thinking about it. Will that be a problem for you, Max?”
“The department won’t like it, but it won’t bother me. Just do it quiet like and don’t get me in trouble with my bosses. If you can do that I’ll share what I get with you, and you do the same. Where do you want to start?”
“I’d like to talk to the boat owner who found Jocko.”
Abrams inclined his chin toward two men farther down the dock. “He’s talkin’ to Jimmy Walker, my bright young partner.” He grinned, turning the sarcasm into a joke. “Come with me and I’ll introduce you.”
Abrams led Harry and Vicky down the dock. When they were twenty feet away he called Walker over and introduced him. “Harry is Jocko Doyle’s son,” he explained. “He’s also a homicide dick with the sheriff’s office. He wants to look around a little bit, just to put his mind at rest, and I told him it would be okay.”
Walker was tall and thin with a hooked nose and protruding Adam’s apple. His brown hair was cut in a high and tight military buzz and Harry guessed it hadn’t been long since he’d started on patrol.
“Fine with me,” Walker said. His brown eyes narrowed. “But the captain ain’t gonna like it, he finds out.”
“You’re right,” Abrams said. “So we won’t bother him about it. Understood?” He waited for Walker to nod agreement. “Any problem comes up, I’ll take the heat.” Abrams gestured toward the man Walker had been interviewing. “Whatshisname, he give you anything new?”
“His name’s Edward Tyrell,” Walker said. “He’s a stockbroker and his story’s pretty much what he told you. He had just brought his boat back in and was washing it down when he heard what sounded like two shots. So he goes to see what’s up and he spots Jocko in the water hanging onto a ladder. He hauls him out and calls 911. End of story.”
“Okay, you go back to the car and write up your report. Harry wants to thank this guy for saving his dad. I’ll introduce him.”
Harry grinned as he watched Walker head off. “Nice maneuver.”
“Hey, what can I tell you? I only inherited the kid a week ago. Everything’s a learning experience for him. Today he learned when to mind his own fucking business.”
* * *
Edward Tyrell was a tall, trim, well-built man who clearly put in plenty of time at the gym. He had sandy brown hair, a straight nose, blue eyes that could only be described as vibrant, and very white, capped teeth. Vicky immediately dubbed him “the movie star” in her mind. Harry thought he looked too slick by half.
“Mr. Tyrell, we met earlier,” Abrams began. “This is Detective Harry Doyle and his partner, Detective Vicky Stanopolis. The man you pulled out of the water, retired Sergeant Jocko Doyle, is Harry’s father.” He gave Tyrell a smile that lacked any warmth and Harry figured that Max didn’t cotton to the man either. “Harry’s got a couple of questions.”
“Sure,” Tyrell said, flashing a broad, very white smile. “Anything I can do to help.”
“First, I want to thank you for pulling him out. I don’t think he would have made it if you hadn’t.” Harry extended his hand.
“Happy to help.” Tyrell took Harry’s hand, squeezing it harder than necessary.
“So tell us how you happened on him.”
Tyrell placed his hands on his hips and nodded down the dock. “I had just brought my boat in and was washing her down. She’s the fifty-three-foot Hatteras yacht three slips down. Well, I was on the other side of the boat so I didn’t see anything, but I did hear what sounded like two small explosions, sort of loud popping sounds. So I went to look. I thought some kids might be setting off fireworks and that’s not too cool to do around boats, what with all the fuel on board. But there’s no one there and as I’m walking back I hear this moaning and I look down and there’s this guy hanging off a ladder. So I hauled him up.”
“Did he say anything to you?” Vicky asked.
“He was out cold as soon as he hit the dock. That’s when I saw he was bleeding and called it in to 911.”
“Could you show me exactly where he was?” Harry asked.
Tyrell walked them to an empty slip where a finger dock jutted out into the water. A ladder ran down the side of the dock and now, at close to low tide, stopped just a foot above the water. At high tide the ladder would extend well into the water.
“How deep is it here?” Harry asked.
“At high tide it’s about eighteen feet,” Tyrell said. “At dead low you’re talking about twelve to fourteen—still plenty, even for a large-keeled sailboat. It’s a good marina for large boats.”
“Have you heard anything about the Scientologists buying it?” Harry asked.
A veil seemed to fall over Tyrell’s eyes, but he quickly pushed it away. “Not a word. If they do, I hope they let me keep my boat here.” He forced another broad smile. “Like I said, it’s a helluva marina for a big boat and great access to the gulf.”
Harry walked to the edge of the slip Jocko had been pulled from and knelt, staring into the water. Almost a minute passed before he stood and turned back to Max Abrams.
“You need to get some divers out here, Max.”
“Divers?”
“Yeah, and you need to do it now.”
* * *
An hour later the divers brought up the body of Mary Kate O’Connell. They placed her on the dock, her pale, colorless face and faded blue eyes staring blindly at the men who stood in a semicircle above her. Harry knelt down next to her and listened but the words that came to him were garbled. He thought she looked grateful to finally be out of the water.
* * *
Harry Santos had died when he was ten years old, murdered by his mentally disturbed mother. He and his six-year-old brother, Jimmy, were drugged; then dragged into the garage of their home and left there with the engine running in the family car while their mother went off to her church. An alert neighbor heard the car and called the police. Two Tampa patrol cops broke into the garage and dragged the boys outside. Neither had a heartbeat and neither was breathing. CPR eventually brought Harry back, but it was too late for Jimmy, who was younger and smaller. When Harry’s mother was sent to prison, he was placed in foster care with Jocko Doyle, a Clearwater police sergeant, and his Cuban-born wife, Maria. The couple adopted him a year later.
After graduating from the University of South Florida, Harry Santos Doyle joined the Pinellas County sheriff’s office. Five years later, when he was promoted to homicide detective, the story of his boyhood death came out. Cops being cops, they quickly dubbed him “the dead detective,” a moniker that took on an eerie connotation when they later learned that the dead seemed to speak to him.
Chapter Two
The room was lit by a solitary desk lamp which allowed the man seated behind the desk to lean back in his heavy executive chair and keep his face in shadow. It pleased him to
