Blood Relations (39 page)

“Have him thrown out,” Rafael suggested.

She turned her back. “He’ll leave if I don’t speak to him.”

Rafael chattered on, but Caitlin didn’t hear him.

Frank’s presence in the room intruded like speakers turned up to high volume. In the past ten days, Frank had left so many pleading messages on her voice mail she’d lost count at fifty. He had sent flowers. She refused delivery, but they kept coming. Two days ago she’d found all the equipment Frank had taken from her studio stacked up neatly outside her door. She sold it all to pay some bills.

She was packing up, finishing leftover jobs, and calling old contacts in New York. In two weeks she would be gone.

“Caitlin, Hiii-ii-in!”

A tall, black-haired girl in a short white dress was coming toward her, arms extended. If Caitlin hadn’t noticed Tommy Chang next to her, she wouldn’t have known who it was. Ali Duncan.

Caitlin gave her a quick hug. “What are you doing here?”

The day after George Fonseca’s murder, Ali had gone back to live with her mother. She’d told Caitlin that Sam Hagen had practically forced her to. “Tommy drove all the way up to Broward County to get me tonight.” She patted his chest. “Isn’t he sweet?”

Tommy blushed. His long black hair was tied back with a beaded strip of leather. This was the first time Caitlin had seen him in long pants and a new shirt.

Ali smiled at Caitlin through the dark glasses. “I’m not afraid to be on South Beach. All these people around?

Nothing’s going to happen. I had to see your show, Caitlin. It’s so genius!” The black, wedge-shaped wig was short in back, longer in front, with heavy bangs across her forehead. Her sleeveless white minidress skimmed her perky little butt and high breasts. Waving toward the linen-draped table at the rear of the gallery, she pouted prettily with a mouth made scarlet by glossy lipstick. “Go get me some champagne, Tommy. Please?” When he was gone, she said quietly, “He is really nice, but so protective you would not believe.”

How easily she ordered him around, Caitlin thought.

How readily he complied. One of them would eventually suffer when this romance ended, and it wasn’t likely to be Ali Duncan.

Caitlin scanned the gallery. Frank Tolin had wandered to the candid photos of models on a runway, pretending to study them. Acting casual. Hands in his pockets. Wearing the Armani double-breasted suit she’d picked out for him last year in New York. His eyes shifted to meet hers, piercing.

Quickly she turned back to Ali. “Are you working?”

“Yeah. I’m doing okay. I got a booking in Fort Lauderdale. It’s like, nobody heard of me up there, so it’s cool.

My mother is driving me crazy, though.” Ali took her cigarettes out of her tiny purse, then fished around for a lighter. “I am still in total shock about George.”

“That’s a strange reaction,” Caitlin said.

Ali lit her cigarette, and for a second her blue eyes flashed over the top of her sunglasses, making sure Tommy wasn’t on his way back. “I didn’t want George to die. I was trying to tell Mr. Hagen it wasn’t George who was the worst, but he won’t listen. He’s so, like, Be quiet, Miss Duncan, what do you know?”

Her elbow on a hipbone, she took a long drag on her cigarette. “God, I can’t stand living like this. Caitlin, why am I putting myself through hell for a bunch of cops and state attorneys who only want to use me? Like, to chase Klaus Ruffini out of South Beach. And Mr. Hagen was on a TV interview show on Sunday, did you see him? I’m his most visible case. The reporter said that. And he goes, ‘Mr. Hagen, are you going to run for state attorneyT Ha.

Is Mickey a mouse?”

“Ali, they won’t let you drop it.”

“I know. I said I was sick of this, and he gives me this really mean look and says it doesn’t matter. It’s not my case anymore, it belongs to the state of Florida.” She made a muffled scream through clamped teeth. “I wanted to show George, and now I can’t. Oh, damn. Damn. Why’d he have to get shot? It isn’t fair.” Her lips trembled. “I didn’t want him dead.”

Frank had moved closer, no longer pretending to look at the pictures. He stood silently and stared.

Caitlin took Ali’s arm and walked her slowly around a group of chattering social types, all of them munching on hors d’oeuvres. She found a place along the windows that faced the side street.

“Ali, you did the right thing. You were so brave.”

“Brave. Yeah. Try stupid. I should’ve gone to see Tereza Ruffini when she asked me to.” Ali laughed. “Now she’s out of the country and it’s too late, and I’m modeling for Kmart.”

