Shimmer (10 page)

Joy-boy.

Joy-giver.

Mildred had seen him.

At least she
thought
she had, but she had not been, still was not, sure.

He'd smelled different as well as looking it, had been moving completely differently, but then, just before he'd disappeared from sight, she thought she'd detected a small jauntiness to his walk.

‘Just a tiny little giveaway,' she said to Donny, her late fiancé, to whom she still spoke regularly, day and night.

Yet even if she'd wanted to, she still could not have described him to Detective Becket, because what she'd recognized in him was something so indefinable. Besides which, it was dark and he was wearing a baseball cap and the kind of clothes that ten million or more men wore every day, and she'd had to take great care not to stare at him, because she had felt him looking at her, had felt that he'd walked past her to test her reaction, which was why Mildred had made out that she was fast asleep, had not moved so much as a wrinkle.

No silver shimmer about him tonight.

No angel.

But still she'd felt it about him.

Death.

25

Finally, a Missing Persons report that sounded as if it might be their John Doe.

Sanjiv Adani, a twenty-four-year-old receptionist at the Hotel Montreal up near Collins Park, AWOL from work since Friday, and no one at the hotel had apparently been concerned enough to consider filing a police report; but then he'd missed his mother's birthday party yesterday evening, and when his family had failed to reach him by phone, they'd known something was very wrong.

‘The brother says he'd never miss her birthday,' Martinez told Sam.

The man in the photo faxed along with the report had his arm around an older lady, probably his mom, and he had smiled at the camera. He was good-looking, slim and, judging by the lady's expression, she loved him a lot.

‘Family events are a big deal in Adani's life,' Martinez went on. ‘Mom and Pop live in Surfside; older brother, Barun, the guy who made the report, lives in Aventura. Their younger sister, Anjika – all three kids single, by the way – lives in New York City, but she came down for the birthday.' He checked his notes. ‘Adani has a one-bed on Bay Road near the Lincoln Road Mall. A colleague at the hotel, woman name of Gloria Garcia, says he used to share his apartment with his Cuban boyfriend.'

‘Used to,' Sam echoed.

‘They broke up about a month back,' Martinez said. ‘Ms Garcia says she never knew the boyfriend's name.'

Sam looked back at the photograph.

Remembered the state of their John Doe.

Looked again at the woman they were presuming to be Sanjiv's mother.

Had the grim certainty they were about to break her heart.

The other two men of the family – father Bhupal and older brother Barun – came to the Miami-Dade Medical Examiner's office behind Jackson Memorial Hospital to make the identification.

From photographs, which was intended to make the ordeal a little easier, though nothing in a case like this was going to make anything remotely better, and Sam was never certain in any case if seeing photos of a loved one's face, wounded or not, but appearing somehow disembodied because of the wrapping around the head, might not sometimes be even more terrible for the newly bereaved than seeing the body itself.

No doubt from either of these patently anguished men that the deceased was Sanjiv Adani.

‘I didn't want our dad to come,' Barun, a tall, handsome man in dark suit and tie, told Sam and Martinez after his father had left the Family Grieving Room to go to the restroom, insistent on going alone, ‘but he wouldn't hear of anything else, said it was “
dharma
”.'

‘What does that mean?' Martinez asked.

‘It has many meanings,' Barun said, ‘but I guess “duty” pretty much covers it today.' He wiped his eyes. ‘A father's duty.'

They waited in silence until Bhupal Adani emerged from the restroom looking haggard and haunted.

‘I apologize,' he said.

‘No need, sir,' Sam said, and was glad to see Barun take his father's arm.

Sam and Martinez had both seen shock and grief more times than they could remember, but it never got easier for either of them.

‘I looked up Sanjiv's name on one of those websites,' Martinez told Sam later, as they got back into his Chevy Impala. ‘It means “living”.'

‘I did the same,' said Sam. ‘My definition was “reviving”.'

‘Seemed like nice people,' Martinez said.

Neither of them was in any hurry to meet Sanjiv's mother.

26

Mildred sent another text, enjoying this new small skill.

