Читать книгу The Scientology Murders - William Heffernan - Страница 11

Chapter Four

Regis Walsh stared up at the man who stood before him. The white hair he was used to seeing was gone now, replaced by a blond dye job that was obviously from a bottle.

“I sent you a directive to appear before me and explain your actions,” Walsh said. “It took you a long time to respond, much too long.”

“I thought it would be safer if I changed my appearance first.” Tony Rolf raised a hand toward his head and then continued, “Too many people saw me. And even though they weren’t close enough to see my face, I knew the white hair would give me away.”

“Let’s get to the point,” Walsh snapped. “Why did you kill the girl?”

Rolf bristled at the question. Muscles in his neck bulged freakishly and then traveled down into his arms and hands. It was almost as though a switch had been thrown, sending a current through his body. Walsh cautioned himself to tread carefully with this man.

“I didn’t kill her,” Rolf said, his words coming out in a near growl. “I was waiting on Tyrell’s boat so we could take her out to the Freewinds for auditing. When she saw me she freaked out and accused us of trying to kidnap her. Tyrell attempted to calm her, but she jumped off the boat and started running down the dock. I ran after her and grabbed her arm. She twisted away, lost her balance, and fell. Her head hit the dock hard and she rolled into the water. I started to go after her, when I saw a man running toward us. He had a gun in his hand, so I went to the nearest finger dock and ducked behind another boat for cover. When I looked out he was reaching down into the water where she had gone in.” Rolf stiffened and a hint of pride came into his voice. “He must have seen me out of the corner of his eye, or sensed me there behind him. He started to turn. The gun was still in his hand, so I shot him and he went in the water too.” Rolf set his jaw in open defiance. “The man was shot in self-defense. The girl caused her own death trying to get away. She was 1.1. You told me so yourself. She was homosexual scum.”

“We didn’t know that. We only suspected it. We wanted her audited, not dead,” Walsh replied. “And we certainly didn’t want a retired Clearwater police sergeant shot. Why were you even carrying a gun?”

Rolf stared at him with a mixture of confusion and anger. His lank, wiry body had stiffened again. “I always carry a gun. Have you forgotten? Oppenheimer arranged for a permit that allows me to carry a concealed weapon. He said you wanted me to be armed.”

Walsh’s face reddened. “I wanted you to be able to carry one . . . when necessary.”

“And wasn’t it necessary this time?” Rolf demanded. “Think of what we’d be dealing with if that retired cop had rescued the girl and then had his buddies at headquarters arrest Tyrell and me. That disgusting lesbian would be down at police headquarters right now, telling them how Tyrell and I work for the church and how we were trying to kidnap her and take her out of the country. Think about that scenario.”

Walsh glared at him, but kept his voice soft and low. “No, you think about this, just as you should have thought about it last night.” He jabbed a finger at his desk. “Consider that she ran away and you let her go. Did you think we’d never find her again? She had no place to go except her father’s house. Without us she had no job, no income, no anything. She had forsaken it all at our direction, and to prepare herself for a chance to join Sea Org. Her life was what we had made it. So . . . we could have found her whenever we wished, and knowing she was frightened, we could have done it in a much less intimidating way. Do you understand all of that?”

Rolf shuffled his feet, less certain of his position now. “But that retired cop would have had her . . .”

“And what would he have had? What would he have had except a hysterical young woman?”

“I don’t know,” Rolf conceded.

Walsh let out a weary breath. “All right, let’s try again. The girl is dead. Now we have a new problem—namely, the retired cop’s son. He’s taken a leave of absence from his job at the sheriff’s office to investigate his father’s shooting and the girl’s death. He is living in a marina only a quarter of a mile from where we sit. I have all the particulars about him, his boat, his finances, and his record as a cop. They call him ‘the dead detective,’ by the way, because he once died when he was a child. The details about that, along with everything else, are in this dossier.” He handed a thick manila envelope across the desk. “Read it, learn it, and keep watch on this man. We will have others watching him as well.”

Rolf took the dossier and turned to leave.

