“I think it’s an excellent idea, John. We can pressure the sheriff, demand to know why his detectives aren’t investigating one of their own with the same vigor they’re expending on a minister of the church.”
“Exactly,” Reverend Waldo said. His voice had a hiss to it that was almost serpent-like, and Bobby Joe could practically feel the look of satisfaction spreading across his daddy’s face.
“I’ll do it today,” Bobby Joe said. “I’ll call this Harry Doyle and I’ll tell him straight away.” He waited for his father or Middlebrooks to respond, knowing neither of them would trust him to do it right.
“No, you let me call him,” Middlebrooks said. “He’s going to have to earn the right to talk to you now.”
“You listen to Walter, boy,” his father said. “Always let a lawyer front for you when there’s trouble. It’s always the smart play.”
The call came in from Jocko Doyle at four p.m.
“How long will it take you to get to St. Pete Beach?” he asked without preamble.
“Twenty, thirty minutes,” Harry said. “Why, what’s up?”
“An assistant state’s attorney named Calvin Morris is going to meet us to talk about your mother’s parole hearing. He wants to hook up at a joint called the Sea Hag. It’s on Blind Pass Road at the marina where he keeps his boat.”
“I know the place,” Harry said. “What time?”
“Five. I suggest you get there about fifteen minutes early so we can talk.”
“You got it. I’ll leave in about ten minutes.”
Except for the occasional high-rise condo, and the increased winter migration of elderly snowbirds from the north, St. Pete Beach was still the “traditional Florida” Harry had known as a child—wide, sandy beaches dotted with bars and restaurants, and a strictly laid-back lifestyle. It was a place where shoes gave way to sandals, shopping in bathing suits became commonplace, and the only mandatory activities involved sunsets or gathering for the weekly drum circle on Treasure Island, where hundreds of people celebrated the end of the day by dancing at the water’s edge to the incessant beating of every imaginable manner of drum.
The Sea Hag fit its surroundings perfectly, a waterfront joint with a wide deck overlooking the Blind Pass Marina, with its complement of nearly 200 boats lining its docks, and attractive young waitresses dressed in short shorts and tight T-shirts, each one looking as though she had just wandered in from the beach, which several undoubtedly had, and a clientele that gave off a studied beach bum air.
Given that, Calvin Morris looked like a man from another time when he walked up to their table still dressed in a tan suit, white shirt, and a powder-blue power necktie. Jocko and Harry were wearing shorts and jeans, respectively, flowered shirts worn out to conceal their weapons, and boat shoes without socks.
Jocko gave the assistant state’s attorney a long once-over. “You got a church meeting tonight, Cal?”
“No time to change,” Morris said, ignoring the jab. He was a tall, slender black man with a neatly trimmed mustache and hard brown eyes, a seasoned prosecutor with ten years experience in the criminal courts, who knew how to use his wardrobe to intimidate adversaries.
As soon as he walked in Jocko and Harry knew they were just that— adversaries. Had Morris taken the time to go to his boat and change, or had he invited them out for a drink near his office in a roomful of suits, it would have been different. Here, in the laid-back atmosphere of a beach bar, his wardrobe let everyone know that he was the man in charge and there would be no arguments, thank you very much.
“So tell us about the parole hearing for Lucy Santos, Cal,” Jocko began. “Is your office going to oppose the parole, or just let it slide on by?”
Morris’s eyes narrowed, a display of annoyance he tried to mask with a tight smile. He was a handsome man with a caramel complexion, strong jaw, and the firm, slender body of a former athlete who still kept himself fit. “We don’t let any parole slide on by,” he said in a mildly pompous voice. “We don’t oppose them all, either. We review each one and decide which ones should be challenged.”
“And my mother’s parole?” Harry asked. “What decision has been made about that?”
