Caged (16 page)

Not exactly bad, though, either, just
bizarre
.

So much so that she felt, for a moment, as if she’d stepped back through her lucidity and was back to believing that maybe, after all, it really still
was
a long, crazy nightmare – because right out of nowhere there was a black-and-white movie playing on a screen on the wall to her left. And what was so impossible was that it was of
them
: of her and Frank, just the two of them, like a stream of stuck-together pictures, really, of them looking happy, holding hands, looking at each other the way she supposed they always had. With love.

If they were home now, safe in their house, and if Barbara and Simon had done this for them, had compiled this for, say, an anniversary, it would probably feel warm and romantic and perhaps a little embarrassing, but wonderful just the same. But here and now, in these unspeakable circumstances, the film, or whatever that thing was playing over and over again on the wall, felt disgusting, like a violation.

That was an over-used word, Evelyn thought. Like ‘devastated’. People had a little break-in and a vase was smashed and their TV stolen and they said they felt violated and devastated.

She and Frank had never been that way, had always had their priorities down straight.

Here and now,
violated
was exactly right.

‘What does it mean, Evie?’ Frank’s voice was shaky again.

She realized she hadn’t spoken since he’d roused her, had been too busy
thinking
, and he sounded so afraid suddenly that she felt a wave of protectiveness sweep over her, and maybe it was her turn to be the strong one now, and she wished with all her soul that she could spare him this.

‘Best not to think what it means, honey,’ she told him.

‘OK,’ Frank said. ‘I love you, Evelyn.’

‘I love you too, Frank,’ she said.

‘And I’m so proud of you,’ he told her, ‘for being so brave.’

‘No point screaming and carrying on,’ she said. ‘Though I wouldn’t mind a little scream, to tell the truth.’

‘Go right ahead,’ he said, ‘if you think it’ll help you.’

Evelyn shook her head. ‘I won’t give them the satisfaction.’

‘Them?’

‘Whoever did this to us,’ she said, ‘could be watching.’

‘Watching us watching us,’ Frank said, his voice a little stronger.

‘That’s good, Frank,’ Evelyn said. ‘It’s all we can do, I think. Be brave, and make the most.’

‘Of what, Evie?’

‘Of the time we have left,’ she said.

FIFTY-ONE

A
heads-up, late in the day, on a new missing couple.

Evelyn and Frank Ressler, two Surfside senior citizens, had not been seen by family or friends or neighbours since late Monday afternoon when they had left a tea dance at Temple B’nai Torah on Isaac Singer Boulevard.

Their daughter, Mrs Barbara Herman, had spoken to her mother shortly after they’d gotten home to their house on Bay Drive after the dance, and Evelyn had told her that both she and Barbara’s father had enjoyed themselves as always. When Mrs Herman had telephoned this morning, however, there had been no answer, but knowing her dad had a check-up scheduled with his cardiologist at eleven, she’d assumed they’d gone out early and that she’d hear from them later.

The receptionist at the doctor’s office had called at noon.

Barbara Herman had begun calling hospitals an hour later and Simon Herman had come home from the office to try to calm his wife.

By three, they’d both known that something was seriously wrong, and Simon had made the call they’d dreaded.

Every cop in Miami-Dade was on the look-out now.

Nothing yet.

FIFTY-TWO

D
inner at the Opera Café was going beautifully, despite the bad news Sam had received. It had been tough, at first, for him to get his mind off the case – off the elderly Resslers, especially, because just the thought of two old people being abducted, let alone terrorized and murdered, was unbearable. But a whole lot of people went missing all the time, usually for just a short while; things happened that had nothing to do with homicide, things like illness and accidents and, especially with seniors, forgetfulness.

Except that was the kind of thing that tended to happen to individuals out on their own. Not impossible, but far less likely for it to happen to a couple, especially when their daughter insisted that her parents both had all their faculties.

Still, this was Cathy’s night and it was important to her, so Sam was doing his damnedest to enjoy himself.

Dooley’s choice of music was helping: a little Schubert, a sliver of Verdi and a lot of Puccini, all romantic stuff, to match the candles and sweetheart roses on their table and twined around the café.

