“I thought you wanted to watch TV?” Louis asked.
Benjamin gestured to his clothes. “Can’t sleep in this.”
Louis followed him to the bedroom and stood at the door.
“You don’t have to watch me every minute,” Benjamin said as he wriggled out of the jeans.
“Yes I do.”
“I’m not going to run away or something.”
“Well, I’m responsible. I’m not taking any chances.” Benjamin gave him another withering look.
Louis’s eyes wandered over the boy’s bedroom. It was beige, like his mother’s, with a brown spread, tan carpet and shelves of books and toys. The ceiling was studded with little green stars that probably glowed in the dark, and eight papier-mache replicas of the planets were strung from the ceiling. There was a small telescope at the window, Star Wars posters on the walls and a gleaming saxophone sitting in a stand. The room was surprisingly neat. Nothing like his own room back at the Lawrence house had been.
“Nice room,” Louis said. “Very neat.”
“I’m not a slob,” Benjamin said. He was buttoning his pajamas, one eye on Louis as he ventured farther into the room.
“You make those?” Louis asked, pointing at the planets.
“Yeah. Science project.”
“I thought there were nine planets.”
Benjamin shook his head. “Pluto is technically not a real planet. They think it’s really an asteroid. So I left it out. I only got a B because of it. But I’m right. It’s just an asteroid.”
Louis nodded. He noticed a framed photograph on the dresser. It was of a striking black man with close-cropped hair and serious eyes. He was wearing a dark suit.
He had to ask. “That your dad?”
Benjamin was folding his clothes and he paused to glance at the photo. “Yeah. His name is Austin. He’s in England.”
So now you know, Kincaid.
“What’s he do?”
“For work? He does financial stuff, kinda like working for a bank, but he like sets up companies in foreign places. He has a lot of money, but can’t use it ’cause it’s like tied up in big buildings and Ma says he’s cash poor. Whatever that means.”
Louis was still looking at the photo. “How often does he get home?”
“Never,” Benjamin said. He tossed his sneakers into the closet. “You wanna look at Venus?”
Louis shook his head.
Benjamin plopped down on his bed. “Probably too many clouds tonight anyway.”
Louis came in and sat on the edge of the bed. “So. . your mom and your dad. .”
Don’t ask, Kincaid. It’s not right.
“They got divorced when I was little,” Benjamin said, rolling over onto his stomach. “I don’t remember him really, not in my real brain, but he sends me stuff. He sent me the telescope for Christmas and fifty dollars for my birthday. And that.” He pointed to a cast-iron replica of a double-decker bus.
“I wanted a Nintendo Super Mario, but it’s like two hundred dollars. Guess he’s too cash poor to get that. But the bus is kinda cool.”
Louis sensed a sadness in Benjamin’s voice. “You want some pudding?”
Benjamin hesitated, looking at Louis. “Can I show you something first?” he asked.
Louis shrugged. “Sure.”
“You promise not to tell my mom?”
“I don’t know. What if you show me drugs or cigarettes or-”
“Oh man. . it’s just a book.”
Great. Was the kid going to show him pornography? Maybe it was only Playboy. Bare boobs, that was normal, wasn’t it? But damn, the kid was only eleven.
Benjamin was rooting through his closet.
“Has your mom ever seen stuff like the stuff in this book?”
“All the time.”
Benjamin emerged with a large hardcover book. He brought it back to the bed and sat down next to Louis, laying the book on his small knees.
Louis had a hard time not letting his mouth hang open. The book was titled In the Presence of Evil, Mass Murderers and Serial Killers.
“Where did you get this?” Louis asked, trying to gently wrestle it away.
Benjamin held tight. “From the swap meet. I told the man my mom was a lawyer and she needed it for work.”
“Have you read it?”
“Four times.”
“Jesus, kid. You shouldn’t be looking at that sh-” Louis stopped himself.
“You can say shit. Ma says it. Anyway, I wanted to ask your opinion on some of these cases.”
Louis stared at him.
“You know about these cases, don’t you?”
“Well, yeah, I’ve read about some of them.”
Benjamin flipped the book open. “This guy here says that the Boston Strangler probably wasn’t guilty. Did you know there’s some people who think another guy in prison killed all those women and that DeSalvo just wanted to be important so he took the blame?”
Louis found himself staring at a black and white photo of a woman the caption identified as Mary Sullivan.
“What do you think?” Benjamin asked. “You think he really killed her?”
Louis rubbed his face and slowly stood up. “Put the book away, Benjamin.”
“Yeah but I wanted to-”
“Put it away.”
Benjamin heaved a huge sigh. “I thought you were a private investigator.”
“I am.”
Jesus, when did he finally admit that to himself?
“So you solve murders, right?”
Louis wanted this conversation to end real quick. “Yeah, I do.”
“Is it hard to do?”
“Yeah, it’s hard. Now-”
“Do they ever tell you why?”
“Who?”
“The killers.”
“What? No. Well, yeah, sometimes. Look, Benjamin-”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Why do they do it?”
Louis was silent. He wasn’t any expert, but this had to be weird for a kid to be asking these questions.
“Maybe you should ask your mother about this,” Louis said.
“I did. She said she doesn’t know.”
Benjamin was looking up at him, waiting.
“I don’t know either, Benjamin,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-One
The beeper was buzzing against his side. He waited until he stopped at a light to look at the number. He was hoping it was Vince. It took him a moment to recognize the number as the Sereno Key Police Department, the chief’s private line.
He pulled into a 7-Eleven, got a coffee to go, and called Dan Wainwright.
“I have an address for you on that Lieberman woman,” he said. “Got a pen?”
“Yeah, hold on, Dan.” Louis set the coffee down on the phone ledge. Wainwright read off an address. Louis wrote it on the styrofoam cup.
Louis knew Wainwright was not supposed to run numbers for a civilian. “I owe you one, Dan,” he said.
“No problem. How’s things going for you, Kincaid?”
“It’s going,” Louis said.
Wainwright was silent for a moment. “Call me. I’ll buy you a beer some night, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll do that.” He clicked off.
Louis stood there for a moment, watching the traffic crawl by on Cleveland Avenue. He hadn’t seen Dan Wainwright in months, not since they had worked together on the Paint It Black case. The case had created a bond between them-the kind of bond that sparked between cops in the adrenaline-drench of a dangerous case. But Louis had not stayed in touch afterward. Maybe it was because the Sereno Key chief was one of the few people who knew how much Louis hated PI work, knew how badly he wanted to wear a uniform again. He didn’t like it when people knew too much about him, especially when it came with a dose of pity.
Louis glanced at his watch. He was tempted to go over to the medical examiner’s office; it was only a couple blocks away. But he knew if Vince had found out anything about the semen sample, he would have called. He was also tempted to drive out to Immokalee to find Joyce Novick.
He picked up the styrofoam cup and looked at the address. But a promise was a promise. He would go find this Lieberman woman.
The address turned out to be one of the new developments out by the airport. This one was called The Villas of Lancaster Lakes, the lakes being a green-water pit scooped out of the limestone and the villas just more of the soulless gulags that were springing up all over the old pasture lands. Louis found building E and apartment 322, but there was no answer when he knocked. There was also nothing covering the windows.