“I do,” Bobby Joe said in a soft, raspy voice, each word a separate croak.
“I think you better tell us about it.”
Bobby Joe nodded. “I guess I should of tol’ you before.”
“Yes, you should have. So let’s make up for it now.” His father’s eyes were still hard on him.
“I’m not sure exactly when it happened, but it wasn’t all that long ago,” Bobby Joe began. “The church got a phone call that one of our cars had been in an accident and the receptionist who took it passed it in to me.” There was a film of sweat forming on Bobby Joe’s upper lip despite the air-conditioning in his father’s office.
“When I took the call I realized that the woman was an exotic dancer, and that the place she claimed the accident happened was the parking lot of a strip club.” He gave his father a small, weak shrug. “Well, I decided the best thing for the church was to just pay this woman off.” He glanced first at Harry, then back at his father. “I mean there was no way to know who had taken the car, and if they had taken it to where she said the accident happened.”
Harry leaned forward in his chair. “Was the car damaged? Your car, I mean?”
“There was a scratch on the right front fender. It’s still there. It was so small I haven’t gotten around to getting it fixed.” Bobby Joe used his thumb and index finger to wipe the sweat from his upper lip.
“What about the dancer’s car?” The question came from Reverend Waldo this time.
“She said there was a scratch on the driver’s door of her car. From what she told me the paint left on her car matched the color of paint on ours. She told me she always wrote down the license plate numbers of cars parked next to hers because the club has so many customers who leave drunk. Everything she said seemed legitimate, so I just told her to get an estimate. She called back when she got it and I took money from the automobile maintenance account and paid her.” He looked anxiously at his father for some sign of approval. “Daddy, I just thought it best that we get rid of this as fast as possible. There was no way of knowing who took the car.” He turned to Harry. “The keys to all our cars are kept on a peg in the outer office.”
“The two ladies who work out there didn’t remember who took that particular car?” Harry asked.
Bobby Joe twisted in his chair. The tells were falling off him like raindrops. “People come in for cars all the time,” he said. “There’s really no way of them knowing who takes what car. They just kinda make sure anybody taking keys is authorized to take a car. And that would be any of the associate ministers, both lay and ordained.”
“What about assistant ministers and teachers in the school?” Harry asked.
Bobby Joe shook his head. “They’re not supposed to take cars out. They’re not covered on our insurance policies, and Daddy’s secretary and the receptionist watch it pretty close.”
“Is the office locked after normal business hours?”
“Yes.”
Harry got up from his chair, went to the door, and opened it. He studied the lock and looked across the outer office at the door leading out on to the covered walkway. “It looks like you have the same type of locks on both doors,” he said.
“We have the same locks on all the doors in all our buildings,” Reverend Waldo said.
Harry nodded and returned to his chair. “You might want to consider dead bolt locks for your doors. Especially in areas you want to keep secure. The ones you have now can be slipped. What I mean is they can be opened with a flexible piece of plastic, even a credit card, by slipping it into the door frame and manipulating the lock.”
“So anybody who knew how to do that could’ve got to the keys,” Bobby Joe said, jumping at Harry’s statement as if it were a lifeline thrown to a drowning man.
Harry turned to Bobby Joe, preparing to push him back out into deeper water. “We’re concerned about one of your cars visiting the strip club because Darlene Beckett was known to visit the place on a fairly regular basis.”
Bobby Joe glanced back and forth between Harry and his father. “I don’t think I understand,” he said, although the look in his eyes told Harry he understood completely.
Reverend Waldo leaned back in his executive chair. “I think what Detective Doyle has done is he’s added two and two-our car and that club-and he’s come up with five, all because that woman went there too.” He turned his still unhappy eyes on Harry. “I’m sure that when this car business is all sorted out we’ll find that one of our parishioners called to complain that her husband was visiting this club, and one of our people went there to tell him to get himself home.”
Harry gave the minister a long, blank look. Then he smiled. “You think it’s possible that one of your assistants took your admonition against Ms. Beckett to heart and started following her around to see what he could dig up on her?”
Reverend Waldo returned Harry’s smile, his distinctly patronizing. “We don’t have any detectives in our ministry. I don’t think any of our people would know where to begin if it came to following somebody around.”
Harry momentarily studied his shoes, thinking of the person who followed him home the previous night. When he looked up his smile was back. “I’m sure you’re probably right, Reverend Waldo.” He paused. “But just in case you’re not, I’d like a list of all the people authorized to take cars so I can speak to them.”
The minister’s eyes hardened again. He looked sharply at his son. “Bobby Joe can get that together for you. I think you’ll find everybody you need to talk to is here this morning. And when you’re finished with the detective, Bobby Joe, please come back. There are some other things we have to go over.” When the minister turned back to Harry, his smile had returned. “I hope we were of help,” he said, his tone clearly a dismissal.
Harry got little more than blank stares when he asked members of the church’s staff if they had driven a church vehicle to the Peek-a-Boo Lounge during the past month. He hadn’t expected an admission. He was simply looking for clues, but in each instance he came up empty. Yet when he asked their opinions about Darlene Beckett, the church staff proved far more forthcoming. Words like sinful and child molester, harlot, and wickedness dropped from their lips almost as though they were programmed responses. There was a genuine anger about Darlene, a remorseless anger that did not vary from one person to another, and it led Harry to conclude that the Reverend John Waldo had a staff of true believers unlike any he had ever encountered.
The last person Harry interviewed was Justin Clearby, the church’s first assistant minister. Clearby surprised Harry both in his physical appearance and his demeanor. He was a tall, solidly built man somewhere in his mid-fifties who carried around the well-battered face of an aging prizefighter. There was also a sense of rigidness about the man, accented by sandy brown hair cut in a military buzz and pale blue eyes that could only be described as very hard, very cold, and very angry. Clearby also had huge, powerful hands and when Harry shook one he felt as though his own had been swallowed. There was no question in Harry’s mind that Clearby would have the ability to wield a knife with enormous force. Harry also noted that just standing near him seemed to put Bobby Joe Waldo on edge.
“I know the area you’re talking about,” Clearby said, when asked about Nebraska Avenue. “Before being saved I had a thirty-year career in the Marine Corp, most of it spent as a seagoing Marine.” His back seemed to stiffen with pride as he spoke. “Back then Tampa was a popular liberty port largely because of that area. So I know it.” He paused to offer up a cold smile, then added: “Although I haven’t been there in many years.”
“How did you feel about Darlene Beckett?” Harry asked.
Clearby paused a long time before answering. When he did his eyes seemed to give off a steady chill, and as he leaned in to bring himself closer to Harry, his voice became little more than a gravelly whisper. “I wish I had been in heaven the day she died, so I could have borne witness to Jesus Christ casting her into hell,” he said.