Before I Sleep (7 page)

It was a beautiful day, he told himself. The last of the rain had dried up, and for once the air was clear of the heavy humidity. A warm breeze blew, stirring the leaves on the trees, and it was as perfect an August morning as he could have asked for. And while he was working, there would be no room in his thoughts for Danny and Carey.

These were small blessings for which he decided to be suitably grateful, especially since there was little else in his life to be grateful about right now.

He took his place at the table in the robbery-homicide squad room, which was really two rooms that used to be one. Some of the guys still groused about how the other room had control of the air-conditioning for both, but Seamus didn't much think about it. It was one of those “what's the point?” issues in his life.

He scanned his mail and discovered that a defense attorney had subpoenaed him for a deposition next Thursday in an attempted-murder case. He couldn't remember whether it was the domestic violence case or the hit-and-run that had turned out to be deliberate. He made a note on his calendar, notified the State Attorney that he'd be there, and wrote a note to himself to review the file to refresh his memory.

Gil Garcia slid into the chair beside him. A good-looking man of forty, Gil had inky black hair dashed with gray, the weathered face of a man who'd seen it all, and a warm, disarming smile. The wisdom in the squad room was that Seamus was a bulldog who wouldn't let go of a case, and that Gil could charm anyone into talking.

Gil's charm hid a tough, life-hardened cop who seldom took anything at face value. He wasn't cynical, the way some cops got, but he wasn't quick to trust.

Which wasn't a bad thing in a cop, Seamus thought. People lied, and sometimes they lied without any good reason to do so. What's more, if you had two witnesses to an event, you were likely to get two entirely different stories out of them. Hell, they wouldn't even agree on what the perp was wearing.

Gil had a theory about that, which was probably why he hadn't become cynical. He believed that people didn't really remember events. “They remember their emotional impressions of what happened,” he liked to say. “The brain fills in the details, and as often as not they're wrong.”

Seamus was inclined to agree with him, which meant there weren't any really good witnesses, there were only people who
appeared
to be good witnesses. Which meant there wasn't any such thing as truth, just something that appeared to be true. Seamus wasn't sure he liked the implications of that, but it was another of those “what's the point?” issues.

Gil checked his own messages, made a couple of calls, then turned to look at him. “Ready to get to work on the Mayberry case?”

Seamus patted his pocket to make sure he had his notebook, then shoved himself back from the table. “Let's go.”

The Mayberry case had been assigned to them just two days ago, when the original detective on the case had had a heart attack. They'd spent the last couple of days getting up to speed from a file review, and from the stricken detective's young partner.

Three weeks ago, a young man named Doug Mayberry had been shot to death riding his bicycle through a quiet neighborhood. One of the strangest elements of the crime was that no one had seen or heard a thing, even though it had happened in broad daylight and most of the residents were retired people who were home a lot of the time. The young man had bled to death in the street before he was discovered.

Seamus quite frankly didn't believe that no one had seen or heard anything. The gunshot had to have been audible, even with windows closed and air conditioners running. Surely some retiree had been out working in his yard. Dogs must have barked. The young man had probably cried out for help.

Equally striking was that the victim seemed to have no enemies. Everyone seemed to like him, and both his girlfriend and his parents said he hadn't been in any fights or arguments in recent memory.

Consequently, Seamus was convinced that
someone
was lying. Probably even several someones. And that meant that people were scared. He wanted to know why they were scared every bit as much as he wanted to know who had killed Doug Mayberry. This kind of fear didn't arise from having heard gunshots or shouts. Terror came from knowing something that could get you hurt.

It was Gil's turn to drive, so he slid into the passenger seat and rolled down the window to let out the heat that had built up in the car.

They drove north on Forty-ninth, to an area populated by stuccoed cinder-block homes that had been built in a time when land was still relatively cheap and available. The yards were spacious and mostly well cared for, boasting manicured lawns despite the area's water shortage. People who moved here from the Northeast just couldn't imagine a yard without grass and found it perennially difficult to believe that in a place where it rained so often, a place surrounded by water, there could be a shortage.

