He hit the play button.
‘Listen carefully, Gary Burton.’
The voice was whispering and so muffled it was impossible to tell so much as the caller’s gender.
‘If you marry that girl, you will bring shame on yourself and your family.’
Sam met Gibson’s eyes, saw intense anger in them.
‘If you marry her, you will be very sorry.’
No discernible accent, hard to say more.
‘Some things go against creation, Gary Burton.’
Sam felt his skin crawl and looked at Martinez.
‘Call it off, or shame on you.’
A low click, and it ended.
‘It is something, right?’ Gibson said.
‘Oh, yes,’ Sam said.
‘February 07,’ Martinez said. ‘Not long after they met.’
‘We took that Vegas trip early October 06,’ Gibson said. ‘And you already know how hard and fast Gary fell for Molly. He was proposing within a week or two, she was here by Christmas and they were married in early March.’
‘Any notifications of their engagement?’ Sam asked.
‘I don’t remember. Not my thing, or his, I wouldn’t have thought.’ Gibson shrugged. ‘I’m guessing it wasn’t Molly’s uncle’s thing, either – at least, unless she’d been going to marry a nice Chinese boy.’
‘We’ll check back,’ Sam said.
‘No engagement announcement in their wedding album,’ Martinez said.
‘You could ask Gary’s dad,’ Gibson said.
‘We’ll do that,’ Sam said.
‘I saw him yesterday. He looked bad, but he won’t accept help.’ Gibson rubbed his forehead. ‘So what, we’re thinking that this could go all the way back to that message?’ He looked confounded, as if it was impossible to compute. ‘That much hate? To have it build for years and then do that?’
‘Maybe,’ Sam said. ‘Or maybe this message was just an anonymous hate call.’
Gibson sighed, took the microcassette out of the machine. ‘I guess you’ll be taking both of these for testing? Maybe find out who that is?’
‘We’ll be doing our best,’ Sam said.
Martinez took an evidence bag from his pocket.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t find it sooner,’ Gibson said.
‘Hey,’ Sam said. ‘This is something. You’re helping.’
‘This doesn’t have to have anything to do with an engagement announcement, does it?’ Gibson said. ‘That message could have been left by anyone who knew they were going to get married. Someone at the club, a business supplier, anyone.’
‘Hey,’ Sam said again. ‘You need to let us drive ourselves crazy, OK?’
‘I don’t envy you,’ Gibson said.
‘Not just a hate call,’ Martinez said, back in the car. ‘Not with those words.’
The windshield messages still under wraps. The first one etched in their memories. ‘It goes against creation.’ And the words in the phone message. ‘Some things go against creation, Gary Burton.’
‘Could be another coincidence, man,’ Martinez said.
‘Could be a lot of things,’ Sam said dryly. ‘Could be Nick Gibson used some old machine and made the recording himself.’
‘Hey,’ Martinez said. ‘You really think that?’
‘Nah,’ Sam said.
Lunchtime, the team updated, they went to Markie’s for cheeseburgers.
Emotion kept driving Sam’s mind toward Santa Barbara, though assuming that no innocent law student sharing Joshua’s name would be found at Fairmont University, then all that letter seemed to confirm was that ‘Virginia’s’ issues with Sam were no recent aberration.
If the recorded message was deemed by forensic audio to be as old as the date on the microcassettes’s label (and if that handwriting was judged to be Gary Burton’s), then they had to face the real possibility that the mind behind these slayings had been simmering for years.
‘If that’s true,’ Sam said, ‘then we’re looking at two alternatives. Either “Virginia” had specific reasons for selecting the Burtons and the Gomez families out of thousands of mixed-race marriages, or there could be a massive list of potential victims just waiting.’
‘Including you.’ Martinez spoke softly, though they were out of earshot of other customers. ‘If there’s a shortlist, we have to accept that you and Grace are on it.’
