The Dead Detective (8 page)

“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.

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

H
arry 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, the bottle of tequila, and the plastic cups that were scattered near the body, all of it giving off the feel of a romantic liaison—all except for the man’s already decomposing body, the forehead pushed in from repeated blows with a club or rock, the front of his western shirt stiff with dried blood; all except for the other large pool of blood that had soaked into the sand several feet away from the blanket and a lone pair of women’s shoes that had been left behind.

“Looks like we found the place Darlene was killed,” Vicky said.

“That’s what hit us first off,” John Weathers replied.

“I’d bet the mortgage on it,” Nick Benevuto said. “We found the victim’s car. It’s parked out on the road near the park entrance. They close off the entrance at sunset so nobody can drive in and camp for the night. CSI has already been told to dust it.”

Harry didn’t say anything. He walked to the blanket and squatted next to the man’s body. The body had been in the sun for a day and land crabs and seagulls had already picked at the soft tissue. The eyes were gone. There was nothing to see there and the body was not pleasant to be near. Still, he needed to get a closer look at the wound.

“I’d say the blows were struck from left to right,” Harry said at length. The victim’s hands had already been bagged so he couldn’t tell if he had fought his attacker. “Did you find anything under his fingernails?”

“Nothing I could see, so I just bagged them,” Benevuto answered. “My guess is the first blow caught him by surprise and knocked him cold. The others were administered later. Probably after the other murder,” he added, catching Harry’s drift. “And I think you’re dead-on about the blows coming left to right. Any sign Darlene’s killer was left-handed?” he asked

Harry nodded as he walked to the blood pool. His movements were slow and careful, giving his eyes time to scan the ground ahead of him so he wouldn’t inadvertently disturb any evidence.

“There are no footprints leading here, or away from here,” he pointed out. “Looks like the sand could have been brushed clean.”

“That’s our guess,” Weathers said.

Harry saw a very small glint in the sand and squatted next to it. The glint was no bigger that a few grains of sand, but sand didn’t shine that way. He took a pen from his pocket and began to clear the area around it. Gradually a gold cross emerged.

“Vicky, hand me some tweezers and a plastic bag from my crime scene kit,” he said.

When he had the tweezers and the bag, he carefully lifted the cross and held it at eye level. It was thick and heavy, definitely gold. He turned it over and saw a stamped
18K
on the rear. Above the mark there was a faint engraving, so badly worn it was unreadable, almost as if it had rubbed against the wearer’s body for so long it had begun to disappear. Again, he had the same feeling he had experienced at the Brooker Creek crime scene, one of the killer standing next to him.

“Can you make this out?” Harry asked, holding the cross out for Vicky to see.

“No. It’s too faint. Maybe the lab can bring something up. If not ours, we can send it to the FBI lab in Washington.”

“Would you say this belonged to a woman?” Harry asked.

Vicky gave her head a slight shake. “Eighteen karats, so it’s good stuff. The kind of gold any woman would like. But it’s too heavy for a woman. I’d say it’s a man’s. You think it was torn off when the killer cut Darlene?”

“Be a good guess,” Harry said. “But it could also have been here for months. Just something somebody lost.”

“I’m betting it’s from this murder,” Vicky said. “This place isn’t exactly a popular picnic spot. It isn’t much good for anything but what they were using it for.”

“I’m with you on that,” Benevuto chimed in. He was grinning at her.

Vicky gave him ice in return.

Benevuto let out a long breath. “Look, when you got here I was just heading out to get some coffee for me and Weathers. You guys want any?” He shrugged when Harry and Vicky declined, then turned to go. “Be back in ten minutes.”

Harry slipped the cross into the evidence bag and handed it to Weathers. “Yours for now,” he said. He raised his chin toward the blood pool and the women’s shoes. “At least until we’re sure the blood and the shoes are Darlene’s.”

He drove the car past the park, nodded to the two uniforms guarding the entrance, then turned left into a side street and headed south, blending into the background yet again. There had been four cars, two marked and two unmarked, which meant there were at least four detectives at the scene. And that could only mean they knew they had found the place where the whore had been punished. It would also mean they would soon be intensifying their investigation; adding more detectives and deputies. But that was something that would serve well. It was something that could be used if he was clever and artful. But he knew everything was not as perfect as he would have liked it to be. A hand went to the chain where the cross had once hung. Its loss had not been planned, and he had not discovered it until that morning. It was a bit of carelessness that could not be repeated. He had hoped to get to it before the body was found, but he’d been too slow. He’d hesitated about coming back to the place she had died, and that hesitation had been costly. His jaw clenched at the thought. That’s one point for you, Harry Doyle. Still, he doubted the cross could be traced back to him. It was far too old, something he had worn since childhood, given to him by that other bitch who so enjoyed harming the children in her care. But that debt had already been paid in full ten long years ago. Now Darlene Beckett could be added to that list. And as long as he kept the police bumbling along, missing the truth that stood right in front of them, he would be safe. And if he remained safe, then there would be others.

It was almost noon before CSI reported back that prints in the male victim’s car were a positive match to Darlene Beckett, and the blood in the sand matched her blood type. DNA would take longer, but there was little doubt what the results would be. The male victim had also been identified as Clint Walker, a software salesman with no known previous ties to Darlene. He had simply picked her up in a topless bar, taken her to a deserted beach, and paid for it with his life.

When Harry received word on the results, he and Vicky were back at headquarters questioning Jordon Beckett, Darlene’s estranged husband. Beckett had just identified his former wife’s body and he still seemed to be in shock. Either that or he was the best actor Harry had seen in a long time. Now, sitting in the homicide division conference room, Beckett lowered his eyes and shook his head. He was average height, with sun-bleached hair and bland features. He worked as a yacht broker and appeared to do pretty well at it.

“You know, she wasn’t a bad person,” he said, his voice barely audible. “In court she claimed she was bipolar. But I don’t buy that. She just needed to be the center of attention; always needed to know she was the woman that every man in the room wanted. I found out too late that she only knew one way to get that.”

“So what are you telling us?” Vicky asked. “She was the slut with the heart of gold?” Her voice was harsh, intentionally so.

“No. I’m not telling you anything like that.” Beckett kept his eyes down as he spoke.

“So what is it?” Harry asked, making sure his voice was slightly softer, less threatening than Vicky’s. “You telling us you’re not bitter about everything she did to you? That all the public humiliation you went through was okay? That you don’t care that she went to bed with a fourteen-year-old student, when she had you at home? The man she had just married six months earlier?”

“Even did it in your own bed,” Vicky threw in harshly.

The questions snapped out at Jordan like the strokes of a whip, and Harry watched the man’s jaw tighten with each one. When Beckett’s eyes finally rose to meet Harry’s they were not friendly.

“At the time I was too shocked to feel anything,” he said. “Later, yeah, I hated her guts. Every court appearance was like a knife in my heart. Every time she was on the front page of the newspapers, or the news on TV, I felt like puking. I filed for divorce and stayed as far away from the court and the press as I could. Then it was finally over and I met somebody else and my life started to get back to normal. All I wanted was to move on, forget all of it.” He stared hard at Harry. “Now she’s even taken that chance away. Now I’m back in the same cesspool, with the same spotlight shining on me. And, yeah, deep down it pisses me off. But I never wanted her dead, not ever, not one time.”

“You’re sure?”

Beckett stared back at Harry. “Yeah, I’m sure.”