“This cop wants my dad’s hunting knife for some kind of half-assed analysis,” Joe Hall answered.
Incredulity filled Betty Hall’s face. “What?” she finally managed. “After all we’ve been through because of that bitch, now you’re coming around suggesting that Joe had something to do with her murder?” She shook her head violently. “Oh no, not on your life. You get the hell out of here, lady. And if any of you cops want to talk to anybody in this family again, you better have some kind of court paper that says we have to do it.”
Vicky stared back at the woman, cool and calm. She didn’t want to add to this family’s troubles, but right now she knew she had to play the game out. She turned back to Hall. “Does this mean you won’t surrender the knife for analysis?”
“Get out of here!” Betty Hall shouted.
“I think you should go,” Joe Hall said. He no longer looked angry, only resigned.
“I may be back with a warrant,” Vicky said. “If I have to do that, we’ll go down to the office to talk. That won’t look good to the neighbors, Mr. Hall-seeing you loaded into the back of a police car.”
“Get out!” Betty Hall shouted again.
“You do what you have to do,” Joe Hall said.
Rawlings Custom Printers was located in an industrial area of Tarpon Springs inhabited by equally small but clearly prosperous businesses. Ed Rawlings, the owner of the shop, had agreed to open the business when Harry reached him at home. Rawlings was a tall, slender, balding man in his mid-fifties with pale gray eyes and a faint Southern drawl.
“My daddy started this business when I was just a boy,” Rawlings said, as he ushered Harry into the main office. “Back then we mostly printed up business cards and stationery, some wedding invitations, stuff like that. When I took over the business thirty years ago I switched gears a bit. We still do business cards and stationery and all that, but the bulk of our work now is custom printing jobs like the church bulletin you’re looking for, some community theater programs, school programs-graduation programs, PTA bulletins-sports schedules, jobs like that. We employ fifteen people full time and two part-timers, which is up from the five who worked here when I took over.”
Rawlings led Harry behind a customer counter and fired up a computer. Within minutes he had brought up the church account and checked the inventory of finished materials on hand. “As you can see, everything we printed was sent on to the church. You know, it’s funny, but after you telephoned I remembered that I had a call from someone at the church asking about this same bulletin.”
“When was that?” Harry asked.
“Just last week. Pretty insistent too. Asked me to go into the stock room and make sure I didn’t have any overruns on hand. I told him print quantities were tightly controlled, but when we had any overruns we always shipped them to the customer. He still insisted that I physically check, so I did. We didn’t have any.”
“Was this a man or woman who called?”
“It was a man. He identified himself as one of the assistant ministers. Said his name was Stark, Starkey, something like that. I must have gotten it wrong, though, because when I called back the person I spoke to had no idea who I was talking about.”
“Why’d you call back?”
“Well, after I hung up I started thinking that maybe he needed another small run of that bulletin, a hundred or so.” Rawlings gave Harry a decidedly boyish smile. “Can’t afford to lose business. And since I had the printing proofs it would have been easy to set up a small run and accommodate them.”
“You have a proof copy of the bulletin?” Harry asked.
“Of course,” Rawlings said. “We always keep proofs on file for at least a year. That way we have it if a job has to be repeated, or someone wants to see what was done the previous year for a Christmas program, or if there are any complaints about errors or omissions.”
“But you didn’t tell that to the man who called?”
“No. He caught me at a busy moment and I didn’t think of it. Later, I did, and decided to see if there was any additional business available.”
“I’d like to see those proofs,” Harry said.
Vicky and Marty LeBaron faced Harry across the conference table. Vicky had just briefed them both about her interview with Joe Hall.
“I’d like to get my hands on that knife,” Marty LeBaron said. “If it’s old, like he said it is, the blade would have some pretty distinctive markings.”
“We’ll get a warrant if it proves necessary,” Harry said. “But first I want you both to take a look at these printing proofs.” He slid a manila folder across the conference table. “Take a look at page three,” he added as Vicky picked it up.
Her eyes began to scan the page and then suddenly stopped. When she peered up at Harry her face looked stunned. “I don’t believe this,” she said. She handed the folder to Marty LeBaron. “How did we miss this?”
“We had no reason to look for it,” Harry said. “None at all.”
“Well, we do now,” Vicky said.
Marty LeBaron put the folder down. “You think he could be our killer?”
“I do,” Harry said. He looked at Vicky. “I want you to run a complete background check. And I mean complete-all the way back to when our friend here was in diapers.” He turned to Marty. “In the meantime, I’ll get you a warrant to go through our friend’s home, cars, workplace, the whole shot. I want it done before anyone outside of us knows it’s happening.” His jaw line hardened. “This is one suspect who’s not going to get a chance to lawyer up or deep six any evidence.” He paused and looked at each of them in turn. “I want it done before I get back tomorrow afternoon.”
Vicky’s eyebrows shot up. “Get back? Where are you going?”
“I’ll be out of the loop in the morning. I’ve got to go to the Central Florida Women’s Correctional Facility. It’ll probably be mid-afternoon before I get back.” He looked Vicky in the eye; held it. “I have to meet with my mother. It’s something they say I have to do if I want to fight her parole, and there’s no other time.”
“I understand,” she said needlessly. “I’ll handle things while you’re there.” She paused, trying to decide if she should wish him luck. She just nodded instead.
Harry returned her nod. If you understand, you’re one up on me, he thought.
A Clearwater patrol car was parked in front of Harry’s house, and a second four-wheel-drive unit was on the beach with a view of his rear yard. Harry checked in with both before going inside.
Jeanie was sitting on the lanai with Rubio when Harry entered the house. He kissed the top of Jeanie’s head, gave Rubio a shoulder squeeze. “How are you?” he asked Jeanie.
“I’m fine,” Jeanie replied. “Rubio is great company.”
“I think she’s hot for me,” Rubio said.
Harry jabbed a finger at him, then explained that he had some papers to go through to prepare for a meeting he needed to attend the next day.
“Hey, my man, before you go off, I gotta tell you somethin’,” Rubio called out as he started to leave.
Harry glanced back and saw Rubio grinning at him. “What’s that?”
“I jus’ want you to know that you don’t need all them cops outside.
Not when you got Rubio Marti inside. And that’s truth, my man.”
Harry glanced at Jeanie and saw her smiling at Rubio’s macho act. He brought his eyes back to the twelve-year-old gangsta. “Yeah, I know that, my man. But my dad, Jocko, he’s an old time copper, and you know how that is. They think there’s never enough backup.” Rubio gave off a little snort and Harry turned away before he could see him smiling. “Give me a half hour,” he said as he walked away.
Returning to the living room, Harry retrieved the box that held his mother’s letters and placed it next to him on the sofa. The letters stood on end, the box serving as a makeshift file cabinet, each letter sorted by the date it had been received. There had never been more than one letter per year, each arriving on the anniversary of his brother’s death. He knew the letter he wanted. It was the eighth one he had received, arriving only a few days after his eighteenth birthday. It was also the only letter he had repeatedly read.