Blood Relations (16 page)

Garcfa’s thick wrists stuck out past the hems of his coat sleeves. He could have crushed a brick in his sunburned, muscular hand, but he gently held his sister’s in it. He had moved Adela over to his place because she didn’t want to live in the apartment where Luis Balmaseda had murdered her son.

For the last fifteen minutes or so, Sam had been explaining the exclusionary rule, not calling it that, but telling delfonso Garcia that if the police made mistakes in gathering evidence, they couldn’t use what they found, including confessions.

“Nobody was paid off,” Sam said. “The judge didn’t want to exclude Balmaseda’s statement, but he had to. The rule is meant to protect ordinary citizens from the police, and we all have to follow it. As a prosecutor, there are times I’d like to take shortcuts, believe me. But if I did that, I’d be breaking a law I’m supposed to uphold.”

Sam spoke the words, but they sounded condescending to him. Even absurd. Carlito Ramos, this man’s nephew, his sister’s only child, was dead.

Garcia thought about it for a while, not convinced, but sensing the futility of argument. Finally he said, “I told your friend-” He nodded toward Joe McGee. “-that Luis has been calling Adela on the telephone. When I answer he hangs up. If Adela answers, he uses bad language with her. I don’t want to say in English.” Ramos had a heavy accent, but he spoke slowly, as if it was his nature to take his time, being careful.

McGee said, “Mr. Garcia, you could change the number. Or get Caller-ID. There are ways to block the calls.”

“Why do I have to pay for Luis to stop? The police should put him in jail. They say they can’t.”

“Well, Mr. Garcia, they will if you prove harassment or if you get a restraining order. Then they can put him in jail if he makes threats, or if he hangs around your apartment. If he follows Adela, that sort of thing.” For an instant McGee’s eyes met Sam’s. If Balmaseda had walked into the room right now, either of them might have slammed him against the wall.

Adela spoke up. She looked a little better than she had ten days ago. She wore lipstick, and her long dark hair spilled down her back from a gold clip at the top of her head. “The policeman, Robin-” She meant Ryabin, Sam realized. ‘@-he coming to my brother house for say …

about arrest Luis.”

Sam said, “Here’s what I want you to do. Go straight to see Detective Ryabin. Tell him I sent you. Make out a police report.”

“St. He say the same.” She looked at her brother. “Despurs de salir de aqui, vamos a la policia.

An anguished expression fell over Garcia’s face. He shook his head. I knew Luis before Adela did. I brought him to meet her. I introduced them.”

She touched his arm. “Shhh, Idelito. No es la culpa tuya.” She was telling him it wasn’t his fault. How could he have known it would turn out this way? Sam remembered Luis Balmaseda: good-looking guy, nice clothes, some money to spend on a pretty woman like Adela. She would have fallen in love with him. But what quirk of psychology had made her put up with the abuse he handed out? To take it for months and months, not telling anyone, even her brother, who obviously cared for her.

Adela nudged him, then stood up, tucking a bra strap under her neckline, adjusting her shoulder bag. She extended her small hand to the prosecutors. “Thank you, Mr. Hagen and Mr. McGee.”

Garcia didn’t speak. He held the door for Adela. Joe McGee said he would take them downstairs.

After they left, Sam sat alone in his office for a while, feet sprawled in front of him, too tired to move. He couldn’t count the number of times that scene had been played out in one fashion or another, so many sets of victims and survivors of victims. They were all, himself included, caught in a clanking, inefficient machine that ran on habit, custom, and lack of any reasonable alternative.

Not exactly a substitute for God, as Dina had said. And she wasn’t entirely right about the guilty being raised up, either, although yes, it did happen. Just often enough to make people cynical. Sam knew he would lose faith entirely if he dwelled on the ones that turned out badly.” Most of the time-he was confident of this-the system worked all right. He won nearly all his trials, and the accused were sent to prison. Sometimes survivors would stay in touch. One set of parents gave him a new tie every Christmas, a thank you for convicting the man who had raped their daughter, then blinded her with a pencil. Six so far, nineteen to go-unless the guy got out early on parole.

Dina had heard too many of the bad stories. Too many descriptions of the unspeakable things a person could do to another human body. Sam knew he shouldn’t have burdened his wife with it.

