Fear and Loathing

by Hilary Norman

  Sam frowned, sat forward. ‘You do know that his death was accidental?’

  ‘Yes. The police seem certain of that. Witnesses, apparently.’ He paused. ‘He died in a motorcycle crash, riding a bike that did not belong to him.’

  Again, Sam was silent.

  ‘May I ask you a question?’ Chauvin said. ‘You don’t have to answer.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Putting things together as far as I can, I’m guessing’ – his tone was measured – ‘that since Thomas died so close to Cannes, there may have been a connection between his feelings for your daughter and whatever led up to his accident.’

  Sam took a moment. He could lie outright, but certain facts were bound ultimately to find their way to the Chauvin family: the presence of their son’s Peugeot outside the house on rue Saint Vincent de Paul, for instance; things possibly overlooked by Jones and Noël; and Thomas’s computer had already brought his father here. If his mother discovered the truth, she might look for someone to blame.

  Time to listen to his gut.

  ‘There are things you might be better off not knowing.’ He paused. ‘Things we’ve decided not to report to the authorities. In part, because I’d prefer my daughter to put certain experiences behind her. Also because I believe your son was unwell and because he isn’t here to defend any charges against him.’

  ‘So he did commit a crime?’ Paul Chauvin’s face seemed paler.

  ‘A number of serious crimes,’ Sam said. ‘Not only against my daughter.’

  The bereaved father leaned back, closed his eyes. ‘Tell me, please.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I have to know. My imagination will never let me rest otherwise.’

  A half-hour or so later, after Nic had brought the older man a cognac and after Paul Chauvin had thanked him for all he’d done, he turned back to Sam.

  ‘What can I do to make restitution?’ His eyes were distraught. ‘Is there anything I can offer – any kind of compensation? Please don’t be offended, but I have to ask. Anything you might feel appropriate.’

  ‘My daughter and her friend are safe,’ Sam said. ‘You’ve lost your son.’

  ‘But so much fear – terror, even …’

  ‘Thomas was unwell,’ Sam said again.

  ‘You had to fly from Miami at short notice. These things are shockingly expensive.’

  ‘We all do things for our children,’ Sam said. ‘And we don’t want compensation.’

  ‘I have offended you.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Sam paused. ‘Will you tell your wife?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure? It might be easier for you both. You mentioned your imagination. Your wife may be experiencing the same thing.’

  ‘On the whole, my wife prefers being cushioned from reality,’ Chauvin said.

  ‘Your decision,’ Sam said, grimly aware that should this man ever change his mind, or should his wife decide that Cathy might be even minimally to blame for her son’s death, they would still be vulnerable to disruption.

  Too many people already who knew what had happened.

  ‘I’m more grateful to you than I can ever express,’ Chauvin said, ‘for not exposing Thomas.’

  ‘It’s a two-way street. Better for my daughter, too.’

  ‘The least she deserves,’ Paul Chauvin said.

  ‘I agree,’ Sam said.

  June 23

  He arrived back at MIA early Sunday evening after a relaxing Saturday, Gabe taking off after a while so that he and Cathy could have some time alone.

  They’d gone shopping on the rue d’Antibes, bought gifts for the whole family, then taken off their shoes and walked along the beach, the atmosphere everywhere hungover after the wild Friday night climax to the festival.

  ‘I’m flying you all over here in the fall,’ Cathy had told Sam.

  ‘Your mom says you need to keep your money for when you’re old.’

  ‘Who knows I’ll even get to be old?’ Cathy had said.

  ‘Don’t.’ Sam’s heart had contracted.

  ‘Hey.’ She’d hugged him. ‘Only kidding.’

  Only half kidding, he’d realized, spending the short flight to London dunking himself in emotion, semi-happy and grateful, semi-sad and angst-ridden.

  Reality, workwise, setting in on the longer leg of the journey home.

  He’d told Martinez he was returning, but there’d been a noticeable dearth of information flowing back his way, and perhaps that was because Cezary and her three surviving hitmen had been pleading the Fifth, or maybe Martinez had been ordered not to pass on any case details to him.

  Off the case, perhaps permanently.

  Maybe even out of a job, period.

  All Sam did know was that given the same set of circumstances, he’d have done the exact same thing again.

