* * *
Harry pulled up in front of Vicky’s Tarpon Springs apartment located just a few steps from Spring Bayou, where every year dozens of young boys dove for a cross as part of the Greek Orthodox celebration of Epiphany. Vicky once told him she had dated a boy who had actually captured the cross, which supposedly insured him of a year of good luck. The first time she entered the boy’s car after his victory, he had reached for her chest. She told Harry she smacked him in the face and told him he wasn’t that lucky.
Harry had called the sheriff’s office and had learned that Vicky had called in sick.
Now, as he approached her door, he could hear a news report playing on the television. He rang the bell and waited.
“Who’s there?” Her voice came through the door with a harsh edge.
“It’s Harry.”
The door opened and Vicky stood there dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Her face was drawn and haggard; she was wearing no makeup and Harry thought she looked very vulnerable, like a young girl. He pushed the thought of vulnerability away. This was not his partner, not Vicky.
“You look like shit,” he said.
“Thanks. You always know how to lift a girl’s spirits. Got any other smooth lines you want to bestow on me?”
Harry reached out and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her to his chest. “Go wash your face and I’ll take you out for breakfast.”
* * *
They went to George’s Breakfast Station on Pinellas Avenue, a favorite of Harry’s for a good greasy breakfast or a fast gyro sandwich. George greeted them at the door. He was a short, slender Greek somewhere in his sixties, who worked in the restaurant from dawn to well past dusk. He had a big smile spread across his face; nothing made him happier than a customer coming through his door.
“Harry,” he said, “I haven’t seen you in a long time. You must not be eating good.”
He looked at Vicky in a way that she recognized. She got it from her mother all the time. It said: Eat, you’re too skinny. “Go sit down; I’ll make you a good breakfast,” George said instead.
They sat in a sunlit window that overlooked a parking lot and the liquor store next door and ate their breakfasts. Not exactly a garden spot with soothing surroundings, Harry thought. But it had been a damned good greasy breakfast just as he liked it—eggs over easy, corned beef hash, and home fries, with toast and coffee, lots of it. Vicky had gotten a thick Greek omelet with feta cheese, onions, and tomato, with an English muffin and tea. And she had eaten it all.
“How was your breakfast?” Harry asked.
“Fantastic. If I ate here every day I’d be a nice, plump little Greek girl, just like my mother always wanted me to be.”
Harry leaned back and looked her in the eye. “Okay, so where do we go to find that albino bastard?”
“Someone is hiding him out. Probably somebody in that office of church discipline where he works. I say we shake that tree, shake it hard, and see what falls out.”
“I don’t think Walsh—the big boss there—will rattle. But let’s try his assistant, a guy named Kenneth Oppenheimer.”
“Should we bring Max along?” Vicky asked.
“Yes, we should definitely bring Max. When it comes to rattling someone’s cage, there’s nobody better than that guy.”
“I’ll call him and ask him to meet us at Oppenheimer’s office. He’ll love it.”
* * *
Max was waiting in the lobby when they arrived at the Scientology building that housed the office of church discipline. Harry briefed him on what they wanted to shake out of Oppenheimer’s tree.
“Win or lose this is always a nice way to start the day,” Max said.
They entered the lobby and found Lorraine Beck—the same receptionist Max had bullied into submission a few days earlier—seated at her desk, a false smile of welcome spread across her face.
“Hi, Lorraine,” Max began. “We’re the same cops who were here earlier this week, remember?”
“I remember,” Lorraine said, her smile cracking slightly.
Max gave her his own false smile. “Well, dear, we’re going up to that office again—same reason as last time—and I wanted to let you know so you could call ahead and not end up in trouble for letting us by.”
“Thank you,” Lorraine said.
Max gave her a wink and the three of them headed for the elevator as Lorraine reached for her phone. When they entered the elevator Max looked back at Lorraine and shook his head. “This place reminds me of that famous book my class read in high school. It was about a place where everybody was always being watched and had to do whatever the boss man—a guy called Big Brother—said.”
