The Dead Detective (10 page)

“The ex was out on his sailboat with his new girlfriend,” Benevuto began. “The marina where he keeps the boat said he filled it up with diesel in the late afternoon on the day of the murder, and told the guy who filled it that he was heading south in the gulf for a few days. The girlfriend confirms that she was with him every minute right up to the time he got the call that Darlene was dead. His office also confirms that he took the time off from work.” He gave Harry a shrug. “Of course, there’s no way of being certain he didn’t have a car stashed somewhere along the route, where he could get back, do his ex-wife, and return to the boat. So I checked for any traffic citations or parking tickets he might have gotten between here and Venice, along with the area north of the marina in case he lied about where he took the boat. I also checked car rentals for him and his girlfriend. Nada. If it went down that way the girlfriend would have to be in on it, and she honestly doesn’t seem the type. She comes across as pretty much of a straight arrow.”

“What did you find out about her?” Harry asked.

“She’s an emergency room nurse at Tampa General. They’ve got nothing but good things to say about her—dedicated, caring, all the usual bullshit. I thought I was listening to a goddamn commercial.”

“Did you have time to check his credit cards to see if he made any gasoline purchases on land at the same time he was supposed to be on the boat?”

“Not yet, but I planned to do that in the morning.”

Benevuto said it a bit sheepishly and Harry knew he had caught him out. “Okay, let’s leave Jordan Beckett for now. What about the old boyfriend, Billy Smithers?”

“Same story,” John Weathers chimed in. “He’s got three buddies who say he was at a Rays game at Tropicana Field the night of the murder. All of them said they stayed to the end then went to a bar for a few beers before heading home. It was at least one a.m. before they left St. Petersburg, so that puts him about thirty miles from the crime scene until well after Darlene was iced. Oh, and Smithers also has his ticket stub from the game. It was still in his wallet.”

“Why would he keep the ticket stub?” Harry asked.

“These guys buy reserved seats near the Rays’ dugout. The attendants check tickets every time you go out and try to come back in. So he just stuck the stub in his wallet. It was still there.”

“Okay, we’ll cross Mr. Smithers off the list for now. When you get a chance check out the bar they were at. Take a driver’s license picture with you and see if the bartender can confirm their story.” Harry turned to the Tarpon Springs detectives, the two D’s, Bob Davis and Jerry Deaver. “What did you guys come up with at the murder sight?”

Davis and Deaver looked like Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee. They were the same height, about five-ten; both had the same blocky builds, with thick necks and square faces, and each had out-of-date crew cuts. If they had worn fedoras they would have fit into a 1940s detective flick, Harry thought.

Davis took the lead: “Our canvass of the neighbors around the park pretty much drew a blank. One guy,” he paused to consult his notebook and rattle off a name and address, “he was out walking his pooch a little before midnight and he remembers two cars being parked near the entrance to the park. He didn’t pay a lot of attention to them because kids park there sometimes and walk into the park to fool around. The work crews claim they pick up a lotta used condoms around the picnic areas, especially on weekends.”

“At least your local kids are practicing safe sex,” Vicky offered.

“Yeah, there’s that,” Davis said. “But it doesn’t make me want to eat my lunch on one of those picnic tables.”

“Did this neighbor remember the make and model of either of the cars?” Harry asked.

“No. He’s so used to seeing cars there, he didn’t pay much attention. He just noticed they were there. He did remember that both of them looked pretty new for kid’s cars. But other than our dog walker nobody saw anything or heard anything unusual. It’s a pretty quiet neighborhood. On work nights most people are in bed by the time our murder went down. One thing that’s curious is that a car did drive around the gate. CSI has casts of the tires, but there doesn’t seem to be anything special about them. And we can’t be certain it happened around the time of the murder. Could have been earlier, or later. All we know for certain is that they’re Bridgestone tires. Same tread as the car that drove into Brooker Creek.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “I already got a report from Marty LeBaron on that. I think we can lean toward the idea that this was the killer’s car. That he drove it in to pick up Darlene’s body. So I’d like you to stay on it. If the cars are new they probably have factory tires on them. So check and see what makes and models came out of the factory with those treads, or better yet what dealers might offer those tires as options.”

“You got it,” Davis said.

Harry turned to Vicky. “What did you come up with on the abuse victim and his family?”

Vicky opened her notebook. “The kid’s name is Billy Hall, but that’s something we can’t let out to the media. His identity is still protected as a juvenile. He’s fifteen years old—he was barely fourteen when Darlene abused him.”

