Blood Relations (49 page)

Sam laughed. “She said you’d do this.”

“Maybe she told you herself, but I doubt it. She lies.

She lies constantly. I knew she was having an affair with you three years ago. She denied it. I know about her drug use, and an arrest in New York for grand theft, but she’ll deny that, too. You ask her, but she’ll deny it.”

“Frank, shut the fuck up.” Sam headed toward the door.

“Ask her about Matthew.”

He looked back.

“Ask her.”

Sam kept looking at him. Frank’s eyes were sharp and hard as knife points.

“Ask her if she slept with Matthew. Ask her if she didn’t take nude photographs of him in her bedroom. I’ve seen them. Ask her if she wasn’t fucking your son up to the day he crashed his motorcycle. You ask her. Don’t take my word for it.”

In two seconds Sam was around the desk, hauling Frank Tolin out of his big leather chair, Frank kicking, everything hitting the floor. Sam dragged him into the room and rammed a fist into his stomach. When Frank doubled over, Sam jerked him back up and hit him twice in the face. Frank spun into the red leather chair. It crashed over, Frank with it. Sam went after him.

He heard men yelling, then felt himself being pulled backward. Two of Frank’s partners had come in. Sam wrenched himself away, stumbled into a table by the sofa, and ended up on the floor.

The two men stood over him. Everybody was breathing EL

hard. The table leaned crazily on a broken leg. Frank was wiping blood off his mouth.

Sam sat up, holding his right hand.

One of the men said, “I’m going to call the cops.”

Frank staggered across the room. “You want her? Take her.” He laughed. His lips were swollen, and one eye was closing. “Find out what hell is like.”

Waiting for Caitlin Dorn to arrive at the station, Detective Ryabin stood outside with a cigarette and Watched the late afternoon traffic on Washington Avenue. He had obtained Ms. Dorn’s address and phone number this morning from Sam Hagen, who had apologized for his bad mood: not enough goddamn hours in the day.

Ryabin didn’t worry about the time it took to solve an unwitnessed murder. It was more often a matter of pure luck. A friend or lover of the killer would have a fight with him, then come to the police. Or the killer would confess. Freely. People wanted to talk, to explain, to justify. People liked to clear their consciences. More often than not, the killer was sorry. His temper had flared at a bad moment. A weapon had been available: a gun or knife, an iron, a skillet, a baseball bat, his fists.

Many killers were simply careless. They left fingerprints. They left their wallet on the nightstand in their dead lover’s bedroom. They left a message on the answering machine announcing their purpose before arriving with a shotgun. The man who had beaten and robbed Anna’s mother, for example. He had been stupid. He had traded her watch for crack cocaine. The police failed to catch him because they had not looked in the right crack house in the derelict apartments south of Fifth Street. If the man had been intelligent, he would have gotten away with it. But then, if he had been intelligent, he would have been in some other line of work, not committing robberies to support a drug habit.

The murders of Sullivan, Fonseca, and Cassie, on the other hand, were not so easy. The killer was smart and without remorse. He-or perhaps she, not to leave anyone out-had planned well, picking the right time and leaving few clues. No fingerprints, no footprints, no witnesses.

No advance warning or public threats. No blood except that of the victim. The crime scene technicians had vacuumed Fonseca’s car and Cassie’s living room for hairs, but there were many different lengths and colors and no way to tell when they had been shed.

Ryabin took a final pull on his cigarette and flicked it into the bushes. In the afternoon, the entrance to the Miami Beach Police Department was in the shade, but the heat was still intense, over ninety and humid. He went inside the lobby, watching through the high, turquoisetinted windows for Miss Dom to arrive.

The toxicologist in the medical examiner’s lab, as part of his routine blood work on George Fonseca, had done a cholinesterase determination. He had found traces of an organophosphate toxin, probably Parathion, a readily available insecticide. It would have worked even faster if mixed with Malathion. The poison had broken down the acetylcholine in Fonseca’s blood.

Ryabin had inquired what that might mean. Well, you need acetylcholine for your muscles to function. As the toxicologist explained the symptoms of cholinergic poisoning, Ryabin had imagined Fonseca’s death. He had begun to sweat heavily and to salivate. His muscles twitched. He felt nauseated. Severe abdominal cramping followed. His pupils contracted to pinpoints. The blood vessels in his nose ruptured, causing heavy nosebleed. His bladder and bowels let go and he went into convulsions.

