Caged (21 page)

Authors: Hilary Norman

BOOK: Caged

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He stayed only ten minutes because a nurse told him Martinez needed all the rest he could get, and he didn’t like the way his friend gripped his hand before he left, because Al wouldn’t have done that if he hadn’t been scared to death.

‘Tell Gracie I love her,’ Martinez said.

‘Tell her yourself,’ Sam said.

Jess was out in the corridor, waiting for him, Cathy behind her.

‘What do you think?’ she asked.

‘That he’s in the best place,’ Sam said.

‘They don’t even know what’s wrong with him,’ she said.

‘Not yet,’ Sam said. ‘But they will.’

She looked drained, almost as bad, he thought, as her fiancé.

‘You need to get some rest,’ he told her.

‘I’m not leaving him,’ she said.

‘I’ll stay, too,’ Sam said. ‘Keep you company.’

‘No way,’ Jess said. ‘You know how important your case is to Al, so you have to go home and get some sleep.’ She dredged up a small smile. ‘I promise to call you if there’s any change.’

‘Well, she’s sure devoted,’ Cathy said as they left the hospital.

Sam looked down at her, hearing scepticism. ‘You have a problem?’

‘I guess not,’ she said as they walked toward the parking lot.

‘Which means you do,’ he said. ‘Come on, sweetheart, spill.’

There were spaces available, but the place was still busy, and Sam remembered, walking Cathy to her Mazda, that it was always that way, even late at night. Little rest for relatives and friends of the sick.

‘Don’t you notice the way Jess looks at you?’ Cathy’s question came abruptly.

‘What do you mean?’

They reached the car that had been Grace’s until Sam had bought her a new Toyota, and his own car was of an age now, but he liked it and it still responded when he needed it to.

‘I shouldn’t be saying this,’ Cathy said. ‘I told Saul what I thought, and he said I should keep my mouth shut.’ She shifted from one foot to the other. ‘That isn’t exactly what he said, of course, being Saul, but it came to the same thing.’

Sam told her then to just spit it out.

So she did.

‘You’re growing a vivid imagination,’ he said sharply.

‘Don’t get mad at me,’ Cathy said. ‘I’m not being a bitch. I thought about it hard, in case I was, but I’m not.’

‘You never are,’ Sam said. ‘But no matter what you think – and by the by, I’m telling you, you’re way off-track – but even if you believe it, don’t you ever say anything like it in five hundred yards of Al, right?’

‘I’d never do that,’ Cathy said.

‘I should hope not,’ Sam said.

He waited until after he and Grace had enjoyed a late-night cuddle with their son, who’d woken up when he came home, for which Sam had thanked Joshua warmly, since at the end of days like these, as he’d told his son, there could be no finer bonus than the warm embraces of both his wife and child.

‘I think what Cathy said is balderdash,’ he said, unbuckling his belt and dragging off his pants back in their own bedroom, ‘but I’d like to hear you say that you think so, too.’

‘I’ve always liked the word “balderdash”,’ Grace said. ‘But I’m afraid I’m not completely sure, Sam. Cathy’s no fantasist, as we both know, and we also know she’s not a troublemaker.’ She paused. ‘And according to her, Mildred may have sensed something too, though they didn’t actually get around to discussing it.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Sam sat down hard on the edge of the bed, unbuttoning his shirt, exhaustion starting to hit home.

‘I guess I wouldn’t dismiss it out of hand,’ Grace said. ‘At least, not the possibility that Jess may find you attractive.’ She smiled, picked up his pants, folded them. ‘Women do, you know.’

‘Not newly engaged women young enough to be my daughter,’ Sam said. ‘Especially not when they’re engaged to my partner and best friend.’

‘What I did dismiss,’ Grace went on, ‘was Cathy’s notion that Jess might be jealous of me.’

‘Is that what she said? I don’t think I gave her long enough to tell me that.’ Sam felt jarred enough to give it some thought. ‘I know Jess admires you, which is rather different.’

‘Nothing so much to admire, surely, from her point of view,’ Grace said. ‘Middle-aged mom and part-time shrink.’

‘I’m a middle-aged, low-ranking cop,’ Sam said, ‘but according to you, women find me attractive.’

‘Go figure,’ Grace said.