Nick Benevuto let out a snort. “I wish somebody like Darlene had abused me when I was fourteen.”

Soft laughter filled the room.

Vicky inhaled and let out a long breath. “Alright, guys, let’s get something straight. It is abuse whether it’s done to a male or female. And it does cause harm. Trust me. I saw enough of it in sex crimes.” She could tell she wasn’t getting through to most of them. “Look, I know it’s hard for all you macho guys not to think that what Darlene did wasn’t all that terrible. I’ve heard the
Who did she hurt
? argument over and over in cases like hers. But try to think of it as a male teacher doing what she did to a fourteen-year-old girl. Trust me, it’s the same power trip and it’s just as damaging. This kid is shell-shocked from all the notoriety. He just wants it to go away and he wants a hole to hide in until it does. His parents are two hardworking, blue-collar types, and they just want the same thing. They’ve got friends and neighbors who have turned their backs on them because they refused to let the kid testify. And it doesn’t matter that they did that based on a psychologist’s recommendation. The friends and neighbors are salt-of-earth types themselves, and they all wanted Darlene hung out to dry. When she was allowed to cop a plea, so the kid wouldn’t have to testify, they took it out on the parents. The parents told me that even the people in the church they attended turned their backs on them.”

“So there had to be a lot of resentment toward Darlene,” Harry suggested.

“A ton of it,” Vicky said. “The boy’s mother flat out said she was glad Darlene was dead—that she’d like to thank whoever killed her.”

“They have alibis for the night of the murder?” Harry asked.

“Just each other,” Vicky said. “They all claim they were home that night, that they watched a little television, then went to bed around eleven. But even if that’s true, it doesn’t rule out that another member of their family, a neighbor or friend, or somebody from their church, won’t qualify as a suspect. There’s a lot more checking to do there.”

“I agree,” Harry said. “It’s a promising lead. Let’s talk about it some more later.” Harry now turned to the uniforms, taking them one at a time, starting with those who were checking out the owners of cars seen parked in Darlene’s driveway. The one person who had visited most often was her probation officer. He had visited her like clockwork every Thursday night. Her other visitors all seemed to have alibis, some stronger than others, but they still had to be checked out. Harry told the deputies to keep at it until they had all the alibis nailed down one way or the other.

The last man he called on was Deputy Jim Morgan, who had been asked to recanvass Darlene’s neighbors.

“I just came up with one new thing, but I think it could be important,” Morgan began. “The elderly neighbor, the one who kept track of the cars in her driveway, Joshua Brown, well, it seems he withheld two plate numbers when he gave you the list he compiled.”

Harry cocked his head to one side, surprised by the information. He couldn’t understand why the old man would do that and he was a little embarrassed that he hadn’t pressed him enough to draw that information out during his initial interview. “Tell me about it,” he said.

“Well, it was all his doing.” Morgan was obviously uncomfortable that he had put Harry on the spot. “He just threw it out while I was talking to him—that he was surprised we didn’t already have all the plate numbers since we were watching her so closely. When I asked him what he meant, he told me he had seen two unmarked cars in front of her house and figured we were watching her pretty close.”

“How did he know they were unmarked police cars?”

“He said he saw the radios through the windows. He had already written down the license numbers, but he didn’t include the cars on the list after he saw the police radios.”

“But he kept the numbers,” Harry said.

“Sure did. All the numbers were in a small notebook he carried when he took his dog out for walks. Then he transferred the numbers to the list he gave you. These two numbers were still in his notebook with lines drawn through them.”

Harry couldn’t help but smile. A notebook, transferring plate numbers to another list. The old coot had embarrassed him, but thank God he had so much time on his hands. “So did you run those new plates?”

“Yes, I did. And here’s the kicker. Both cars are registered to us, to the Pinellas County Sheriff’s Department. And according to the motor pool there’s no record of who took either of those cars out.” Morgan paused. “And there should be.”

“Sounds like we have some more work to do,” Harry said, then turned to Vicky. “I’d like you to work with Jim on this. I’d also like one of you to run a computer check on past murders—local and federal. See if you can come up with anytime where the victim’s face was covered by a mask or where words were carved in the flesh. And don’t limit the check to this county or even to Florida.”

Vicky’s eyebrows rose. “You thinking serial killer here?”