Cathy was in the kitchen, Dooley there too, but plainly leaving the real cooking to her, and they could see her chopping, slicing, whirling, moving with apparent confidence between the refrigerator and the stove, and steam was rising and the glass partition was steaming and . . .

‘It’s hard not to stare,’ Grace said.

‘I’m just so damned proud of her,’ Sam said.

‘And so impressed,’ Grace said. ‘Just
look
at her.’

The food, when it came, served by Simone – who had clearly prevailed on Cathy – was nothing short of great.

‘And all of her own devising,’ Dooley had said on their arrival. ‘Not a thing from our regular menu.’

‘Your menu’s terrific,’ Sam said.

Dooley smiled. ‘I don’t think it was meant to be an insult to us,’ he said. ‘She wanted every ingredient to be a special favourite of yours, and I’ll be surprised if you don’t both love it.’

It was an eclectic menu, but Dooley had been right. There was a light crabmeat ravioli starter, calves’ liver cooked to perfection and served with rösti potatoes and a delicate salad of mixed green leaves with a dressing that Grace just couldn’t seem to nail.

‘Sorry,’ Cathy said, emerging briefly. ‘I’m not telling.’

‘But I’m your mother,’ Grace said. ‘I’ve shared my recipes with you.’

‘This is professional.’ Cathy grinned. ‘One day. Maybe.’

Dooley, nearby, raised both his hands, surrender-style. ‘Nothing to do with me, but I’m hoping it’s going on our menu.’

After a dessert of tarte Tatin with homemade vanilla ice cream, Simone, Dooley and Cathy finally agreed to draw up chairs and sit with the guests, and maybe the wines chosen by Matt Dooley had added to the sense of well-being that both Sam and Grace were now experiencing, but they were also aware of being moved both by Cathy’s talent, and by Dooley’s generosity in teaching her.

‘It seems you’ve opened up a whole new world for her,’ Sam said.

‘She opened it up for herself,’ Dooley said, ‘out in California.’

‘But you’ve really let her in,’ Grace said, feeling emotional, and Sam reached for her hand and squeezed it, and then they both got up simultaneously to give their daughter a hug, just as quickly letting her go again, because tonight had been about her new professionalism, and neither of them wanted to spoil that for her by embarrassing her.

They all sat down again.

‘This is it for me, guys,’ Cathy said, frankly. ‘This is for keeps.’

‘So long as you don’t stay here too long,’ Dooley told her.

‘You want to get rid of me?’

The words were lightly said, but Grace could see the vulnerbility beneath.

‘On the contrary,’ Simone said. ‘But I know what Matt means. If this is going to be your life, Cathy, you need to learn what you can, take what you can, from one restaurant, one teacher at a time.’

‘I’m no teacher,’ Dooley pointed out.

‘I’d say you’re a great teacher,’ Sam said.

Dooley’s shrug was modest, but his brown eyes were warm. ‘Simone’s right, though, Cathy. Learn whatever you think you can from us, then when you’re ready, find the next place that’s right for you. We’ll help you, give you great references, whatever you need.’

‘There’s no rush,’ Simone added. ‘We love having you here, God knows. And you’ll never know what a difference it’s made to me, with my mother being the way she is.’

‘I’d be glad to do more shifts,’ Cathy said, ‘if that might help a little.’

‘It might,’ Simone said, ‘when we reach the next stage. But for now, frankly, having the café to come to keeps me sane.’

‘I can certainly understand that,’ Grace said.

‘This lady – ’ Dooley looked at Simone – ‘is a really special person.’

‘Takes one to know one,’ Sam said.

FIFTY-THREE

A
bad feeling of tension and growing frustration intensified through Wednesday morning, with everyone on the squad sharing the grimmest of fears that the very worst might already have happened to Evelyn and Frank Ressler. They still didn’t know the exact timing in the first two cases, but the probability was that the Eastermans had been taken on the evening or night of Thursday the fifth, turning up in the garden of the old gallery on Saturday morning, and the second couple had almost certainly been abducted some time last Wednesday evening – almost a week ago – and dumped in the Christous’ backyard in the early hours of Friday.

If there was a connection or even a pattern, then that meant the Resslers might be found any time soon, yet all the detectives could do this morning was grind their way through the scanty news that Mary Cutter had located a similar-looking domed plastic cover on one of the websites specializing in servicing exhibitors for conventions and smaller exhibitions.

