Harry thought of his gangsta friend Rubio Marti. “Yeah, I know what you mean. When was the last time you saw Darlene Beckett?” Harry asked, changing tack.
“In court, the day the plea deal was approved by the judge.” Anger came to Mr. Hall’s eyes for the first time since they had started talking. “She walked out of that courtroom and she smiled at us. Can you believe it? She hurts my son like that, and she turns all of our lives to shit, and she smiles about it.” Hall drew a deep breath. “I’ll tell you, Detective Doyle. Right then I wanted to hurt that woman, and if I was ever gonna kill her I would have killed her right then and there. And I would have done it with my bare hands.”
Billy Hall sat at the small outdoor table, flanked by each of his parents. Through the sliding glass doors Harry could see his six-year-old sister peaking out at them from far back in the house. Harry studied the boy closely. Because of his age, no photographs of him had ever run in area newspapers, so this was the first time Harry had seen him. He looked like a typical fifteen-year-old Florida teenager, thin and lanky with tanned skin and sunbleached hair. He had none of his father’s size, although his bone structure hinted that he might one day grow into it. His blue eyes came from his mother as did a longish nose and wide mouth. There was nothing exceptional about him. He was neither particularly attractive nor unattractive. Right now his eyes were wary, almost frightened, and his lips trembled slightly when he spoke.
“Billy, when was the last time you saw Darlene Beckett?” Harry asked.
“In court,” Billy said. “The last time she was in court.”
“Did you speak to her?”
The boy shook his head vehemently.
“When was the last time you spoke to her?”
“In school.” The boy blushed deeply. “You know, just before the police got involved and arrested her.”
“What did you talk about?”
“She told me we both had to deny everything, and that I had to get my cousin to take back the stuff he told the cops.”
“Did you do that?”
Another shake of the head. “My mom and dad told me I had to play it straight with the police, and that I’d just get Randy-that’s my cousin-in trouble if I got him to lie.”
“And you never spoke to her again.”
“No.”
“Did she ever try to get in touch with you?”
“No, not after that last time in school.”
“Did you ever hear anyone make threats against Ms. Beckett?” Harry asked.
The boy shrugged. “I heard some people say some bad things about her.” He glanced furtively at his mother. “But I never heard nobody say they were gonna kill her or beat her up or anything. Some people at the church said she’d burn in hell for what she did.” He twisted nervously in his chair. “They said I’d burn in hell too, if I didn’t repent. I told them I already had, but they said I had to do it publicly, like in front of the whole congregation. I told them, no way.”
“Okay, Billy.” Harry handed him a business card. “That has my office phone and my cell numbers on it. If you think of anything else, I want you to call me. Straight?”
Billy lowered his eyes and nodded. Harry doubted the boy would ever call, but he was certain he’d be seeing him again.
Harry was alone in the conference room going over his notes and the reports filed by the other members of the team, when the door flew open and Vicky breezed in.
“You missed one heck of an interview,” she said. “Morgan and I just finished up with Bennie Rolf, Darlene’s P.O. The man started peeing his pants so hard I thought we were gonna need a rowboat.”
She was grinning; her eyes dancing with pleasure. Harry fought back his own smile. “Sounds like you had a chance to play Wicked Witch of the West. And it looks like you enjoyed it.”
“Oh, I did indeed.”
“Did you let Morgan play good cop to your bad cop?”
Vicky took a chair opposite him. “Well, that was a little odd,” she said. “Don’t get me wrong, he handled the interview just fine. But later…”
“Later, what?” Harry asked.
“Well, it was pretty clear to us that all those visits Bennie made to Darlene’s crib weren’t completely kosher. When we pushed him on it and hinted that he might have helped lose her monitor, he really freaked out. I mean the man just oozed guilt. By the time we walked out of his office we were pretty convinced that old Bennie had helped Darlene out in exchange for some very serious nookie. But his alibi for the night she died checks out. He was with his mother, if you can believe it.”
“He was visiting her?”
“No, he lives with her,” Vicky said. “The same house he grew up in. Seems old Bennie never left home and hearth.”
“And I bet he doesn’t want Mama to know about his little tryst with Darlene.”
“You bet your bippy. When I told him we’d have to confirm his alibi with her, well, like the song says, he turned a lighter shade of pale.”
Vicky paused and Harry thought she seemed suddenly reluctant to say more. “So what about Morgan?”
Vicky wished she hadn’t brought it up; she hadn’t anticipated Harry’s reaction. But it was too late to backtrack. “Well, when we got to the car I could see he was pissed off. He didn’t like the idea of Rolf giving in to her-Darlene being able to use sex to get around the restrictions the court had placed on her. What can I say, he’s a real by-the-book cop.” She smiled at Harry and added: “Just like we’re all supposed to be. I think it just ticked him off that Rolf let himself be used that way and he wanted to know if we were going to report it to anyone. He was pretty adamant that we should.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“I told him it would be noted in my report, but that someone else would decide whether to pursue it or not. I also told him I didn’t think the chances were very good.” She paused. “That didn’t make him a happy camper, but he knows he has to live with it.” She watched Harry think that over, then quickly added, “Look, Harry, this guy’s just very intense about his job. And he’s very good. I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. He’s just like most patrol cops. He doesn’t see gray. He’s a black-and-white kind of guy.”
Harry stared at her. “It still concerns me,” he said. “Not a lot yet, but it concerns me. I don’t want this investigation tainted by anyone’s preconceived notions about morality. We have to remain above that or we’ll end up going down a lot of wrong paths. So I want you to keep working with him and keep a close eye on what he does. At least for a while. What’s he doing now?”
Vicky’s jaw tightened. Her anger was directed more at herself than at Harry. She should have just kept her mouth shut. “He’s trying to find any deleted information in the department’s motor pool records. And he seems to know what he’s doing. Like I said, I’m not worried about him at all. He may be a little straight-laced, but from what I’ve seen he’s got good instincts as an investigator.” She paused, then pressed on. “Harry, I’ve got to be up front with you. If I was running this case I’d be more concerned about your personal hang-ups than I would be about his.”
Harry was jolted by the comment, but fought not to let it show. “Your concern’s noted. I promise you I’ll keep my hang-ups in check.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dr. Lola Morofsky was a seventy-year-old psychiatrist who refused to retire. After a forty-year career as a therapist she no longer accepted private patients; now she devoted her efforts strictly to law enforcement, working exclusively with the various police agencies in Pinellas and Hillsborough counties. When Harry called seeking an appointment, she agreed to see him immediately.
“So you’ve got the big one,” she said, peering up at him from the large executive desk chair that enveloped her body like a cocoon.
She was a tiny woman, no more than five feet tall and well under one hundred pounds. She had short, kinky brown hair, obviously dyed, a long nose, and thick lips. Heavy makeup did its best to cover the sea of wrinkles on her face. She had never married, and had no children, and although she’d lived in Florida most of her adult life, she still carried with her the Brooklyn accent of her childhood.