five and slightly underweight, but in a pleasing sort of way, with short, curly blond hair and very soft, very gentle brown eyes. He had met her early one morning while he was terrorizing the neighborhood on his longboard. He had come around a corner far too fast, startling her and causing her to drop a container of coffee she had just purchased. He had apologized, walked her back to the coffee shop and bought her another. Within fifteen minutes they had become friends.
Jeanie lived in the blot-out-the-sun condo next to Harry’s house. She was a stockbroker, financially secure, recently separated, and lonely. Within a week they had become casual lovers, a matter of comfort and convenience for each of them-Harry who wanted no emotional commitment in his life, and Jeanie who was still in love with her long gone husband, even though he was addicted to sweet young things and had cheated on her repeatedly while they were together.
“So why the solo beach walk? Just trying to tempt the homeless psychos who sleep there at night?”
Jeanie leaned her head back, turned her face toward him, and smiled. Harry thought it was a beautiful smile.
“Just brooding about my soon-to-be ex-husband.” The smile faded and she looked back toward the water. “It’s like I told you when we first met. I’m just a born sucker.”
“So stop,” Harry said. “Look, maybe you’ll get lucky, or unlucky, or whatever, and that clown will wake up some morning and realize what a great lady you are. Maybe he never will. But in the meantime you’re still a great lady. Enjoy being one. You’re part of a rare and exclusive breed.”
“Not so rare, Harry. You just don’t trust women.”
“I don’t trust men either. Kids, well, they’re so, so.”
Jeanie laughed. “If people ever find out what a softie you really are, you’re going to have a hard time selling yourself as a big, bad detective.”
“So don’t tell anybody.”
“Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”
They sat quietly for several minutes; then Jeanie reached out and took his hand. “Can I stay here with you, Harry? I don’t want to be alone for the rest of the night. I don’t want anything. I really couldn’t handle anything. I just want to climb into your bed and lie next to you.”
“Sure. I’d like that.” Harry thought about the letter from his mother that awaited him in the living room, and he thought about Darlene Beckett and what awaited him there. He squeezed Jeanie’s hand, turned to her, and nodded. “I don’t really want to be alone either,” he said.
CHAPTER FOUR
Harry ran the gauntlet of reporters and cameramen who had gathered at the rear door of the sheriff’s department, awaiting the arrival of any detective who might give up information about Darlene Beckett’s murder. He gave them a few shrugs, a grunt or two, but offered nothing. Based on the shouted questions, they seemed to know almost as much as he did, even the fact that the woman’s face had been covered by a mask. When he reached the office upstairs he was met by a blare of telephones, the calls either from out-of-town reporters or people offering mostly valueless opinions about Darlene’s life, or murder, or state of grace. As he walked past Diva Walsh’s desk she drew a long breath and shook her head. She pointed at the front pages of the two local newspapers that lay on her desk. Each carried a hauntingly beautiful photograph of Darlene Beckett.
“I’ve had five people call to tell me what part of hell that woman is in,” she said.
“What part?” Harry asked.
“I can’t remember the name, but they all said it’s very, very hot.”
Harry grinned at her. “Good thing she used to model bathing suits. Anything else shaking?”
“Body on the beach at Frank Howard Park in Tarpon Springs. Benevuto and Weathers are on it.”
“Let me know if anything worthwhile comes in on Beckett. Is Vicky in yet?”
“She’s in with the captain. He wants you in there too.” She shook her head again. “You know I grew up down here, and my mama always took me to church when I was a kid. But the church folk you got down here now- especially the white church folk-they scare the bejesus out of me.”
“Why is that?”
“Because they’re all nuts, Harry. Every damned one of them.”
When Harry reached Pete Rourke’s office, Vicky Stanopolis was already occupying one of the two visitors’ chairs. Harry took the other. It was only eight a.m., but they had each agreed to work double shifts until Darlene Beckett’s murder was cleared.
“I’ve got CNN, FOX, local TV, and every damned newspaper I’ve ever heard of calling,” Rourke said. “Hell, there are newspapers I never heard of calling. Some of the out-of-town papers are playing the story inside or below the fold, but they’re still pushing for every bit of information they can get, and I’ve got some producer for Court TV calling every five minutes. On top of that, the brass is meeting in the conference room upstairs trying to decide if we need a task force to handle this.”
“A task force would be a good idea. The more bodies we have working this the better,” Harry said. He paused a beat. “Providing…”
“That you’re the lead detective,” Rourke said.
“It’s my case,” Harry said.
“When the brass gets involved, it’s their case.” Now it was Rourke’s turn to pause. “Unless something goes wrong. Then it’s yours.”
“Same as always,” Harry said.
“Okay, let’s all stop whining. Tell me where you’re at.”
Harry briefed him on everything they had come up with. “Right now we’re going to push on the cars that were seen in her driveway. One belonged to her ex-husband, so he’s number one on the list. Another belonged to an old boyfriend, who the local newspapers said she was dating again during her court appearances. He ranks right behind the husband for now. But I gotta tell you, cap, this doesn’t have the feel of an angry husband or a pissed-off boyfriend.”
“What does it feel like?” Rourke asked.
“Retribution,” Harry said.
“Why?”
“The fact that the word evil was carved in her forehead; then covered by a mask.” Harry shook his head. “The message is too bizarre and too simplistic. My gut tells me the killer is a fanatic. Probably a religious fanatic, somebody who needed some very public payback for what she did to that kid, and who wanted to make sure that everybody understood why she had to die.”
“Okay, that makes sense.” Rourke leaned forward. “But let me say this to both of you right up front. This is a high-profile case-they don’t get much higher-and the state’s attorney needs cold, hard, irrefutable evidence to take to the grand jury. That means he isn’t going to give a fiddler’s fuck about Harry Doyle’s gut.”
Before Harry could respond Diva stuck her head in the office. “The body in Tarpon Springs. Looks like it may have been part of the Beckett murder. Benevuto just called it in asking that Harry and Vicky get out there.”
Rourke looked at each of them. “Go,” he said.
Frank Howard Park sits on the Gulf of Mexico at the western edge of Tarpon Springs, a once sleepy fishing village noted for the Greek sponge divers who migrated there early in the last century. Now a vibrant tourist attraction, the village maintains its Greek flavor with a glut of restaurants and shops, many of which still sell sponges brought up from the seabed by descendents of the original immigrants. The park, like the village itself, is immaculately maintained and begins with a winding road that meanders past picnic groves and ends in a causeway leading to an island beach a quarter of a mile from the mainland. The body-a male Caucasian, late twenties to early thirties-was found by a maintenance crew on the eastern end of the causeway. It was laying on a jut of sand hidden from view by a dense patch of sea grape.
“Welcome to the love nest,” Nick Benevuto said as Harry and Vicky ducked under the yellow crime scene tape that delineated the killing ground.
Harry took in the blanket that had been spread on the sand, the now melted bucket of ice, the margarita mix,
