Nick gave out a little snort. “Three, four, I didn’t keep count. To tell you the truth, for all her looks she wasn’t that great.”
“Then why did you keep going back?” Vicky snapped.
Nick seemed pleased that he had irritated her. “I didn’t say she was terrible. I might even go back to a bitch like you for a second or third roll in the hay. Who knows?”
“Not on the best day of your life, slimeball,” Vicky retorted.
Jim raised a hand, calling for an end to it, and Nick laughed out loud. First round to the suspect, Harry thought.
“According to the younger Reverend Waldo you were pressing Darlene for sex, but it never happened,” Jim said. “At least that’s what she allegedly told him.”
“And?”
“Who’s telling the truth, you or him?”
“Was he fucking her too?”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“No it’s not, rookie,” Nick barked, taking charge again. “If he was fucking her, why would she admit that she was balling me too? She might say I wanted to fuck her to make him jealous, but why tell him she’d already spread her legs for me?”
“Jealousy, that’s an interesting point,” Jim said. “You didn’t know that she was sleeping with him—with Reverend Bobby Joe Waldo?”
“I assumed she was sleeping with anybody who had a dick. That’s the kind of broad she was. For crissake, she slept with fourteen-year-old kids, didn’t she?”
“So you expected her to be promiscuous,” Jim said.
“Shit, it was a fact of life.” He leaned closer to them, lowering his voice in a mocking manner. “It was on TV, in the newspapers, it was no fucking secret. So, yeah, I expected it. I never went near the broad without a box of condoms in my pocket.”
“So you weren’t jealous of her other lovers,” Vicky said.
“No,” Nick shot back.
Harry looked at Jim. It was time for him to jump in. He did, and he came in hard.
“You’re a liar,” he snapped, his eyes cold and hard on Nick.
“Fuck you,” Nick responded weakly. He hadn’t anticipated the sudden turn, the hard edge to Jim’s body language. He thought he was in control and it had taken him by surprise.
“You were jealous of every man who had ever been with her. She was beautiful, more beautiful than any woman you’d ever had. Men saw her on television and sat in their living rooms wanting her. And now you had her. You, Nick Benevuto, a short, fat, aging womanizer, who could only get a woman when he could browbeat or threaten her into it. And you weren’t going to let this one slip away. You weren’t going to share her with anybody. So you started following her, and when you caught her with that pathetic salesman, all dressed up like a cowboy, you flipped out and killed them both.”
“Prove it. It’s all bullshit!”
Harry watched Jim bear in, ignoring Nick’s denial.
“And when you realized what you’d done, you knew you had to do two things. First, you had to move the body so it was sure to come under county jurisdiction, where you’d have some involvement in the investigation. And second, you knew people were watching her, and that somebody might have seen your department car at Darlene’s house, might even have written down the license plate, so you had to cover yourself, you had to alter department records so they never showed you taking that particular car out.”
“It’s bullshit and you know it.”
Again, Jim ignored him. “And then you found out that Bobby Joe Waldo knew about you and Darlene, so you went to him and threatened him, scared the living hell out of him. But Harry Doyle was on his case; had him named as a suspect because people had seen him at Darlene’s house. And you knew Harry was good, you knew he’d break him down eventually, and that the little punk would give you up to save himself. So this afternoon you went to see him, didn’t you?”
“What the fuck are you talking about? I was never anywhere near that dope-peddling little prick. I never even met the son of a bitch.”
“You went to him and you killed him, just like you killed Darlene. You killed him because you knew he’d not only tell Harry about you and Darlene, about how you’d threatened her and blackmailed her into having sex with you, but that he’d tell him how you were threatening him to keep his mouth shut. You knew Harry would break him eventually, and so you had no choice. It was a ball rolling downhill and you couldn’t stop it.”
“The kid minister is dead?”
Harry noted the genuine shock on Nick’s face. If he was acting, he’d missed his calling in life.