Morris sighed heavily. He obviously knew the history of the case even though it was well before his tenure with the state’s attorney began. “Look, what your mother did to your brother, and to you, is nothing less than a heinous act. But she’s done twenty years of hard time and she’s eligible for parole. Life without parole was never part of the sentencing deal. It should have been, but it wasn’t. According to her case file, her attorney back then threatened to go to the mat if we pushed for it. And, frankly, if the case had gone to trial she probably would have been found innocent by reason of insanity, committed to the loony bin, and been back on the streets ten years ago. The state psychiatrists who have reviewed her case say she’s sane and not a danger to anyone, so our office opposing her parole wouldn’t do a damn bit of good.” He began ticking off other reasons on his fingers. “She’s also been a model prisoner, according to corrections officials. And she’s become a spiritual leader for other women in the prison. And her former church has agreed to help her get ordained and then hire her as a lay minister.” He stared into Harry’s eyes, his own softening for the first time. “What have you got that will beat back the testimony of two state-appointed shrinks, the corrections department, and her minister?”
“He’s got letters that show she’s still a fucking fruitcake,” Jocko said before Harry could answer.
Morris lowered his eyes and nodded slowly. “Then go to the hearing and present them to the board.”
“You don’t want to see them,” Harry said.
Morris studied his hands, clearly embarrassed. “It wouldn’t do any good. The decision has been made that we are not going expend the time and staff and expense to fight this one. I’m sorry. If she’s granted parole you can ask that it be on condition that she has no contact with you, if that’s what you want. If she does, they’ll violate her and put her back inside. But I think that’s the best you can hope for.”
“That really sucks,” Jocko said.
“Yes, it does.” He turned his attention back to Harry. “I’m sorry. If I were in your shoes I’d feel exactly the same way.”
Harry stared at him for several moments. “You have no idea how it feels to be in my shoes.”
Out in the parking lot Jocko slipped his arm around Harry’s shoulders. “I’m sorry, kid. But I gotta admit I’m not surprised.” He tightened his grip momentarily then let his arm fall to his side. “There’s just not enough good ink in it. You know how much those assholes like to see their names in the newspapers; the bigger the headline the better. This case, it’s just too old to get more than a couple of inches on an inside page. To spend the kind of time and money and effort it would take, they want a bigger payback than that.”
“Yeah, I know,” Harry said. “I was just hoping they’d get on it so I wouldn’t have to do that much myself, other than show up.”
“Yeah, well, now you gotta do a little bit more. You gotta show the board those wacky letters and tell them they’ll be putting you in danger if they let her out. And we can try to get some of our newspaper friends to call the board members and ask some pointed questions about turning loose a child killer. One thing about the parole board: they don’t like any ink about anything they do. They like to operate strictly under the radar.”
Harry gave his adopted father as strong a smile as he could muster, but it faded quickly. “I appreciate all you’ve done, Jocko. Now it’s just between her and me. She may have done enough time for what she did to me, but it sure isn’t enough for what she did to Jimmy.”
Harry sat on the lanai listening to the surf move against the shore, the gentle, soothing lap of water against sand that masked all the carnivorous acts of violence only a few feet farther out. He had grown up on the water, Jocko being an avid fisherman, and the murderous nature of the sea had quickly fascin
ated him. As a young boy he had watched schools of bait fish being chopped apart by marauding game fish and dolphins, the sea birds swooping in to pick up the bits and pieces left behind. Later, he had learned to dive and had gone deep below to witness the even greater carnage that took place beneath the placid blue water of the gulf. It had been an inspiring and sometimes frightening sight. As his mind began to race he imagined his mother swimming out there with the other predators, his mother and Darlene’s killer swimming side-by-side, each looking for prey—one trying to satisfy her perverse view of Jesus, the other pursuing some perverse form of revenge.
“Hi, Harry. Are you busy?”
Jeanie’s voice brought him back. “No, I’m not busy at all.” He rose from his chair and unlatched the screen door.
“You sure I’m not interrupting anything?”
“Not a thing. I’ve just been sitting here thinking about the gulf and all the killer fish cruising along beneath the surface.”