SIXTY-EIGHT

February 21

T
he news from the hospital when Sam called first thing Saturday was that Martinez’s condition had worsened overnight.

‘I’ll go visit on the way to the station,’ Sam said.

Grace read the fear in his eyes. ‘I’ll come by as soon as Mildred gets here.’ She paused. ‘I’d come now, but I don’t want to bring Joshua.’

‘Not to that place,’ Sam agreed. ‘But it would be good if you could come.’

‘Want me to call your dad?’

She’d lost count of the number of times David Becket – notwithstanding his paediatric specialty – had gone in to bat for family or friends over the past few years. Too many.

‘It couldn’t hurt,’ Sam said.

Jess was outside the CCU when Grace arrived, leaning against Sam, weeping.

‘What’s happened?’

Even in that instant of dread, Grace felt herself check out Jess’s tears.

No doubting her sincerity.

Shame on her for the thought.

‘Nothing’s happened.’ Sam drew away from Jess. ‘But he’s not doing good.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ Grace hugged him and Jess stepped further away, giving them space. Everything as it ought to be.

Except she ought not to be even
thinking
about such things, and Grace wasn’t exactly mad at Cathy, but at that moment she felt disappointment in her daughter for stirring up potentially destructive tensions without good cause.

‘What have they said?’ She directed the question evenly at them both. ‘Do they know what’s wrong with him?’

‘Not yet,’ Sam said.

‘They’re waiting for results,’ Jess said.

‘More tests,’ Sam told her.

‘Poor Al,’ Grace said.

‘He’s pretty out of it,’ Sam said.

‘Can I sit with him for a while, do you think?’

‘I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you,’ Sam said, ‘if he comes to.’

Jess began weeping again, quietly. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I can’t seem to help it. I was just so sure – I kept on telling myself all last night that he’d be better by dawn, but he wasn’t, and I think he’s getting worse.’

Grace went to put her arms around her, and Jess hugged her back.

‘I have to leave,’ Sam told them.

‘I know,’ Grace said. ‘We’ll look after him.’

He blew her a kiss and strode off along the corridor toward the staircase.

‘OK,’ Grace said. ‘How about we go sit with your fiancé for a while?’

Jess stepped back, and Grace thought she saw something alter in her eyes, felt, for just an instant, that she saw resentment there.

‘Why don’t you sit with him?’ Jess said. ‘I could use some air.’

‘Sure,’ Grace said. ‘A little break’ll do you good.’

‘What’ll do me good,’ Jess said, ‘is Al getting better.’

It was resentment, Grace decided, then hoped she was imagining it.

Most of all, she hoped and prayed that Martinez would pull through.

Then they could all worry about whether Jessica Kowalski was the right woman for him.

Not that it was their place to do that kind of worrying, Grace reminded herself as Jess walked away, erect as a stiff-necked doll.

Now who’s being a bitch
, she told herself.

And went into the CCU to sit with her sick friend.

SIXTY-NINE

R
eporters had been waiting outside Miami General when Sam had emerged, though he’d made no comment other than to point out that his visit to the hospital was a private matter.

More of them out on the plaza when he reached the station.

They’d begun calling the case the Couples Slayings, which Sam guessed had been inevitable, and it was clear now that they were gunning for him, which he’d also expected and could live with.

‘Do you have time for “private” matters, Detective Becket,’ one of the journalists who’d followed him from the hospital called now, ‘when the families of six Miami citizens have been shattered forever, and when all decent, loving couples are fearing for their lives?’

The day he did not find some way to make time to go sit with a sick loved one was the day Sam figured he’d seriously consider giving up the job.

But he knew better than to tell them that.

Still nothing in on the Resslers to shed any more light on why they’d been chosen. And the hell of it was that if there was a pattern to the timing of the killings, with six days having passed between the first and second, then five between the second couple and the third, the squad was grimly aware that another couple might already have been taken.

No missing persons reports ringing alarm bells yet.

Cops didn’t tend to admit to knocking on wood, not out loud anyway.

Sam, having caught the habit from Grace, was sure as hell silently doing that very thing.

‘Effie Stephanopoulos called,’ Riley told Sam at nine thirty. ‘She said it’d be real hard for Mr Christou to make himself available today, because Saturdays are crazy all day for them, but if it’s important, he says he’ll do his best.’