‘Maybe it’s just couples who “Virginia” perceives as having drawn attention to themselves.’ Sam pushed his plate away, his appetite gone. ‘Like Luisa Gomez writing and being interviewed about her parents.’
‘You’ve never deliberately drawn attention to your marriage.’ Martinez was still eating. ‘I mean, you’ve made the news, but you’ve never given interviews about personal stuff.’
‘But we have made the news,’ Sam repeated.
‘Not as an interracial couple.’ Martinez shook his head. ‘Jesus.’
‘On the plus side, we have two physical pieces of evidence.’
‘For forensics, not us.’ Martinez hated waiting. ‘What do we do next?’
‘We go check with William Burton re. engagement announcements, then we go pick up Mildred’s copies of The Beach, see if any of our other victims figure in them, unless Joe beats us to the punch.’
Burton had no copy of any engagement announcement, nor could he remember there having been one, and early searches had thrown up nothing. A call to James Lin had brought a more exact response. There had been no public announcement, and had his niece suggested the idea, Lin would not have approved it.
‘That really narrows it down,’ Sam said wryly. ‘Now it’s only every person from San Francisco to Miami who might have been told or overheard that she and Gary were planning to marry.’
Forensics would establish whether the recording was authentic and try to enhance the quality, though that depended on what the caller had used to muffle his or her voice, but at least if it came to matching the message to a suspect, voice ID software would probably assist in that.
First, of course, they needed a damned suspect.
Having run out of time at the office, Sam brought Mildred’s newspapers home to share with Grace.
Five of them, containing predictable publicity splashes for average-budget Miami Beach hotels and punchy reviews for new restaurants, bars and clubs. Plenty of ads to pay the rent, a book review page, and in each issue at least two, sometimes three features involving locals.
Same editor credited for each issue. Sam photographed the newspaper’s contact details – all presumably out of date – and texted them to Joe Sheldon.
Mildred had stuck a Post-it noted ‘Page 14’ on the front of one issue.
The page showed a nice color photo of Luisa Gomez – dark, kind eyes, warm smile – and an old picture of her parents, standing close, laughing into the camera.
No surprises in the article, Sam having read Luisa’s book.
He handed it to Grace and moved on.
‘Can I help you search?’ she asked after reading the piece.
‘Definitely.’ Sam noted down all the victims’ names, added James Lin and his company, Nick Gibson and GG Fitness, Sean Reardon, the other close relatives and Mo Li’s parents. ‘Any mention of any of them.’
‘Are we allowed a glass of wine?’
‘Counting on it, Gracie,’ Sam said.
They found no other references, and then Joshua woke up, wanting to talk, and when their five-year-old felt like talking he could turn into a regular inquisitor, especially when it came to his daddy’s job: police detective – the best show-and-tell – usually without the ‘show’, but that seldom stopped Joshua.
With their son all questioned-out and tucked sleepily back in his bed, they stir-fried shrimp with garlic, baby bok choy and noodles, and settled to eat it.
‘So, you’re not considering going to Santa Barbara?’ Grace said after a minute.
Sam shook his head. ‘For one thing, if that letter was sent by the killer, which is
still a big if, that might be – or have been – exactly what they wanted.’
‘The letter having been sent before the first killings.’ Grace followed his thought. ‘So if it hadn’t become separated from the accident file, and assuming you’d learned about its existence immediately after the murders, you might have gone there, leaving us …’
She stopped.
Not just she who would have been left as a potential target.
Joshua too.
Sam put down his chopsticks, reached for her hand.
‘I’m not going to California,’ he said.
His cell phone rang as they were heading to bed.
‘Sorry to call late,’ Joe Sheldon said.
‘What did you find?’ Sam asked.
‘A photo taken in January 07 at a party to celebrate GG Fitness’s first anniversary. Six people in the photo, caption identifying them, including Gary Burton and his new fiancée, Molly Lin.’ Sheldon paused. ‘The issue was on the streets from February first. Which could conceivably mean that the phone whisperer saw them in The Beach.’