‘It’s not the same,’ Martinez said gloomily.

‘I think it is,’ Cutter said. ‘I checked the measurements with Doc Sanders’s office, and he took a look at the website and thought I was right.’

‘Do we have a list of purchasers yet?’ Sam asked.

‘I should have it by this afternoon,’ Cutter said.

‘That’s good,’ Sam said.

‘We don’t know that the Eastermans’ perp even bought the damned cover,’ Martinez said. ‘And if they did, they probably bought it second-hand.’

‘Or stole it,’ Beth Riley said.

‘So you all want me to delete the list when it comes?’ Cutter asked acidly.

‘Not even in jest.’ Sergeant Alvarez had just entered the conference room. ‘Nice job, Mary,’ he added. ‘Less of the negativity, guys.’

Sam waited a second, knowing that his input wasn’t going to do much more to boost the team. ‘They nailed the glue,’ he said. ‘It’s Hero, one of the most common brands on the market.’

‘Which makes it about as helpful as a punch in the gut,’ Martinez said.

‘What was wrong with you in there?’ Sam asked his partner after the meeting, heading back to their desks.

‘I don’t know,’ Martinez said. ‘Guilt, maybe.’

‘What did you do?’

‘Nothing, except I arranged to go to this jeweller over on East Flagler at lunchtime, because I figured it might be nice to give Jess the ring on Thursday, maybe before we leave home or actually during the party.’

‘So what’s wrong with that?’ Sam asked, reading a yellow Post-it sticker on his phone. ‘Sounds great.’

‘Except with the Resslers,’ Martinez said, ‘I don’t exactly have the heart for it, you know?’

‘Sure I know,’ Sam said. ‘But you have to do this, for Jess and for you.’ He checked his watch, saw it was almost ten. ‘And maybe we’re wrong about the pattern. The other couples were both found early morning, so maybe the Resslers are going to be OK.’

‘From your mouth to God’s ear,’ said Martinez.

‘Or maybe they’ve just been dumped someplace less obvious, someplace no one’s going to find them for a while.’ Sam paused, the likelihood of that stoking up more dread. ‘Or ever.’

‘Not if they’re the third pair,’ Martinez said. ‘Exhibition being at least half the point, after all.’

FIFTY-FOUR

J
ohn Hercules liked to drink himself to sleep at night.

Red wine, mostly, or sometimes Pastis de Marseille, of which he’d consumed rather too much last evening, because Lise, his girlfriend, had gotten mad at him about something he couldn’t even remember now, and he’d told her to take a hike, and she had, after which he thought he’d probably gotten somewhat morose and hit the Ricard.

He couldn’t recall much of anything that had happened after he’d opened that good old bottle. Nothing until he’d come groggily to a half-hour back, surviving the grisly morning-after parade of symptoms to pour himself a large mug of strong coffee.

Now he was wandering out into his backyard.

Heading for his studio, not because he planned on working, but because it often comforted him just being out there.

Except something was not quite right.

Something about the kiln.

Something that wasn’t supposed to be there.

He moved in a little closer.

The coffee mug fell from his right hand.

‘Holy Mary,’ he said, very quietly.

It was the first and only time in his life when John Hercules thought he might have preferred to be blind.

Artists needed to see, of course, but as a sculptor, he could have gotten by.

Too late now.

This sight was forever etched into his mind, he knew that already.

Like a gruesome, painful, sickening scar.

Forever.

FIFTY-FIVE

I
t was out of their jurisdiction, but Elliot Sanders, having had the misfortune of being on call, had wasted no time getting Sam out of the office and Martinez the hell out the jeweller’s and out to Coconut Grove to a house on Gifford Lane – not far, Sam had jarringly noted, by the by, from where Cathy’s
friend
, Kez Flanagan, had lived, over on Matilda Street.

This was one of the smallest properties in the lane, a little blue house with a porch, banyan trees and unkempt grass partially concealing the dilapidated condition of the place. And yet, Sam thought, eyeing the whole, it possessed a certain charm, perhaps because the man who lived there was a sculptor of moderate repute, a guy who’d probably never made big bucks from his work, but who had, according to the search engines he’d swiftly scanned before heading out, managed to sell pieces on a regular basis.