Blood Relations (53 page)

Sam had to think. “This is his birthday?”

“Yes. June twenty-first.”

“Jesus,” he said softly, then looked back at her. “He was a good kid, Melanie. Don’t ever forget that. He loved you a lot.”

She smiled at him. “I know, Dad.”

Sam went into the kitchen to make some coffee and drank it looking out into the backyard, which was turning into a jungle. Somebody had forgotten to pay the yardman, so the yardman had forgotten to come by and mow the yard.

They would have to sell this house. Soon as Dina came back from the store they’d have to talk about it. Nearly a week had gone by since he and Dina had engaged in any sort of conversation about their future. It was time. The subject hung over them like a toxic fog.

“Jesus,” Sam repeated. “Twenty years old.” It made him feet strange. He wouldn’t have been the father of a teenage boy anymore. Ever since last week, when he’d spoken to Caitlin, he’d felt strange. Dislocated. She’d given him a word: lost.

A dull ache twisted in his chest. He had almost wanted Caitlin to lie to him, and to do it so expertly that each word would fit to the next as tightly as the pages in a bible on the judge’s bench. But she hadn’t tied. She could have, but she hadn’t.

He finished the coffee in his study. He set the mug on his desk and picked up the telephone. He looked up her number, which he’d written on a card in his wallet, and punched the buttons. A woman answered and he told her who he was, and asked to speak to Caitlin Dom. He sat on the edge of the cot to wait. The blankets and sheets were disarrayed. He tossed the pillow to the proper end of the bed.

There was some delay. Then the sounds of voices, then heels on a tile floor.

“Sam? I can’t talk, I was just on my way out.” Then she said, “What is it?”

“A huge apology. I’d like to start there.”

He heard the silence. Then a sigh. “You don’t need to do that.”

He said, “When can I see you?”

“I’m leaving in a few days, and I’m just swamped with work to finish.”

“Tomorrow. Give me an hour.” He rested his elbows on his knees. “I have so much to tell you, Caitlin. I’m not sure right now if this sounds coherent, but I’ve thought so much about everything you said.”

“Sam, please. I’m really happy for you, making state attorney, and I’m sure you’ll be the best-”

“It doesn’t matter, Caitlin, what happened between you and Matthew.”

“I’m not going to talk about this any more.”

“That’s what I’m trying to say.” He stood up. “It’s over. Let’s go from here.”

She laughed a little. “No. Things like that are never over. They will always haunt you. Always. I know you, Sam.”

“No, you don’t,” he said. “But I want you to.”

He listened, the receiver pressed to his ear, and there was the sound of a breath.

“Caitlin, go to New York. I know it’s important. Go wherever you have to go. But listen to me, please, when I say this. I love you. I know that as clearly as I’ve known anything in my life. Maybe I destroyed what you felt for me. I hope not, but it doesn’t change what’s in my heart for you. Will you remember that?”

After a while, she said, “I’ll remember.”

“Okay,” he said. “That’s all I wanted. Go on, I don’t want to make you late.”

He heard nothing, then a click. He replaced the phone.

Through the window of his study, which looked into the backyard, he could see shadows stretching across the lawn. Thick grass had sprouted between the herringbone bricks in the walkway. The hedge leading to the gazebo was heavy with red blossoms. Vines wrapped themselves around the fence, and pods on the tamarind tree were bursting open. Everything in the yard was growing wild, pushing out roots and tendrils and leaves.

Laughing a little, Sam let the curtain fall back into place. Caitlin wouldn’t be gone forever. Gene Ryabin had come by the state attorney’s office at noon today. If Ryabin’s theory was correct, Sam could wind up prosecuting Frank Tolin for the murder of Martin Cassie. And he would have to call Caitlin Dorn as a witness. Fly her to Miami from wherever she was. Bring her back.

She would testify to motive. The elderly woman across the street would say Frank had entered the building a day or so after Cassie’s death. Forensics had already found his prints on the files in the bedroom. He’d been rifling through them, looking for notes, anything, proving Frank’s role in the arson. The police didn’t have enough yet for an arrest. They hadn’t tied him to the other homicides-yet-but he was clearly tied to this one.

Sam flexed the fingers in his right hand. It still hurt, but not as much. It had been worth every bruised knuckle and cracked bone. Funny that Frank hadn’t made a police report. And even odder, why had he hacked at Marty Cassie’s hand?