Here and there, though, were signs of the coming reality: xeriscaping with native plants, and yards that sprouted palm trees and were covered with white gravel.

The neighborhood was upscale enough that it hadn't suffered from the blight that was gradually creeping into some older, less well-to-do neighborhoods as retired householders died. In this area, new retirees kept moving in to replace the ones who had passed on. There was even evidence that young families had moved in: bicycles, swing sets, and wading pools.

But there was a population shift going on in the entire county, with more young people arriving and fewer retirees moving in. St. Petersburg, which had been nicknamed God's Waiting Room, was gradually growing younger, and with that reversal came a concomitant increase in crime.

In short, Seamus didn't think he'd be looking for a new line of work anytime soon.

It was the same day of the week as the murder, and about the same time of day. Gil and Seamus figured that by knocking on doors they'd have a decent chance of finding out who had most likely been at home at the time of the killing, and maybe they could get them to talk.

Gil pulled the car over and parked against the curb, but he didn't immediately turn off the ignition, preferring to let the air conditioner keep them cool.

“Quiet,” Gil remarked.

“Yeah.” No one was outside, no one was walking down the street, and as they sat there and watched, there weren't even any other cars.

Seamus scanned the houses, and the blank eyes of windows stared back at him. Some had their blinds or curtains drawn against the heat, others appeared to be black mirrors. Nothing and no one stirred. He kept waiting for a curtain to twitch, or some nosy neighbor to peer out to see who was parked at the curb, but the houses might well have been devoid of life.

“So maybe nobody did see anything,” Gil remarked.

“Somebody would have heard something.”

“Maybe this is the only neighborhood in the world where nobody peeks through the curtains to see what's going on when they hear a loud noise or shouting.”

Seamus nodded, scanning the houses and street again. “It's like a scene out of some science-fiction movie,” he remarked finally. “I could see this kind of quiet if everybody in this neighborhood worked.”

“But they don't.” Gil sighed and rubbed his chin, his palm rasping on the fastest-growing stubble in the department. “Well, let's give it a little while. We got a two- or three-hour window on the actual murder anyway.”

They didn't have to wait long. Five minutes later a green-and-white St. Petersburg patrol car pulled up beside them. Gil rolled down his window and the cop car rolled down its passenger side window.

“Hey, Rico,” Gil called to the man in the green-and-white, “how's it going?”

“Hey,” Rico Minelli replied. Resting his left forearm on the steering wheel, he leaned toward them. “You wouldn't be the call I got about suspicious strangers in a parked car, would you?”

Gil and Seamus exchanged quick looks.

“Ain't nobody here but us ducks,” Seamus said. “We've been sitting here maybe ten minutes. What time did that call come in?”

“Less than five minutes ago.”

“Bingo,” said Gil. “You wouldn't happen to have the name and address of the caller?”

“Sure. It was a Mrs. Hatcher, at 4201. Right there on the corner.” He pointed. “I'll just go tell her you guys are cops.”

“Wait,” said Seamus. “We'll go with you.”

“Oh, definitely,’’ agreed Gil. “We want to commend the neighborhood watch.” He switched off the ignition, and he and Seamus climbed out. Seamus glanced quickly around again, sure that curtains ought to be twitching madly now. After all, there was a cruiser on the street, a cop was questioning two strangers in a parked car, and now the strangers were getting out of their car.
Somebody
ought to be taking note.

And sure enough, two doors down at 4206, he saw the white curtains move. “Another one,” he said to Gil. “Isn't it amazing what a little patience will do?”

Gil flashed one of his hundred-watt smiles. “Remember the Kitty Genovese case?”

“You mean the one in New York where the woman was stabbed to death and not one of her neighbors intervened or called the cops?”

“The same. Do you suppose Genovese's neighbors moved down here? To this very neighborhood?”

“It's beginning to look like it.”

“Yeah.”

“In fact,” Seamus remarked, “this neighborhood is beginning to have a very strong ‘I don't want to get involved’ feeling to it. Remind me not to shop for a house around here.”

