“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.
The driver moved quickly down the street, heading toward the beach. Once there he cut into the dunes and dropped to his knees. There was no moon and the beach and the water beyond were hidden by an impenetrable darkness that obscured all but the few yards of sand closest to the buildings that faced the gulf. The driver’s left hand tightened on the handle of the large hunting knife. There had been no intention of using it again and he had considered throwing it away. Now it was needed one more time… all because of Harry Doyle. Now it was time for Harry Doyle to die… again.
Harry heard the screen door creak as it was eased back on its hinges. The sound was followed by complete silence. Someone was standing on the lanai, waiting, listening. A faint smile played across Harry’s lips.
“Come on in, Jim. I’ve been expecting you.”
Long moments passed before Jim Morgan stepped into view. His eyes found the shotgun in Harry’s lap, noted his finger resting on the trigger guard.
“Looks like you’re loaded and ready for bear,” Jim said. “I thought I’d come by and help, cover your back in case Joe Hall came at you from the beach.”
“Joe Hall’s not coming,” Harry said. “The phone call Vicky made… it wasn’t for him, Jim. It was for you.” Harry’s eyes dropped to the hunting knife that Jim held along his left leg. “Is that the knife you used on Darlene and Bobby Joe? I was hoping you’d bring it with you. Marty and his boys couldn’t find it when they searched your house and your cars yesterday. Oh, but they did find Nick’s missing. 38s. They even found the suppressor you used.” Harry watched Jim Morgan’s eyes harden. “Altogether they found more than enough evidence, Jim… Blood in the trunk of your patrol car, still more blood on the floor mat of your personal car, even some fibers that we expect will match up with the clothing Darlene was wearing. And of course we have that church bulletin with that wonderfully obscure reference to your work there as a youth minister.”
Jim smiled bitterly and shook his head. “Reverend Waldo just couldn’t help himself. He just had to see that everybody got a title. He didn’t even know who I was. Bobby Joe handled the youth ministers.” He let out a little snort. “All I did was work with the kids one night a week. But I still got a title. Seems like everybody but the janitor got one.”
Jim took a step forward and Harry raised the shotgun, leveling it at his chest. “Not one more step, Jim.”
“Aren’t you going to disarm me?”