“Stop the innocent act, Nick,” Vicky said. “If you want to show us you had nothing to do with this, let us toss your apartment, right now, tonight.”
Harry could see the wheels turning in Nick’s head. He was clearly thinking about what they might find there if he allowed a search. But it wasn’t necessarily what they might find about Darlene or Bobby Joe Waldo. Harry knew if they tossed his apartment and found the duplicate evidence he kept at home, he might easily face a suspension. Very few cops, if any, were clean as the driven snow. If the department wanted to get something on you, there was always something they could find.
“Let me think about it?” Nick said.
“Think about it for how long?” Jim asked.
“A day or two,” Nick said, knowing it was more than they’d agree to, but also knowing they’d have a tough time getting a search warrant any faster.
“Just enough time to clean out the place,” Vicky said. “That’s bull.
Would you give a suspect a day or two?”
“So now I’m a suspect? I thought I was a brother cop.”
“You’re both,” Jim said.
Nick leaned forward again, glaring at him. “If I wanted to toss a suspect’s crib, I’d get a search warrant. Maybe you should do that, rookie.”
“So you’re refusing?” Vicky asked.
“You bet your ass I’m refusing. And as far as I’m concerned, this interview is over.”
Nick sat back in his chair, stone-faced, hands in his lap. Harry noticed that his hands were trembling slightly. He was scared, and he should be scared. Harry was sure murder charges would never hold up. But Nick had to know they could be filed. Mistakes had been made before. Harry still didn’t make him for either murder. It just didn’t add up, and he’d fight filing charges against Nick. But at best the guy’s career had been tarnished beyond redemption. Even if he remained with the department, it would never again be in a position of trust or authority.
“You still don’t make Nick for either murder?” Vicky’s tone was pure incredulity.
“Are you going to back us on a warrant?”
“Go for your warrant,” Harry said. “I agree he’s a viable suspect. I just don’t think he’s our guy.”
“And who do you think is?” Jim asked.
Harry studied his shoes for a moment, considering how much he wanted to say. “I still think it’s someone connected to Bobby Joe’s church. And I think he knew who that person was, and it was somebody who really scared the hell out of him.”
“You said his father scared him to death,” Vicky said.
“No, this wasn’t someone who just intimidated him. This was somebody who made Bobby Joe believe he’d be killed if he ever talked. But his father was part of it. His father sent out a call asking his parishioners to get something on Darlene. Bobby Joe answered that call—that’s how he met Darlene. But our killer answered it too, and Bobby Joe knew it. That’s what eventually got him killed. The parents of the kid Darlene molested gave me a copy of a church bulletin where that call from Reverend Waldo was repeated. That’s the only thing that was taken from my house when the killer broke in. That’s the connection, that church bulletin. So I’m going to find out why it was important enough to make our killer risk breaking into my house. And when I do, I’ll know who killed Darlene and Bobby Joe.”
“I don’t buy it, Harry,” Vicky said. “It still could have been Nick Benevuto. Bobby Joe knew about him and his con
nection to Darlene. And Nick smells to high heaven on this. The only thing we haven’t been able to do is place him at the scene. When we get our warrant, we’ll do that. In the meantime, I need people watching his house to keep him from removing any evidence.”
“I’ll assign the two Tarpon detectives, Davis and Deaver. You two can alternate with them, take turns sitting on him. One at a time, six-hour shifts each.”
“That’s going to slow us down,” Vicky complained.
“I can’t help it,” Harry said. “Give it thirty-six hours. If you don’t get a warrant by then, you’re not going to get one. But right now I can’t spare any more manpower.”
“You can’t spare it for a suspect you don’t believe in,” she said.
Harry gave her a long, hard look. “That’s right, Vicky, not for a suspect I don’t believe in.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It was ten o’clock when Harry finally made it home. Jocko Doyle was seated on the living room sofa, glasses perched on the end of his nose, a Stuart Kaminsky mystery in his lap. Harry noticed he had his old, off-duty.38 snub nose on his hip, a weapon he rarely wore since his retirement from the Clearwater P.D.
