Last Run (11 page)

‘Just tell me, Ryan.’

‘But Greg wouldn’t listen, he just got so
into
stuff, you know, he couldn’t stop. And what he’d do, he’d go out late at night, real late, after his parents
were asleep, and he’d take his bike and go a good long way from home and do – you know – and then he’d maybe sleep it off on the beach or go swimming, and then he’d go
home again.’

‘So what was it that happened on the night of the murder?’ Grace thought she detected relief in the young man, finally able to unburden himself. ‘I take it you meant the
killing on the beach near Surfside?’

‘The Muller guy.’ Ryan nodded. ‘The thing was, I saw Greg next day and he was just so weird, you know – I mean
really
freaked out – and he wouldn’t
tell me why, wouldn’t tell any of us. But that was the day after the guy had gotten killed, and I know Greg used to cycle down that way, near the park, because he liked that the trees were
there to cover him while he . . .’

‘Right,’ Grace said.

‘So I’ve just been wondering, you know.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘He was just so upset, and now he’s . . .’

Ryan turned away, and Grace thought he was trying not to weep.

‘It’s all right,’ she said.

‘Except it’s not, is it?’ he said.

‘No,’ she agreed. ‘It’s not.’

He turned back, his eyes red, their expression urgent. ‘But you see I wasn’t there, doc, so there’s no point you giving my name to the cops, is there? Because I can’t
really tell them anything for sure, can I?’

‘OK.’ Grace waited a beat. ‘Ryan, there’s just one person I am going to mention this to and that’s my husband, because he’s a Miami Beach
detective—’

‘Oh God.’

‘It’s OK,’ she tried reassuring him again. ‘But he’s actually investigating the Muller killing, which means he really does need to hear this.’

‘But there’s nothing
to
hear,’ Ryan pleaded.

‘Probably not.’ Grace laid a gentle hand on his forearm. ‘But even if Detective Becket does want to ask you a few questions, Ryan, you have nothing to worry about.’ She
paused. ‘Unless you know where Greg was getting his drugs from.’

‘No,’ Ryan said quickly. ‘
No
.’

‘OK,’ Grace said gently. ‘That’s all right then.’

Chapter Twelve

Sales personnel in clothing stores were accustomed to all kinds of sights. Fat men and women trying to squeeze their big behinds into tight jeans. Flat-chested girls hiking up
their tiny titties inside Wonderbras. Old women trying on shell suits, old men climbing into Speedos. The more experienced of them knew better than to laugh or even smile, were conscious that the
smallest flicker of mockery would not only upset the customer, but also, much more important, lose them the sale.

Maria Rivera prided herself on being an excellent saleswoman, something she measured not only in transactions, but by the fact that her customers felt she cared about selling them the right
clothes and tended, therefore, to come back to her. Maria knew that there were times you needed to lie, or at least to conceal the absolute truth, but there were also occasions when allowing a
customer to leave the store with a garment that was going to make them look ridiculous was, so far as Maria was concerned, a real disservice. She liked seeing a perfect or at least a good fit,
derived pleasure from seeing clientele becoming more attractive because of the clothes they were trying on.

Thursday afternoon had been particularly busy in the Fratelli store on the upper level of the Aventura Mall, but despite the high volume of customers, every single one of Maria’s sales and
fails remained clear in her memory; none more so than the one she’d instantly, privately, named The Freezer.

A strange one, for sure. Trying on jeans, a better than good fit, fine on the waist, snug but not too tight on the behind, excellent length.

Maria had looked at the customer and smiled. ‘You wear them well,’ she had said.

She would have said more, but for the customer’s eyes.

A look that could have frozen blood.

One sale Maria had not minded losing out on, that was for sure.

Usually – always – if Cathy wasn’t going to come home for the night, she telephoned to let Grace and Sam know they could lock up and go to bed without
worrying about her.

Thursday night had been the exception. No show, no call. No sleep for Grace.

She’d told herself over and over that she was being absurd and neurotic, that Cathy was an adult, at liberty to stay out whenever she wanted, but it hadn’t helped because it was
simply so unlike her considerate daughter.

Not that it was only Cathy keeping her awake. Nor was it the baby, who’d kicked around for a while at around one a.m., but had then gone off to sleep.

