“Nonhuman?” Wainwright asked. “Like what? Animal?”
“Don’t know yet. Give me a couple of days.”
Driggs scratched at his bald head. “So, what are you telling us? We got some kind of supernatural monster here?”
Vince smiled and Louis thought he detected a wink in Farentino’s direction. “I don’t speculate, Sergeant. That’s your job.”
Driggs slapped his notebook shut. “Send me your full report.” He headed for the door.
“Sergeant Driggs,” Farentino called out.
He turned impatiently. “What?”
“What kind of bullets you got in that gun?” she asked.
“Copper-jacketed hollow-points. Why?”
Farentino gave him a smile. “Maybe you should pick up some silver ones. And some garlic.”
Louis laughed. Driggs stared at Emily, then at Louis. He turned quickly and left.
Louis glanced at Wainwright. He wasn’t smiling. Wainwright’s radio went off and he turned away, moving out of earshot. Louis turned his attention back to Vince.
“You think the lab can match that knife to something in their catalogs?” he asked.
Vince shrugged. “It’s a really odd blade. I’m guessing foreign made. I’ll get you some photos of it so you can show it around on your end.”
“Kincaid.”
Louis turned to Wainwright.
“Some guy at the homeless shelter recognized the tattoo,” Wainwright said. “He says he doesn’t know who the man is, but he remembers seeing him hanging out at that soup kitchen on Fort Myers Beach.”
“The place run by The Saint?”
“Yeah. The guy says The Saint is there right now. But he says to hurry because he folds up his tent right after he’s done dishing out lunch.”
“I’m on my way,” Louis said, starting for the door.
“I’m going with you,” Emily said quickly.
Louis glanced at Wainwright. He couldn’t hide it. He looked glad to be rid of her.
Chapter Twenty
“I don’t think Driggs appreciated your comment,” Louis said.
“Do you think he even got it?” Emily said.
They were in a Sereno Key squad car, heading toward Fort Myers Beach. They passed the turnoff for the marina where Louis had questioned the jumbo shrimp woman, and then went up over the bridge and onto Fort Myers Beach. Louis had to slow the car to a crawl on congested Estero Boulevard.
“Sodom and Gomorrah,” Emily said, eyeing the crowds.
“Good place for The Saint,” Louis said.
The Blue Heron was a mom-and-pop hotel with fading pink stucco that spoke of a heyday sometime in the late fifties. It was sandwiched between a 7-Eleven and a new Taco Bell. Louis parked in the convenience store lot and he and Emily set out for the beach.
As they waited to cross the street, Louis looked south down Estero Boulevard. Barely visible in the glare of the sun was the familiar green sign of the Holiday Inn, the site of Anthony Quick’s abduction.
On the beach, they spotted The Saint’s operation immediately, a couple of old card tables set up under a palm. About twenty shabby men milled around, trying to find some shade as they quietly ate sandwiches and drank coffee from Styrofoam cups. There were two men manning the line and Louis zeroed in on the older one, a gaunt, deeply tanned man of about sixty, with a white beard, wearing shorts and a Tampa Bay Bucs T-shirt.
“Excuse me, are you The Saint?” Louis asked.
The man peered at him with milky blue eyes. “Nope.”
“You know where I can find him?”
“Nope.”
Louis stifled a sigh. Emily stepped forward. “We’re trying to find someone, and we were told he might have come here.” Emily paused. “You are The Saint, aren’t you?”
The man slapped a bologna sandwich on the plastic tray. “Look, we’re not hurting anybody here. Why can’t you cops just leave us alone?”
“We’re not-”
The old man turned away to hand a cup of coffee to a man who had trudged up beside Louis. “Hey, Willie, where you been? Ain’t seen you around.”
“Was up in Jersey for the summer. Took me a while to get back this time. Good to see ya, Saint,” the man said. He took his food and moved away.
The bearded man looked at Louis and extended his wrists. “Okay, take me in again. I don’t care. I’ll just find another place. This is public property. You can’t stop me from giving away food.”
“We’re not here to harass you,” Louis said. “We just need some help.”
The man stared at Louis and slowly let his arms fall. “Help,” he said with a snort. “Who doesn’t need help?”
“We’re trying to identify a man, a dead man, who might have been homeless,” Louis said. “Have you ever seen a man here with a tattoo on his left arm of a dog and the name Bosco?”
The Saint was staring at Emily now. “You really a cop, a little bitty thing like you?” he asked. He didn’t wait for her answer. He looked back at Louis.
“Bosco. .” he said. “Yeah, I know that tattoo.” He paused and looked at some kids playing in the surf. “Shit. You say he’s dead?”
Louis nodded. He was glad when The Saint didn’t ask for details. “Was Bosco his last name?” Louis asked.
The Saint shrugged. “Who knows? Lots of folks here don’t use their real names. It’s like a family, I guess. We just call each other by whatever name fits, you know?”
“You called him Bosco?” Emily asked.
The Saint eyed her, still unsure he should reveal much more. “Nope. We called him Harry.”
“Do you know where he was from, where he lived?” Emily asked.
“Lived?” The Saint gave a small smile. “Well, you could try behind that 7-Eleven over there. Other than that, I don’t know much about him. He always showed up for his food here. I haven’t seen him in weeks now. I thought he just moved on. Or disappeared. Most do.” He glanced back out at the ocean.
Emily reached in her pocket and pulled out a card and pen. She scribbled a number on it. “If you think of anything else, call, okay?”
The Saint took the card and slipped it into his shorts pocket. “Sure, miss.”
“Thanks for your help,” Louis said. He paused, then reached into his pocket and pulled out some bills. When The Saint saw the two twenties, he shook his head.
“I don’t need it,” he said. He smiled. “I’ve got plenty of my own money. I spent my share of time on the street but my brother left me a bundle when he croaked. Asshole never called me when he was alive but then. .” He gestured toward the sandwiches. “Sixty grand buys a lot of bologna.”
Louis and Emily left The Saint and trudged up the beach to the street. Louis waited while she emptied the sand from her shoes and they continued on to the 7-Eleven. The clerk had never heard the name Bosco or Harry and they had no photo to show her. But she said the management was constantly chasing away the homeless who slept behind the store near the Dumpster.
Behind the store, Louis and Emily discovered a heap of discarded boxes and dirty blankets, the remnants of a dismantled homeless camp.
“Lots of motor oil back here,” Emily said, nodding at the stained asphalt.
“Yeah. But whoever was here moved on,” Louis said. He kicked at an empty bottle of Mad Dog. “Let’s get out of here.”
They wound their way back through the tourists, toward the squad car. Louis climbed in and as soon as they were away from the crowd, he radioed in to Wainwright, telling him what little they had found. Wainwright’s response was clipped. Louis knew he was aware that Emily was listening.
“He doesn’t like me much, does he?” Emily said as they inched along in the traffic. She said it more as a statement than a question, but Louis sensed she wanted an answer.
“He was expecting the bureau to send an old friend,” Louis said.
“Malcolm Elliott retired a year ago,” Emily said. “They sent me instead.”
A tightness had crept into her voice. He wasn’t sure if it was defensiveness. Whatever it was, it made him uncomfortable.
“Look, Farentino,” he said, “Wainwright is kind of old school.”