Claw Back (Louis Kincaid) (2 page)

             
“The city is on a hiring freeze,” Louis said. “
You’re
not
.
I saw the notice two days in the newspaper.”

             
“
We’re hiring d
eputies only,” Mobley said.

             
“I don’t care where I start.”

             
“I said no.”

             
Louis sat
back, staring at the empty shot glass in front of him. He hadn’t wanted to
make the argument he
was
about
to
m
ake -- it seemed desperate and
self-serving to use his race to pry an opening in the
tightly shut
door. But truth was, his brown skin was exactly what Mobley needed right now.

             
“I also read something else in the newspaper,” Louis said. “Your department is facing seventeen counts of employment discrimination. I hear the justice department is coming down to review your hiring and promotion files.”

             
Mobley shoved his glass aside and leaned into Louis. “Those charges are bullshit. I don’t have a bigoted bone in
my
body. Everyone knows that.”

             
“I guess you can tell that to the
DOJ whe
n they get here
,” Louis said
.
“
And
trust me,
onc
e the
y get
a
hold of you they never let go.
”
             

             
Mobley was quiet, grinding his jaw.

             
“
Did you know
,” Louis continued, “that
there are some
police
departments in the south that are still under DOJ hiring quotas from the 1960s?”

             
“You’ve managed to sink lower than I thought possible,” Mobley said.
“Threatening me with discrimination.
Get out of
my bar
.”

             
Louis
didn’t move, instead ordering two
beer
s to give Mobley time to
simmer down.
After
the sheriff had taken a long pull
from his bottle
,
Louis
went on.

             
“Listen, sheriff,” he said. “I don’t like affirmative action
either
, though I know that even now there are some companies that
still need it forced down their throats
. But I never took advantage.
I
didn’t even put my race down on my college app
lication
.”

             
“So what’s your point?”
             
“My point is, you need some brown faces in your department and you’ve got one right
in front of you
asking you for a job.”

             
Mobley shook his head. “You don’t
get it
, Kincaid,” he said. “We’ve gone out of our way to find qualified minorities. I’m not stupid. I know I can’t police
this
community with nothing but white men
,
but I’m telling you the quality of human being
I need
just isn’t
out
there.”

             
“Maybe you haven’t looked in the right places.”

             
“I have a damn good recruitment division,”
Mobley
said.
“And we’re going to solve this
so-called
race
problem. I don’t need
you
and all the dead bodies you seem attract
.”

             
Lou
is looked away, hand around the beer bottle
. He knew Mobley wouldn’t make it easy, knew he’d have to grovel some, but he had thought he could talk him in
to it.
Though he still had his detractors, his
reputation as a PI in southwest Florida was a damn impressive one and he knew he might be able to take
that
to a place like Miami or Orlando. But damn it, he wanted to stay here, in Fort Myers, on Captiva, in his little gray cottage
.
Near the water.
Near the handful of people he had let into his life
.

             
“Lance,” someone called
,
“You got a call at the bar.”

             
“Tell
them
I’m in the shitter.”

             
“It’s Undersheriff Portman. Better take it.”

             
Mobley mumbled something and looked to Louis as he started a long slide out of the curved booth. “I got to take th
is
call,” he said. “Don’t be here where I get back.”

             
Louis watched Mobley stagger toward the bar where he leaned on h
i
s elbows and picked up the phone.
Louis drew a breath and put a five on the table.

             
Half-way to the door, he stopped and took another look around O’Sullivan’s. It was one level above a dive with its sputtering neon and cracked leather booths.
He had never found a place like this when he was wearing a badge.
Back i
n Ann Arbor, flush with a criminology degree and a rookie’s idealism, he
had
decided he was too smart, too good to be
p
art of the gritty off-duty lifestyle of a cop. And in
Mississippi, the only tavern in town
had been
decorated with a confederate flag.

             
Outside, the
August
air was still and scorched
-smelling
, baking the buildings and sidewalk like they were rocks in a kiln.
Louis headed toward his Mustang.
 

             
“Kincaid.”

             
Louis turned to see Mobley standing in the doorway of the bar. His hair was the color of hay, his skin as bronzed as a lifeguard. A cigarette hung limply from the side of his mouth.

             
“You really serious about wearing a uniform again?”
Mobley asked.

             
“I told you I was.”