‘Big of him,’ Sam said.

‘So do we want to see him?’ Riley asked.

‘Not today,’ Sam said.

Not with nothing solid to hang an interview on yet – if ever.

‘Effie said Mrs Christou’s gone out of town to stay with friends, but she gave me a number for her if we need it. I said we’d appreciate the name and address of the
friends
– ’ Riley loaded the word – ‘and Effie’s going to call back with those.’ She took a breath. ‘And Cutter’s still working on Mrs C.’

Ransacking databases for anything of interest on Karen Christou, but nothing new yet. Maiden name Carlsen. Danish-born father, American mother, married to Anthony for nearly eleven years. Two complaints from neighbours on Prairie Avenue about noise from domestic disputes. Nothing since the couple separated two years ago, not even a gripe over the fish tank.

Larry Beatty was home this morning.

Apartment 14D was more tasteful than his office. A modern Miami Beach easy-living residence, with tile floors and a couple of blue rugs and toning lounging furniture, glass units on the walls and broad floor-to-ceiling windows. It looked well maintained and comfortable, but gave no cymbal crash clues about its occupant.

‘I’m a little surprised you’ve come here,’ he said after Sam had introduced Beth Riley.

‘You don’t work weekends,’ Sam said. ‘I hope it isn’t inconvenient.’

‘Even if it was, as I’ve told you, I want to do anything I can to help.’

He offered them coffee and mineral water, which they declined, and they all sat down, Riley and Sam on the sofa, Beatty in an armchair.

‘Is Detective Martinez taking the weekend off too?’ he asked.

‘He’s sick,’ Sam said.

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

Sam thanked him, and went directly to it.

‘Can you tell us about your relationship with Allison Moore?’

‘Relationship?’ Beatty’s fair eyebrows rose. ‘We’re colleagues, as you know. She works for me.’

‘Would you say you were friends?’ Riley asked.

‘I’d like to think all my close colleagues are friends.’

‘Outside the office,’ Sam said. ‘Are you friends there too?’

‘We’ve had the occasional drink and a couple of lunches.’ Beatty shrugged. ‘Another form of meeting, really.’

‘What can you tell us about Ms Moore?’ Riley asked.

Beatty sat forward. ‘Am I allowed to ask you a question?’

‘Certainly, sir,’ Riley said.

‘Is she under suspicion of something?’

‘Should she be?’ Sam asked.

‘Of course not.’ Beatty shook his head. ‘Though how would I know?’

‘You asked the question, sir,’ Riley said.

Sam smiled. ‘Shall we start again?’

‘OK,’ Beatty said easily.

‘We’re interested in learning a little more about everyone we’ve encountered during these investigations.’ Sam paused. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard about the other killings.’

‘Hard not to,’ Beatty said. ‘It’s getting scary out there.’

‘Mostly for couples,’ Riley said.

‘You don’t have a partner, do you?’ Sam asked.

‘Not at present,’ Beatty said. ‘Maybe I should be glad it’s only me.’ He paused. ‘So are you asking Ally the same kind of questions about me? Is that how you work?’

‘Ms Moore’s an artist, isn’t she?’ Sam said.

‘An amateur artist, yes, I believe so.’

‘Have you seen her work?’ Sam asked.

‘I think I saw one of her paintings one time.’

‘You think?’ Riley said.

Beatty’s headshake betrayed slight irritation. ‘I did see one. There was an exhibition, and one of her paintings was included and a few people from the office went along to be supportive.’

‘What did you think of it?’ Riley asked.

‘Of the painting?’

‘Did you feel she’s a talented artist?’ Sam asked.

‘To be honest, I’m not sure I even remember it.’ Beatty shrugged again. ‘I’m no judge, Detective.’

‘You managed the Oates Gallery,’ Riley said.

‘Only from the property standpoint,’ Beatty said.

‘Has Ms Moore ever shown you her studio?’ Sam asked.

‘No,’ Beatty said. ‘I don’t know if she has one.’

‘According to the catalogue of the exhibition in which her painting was shown,’ Sam said, ‘her work has a dark quality.’

Something happened in Beatty’s hazel eyes for an instant, just a small flutter of
something
, quickly covered, then gone.