  His probable departmental troubles hadn’t stopped him switching back to detective mode on the flight – and then, halfway through dinner, the thing that had been nagging at him off and on since Thursday suddenly emerged.

  He’d gone back to pondering the possible existence of a second brain behind the homicides.

  Back, too, on the old ‘no coincidence’ theory.

  It was what Cezary had said, just after her arrest.

  ‘Because as Virginia said …’

  And soon after that, Gabe had called and blown away his concentration.

  Two elderly women, one in her late sixties – if alive; the other seventy-two.

  Both of Eastern European stock.

  Similar – on the face of it – racist ideologies.

  If Sam voiced his suspicion now, no one would pay attention. Except Martinez and perhaps Duval, and maybe one of them should put the thought over as their own …

  Constance Cezary and Hildegard Benedict or Benedek.

  Not one and the same individual, he accepted that much.

  But maybe, just maybe, two minds working as one.

  At the very least, Sam figured, something worth ruling out.

  He reached his decision in the cab on his way home.

  If he waited till tomorrow, he’d be dealing with disciplinary issues, and if he made a call now, he might achieve little more than an extra complaint on his file.

  And Harper Benedict’s apartment was, after all, in Bal Harbour. Just a hop and a skip from home.

  He’d called Grace on landing, said he couldn’t wait to see her and Joshua. No brownie points to be scored on that front if he delayed getting back now. Then again, he’d be no more popular if he went home, kissed his wife and son and then went straight out again.

  He bit the bullet and called Grace. ‘Something’s come up,’ he said.

  ‘How the hell did you know?’

  Harper Benedict stood at her front door, staring at Sam.

  He’d sent his cab ahead to the island, had paid the driver, taken his number and shown him his own ID before entrusting him with the gift bags to deliver to Grace.

  ‘Know what?’ Sam asked.

  She stepped back. ‘Come in.’ She appeared distracted, closing the door. She wore a white linen dress with a tan belt and matching shoes, the dress a little creased.

  ‘I apologize for just showing up,’ he said. ‘But tomorrow’s going to be hectic, and I wanted to know if you’d had any luck locating your mother.’

  She looked startled. ‘I didn’t think you were still … You made arrests.’

  ‘What is it you think I know?’ Sam asked.

  She turned, walked ahead into the living room. ‘You’d better sit down.’ A quilted tan bag with large gold charms dangling from the handle lay on the sofa, and she sat down and delved inside for a pack of Marlboro and a lighter. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘It’s your home,’ Sam said. ‘No laws against that yet.’ He sat in an armchair, watched her light up. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you smoke before.’

  ‘It’s been quite a day. I’d offer you coffee, but I need to get this said.’
<
br />   Facing her, doubt hit Sam suddenly, because maybe this had not been his best move, maybe he ought to call Martinez even now, have him drive up …

  Too late.

  ‘My mother is dead,’ Harper Benedict said.

  Grace was not in the best of moods, having just finished sharing with Martinez (who’d phoned to welcome Sam home) her feelings about her husband – her off-duty husband – not coming straight home so he could follow up one of his damned hunches.

  ‘It’s not fair on Joshua. Sam calls to say he’s on his way, so we’re both sitting waiting with all his favorite goodies from Epicure and silly grins on our faces and then it’s “something’s come up”.’

  ‘Did he happen to say what that something was?’

  ‘Only that he wouldn’t be long,’ Grace said.

  ‘Then if you’re still on speaking terms when he does get back, would you ask him to call me? I promise not to keep him for long or take him away.’

  ‘No problem, Al. Thanks for listening.’

  ‘If he doesn’t show, call me. I could come eat his goodies.’

  She put down the phone, took a deep breath, wanting to stay upbeat for Joshua.

  After eight already, and she’d given him a snack earlier, because even if things had gone to plan, they’d have been keeping him up way after his bedtime.

  Go to plan? With Sam Becket?

  Happy voice.

  ‘Joshua!’ She called him now from the foot of the stairs.

  No answer, no running feet, which meant he was probably playing dinosaurs, and she was tempted to leave him for as long as possible, because as soon as he set eyes on her he’d be wanting to know where his daddy was.