“You think too much about killing, Harry. Think about the beautiful things out there, like dolphin.”
“They’re one of the biggest killers … very organized, very methodical.” He watched her shake her head and smiled at her.
“You’re impossible,” she said.
“Yes, I am.”
He returned to his chair and she surprised him by slipping onto his lap. “Feeling a bit forward tonight, are we?”
“Yes. Does it make you feel threatened?”
“Not a bit. There’s nothing like a good, forward woman after a hard day at the office.”
“And any forward woman will do?”
“I didn’t say that. I might have thought it, but I did not say it.”
Jeanie jabbed a finger into his ribs making him jump. “You keep that up and I won’t sleep in your bed tonight.”
“Then I’ll stop immediately.”
She placed her head against his shoulder. “Are you sure everything’s okay?” she asked at length.
“Everything’s fine. Better now that you’re here.”
“Good.”
Bobby Joe visibly shuddered when he looked through the spy hole in his front door and saw the man standing outside. He lived in a small apartment above the garage at his father’s home. It had been one of the conditions of joining his daddy’s ministry, being close by so he could be watched. It was something about which the old man had been very forthcoming. And on top of it, he paid his father rent for the privilege.
Bobby Joe looked through the spy hole again and thought about not opening the door, but his car was outside, the lights in the apartment were on, and he wouldn’t put it past the man to just kick the door open if he tried to ignore him. He put a smile on his face and swung the door back.
“Hey there, I was just about ready to climb into bed.”
The man brushed past him, ignoring what he had said, then turned and hit him with an icy stare. “Tell me what you told the cops today.”
“I didn’t tell them much of anything. They told me stuff, like how two of the bimbos at the Peek-a-Boo were able to eyeball me as somebody they saw sittin’ at the bar with Darlene.”
“Nobody asked you to give up any names?”
“Well, yeah, that detective, Harry Doyle, did. Somebody gave him a copy of the church bulletin where my daddy was callin’ on everybody to keep an eye on Darlene, so he figures it was somebody from the church who killed her.” Bobby Joe was talking fast, his nerves kicking in. He wanted to say less, say as little as possible, but this man just made him too nervous. “My daddy came up with an idea. You see, Darlene once told me about this cop who was pressing her to put out, and how much he scared her, so Daddy thinks it would be good to lay that name on Doyle, even maybe on the sheriff himself, and ask why Doyle is investigating me and other good, God-fearing church people and nobody’s investigating this cop. He’s gonna have the church’s lawyer call him on it.”
“Who’s the cop?” the man asked.
“All I remember is that his name’s Nick, and that he’s a homicide detective.”
The man nodded slowly. “That’s very clever. Your daddy is a very smart man.” And he just bought you another day on this earth, he thought.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Harry arrived at the office at seven a.m., hoping to get a jump start on the day. As soon as he slipped behind his desk a message stared back at him, bringing a smile to his lips. It was from Jim Morgan asking for a meeting in the late afternoon and saying that he was headed out to check some leads and would meet up with Vicky in an hour. The time on the message was six-thirty a.m. He glanced across the room at Nick Benevuto’s empty desk. Benevuto would be in sometime later to slog through the paper shuffling he’d been assigned while on desk duty. He’d essentially become Diva Walsh’s assistant, although without a voice in who was assigned what cases. It was a humiliating assignment, performed each day under the eyes of his peers, a punishment police departments freely handed out to anyone who fell into disfavor.
He took some time to reconsider Benevuto as a suspect. Vicky and Jim were so certain he was good for the murder, and he certainly had motive and opportunity and had even tried to conceal his connection to the victim. But something about it didn’t speak to Harry. It was all too easy. If a homicide cop killed someone it shouldn’t be that easy to spot him. He knew exactly how the investigation would proceed; where the investigating detectives would look. And Nick was one of those investigating detectives, so hiding his involvement should have been a piece of cake.
