Read Online Paint It Black by P.J. Parrish - Free Book Online Page B

glistened but she had retreated back into her hard shell. “You got any other suspects besides my brother?” she demanded.
    He could tell she was waiting for something from him, anything that might help her believe her brother was innocent.
    â€œNo,” he said finally. “Not yet.”
    Her eyes bore into him. “I read there’s another dead black man now. They think Levon killed that other man, too, don’t they?”
    â€œMrs. Tatum, Chief Wainwright—”
    â€œWainwright,” she snapped. “He thinks Levon did it because it’s easier. It’s easier to think that ’cause Levon is sick he did it. It’s easier ’cause black men kill black men every day and it’s easier than finding who really did it.”
    Louis turned away. His head was pounding and his ribs ached like a son of a bitch. “Your lawyer is waiting outside to take you home, Mrs. Tatum,” he said.
    â€œI know, I know,” she said.
    When he turned to look at her, she was facing the wall again, seemingly examining the plaques on Wainwright’s walls. He sensed she wanted to say something more. He waited until she finally turned to face him.
    â€œI suppose you’re still expecting your money,” she said.
    â€œYour lawyer already took care of that,” Louis said. Bledsoe had paid him the fifteen-hundred flat fee. Not bad for a week’s work and he still had the return portion of his plane ticket.
    â€œWho do you think killed Walter?”
    The question caught him off guard. “I have no idea,” he said.
    â€œWell, could you?”
    â€œCould I what?”
    â€œHave an idea? I mean, if you stayed around to look.”
    She was staring at him, waiting for an answer.
    â€œI think the police will work hard to find your husband’s killer, Mrs. Tatum,” he said.
    Roberta stared at him a moment, then shook her head. “You really believe white men care about black men laying dead in the swamps?”
    When he didn’t answer, she started for the door. She stopped and turned.
    â€œI’m putting up a reward,” she said. “Twenty grand for anyone who finds out who killed my Walter. I want to know. Even if it is Levon.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Maybe that’ll get you motivated.”
    She turned on her heel and was gone. Louis watched her stalk out the front glass doors and get into Bledsoe’s Honda waiting at the curb. He let out a sigh.
    He went outside, lingering for a moment on the sidewalk, feeling the balmy night breeze on his face. Well, that was over. So where would he go from here? He sure as hell didn’t want to go home to Michigan. But he had no job here and couldn’t get one. Not without telling a potential employer everything. He had seen a few ads for security officers in the paper, but the thought turned his stomach. And no matter how desperate he got, he didn’t want to work on his own, hanging up some shingle and busting cheating husbands for fifty bucks a day.
    Hell, maybe he could go back to school. Get his law degree, make his foster mother proud. Prosecute these motherfuckers after people like Wainwright caught them.
    He stared at the darkening sky.
    God, he missed it. He missed the job.
    The day out in the sun with Wainwright had brought it all back, and he had almost come right out and asked Wainwright if he wanted help on the case. But Wainwright was ex-FBI and he knew how that could be. Retired or not, he was obviously a one-man show. So Louis hadn’t brought it up. But now here was Roberta Tatum, dangling her own twenty-thousand-dollar carrot.
    He sat down on the station house steps.
    He missed everything. The surge of energy that came from using his brain, the rush of adrenaline in the veins. The sifting through evidence to find that one shred someone else missed. The feel of a gun on his hip and the weight of the badge on his shirt. He missed, too, the feeling that at