Eclipse (14 page)

Billie's landlady wore a pale blue housecoat and slippers, and was younger than she'd sounded, no more than forty, Sam reckoned, with mousy hair and a small, pale, pudgy-cheeked face. She moved like a woman with little energy, and Sam thought she might be unwell.

She walked ahead through a small, barren hallway, took a key off a hook on the wall, moved on past her kitchen and bathroom to a closed door, presumably leading to Billie's home.

‘I should knock first,' she said.

‘Good idea,' Sam said.

‘I hope she's OK.' The woman looked up at him, her eyes perturbed.

‘Me too,' Sam said. ‘Could I have your name, ma'am?'

‘Why?' Suspicious again.

‘You're being very helpful,' he said. ‘Very kind.'

‘Why wouldn't I be?' She shrugged. ‘My name's Jolene Baker.' The door squeaked as she opened it and called: ‘Miss Smith?'

The silence was absolute.

‘Mind if I take a quick look around?' Sam asked.

‘Help yourself, Detective,' she said.

Billie's home was depressing. One small room and a bathroom; no kitchen, just an old, dented microwave and a small refrigerator. Through the narrow window onto the backyard, Sam saw that a barbecue he'd seen out back looked well used. Billie's own exit door had a double lock.

A framed photograph stood on a low white plastic table beside the sofa that he presumed opened into a bed. The photo of both her parents, Sam supposed, because although he'd never met Jill Smith, Larry's long, narrow frame and cheery grin were still instantly recognizable.

That aside, there was no clutter, nothing to make it feel like anyone's
home
. It was just a meager living space, without warmth, certainly no sense of the person who lived here. A young, beautiful, talented woman.

Not Sam's business.

His business here this evening – and even that was questionable – was to make sure that Billie wasn't sick or hurt.

‘Better look in the bathroom,' Jolene Baker said, suddenly nervous.

There was just a shower stall and basin, a small, square mirror and shelf, yet Billie had squeezed in more personal items here than elsewhere: cosmetics, perfumes, headache pills and, taped to the mirror, a small photograph of herself on stage somewhere, wearing a little red dress and very high-heeled shoes, singing into a microphone. More than opera to her then and, perhaps, a whole world that Sam hadn't heard her talk about, either to him or anyone else at S-BOP.

‘That's a relief.' The landlady backed out into the living room.

Sam followed. ‘Would you mind if I check out the closet?'

‘I'm not sure Miss Smith would like it,' Jolene Baker said, ‘but I guess, since you're a cop and her “friend”.'

Sam didn't care for the emphasis, but he thanked her anyway, took a swift and unobtrusive look in the small wardrobe – enough to see that her clothes were there – and then one more scan around the room.

Focusing, he remembered that Billie usually carried a large shoulder bag of soft pink leather and a fuchsia-colored wrap. No sign of either here.

‘You done?' the landlady asked, growing impatient.

‘Guess I am,' Sam told her.

No sign either of the
Carmen
libretto, which would seem to point to Billie having taken it with her when she left, intending to go to the rehearsal.

Certainly no indications of trouble here. The place was not over-scrubbed, but clean. No crumbs on the kitchen worktop, nothing in the sink. Just something on the floor that looked like seeds or grains, maybe tobacco.

He stooped, looked more closely, picked them up between his fingers, and sniffed, but the only aroma in the room was of something spicy that might have been cooked some time back, the kind of smell that lingered.

‘That isn't what you think. I don't let my tenants do drugs.'

‘I'm sure you don't,' Sam said. ‘I wasn't thinking that.'

The landlady took a step forward, peered at his hand. ‘That might be the tea she drinks. Herb stuff. She offered me some, but I like real tea.'

‘Me too,' he said.

The woman shrugged, growing impatient.

Time to leave.

He told Jolene Baker that he was grateful, and she said she'd like him to exit through Billie's own door so she could be sure he'd gone before she locked the communicating door again.

‘No offense, Detective.'

‘None taken,' he told her. ‘You can't be too careful.'