“Where’s Rubio?” Harry asked.
“He’s out on the lanai watching TV.”
“Jeanie?”
“In bed, asleep,” Jocko said.
Harry started toward the bedroom.
“Hold up a minute,” Jocko said, stopping him. “There was a call from that assistant state’s attorney, Cal Morris. He’s got some info on your mother you need to hear.” He raised his chin indicating a pad on the coffee table. “His number’s there; he said you could call whenever you got in.”
Harry immediately punched the number into his cell phone. Cal Morris answered on the third ring.
“I’ve got an odd situation here, Harry,” he began. “First, let me explain that the prison called our office because they don’t have an address or a number for you. They said you never filled out their forms to arrange contact with your mother, or with the prison.”
“That’s right. I didn’t want contact.”
“Well, it seems that’s what has screwed up their notification about the parole. Now they’ve got something else. They contacted us as her prosecutor, because they couldn’t reach you and thought we might be able to. Seems your mother has asked to meet with you prior to her parole hearing. It’s not something you have to do, but I advise you to consider it.”
“Why? I have no interest in meeting with her.”
“If you’re going to oppose her release I advise you to do it. Don’t give her the opportunity to say that you haven’t had any contact with her for umpteen years and therefore have no solid basis to try and stop her from getting out.”
“I have her wacko letters,” Harry snapped.
“Yes, but letters and personal contact are like apples and oranges. You need to be able to say that you’ve read her letters and seen her and feel that she’s a danger to you. It will make your argument a great deal stronger. The prison has set a time—nine a.m. Sunday morning.”
“How efficient of them,” Harry said. “Tell me something, Cal. Why does the state seem so anxious to let her the hell out?”
“They’re overcrowded, Harry, and overcrowding makes life difficult for them. Whenever that happens they look to see who they can cut loose. The people who’ve already done heavy time are usually the safest bet. That’s how your mother ended up on the list.”
Harry closed his eyes, let out a breath, and surrendered to the madness of it. “I’ll think about it, Cal. I appreciate your call and your advice.” He closed the cell phone and looked at his father.
“I know,” Jocko said. “Cal filled me in when he called. I think you should consider his advice.” He stood and headed for the door. “I’m going home. Think over what I said.”
Harry nodded, but said nothing. It was Friday. The meeting with his mother—if he decided to go—was two days away. He walked into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. Jeanie was lying on her side, facing him. He could see the bruise where the killer had hit her. It crept from her hairline out on to her forehead. He bent down and kissed the area lightly.
Jeanie stirred and opened her eyes. “Hi,” she said, her voice heavy with sleep.
“How do you feel?”
“I’m fine. I had a great day. Your father and mother were wonderful, and Rubio is just a hoot. I’m learning a whole new language.”
“Street,” Harry said.
“Yes, that’s what he calls it. He’s pretty cute for a twelve-year-old.”
“Twelve going on forty,” Harry said.
“He thinks you’re pretty special too. He says you can hear what dead people are saying.”
“Only on Thursdays.”
Harry leaned down and kissed her forehead again, staying well away from the bruise.
“Come to bed,” Jeanie said. “You look exhausted.”
“I will.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Reverend Waldo’s secretary looked at Harry as though he had just crawled out from under a rock.
“Do you realize what we’re doing here?” she asked. “We are all in working early on a Saturday morning to prepare for Reverend Bobby Joe’s funeral. We do not have time to waste satisfying the curiosity of a police officer.”
She was a slender woman somewhere in her mid-fifties, with a flat chest and a pinched face. Her graying hair matched her dress and was worn in a tight bun, and her dull, brown eyes were obscured by rimless glasses. There was no wedding ring on her finger and Harry doubted anyone had ever given her one. The name plate on her desk said Emily Moore.
