LITMIR.BIZ

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ago.”

      “How is he?” Harry asked.

      “The way he’s terrorizing the nurses, I’d say he’s in peak form.”

      “I’m not terrorizing anybody,” Jocko said with a raspy croak. “And I’m not asleep. I was just faking it so Maria would go home.” He turned his head toward Harry. “So, did you find this back-shooting, white-haired creep yet?”

      “Max Abrams and I just finished tossing his apartment. We found some candid photos of Mary Kate tucked away in a Scientology bible. Max is going to name him as a person of interest and see if that shakes anything out of the Scientology tree.”

      “You confirmed that he’s a member.” Jocko spoke the word as fact, not a question.

      “Even better,” Harry said. “He works for the office of church discipline.”

      “What the hell is that and who do they discipline?”

      “Whatever and whomever they want to,” M.J. offered. “I’ve had to deal with them a half-dozen times. They’re a law unto themselves and no other law applies. At least that was my experience.”

      “So what leads do you have that’ll help you track down this son of a bitch?” Jocko asked, his voice painfully weak.

      “Only that he left to take care of a sick mother. So far nobody seems to know where the sick mother lives.”

      “If he’s a Scientologist they know where every member of his family lives, who they work for, and what they had for dinner last night,” M.J. said. “That’s an exaggeration, but only a slight one.”

      Harry put his hand on his father’s shoulder. “Here’s what I need you to do. When you feel up to it, I want you to close your eyes and try to picture this guy; concentrate as hard as you can on his physical appearance. You gave us good information the first time around, but we need anything else you can come up with—scars, tattoos, anything at all. I’m assuming he’s done something about his hair—dyed it, shaved it off—he’d have to be pretty stupid to leave it as it is. So think about him, try to visualize him, see if you can come up with something new.”

      “I’ll try. I’m just so damn tired.”

      Harry lightly squeezed his shoulder. “Just rest for now; you can try later when you feel stronger.”

      * * *

      It was five o’clock when Harry got back to the marina. As he walked down the dock he realized for the first time what a beautiful day it was. Clear cobalt skies stretched out into the Gulf of Mexico, which lay in a flat calm disturbed only by the wakes of passing boats.

      That’s where you should be, Harry told himself. You should take the boat out, run it into deep water, drop anchor, and watch the sunset; let it heal your mind. He drew a long breath. Yeah, play it smart. Don’t let everything that’s happened eat you up. You’re going to need a clear mind to solve this thing, a clear mind to stand up to the powerful people who are going to be working against you.

      As Harry approached his boat, Meg Adams came up on the deck of her sailboat. She watched him move down the dock and smiled. She was dressed in tan shorts and a blue denim shirt tied off at her midriff, revealing a narrow, well-tanned waist.

      “I’m about to cook dinner. You interested?”

      “I am if you can cook it on my boat.”

      She tilted her head to one side, questioning what he had just said.

      “I’m going to take the boat out; anchor a few miles off shore and watch the sunset. Are you up for that?”

      “Help me carry the food over,” she responded.

      * * *

      An hour later Harry dropped anchor two miles west of Anclote Key. While Harry made sure the anchor was set, Meg went below to the galley to get dinner started. Harry joined her once the boat was secured and was greeted with an approving nod.

      “Very impressive for a bachelor,” she said. “The galley is well equipped, orderly, and surprisingly clean.”

      “You expected some roach-infested hellhole?”

      “Let’s just say I’ve seen a few bachelor kitchens.”

      “You’ve obviously dated the wrong kind of bachelor.”

      “Obviously.”

      “Now what can I do to help with the cooking?”

      “You cook too?” she said mischievously.

      “You’re going to find out that I have a myriad of talents.”

      “And a good vocabulary too.” She started to laugh. “I don’t need any help at all. It’s going to be a simple meal, fettuccine Alfredo with sautéed shrimp.” She paused. “But you can open the wine. I noticed you have a lovely pinot grigio chilling in the fridge. That will do very nicely. And I wouldn’t mind a glass while I cook.”

      * * *

      They ate at the small dining table in the boat’s lounge and then took the remaining wine up on deck to await the sunset.

      “This is what life should be about—floating on the water on a comfortable boat, sipping a glass of wine, and waiting for the sun to set. Now there’s a pretty simplistic concept, one that challenges any approach to the real world.” She turned to look at Harry and added, “But who needs the real world?”

      “I’m afraid I do,” Harry said. “It’s what I’m paid to do.”

      “And did you earn your pay today?”

      “Yes, I did.”

      “How so?”

      “I found out where the killer of a young woman lives, where he works, and what he looks like. He’s hiding out now. But before long I’ll find him. That’s the real world of Harry Doyle.”

      “Well, I hope you succeed. Life is much more agreeable when the monsters that kill people are locked away.” She raised her arm and pointed toward the horizon. “There goes the sun.”

      They were quiet as they watched the sun seemingly slip into the gulf, leaving an orange-red glow in its wake.

      “My mother told me that I cried when I saw my first sunset. She said I thought it had fallen into the ocean and would never be back again.”

      “Where was that?” Harry asked.

      “Carmel, a little town in Northern California. It’s where I grew up.”

      “I’ve been there,” Harry said. “Not for any length of time; just passing through. It’s the town where Clint Eastwood was mayor for a short while, right?”

      “He was indeed, for one two-year term, from 1986 to 1988. I was three when he gave it up and went back to films,” Meg said.

      So you’re twenty-nine, Harry thought. About the same age as Vicky Stanopolis, who grew up on the water in Tarpon Springs, a small fishing village dominated by Greek sponge divers. It was a far cry from Carmel, which was one of the most affluent areas of Northern California.

      “Is your family wealthy?” he asked. “Everyone I met in Carmel seemed to be.”

      “Afraid so. My dad was in the computer industry when it took off. He owned a piece of the company, so he was set for life. Then he went into the security business and that took off as well. He passed away when I was in college at Stanford. His will made sure his wife and only child were well provided for.”

      “So you don’t have to work.”

      Meg shook her head. “Sometimes I feel guilty about it. But the feeling passes quickly.”

      Harry laughed, amused not so much about what she said, but how she said it. He found himself attracted

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