This may have occurred within five minutes. Shortly thereafter he was paralyzed. His breathing stopped. His heart stopped. The bleeding from the gunshot wounds had speeded the process.

The same poison had been found inside one of the beer bottles on the floor of the car. The bottle had spilled perhaps half its contents. The stuff had an odor, but such a small amount was required, a teaspoon, or so, it would hardly be noticeable in strong beer. Death could occur within minutes, or could take an hour, depending on the quantity ingested. Fonseca had died relatively quickly.

The killer had probably introduced the toxin into the beer in advance and had given Fonseca the appropriate bottle. Perhaps Fonseca had tasted it, refused to drink any more, and the shot into the thigh had been a way of encouraging him to finish. There was no way to tell.

Cassie’s murder had probably occurred during the day, as most of the neighbors came in or out in the morning or late in the afternoon and had seen nothing. The medical examiner had not been too helpful on this point. Cassie had died sometime between noon on Thursday and midnight on Friday During that time, then, and probably during daylight hours, Cassie had let the killer in. They had discussed real estate, perhaps one of the properties on the computer printout. Unfortunately, no one at Tropic Realty had been able to tell the police when the list had been printed, or for whom.

Being a good host, Cassie had poured soft drinks. At some point, the killer got up with the bag which contained the gun. He stood behind Marty Cassie, who sat at the table.

He fired once. Cassie’s body slammed forward-the M.E.

had found a horizontal bruise-then back, knocking over the chair. As Cassie lay on the floor, the killer stabbed his right hand. One blow nicked the second and third fingers near the palm. One nearly severed the thumb, A third pierced the palm, and the last sliced completely through the hand, the carpet, and the padding, and had grazed the wood floor underneath. A postmortem wound: the blood had oozed out, not pumped. The heart had already stopped.

Because of decomposition, Dr. Corso could not be certain of the width or thickness of the knife. However, it had been very sharp, or the killer had been very powerful.

Why had he committed this final act of violence? It had been as gratuitous as the coup de grAce given to Charlie Sullivan as he lay facedown on the beach.

Ryabin had not discussed any of this with reporters from the Miami Herald and the TV stations. They had come around asking for details of the three latest homicides in a season plagued by them, but Ryabin had only shrugged and said the cases were still under investigation, and so far, there was no proof that they were linked.

Since Marty Cassie’s death, Ryabin had interviewed more than twenty people; Nestor Lopez, his partner, a like number. Many were the same ones they had spoken to regarding the deaths of Charlie Sullivan and George Fonseca.

Lopez had gone back to the condominium at different times of day. There were twelve units in the two-story Delancy, six up, six down. He talked to all the neighbors who had been in town during the time in question. As the murder had occurred several days previously, their memories had faded. Contradictory statements were made, and a man even reported having seen Cassie on Saturday. One woman said she had heard a fight on Friday morning, but her husband reminded her it had occurred in some other apartment. Many of the people in the building didn’t know who Marty Cassie was. The most useful piece of information came from an elderly woman across the street who had come out of her apartment to get the newspaper. She had seen a man with black hair going into the Delancy at about eight o’clock on Saturday morning. Not so young, but not old. She remembered because he had been wearing cowboy boots, and wasn’t that stupid, this time of year?

Yesterday morning, Eugene Ryabin had driven downtown to visit Frank Tolin.

Tolin’s spacious office was tastefully decorated with antiques. Ryabin had admired them for a moment, then sat in a red leather chair with a high back. He remarked that he and Tolin had last seen each other at Pier Park, the scene of Charlie Sullivan’s death.

“Did you know him?” Ryabin asked.

Frank Tolin said, “No, I just came along with Caitlin.

She was following her friend Rafael, who was a boyfriend of Sullivan’s. Or exboyfriend.” Tolin spoke slowly, perhaps because his lower lip was split. A large purpling bruise darkened the left side of his face, and a bandage angled upward at the corner of his eye.

“Sullivan was also sleeping with Marty Cassie’s wife, Uta Ernst,” Ryabin commented.

