stay on top of us. I promise you that won’t happen.”
“It’s a big case,” Harry said.
LeBaron grinned at him. “Harry, all your cases are big cases, and every time you have one you tell me the same thing.” He looked at Vicky. “You his new partner?”
“I am,” Vicky said.
“God help you.” LeBaron laughed and waved a hand at them. “So go canvass the neighborhood and let me do my work.”
Like Juan, the building super, most of the neighbors seemed unmoved by news of Darlene’s death. One woman even expressed relief that she was “finally out of the neighborhood,” and several others said they had kept a close eye on who visited Darlene’s apartment. According to the neighbors there had been a steady stream of men, but no one visitor who seemed to come more than the others. There was also an older man and woman, who neighbors had assumed were Darlene’s parents. Several emphasized that none of the visitors had been children, with one woman flatly stating that she would have called the police “if anyone under eighteen had gotten within ten feet of her front door.”
At an apartment directly across the small green from Darlene’s unit, a man in his mid-to late-seventies confessed to keeping an even closer eye on his notorious neighbor.
“I watched her good,” he explained with a clear element of pride in his voice. His name was Joshua Brown and he was short and slender, almost frail, with a white beard masking his chocolate-colored face. He was the kind of witness that Harry both loved and hated-someone with enough time on his hands to watch what was going on very closely, but who also might not live long enough to testify at a trial.
Brown grinned and nodded his head as he spoke. “Whenever she had a visitor I took my dog Junie for a walk,” he explained. “So’s I’d get a better idea of what was goin’ on.”
Harry looked past the man and saw an ancient tan mongrel sleeping on the floor next to a battered leather recliner. The dog had not stirred when they rang the doorbell, or even opened its eyes while he and Vicky interviewed the man. Harry smiled to himself, thinking how the old man must have dragged the dog out the front door every time he felt the need to spy on Darlene Beckett.
“You think you could identify the men who visited Ms. Beckett?” Harry asked.
“Kin do better than that,” Brown said. “I kin give you a list of the license plates on their cars, and the dates I saw them parked in her driveway.”
Harry was seldom shocked by what came out of a neighborhood canvass, but this time he was. “Why did you keep a list like that?” he asked.
“Figured somebody might need it if they turned out to be a bunch of perverts like she was,” Brown said.
When the door closed, he turned to Vicky and shrugged. “That old man just saved us a day or two of work.”
Vicky nodded absently, and then shook her head.
“What?” Harry asked.
“I just realized what a fishbowl that woman was living in.” She watched Harry’s eyes harden.
“Don’t waste your time feeling sorry for her,” he said. “If she was living in a fishbowl, it was one she made for herself.”
Harry went back to their car with the list of tag numbers and dates that Joshua Brown had given him and called in the plates. Since Darlene’s garage was empty he also asked for information on any vehicle registered to a Darlene Beckett at the north Tampa address. A short time later he had a description and plate number for a green 2004 Ford Taurus registered to Darlene Beckett, along with the names, addresses, and dates of birth of the owners of the vehicles on Joshua Brown’s carefully compiled list. He then placed a second call and ordered a check of wants and warrants on each of those persons, as well as a rundown on any criminal histories. He asked for the same for the building super. With a little luck-meaning the state computers wouldn’t go down-they should have all the information he had requested by the end of their shift.
“Where to now?” Vicky asked. “The strip club?”
“First we check the street for Darlene’s Taurus, then the strip club,” Harry said.
Vicky paused a beat. “While we’re checking for the car, let’s drive around the neighborhood a little more? I’m not familiar with this part of Tampa and I’d like to be.”
“I’m familiar with it,” Harry said. “I lived a couple of streets away until I was ten years old.”
Vicky wondered if this was why he had seemed so tense while coming here. She decided now was the time to find out. “Show me,” she said.
Harry drove through the neighborhood, his mood suddenly distant; his body language setting up a shield between them. You’d make a lousy criminal, Harry Doyle, Vicky thought. Your emotions come off you like sweat.
Vicky studied the streets as they drove. It was a typical lower-middle-class neighborhood, each house, each apartment building in a varying state of repair, each announcing the degree of affluence of the people who lived within its walls. The main streets were much the same, a neat block adjacent to one where the sidewalks and gutters were littered with debris. There were lower-end shops and Mom-and-Pop stores, all announcing sales in their windows. There were fast-food chains and discount clothing and shoe stores, all still open late into the evening, racks of clothes and tables of shoes out on the sidewalks. Harry slowed as they passed a small evangelical church and Vicky looked across the front seat and saw that he was staring at it.
“Your church as a kid?” she asked.
“My mother’s church. She was always there for something.”
“She didn’t drag you along?”
She watched as Harry shook his head, saying nothing.
“You’re lucky. We were Greek Orthodox, and there was always something going on. My mother dragged me to everything. When I was a teenager it drove me nuts.” She laughed. “Now I don’t go at all. Probably the result of being dragged there so much.” She smiled at the memory. “So where did you live?”
She was still smiling when she looked back at Harry, but the smile died quickly when she saw the cold, hard look in his eyes.
“What?” she asked.
“What’s all this crap about wanting to see where I lived?” They were stopped at a light, and he was looking straight into her eyes. His voice was still soft, but so cold Vicky could almost feel the icy vapor rising from the words.
“Hey, it’s nothing special. I was just curious,” she said.
“You wanna see where the dead detective got his name, is that it?” Again, the ice in his voice almost made her shiver.
Vicky began to stammer. “Jesus, no… I mean… I didn’t know it had anything to do with that.”
“Alright, forget it,” Harry said. The light had turned green, and he turned his attention back to the road and drove. “Let’s get back to work and forget all the other crap.”
They drove in silence for almost ten minutes before Vicky spoke again. “Look, Harry, I didn’t know I was getting into your baggage back there. I’m sorry if I went someplace I shouldn’t have gone. We’ve all got baggage we don’t want to talk about.”
She could see his jaw tighten, and wondered if she had gone too far again.
“So what’s your baggage?” he said at length.
His words had a challenge in them, and she knew if they were going to have any success as partners she had to answer. She was sure Harry knew that too.
“A week from Saturday I was supposed to get married in that Greek Orthodox church I was telling you about.”
“So you decided not to.” Harry spoke the words dismissively.
Vicky paused. “No, I didn’t decide anything. He decided.”
Harry glanced at her, then back at the road. There had been a look of regret in his eyes and she realized that it was as much of an apology as anyone would ever get from Harry Doyle.
“Guy was obviously a jerk,” Harry said at length.
“Thanks,” Vicky said. “But I think he just realized that a cop who made a lousy girlfriend because she was never available, well, the chance of her becoming a good wife and mother down the road just wasn’t in the