“George Orwell’s 1984,” Vicky said. “My high school English class had to read it too.”
“Yeah, that’s it, 1984. I feel like I’m walkin’ around in George Orwell’s fuckin’ world. That’s what all this Scientology shit reminds me of.”
When they exited the elevator they were immediately confronted by a smiling middle-aged woman. “I’m Mrs. Ryan. Mrs. Beck called from the lobby to say you were coming up. What can we do for you officers?”
“We’d like to see Kenneth Oppenheimer,” Harry said. “Mr. Walsh suggested that he’d be a good person to talk to. I’m Detective Doyle. My two colleagues are Detective Stanopolis and Sergeant Abrams. Please tell Mr. Oppenheimer that we need to see him now.”
She gave Harry a smile normally reserved for small boys who have just suggested something outlandish. “Well, detective, Mr. Oppenheimer is very busy this morning; he has a very full schedule. You may just have to wait or come back later.”
Max stepped forward so he was just inches away from the woman. “Lady, I’m going to tell you something and you better listen very carefully. I want you to go into Mr. Oppenheimer’s office right now. And when you get there you tell him this: There are three cops out here who need to talk to you now. If he’s too busy to do it here, he can grab his coat because we’ll be taking him down to police headquarters to talk to him there.”
“But, but—”
“No buts, lady. This is a multiple-murder investigation. People are starting to drop like flies. So get in there and tell him.” The woman began to leave, but the words he directed at her back brought her up short: “And lady, if you ever use that simpering smile on us again, I promise you that you’ll find yourself sitting in the back of a squad car.”
When the woman left, Abrams turned around and found Harry and Vicky grinning at him. “You keep forgetting the forthwith,” Harry said.
* * *
Kenneth Oppenheimer was pure cordiality when they entered his office moments later. He directed them to a sitting area away from his desk and offered them coffee or tea, which they declined.
Oppenheimer was a tall man with thinning hair and a body that had begun the downward slide from fitness to fat. He had enormous hands that appeared far better suited to the outdoors than working behind a desk. To Harry he seemed an amalgamation of contrasts. He chose to work in his shirtsleeves, leaving the jacket of his dark gray suit hanging on a coatrack behind his desk, but his silk tie was drawn up tightly to his neck and the cuffs of his shirt were held together with gold links that had clearly set him back a few dollars.
“Mrs. Ryan tells me you are here about something quite urgent,” he said. “What can I do to help you?”
“We need to find Tony Rolf ASAP,” Max said.
“Does this involve the death of Mary Kate O’Connell and the shooting of the retired police officer?” Oppenheimer asked.
“Along with the murder of another former member of your church—a young woman named Lilly Mikinos, who was stabbed to death in Tarpon Springs last night.” It was Harry this time and he paused a moment, holding Oppenheimer’s gaze. “And by the way, that retired police officer is my father.” His tone seemed to momentarily unsettle Oppenheimer.
“I’m sorry to hear that. I hope his recovery is going well.”
“He’ll make it,�
� Vicky said. “And we believe he’ll be able to identify Rolf as the man who shot him when he tried to save Mary Kate O’Connell.”
“The idea of Tony doing all that is so inconceivable,” Oppenheimer said. “He worked with us for several years, at least five if not more, and we never had one complaint from the church members he tried to help. And believe me, we often get complaints. People have great difficulty accepting the errors of their ways.”
“Is that what auditing is—getting people to understand—”
“Yes,” Oppenheimer cut in. “The auditor’s work involves helping people understand how their individual behaviors might be interfering with their ultimate goal, which is to reach a certain level of mental and spiritual clarity, which will allow them to put aside their problems, worries, and bad memories, and thereby lead more perfect and more satisfying lives. It’s a state of being that we call going clear.”
“Well, let me make something clear to you,” Max said. “You better get the word out among your minions that anyone who knows where Tony Rolf is and fails to tell us, or who just knows anyone else who knows where he is and fails to tell us that, is gonna find themselves charged with aiding and abetting a murder, and that is something that carries heavy time in prison and that could even make them an accomplice in any future crimes this fruitcake commits. You got that, Mr. Oppenheimer?”
