It was ten o’clock when Harry finally made it home. Jocko Doyle was seated on the living room sofa, glasses perched on the end of his nose, a Stuart Kaminsky mystery in his lap. Harry noticed he had his old, off-duty. 38 snub nose on his hip, a weapon he rarely wore since his retirement from the Clearwater P.D.
“Where’s Rubio?” Harry asked.
“He’s out on the lanai watching TV.”
“Jeanie?”
“In bed, asleep,” Jocko said.
Harry started toward the bedroom.
“Hold up a minute,” Jocko said, stopping him. “There was a call from that assistant state’s attorney, Cal Morris. He’s got some info on your mother you need to hear.” He raised his chin indicating a pad on the coffee table. “His number’s there; he said you could call whenever you got in.”
Harry immediately punched the number into his cell phone. Cal Morris answered on the third ring.
“I’ve got an odd situation here, Harry,” he began. “First, let me explain that the prison called our office because they don’t have an address or a number for you. They said you never filled out their forms to arrange contact with your mother, or with the prison.”
“That’s right. I didn’t want contact.”
“Well, it seems that’s what has screwed up their notification about the parole. Now they’ve got something else. They contacted us as her prosecutor, because they couldn’t reach you and thought we might be able to. Seems your mother has asked to meet with you prior to her parole hearing. It’s not something you have to do, but I advise you to consider it.”
“Why? I have no interest in meeting with her.”
“If you’re going to oppose her release I advise you to do it. Don’t give her the opportunity to say that you haven’t had any contact with her for umpteen years and therefore have no solid basis to try and stop her from getting out.”
“I have her wacko letters,” Harry snapped.
“Yes, but letters and personal contact are like apples and oranges. You need to be able to say that you’ve read her letters and seen her and feel that she’s a danger to you. It will make your argument a great deal stronger. The prison has set a time-nine a.m. Sunday morning.”
“How efficient of them,” Harry said. “Tell me something, Cal. Why does the state seem so anxious to let her the hell out?”
“They’re overcrowded, Harry, and overcrowding makes life difficult for them. Whenever that happens they look to see who they can cut loose. The people who’ve already done heavy time are usually the safest bet. That’s how your mother ended up on the list.”
Harry closed his eyes, let out a breath, and surrendered to the madness of it. “I’ll think about it, Cal. I appreciate your call and your advice.” He closed the cell phone and looked at his father.
“I know,” Jocko said. “Cal filled me in when he called. I think you should consider his advice.” He stood and headed for the door. “I’m going home. Think over what I said.”
Harry nodded, but said nothing. It was Friday. The meeting with his mother-if he decided to go-was two days away. He walked into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. Jeanie was lying on her side, facing him. He could see the bruise where the killer had hit her. It crept from her hairline out on to her forehead. He bent down and kissed the area lightly.
Jeanie stirred and opened her eyes. “Hi,” she said, her voice heavy with sleep.
“How do you feel?”
“I’m fine. I had a great day. Your father and mother were wonderful, and Rubio is just a hoot. I’m learning a whole new language.”
“Street,” Harry said.
“Yes, that’s what he calls it. He’s pretty cute for a twelve-year-old.”
“Twelve going on forty,” Harry said.
“He thinks you’re pretty special too. He says you can hear what dead people are saying.”
“Only on Thursdays.”
Harry leaned down and kissed her forehead again, staying well away from the bruise.
“Come to bed,” Jeanie said. “You look exhausted.”
“I will.”