Blood Relations (26 page)

He liked to think so.

Two detectives were arguing across the body whether the slug still in it was a hollow-point or steel-jacketed.

One of the uniforms said it had to be a hollow-point to blow out the face like that. He mimed holding a gun, arm extended, barrel at the back of another cop’s head. “Steel jacket’s going to sail right through the fucker.”

The other cop said, “Yeah, but we got stippling on the wound there. Means the barrel’s right up against the skull, no place for the gases to go but straight into the head.

That can blow out your brains, too.”

“I don’t see powder on the shirt,” noted a cop positioned near what remained of Charlie Sullivan’s head.

“The shooter was at a distance shooting into the chest. He pops him, then puts another one in the brain to make sure.

Was this person in the drug trade?”

“He was a fashion model.”

“No shit.”

“Yeah, I seen him around. I work off-duty, I seen him at the clubs.”

“If I had a body like that my wife would go wild.”

“This guy, now when he says, ‘Gimme some head,’ he means it literally.”

Laughter.

“Oh, Jesus. That’s sick.”

“A model? Come on. He’s a faggot. A jealous lover did him in.”

“Maybe he was out here with another guy.”

“A quickie on the beach, why not? I see it all the time.”

“Yeah, but his pants are still up.”

“Hey, you going to go down on a guy then shoot him?”

“I ain’t going’ down on a guy period, my friend.”

“You’re wrong. I can’t see the jealous lover scenario. If it was a jealous lover, he would’ve got stabbed in the nuts, something vicious like that. I say drugs.”

Someone told a story about three dealers taken out last week over in Miami. Hands tied, popped in the back of the head.

Ryabin lit a cigarette, cupping his hand around his lighter. He snapped it shut and inhaled deeply. Gesturing with the cigarette, he told Sam that Sullivan had lived on the other side of the park in Portofino Towers.

There were several high-rise buildings to the west, most of them luxury condominiums. Ryabin said, “There’s a doorman. He could have seen him leave with someone.

We’ll talk to the neighbors as well.”

Sam said, “It’s not a drug-related killing.”

“I would agree with that,” Ryabin said.

“But not done on the spur of the moment, either,” Sam said. “The shooter knew where he lived. May have known him well enough to entice him out here in the dark.”

Corso was taking more photographs. All the medical examiners had their own camera equipment, rather than rely on the police. When Corso finished, he gave the camera to one of the uniformed cops to hold. He put on a fresh pair of gloves and unbuttoned Sullivan’s shirt to make sure the hole in the fabric lined up with the hole in his chest.

The skin was mottled purple where the blood had settled, sinking to the lowest point. Now that the body had been turned over, the dark side was on top. He’d been in full rigor mortis two hours ago when a squad car had responded to the scene. Dade County M.E.“s didn’t take core body temperature to determine time of death; it was notoriously unreliable. Sam assumed that Charlie Sullivan had died sometime last night, a brilliant deduction, and not much more could be added with certainty. An autopsy would show the angle at which the first shot had entered the chest. This would help determine the height of the shooter and the distance.

Using a scalpel, Corso slit the pants open far enough to decide that there had been no other injuries. He checked the dead man’s hands, looked at the fingernails, then removed his watch and jewelry. He put these into a plastic bag, which he handed to one of the detectives, who sealed it. The on-scene examination was over.

. Now the police photographer was panning slowly, taking pictures of the crowd with a telephoto lens. A shooter who denied he was in town could sometimes be located in a crime scene photo. In the background a couple of highschool age kids were tossing a Frisbee.

Sam’s eyes swept across the faces, then backtracked.

There was a man in shorts and a faded yellow T-shirt sitting on the end of a wooden beach lounger. He looked familiar. Slender, late twenties. He had short dark hair, red-framed glasses, and high-topped canvas sneakers.

Sam studied him for a minute trying to decide where he had seen him before and finally remembered. He was the hair and makeup designer Caitlin used for most of her fashion shoots. Sam had met him a couple of times at her apartment. Rafael … The last name wouldn’t click. The way he sat, with his hands clasped between his knees, and his eyes fixed on the sand, told Sam he had not come here out of mere curiosity.

Soto. Rafael Soto.

Stripping off his gloves, Corso tossed them into a brown leather bag and put his camera in after. He took out a green tag and checked off instructions to the technicians at the morgue who would prepare the body for autopsy.

