“Harry? Are you there?”
“Yes. Sorry. I was just thinking about everything you dug up. I’m starting to feel like we’re surrounded by monsters.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.”
“Have you heard from Marty LeBaron?”
Vicky let out a long sigh. “Marty got a warrant and searched his house and both his cars, but he hasn’t located the murder weapon yet. He did come up with positive blood evidence in his work vehicle. Blood that matches Darlene’s type that he found in the trunk, along with some on the driver’s-side floor mat of his personal car that we haven’t matched yet. It could be transfer evidence from one or more of the crime scenes, something that came off the shoes he was wearing. It’ll take some time for DNA to prove everything beyond doubt, but Marty’s pretty sure he’s good for these murders.”
“Get that stuff all on paper for me,” Harry said. “I’m about two and a half hours away, but when I get back I want to run this stuff by Lola Morofsky before we lay it out for Rourke and decide how to set him up.”
“It’ll be waiting for you when you get here,” Vicky said.
Lola Morofsky sat in her overstuffed chair, her short legs dangling way above the floor. The preliminary reports that Vicky and Marty LeBaron had prepared were resting in her lap as her index finger moved from point to point like a computer mouse.
“I would very much like to interview this man.”
“I imagine you will in time.”
“Is the arrest imminent?” There was a clear look of concern on her face.
“We need to force a move on the perp’s part,” Harry said.
“Force a move?”
“We don’t have the murder weapon yet. It’s obviously stashed somewhere that we couldn’t find. But…”
“But?” Lola pressed.
“The killer has gone after everyone who’s become a problem, and excluding Nick Benevuto who had to look like a suicide, the same weapon has been used in each murder. If another problem suddenly comes up, I think it will draw the killer out, murder weapon in hand.”
“Harry, please listen to me. You are dealing with a tormented killing machine here, someone whose mind was badly twisted by something that goes far back into his childhood. It would not surprise me to find that he has killed other abusive people over the years. This may or may not have begun with the killing of Darlene Beckett. We know that was an act of retribution for what she did to that young boy. But there may also have been other acts of retribution in the past. And understand this. Unlike some serial killers, this person does not want to be caught. For this person the act of killing is truly messianic in nature and any attempt to stop those acts will be met by the harshest of responses.”
“That’s what I’m counting on,” Harry said.
Lola let out a long breath. “Be very, very careful, Harry. This killer knows you and hates you. Not as a person-although perhaps that way as well-but definitely for the danger you present. That makes your life meaningless-meaningless to the point that ending it would not produce one iota of guilt. It would simply be a means to an end.”
Harry and Vicky walked toward Harry’s car at six-thirty that evening. They had just met with Pete Rourke in a restaurant parking lot. Harry glanced at his watch.
“He should be home by now,” Harry said. “Call him as soon as you get back to the office. If he’s not home leave a message with his wife. Make it very specific.”
“What if the kid answers and the mother and father aren’t home? Do I leave the message with him?”
Harry thought that over. “Yes, I hate to do it that way, but I don’t think we have any choice.”
“Are you coming back to the office with me?”
Harry shook his head. “As far as anyone else is concerned, I’m out of town. I’m going to need the next couple of hours to set the rest of it up.”
Vicky nodded. “Good luck. Hopefully I’ll see you later tonight.”
Vicky looked across the conference table at Jim Morgan. She glanced at her watch. It was seven o’clock. “Time to put a little pressure on our suspect,” she said.
Morgan nodded. “You want me to make the call?”
Vicky shook her head. “I want to do this myself.” She opened her cell phone and punched in the number. It was answered on the third ring.
“Hello, Mr. Hall. This is Detective Stanopolis. I’m calling for Detective Doyle.” She paused, listening. “Yes, he’s the other detective who interviewed you. He needs to do it again. He can come to your house before you leave for work tomorrow, or he can see you at work. It’s your call.” Again she listened. “It’s about a church bulletin we’ve been trying to locate. Detective Doyle found a copy and there’s something in it that he needs to discuss with you.” Another pause. “No, I can’t tell you what it is. I haven’t seen the bulletin. Detective Doyle has been out of town all day and he has it with him.” She listened. “I know what you said. If it’s necessary, Detective Doyle can bring a warrant with him.” Another pause. “I’m glad you feel that way. Thank you for your cooperation.”
Vicky closed her phone and peered off in the distance.
“Where’s Harry been?” Joe Morgan asked, bringing her back.
“Visiting his mother,” she said. “She’s up for parole on Tuesday. Twenty years ago she killed his six-year-old brother. She also killed him, but some Tampa cops were able to bring him back.”
“His mother? God, I didn’t know.” Morgan thought over what she had said. “So that’s why they call him the dead detective. It’s because he was dead once. I thought it was all that nonsense about how he can talk to murder victims.”
Vicky stared across the conference table. “He doesn’t talk to victims,” she said. “They talk to him.”
CHAPTER TWENTY — FOUR
A misting rain turned the street into a shiny black mirror, the gleaming surface reflecting the lighted windows that faced the street. A steady breeze came from the west, bringing the noise of the surf up from the beach, the low distant rumble obliterating the sound of a car that pulled in from Mandalay Avenue and glided silently to the curb. It was ten-thirty and the only other sign of life was a young boy rolling toward the intersection on a skateboard, his baseball hat askew on his head, his long, baggy basketball shirt flapping about his legs.
When the boy reached the corner he glanced back, then seemed to lower his head to his hand before rolling off into the avenue.
The car remained at the curb for several minutes before the driver’s door opened. A tall figure slipped out and moved quickly to the shadow of a large hedge of sea grape. Again, there was no movement, the driver remaining perfectly still, eyes fixed on a house directly across the street. The house was dark except for the faint flicker of a television screen.
The driver had cruised the area for the past hour, seeking out the patrol units that had guarded the house in recent days, making certain they hadn’t been replaced by unmarked cars. Now the driver’s eyes scanned the windows of the other houses, watching for the rustle of a shade or curtain or blind that would indicate some watcher. There was nothing.
Harry sat in a leather recliner positioned so it offered a clear field of vision of both the front door and the entrance to the lanai. The dead bolt for the front door had not been secured; the lone lock that now held it closed was one that could be easily slipped with a credit card. The exterior door to the lanai had been left unlocked. A walkie-talkie sat on the table next to his chair. Moments before, Rubio Marti’s warning that someone had entered the street had squawked over the receiver, a simple warning that the killer may have arrived. Harry’s hand moved to the stock of the 12-gauge sawed-off shotgun that lay across his lap.