“Yeah. Sullivan went both ways.” The mustache over the injured mouth moved in what might have been a smile. “It’s hard to keep up with that crowd. They all fuck each other, Detective. Pardon my French.”

“Pardon the question, but are you including Miss Dorn?”

“I don’t know what the hell Miss Dorn did. Or does.

We’re not together anymore.”

Ryabin knew that, because Sam Hagen had told him.

He said, “Is that so?”

Frank Tolin said, “I’ve got some clients coming at ten o’clock. You said you wanted to ask me about Marty Cassie?”

In response to Ryabin’s questions, Tolin explained that he had met Marty Cassie through mutual friends, and that they had done some deals together, but there was only one property left, the Englander Apartments. There was a buyer for the place, some Middle Easterners, but now the sale might be delayed because Cassie’s share, ten percent, would have to go through probate. Too bad about Marty, but it had been an inconvenient time for him to get himself killed.

As he talked Tolin played with a stainless steel letter opener, bouncing the point of it on the desk, making a musical dinging noise. He admitted having gone to see Cassie on Saturday morning. He had knocked, but there hadn’t been any answer, and he didn’t go in.

“Why did you want to talk to him?” Ryabin asked.

“It was about the property. I hadn’t heard anything in a few days, and I wanted to see how the sale was going.”

Tolin set the letter opener aside.

“Were you on good terms with him?”

“Sure. We had a pretty good working relationship. We didn’t socialize, but we got along.”

“Why did Cassie have only ten percent of the Englander Apartments?”

“Where’d you hear about that?”

“I saw it in documents I took from his file cabinet,” Ryabin explained.

“Well, he had ten because it was my money that went into it, but he managed the building. I didn’t want to pay him a fee every month, so I said, here, take ten percent, you can have the headaches, not me.” Tolin gestured toward his office. “I’ve got a law practice to run.”

Ryabin asked, “Did you know that my wife sold you the building?”

“No kidding. I thought a woman named Rivka owned it. No, wait. She passed away. Then what? Your wife bought it from her?”

“No. Rivka was my sisterin-law.”

“My condolences, Detective.”

Ryabin leaned forward in the chair, frowning. “Excuse me, but what happened to your face?”

One of Frank Tolin’s hands went automatically to his cheekbone. “A disagreement with a client. It’s dangerous being a lawyer these days.”

“Did you know Charlie Sullivan, the model?” Ryabin waited for an answer.

Tolin shook his head, frowning slightly at the change of direction. “Not personally. Why?”

“And George Fonseca? Someone mentioned that you knew him.” This was pure conjecture, but Ryabin wanted to see what Tolin would say.

“Someone? The policeman’s best friend. Someone is full of shit, Detective. I never met George Fonseca. Nor can I help you figure out why he and Charlie Sullivan were shot to death. And in case you planned to ask if I own a gun, the answer’s yes. A thirty-eight revolver. Not what you’re looking for. Sorry about that.” His black eyebrows arched.” ‘Someone’ must have told me.”

“Where do you live, Mr. Tolin? Not on Miami Beach.”

“No. Coconut Grove. I’ve got a condo.”

Ryabin nodded. “Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm Marty Cassie?”

“Not really. You sure it wasn’t a robbery?”

“We don’t think so,” Ryabin said. “Could you explain to me why Marty Cassie’s personal files were out of order?

As if someone had been looking through them in a hurry?”

Tolin said, “No, I can’t.”

“You said you were at his apartment on Saturday morning.”

“And I said I didn’t go in.”

“But we have a statement from a person across the street who says you did.”

“Good try, Detective.” Tolin made another of his painful smiles. Ryabin reminded himself that Frank Tolin was a trial attorney, skilled in tactics used on witnesses.

Ryabin said, “Eight o’clock on Saturday morning. On South Beach everyone is asleep. But you drove all the way from Coconut Grove to see him. If you didn’t know Marty Cassie so well, why did you think he would be up?”

“I took a chance.”

“You didn’t call him first?”

“No, I figured he’d be there. And he was, wasn’t he?

But in no shape to answer the door.” Tolin stood up.

“Sorry to cut this short, but I’ve got people coming in. Maybe we can get back together sometime next week.”

From the chair Ryabin asked, “What was your schedule last Thursday and Friday?”