“One more thing: lose the gun. It can be used as evidence against you if the police get hold of it. And see Ken Oppenheimer before you leave. He has something for you that will make your task easier. And I hope you’re not superstitious. Some of this dead detective’s fellow cops claim he can communicate with the dead.” He began to laugh, a rarity for him. His laughter followed Rolf out of the office.

* * *

Harry had just left the hospital. Max Abrams had been there with a police artist, who had guided his father through a drawing of the man who had shot him. When they finished, Jocko, though still weak, was certain they had a picture that looked reasonably like his white-haired assailant. He and Max both took photocopies of the drawing and headed for the center of the Scientology compound in downtown Clearwater.

Here, Scientologists of all ages bustled from building to building. Harry had seen them whenever he had business in the nearby courthouse, but he’d never paid much attention to them before; he had just smiled at them dressed in their “sailor suits,” each one looking sincere and dedicated and always in a hurry to get somewhere. They had reminded him of the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland, racing along and telling everyone within earshot that he was “late for a very important date.” The image always brought a smile to Harry’s lips as he finished the rabbit’s words in his mind: “No need to say hello, goodbye, I’m late, I’m late, I’m late.”

Now he realized these people were much more. His recent reading had explained that Scientologists who wore the sailor attire were members of Sea Org and each of them, no matter what else they did in life, worked for the church, much like the nuns and brothers in the Catholic faith. Sea Org was as close to a religious order as Scientology had, and according to its leaders, once a member reached the level of Thetan III, he or she had a degree of spiritual understanding that exceeded both Jesus Christ and Buddha.

Harry explained it to Max Abrams.

“What about Moses?” Max asked.

“Not even in the ballpark,” Harry said.

There was a sneer in Max’s voice. “That’s what they say. Did any of them ever talk to a burning bush?”

“I didn’t see anything about that,” Harry replied, fighting off a smile. “You’ll have to ask them.”

* * *

Max and Harry didn’t have a court order to enter Scientology property, so they decided, for the time being, to question passersby on public sidewalks. At Max’s suggestion Harry had attached his badge to his belt, so he could avoid verbally identifying himself as a detective working the case. Harry took up a position outside a Starbucks on Fort Harrison Avenue that was kitty-corner to Scientology’s lone church in the area. Fort Harrison was the main drag that went through the sprawling structures that made up Scientology’s primary buildings. Max located himself on the opposite side of the street.

Armed with the artist’s sketch of the white-haired man, Harry approached anyone carrying a Scientology book, along with all those dressed in Sea Org attire. Most insisted they didn’t have time to answer questions, validating his “I’m late, I’m late” image. Some stopped and looked at the sketch and asked if he was a police officer, then, when he said he was, hurried off. Others refused to talk to him at all. Out of the few who did, several said the sketch resembled a white-haired man they had seen around Scientology’s main office building, but that they had no idea if he worked there or who he was. At last he hit on a young woman who said he might be a man she saw coming out of the office of church discipline; she said she remembered it because the office always seemed a bit “spooky” to her, and the white-haired man she saw coming out of it was “spooky-looking” as well.

When Harry told Max, they decided to move ahead immediately and question everyone who worked in the office of church discipline.

* * *

The receptionist in the lobby of the main office building was an attractive middle-aged woman wearing a modest business suit that still managed to show off her trim figure. The nameplate on her desk identified her as Lorraine Beck; the look behind her cool green eyes said she’d be a difficult lady to get past.

“I got this,” Max said as they moved up to the reception desk. He opened his coat to make sure the shield hanging from his neck was clearly visible. He glanced back at Harry and saw his badge was still on his belt.

“I’m Detective Sergeant Max Abrams of the Clearwater Police Department and this is Detective Harry Doyle of the Pinellas County sheriff’s office. We’d like to see the person in charge of the office of church discipline.”

Lorraine smiled up at him. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, we don’t, but this is police business involving a murder we’re investigating,” Max said.

“Do you have some kind of court order?” Lorraine asked, still smiling. She had auburn hair that added to the effect of her green eyes and it made her look quite pretty for a woman of her age, Harry thought. She also looked like one tough broad. “I’m afraid the church is very insistent about things like court orders,” she added.