Shades and tiny glints from another time. Another life.

She had decided, after all, against mentioning last night's passer-by.

It had probably just been an old woman being fanciful in the dead of night, and nothing, in any case, that could help the police – and the last thing Mildred Bleeker wanted was to become some foolish attention-seeker.

‘Not my style,' she said to Donny.

And Detective Samuel Becket had more than enough to concern him.

27

The Adani house, on Carlyle Avenue in Surfside, had a red-tiled roof and peach-coloured shutters at the windows, and looked a compact, well-cared for home.

The grief in the atmosphere inside felt thick enough to slice.

Barun, who'd let the detectives in, showed them into the living room and introduced them to his parents. Sanjula Adani, dressed in a white sari, was seated beside her husband on an emerald green couch in the centre of an old-fashioned room with photographs and small Indian watercolours on the walls, and two small, but glistening chandeliers overhead. The bearing of both parents was erect and dignified, yet they seemed scarcely present, their minds, Sam and Martinez both realized, in dark and terrible places.

‘I've just made some tea for my parents.' Anjika, their daughter, wearing a white T-shirt and jeans, came in with a tray. ‘Would you like some?'

‘Anji,' Barun said, rebuke in his tone.

His sister rolled her reddened eyes in irritation, then explained: ‘My brother's reminding me that Hindus in mourning aren't supposed to offer food or drink to guests.'

‘It's all right,' her father told her. ‘Go ahead, Anjika.'

‘There's no need,' said Sam.

‘Nothing for me, thank you,' Martinez said.

Barun beckoned them back out into the hallway. ‘If you can, gentlemen,' he said softly, ‘I'd be very grateful if you could put your questions to me.'

‘If we can,' Sam said, ‘we will.'

They moved into the kitchen, a room that looked and smelled well used, the air redolent with spices, and Barun invited them to sit at the white-clothed table.

‘As I'm sure you can imagine, it's all proving too much for our mother,' he said. ‘And our father . . .' His voice faltered, then strengthened again. ‘Sanjiv was gay, which I'm only mentioning in case it has any relevance for your investigation. But our father's always been in denial about that, so if you were to ask him questions about my brother's lifestyle, he wouldn't exactly lie to you, but you still might not get the whole truth, you know?'

‘We understand,' Sam said. ‘Thank you for telling us.'

‘Do you think your brother's “lifestyle” is relevant, sir?' Martinez asked.

‘I have no idea,' Barun Adani said, ‘but you read about such things.'

‘Yes, sir,' Sam said. ‘You do.'

‘It's different with our mom,' Barun continued. ‘She's only ever wanted us all to be happy and safe, though I know it upset her that Sanjiv might never give her grandchildren – and I think she was always afraid for him, too.' He shook his head. ‘Not of anything like this, though. Never.'

Sam watched his composure crack, saw the well-mannered young man struggling not to fall apart, bowed by the pressure to hold it together on his family's behalf, and felt for him, imagined future years loading on to his shoulders, how much those bereft parents would need him, not just to comfort them but to fulfil their dreams too.

Anjika came into the kitchen, a cell phone to one ear, listening mostly, answering in monosyllables. New York perhaps already tugging on her, Sam surmised, then guessed too that however much she loved her family, she'd probably be back there as soon as she decently could, and who could blame her?

‘I'm sorry.' Barun was back under control.

‘Don't apologize,' Sam said. ‘Just a few questions.'

‘Of course. Anything I can do.'

Anjika, still on the phone, slipped back out into the hallway.

‘You said you hadn't seen Sanjiv for two weeks,' Sam said. ‘How was he then?'

‘He seemed fine. Well, and quite happy.'

‘Have you spoken to him since?' Martinez asked.

Barun nodded. ‘Three, maybe four times. We talked regularly.'

‘Do you know if anything unusual was going on in his life, or if he had any special plans?' asked Sam. ‘Did he share his private or business news with you?'

‘Sometimes.' Barun shook his head. ‘I've been trying to remember anything that might be useful, but our conversations were usually snatched. We caught up with each other, nothing much more.'