‘What’s up?’ Sam’s voice came out of the darkness at around three. ‘You OK?’

‘I’m fine,’ Grace told him, stroking his arm. ‘Go back to sleep.’

No point in them both lying awake.

She had told him before they’d left the Hoffman house that afternoon about her conversation with Ryan, and Sam had spoken briefly to the boy, learned that his surname was Harrison, had
given him his card and told him to get in touch next day if he wanted to avoid Sam speaking to his parents first.

‘I’m sure as I can be that he was telling the truth about not being there with Gregory,’ Sam had said on the way home, ‘so I couldn’t see any sense hauling him in
right away – I’d rather have him on side when we speak.’

Grace was silent.

‘What are you thinking?’ Sam had asked.

‘I keep remembering what Greg said to me.’

‘About being seen?’

‘ “Saw me.” ’ Grace had shivered. ‘Suddenly it makes more sense, doesn’t it?’

‘If Gregory saw Muller’s killer, you mean? If the killer saw him.’

‘Don’t you think that’s what he might have meant?’

‘It’s possible,’ Sam had said. ‘But it’s just as likely that “saw me” meant that someone saw Gregory doing coke on the beach.’

‘Would that have frightened him so much?’ Grace had asked.

‘Being arrested would probably have terrified him,’ Sam said, ‘and the prospect of going back into rehab. And don’t forget the kid was probably high as a kite.’ He
had reached for her hand and squeezed it. ‘Don’t let this make you crazy, sweetheart.’

She’d tried her best not to, and they’d managed a peaceful enough evening, but now she was lying here with sleep still eluding her, and all her various stresses seemed to be
contracting into a single tightly packed hard ball of anxiety focused on Cathy.

She gave it up finally, heaved herself as silently as possible from the bed, heard Sam stir but not wake, and padded out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

Woody came out of the kitchen, still half-asleep, tail wagging.

‘Sorry,’ Grace told him softly, bent with difficulty to stroke his head, and went to put the kettle on.

One of Lucia’s camomile-based teas might just help, though she doubted anything was going to soothe her. Speaking to Claudia might have eased things a little, but even on Seattle time it
was out of the question, and anyway they’d only spoken a couple of days ago.

‘Where is she, Woody?’ she asked the dog as he settled by her feet.

The probability was, she realized, that Cathy was with Kez, and she wondered if that was part of what was so troubling her, then decided she’d have been equally concerned if Cathy had gone
missing with a new boyfriend.

Not missing, she reminded herself. Just out.

She went across to the phone, put out her hand to pick it up.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Leave them be.’

Maybe this was the reason Cathy hadn’t called. Maybe she had been giving off some air of disquiet since she’d begun seeing Kez, and maybe Cathy was angry about that, or maybe she was
uncertain herself. Or maybe there was, simply, nothing to talk about.

In her womb, the baby stirred.

‘It’s OK, sweetheart,’ she said. ‘Just your mom being a neurotic mess.’

Plenty more where that came from, she supposed, wondering for at least the hundredth time if she was up to this, if maybe she and Sam were too old, because there was just so
much
responsibility, so much potential for pain alongside the joy.

No going back now, she told herself.

‘Nor wanting to,’ she told the baby.

And made her tea.

Cathy telephoned at five after seven.

‘I feel bad,’ she said, ‘about not calling you last night.’

‘It was so unlike you.’ Grace managed to conceal her relief as well as her irritation. ‘We were worried.’

Cathy told her how sorry she was, then asked about the Hoffmans.

‘It must have been terrible.’

‘They’re being very strong,’ Grace said. ‘Plenty of people around them, helping.’

‘For now,’ Cathy said, perceptively.

Grace waited a moment. ‘Are you OK?’

She waited for Cathy to tell her where she had spent the night or, at least, where she was this morning. Managed not to pry. Fastest way to lose her.

‘I’m fine,’ Cathy answered.

No more than that.

Cathy and Kez had been book buying at B. Dalton in CocoWalk late the previous afternoon when Cathy had spotted Saul and Terri emerging from an exhibit of African wildlife
sculptures in a gallery on Grand Avenue. They’d all chatted for a few moments and Saul had suggested they have a drink, and Cathy had been about to say yes when she’d caught Kez’s
expression and quickly made an excuse. Saul had grinned understandingly and they’d all gone on their way.