“I do, sergeant. And I assure you, if I learn anything about Mr. Rolf’s whereabouts, I will contact one of you immediately.”
As they entered the elevator Max turned to Harry. “That lying fuck. He knows where that white-haired prick is. I’d bet my pension they’ve got him stashed somewhere, just waiting for things to die down so they can slip him safely out of town.”
* * *
“Freewinds is our best option,” Regis Walsh said.
“Where is the ship now?” Oppenheimer asked.
“She’s stopping at various ports in the Bahamas. We could call her back but it might arouse suspicion with the Coast Guard. All her ports of call have been filed with the proper authorities. If we wait and let her schedule play out it will be another week before she’s back.” He gave Oppenheimer a long, level stare. “Can we keep Tony secure for that long?”
“If he does as he’s been told and keeps himself out of sight, there won’t be a problem. Six months ago I would have had complete faith in him doing just that. Today, I don’t know. He’s gone a bit around the bend recently. I should have spotted it but . . .” He shrugged. “My only excuse is that I’ve been preoccupied with other church business.”
Walsh kept staring silently across his desk. Results, not excuses, was his business mantra.
“Perhaps I should put other matters on the shelf and concentrate on Rolf until we can get him out of here.”
“That sounds reasonable, given the current predicament,” Walsh said. “I can’t think of anything that would bring more harm to the church than to have one of its employees dragged into a murder investigation.”
“Yes, I can see that.” Oppenheimer knew full well that should the latter happen, it would be on his plate alone. Walsh had made that clear.
Chapter Nine
Tony Rolf took a long sip of his beer. He was seated at the bar of a small French restaurant just off Main Street in Safety Harbor. The dinner crowd was thinning out and there was only one other patron at the bar, a reasonably attractive blonde somewhere in her early forties. He pushed away his plate which held the remnants of a steak sandwich and fries and gave her a more thorough appraisal. She was tall and slender and had long shapely legs accented by her dress, with high cheekbones and a mouth fixed in a permanent pout. She wore a wedding band but she was clearly alone. Separated, or perhaps with a husband traveling on business. Either way, she was out on her own.
Rolf signaled the bartender and ordered another draft of Carlsberg. “And please ask the lady if I can buy her a drink.”
The bartender leaned in close and whispered: “She probably thought you’d never ask. Every time her husband travels she’s in here looking for a sympathetic shoulder.”
“I have two of those.” When the woman accepted his offer, he moved down and took a seat next to her. “My name is Tony,” he said. “I hate to drink alone.”
“I’m Janice Rand and I’d be happy to have a drink with you.” She smiled and he thought he sensed a touch of desperation. A woman long off the pedestal she had once been placed on, he guessed. One who was eager to find approval wherever she could.
He thought about the woman he had killed twenty-four hours earlier. She had actually attacked him; screamed at him; tried to physically hurt him. There had been little choice but to harm her in return and he had enjoyed using the knife, seeing the shocked look in her eyes as it sliced deeper and her life began to slip away. But this woman would offer no threat, although he would not take her back to his hideaway.
That would be foolish. No, he’d just have a drink here, perhaps two, and see where it led. He smiled inwardly, realizing that he didn’t care if it led anywhere or not. He needed the diversion.
Rolf reached out and let his finger run across the back of her left hand. “Separated?” he asked.
Janice offered up another smile, a bitter one this time. “I might as well be separated. My husband Pete travels all the time. He’s a construction engineer. He works for a company that builds roads and bridges and other stuff all over the world.” She looked away, then turned back to him. “I sit at home with a fifty-inch TV to keep me company and occasionally treat myself to a night out.”
Rolf offered her what he considered his most compassionate look. It could be an interesting night, he decided.
* * *
When he returned to his hideaway two hours later, Rolf felt a growing rage building inside. It was caused by two factors: first was the not-too-subtle rejection Janice had handed him when he had suggested they return to “her place” for a nightcap, and second was the note he had found on the hideaway’s front door telling him to call Ken Oppenheimer right away.