‘And now we have victims from both killings getting publicity in the same paper.’
‘Which went belly up two and a half years ago,’ Sheldon said, ‘but I tracked down the last editor, who actually had their distribution list on her PC and emailed it to me. Helpful, but not much help. Hotel foyers, doctors’ waiting rooms, office buildings. No way of knowing who got to read it.’
‘Is the editor available to talk?’ Sam asked.
‘Ready and waiting.’
Sam took down her name – Harper Benedict – maybe with parents of a literary inclination or into glossy magazines – and phone number, thanked Sheldon, then went into the kitchen and made some decaf – not that he was likely to get to sleep any time soon.
The younger detective was right about the distribution list getting them no place, at least in the short term. Still, a conversation with Ms Benedict might lead someplace.
Like the phone message in Gary Burton’s safe and the letter to the Santa Barbara police bearing their son’s name, this newspaper connection was something. It was trying to make something solid out of it all that was making Sam’s brain feel tight as a drum, making him want to pace and think.
Because whoever was driving this wickedness, the roots came from a long way back, and the big question remained: had the victims been earmarked from the start, or were they just random choices from the massive pool of possible victims that he and Martinez had touched on earlier?
‘Jesus,’ he said quietly.
Woody, in his bed, looked up at him and whined.
‘Hey,’ Sam said. ‘It’s OK.’
Came to something when you started lying to the dog.
June 11
Harper Benedict was interesting.
Definitely.
For one thing, she was a stunner. Mid to late thirties, blonde bobbed hair, intense blue eyes, snug-cut white dress showing off a great shape that she probably worked hard to maintain.
Tuesday morning, after their morning task force meeting, they were meeting at her Bal Harbour home, not far from where Grace consulted. A few minutes from their own home.
‘You may not know anything about me, Detective Becket,’ she said, having offered them seats in her gray-and-white living room. ‘But I know a good deal about you.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Don’t you want to ask what I know?’ Her voice was low, cool as the room.
‘Not especially,’ Sam said. ‘You were the editor of The Beach when you published an article about Luisa Gomez and her parents.’
‘I was.’ She paused. ‘I heard the news, obviously.’ She indicated some buff folders on the low table ahead of her. ‘I assumed you were coming because of the connection, so I retrieved those files from the archive.’
‘That’s helpful, ma’am,’ Martinez said.
‘I hope so,’ she said. ‘Though I can’t imagine why they would be. It was a straightforward enough piece resulting from the book Mrs Gomez had self-published.’
‘Did you often pick up on self-published books?’ Sam asked.
‘Her story was interesting and she was local.’
‘But how did you come to read it in the first place?’ Martinez asked.
‘Her husband sent it to us,’ Harper Benedict said. ‘My PA looked it over and gave it to me and I had to say that, for once, the guy’s pride in his wife was justified. It was a good story, well-written.’
‘Did it slot in with anything else you were publishing around that time?’ Sam asked. ‘Was it a theme that interested you?’
‘The theme of interracial marriage?’ Her gaze rested on him. ‘We hadn’t been running a series on the subject, though Luisa Gomez’s story did pique my interest enough to consider that possibility.’ Her smile showed small, perfect teeth. ‘In which case, you might have been on my list of potential interviewees, Detective Becket.’
Sam looked back at her. ‘We’re not here to discuss my private life.’
‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘Still, it isn’t exactly irrelevant, surely?’
‘Why isn’t it?’ Martinez asked quietly.
Sam knew that particular tone of his partner’s voice well, felt that it was, on occasions, a little like traveling with a personal guard dog – not big, but tough and tenacious.
A good feeling.
‘Detective Becket and his wife have hit the headlines more than once,’ Ms Benedict answered Martinez’s question. ‘Making them a pretty significant interracial couple, I’d say, and therefore relevant.’
‘To what, exactly?’ Sam said.
‘To the “theme” – your word.’ She paused. ‘From what we outsiders have learned about the victims, that does seem to be a possible link?’