Frank could have been out of his mind, completely unhinged. After he had shot Marty Cassie in the back he had stretched Cassie’s arm out on the floor, had turned his right hand palm up, and had savagely stabbed it four times, one blow going all the way through flesh and muscle, between the bones, and through the carpet. As if he were making a statement, delfonso Garcfa had made a statement by throwing Luis Balmaseda out a window, as Balmaseda had done with his sister’s boy, Carlito Ramos. This is what he deserved. Cassie had tried to reach out and take Frank Tolin’s money. A hundred thousand dollars of it. He deserved to have his hand slashed.

If, as Ryabin suspected, Frank Tolin had been jealous of Charlie Sullivan, what better statement than to shoot him in the heart, then take off his pretty face? It all fit. It fit with George Fonseca, who had supplied drugs to Frank. But why would Frank poison his drug dealer with Parathion? Had Fonseca threatened to turn him in?

For a moment, then another, and another, as if he were dreaming and at the same time knowing he was dreaming, Sam saw himself standing by the window, a man holding his broken right hand. A tall, broad-shouldered man in suit pants and shirt and loosened tie, home from the office. Now looking out the window again, into the deepening shadows, at the shed in a corner of the backyard.

Unlatching the patio door, going along the walkway, then across ‘ the thick grass. Sundown, nearly dark. A few birds making a racket in the neighbor’s tree. A woman’s voice over the fence. Calling the kids to dinner.

The shed was small, about six by ten, made of heavygauge aluminum. The door opened smoothly on strap hinges, and the rich, warm smell of fertilizer rolled out.

Sam ducked his head to avoid a pot hanging from the gently sloped roof. They had never run current out here, but light came through the door and a single window, and Sam could see well enough. Dina kept it well-organized.

An old electric mower and some yard furniture were stored to one side. Pots were stacked according to size under the workbench, and over it hung a neat row of small gardening tools on metal hooks. Shelves took up the wall to the right.

It was still hot and stifling in here, and sweat broke out on Sam’s neck. He peered closely at the boxes, cans, bags, and bottles on the shelves. Miracle-Gro. Fire-ant spray. Raid. Black Flag. Rose dust. He cursed for not having his glasses. Toxadust. Aphid pellets. Brown glass bottles with ingredients in print so small he couldn’t make the words out. He took three bottles to the door of the shed, balanced along his left arm, holding them carefully with his right forearm, unable to use the hand. Malathion spray. Parathion.

One bottle crashed on the concrete step. Sam slowly put the others on the workbench and took a breath. The acrid, greasy stench of poison filled his nose. He told himself to wait, wait. Wait.

They had all been killed by the same person. Good.

Because Dina didn’t even know George Fonseca. And when Charlie Sullivan died, she was out of town. And Marty Cassie? She didn’t know him either. Every backyard gardening shed in Miami, every one, had insecticides.

And Sam wasn’t going to make another insane telephone call to Tarpon Springs.

In a neat silvery row over the workbench hung her gardening tools. Green wood handles, worn from use. A small rake with clawlike tines. A narrow, pointed trowel.

A tiny shovel with a razor edge. And the clippers Dina had been using when she accidentally slashed her hand.

Blood had dripped onto the red bricks of the walkway.

Sam ran a thumb over their points.

He closed the door of the shed carefully and walked across the yard. As he went through the kitchen Melanie asked what was that awful smell? Was he all right? Dad?

He told her he had to make some phone calls, never mind dinner.

Upstairs in the bedroom with the door shut he dialed the number.

“Nick9 It’s me. Sam. Listen … No, goddammit, listen, it’s about Dina … No, she isn’t all right…. Nick, please. You’ve got to tell me. When did she leave Tarpon Springs that weekend in May9 Saturday or Sunday … I know you told me. Tell me again…. I am not, I promise you, going crazy…. She might be in trouble. If you love your sister, for God’s sake-”

“She thought you were cheating on her, Sam. She flew back a day early to find out.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“She made us all swear, that if you called-”

“All right.” He took a breath.

“What the hell’s going on?”

“Nick, it’s okay. Can I call you tomorrow? I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry.” He hung up.

When she came back from the grocery storeshe should have been back already, but when she got back-they would talk. He would find out. He would ask her.

