Vicky nodded absently, and then shook her head.
“What?” Harry asked.
“I just realized what a fishbowl that woman was living in.” She watched Harry’s eyes harden.
“Don’t waste your time feeling sorry for her,” he said. “If she was living in a fishbowl, it was one she made for herself.”
Harry went back to their car with the list of tag numbers and dates that Joshua Brown had given him and called in the plates. Since Darlene’s garage was empty he also asked for information on any vehicle registered to a Darlene Beckett at the north Tampa address. A short time later he had a description and plate number for a green 2004 Ford Taurus registered to Darlene Beckett, along with the names, addresses, and dates of birth of the owners of the vehicles on Joshua Brown’s carefully compiled list. He then placed a second call and ordered a check of wants and warrants on each of those persons, as well as a rundown on any criminal histories. He asked for the same for the building super. With a little luck-meaning the state computers wouldn’t go down-they should have all the information he had requested by the end of their shift.
“Where to now?” Vicky asked. “The strip club?”
“First we check the street for Darlene’s Taurus, then the strip club,” Harry said.
Vicky paused a beat. “While we’re checking for the car, let’s drive around the neighborhood a little more? I’m not familiar with this part of Tampa and I’d like to be.”
“I’m familiar with it,” Harry said. “I lived a couple of streets away until I was ten years old.”
Vicky wondered if this was why he had seemed so tense while coming here. She decided now was the time to find out. “Show me,” she said.
Harry drove through the neighborhood, his mood suddenly distant; his body language setting up a shield between them. You’d make a lousy criminal, Harry Doyle, Vicky thought. Your emotions come off you like sweat.
Vicky studied the streets as they drove. It was a typical lower-middle-class neighborhood, each house, each apartment building in a varying state of repair, each announcing the degree of affluence of the people who lived within its walls. The main streets were much the same, a neat block adjacent to one where the sidewalks and gutters were littered with debris. There were lower-end shops and Mom-and-Pop stores, all announcing sales in their windows. There were fast-food chains and discount clothing and shoe stores, all still open late into the evening, racks of clothes and tables of shoes out on the sidewalks. Harry slowed as they passed a small evangelical church and Vicky looked across the front seat and saw that he was staring at it.
“Your church as a kid?” she asked.
“My mother’s church. She was always there for something.”
“She didn’t drag you along?”
She watched as Harry shook his head, saying nothing.
“You’re lucky. We were Greek Orthodox, and there was always something going on. My mother dragged me to everything. When I was a teenager it drove me nuts.” She laughed. “Now I don’t go at all. Probably the result of being dragged there so much.” She smiled at the memory. “So where did you live?”
She was still smiling when she looked back at Harry, but the smile died quickly when she saw the cold, hard look in his eyes.
“What?” she asked.
“What’s all this crap about wanting to see where I lived?” They were stopped at a light, and he was looking straight into her eyes. His voice was still soft, but so cold Vicky could almost feel the icy vapor rising from the words.
“Hey, it’s nothing special. I was just curious,” she said.
“You wanna see where the dead detective got his name, is that it?” Again, the ice in his voice almost made her shiver.
Vicky began to stammer. “Jesus, no… I mean… I didn’t know it had anything to do with that.”
“Alright, forget it,” Harry said. The light had turned green, and he turned his attention back to the road and drove. “Let’s get back to work and forget all the other crap.”
They drove in silence for almost ten minutes before Vicky spoke again. “Look, Harry, I didn’t know I was getting into your baggage back there. I’m sorry if I went someplace I shouldn’t have gone. We’ve all got baggage we don’t want to talk about.”
She could see his jaw tighten, and wondered if she had gone too far again.
“So what’s your baggage?” he said at length.
His words had a challenge in them, and she knew if they were going to have any success as partners she had to answer. She was sure Harry knew that too.
“A week from Saturday I was supposed to get married in that Greek Orthodox church I was telling you about.”
“So you decided not to.” Harry spoke the words dismissively.
Vicky paused. “No, I didn’t decide anything. He decided.”
Harry glanced at her, then back at the road. There had been a look of regret in his eyes and she realized that it was as much of an apology as anyone would ever get from Harry Doyle.
“Guy was obviously a jerk,” Harry said at length.
“Thanks,” Vicky said. “But I think he just realized that a cop who made a lousy girlfriend because she was never available, well, the chance of her becoming a good wife and mother down the road just wasn’t in the cards.”
Harry was quiet again, then said: “Maybe wives and mothers are overrated.”
There was another long pause and Vicky allowed it to draw out.
“The house back there, the one I grew up in,” Harry finally said. “My mother murdered my brother and me in that house.” He drew a long breath, almost as if he needed it to steady himself. “One morning she just decided we had to die. So she drugged our orange juice and dragged us into the garage. Then she laid us out, side-by-side, put small silver crosses on our foreheads, and covered our faces with hand towels. Then she started her car and left.” He shook his head. “She went to that church you saw.” He punctuated the sentence with a mocking breath. “Anyway, a neighbor heard the car running and called the cops. Two Tampa uniforms forced the garage door open and found us. We had both stopped breathing; no heartbeat; nothing. They worked on us anyway, and they were able to bring me back. But my brother was younger and smaller. They couldn’t help him.”
Now Vicky drew a long breath. “When was that?”
Harry kept his eyes on the road. “Twenty-one years ago. Twenty-one years ago today.”
“Where’s your mother now?”
Harry glanced at her briefly. “Central Florida Women’s Correctional Facility. She copped a plea to avoid the death penalty. She got life.”
And that’s where you were today, Vicky thought. On the anniversary of your brother’s murder. And that’s where you told that correctional officer you were going to take his Glock and shove it.
“Do you ever see her?” Vicky asked.
“Never have, never will. She writes to me once a year. Always makes sure it arrives on this date. There should be a letter waiting for me when I get home.” He turned and stared at her. “I don’t answer the letters.”
No, you just visit the prison and sit outside, she thought. “She have any shot at parole?”
“Not if I can help it,” Harry said.
They were quiet for several minutes. Then, as they pulled up at a stop light, Harry turned to her.
“Did you notice the look on Darlene’s face?” he asked. “The look of surprise that seemed to be changing into terror as she realized that her throat had been cut and she was going to die? Then how it froze, halfway between those two sensations, as she lost consciousness?”
Vicky nodded, unable to form any response.
“Well, I remember that. I remember lying on the garage floor, starting to wake up from the drug my mother had given me, but still too knocked out to pull myself together and get up. I remember seeing the exhaust fumes coming out of the back of her car; smelling them, but being too weak to force myself up so I could pull my brother and myself out of there. And then I remember the terror I felt when I knew I was going to die… how everything started to cloud up and fade away as I lost consciousness again. It was like my head was suddenly being filled with cotton.” He stared at Vicky for a long moment. “That’s how it was for Darlene. That’s how it is when you know you’re going to die and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”