Max tapped his badge. “This is an active murder investigation and our prime suspect was seen leaving that office. So this is all the court order I need. Now, you will tell me who is in charge of that office and tell me how to get there or I will place you under arrest for impeding a police investigation. Then I will handcuff you and call for a patrol car to take you to police headquarters where you will be booked, strip-searched, and placed in a holding cell. So which will it be, Lorraine, me and my partner on the elevator or you in the pokey?”

Lorraine’s jaw dropped and she fumbled with the glasses that were lying unused on her desk. She put them on and took a sheet of paper from her desk that appeared to have a list of extension numbers on it, found the one she wanted, and dialed it. After a brief, hushed conversation she turned back to Max. “Someone will be right down to see you,” she said, struggling to retain her composure.

Two minutes later the elevator doors opened and a slender man in his early thirties exited and walked over to Lorraine’s desk. He was dressed in a tailored shirt and silk necktie and his short blond hair and suntan spoke of weekends on a sailboat, the perfect image of a yuppie, Harry thought, right down to the cell phone attached to his belt. He looked at Harry and Max, taking in their badges, then smiled at each of them in turn. “I understand we have a problem,” he said. “My name is Jim Gleason and I’m in charge of problems.” The man smiled at his little joke.

“You work in the office of church discipline?” Max asked.

“Public relations.”

Max looked back at Lorraine. “That doesn’t cut it, Lorraine. You better start getting your personal stuff together.”

“Just a minute, officer . . .” Gleason started to say more but Max’s raised hand cut him off.

“It’s sergeant,” Max snapped, “and Lorraine has received a lawful police directive and has refused to comply.”

Gleason feigned outrage. “You can’t be telling me that you’re going to arrest a woman who’s a mother and a grandmother, just because she’s following church directives for her job.” He raised his chin toward a nest of framed family photos on Lorraine’s desk.

“I’ll arrest Lorraine and anyone else who tries to impede a murder investigation,” Max said. “That means you too, Mr. Gleason. Now let me put this simply: We have evidence that a man who matches the description of the murder suspect we are trying to apprehend was seen leaving the office of church discipline. We intend to speak to everyone in that office and anyone who tries to impede that effort is committing a crime and will be arrested forthwith. You got that Mr. Gleason?”

“Just a moment.” Gleason turned his back, took out his cell phone, and took several steps away from the desk. He spoke briefly into the phone, then listened. When he finished the call he returned to the desk. “I just spoke to our legal office and was told to cooperate.”

“And . . . ?” Max said.

“I will take you to the office immediately.”

As they moved toward the elevator Max leaned in to Harry and whispered: “How’d you like that?”

“I especially liked the forthwith,” Harry whispered back.

As the elevator doors closed Harry saw Lorraine reaching for her phone. He nudged Max with his elbow. “The warning call is going out.”

“Of course it is,” Max said.

Gleason remained quiet. Smart man, Harry thought.

The elevator doors opened on the seventh floor and as they exited Gleason directed them to a set of double doors across the hall. “The office of church discipline occupies most of the floor,” he said. “This is the executive wing. I think we should start here.”

As they entered the office an attractive young secretary greeted them. “Mr. Walsh is expecting you,” she said. “Please follow me.” She led them to another set of double doors that were made of cherry and polished to a high gloss. She opened the door and stood aside.

The interior of the office was lit by a single lamp on an oversized desk, leaving most of the room dark. Max located a switch just inside the door and turned it on, flooding the room with light.

“I prefer to keep the room darker.” The words came from the man behind the desk.

“I prefer to see who I’m talking to,” Max said. “And who might be standing in the shadows.”

“So be it. My name is Regis Walsh and, as you can see, there is no one standing in the shadows.” He smiled. “And you gentlemen, I take it, are Detective Sergeant Max Abrams and Detective Harry Doyle.” Walsh now stood behind the desk. “Welcome. How may I help you?”

Harry studied Walsh and found a tall, slender, imposing man with dark hair swept straight back from his forehead. He had piercing blue eyes and sharp features. He made Harry think of a bird of prey dressed in an expensively tailored gray suit. Standing behind his oversized cherry desk, he cut a figure of power and his eyes had not left Harry since they entered.

Now he turned them on Gleason. “Thank you, Jim. You can get back to your other duties. I’ll take good care of these gentlemen.” He turned his attention back to Harry and Max. “Please take a seat, gentlemen, and tell me how I can help you.”