Shaking, Sam went into the bathroom and turned the water on and splashed his face with his left hand. He would have to be calm about this. Sit her down in the chair in their bedroom. Dina, tell me. It’s going to be all right. I promise. I’ll take care of you.

He would hire the best attorney. They would enter a plea. Not guilty. Not guilty by reason of insanity.

Sam lowered his head to his arm, which lay across the sink.

Nothing would happen to her. He wouldn’t let anything happen to her. He would find a place. The best doctors.

He had always taken care of her.

Slowly he stood up. In the mirror a madman looked back at him. Maybe he was going crazy. This was his own delusion, a product of rage and desire. He hated the men who had destroyed Matthew, hated them enough to want them dead. I would have shot the bastard [email protected] for what he did to Matthew. His desire for Caitlin Dorn had led him to suspect his own wife of murder. He wanted to be free of her. He would place on Dina the burden of his own guilt. Yes, Nick, I did commit adultery with a blond model eleven years younger than [email protected] so your sister had every right to see what was going on behind her back.

He dried his face on a hand towel. But Dina hadn’t known Fonseca. She didn’t know that George Fonseca had given Matthew heroin. Ruffini had a better reason to kill Fonseca. He had tried to blackmail Ruffini. And Ruffini hated Charlie Sullivan in the long feud over Claudia Otero. And Ruffini had known Marty Cassie. Sam laughed. Shit, maybe Eddie Mora had sent Dale Finley to pull the damn trigger. Or Beekie Duran. Now there was a theory and a half.

He looked at his pants. They stank of insecticide. He changed quickly into sneakers and old slacks and a T-shirt, and went downstairs. He dumped his ruined pants into a plastic bag.

Melanie was taking a dinner out of the microwave. One of her low-calorie entr6es.

“Did your mother say when she’d be back?”

“No, she just had to go to the store for something.”

“All right. When she comes home, tell her I’m in my study.” Sam threw the plastic bag into the trash.

Caitlin Dom had been waiting in the parking lot behind the performing arts center for ten minutes or so. The woman she’d spoken to about the party tonight lived on one of the private islands. She had said that directions to her house were simply impossible at night, so just wait there for her.

The party would be outdoors, she explained, so wear something cool. But, please, try to look like one of the guests, not like a photographer. So Caitlin had worn her gauzy green dress, the one she’d worn to meet Sam Hagen at the hotel. That had turned into a total disaster.

While she waited she’d been thinking about his telephone call. Trying to decide how she felt about it. Burdened. In a few days she would be driving to New York, she and Rafael Soto. She hadn’t wanted to take anything along, not even Sam’s wish that she go because it was important to her. Sam had problems of his own. Right now she wanted to be quiet. Mend. Take care of herself for a change.

She looked at her watch. It would be nice if Mrs. Costas would show up. It would be hard for them to spot each other now, anyway, with cars beginning to fill the lot. There was something going on at the theater tonight, a concert of some kind. If she hadn’t already been paid an exorbitant deposit of $500, Caitlin would have left. Then she saw the headlights. The car parked next to her, a Volvo a few years old, which surprised Caitlin a little. She had been expecting something more expensive.

A woman in black slacks and a red knit top got out.

A handsome woman in her mid-forties, with dark curly hair.

“Hi, I’m Sevasti.” She had a firm handshake and a nice smile. “I am so sorry for running late, but the caterers had half the food wrong, and the band was stepping all over my flowers-” She laughed. “Well, you don’t want to hear all that.”

Caidin was almost sure she had seen her somewhere, and said so.

Mrs. Costas smiled. “Well, probably you have. I’ve lived on the Beach for years.” She walked back to her car and put her keys under the seat. “Listen, my daughter is playing violin in the orchestra tonight, and I told her I’d leave my car for her. I’ll just ride with you, all right?” She put her bag over her shoulder, then went around the Toyota and smiled through the window while Caitlin unlocked the passenger’s door from inside.

am fixed himself a drink, sat in the kitchen with it till he could breathe again, then walked to the door of the family room.

“Mel?” His daughter, still on the floor, was aiming the remote control at the television. The big screen popped and flashed through the channels. “Melanie.”

“Oh. Sorry.” She turned off the volume, then craned her head around on the little sofa pillow.