‘Sorry about that,’ Kez had said a moment later. ‘I’d like to go home, and I just didn’t feel like company.’

Cathy had glanced swiftly at her. ‘Would you like me to go?’

‘I’d rather go home with you,’ Kez had said.

Banyan trees and palms were all around the property on Matilda Street, plenty of grass and stone paths – in need of weeding – leading from the sidewalk to an old white clapboard
house with ramshackle looking wooden steps leading up to Kez’s home on the second floor.

Just a stone’s throw from some of the priciest gated houses in Coconut Grove and in walking distance from the commercial buzz of CocoWalk, yet thanks to a deal Kez had struck with its
owner, an artist presently living in Europe, the two-roomed apartment was both affordable and hers for the foreseeable future.

‘I shot some photos of her work that she liked, and she said she’d be happy for me to live here and take care of the place while she’s away,’ Kez had told Cathy as they
drank cold white wine out on the porch. ‘After Europe, she’s planning on some time in the Bahamas, so it could be months till I see her again.’

‘Don’t you miss her?’

Kez had caught the hesitation before the question, and smiled. ‘Cathy, I hardly know her.’

‘I didn’t mean . . .’ Cathy stopped.

‘I know what you meant,’ Kez had said.

That was when the awkwardness had really begun to drift away.

Cathy loved the apartment, the minimalist, almost spartan, feel of the decoration and furnishing sitting comfortably with the posters of Florence Griffith Joyner and other
athletics heroines on the walls, with just one blown-up black-and-white photo of Kez triumphantly breaking tape in a race.

‘Any of your own work?’ Cathy enquired.

‘Not worth hanging.’

‘I’ll bet you’re a great photographer,’ Cathy said. ‘You said you wouldn’t have got this place if the owner hadn’t loved your pictures.’

Kez shrugged. ‘I like this stuff better.’

‘Is that your dad?’ Cathy looked at the only other photo of Kez, aged four or five, standing beside a smiling fair-haired man with his arm around her.

‘That was Joey, yes.’

‘He was handsome.’ Cathy peered closer, saw Kez’s sharp arrow nose in the man’s face, saw that Kez’s natural hair colour was the same as her father’s.
‘Any pictures of your mom?’

‘No,’ Kez said.

Cathy remembered the grisly tale of Joey’s
in flagrante
heart attack, remembered Kez saying her mother had been out at the time – and she hadn’t mentioned her since, so
heaven knew what had happened after that. Her mom must have been distraught, maybe she’d even resented her daughter witnessing the scene – people were complicated, after all, as
she’d learned.

Better, Cathy decided, not to ask.

She had never known a night like it.

They’d eaten pizza – or rather,
she
had eaten several slices, Kez scarcely one sliver – but they’d both drunk plenty of white wine and smoked some weed, and Kez
had painted Cathy’s nails for her – black and yellow, like tiny bees – and finally they’d fallen into bed together and slept.

And even when they’d woken for a while in the night, it had all been about companionship, warmth and comfort. Nothing more.

‘It’s OK, you know,’ Kez had told her. ‘I know you’re not sure.’

Cathy had been glad of the darkness, hadn’t known what to say.

‘I’d never push you into anything you didn’t want,’ Kez said.

Hearing her say that had been wonderful, had made Cathy even more relaxed and happy because it had seemed to her to confirm not only that Kez did
want
her, but also that she was
considerate and patient and exactly the kind of person Cathy had believed her to be.

Except that now – just now – this Friday morning, when Cathy had phoned home and talked to Grace, Kez had been in the room. And perhaps she picked up on the touch of strain in the
conversation, because the instant Cathy ended the call she saw that something was wrong, something had changed.

‘I think,’ Kez said, ‘maybe you should leave.’

‘Leave?’ Cathy was dismayed.

‘I think,’ Kez went on, ‘you need to take some time, think this over.’

‘I don’t need to think anything over,’ Cathy said.

‘I think you do.’ Kez was adamant. ‘You have issues to resolve.’

Cathy didn’t answer, was too afraid of saying the wrong thing.

‘When it comes to self-doubt, I wrote the book,’ Kez said. ‘But I do know who I am, Cathy, and I know that I’m gay, and I have no problems with that at all.’ Her
smile was quirky. ‘And I know what and
who
I want.’