It was a far cry from the way they had been treated in the lobby and the change in attitude was so abrupt that Harry found himself momentarily confused. He glanced at Max. He, too, seemed somewhat nonplussed.

Max began by telling Walsh about Mary Kate O’Connell’s death, allegedly at the hands of a young white-haired man. “We’ve been told the young woman was a member of your church,” he concluded.

“Yes she was,” Walsh said. “She was a struggling member.”

“What do you mean by struggling?” Harry asked.

Walsh leaned back in his chair. “As I recall, she was having difficulty with her family. They were urging her to leave the church and return home.” He raised both hands and let them fall back to his desk in a gesture of helplessness. “Unfortunately, this is not uncommon. Frankly, I think we do a poor job in helping family members, who do not belong to the church themselves, understand the principles of our faith. There is simply too little outreach. In Ms. O’Connell’s case I believe the difficulty was with her father.”

“He’s a retired Clearwater cop,” Max said. “He went out on a disability riding a wheelchair.”

“Yes, I know,” Walsh said. “But I believe he was being helped by another retired Clearwater officer, who was trying to bring Ms. O’Connell, who was well past the age of consent, back to her childhood home.”

“That would have been my father,” Harry interjected. “He was shot twice in the back by this white-haired man as he was trying to rescue Ms. O’Connell. She had been knocked unconscious and thrown into the water by this man. My father witnessed the attack; saw her thrown into the water when she was unconscious. When he tried to rescue her he was shot from behind and left for dead.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Walsh said. “I take it he’s still alive. What’s his prognosis?”

“He’s still critical, but he’s going to make it.” Harry paused and stared at Walsh. “He’s under police guard at the hospital. We like to take care of our own.”

“I’m pleased to hear he’s improving.”

“Let’s get back to the white-haired man,” Max said. “He’d be in his late twenties, early thirties, tall, wiry build. Another church member told us that a man matching that description was seen coming out of this office. Do you have a man working here who matches that description?”

“We do,” Walsh said. “His name is Tony Rolf, but I’m afraid he’s not here now. There was some trouble with his family—a mother who has become quite ill. He took a leave of absence to care for her.”

“When was this?” Harry asked.

“Just the other day,” Walsh said.

Harry and Max exchanged glances.

“Fits the time frame,” Max said to Harry. He turned his attention back to Walsh. “This Rolf guy, what’s his job here?”

“He helps locate church members who we’re having trouble reaching.”

“You mean he brings them in whether they want to come or not?” It was Harry this time.

“No, nothing like that.” Walsh leaned forward, elbows on his desk; hands together, the index fingers forming a steeple. “He would be sent out to contact someone we had been unable to reach by phone, e-mail, or letter.”

“Was he sent out to locate Mary Kate O’Connell?” Max asked.

“Not to my knowledge. But feel free to ask others in the department. They might know something I don’t. I suggest you start with Ken Oppenheimer. He’s my assistant and he basically runs day-to-day operations. His office is just down the hall.”

Harry doubted that Oppenheimer would provide anything new. Despite Walsh’s claims, he was certain nothing happened in this department that escaped his notice. “Do you have an address for Mr. Rolf’s mother?” Harry asked.

Walsh offered a regretful shrug. “I do not. But again, feel free to ask others.”

“Do you have Rolf’s address?” Max asked.

“That I’m sure we can give you. I’ll have my secretary look it up now.” He picked up his phone and asked for the information. “We’ll have it in just a moment,” he said. Then Walsh peered at Harry. “You’re the officer they call the dead detective, are you not?”

Harry gave him a hard, unwavering look. “You’re well informed.”

“It’s something I always strive for. Is it true . . . that you can speak to the dead?”

The secretary entered the room, interrupting them, and handed Walsh a piece of paper. He rose from his chair and passed it to Max. “This is the address we have on file for Mr. Rolf. He may have moved and not informed us. That does happen from time to time.”

Max and Harry started for the door. Halfway through it Harry turned back to Walsh. “Sometimes they speak to me,” he said.

“What?” Walsh said.

“The answer to your last question,” Harry said. “There are times when the dead speak to me.”

