LITMIR.BIZ

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be a problem,” Vicky said. “She works in her parents’ shop on the Sponge Docks.”

      “Are you sure she’ll be there?”

      “You really don’t understand Greeks. Unless there’s been a death in the family, they’ll all be there trying to squeeze a few more bucks out of their business.”

      * * *

      The police artist seated next to Jocko’s bed was halfway through his sketch when Harry and Vicky arrived. Jocko, appearing more animated than at any time since he’d been shot, had regained most of his color and was eagerly responding to the artist’s questions. It told Harry he would soon be demanding to be sent home.

      “Hey, Pops, you look good,” Harry said.

      “You do,” Vicky echoed. She bent down and kissed his forehead.

      “Yeah, for a dumb ex-cop who forgot how to duck,” Jocko rasped.

      “Now I know you’re truly on the mend,” Harry said.

      “How’s that?” Jocko asked.

      “Your cranky disposition is back. I’m gonna call Mama and tell her to get over here to keep the nurses safe.”

      “Tell her to bring my cigarettes,” Jocko said.

      Harry shook his head and laughed, then turned to the police artist. “How’s the sketch of the perp coming?”

      “We’re getting there—”

      “I don’t like it,” Jocko interrupted. “It doesn’t look anything like the guy.”

      “It will. It just takes time.” The artist extended a hand to Harry. “I’m Jeremy Jeffords. I work out of forensics.”

      “Harry Doyle, the son of this tough old billy goat and also a detective with the sheriff’s office.”

      “Yeah, Max Abrams told me about you.”

      “Can I see what you’ve got so far?” Harry asked.

      Jeffords handed over his sketch pad. Harry stared at it, studied the drawing of the man’s face—the long narrow jaw and nose, eyes that were close set, a mouth that seemed to hold a hidden sneer. “Not a very pleasant-looking guy, but definitely somebody who might shoot you in the back.” He passed the sketch to Vicky. “This is my partner, Vicky Stanopolis,” he explained.

      “Yeah, but it doesn’t look like the guy who shot me,” Jocko insisted. “I liked the first sketch better.”

      “We’ll get there,” Jeffords replied. “Just take it slow and easy like your doctor said.”

      “We’re going to move along,” Harry said. He turned to Jocko. “Did you come up with anything else about this guy?”

      “I remember a tattoo, but I can’t remember where it was on his body. It was a knife, a stilleto. I think it was on his forearm but I can’t remember for sure. It’s drivin’ me nuts.”

      “Don’t worry about it,” Harry said. “What you gave me is terrific. Just relax and let whatever else there is come to you.”

      “Yeah, yeah,” Jocko said.

      Harry leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. “I’ll talk to you later.” He turned back to Jeffords. “Don’t work him too hard.”

      * * *

      They drove north eight miles to Tarpon Springs. When Harry was a child his mother had brought him and his brother here. Back then, a quarter of a century ago, the road from Clearwater to Tarpon Springs weaved through seemingly endless orange groves and horse farms. Now it was bordered by one walled housing development after another and rush-hour traffic clogged every road, including Route 19 that had been widened to four lanes to accommodate all the new housing. Needless to say, all the horses and orange trees had fallen victim to this version of progress along with the bulging bank accounts of fat-cat developers. But Harry knew that blaming the developers was only the easiest answer. A fishing boat captain he knew said air-conditioning was the true villain. It allowed people to live in subtropical climates year round, rather than just the winter months. Air-conditioned homes, air-conditioned cars: it made paradise available to all.

      Harry thought back to what he had learned over the years about Tarpon Springs. In 1876 this small coastal area with numerous bayous flowing into the Gulf of Mexico began to attract wealthy Northerners in search of winter homes. These newly arrived residents spotted tarpon jumping out of the waters and named it Tarpon Springs. At the turn of the new century sponge beds were discovered off the coast of Tarpon Springs and a local entrepreneur, John Cocoris, recognized its potential as a major sponge-harvesting area. Cocoris promptly recruited sponge divers from his native Dodecanese Islands in Greece and by the 1930s this new industry was generating millions of dollars a year.

      Today, even with the sponge industry greatly diminished, the “Sponge Docks” remained the focal point of Tarpon Springs, a place where boats still unloaded the remaining sponges to professional buyers, and Greek-owned shops and restaurants catered to a continuing stream of tourists.

      “Where is the shop we’re going to?” Harry asked, as they turned onto Dodecanese Avenue.

      “It’s almost directly across the street from the Sponge Docks,” Vicky said.

      Harry drove past the shops and restaurants that lined both sides of the avenue until he reached the Sponge Docks and its row of gaily painted sponge-diving boats with their strings of freshly cleaned sponges hanging from bow to stern. He pulled to a stop next to a bronze statue of a sponge diver, his massive brass hard hat held heroically in the crook of his arm. Parking wasn’t permitted on that stretch of road, so Harry flipped down his visor to display an Official Sheriff’s Business card. “Let’s go find Lilly Mikinos,” he said, as he slid out of the car.

      Vicky led him across the street and into a shop offering a plethora of clothing and baubles and seashells and sponges and what all, each item identified as coming from Tarpon Springs, the Sponge-Diving Capital of the World.

      They found Lilly at the rear of the store unpacking a new delivery of T-shirts, each bearing the name Tarpon Springs with a diving helmet below and the word Spongers beneath that.

      Vicky greeted Lilly in Greek, jabbered away for a few moments, then turned to Harry and switched to English. “This is my partner, Harry Doyle,” she said.

      Lilly looked Harry over and smiled, then spoke to Vicky in Greek. Whatever she said brought a faint blush to Vicky’s cheeks.

      Vicky quickly changed the subject, switching back to English and bringing up Mary Kate O’Connell’s death.

      “I read about it in the paper,” Lilly said in English. “So sad, but then her whole life was sad.”

      “Why do you say that?” Harry asked.

      Lilly looked around and called to a woman on the other side of the store. “Mama, I’m going outside to take a short break.” The woman waived her hand dismissively and Lilly turned back to Harry and Vicky. “Let’s go across the street to the docks. This place is going to fill up with customers before you know it.”

      They followed Lilly across the street. She appeared to be in her mid to late twenties, close to Vicky’s age. She was a small woman, barely an inch or two above five feet, with a slender figure and large brown eyes beneath wavy black hair. She had a long, slender nose and a wide mouth, and she was dressed in tight tan jeans and a loose-fitting white T-shirt emblazoned with a large red heart.

      They stopped near one of the sponge boats tied up to the seawall. Two young men were working on the deck, checking out a compressor that would send air into the diver’s helmet by way of a heavy rubber hose. Harry noticed that they also took the time to check out Vicky and Lilly.

      “So, tell me why you feel Mary Kate’s life was so sad,” Harry said.

      Lilly didn’t

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