Tommy came back with her champagne and another glass for Caitlin, who held it without drinking. Her hands were trembling slightly. As if her vision could extend at all angles, she saw Frank behind her, watching. Waiting till she was alone. It was nearly nine o’clock now, and the crowd in the gallery was thinning out.

When a male friend of hers, a graphic artist, started a conversation, Tommy and Ali drifted away, hand in hand, to look at the pictures. The graphic artist owned a production company in the design district in Miami. They got into a friendly argument about digital cameras and manipulation of imagery. Caitlin stupidly had to ask him to repeat what he had said. She couldn’t concentrate.

Then Frank was standing beside her. He’d bought something, which was now tucked into a large, maroon plastic bag with the name of the gallery in gold. “Forgive me for interrupting,” he said. “I wanted to tell Ms. Dorn how much I admire her work. I just purchased the series of night views of Lincoln Road.”

Lips compressed, Caitlin stared at the floor for a moment, then swung her hair off her face and looked directly at him. She didn’t want Frank buying her photographs.

Didn’t want them hanging in his living room.

“Thank you,” she said, forcing a smile. “Now excuse us? We’re in a discussion here.”

He touched her shoulder and she barely kept herself from recoiling. “May I have a moment to speak to Ms.

Dorn privately?”

“Sure.” The artist gave a confused smile and backed up a step.

She grabbed his arm, holding on to him. “No. People can’t just come up and intrude like this.”

“Really, it’s okay, I don’t mind-”

“You have to excuse Caitlin,” said Frank with a wan smile. “We’ve been involved for eight years. Last week we had an argument-”

Caitlin spun toward Frank. “How could you come here?”

“You know why. I had to see you. You won’t return my calls, you won’t talk to me.” Then he said to the other man, “I’m sorry. I’m going to pieces over this woman.”

“Hey, it’s okay.”

Her voice hissed between her teeth. “Leave me the fuck alone. Okay? Can I possibly make that plainer?”

Frank pulled back as if she’d spit at him.

Confused, the artist said, “Caitlin, take it easy.”

“You stay out of this. You have no idea.”

He and Frank exchanged a glance. Sympathy, man to man. The artist blew a little puff of air through pursed lips and walked away.

Frank grasped her arm above the elbow. “What do you want from me? Tell me what to do, I’ll do it. Words may mean nothing to you, but right now they’re all I have. To the depths of my soul I love you. Catie, I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I try to work and the only thing on my mind is you. Please. The lesson has been learned. I haven’t had a drink since you left. No drugs, nothing. I’m clean, I swear. Don’t you believe in redemption? People change.

Now that we’ve learned so much, why throw it all away?”

“Bullshit. You’re such a manipulator.” She laughed.

“Clients. Witnesses. The jury. Me. Not anymore. Now you talk and all I see is your mouth moving.”

“Oh, look at you, baby. You sell a few photos, get your name in the paper, you forget what it was like on your own. You’ll come back.” His fingers tightened. “You always have.”

His head swiveled to look at Tommy Chang, who had come up beside them, uncertain of what was going on.

“Caitlin, are you okay?”

“No.”

Frank released her arm, making a production out of it, opening his hand wide, stepping back a little, smiling, lines in his face like slashes, deep and sharp. “I apologize once again.” He buttoned his jacket as if for something to do. Then he smiled at Tommy. “I’ll give you some advice, young man. Be careful with Caitlin. The last one your age didn’t make it out alive.”

Turning abruptly, Frank left the gallery, clutching the bag of photographs under one arm. He zigzagged through the dwindling crowd.

Tommy asked, “That thing he said. What was that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. He’s an asshole.”

I came over to see if you want to go out with Ali and me. We’ve got a group together. Rafael’s coming.”

Tommy patted her back. “It’s your night. Celebrate. And forget him, okay?”

Tommy’s face was guileless and open.

She smiled. “Sure. I’d like to come along.”

On legs that still trembled, she went to thank the gallery owner for the show. She knew now that beneath her rage had yawned the queasy depths of panic. Maybe she was wrong. It could be different betweeen them. She had changed for the better, why couldn’t he? But she’d just sent him away. The man who had saved her from selfdestruction then put up with her for eight years. This show had been a joke. A dozen photos sold, and six of those to Frank.

