietly. “Shit. I don’t know what to think now.”

Louis looked at Farentino. She was staring at the ground.

“What about you, Farentino?” Louis asked.

She wouldn’t look up.

“Farentino?” Louis repeated.

Emily lifted her head. “I think we just wasted two days,” she said.

Chapter Twenty-eight

“Tell me again about this guy, Van Slate,” Farentino said, as she turned a corner.

Louis loosened his grip on the armrest and reached for his glasses. After the interview with Roscoe Webb last night, they had switched their focus back to white suspects. And now they were on their way to see Matthew Van Slate again. Louis had suggested to Wainwright that Emily come along this time to get a reading on Van Slate. Wainwright had agreed; he and Candy were following them in another squad car.

Emily was driving the Sereno Key cruiser and she seemed to have two speeds: fast and get-the-hell-outta-my-way. Louis tried not to look at the water as they sped across the causeway. He opened Van Slate’s file.

“Matthew Van Slate. Arrested and convicted of a racially motivated beating last summer. Served ten months. His father, Hugh, is a high-profile local who helped get the sentence reduced.”

Emily reached down and turned up the air conditioner. “Tell me the circumstances,” she said.

“He and two friends followed a black man and white woman from a bar, ran them off the road, and beat the guy up.”

“How bad?”

“Hospitalized him.”

“What’s his beef with blacks?”

“He thought his wife left him for a black guy.”

Farentino was quiet for a minute, then asked, “Did they use weapons?”

Louis closed Van Slate’s file. “Their fists and a board.”

“Did they all participate?”

“Yes.”

Farentino shook her head slightly. “Did he confess when he was caught?”

Louis reopened the file and read down the page. “Yes, after confronted with a witness.”

“How many times has this guy told you to get lost?”

“Twice.”

Farentino was quiet as they pulled up to Van Slate’s apartment. She killed the engine and they sat there for a moment waiting for the second cruiser with Wainwright and Candy.

“What do you think?” Louis asked Emily.

“I’ll tell you when we’re done talking to him,” Emily said.

Van Slate came out of his apartment just as Wainwright’s cruiser pulled in. He was carrying a small cooler. He locked his door and turned, freezing when he saw the two cruisers in the lot.

“Is that him?” Emily asked.

“That’s our hero,” Louis said, getting out.

Van Slate turned back to his door, jiggling his keys, as if he was thinking about going back inside. But after a moment, he turned back and started out toward the parking lot, not even looking their way.

“Van Slate,” Louis called out.

Van Slate kept going.

“Hold it, Van Slate.”

He stopped and turned. Wainwright and Candy came forward. They formed a half circle around him and as Van Slate’s eyes moved over them, Louis could see him tense.

“Who’s dead now?” Van Slate asked.

“Stay cool, Van Slate. We just want to ask you a few questions,” Wainwright said. “Why don’t you come down to the station with us?”

Van Slate set the cooler on the top of a black pickup. He looked at Louis.

“What is your problem with me?” he said. “You’re not even a cop and you got these guys—the real cops—believing I’m some sort of serial killer.” Van Slate spat into the gravel. “And they call me the racist.”

“We just want to ask a few questions,” Louis said.

Van Slate spun around and slapped angrily at the bed of the truck, and took a few steps toward the apartment. Then he turned back. “All right. Ask. Right here. Right now. I’m not going anywhere.”

Wainwright glanced at Louis, then rubbed his jaw. “Suit yourself,” Wainwright said. “We got a witness that says the killer’s truck is blue.” Wainwright nodded at Van Slate’s shiny blue truck parked a few spots away. “That’s one piss-ass fairy color but to me, it looks blue.”

“Fuck,” Van Slate muttered, leaning against the black pickup. “Like I’m the only guy with a blue truck around here?”

“You’re the only guy around here with a blue truck and a record,” Wainwright said.

Louis looked at Emily and knew she was thinking the same thing, that Roscoe Webb said the truck he saw in the restaurant lot was dark, maybe blue, but definitely old and rusted.

“How long are you guys going to hassle me over that shit?” Van Slate asked, his voice rising. “This is fucking bullshit.”

Louis looked at Farentino. She was taking notes.

“Own a knife, Van Slate?” Wainwright asked.

Van Slate eyed Wainwright. “Christ.” He took a few steps and reached in the flatbed of the black truck he had been leaning against. He threw back the tarp and spread his arm toward it. “Be my guest.”

“Is this your truck?” Louis asked.

“Hell no. This piece of shit is the boatyard truck. I just drive it for work.”

Louis’s eyes swept over the rust-pocked black pickup and then he glanced up at Wainwright. Louis stepped forward and looked inside the flatbed. It was filled with tools, white plastic tubs of paint. There was a large, plastic case that looked like a toolbox.

“How about you open that for us, Van Slate?” Wainwright said, pointing to it.

Van Slate reached in and popped it open. Louis peered inside. It was a tackle box, filled with the usual fishing paraphernalia. But there were also eight knives, different shapes and sizes.

“We’d like to have those knives, Van Slate,” Wainwright said.

Van Slate threw up his hands. “Go ahead, take them! You’ll get them eventually anyway.” He leaned against the truck, his arms crossed. “You won’t find anything on any of them, except maybe some fish guts and worm shit.”

Wainwright nodded at Candy, who came forward, pulling a plastic evidence bag from his pocket. He carefully picked out the knives and bagged them.

“I want them back,” Van Slate said.

Wainwright spoke again. “You got any spray paint, Van Slate?”

“Spray paint? Yeah, I got—” he stopped, his eyes narrowing. “Why?”

They didn’t answer him. Louis could almost hear the gears in Van Slate’s brains grinding. “Did this guy paint a message on the walls?” Van Slate asked. When no one answered, he smiled. “Manson did that, he painted ‘Helter Skelter’ on the walls. You know, the Beatles song?”

Van Slate started singing the song, but then stopped suddenly. “No, wait! I got it. He wrote a message on the bodies or something, right?”

“Can you go get the paint for us?” Wainwright asked.

“They had paint on them. What color was it?”

“You tell us,” Wainwright said.

Van Slate shrugged. “White?”

Louis glanced at Emily. She was staring hard at Van Slate.

“Why white?” Wainwright asked.

Van Slate was suddenly interested in the conversation. “Well, it makes sense, don’t it? I mean, these dead guys are all black, right? Why would anyone paint them black? They’re already black.” Van Slate locked eyes with Louis, and a slow grin came over his face. “Shit, if I was doing this, I’d paint ’em white. You know, make ’em lighter. Do a Michael Jackson on ’em. Improve on nature.”