It was not yet dark outside, but Sam took out his penlight and directed its beam over the path and around the backyard, not knowing what he was looking for, or why, for that matter.

There were some footprints on the grass that were not his: they were small, probably a woman's, maybe Billie's own or someone else's. And there were some little round indentations on the dusty pathway, a set of them, repeated at regular intervals. Could have been made by the heel of a woman's shoe or the tip of an umbrella or cane or even the base of a parasol – though the marks were small for that – and chances were they didn't mean anything. And he would have to explain his intrusion to Billie when she showed up, and if she got mad about it, he'd apologize.

But still, right now, he took out his phone and used its camera to take a few close shots of those marks anyway.

Because you just never knew.

Last evening's family dinner had been uncharacteristically tense. Everyone on eggshells around Mildred; David irritating her by being overprotective; Claudia having a depressed day and Saul in pain, having strained his back shifting a just completed oak table.

‘It's hard seeing Mildred scared,' Sam had said later. ‘Even if we know this is a minor procedure.'

‘Not to her,' Grace had said. ‘Though on the subject of fretting, I think you should call Billie Smith's parents.'

‘I guess I could track down Larry,' Sam said. ‘If it were Cathy, we'd want to know if there was a problem.'

‘Hopefully there is no problem,' Grace had said.

He'd called a number of Lawrence and plain L. Smiths in Jacksonville first thing Saturday, had gotten nowhere with most and left voicemail on several more, identifying himself and asking Larry to get in touch.

After which he'd taken Grace and Joshua shopping and for lunch at Heavy Burger in Aventura, before dropping them home and driving back again to the Delgado crime scene to meet Martinez. Saturday afternoon a better time than most for a repeat canvassing of a residential neighborhood – but three hours later, Bay Drive had still yielded nothing fresh.

No sightings of mystery redheads with bags or black SUVs. Not a single useful memory forming itself in the victim's neighbors' minds. And still no known friends of Beatriz's to talk to.

Nor had they yet heard about any of Felicia's pals clamoring for news of the sick, bereaved teenager, making Sam feel more wretched for her than ever.

Lousy, miserable existence even before her mom's death.

They adjourned to Danny's Bar for a couple of beers, and Sam tried Billie's number and got voicemail again, then called Linda Morrison, who'd heard nothing and was starting to get very edgy about the production.

‘So what happens to the show if the lead goes AWOL?' Martinez asked.

‘I'm still hoping she'll be back for Monday rehearsal,' Sam said. ‘If not, I don't have a clue.'

‘You don't have stand-ins?'

‘One of the other women sang the role Thursday, but she's soprano.'

‘And that's not good?'

‘Carmen's a mezzo-soprano role,' Sam said, ‘but it's occasionally sung by sopranos, so it's not an impossibility.'

Martinez yawned, opera not his thing, though he would drag himself to the theater when Sam was performing, because that was what good buddies did.

Sam took out his phone again, scrolled through his photos to his shots of the indentations on the footpath outside Billie's home.

‘What do you think might have made these?'

Martinez shrugged. ‘Could be anything.'

‘Helpful,' Sam said.

Martinez looked more closely. ‘A cane maybe, or a gardening tool.'

Sam nodded. ‘I thought maybe a cane.'

‘And?' Martinez drank some Bud. ‘It isn't a crime scene, man. Your friend probably just took off for a few days and hasn't thought about anyone else.'

‘If she wasn't playing an operatic lead, I might buy that.'

‘Stage fright?' Martinez suggested.

‘Possible,' Sam admitted.

‘You said she wasn't confident when she came to your place to rehearse.' Martinez paused. ‘You also thought she was coming on to you.' He grinned. ‘Need to watch that imagination, man.'

Larry Smith called Sam just after eight.

They spent a few minutes playing catch-up, and then Sam got to the point.

‘Billie can sometimes be a law unto herself, Sam.' Larry sounded more wry than worried. ‘She's been known to go off for days without telling anyone, so I wouldn't be too concerned.'