Corso leaned over to slip the tag around Sullivan’s wrist.

His work here was finished. Now the police photographer closed in to take his own views of the body. The van would arrive shortly to pick up the remains.

Sam told Ryabin about Rafael Soto.

Ryabin’s pale, pouchy eyes fixed on the young man, who was now standing with his hands tucked under his armpits as if he were cold. Ryabin asked, “He and Charlie Sullivan were an item?”

Sam didn’t know.

“We should ask him.”

“You go,” Sam said.

As Ryabin trudged through the sand, the wind ruffled his white hair and flipped his tie over his shoulder.

“Mr. Hagen!” He scanned the crowd and saw a pale, skinny arm waving at him, a girl jumping up and down.

Ali Duncan. She lifted the crime tape and scurried across the sand, followed by a young man in an unbuttoned plaid shirt with the sleeves cut out. He had long black hair and a bandanna around his head. A uniformed cop yelled at them to stop, but Sam motioned that it was all right, let them come.

Ali Duncan’s china-blue eyes were wide as she peered around him toward the body of Charlie Sullivan. From where they stood not much could be seen. The cops’ legs blocked the view.

“He’s dead, right?” Her lips drew back in a grimace.

“Who did it?”

“They don’t know. How did you hear about this?”

She couldn’t drag her attention off the scene. “Oh, my God. He was going to testify for me. Maybe George shot him. Or Klaus’s bodyguard.” She pulled in a deep breath.

“What am I supposed to do now?”

Sam took her shoulders and turned her around. “Don’t panic. This probably has nothing to do with your case.

We’ve got too many other witnesses.” He heard the assurance in his voice and wondered if she believed it. “I want you to talk to Detective Ryabin when he has a minute.”

The young man put his hand on her shoulder. I can stay.” He was a tall, well-built kid with Asian features.

“That would be nice,” she said, then realized introductions were due. “Mr. Hagen, this is Tommy Chang. He’s a friend of mine.”

Just then Sam spotted a woman in a khaki baseball hat running down the beach, making a wide circle around the crime scene. Her sneakers splashed through the edge of an incoming wave, and her long legs carried her quickly up the slope into the looser sand. Frank Tolin was following behind, trying to keep up. Caitlin was a good thirty yards ahead of him. She stopped beside Ali Duncan.

She looked at Sam through her sunglasses, then said to Ali, “I got here as soon as I could finish. Where’s Rafael?”

Ali pointed. “He’s talking to Detective Ryabin.”

“Why?”

When she started up the slope, Sam gripped her arm.

“Caitlin, don’t interfere.”

“Why are the police talking to him?” She was frowning behind the dark tint of the glasses.

Frank finally caught up, winded. He nodded at Sam.

“Hey, buddy. What’s going on?”

“Homicide. A model by the name of Charlie Sullivan, shot sometime last night, early this morning. No witnesses so far.”

Eugene Ryabin was giving Rafael Soto his card. Soto uncrossed his arms long enough to take it, then made a pattern in the sand with the toe of one sneaker.

Caidin said, “Go tell him not to talk to the police, Frank.”

“Sweetheart, I’m not his attorney.”

Abruptly she sprinted away, ducking under the crime tape. She put a protective arm around Rafael Soto’s waist.

Sam couldn’t make out the words, but he could hear her voice at an angry pitch. Soto shook his head. Eugene Ryabin nodded to Caitlin Dorn, almost making a bow, then moved-away. He glanced toward Sam, then went back to where the other detectives were still gathered around the body.

Ali Duncan made a disbelieving laugh. “Get real!

Rafael could never hurt anybody.” She walked over to see what was going on. Her Asian friend followed.

Frank Tolin glanced around at Sam. “Caitlin has a real soft spot for the fuckups of this world. The woman has no sense whatsoever.”

Frank was dressed in jeans and cowboy boots and a hundred-dollar button-down shirt.

“Let’s talk,” Sam said.

He led Frank Tolin toward the water’s edge. The sand was firmer there, and a few yards farther out the waves were clawing at the beach, churning the broken shells. A sheet of water edged by frothy bubbles surged up the slope, then fell back. Seagulls screamed overhead, beating against the onshore wind.

“This is about Matthew’s wrongful death case,” Sam said. “You asked Dina for two thousand dollars as a cost deposit, which she delivered on Friday. Don’t do that again, Frank. I’m on the point of wanting it back. Don’t ever go around me like that.”