The bitch, he thought. Feeling rejected by her husband, she had flirted outrageously, played him along until he was prepared to take the obvious next step, and all of it just to give her the opportunity to reject him. He had wanted to wrap his fingers around her throat in the restaurant parking lot. But there were other people leaving at the same time, so he had just spun on his heels and marched off, the little boy dutifully chastised.
And now he came to find that Oppenheimer had been at the hideaway—no doubt checking on him—so now he would have to deal with him as well. The entire evening had turned to shit. He picked up his iPhone and pressed Oppenheimer on the screen, struggling to keep his temper in check.
Oppenheimer definitely put it to the test with his first words: “I thought I was clear that you were not to leave the house.”
“I wanted a steak and there were none in the fridge, so I went out to a restaurant,” Rolf snapped back.
“That’s your excuse for blatantly disobeying me?”
“That’s it.” He listened to the silence on Oppenheimer’s end, then continued: “Look, no one recognized me; no one even has a picture of me. I’ve changed my appearance. That dead detective cop could have been sitting at the next table and he wouldn’t have known who I was. Christ, I lived and worked in the same marina and he never spotted me. And I’ve changed my appearance again since then. You’re worrying about nothing.”
“I need to know that you’re doing what we tell you to do,” Oppenheimer spat out, emphasizing each word.
“And I need to know what you’re doing to help me,” Rolf replied in kind.
Oppenheimer played the silent card again. When he finally chose to speak his tone and demeanor had become softer and more deliberate: “We need a few more days before we can move you safely.”
“Where do you plan to send me?”
“That hasn’t been decided; perhaps one of our facilities in the Bahamas or on the West Coast. That’s being worked out now.
”
“Will I have any say in where I go?” Rolf’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
“Of course you will, Tony. It’s something we’ll discuss and decide together.”
“If you’re sure that’s the way it will be, then I’ll sit tight.”
Oppenheimer hesitated. “You know you were wrong about one thing, Tony.”
“What was that?” He paused, thinking. “The old cop, right? Is he still in the hospital?”
“Yes, he’s there under police guard. But I understand he’ll be going home soon.”
“I’m happy for him.”
“He remains the one danger to you. Don’t forget that.”
After disconnecting from the call, Tony Rolf threw back his head and laughed. It was the first time he had laughed in days, perhaps longer. They were all the same, these self-serving bastards who ran the church. They hinted at what they wanted; never came right out and said it; never said anything that might come back to bite them later. Well, don’t worry, Mr. Oppenheimer. Tony Rolf knows what’s good for him, and from now on that’s the only road he’s going to follow.
Chapter Ten
Harry Doyle awoke at seven the next morning seething with anger. He showered and shaved quickly, managing to cut himself on the chin, then brewed a cup of coffee in the Keurig coffeemaker and called Max.
“I just wanted you to know that I’m heading over to the church office and I plan on raising a fair amount of hell with those bastards.”
“Did we wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?” Max responded.
“Am I sounding like some pissed-off little kid?”
“Just a bit,” Max said. “Plan on getting there at nine and I’ll meet up with you. That way, if you have to bust somebody you can do it legally.”
Harry let out a small laugh, directed mostly at himself. “See you at nine.”
* * *
Max was waiting outside the building when Harry arrived. “So what happened to push that bug so far up your ass?”
“I woke up thinking about what you said yesterday,” Harry said. “Hell, I probably spent the night dreaming about it . . . how these smarmy bastards know where this white-haired geek is hiding, how they’re smiling to our faces and giving us the finger behind our backs and waiting for a chance to slip him out of town. Well, that’s not gonna happen. He tried to kill Jocko, the only father I’ve ever known, the man who took me in as a fucked-up little kid and helped me recover from the mess of a human being I was after my mother tried to put me six feet under. No way, Max. That white-haired prick belongs to me. He’s going down for what he did, and I’m the one who’s gonna take him down.”
The Scientology Murders Page 8
