But he wasn’t in Timmy’s now. He had wanted to go someplace where no one knew him and he didn’t know anyone. So he had found his way over to Sereno Key and to the scarred wood bar of the Lazy Flamingo.
Louis picked up the Heineken and finished it off. He considered leaving, but didn’t want to go home to the empty cottage. There was a ripple of laughter from the group in a booth as Billy Joel’s “Innocent Man” came on the jukebox.
Louis waved at the bartender, a thin man with a shaggy mustache. “Hey, bring me a shot of brandy, would you?”
Louis’s eyes drifted to the two men at the end of the bar. One was chubby, with a trim gray beard and a colorful tropical shirt. The other was younger, his blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. He wore a neon green tank top. They were laughing, the older man’s arm on the younger man’s shoulder.
The bartender set the shotglass in front of him. Louis reached for it, gulped it down and closed his eyes, giving a slight shiver as it burned its way down to his belly.
He was about to get up to go home when he felt a slap on the back and spun around.
Dan Wainwright’s beefy face was grinning at him.
“Hey, Dan.” The words came out in an edgy breath.
“Jeez, you’re jumpy. What the hell’s the matter?” Wainwright said.
“Sorry. Thought you might be Jack Cade.”
“Cade? Why?”
“He’s real pissed off at me right now.” Louis waved for the bartender. “What are you drinking? My treat.”
“I wasn’t. I just got here and saw you sitting here. Bud’s fine.”
Wainwright waited until the bartender brought their drinks. “I heard you’re working for Cade’s defense.”
Louis waited for the look of reproach, but there was none in the Sereno chief’s eyes.
“I was. He fired me today.”
“What did you do to piss him off?”
“Long story,” Louis muttered.
Wainwright didn’t press it. Instead, he gave Louis a smile. “It’s good to see you,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to call you.”
“Same here,” Louis said.
They fell into an awkward silence that was broken by a trio of laughing women who had squeezed up next to Wainwright. Wainwright tapped Louis on the shoulder and motioned toward a booth, walking away.
Louis sucked down the second brandy, then picked up his water glass and followed.
Wainwright settled into the booth and Louis slid in across from him, his gaze drawn to the window. It was a pitch-black, moonless night, and the green and pink floodlights cast a surreal glow on the fluttering palms.
“So why’d Cade fire you?” Wainwright asked.
Louis rubbed his face. “I accused his son Ronnie of murdering Kitty Jagger.”
Wainwright’s expression didn’t change, but his eyebrow twitched. “Can you prove it?”
“There was a semen sample and it’s disappeared. I can’t prove shit without it.”
Wainwright took a drink. “What semen?”
“The shit inside her,” Louis said, irritated. Then he realized that Wainwright didn’t have a clue as to what he was talking about. Susan was right. No one gave a rat’s ass about the Kitty Jagger case. It was ancient history, yesterday’s papers.
He let out a breath. “Sorry, Dan,” he said. “Bad day.”
Wainwright put up a hand. “No problem. Tell me about this sample thing.”
Louis hesitated. He wanted to talk about Kitty, but no one had wanted to hear it. Maybe Wainwright would understand.
“Two semen samples were taken,” he said. “One from Kitty Jagger’s panties, the other vaginal. The results from the vaginal sample are missing from the original police files.”
“The state lab?”
“No record. I tried. No one has a record anywhere.”
“The prosecutor’s office would have it.”
“Yeah, Vern Sandusky is just going to hand it over. Right.”
“He might.”
“Give me a break, Dan. There isn’t a prosecutor in the world who would voluntarily reopen a case where there’s been a conviction. You know that.”
“What about Spencer Duvall’s records? He would have it too.”
Louis looked up, his mind trying to work through the slosh of the brandy. “Mobley has that.”
“What?”
“Jack Cade’s old legal file. It was on Spencer Duvall’s desk when he was shot, so the cops took it.”
Wainwright took a long swallow of beer. “Kiss that idea goodbye. Mobley’s an idiot.”
Louis shook his head. “Maybe not. I might be able to convince Mobley to let me take a look.”
Wainwright leaned back in the booth, considering Louis. “I got to ask you this, Louis.”
“What?”
“Why bother? Why bust your balls on a closed case?”
Louis stared at him. “Because someone has to, damn it.”
Wainwright drew back ever so slightly. And the look on his face was the same as the one Louis had seen on Susan’s, like he was nuts or obsessed or something.
Louis rose abruptly and went to the bar. He returned with another shot and a beer. He didn’t look at Wainwright as he sat down.
“Look, Louis,” Wainwright said. “Cade probably did you a favor. He’s a loser, so is his son. So’s the case.”
Louis took a breath. He didn’t want to be angry at Wainwright. He wanted him to understand. “Dan, it’s important to know who killed her,” he said slowly.
“To who, Louis? The girl’s dead twenty years and I hear her old man is just a walking zombie. Who cares?”
Louis reached for the shotglass, hesitated, then brought it to his lips. It went down easier than the last.
“A piece of advice, Louis,” Wainwright said. “Let it go.”
“Can’t,” Louis said, his eyes on the scarred wood tabletop. He knew Wainwright was looking at him. He heard him let out a sigh.
“I gotta take a piss. Be right back.”
Louis watched Wainwright trudge off to the rear of the bar. He leaned back, shutting his eyes. Shit, maybe he was going nuts. He was seeing things in his head, that much was clear. He was seeing the lonely confusion in Willard Jagger’s eyes. He was seeing the shadow of sadness in Joyce Novick’s eyes. He was seeing the question in Eric Cade’s angry eyes as he watched his father and grandfather: Which one of you killed her?
And he was seeing her. She was in his head, day and night now, walking around like a ghost, pink checks and peppermint lipstick, whispering to him.
“Louis?”
He looked up. Wainwright’s face was green in the neon light.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” He sat up, pulling the beer bottle toward him.
Wainwright slid back in across from him. A new song drifted above the murmur of the bar, Van Morrison singing about his Tupelo honey. Louis watched two young guys and their dates playing the ring-toss game over in the corner. The two guys were drunk and weren’t coming even close to swinging the ring up to catch the hook. The girls were doubled over with laughter.
“They don’t know how fast it all can change,” Louis murmured.
“What?”
Louis glanced at Wainwright. “Nothing.”
They sat in uneasy silence for a long time. Finally, Wainwright cleared his throat. “So, you talked to Farentino at all?”
Emily Farentino had been the Miami FBI agent who had worked the Paint It Black case with them. Louis had promised to keep in touch, but he hadn’t.
“No,” Louis said. “Have you?”
“Yeah, I called her awhile back. She’s doing okay. She asked how you were.”
The conversation stalled again. Louis ran a hand over his eyes. What the hell was the matter with him? Why was he always pushing people away? Farentino, Wainwright, even the Dodies. Why was he afraid to let anyone get close?
He glanced at Wainwright, who was gazing out over the bar. Shit, he knew why he hadn’t called Wainwright in the last six months. It was because he had never worked up the guts to tell him the truth about what had happened up in Michigan. He had been too damn afraid of another cop’s censure. Especially a cop he liked and respected.
“Dan,” Louis said.