“No. But I don’t want to overlook the possibility either, and then get second guessed about why we never checked. While you’re doing that I’ll pick up where you left off with the kid and his family. Everybody else just keep working on what you’ve got.” He looked back at Morgan. “Helluva nice job.”

Morgan tried to suppress a grin. Harry took it in and decided that the young deputy, like most cops, had an oversized ego. And he likes it fed with as much praise as he can get.

Harry was back at his desk jotting the information Vicky had gathered into his notebook, while she dictated it from hers.

“Why do you want me working with Morgan?” she asked when they had finished.

“This is new for him,” Harry said. “I just want to make sure he follows through on it. I have no reason to believe he won’t, but then I don’t know how he feels about investigating other cops, and I just want to make sure I’ve got somebody more experienced looking over his shoulder.” He gave Vicky a long look. “This is something that could come back and bite us if it’s not handled right. Even if it doesn’t prove to be part of the case, we’ve got to be able to show we investigated it thoroughly. I also want you to check out Darlene’s probation officer. Find out why he spent so much time at her town house and what the hell she was doing without her ankle monitor—”

The phone on Harry’s desk rang, interrupting him.

“Doyle,” he said as he answered it.

“Harry, it’s Walter Lee Hollins, over at the prison.”

Harry’s stomach tightened and seemed to rise toward his throat. It had to be news about his mother, and news about her was never good. “Hey, Walter Lee, something going on?”

“Yeah, I’m afraid there is. Your mama just got notified that she’s been put up for a parole hearing. I wanted to make sure you heard about it, in case those assholes on the parole board or in the state’s attorney’s office forget to tell you. It’s happened before.”

“When will it be?” Harry’s voice had gone dead cold and most of the color had left his face. He could feel Vicky staring at him, but refused to look at her.

“They ain’t set a date yet, far as I know. But it could be as soon as next week. If she don’t make the list for that parole hearing, it’ll probably be the next one. I’m not sure how close they’re scheduling them right now. There’s a lot of pressure from Tallahassee to parole as many as we can to ease up on overcrowding. I never thought it would affect your mama though. Not with what she’s in here for.”

“No, I didn’t either. Thanks for the information.”

“No problem, Harry. You take care, hear?”

When Harry ended the call Vicky was still staring at him. “Bad news?” she asked.

“Just some personal stuff.”

C
HAPTER
S
IX

H
arry sat on the lanai, a box of letters before him,
a few already yellowing with age. The letters had been written by his mother, one each year, stretching back to when he was eleven years old. Each was written and carefully mailed so it would arrive on a specific day—the anniversary of the day she had killed her two small sons. Now, twenty years later, it was odd to think that he had died on that day. But it was a simple fact. He had not been breathing and had lacked a heartbeat when the two Tampa cops broke into the garage and started CPR on the two small boys they found there. But it only worked for one … only one had come back.

Harry picked up the last letter he had received, the only one he hadn’t yet read. Each year he had to force himself to read her latest letter. This time it was taking longer than usual. But he knew once he read it, he would read it over and over again, sickened by the madness he would find there. He also had to force himself to read
all
the letters again, hoping he’d find enough in each to present a strong, clear argument to the parole board, something that would keep them from turning his mother loose.

His hands trembled slightly as he opened the letter. He looked at his hands and gave a slight shake of his head. There were criminals on the street who would love to see that hint of fear, that slight crack in will that they could pounce on, something that made him vulnerable, another potential victim rather than a threat. But they wouldn’t see it. He’d make certain that never happened. And if the day ever came that he could no longer hide his fear, he knew he would walk away from the job and never look back.

He removed the letter from the envelope. It was plain, prison-issue stationery, the writing paper lined, the return address on the envelope just a name and inmate number. It began as it always did; the same first line that never varied except for the number of years since Jimmy’s death.

My Darling Son,

Your brother Jimmy has been with Jesus for twenty-one years now. How I wish you were there too, sitting before Him in His everlasting glory, receiving the reward that comes to all who lead a life of goodness. I tried my best, but things don’t always happen the way God wants. I’ve learned that sometimes the evildoers have their way. Sometimes the devil steps in and stops even the plans of the Lord.