‘So he didn't mention,' Martinez said, ‘where he was going, or who he was planning to see, on Wednesday or Thursday?'

The last twenty-four hours of a homicide victim's life being generally considered the most important period by the investigators, right along with the first forty-eight hours after the discovery of the body.

‘No, sir,' Barun said.

Too much missing time in this case.

‘We heard,' Sam said, ‘that your brother had a boyfriend.'

‘He did, but they broke up a while ago. Eddie Lopéz.' A quirk of Barun's mouth betrayed a touch of disapproval. ‘A dancer. I only met him once. Sanjiv told me he'd been in
Cats
and some off-Broadway shows, but so long as they were seeing each other, Eddie was just a nightclub dancer.'

‘We heard they were living together,' Martinez said.

‘That's right, for about three months.' Barun had lowered his voice again. ‘But they were never right for each other, and I think Sanjiv knew it, even if he never said so.'

‘Do you know who broke it off?' Sam asked.

‘Eddie walked out on my brother.'

‘Did they fight, do you know?' Martinez asked.

‘If they did, Sanjiv didn't tell me. My brother was a hard worker. He wanted to move up the ladder, dreamed of opening his own boutique hotel someday.' Barun's dark eyes were sadder than ever. ‘He was a romantic. He once told me he liked having someone to take care of, and I think he used to cook for Eddie, even clean for him.' He paused. ‘Sanjiv did once say that when he got home too dog-tired to do anything, Eddie didn't like it much.'

‘So was it a volatile relationship, would you say?' asked Sam.

‘Not that I know of,' Barun said.

‘How did Sanjiv seem after Lopéz left him?' Martinez asked.

‘Unhappy,' Barun said. ‘But then he seemed to pull himself together, said he was going to concentrate even harder on work. My brother had a lot of drive.'

Anjika, off the phone at last, came back into the kitchen, laid a hand on her brother's shoulder in a brief gesture of warmth, then turned without a word and went back to their parents in the living room.

‘Did Sanjiv and your father fight about his lifestyle?' Martinez asked.

Barun shifted in his seat. ‘Is that relevant, Detective?'

‘Probably not,' Sam said.

Barun sighed. ‘Sure they fought sometimes. Dad wanted him to be a lawyer or a doctor – or at the very least, a rather disappointing accountant like me.'

‘And how did it go,' Sam asked, ‘when Sanjiv chose hotels?'

‘Our dad does disappointment very well. I mean, he knows how to show it.' He gave a small, wry smile. ‘Even better than our mom, and I'm sure you know something about Indian mothers.'

‘I had a Jewish mother,' Sam said.

That often threw people off for a moment, but Adani was too immersed in his loss for more than the mildest curiosity. ‘Then you'll know,' he said.

‘Do you know where we could find Eddie Lopéz?' asked Martinez.

‘I don't have a clue,' Barun said.

‘You could try Satin,' Anjika said, coming quietly back into the kitchen. ‘It's a club in Calle Ocho.'

Barun Adani frowned. ‘How would you know that?'

‘Sanjiv told me,' his sister answered simply.

‘Were he and Lopéz still in touch?' Barun asked.

‘Our brother was lonely,' Anjika said.

And her eyes began to brim.

28

David Becket had invited Grace and Claudia to lunch.

‘I know I shouldn't,' Claudia said in her sister's Toyota, looking back over her shoulder at Joshua, buckled into his seat in the rear, ‘but I feel kind of apprehensive seeing Saul these days.'

‘I can't imagine why,' Grace said. ‘He's fine, and he loves what he's doing.'

‘Woodwork instead of studying medicine?' Claudia turned her face to the window, stared out at the seemingly endless string of lavish apartment buildings and hotels and the ocean beyond, sparkling blue in the sunshine.

‘Saul makes furniture,' Grace said crisply. ‘He has a real talent for it which he discovered long before he got injured, and he
chose
to change direction, it wasn't just foisted on him – and I'm not at all sure that it doesn't suit him more than medicine might have.'