Paint It Black by P.J. Parrish

that I know of.”
    Louis folded the papers and glanced around the lobby. “I understand Mr. Quick asked about going fishing the morning he was killed. Do you know where?”
    â€œWell, there’s lots of fishing around here.”
    â€œSuch as?”
    â€œYou could do back bay, where you hire a guide. Or you can go on one of the charters that go out to the gulf. Or you could just go down to the pier and rent a pole.”
    â€œWhat do most tourists do?”
    â€œCharters. I think I remember him looking at those brochures.” He pointed to a rack behind Louis.
    Louis plucked out the four brochures on fishing charters. There were trips on everything from small skiff rentals to large overnight charters that went to the Keys. Most of the charter boats were located at Fisherman’s Wharf, near the bridge he had passed over that led to the beach.
    He thanked Kevin and left. As he backtracked to the bridge, he had a sinking feeling that this, like the trip to see Van Slate, was going to be another waste of time. If Quick had shown up at Fisherman’s Wharf, the sheriff’s deputies probably had it covered. Besides, there was no proof Quick had gone fishing the day he died. The check Wainwright had run on Quick’s credit cards had revealed no charges to fishing boats. And as the hotel clerk pointed out, Quick could have gone to any number of places to fish. To top it all off, Quick’s car was found back at the hotel.
    The docks fronted a narrow baylike body of water that faced Fort Myers Beach. The slips were crowded with boats: fancy sailboats, fishing skiffs like Dodie’s, and at the far end a couple of shrimp boats, great hulking contraptions festooned with nets and huge poles extending outward like antennae.
    Louis scanned the charter boat office and bar that fronted the docks. The office was closed but there was music and laughter coming from the bar.
    He started by showing Anthony Quick’s picture at the bar, but no one could remember seeing him. Back outside, there was only one charter boat in dock, a beat-up-looking tub with a sign announcing CAP’T ED’S FISHING CHARTERS .
    It appeared deserted but as he drew closer, Louis heard a banging sound inside the cabin.
    â€œHey! Anyone around?” he called out.
    It took some more yelling before a man emerged brandishing a hammer. He was squat and bandy-legged, wearing grimy cutoffs and worn Docksiders. His bare chest was suntanned to a dark mahogany, his sparse hair bleached out to white.
    â€œAin’t hiring out today,” the man said.
    Louis came forward. “I’m not here for fishing. I’m looking for some information.”
    The man squinted up at him. “Oh, yeah? ’Bout what?”
    Louis held out Quick’s photo. “You ever seen this man?”
    The man didn’t move. “You a cop?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat’d he do?”
    â€œNothing.” Louis extended the photo. “You seen him around here in the last two weeks?”
    Slowly, the man came forward and took the picture, glanced at it, and held it out. “Nah. Never seen him.”
    Louis took it back. “He was a tourist. You’re sure?”
    The man shrugged. “Hell no, I ain’t sure. We get lots of tourists down here. I can’t say for certain he wasn’t one of them.”
    Louis slipped the photo back in the file. “How many other boats are usually here?”
    â€œFive of us. We come back ’bout four-thirty. I’d be out myself if it weren’t for the damn generator.”
    Louis’s eyes wandered over the empty slips. Shit, he would have to come back. He started to his car, then doubled back to the bar and ordered a hamburger and beer. He stood at the open bar, sipping a beer and watching a large brown pelican waddle down the dock. There was a stink of rotting fish in the air. Louis thought of Dodie, who had been bugging him to go out fishing. As long as