Sam regarded her with open curiosity, saw a glacial quality in the blue eyes, felt at once uneasy and excited.
‘How long did you edit the paper, Ms Benedict?’
‘From August 2006 until December 2010. I was its last editor.’
‘So you’re probably aware that a photograph of two of the victims in the June third murders appeared in one of your issues?’
‘I’ve become aware of that.’
‘Quite a coincidence,’ Martinez said.
‘Not really.’ Her tone was matter of fact. ‘The gym wanted publicity, we obliged. Dr Gomez wanted coverage for his wife and her book, we obliged. Miami Beach citizens with something to sell. I can’t tell you how many individuals and local firms wanted to get inside our covers. They just got lucky. Or thought they had at the time.’
‘Aside from your having been editor,’ Sam said, ‘did the two items have any personnel in common? Photographers, for instance.’
‘No. I did check.’ She paused. ‘I’m somewhat confused. You seem to be standing this “coincidence” on its head.’
‘Meaning what?’ Sam asked.
‘Surely it’s not the fact that these poor people were included in The Beach that might be flagging some kind of clue? Isn’t this more about the readers of those issues, the people who learned about Luisa Gomez and saw the shots of Gary Burton and his fiancée?’
‘They’d be of great interest,’ Sam agreed. ‘But the way your paper was distributed, they’d be impossible to track, surely?’
‘You’re forgetting the readers who make contact with newspapers,’ Harper Benedict said. ‘We had a number of regulars who enjoyed corresponding with us. Some who liked expressing strong opinions – sometimes one-offs, sometimes not – about items we’d published.’
‘You kept those on file?’ Martinez asked.
‘Sure.’ She smiled at him. ‘In fact, I’ve already trawled through the 2007 files and extracted anything that might possibly be relevant.’
‘That’s great,’ Sam said. ‘Though I’d be grateful if we could take a look at those files ourselves.’
‘In case I’ve omitted something,’ Harper Benedict said coolly.
‘You might inadv
ertently have overlooked something relevant,’ Sam said.
‘Inadvertently or deliberately,’ she said. ‘Or I could have found something “relevant” and destroyed it.’
‘Why would you do that?’ Sam asked evenly.
‘A whim, perhaps,’ she said. ‘Who knows? You’re the detective.’
‘Ms Benedict, this is not a game,’ Sam said. ‘Do you have an objection to showing us the 2007 correspondence files? And perhaps the previous year’s too?’
Her eyes grew colder. ‘Am I a suspect, Detective?’
‘Do you think you should be?’
She laughed, lightening up again. ‘You’ll have the files before you leave.’
‘Thank you,’ Sam said.
‘You know, you’re starting to make me regret that I never did approach you and your wife for an interview.’
Sam took a moment. ‘When were you considering that?’
‘Just after the two of you almost bought it – in the “Couples” case. Spring of 2009, I think.’ She paused. ‘Not the first time I’d heard of you, obviously. You and your family having been in the news previously.’
‘And what would your angle for such an interview have been?’
She smiled again. ‘So many possible angles, I’d have been spoiled for choice. Interracial marriage, naturally. Homicide detective and child psychologist. Both sailing dangerously close to the wind more than once.’
If they’d been out in the open, say, at a press conference, Sam would have slapped her politely down, but this was starting to feel rather different.
‘So why didn’t you make the approach?’ he asked.
‘Are you saying you would have considered it?’
‘Not for a second.’
‘Ah, well. In the event, something else took precedence during the month in question, and after that, you and Mrs Becket were old news.’ She paused. ‘Still, since you’d have turned me down, it’s as well I didn’t ask. I’m not good with rejection.’
‘So, Ms Benedict,’ Martinez said, ‘what are you doing now?’
‘I’m tempted to say it’s none of your concern, but cops tend to think everyone’s business is theirs.’
‘Pots and kettles come to mind,’ Sam said lightly.
Her smile this time seemed more genuine. ‘I’m writing.’
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