“What are you guys talking about?” Rico asked. Having parked his car against the curb, he joined them now. He had the beefy build of a weight lifter and wore the light green shirt and dark green shorts of the standard summer uniform. Some folks complained that the St. Pete cops didn't look like cops in those shorts, but those folks didn't have to work outside in this heat all summer.

“We're talking about neighborhood uninvolvement,” Seamus explained.

“This is a good neighborhood,” Rico protested. “The Mayberry killing is the first murder we've ever had here. We don't even get many domestics.”

“Probably because the neighbors don't report it when they hear screaming,” Seamus said drily.

Gil spoke. “Do you get many calls from around here like the one you just got?”

“From time to time.” Rico shrugged. “Not much happens here. And it's not even a through street, so there isn't much traffic.”

“A little corner of paradise,” Seamus remarked, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his tone. He'd always had mixed feelings about neighborhoods like this, where life was smooth and realities of the street were far away, probably because he'd grown up the hard way. It especially galled him when people with all this privilege failed to do their duty as citizens. “This kind of thing just doesn't happen here.”

Either he succeeded, or Rico chose to ignore the sarcasm. “No,” said the younger cop. “It doesn't. The worst that happens around here is an occasional B and E.”

Breaking and entering. Mostly teenagers, no doubt, looking for a thrill and a little loose cash.

“ ‘Hark,’ “ said Gil. “ ‘what light through yonder window breaks?’ “

Seamus turned in time to see curtains moving in another window, in a different house. “Verily, I perceive the light of concern.”

“Aye, there's the rub,” said Gil, rocking on his heels.

Rico looked at the two of them. “You guys always talk weird?”

“Always,” Seamus assured him. “It's a sign of the emptiness of our heads. Let's go reassure Mrs. Hatcher before she has kittens.”

“Or a cow,” Gil said. “She
could
have a cow.”

“You guys are crazy,” Rico decided.

“No, just Gil is crazy,” Seamus replied. “I'm the sane one.”

Rico laughed.

When they reached Mrs. Hatcher's stoop, Seamus stood with his back to the door, watching the neighborhood as Rico hammered twice on the door with his fist, in the best police style. Hammering instead of knocking had two benefits to a cop. First, it could be heard throughout the entire house, so time wasn't wasted. Second, it was authoritarian and strong, making it clear to whoever was inside that the cop was in charge.

It also had the benefit of being audible around the neighborhood. Seamus was rewarded with the sight of a pale face in an upstairs window across the street. The face pulled back from the window as soon as the person realized Seamus was looking his or her way. Very interesting.

Mrs. Hatcher answered the door. She had the look of an aging soccer mom in her khaki slacks, polo shirt, jogging shoes, and short gray hair. If asked, Seamus would have bet that at one time she had either taught physical education or coached girls’ sports. All she needed was a whistle hanging around her neck.

“Hello, Officer Minelli.”

So this neighborhood, that never had any trouble, knew the officer by name? Seamus made a mental note to look into that. He was sure Minelli's name wasn't on any of the reports of the murder. Another cop had answered the initial call, and others yet had conducted the initial investigation.

“Hi, Mrs. Hatcher. I just wanted you to know that the strangers you saw are actually police detectives.”

Mrs. Hatcher, far from looking grateful or relieved, said disapprovingly, “Detectives? I suppose they're here about the murder.”

Gil gave her his most charming smile. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Mrs. Hatcher pursed her lips. “Well, I've said all I have to say about that.”

Seamus didn't even bother to smile. “I realize this is very inconvenient for you, ma'am. It was certainly inconvenient for the young man who was killed.”

“Don't you dare imply that I don't care about that young man! But I already talked to the police. At length. I didn't see or hear a thing, and I resent being questioned as if I were lying.”

“Of course you do,” Gil said sympathetically. “Don't mind my partner. He sometimes forgets that the living are as much victims of the crime as the dead.”

Mrs. Hatcher sniffed, glaring at Seamus, then smiling at Gil. Rico had stepped aside. “Well, I just don't know anything. If I did, I'd certainly tell you. And that's what I told the other policemen.”