Caitlin glanced toward the door. She could see his dim figure through the glass, walking away on Lincoln Road.

Detective Eugene Ryabin, arm in arm with his wife, slowed as they passed the DeMarco Gallery on the other side of the street.

Anna asked, “Is this where they’re showing Miss Dom’s photographs?”

He moved to see around a street vendor selling African jewelry. “I believe so. Yes.”

“We’ll go in if you want,” Anna said.

“No. Let’s keep wailing.” Ryabin’s stomach was full from a dinner at an Italian restaurant three blocks west, and his head pleasantly fuzzy from the excellent chianti he and his wife had shared. He put his hand over hers, which rested lightly on his arm. “A perfect evening for walking, Anna. Another two or three blocks. But we’ll go back if you’re tired.”

“Not at all.” She patted his arm. “Don’t fuss so, Zhenya.”

Anna was fifty-three, with not such a perfect heart, and he feared that he would outlive her.

Melodies curled and ebbed on the faint breeze. Musicians were spaced along the mall. He and Anna were now IL

passing a Spanish guitarist on a stool outside a natural foods restaurant, and at the end of the block a woman violinist in black concert attire played Beethoven. Still farther along, steel drums serenaded diners at candlelit outdoor tables.

Ryabin breathed deeply the humid, salt-scented air.

What a-wonderful place. He had seen Miami Beach change from depressed and shabby to sparkling and alive in the span of time they’d lived here, eons from Odessa.

This was a shallow, emotional place, to be sure, but it was young, and one had to forgive much in the young.

One had also to be prepared against criminals and opportunists, who lurked everywhere, even on this pleasant street. Ryabin wore his pistol under his jacket. He would no more leave it at home than go without his trousers.

This pistol, a 17-shot Glock, lightweight and deadly, had been a birthday present from Anna several years ago. So you can have many more of them, she had said, and kissed him. There was only a husband to dote on now. Their two sons had moved away—one to Israel, the other to California. Grandchildren were far away. Her own mother and sister were dead. After her mother’s murder, Anna had asked no questions of the police. Having been a Jew in the Soviet Union, she had expected nothing. When the killer was found dead, she had only nodded. The death of her sister, Rivka, still weighed on her mind, but she assumed that this, too, would someday be made right. Ryabin wasn’t certain anymore. He had wanted to bring in the drunks and vagrants who could have set the fire, but his lieutenant warned him about due process.

It had always mystified Ryabin, the reluctance of the Americans to take decisive action against criminals. Such a naive and optimistic people, believing that human nature was basically good. Consequently, they were always surprised when one of their number exhibited cruelty.

What is this world coming to? they would ask, bewildered at the news of another bombing, multiple murder, or looting. As if the world had ever been otherwise. That reasonable, intelligent people could so allow themselves to be tied in knots by rules and procedure staggered him. Trials that went on for months. The law turned inside out by sophistry and guile. The guilty set free by confused and divided juries. He and Sam Hagen had argued about this many times. They had never come to an agreement. Sam was much too quick to believe in institutions, as if they had an intelligence beyond that of the fallible men and women who ran them. Ryabin had countered with an appeal to common sense. Are we more civilized for all the rules of law? No. Less so. With each new rule we become weaker.

“Ah.” Ryabin stopped walking.

“What is it, Zhenya?”

He led Anna toward a storefront under a black canvas awning. “We’ve never been in this one, have we? Let’s take a look.”

Puzzled, she read the name written in jagged gold letters on the glass. “Otero? I don’t think it’s my style.”

Anna had a neat, plump figure, like a dove. In the window, stick-thin mannequins in leather glared arrogantly back at her. She began to laugh. “Oh, definitely not my style.”

He said, “Anna, I have to speak with the manager.

She’s usually here on Friday evenings.”

“Zhenya, are you on duty?”

With a guilty smile, he said, “For a few minutes. You don’t mind, do you?”

Anna rolled her eyes. He held the door and they went inside.

It was nearly two in the morning when Tommy Chang dropped Caitlin outside her building. She got out of the Jeep, then leaned back through the open window to grasp both his and Ali’s hands. She was clumsy from too much wine and the lateness of the hour.

“You babies be careful,” she said. But they weren’t going far. Tommy knew a friend with enough room in his apartment for two extra people.