Harry placed his hands on the edge of her desk and leaned in toward her. He kept a smile on his face but it was not a warm one. Emily Moore inched her chair away from him.
“Ms. Moore, Reverend Bobby Joe didn’t die of a heart attack. He didn’t die of cancer, or as the result of an automobile accident. Someone came to his home and sliced his throat open with a very sharp knife. He was murdered, Ms. Moore, and I’m the police officer who’s been assigned to find out who butchered him like a Christmas turkey. So you stop whatever you’re doing, and you go find me a copy of that church bulletin, or I will slap handcuffs on you, put you in the back of my car, drive you to headquarters, and charge you with obstruction of justice, after which you will be strip-searched, photographed, fingerprinted, and put in a holding cell with some very unpleasant people. Do we understand each other?”
The woman’s lips began to tremble as she tried to speak, but no words came out. Her eyes filled with tears. Harry leaned in a bit closer. “Now,” he said. His voice was little more than a whisper.
Emily Moore began opening drawers in her desk; then the cabinet behind her. She rose from her chair and went to a small closet that seemed to hold an abundance of office supplies and began rummaging through them.
Harry thought about what he had said to the woman. He had little doubt Rourke would hear about it sooner or later. He always seemed to hear about Harry’s indiscretions. He’d probably think that threatening a spinster church lady with a strip search was a bit over the top. A smile began to form on his lips. It probably made her whole day, he told himself.
Emily Moore came out of the supply closet with her eyes brimming with tears again. “I don’t understand it,” she said. “We always have copies left over, but there aren’t any.” She stared at Harry, as if she expected him to whip out his handcuffs.
“You think someone took them or tossed them out?”
“I can’t think of anything else that could have happened. But they’re not supposed to be thrown out. We always overprint so we have a supply. I also always keep a few back issues in my desk. But everything is gone.”
“What about getting one from someone who still has a copy at home?”
“The issue is several months old, but it’s possible. Some of our older parishioners do keep them. I could make a few calls and see if I could find one.�
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“I’d appreciate it.” Harry tried a genuine smile, but Emily Moore still looked tearful.
You’re an ogre, he told himself. His cell phone interrupted the thought.
“Doyle,” he said.
Vicky’s voice came over the line, sounding a bit shaky. “You better get over to Nick Benevuto’s condo,” she said.
“Why? What happened?”
“I just found his body. Oh God, Harry. He ate his gun.”
Nick’s body was slumped in a chair, his head thrown back, the ultra-suede upholstery soaked with his blood. Harry stepped in close. Nick’s mouth was open, showing several broken teeth and badly burned tissue. A Glock 9mm automatic lay at his feet.
Harry had seen the bodies of other cops who decided to eat their guns; civilians as well. The back of Nick’s head was gone, the exit wound having blown out a section of skull the size of his fist. He looked up at the ceiling. Blood and bone and brain matter were spread over a three-foot swath. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves as he studied Nick’s face. Normally the face of a victim spoke to him; told him things. Not this time. Nick’s features were distorted, the eyes bulging almost to the point of coming out of their sockets. The broken teeth and burnt tissue indicated he had placed the barrel of the Glock into his mouth, which had internalized the explosion of gunpowder to the point that it distorted his features. He looked down at the weapon, noting that it was still cocked and ready to fire, something the pistol did automatically whenever it was discharged.
“There’s still a live round in the chamber. As soon as it’s dusted for prints let’s remember to put the safety on.”
“You should come and see this, Harry.” Vicky was standing next to a computer that was set up on a small desk. Even from across the room he could see a message printed on the screen.
“What is it?” he asked.
“It’s a confession. It covers all three murders—Darlene, the cowboy, and the Waldo kid.”
Harry walked to the computer, but before he started reading he checked a nearby printer, making sure it was loaded with paper. Using a pencil to move the mouse he hit the print tab. “I want a hard copy, just in case we lose what’s on the screen.”
The Dead Detective Page 25