‘I know she's taking classes at Lincoln Park Music School,' Sam said, ‘and I know she's been waitressing, but I don't know where. It might be good to know if she's shown up for work.'

‘Last we heard, she was working in a bar near the school, though I don't know the name, and that's not because we haven't asked.' Larry paused. ‘I do know that
Carmen
means a lot to Billy, though, which is why I'm not going to mention this to Jill, OK? You know how moms can freak out.'

‘Maybe Jill might know something,' Sam said.

‘I doubt it,' Larry said. ‘Do me a favor, man, call me Monday evening, tell me Billie's come to rehearsal.'

‘Hope I can,' Sam said. ‘Meantime, is there anyone you could call?'

‘Couple of her friends,' Larry Smith said. ‘Though they're from way back, before Jill and I left Miami. Things changed between us and Billie around then, I'm sorry to say. She didn't want to move, told us we were selfish, but at least it meant she'd be free to do her own thing.'

‘Which was what?' Sam asked.

‘Aside from her singing, damned if either of us really knew,' Larry said. ‘Which worried us then and still does, but you can't live their lives for them, can you?'

It was Sunday, but no one was in the mood for another family get-together.

Which meant that Grace, Sam and Joshua got to go to the beach.

Exactly what the three of them needed.

They strolled and paddled and built a sandcastle, and
this
was what it was all about, what they had been so afraid of losing last year, and as Sam jogged slowly down to the ocean beside his little son, he was counting his blessings big time.

‘David called this morning,' Grace told him a little later. ‘Mildred says she wouldn't mind if I came by sometime this week.'

‘This is you, without me, I take it,' Sam said.

That being a rarity, given that Mildred had often chosen him to confide in.

‘I think I understand why,' Grace said. ‘Lord knows, Mildred has less vanity than most women, but I'd imagine she hates the idea of you, of all people, seeing her so vulnerable.'

‘But it's not happening till Thursday, right?'

‘No, but she has to have more tests on Wednesday.'

Sam let his mind wander back to the early days of his relationship with his father's wife, when she'd held court on her bench now and then to grant him an audience.

Back then, her eyes had always been sharp, clear and canny.

Memorable eyes, special lady.

‘Daddy, are you crying?' Joshua asked.

Sam blinked and swallowed hard, smiled at his son.

‘It's just the wind,' he told him.

He watched them.

Mostly, he watched her.

He had been waiting around for several hours, knowing his vigil might be pointless, since it was Sunday, so if the husband was off-duty today, they might just have stayed home all day or have driven off someplace he could not easily follow.

He was not, after all, some stalker.

He just wanted to see her again.

And then they'd come out of their pretty white house and it was obvious where they were headed, with their brightly patterned towels and the big bag that Detective Becket was carrying, a red-and-white rubber ball protruding over the top, while she held their little boy – sweet, coffee-colored kid – by the hand.

He'd held back a little longer, then followed.

Had waited till they were settled, and then scouted out his own place, a decent distance away, and he hoped he looked like just another guy on vacation, a baseball cap pulled down almost to his sunglasses-shielded eyes; and he'd bought a book a couple of days ago,
Good Neighbors
, though reading in English wasn't easy for him, but he figured it was good practice, and he didn't want her noticing a guy reading a French novel and then maybe taking a closer look . . .

Hell, she probably didn't remember him.

But he remembered her, would never, ever forget her.

Had photographs to help him.

Not that he needed photos.

She was etched forever on his memory.

And even as he watched now, he was humming again, could not help himself.

‘
Je prends les poses de Grace Kelly . . .
'

Sometimes, late at night, instead of reading, he pored over his collections.

Two apothecary cabinets, two antique leather doctor's bags, a considerable collection of instruments, antique and contemporary, a microscope and a medical mannequin, formerly used in some school.

Everything catalogued and labeled.

His own small, private museum.

He used the modern instruments periodically for extra-curricular practice, in the knowledge that no physician or surgeon could ever work to improve their techniques too often or too thoroughly.