             
“Okay, I’ll give you a shot.”

             
“A shot?”

             
Mobley tried to take the
cigarette from his mouth but the paper
stuck to his dry lip and he had to peel it off. It took him a moment to refocus on Louis.

             
“
I got this situation going on I’m going to deputize you for.”

             
“Deputize me?” Louis asked. “Is that even still legal?”

             
“Yeah, kind of,”
Mob
ley said. “
Anyway, d
oesn’t really matter. I can do what I want.”

             
“Right.”

             
“You’ll
get a
temporary badge and ID card
,” Mobley said, “but
no uniform. Y
ou’ll wear street clothes. Jacket and tie.”

             
In ninety-nine
degree heat.
Mob
l
ey was screwing with him but that was okay. He had a jacket.
Somewhere.
In his truck maybe, from that last case he had worked over in Palm Beach.

             
“
So, consider this a test, Kincaid,” Mobley said. “
You pass it -- and only I decide if you
do
-
- and I’ll get you in front of my hiring board with a five-
star recommendation.”

             
“
You got a deal,” Louis said. “
When do I start?”
             
“I’ll get
you
your credentials tomorrow, but you can start right now.”

             
Louis squinted up at the sun. It was already
three
.
H
e looked back at Mobley.

             
“Okay, what
’s the job
?”

             
“I want you to go pick up a dead cat.”

CHAPTER TWO

It wasn’t just any cat.

This one weighed about a hundred and
thirty
pounds and had claws that could rip a man to shreds.

The panther
was lying on its side, motionless, on the baking cement of the pool deck. Louis stood about ten feet away, sweat dripping down his face, muscles tensed. He moved closer.
Close enough to see the cat’s big pink tongue hanging from its mouth.

“Is it dead? It’s dead, right?”

He glanced back at the old woman standing at the open sliding glass door. She was holding a small poodle whose curly white hair and anxious eyes matched her own. The damn dog had barked non-stop from the moment Louis set foot on the patio but at least for the moment it was just shaking
, like it was having a seizure
.

“Yes, ma’am, I think it’s dead.”

The pool pump kicked on with a loud groan and gushing noise.

The poodle went into a barking frenzy. Louis looked back at the woman who was trying hard to keep it from jumping out of her arms.
When he looked back at the big cat it still wasn’t moving.

No,
it wasn’t dead.
Its chest was moving, just barely.

“Ma’am,” he called back over his shoulder. “I think you’d better take your dog inside.”

“What?”

“Please go inside the house.”

He waited until he heard the sliding door close. The barking was muted now at least. He crept closer to the cat and squatted down.

It was about se
ven feet long from nose to tail’s end
with a tawny brown coat that was white on the belly and tipped in black on the tail and ears.
Its
yellow eyes were open but unfocused
and its
mouth hung open, showing
its
tongue and large teeth.
             

Louis had never seen one alive before, just pictures in magazines
and those black silhouettes on the road signs cautioning people to drive slower
. But he knew it was
a
Florida
p
anther. He knew, too, that the
re weren’t many left in the wild.
And he knew that this one was dying.

He craned his neck, trying to get a better look at the big cat but he couldn’t see any wounds or any blood. The only thing that
seemed
off was that the animal looked too thin.
Louis
could see the gentle rippling of its ribs as it labored to breathe.

Louis jerked the radio from the back pocket of his chinos and keyed
t
he special frequency Mobley had assigned him.

“Kincaid to Lee County base.”

A pause.
“Identify again?”

“Kincaid.
Louis Kincaid.”

Another pause.
“Who is this?”

“Kincaid.
I’m on temporary assignment for Sheriff Mobley and –-”

“One moment.”
The radio went silent. Louis wiped his sweating face and looked down at the panther. He couldn’t see the chest moving
anymore
. He inched closer and gently nudged a back paw with his shoe. The leg moved and Louis jerked back.

The radio squawked to life. “Okay, Mr. Kincaid. What’s your business?” It was a woman dispatcher. She sounded young, with the sweet calming tone of a kindergarten teacher. 

“I need to speak to the sheriff ASAP.”

“He’s unavailable.”

Louis glanced at his watch. It was past four. Mobley was probably still at O’Sullivan’s laughing his ass off.

“Miss, I could use some help here,” Louis said. “I’ve got a Florida panthe
r here on someone’s patio and -
”