Four hours from now he would be walking into Frank Tolin’s office to hear Frank tell Dina the same thing he had just told Carlito Ramos’s uncle: I know you’re feeling bad, and the system sucks, but there isn’t a damn thing I can do for you. I share your loss.

Sam went over to his desk, picked up the telephone, and punched in Frank Tolin’s number, which he still remembered. He announced himself to a receptionist whose voice he didn’t recognize. She put him on hold.

Then Frank came on the line. “Sam. How’s it going?”

“Well, I’m not sure. I’d like to know what you discussed with Dina relative to a wrongful death suit.

She told me about it over lunch today. I can’t say I approve.”

After a few seconds of silence, Frank said, “There was no intention to hide anything from you, Sam. Dina called me this morning, and I assumed you knew about it.”

Frank’s office was on a corner, with floor-to-ceiling windows that gave a view of Biscayne Bay. Frank might have his feet propped up on his desk right now. Ostrich skin cowboy boots, twelve hundred bucks.

“This is a lousy idea, Frank. Were you aware she spent most of last October in a hospital?”

“Yes, I’m aware. It isn’t uncommon, Sam, to seek help after the death of a child. Dina sounded perfectly competent to me.”

“She is,” Sam said. “Now she is. We’ve got our lives back, and I’m doing my damnedest to keep it that way. I don’t want my wife going through any more emotional trauma like she-”

“Sam, I’ve done this for years, counseling people who’ve lost loved ones. I know just how you feel.”

“You fucking do not know how I feet.” There was only silence on the line. He said more reasonably, “Did you tell her we had grounds to file a complaint?”

“Of course not. Listen. Matthew had been drinkiag at a club that shouldn’t have served him. That’s all I know.

Dina wants to see what can be done, if anything. I’ll talk to her. I think she needs to get it out of her system. Let her do it. You’ve handled the loss in our way; let her do it in hers.”

“I’m telling you here and now, Frank, I don’t want to file a lawsuit, and I don’t want you raising her hopes.”

“No, no.” His voice was soothing. “I’m going to listen to what she has to say, that’s all. And don’t jump in. Just let her talk. If I advise against legal action, Dina might accept it better if you don’t say, ‘I told you so.” Sam nearly hung up.

“You know, Sam, we didn’t end our professional association on the best of terms, that’s true, but I still consider us friends. We go back, buddy. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of Dina. It’s the least I can do.”

He could imagine Frank Tolin signing papers with his Mont Blanc at the same time he was telling Sam what buddies they were. How far back, Frank? Bien Loc?

Frank a second lieutenant and Sam a specialist, fourth class. In the thickly forested hills outside Bien Loc their platoon had come under heavy NVA artillery attack.

Gunships put down covering fire, and the men were ordered to fall back. The place was a hell of smoke and explosions. Tolin lay in a gulley with his arms over his head, leaving a gap in the line. Nobody noticed but Sam, who dragged him by his web belt to the Huey and threw him aboard like a duffel bag. The chopper barely made it out. Frank never mentioned the incident again. Now what? Gratitude after all these years?

Sam made himself reply, “We’ll see you at five-thirty.”

He heard a disconnect and slammed down the phone.

Almost immediately it buzzed.

He swept it up. “What?”

It was Gloria. “Sam? I noticed Adela Ramos leave a while ago, with her brother. I wanted to remind you about Duncan.”

” I haven’t forgotten.” He rubbed his forehead. “Send her up.”

“Someone else wants to talk to you first. Caitlin Dom.

She called awhile ago from a phone downstairs. She was insistent. Rude, if you want to ow.

His mind reeled. “Caitlin Dom? What does she want?”

“She refused to say. I told her you didn’t have time to talk to anyone else, but she made me promise to mention it to you.” Gloria waited. “Sam? Are you there?”

“Yes. Send them both up. I’ll see Miss Dom first.”

Sam met them in the small waiting room outside Major Crimes. Alice Duncan was as he had expected: a tall, skinny attitude problem with a God-awful choice in clothes. It was hard to tell her age. She asked if she could smoke. He said no.

He led Caitlin through the maze of corridors on the second floor. He had recovered from the shock of seeing her again after three years. Three years except for the time he had passed her by accident in the art museum.

Then he had ducked behind a divider until his heart had stopped pounding. Now he could not imagine what she wanted.

