Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 33, No. 1, January, 1988
Editor’s Notes
Season’s Greetings from the staff of AHMM
Friends Say They’re Sorry
by Bob Tipee
“Dad, did Mr. Dexter kill Mom?”
Rob Kettleman pulled Tommy’s Captain Defendo pajamas out of the drawer and stood up, wondering how to deal with this. Tommy was old enough to be curious but too young to understand. Just be honest, he reminded himself.
“No. Mr. Dexter didn’t kill Mom.” He tossed the pajamas to Tommy. “Time to get into these, sport. What gave you that idea about Mr. Dexter, anyway?”
Tommy began to undress. “I was telling Mr. Dexter about how we won’t see Mom till we go to heaven. And he said he knew Mom died, and I told him everybody back in Tampa said she was killed. And he said he was sorry. If he didn’t kill Mom, why did he say he was sorry?”
Because, Rob thought, it’s what people say when they can’t think of anything else. A beautiful young mother, running errands in broad daylight, walks into the wrong place in downtown Tampa when people she doesn’t even know start shooting at one another. Drug wars. The mob. Nobody will ever be certain. Friends say they’re sorry. What else can they say? How do you explain that to a five-year-old?
“I think Mr. Dexter just meant he knows how sad you and I are that Mom got killed and he wishes it hadn’t happened.”
God, let that be enough, Rob thought. Tommy’s surviving parent had to be strong. But Tommy’s surviving parent, the former big city police officer, kept wondering why things had turned out this way. Police officers died in the streets with bullets in their guts, not young mothers, not in broad daylight. Tommy’s father understood little more than Tommy, but he had to pretend otherwise, and the pretending hurt more all the time.
Please, he thought, no more questions. Not now.
Tommy pulled the pajama top down and stared at Captain Defendo’s face painted brightly on the front. He smiled at Rob, struck a fighting pose, and in a forced, low voice snarled, “Captain Defendo!” Then he ran out of the room, fists high in the Captain Defendo Salute, and into the bathroom across the hall.
Rob sighed, off the hook for now.
By the time Tommy returned, Rob had turned off the overhead light and turned on the essential night lamp. Holding the covers open, he asked, “You like it here, don’t you, sport?”
“It’s okay,” Tommy said, sliding into bed. “I just wish there were more kids around.”
“What about your friends at preschool? And Mr. Dexter?”
“I’m showing Mr. Dexter how to throw a Frisbee.”
That explained the upside-down Frisbee in the pond behind their condo. He would fish it out in the morning.
“Is he catching on?” Rob asked, pulling the covers up to Tommy’s chin.
“No, but Mr. Sims is good.”
“Mr. Sims?”
“You know. Mr. Dexter’s friend.”
“No, I didn’t know.”
“I think he lives in the condo next to Mr. Dexter. Sometimes he plays with us, and sometimes he sits up in his balcony and just watches.”
“Is Mr. Sims nice?”
“Yes. He threw the Frisbee all the way from the picnic tables to Mr. Dexter’s porch. And he has a gun just like yours.”
Rob chilled. A stranger with a gun? He’d have to talk to Dexter, who so gratefully had solved Rob’s main problem in becoming the Palm Shores security director: How to make certain that Tommy, already half way toward being an orphan, never felt alone, never came home to an empty condo.
“What would you think if we got Mrs. Darlington to be here afternoons when you got back from preschool?” Rob asked casually, wondering how he’d pay for the babysitter full time. Her rates had eaten up most of his salary when they moved in that first month, even with the free rent that came with his compensation package.
Tommy shrugged. “It’s okay,” he said. “She’ll let me play with Mr. Dexter and Mr. Sims.”
So there would be conditions. Rob decided not to pursue the subject until after he had talked with Dexter the next morning. “Goodnight, sport,” he said, kissing Tommy’s forehead and rising from the bed.
“Goodnight.” When Rob reached the door Tommy asked, “Dad, when will you and me go to heaven?”
The next morning, Rob steered out of the condo parking lot in his patrol unit — a compact pickup truck with emergency lights, a one-channel radio and portable side unit, and a shotgun behind the seat. It wasn’t much, but he’d have traded it for more people. He had two patrol officers and two security gate guards per shift. For a fifty square mile resort with a championship golf course at each end, fifteen miles of shoreline, one luxury hotel, a marina, and a thousand condominium and single-family units, a staff that size didn’t even amount to bluff.
Rob unhooked the radio’s heavy mike and pressed the key. “Unit One to Base. Morning, Rose.”
He didn’t have a dispatcher. He had a rental-office clerk who monitored the base unit, kept logs, and took shift reports for an extra fifty dollars a month. At least she was efficient. “Welcome to the world, chief. How’s things?”
It wasn’t Rose’s concern that neither Dexter nor Sims had been in their condos after Tommy left in the preschool van.
“I didn’t get any calls from the graveyard shift,” he said. “I assume it was quiet.”
“Routine,” Rose said; “A couple of loud parties in Bay Towers. Kids diving for golf balls in a water hazard. Nights are pretty quiet here.”
“Ten-four.”
A male voice crackled into the conversation. “I love that real police talk!”
“Good morning, Buster,” Rob said. Buster Thompson, retired from Miami PD, could have handled the Palm Shores chief’s position if he had wanted it and the board of directors hadn’t insisted on a younger man. “What’s your twenty?”
“There he goes again, Rose,” Buster joked.
“He means where are you?” she said.
“The hotel. Gate check complete. Day shift guards at both.”
“Ten-four,” Rob said reflexively, regretting the real cop talk immediately. “That was for you, Buster. I’m at the curve around the Sands course. Rose, if you don’t need me in the office for anything I’ll head to the yacht club.”
“Nothing here, chief. Looks like another boring day.”
“That’s how these retired folks and vacationers like it,” Rob said. “Quiet and safe. Which is why we’re paid our fabulous salaries. Unit One out.”
Rob wanted to head to the yacht club because of the pay phone at the marina. He could call Dexter from there. Rose could have patched his radio to a phone line, but the problem with Dexter wouldn’t have stayed private.
Pulling into the yacht club parking lot, he glanced across the street at the tennis courts. On one was a tanned woman his age, wearing a short white tennis skirt and blouse and a blue visor. She had brown hair like Mary’s. From here she looked like Mary.
Why did Mary have to die?
There he went, torturing himself again. He had done what he had to do: quit a dangerous job with Tampa PD and moved into something that, however boring, let him give Tommy the stability he lost when his mother was killed.
And now Dexter had screwed things up by letting this guy Sims flash a gun around.
Rob stopped in the alley overlooking the marina, with its white and blue yachts serene in their berths, a few people milling around. As he stepped out of the truck Charlie Ramsey called from the main gate guard shack.
“Got two guys here say they’re supposed to do some cement work at the docks. It ain’t on the schedule.”