Frank seemed surprised. “Buddy. Come on.”

“I’m not your buddy, Frank.”

“Take it easy.” The wind played with Frank’s hair, which was still black, hardly any gray. He had a thin mouth with deep creases on either side, and a high, jutting nose. Sam wondered how much force would be needed to break it.

Sam said, “My wife trusts you to do a decent job for her. That’s all we’ve got here.”

“I told Dina to discuss it with you. She said she would.”

“No. You should have talked to me. You know she isn’t well.”

Frank lifted his arms helplessly, then let them drop against his thighs. “I’m sorry.”

Sam exhaled heavily and looked out to sea. “What have you found so far?”

When a wave slid toward him, Frank backed up a little, an d wet sand clung to the heels of his cowboy boots. He said, “The club is still there, same owner. It’s doing good business, so I assume there are assets.”

After a minute Sam made a short, soundless laugh.

“There was a case,” he said, “when I was in your office that year. A teenager, a girl, had been hit by a car while she was riding her bicycle. She was still alive, but her brain had turned to oatmeal. One of the defenses, when it came time for the jury to consider an award for damages, was that the girl had been a slacker. Bad grades, bad attitude. Smoked pot, skipped school, ran away from home. The point being, of course, that on a monetary scale, she rated pretty low. I will not put Dina through that. She thinks the sun and stars went out when Matthew died, and the last thing she needs is a bunch of lawyers arguing over how much her son was worth to her.”

For a few seconds Sam watched a cruise ship that was just sliding over the horizon. He said quietly, “Whatever you have to do, avoid a trial.”

“What I hope for is a settlement,” Frank said. “If there’s some liability insurance, I’ll make a demand.

They’ll pay something. Dina will have made her point.

That’s all she wants.” Then he added, “This has got to be tough for you. I sincerely regret any misunderstanding.”

“Take care of Dina. Let’s leave it at that.”

Sam turned around and walked back up the slope. Sand had sifted through his socks and it gritted on his skin with each step. He didn’t let himself look in Caidin Dorn’s direction.

Sam had parked his car, with its front end pointing toward the ocean, on the one-block street just south of Penrod’s Beach Club. Sunday mornings there wasn’t much activity, just a few kids on surfboards, making the best of the lethargic waves. Sam unlocked the door and reached in to take the OFFICIAL BUSINESS, STATE ATTORNEY’S OFFICE sign off the dashboard. He was halfway out of his jacket when he heard the squeal of tires.

A candy-apple-red Cadillac convertible, vintage about 1948, had come to a bouncing stop at the intersection behind him. Sam could see a massive grille, a bulbous hood, and long, rounded fenders with skirts. The car remained motionless for only a second before it shot around the corner, white sidewall tires cutting a hard left to turn up the narrow street. The sun reflected in two bright pulses off a split windshield. The headlamps were cat’s-eyes, covered halfway down in chrome.

The man at the wheel wore a Hawaiian shirt and a white panama hat. Another man sat in the passenger’s seat, and there were three young women in the back. When the driver slammed on the brakes, the women pitched forward, then fell back against the seat, giggling.

“Jesus,” Sam muttered. Then he recognized the driver.

He had last seen him making bond at the county jail.

Klaus Ruffini grinned up at him. “Samuel Hagen! I thought it was you.”

Sam finished taking off his jacket.

“You ever see a car like this one?”

“Not lately.”

“The man who sold it to me said it belonged to Jayne Mansfield, the movie star with the bleached hair and the big tits. You believe that? I don’t either, but I don’t care. It’s a great car.” He patted the seat, which was upholstered in white leather. “Completely restored, like new.”

“Yeah? Well, moon-disk hubcaps didn’t come in till the late fifties. You ought to get your money back.” Sam still held his jacket. If he opened his door to reach the wooden hanger in the backseat, the edge would hit the Cadillac’s fender. “How about moving the car back?”

Ruffini’s boyish face became serious. “May I ask a question? You came to see Charlie Sullivan, the place where he died, am I right?”

“Your lawyer would tell you not to talk to me.”

“Like on TV! Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law!” Ruffini laughed and turned around to his companions. The girls giggled again. The male passenger only stared through a pair of orange, reflecting sunglasses. He had heavy shoulders that connected to his head without benefit of a neck. His T-shirt had a PLANET HOLLYWOOD logo on it.