Shimmer (27 page)

‘No trace of Cooper at all?' Sam asked.

It wasn't the first frustration to grate on the detectives since the killer's probable death. Martinez had uncovered, just days ago, a rap sheet for Cooper that had been misfiled because of someone's spelling mistake – and if Sam had found that prison record right after Jerome's visit to their house, he'd have gotten an arrest warrant then and there, and the second victim might have been saved and Joshua would not have been taken.

‘Human fucking error,' Martinez had said.

‘Has to happen once in a while,' Sam had said, more calmly than he'd felt.

‘Yeah,' Martinez had said. ‘Shit happens.'

Cold, hard proof of Cooper's guilt in the killings was still in maddeningly short supply. They had established that
Baby
had been sold to him in Wilmington, North Carolina, and the witness who had reported the disturbance on the cruiser had also identified the man he'd seen a few times at the marina as Jerome Cooper.

‘There's no real doubt,' Sanders continued now on the phone, ‘that Cooper was on the boat prior to the blast, but we simply have nothing to prove that he was still on board when it went up.'

Spectres danced before Sam's mind's eye.

Silver angels of death.

‘But this isn't the final word, right?' he asked.

‘Not officially, no,' Sanders said, ‘but as good as.' The ME paused. ‘I'm sorry, Sam. I wish I had something more conclusive for you.'

‘Me too,' Sam said.

109

‘
The sonofabitch has gotta be dead,' Martinez said almost a week later.

Not certain, even as he spoke, that it was the truth.

Just wanting it to be so.

Missing, presumed drowned.

Cooper had been seen taking the
Baby
out of Flamingo Marina, was almost certainly the individual who'd stuffed the rag into the gasoline tank – and the chances of his diving overboard at that point and escaping were remote, given that the explosion would have occurred as soon as the naked flame had hit the fumes from the open tank. The consensus of opinion, therefore, was that if he had by chance survived, with so many boats out there at the time, someone would surely have spotted Cooper swimming away. And if he'd tried coming ashore in the first several hours after that, chances were that he'd have been caught and charged.

‘What we need,' Sam said now, ‘is a body.'

He'd lost count of the number of times he'd said that.

Not just for them. For the Adani family and the second victim, still nameless.

‘Ocean's a big place, man,' said Martinez.

‘Not good enough,' said Sam. ‘Not nearly good enough.'

110

Still no second body, but there had been a major breakthrough in the homicide investigation, after one José Ricardo, the manager of a bed and breakfast on Collins Avenue in South Beach, had discovered that one of his employees had been renting out a space at the back of his building.

No name for the tenant, cash changing hands, his employee since fired.

But the occupant had left a small stack of notebooks filled with writing.

‘I was going to throw them in the trash,' Ricardo had told the MBPD officers who'd first responded to his phone call, ‘but then I took a closer look and figured you might be interested.'

Sam Becket and Alejandro Martinez had been more than interested.

The writings of the killer had filled five and a half books, all with the same title.

An all but unrecognizable individual, hard for the most part to reconcile with the weak young man who'd shown up at the Becket house that morning three weeks ago, but still Jerome Cooper beyond a shadow of a doubt – his sadistic, racist mother referred to as ‘Jewel' most of the time, but identified as Roxanne or Roxy once or twice.

Sam Becket mentioned, too.

And the hate that ‘Cal' had felt for him.

The ‘epistles' would be studied for a long time to come.

Which would – that much was abundantly, sickeningly clear to Sam and Martinez – have pleased the madman himself.

111

Claudia and Daniel had been in Chicago for three days, staying at the Hyatt Regency, when Sam and Grace flew into O'Hare.

The Brownleys had come because Frank would soon be ready to leave hospital, and neither Claudia nor Daniel, having been reconciled, had wanted any more time apart. A nursing home had already been chosen, and the Melrose Park house – no longer a crime scene – was to be put up for sale.

Grace and Sam had come down in time for the Fourth, joining them at the hotel and watching the fireworks together at the Navy Pier.

David and Saul were back home, taking fine care of Joshua, and David was in dogged ongoing negotiations with Mildred Bleeker, trying to persuade her to come stay with him for a period of convalescence after her discharge from Miami General.

‘Negotiating Middle East peace might be easier,' David had told Sam last week.

‘No pushover, our Mildred,' Sam had said. ‘I did warn you.'

‘She's a proud lady. I respect that.'

‘Which just might be the one thing that lets her give in,' Sam had said.

‘Pride?' His father had looked dubious.

‘I meant your respect,' Sam had said.

It was the first time Grace had seen Frank in more than seven years.

Some of the old hatred melting away beneath pity for his helplessness.

‘Not such a bad feeling,' she told Sam afterwards. ‘Shedding a little bitterness.'

‘Poor old guy,' said Sam.

‘Let's not go overboard,' Grace said.

They all went together to close up the house.

The posters had been taken off the walls in Jerome's room.

Still more than enough left to give Sam and Claudia chills.

There was nothing in the place that either of the sisters wanted to take away for any kind of remembrance. Enough bad memories left over from their years in the first Lucca house to last them a lifetime.

‘How about we all get out of here?' Daniel said when they'd done. ‘I don't know about you guys, but I could use a stiff drink.'

‘Sounds like a plan to me,' Sam said.

‘So what are we waiting for?' said Grace.