She kept up with him, just off the point of his left shoulder, and neither of them spoke. Sam could see people glance at her as she swept past. Caitlin had a way of moving, a syncopated, chin-up, long-legged stride that originated in the hips, each foot firmly planted, blond hair swinging with each step. She wore tight jeans and a black pullover with the sleeves pushed up. Her eyes were slightly narrowed, and Sam felt himself tensing for the mayhem to follow.

He shut the door to his office. “Have a seat.”

She tossed her purse onto a chair. “What was the meaning of the welcoming committee downstairs?”

“You want to tell me what you’re talking about, or do I have to guess?”

“Dale Finley, your investigator, whatever he is. He scared the hell out of Ali. He said you were ready to throw her in jail for making a false report. I can understand defense attorneys intimidating a victim, but not you.

Not the prosecution.”

“Hold it right there.” Sam lifted a hand and kept it raised. He would corner Beekie Duran about this, but he couldn’t do it now. “What did he say, precisely, to make you conclude that he intended to frighten Ms.

Duncan?”

“Oh, Jesus, don’t be such a goddamned lawyer.” Caitlin began to pace, and the office seemed to quiver with her energy. Her hair swung around her face when she turned.

“Ali wanted to walk out of here, the hell with all of you.

Was that what you had in mind? Then you keep her waiting half an hour to give her plenty of time to think about it.”

“Keep your voice down,” Sam said sharply.

Caitlin came over to him, furious but in control. “I heard you have no intention of going after the mer who attacked her. Is it true?”

“No. It isn’t. Who told you that?”

“Someone I know.”

He leaned a little closer, “I’d like a name, Caitlin.”

She said nothing, then shrugged. “Martin Cassie.”

Sam frowned. The name was familiar. “I met him at Frank Tolin’s office a few years ago. What’s your connection to Martin Cassie?”

“I’m doing an advertising brochure for him for a big development project. Not his project. Klaus Ruffini’s.

Well, isn’t this a coincidence? The same Ruffini that you’re supposed to be prosecuting.”

“What about Marty Cassie?” Sam repeated.

Caitlin said, “Oh, Marty is generally a self-aggrandizing blowhard, but he knows everybody on the Beach. Including Klaus. Marty says the city manager persuaded the state attorney not to prosecute. I thought he was full of shit, but now I wonder, after the reception we got downstairs.”

His mind grasping at the implications of this, Sam couldn’t think of what to say.

Caitlin misread his hesitation. “It is true. My goodness. Saint Samuel is playing in the dirt with the rest of us.”

“What are you doing here, Caitlin?”

“Dale Finley asked me the same thing,” she said.

“Now I’m asking.”

She looked at him steadily, then said, “Ali Duncan is my friend.”

“Your friend got herself into some trouble,” Sam said. “I’m attempting to find out what happened. Whether you believe that or not, I don’t give a damn. If you have something to add, then do it. If not, I’ll talk to Ms.

Duncan.”

Caitlin’s green eyes were blazing. “Okay. You want facts, try these. George Fonseca came to Ali’s apartment just before I arrived. She wouldn’t let him in. He suggested that she’d be smart to take money not to testify.

When she said no, he tried to break her door down. He said if she talked about the drugs he’s been dealing, she’d wind up in the Everglades.”

Sam said, “Did she call the police?”

“There was no time.”

“She can call from my office. If Fonseca did what you describe, he committed a felony.”

Caitlin stared sullenly at him. She obviously hadn’t expected this response.

Sam said, “Before I talk to Ms. Duncan, it would be helpful to know what you saw at the Apocalypse that night,”

Abruptly turning away, she paced to the window, arms crossed under her breasts. Her narrow waist was circled by a silver belt. She had aged some, but not much. Still the small, neat jaw, smooth skin, and generous mouth. A nose that tilted upward, which she had once complained was too short.

“Are you going to call me as a witness?”

“Not if I don’t have to,” he said.

“No, I suppose not.”

She was smirking. Caitlin Dorn had become damnably hard-edged, Sam thought. He asked, “What about the incident at the Apocalypse? Was Alice Duncan assaulted or not?”

“Ali.”

“What?”

“She calls herself Ali. She doesn’t like Alice.”

“Ali, then.” He was still waiting for an answer.

Caitlin nodded.

“You’re certainT’ “Yes. Yes, she was.” Caitlin exhaled through her teeth.

“I said so to the police. Didn’t you read my statement?”