When the elevator doors closed, Max turned to Harry. “Why’d you tell him that . . . about dead people talking to you?”

“He was trying to spook me out by letting me know how much he knew about me,” Harry said. “I thought I’d return the favor.”

* * *

They decided to put off questioning others in the church office and go directly to the address they had for their white-haired suspect, Tony Rolf. The address, which was only a few blocks away from the church compound, turned out to be a two-story house that was within walking distance of the marina where Mary Kate O’Connell had been murdered.

The landlady, who occupied the first floor, was a heavyset woman in her late fifties with a world-weary look in her eyes. She identified herself as Ruby Lee Dixon, and told them she owned the building. Max showed her his shield and asked if Tony Rolf lived there.

“Upstairs. But he ain’t here now.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Don’t have a clue,” Ruby Lee said. “Came by early this morning and told me he’d be away for a while. Said he’d mail me next month’s rent.” She shifted her weight and put a hand on her hip. “Long as I get the rent, I don’t care where he goes or for how long. It’s his apartment until the rent stops comin’ in.” She paused. “He in trouble with the cops?”

“Not that we know of,” Max said. “We think he might have witnessed a crime. It’s kind of important that we talk to him.”

“Can we take a look at his apartment?” Harry asked. “There might be something there that’ll tell us where he is.”

Two cats eyed him suspiciously from two corners of the room.

Ruby Lee also seemed uncertain. “Well, I don’t know,” she said. “It’s his place, after all—when the rent’s paid, that is.” She paused again as if arguing with herself.

One of the cats approached Harry purring loudly. Ruby Lee watched it as if it were some type of omen. Harry bent down and scratched the cat’s neck. The second cat came to him to get some of the same.

Harry looked up at Ruby Lee. “You can come up with us, make sure we don’t take anything.”

Ruby Lee continued her internal argument. Finally she said: “Well, I suppose it’ll be alright. My cats seem to trust you. Shoot, if you can’t trust your local police, who can you trust? The entrance is around back. Let me show you.”

She led them through the first floor and into the kitchen, where she took a key from a drawer and then continued out to a rear porch, where wooden stairs led up to the second floor. She handed Harry the key. “Them stairs is too much for me. You go ahead.”

When they entered the three-room apartment both men stopped and took in the small living room, then moved on to the single bedroom, the eat-in kitchen, and the bathroom. Each room was more immaculate than the one before it.

“I’ve never seen a bachelor pad this fucking clean,” Max said. “I bet you couldn’t pull a single print off anything in this place.”

Harry looked carefully at each room as they worked their way back to the living room and wondered if that was the reason for such cleanliness, or if Tony Rolf was simply a neat freak who chose to live this way. He thought of his boat and the house he had lived in over the previous five years. Clean, yes; immaculate, far from it.

“Let’s toss the place, just in case,” Max said. “I’ll start at the back with the bedroom and bath. You start here in the living room and we’ll meet up in the kitchen. Be thorough, but let’s not make it obvious the place was searched.”

“You got it.”

Harry started with a small desk in a corner of the living room. There was a stack of blank paper on the desktop, a pen, but no computer. Harry searched the desk drawers where he found two Scientology texts, one appearing to be a bible of sorts, the other dealing with unacceptable behaviors. He leafed through the latter and found several dog-eared pages dealing with homosexuality. According to the book, Scientologists considered homosexual contact of any sort the most aberrant of behaviors, one that called for intense and long-term auditing, a form of counseling that involved confessing one’s missteps. If auditing was successful, meaning that the church member banned homosexuality from his or her life, a return to normal church activities was permitted. If auditing failed, the member would be banned from the church for the remainder of his or her life.

He picked up the bible-like book and opened the cover. Inside he found a manila envelope that held half a dozen eight-by-ten photos that appeared to have been taken without the subject’s knowledge. Harry flipped through them. They were all the same person: Mary Kate O’Connell.

Harry left the photos on the desk and started on the rest of the room. There was little to search, a handful of books, all written by L. Ron Hubbard, including a heavily underlined copy of Dianetics, which detailed the principles and practices followed by Scientologists.

