The Scientology Murders. William Heffernan
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in the sky had begun to fade and Harry decided it was time to return. “Let’s head in,” he said.
“Let’s clean up the galley first.”
Harry agreed and they got to work in the galley. It was an easy cleanup—Meg washed and Harry dried.
When they finished Meg turned to him. “God, it feels like we’re an old married couple.”
The galley was small, close quarters for two people. Meg raised herself up on her toes and slipped her arms around his neck. “Are you ever going to make a pass at me?” Her voice had a huskiness to it that immediately aroused him. He had been living like a monk for several months, ever since the woman he’d been seeing moved back north, back to her abusive former boyfriend. You’re never here, she had said. And even when you are, you’re not.
Harry looked down into Meg’s face. “I guess I am going to make a pass. But I’m warning you right now, cops make bad boyfriends.”
“If you are, then I’ll just throw you out.” She raised her lips to his and within seconds they were going at each other with an unbridled passion that surprised both of them, pulling off clothing as they moved down a passageway toward the main stateroom.
They were naked when they reached Harry’s bed and he laid her on it and began moving his lips slowly along her body.
She reached down and cupped his face between her hands. “Do that the next time. Right now I need you inside me . . . Please, please, please,” she whispered.
* * *
An hour later they lay next to each other, exhausted but finally satiated. They had made love a second time more slowly, then a third. Meg had been as eager and hungry a lover as Harry had been himself. Too long between drinks for both of us, Harry told himself.
“I don’t know if I have the energy to take the boat in,” he said.
“Good.” She pressed up against him. “Let the sun wake us and we’ll go in then.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Chapter Five
Regis Walsh looked across his desk at his assistant, Ken Oppenheimer. It was seven a.m., the time of their regular morning meeting. “So where are we with our dead detective?” he asked.
Oppenheimer smiled. Like Walsh he was a tall man, but he was far from the lean, fit man he had been when Walsh had hired him ten years ago. He ran a hand through his thinning sandy-brown hair. “Rolf is working at the marina where our friend keeps his boat. He’s well disguised now, so I doubt our once-dead detective will be able to pick him out. And as you know, we have others watching him as well.”
“How did you arrange the job at the marina?” Walsh asked.
Oppenheimer’s smile widened. He knew Walsh would appreciate what he was about to tell him. “The dockmaster proved easily bribable. I told him I worked for an organization that was negotiating to buy the marina and we had decided we would like him to stay on. I suggested that he hire Rolf as an assistant, but there was no need to pay him, since he worked for us. I’m sure once Rolf is on the payroll his salary will find its way into the dockmaster’s pocket each week. Do you know what the people who keep their boats at the marina call him?”
Walsh shook his head.
“They call him the dock Nazi. He’s little more than a joke to everyone who rents slips there. Mostly he parades around in a pith helmet and flip-flops looking for things to complain about. He’s so easy to corrupt it’s almost laughable.”
“And perfect for our needs,” Walsh said. “I think our detective friend would be quite mortified if he knew how easily we’ve put the man he’s searching for right next to him.”
“I’m glad you’re pleased,” Oppenheimer said.
“Can you reach Rolf easily?”
“Yes, he has one of the cell phones I keep in my name. I told him to throw his away and only use the one I gave him. I also told him that he was not permitted to give the number to anyone.”
“Give me the number. I want him to meet with me late tonight. I’ll call him myself.”
Oppenheimer wrote the number on the back of a business card and handed it to Walsh.
* * *
Harry brought the boat into its slip at seven a.m. He had awakened just before dawn, thrown on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, raised the anchor, and headed in, leaving Meg asleep in his bed. Traffic had just started to form its regular morning madness on the Clearwater Memorial Causeway as he tied the boat up and went down into the galley. The clothing they had left scattered on the floor had been picked up, telling him that Meg was probably showering in one of the two heads. He checked which one she was in, then went to the other to shave and shower.
When he came out, wrapped in a towel, he found her in the galley cooking bacon. She raised her chin toward the Keurig coffee maker. “I just put on a cup of French Market for you so grab whatever you put in it.”
Harry squeezed by her, kissing her on the back of the neck. “Thanks for making breakfast.”
“I figured I owed it to you. Just consider it a display of gratitude for the way you rocked my socks last night.”
“You rocked a few socks yourself.”
“I sure hope so.” Meg turned, rose up on her toes, and kissed him softly on the lips. “I want you to come back for more.” He reached around her and started to pull her toward him but she spun quickly away. “But not now or I’ll burn the bacon.”
“God forbid,” Harry said. “I hate overly crisp bacon.”
* * *
Tony Rolf squatted next to an electrical box on an empty slip. The slip was located on a pier with a clear view of Harry’s boat. Rolf watched as Harry and a woman came out of the main cabin, climbed down, and stood talking on the dock. He had watched Harry bring the boat in early that morning. He and the woman had clearly spent the night out on the water. He studied the woman closely, studied the way she dressed. Her clothing was clearly provocative—short shorts that barely covered her, a shirt tied at the midriff obviously intended to show off her bust. Of course the detective had probably seen her naked. The slut wouldn’t have missed the opportunity for that.
The woman boarded her sailboat and climbed into its main hatch, as the detective headed down the dock toward the parking lot. He decided to follow the detective, see where his investigation was taking him. He cautioned himself to do it slowly, carefully, to make sure he wasn’t seen. It would be better to lose him than have his eagerness give himself away. He knew Regis Walsh would never forgive him if he blew his cover and lost the chance to continue spying on the detective. No, he had learned long ago that Regis Walsh was not the forgiving type.
* * *
When Harry reached the parking lot he found his partner Vicky Stanopolis leaning against his car.
“Hi, sailor,” she said.
“Why didn’t you come down to the boat?” he asked.
“I did. But I heard voices and since one of them was obviously a woman I decided not to interrupt . . . Harry Doyle, you’re blushing.”
“I am not,” he snapped. “I got a lot of sun yesterday.”
She started to laugh, partly because of how guilty he looked, partly to hide the jealousy she could feel growing inside her. She pushed it away. “You said we had a busy day today.”
“We do. To start with, the Clearwater PD’s sending another police artist to work with my dad. I want to check in on that.”
“I thought they already did that.”
“They did, but he was still so groggy they want him to take another shot at the