The phone rang, breaking his train of thought.
“Harry, is that you?”
It was Jeanie, her voice filled with panic. Thoughts of her husband jumped into Harry’s mind. “Yeah, babe, what is it?”
“Somebody broke into the house, Harry. I woke up and found him going through your stuff, your police stuff, files and things.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. But he had a gun, Harry. He told me to get back in the bedroom or he’d kill me. When I turned to go, he hit me with it, knocked me kind of loopy.” She sobbed into the receiver.
“Is he gone?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Call 911. Tell them whose house it is. The Clearwater cops will get there fast.”
“I already did.”
“Okay, I’m on my way. I’m also calling my dad. His name’s Jocko. He only lives ten minutes away.”
“Please hurry, Harry. I’m scared.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes, maybe less.”
He ran into Pete Rourke on his way out and explained where he was going. Before he reached the parking lot he had already connected with his adoptive father. He hit the back door and sprinted through the parked cars. When he reached his own car he saw his twelve-year-old gangsta protégé coming toward him.
“Wassup, Doyle? Where you runnin’, or is somebody chasin’ your ass?”
“Get in the car,” Harry snapped. “I got a job for you.”
Rubio Martí jumped into the passenger seat as Harry slid behind the wheel. “This a payin’ job?” he asked.
“Is there any other kind?”
Rubio scratched his chin and grinned. “Well, for you, I might work for free. I’d prefer not to, but I might.”
“I’ll take care of you.”
“What I gotta do?”
“I want you to stay with this lady friend of mine.” He quickly explained what had happened. “She’s a little shook up. I just want her to know there’s somebody watching her back.”
“She good lookin’?”
Harry shot him a look. Rubio grinned back at him.
“Hey, I was only wonderin’.”
When Harry arrived two Clearwater patrol units were parked in front of his house, along with Jocko’s ancient MGB, a car he loved almost as much as he loved Harry’s adoptive mother, Maria.
When he entered the house he found Maria seated on the sofa, holding Jeanie’s hand
as the police questioned her. She had just met Jeanie and she was already mothering her.
“What took you so long,” Maria demanded as he approached them. It was typical of her. He had been ten miles farther away than she had, but she had expected him to get there ahead of her.
“Traffic,” he said.
Maria was a heavyset woman with warm, brown eyes that now offered up a disbelieving stare. “I came with your father; we had traffic too. You have a siren,” she added, “and flashing lights. Maybe you could use them.”
He nodded agreement, it was the only way around the verbal on-slaught. He squatted down in front of Jeanie, taking her other hand. “How are you?” he asked.
“I’ve just got a lump on my head.”
“It’s a bad lump,” Maria interjected. “I don’t know why you live in this crazy beach house. It’s not safe.”
Jocko sat next to his wife. “Maria, hush,” he said.
“Don’t hush me,” she snapped. “What I say is true.”
Harry smiled at Jeanie. “She thinks the only place that’s safe for me is in her house on the other side of the intracoastal.”
Jeanie held back her own smile. “You should listen to your mother.”
“See?” Maria agreed.
“Tell me what happened,” Harry said, ignoring her.
“I woke …” She glanced at Maria. “I was in the other room and I heard noise out here, and when I came out this man was going through your things … your police things … from the folder you keep here.”
Jocko caught Harry’s eye. Taking evidence home was against police procedure.
“It was mostly duplicates so I could work at home in the evenings,” he explained.
“Mostly?” Jocko asked.
“And some stuff I was still checking out; stuff that hadn’t become evidence yet.” Harry knew he was talking about a fine line, but bending procedure was something that had never been a problem for him. He stood and turned to the two Clearwater cops. “Let me look through what’s here and figure out what, if anything, this clown took. If you leave me a number I can call it in later for your report.” Harry glanced around the room, and then stepped into his small kitchen. “All the appliances seem to be here, so it doesn’t look like he got anything. Jeanie must have scared him off.”
The Dead Detective Page 21