I have suffered here in man’s purgatory for twenty-one years now. But this year there is some good news, finally some hope. The doctor who they made me see says he will recommend that I be sent home. I had to tell him that I am sorry about what I did. For years I tried to tell people that I needed my sons to be with Jesus, to be there waiting for me when I arrived. But this was something very few people could ever understand. For the last few years I have stopped trying, except with my minister, who visits me often. He tells me it is alright to be sorry that Jimmy died and to also be happy he is with the Lord. So that is what I tell people now. The important thing is that I will soon come to you. I know they have been hiding the letters you have written to me. It is an evil act, but it is their way of punishing me for my sins. Maybe when I am sent home they will give me those letters they have hidden away. I promise, if they do, that I will read each and every one. I often wonder if you are married now, and if you are, if you have children of your own. I would like very much to be a grandmother who can sit with her grandchildren and tell them the story of Jesus and Mary and Joseph. It is what grandmothers should do. They should make sure that all children are ready to go to God and to sit before His wondrous goodness, to live in His house forever and ever. But we will talk about that when I see you. I pray to the Lord Almighty that it will be very, very soon. I miss you and Jimmy so very much.

Pray for me, my son,

Your loving mother

The letter had been written in a neat, precise cursive, each letter so small it was barely an eighth of an inch above the line on which it was penned. Harry stared at it, thinking about those small, precise letters coming out of that twisted mind, flying like insects to gather on the paper as she willed them to be. He remembered his mother from childhood, always affectionate, especially when he was younger, then later as he approached adolescence becoming strangely aloof, almost as though she were living in a world apart from him. He remembered when he was nine and she began standing outside the bathroom door whenever she knew he was inside, asking him what he was doing that was taking so long, warning him not to do things that were wrong. He had not known what she meant. Puberty was still years away. It was the madness slowly growing. He knew that now. But at the time he thought it was because he had come to displease her. He didn’t pay much attention to it. He thought it was something that would pass. She was his mother, and he therefore believed she had to love him. It was just the way things were. Jimmy had noticed the change in her as well. He had called it her strange time. But to him it was more of a joke.
Mama’s in her strange time,
Jimmy would say, and then he would giggle.

There was a light rap on the screen door, and when he looked up he saw Jeanie Walsh standing there smiling at him.

“Are you working?” she asked. “I don’t want to interrupt you if you are. I heard all about your new case on the news. That you’re heading up the investigation, I mean. It sounds awful.” She drew a breath. “God, I’m babbling.”

It was a bright night with a full moon high in the sky. A clear stream of moonlight illuminated one side of her face, making her short, curly blond hair sparkle; leaving the other side deep in shadow. It made her look beautiful and elusive, he thought; some pixie who had floated in on the gulf wind.

“No, it’s not work,” he said. “Come in.”

He gathered the letters, returning them to the shoe box where he stored them.

She took a chair at the round outdoor table where he was seated, her eyes going to the old box.

“My mother’s letters,” he said. “I heard today that she’ll be coming up for parole, and I wanted to be able to show the parole board that she hasn’t changed, no matter what the prison shrinks say.”

“Is that what you want … to keep her in prison?” Jeanie asked.

“That’s what I want.”

“It must be hard, coming at a time when you’ve got this big case.”

“It would be hard if I was on vacation on some quiet Caribbean island. I just don’t want her back in my life. I don’t want her to have any part in my life ever again.”

Jeanie looked at him and nodded slowly. Then her eyes drifted back to the box of letters. Oh, Harry, she thought, my sweet Harry. She’s here right now whether you see it or not, and she always will be whether you want it or not. And all the letters in the world, and all the parole boards, won’t be able to change it.

She spoke none of it. Instead she smiled and said, “Would you like to go for a walk on the beach?”

Harry nodded. “Sure. Just let me put these letters away.”

Jeanie smiled at him and wondered if he ever would.

The car was parked under a small palm just up the street from Harry’s house, the driver slouched behind the wheel, his eyes roaming the street before returning to the house. Not bad for a cop, the watcher thought. The house, old and inelegant as it was, would still be worth a cool million even as a teardown. He had wanted to see where the detective lived. He would be running the investigation and you never knew when an unexpected visit might become necessary. It had been easy to follow him home. Still, he had been cautious, had remained well back, careful not to give himself away. It had been more caution than had probably been needed. Criminals seldom go after cops for revenge, so it’s usually dirty cops who worry about being followed, and he had no reason to believe that Harry Doyle fell into that category.

He started the car and made a quick U-turn. No point in hanging around and risk being seen. He had what he needed. Now it was better to play it smart and blend back into the scenery. Just like always: the little branch on the big tree, too insignificant to be noticed, but there all the same.