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.
“So you’re coming to me with Darlene Beckett?” she asked as Harry slipped into a visitor’s chair.
“I am. I need a psychological profile on the woman and, if possible, on the type of men she would attract. Plus, if you can tell me something about the killer-like his name, address, and Social Security number, it would be good.” Harry’s face broke into a grin. He had worked with her many times and both liked and respected the woman.
Lola brought her tiny hands together with pleasure. “So you need me. Even with Harry Doyle’s famous intuition, his ability to hear the whispered words of the dead, he needs an old lady to help him.” She laughed at herself, at both of them. “In any event, I’m delighted. Ever since this woman appeared on the scene, I’ve been dying to study her.” She leaned forward. “This, I think we will find, is a complex lady, Harry. Not the simple bimbo the media has made her out to be. Understanding her, understanding how her mind worked, will be a challenge.” She waved her small hands as if dismissing what she had just said. “As far as your other questions go, I can tell you right off that any heterosexual man with a living member between his legs would be attracted to her. Not every one would act on that attraction, but they would all desire her. This, Harry, was a very alluring woman, and one who worked hard at being so. Regarding your killer, I think I can help you. Not a name and address, of course, but at least a strong profile. But for that I’ll have to see your entire case file. Darlene’s as well, of course.”
Harry placed the two folders he had brought with him on her desk. “The top one is a copy of the entire murder file,” he said. “I really need you to look at that first, and tell me anything you can about the killer. The other folder is the child abuse case file. I just got it from the Hillsborough County state’s attorney last night and had it copied for you.”
“So it’s a copy I can keep?”
Harry nodded, and again Lola brought her tiny hands together. “A treasure, a virtual treasure trove.” She shook her head. “It will be difficult to concentrate on the murder file with this sitting here waiting for me.”
“Please,” Harry said.
Lola raised her hand like a traffic cop. “I will. I will.”
As Harry watched, Lola began poring over the murder file. The office was designed to provide a soothing, relaxed atmosphere. The lighting was subdued; the furniture-a sofa and two chairs-was oversized and covered in soft, plush fabric. Even Lola’s desk was not intimidating, a Queen Anne style, something more suited to a home than an office. There were no diplomas or certificates on the walls-those had been relegated to the reception area-only soothing pastels. It was a place designed to make frightened, insecure people feel safe. It was something that didn’t work for Harry. Instead he felt a lingering inner tension that he knew would stay with him until Darlene’s murder was solved. It was something he lived with on every complex case, something that drove him to find the answers that eluded him, or so he believed.