Max gave Harry a thumbs-down gesture as he returned to the living room, indicating he had found nothing of value. Harry pointed to the pictures on the desk.

“They were tucked away in a Scientology bible that was in the desk,” he said. “It ties our boy directly to the murder victim.”

Max flipped through the photos and his face broke into a smile. “It sure as hell does. I’ll get a subpoena to seize them, along with anything else that looks even vaguely suspicious.”

Harry left Max to handle the subpoena and returned to the hospital, where he found his father out of intensive care and relocated to a private room. M.J. Moore was seated in a corner and she raised her finger to her lips.

“He just fell asleep,” she whispered. “Your mom left a few minutes ago.”

“How is he?” Harry asked.

“The way he’s terrorizing the nurses, I’d say he’s in peak form.”

“I’m not terrorizing anybody,” Jocko said with a raspy croak. “And I’m not asleep. I was just faking it so Maria would go home.” He turned his head toward Harry. “So, did you find this back-shooting, white-haired creep yet?”

“Max Abrams and I just finished tossing his apartment. We found some candid photos of Mary Kate tucked away in a Scientology bible. Max is going to name him as a person of interest and see if that shakes anything out of the Scientology tree.”

“You confirmed that he’s a member.” Jocko spoke the word as fact, not a question.

“Even better,” Harry said. “He works for the office of church discipline.”

“What the hell is that and who do they discipline?”

“Whatever and whomever they want to,” M.J. offered. “I’ve had to deal with them a half-dozen times. They’re a law unto themselves and no other law applies. At least that was my experience.”

“So what leads do you have that’ll help you track down this son of a bitch?” Jocko asked, his voice painfully weak.

“Only that he left to take care of a sick mother. So far nobody seems to know where the sick mother lives.”

“If he’s a Scientologist they know where every member of his family lives, who they work for, and what they had for dinner last night,” M.J. said. “That’s an exaggeration, but only a slight one.”

Harry put his hand on his father’s shoulder. “Here’s what I need you to do. When you feel up to it, I want you to close your eyes and try to picture this guy; concentrate as hard as you can on his physical appearance. You gave us good information the first time around, but we need anything else you can come up with—scars, tattoos, anything at all. I’m assuming he’s done something about his hair—dyed it, shaved it off—he’d have to be pretty stupid to leave it as it is. So think about him, try to visualize him, see if you can come up with something new.”

“I’ll try. I’m just so damn tired.”

Harry lightly squeezed his shoulder. “Just rest for now; you can try later when you feel stronger.”

* * *

It was five o’clock when Harry got back to the marina. As he walked down the dock he realized for the first time what a beautiful day it was. Clear cobalt skies stretched out into the Gulf of Mexico, which lay in a flat calm disturbed only by the wakes of passing boats.

That’s where you should be, Harry told himself. You should take the boat out, run it into deep water, drop anchor, and watch the sunset; let it heal your mind. He drew a long breath. Yeah, play it smart. Don’t let everything that’s happened eat you up. You’re going to need a clear mind to solve this thing, a clear mind to stand up to the powerful people who are going to be working against you.

As Harry approached his boat, Meg Adams came up on the deck of her sailboat. She watched him move down the dock and smiled. She was dressed in tan shorts and a blue denim shirt tied off at her midriff, revealing a narrow, well-tanned waist.

“I’m about to cook dinner. You interested?”

“I am if you can cook it on my boat.”

She tilted her head to one side, questioning what he had just said.

“I’m going to take the boat out; anchor a few miles off shore and watch the sunset. Are you up for that?”

“Help me carry the food over,” she responded.

* * *

An hour later Harry dropped anchor two miles west of Anclote Key. While Harry made sure the anchor was set, Meg went below to the galley to get dinner started. Harry joined her once the boat was secured and was greeted with an approving nod.

“Very impressive for a bachelor,” she said. “The galley is well equipped, orderly, and surprisingly clean.”

“You expected some roach-infested hellhole?”

“Let’s just say I’ve seen a few bachelor kitchens.”

“You’ve obviously dated the wrong kind of bachelor.”

“Obviously.”

“Now what can I do to help with the cooking?”

“You cook too?” she said mischievously.

“You’re going to find out that I have a myriad of talents.”

“And a good vocabulary too.” She started to laugh. “I don’t need any help at all. It’s going to be a simple meal, fettuccine Alfredo with sautéed shrimp.” She paused. “But you can open the wine. I noticed you have a lovely pinot grigio chilling in the fridge. That will do very nicely. And I wouldn’t mind a glass while I cook.”

* * *

They ate at the small dining table in the boat’s lounge and then took the remaining wine up on deck to await the sunset.

“This is what life should be about—floating on the water on a comfortable boat, sipping a glass of wine, and waiting for the sun to set. Now there’s a pretty simplistic concept, one that challenges any approach to the real world.” She turned to look at Harry and added, “But who needs the real world?”

“I’m afraid I do,” Harry said. “It’s what I’m paid to do.”

“And did you earn your pay today?”

“Yes, I did.”

“How so?”

“I found out where the killer of a young woman lives, where he works, and what he looks like. He’s hiding out now. But before long I’ll find him. That’s the real world of Harry Doyle.”

“Well, I hope you succeed. Life is much more agreeable when the monsters that kill people are locked away.” She raised her arm and pointed toward the horizon. “There goes the sun.”

They were quiet as they watched the sun seemingly slip into the gulf, leaving an orange-red glow in its wake.

“My mother told me that I cried when I saw my first sunset. She said I thought it had fallen into the ocean and would never be back again.”

“Where was that?” Harry asked.

“Carmel, a little town in Northern California. It’s where I grew up.”

“I’ve been there,” Harry said. “Not for any length of time; just passing through. It’s the town where Clint Eastwood was mayor for a short while, right?”

“He was indeed, for one two-year term, from 1986 to 1988. I was three when he gave it up and went back to films,” Meg said.

So you’re twenty-nine, Harry thought. About the same age as Vicky Stanopolis, who grew up on the water in Tarpon Springs, a small fishing village dominated by Greek sponge divers. It was a far cry from Carmel, which was one of the most affluent areas of Northern California.

“Is your family wealthy?” he asked. “Everyone I met in Carmel seemed to be.”

“Afraid so. My dad was in the computer industry when it took off. He owned a piece of the company, so he was set for life. Then he went into the security business and that took off as well. He passed away when I was in college at Stanford. His will made sure his wife and only child were well provided for.”

“So you don’t have to work.”

Meg shook her head. “Sometimes I feel guilty about it. But the feeling passes quickly.”

Harry laughed, amused not so much about what she said, but how she said it. He found himself attracted to Meg. He was also very attracted to Vicky, but that was something he would never really admit to himself, and certainly not to her. She was his partner and off-limits.

The glow in the sky had begun to fade and Harry decided it was time to return. “Let’s head in,” he said.

“Let’s clean up the galley first.”

Harry agreed and they got to work in the galley. It was an easy cleanup—Meg washed and Harry dried.

When they finished Meg turned to him. “God, it feels like we’re an old married couple.”

The galley was small, close quarters for two people. Meg raised herself up on her toes and slipped her arms around his neck. “Are you ever going to make a pass at me?” Her voice had a huskiness to it that immediately aroused him. He had been living like a monk for several months, ever since the woman he’d been seeing moved back north, back to her abusive former boyfriend. You’re never here, she had said. And even when you are, you’re not.

Harry looked down into Meg’s face. “I guess I am going to make a pass. But I’m warning you right now, cops make bad boyfriends.”

“If you are, then I’ll just throw you out.” She raised her lips to his and within seconds they were going at each other with an unbridled passion that surprised both of them, pulling off clothing as they moved down a passageway toward the main stateroom.

They were naked when they reached Harry’s bed and he laid her on it and began moving his lips slowly along her body.

She reached down and cupped his face between her hands. “Do that the next time. Right now I need you inside me . . . Please, please, please,” she whispered.

* * *

An hour later they lay next to each other, exhausted but finally satiated. They had made love a second time more slowly, then a third. Meg had been as eager and hungry a lover as Harry had been himself. Too long between drinks for both of us, Harry told himself.

“I don’t know if I have the energy to take the boat in,” he said.

“Good.” She pressed up against him. “Let the sun wake us and we’ll go in then.”

“Sounds like a plan.”