  Though, maybe, if she suggested they set up the Dinosaur Train set in the den, so they could play with Daddy when he got home …

  ‘Oh, Joshua!’ she called again and started up the stairs.

  Not too loud in case he’d fallen asleep, and she’d kept him busy today, had taken him to the beach and then, after lunch and fingerpainting, they’d gone to Publix and then Epicure, and then she’d brought him home and they’d played Marble Run.

  She heard it, halfway up.

  Not a cry, exactly, but something wrong.

  ‘I’m coming,’ she called.

  The door to his room was closed.

  It was never fully closed.

  She felt her heart begin to hammer, no real reason for it, just instinct.

  ‘Joshua?’ Quieter this time.

  She knocked – they were teaching him about knocking and privacy – then opened the door.

  Felt her heart stop.

  Seeing her worst nightmare – a totally incomprehensible nightmare.

  This man – this man she knew – was holding Joshua tight against him with one strong arm, his other hand clamped over her son’s mouth.

  ‘Hello, Grace,’ he said.

  ‘She killed herself,’ Harper Benedict said.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Sam said. On automatic. Needing a moment.

  ‘She was found by her housekeeper on Thursday. I received a letter by special courier on Friday morning.’ She took a drag of her cigarette. ‘I’ve just come back from the funeral home – first time I’ve seen her in years. She’d been living in Naples, apparently. Two hours drive, and I had no idea.’

  ‘I am sorry.’ This time he meant it.

  ‘Not so much a loss, as you know. More a confirmation.’

  He said nothing.

  ‘It has been quite a shock, though,’ Harper said.

  ‘Suicide,’ Sam said. ‘Very hard on those left behind.’

  ‘That wasn’t the shocking part,’ Harper said flatly. ‘Best thing she ever did.’

  Sam watched her face. ‘How did she do it?’

  ‘Pills.’ Harper looked him in the eye. ‘Not carbon monoxide.’

  He felt a sharp kick of excitement, unsure why.

  ‘She left something for you.’ She took another drag, tilted the cigarette in a big crystal ashtray, reached for her bag, drew out a white rectangular envelope, leaned across and placed it in his hand.

  Sam looked at the printing center front. S.B.

  The font was italicized and bold, but still, he thought, Baskerville.

  Same as the windshield messages.

  Same as the fake letter sent to City of Santa Barbara PD from ‘Joshua Becket’.

  ‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘if you might have something like a Ziploc bag.’ He paused. ‘And I don’t imagine you have plastic or latex gloves, Ms Benedict?’

  ‘I thought we’d moved on to first names, Sam.’ Harper stood up. ‘I have both, in the kitchen.’ She paused. ‘I was rather hoping you were going to read it.’

  ‘I am,’ Sam said. ‘Believe me.’

  He watched her leave the room and it occurred to him, abruptly, that she might, after all, be part of it, that she might return with a knife or even a gun. He thought of texting Martinez, making him aware.

  She was back before he’d reached for his phone.

  No weapon. Only what he’d asked her for.

  ‘Would you like a pair of tweezers?’ she asked. ‘For handling. Though I’ve held it several times, as did the undertaker.’

  Sam smiled. ‘It’s OK. I’ll be careful.’

  ‘May I stay while you read it?’ Harper asked.

  ‘Be my guest.’ He smiled wryly.

  She sat on the sofa, then rose again. ‘Letter opener.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She moved smoothly to an antique writing desk, opened a drawer, and Sam tensed.

  ‘Here.’ She turned, handed him a silver opener, sat down again.

  Sam slit the envelope along one side, preserving possible prints and DNA that might be present over and beneath the flap.

  A vague sense struck him that he was delaying.

  Not exactly procrastinating.

  Just dreading.

  He had a gun in a shoulder holster.

  ‘Please,’ Grace said. ‘Give me my son.’

  ‘No can do, Mrs B,’ he said.

  Joshua’s wide dark eyes were brimming with tears, and his small face was contorted by his efforts to cry, the man’s big hand still covering his mouth.

  ‘At least take your hand off his face.’ She wanted to scream, fought to stay calm. ‘What’s the difference to you now if he cries?’

  ‘Difference is if he starts bawling, I might smack him.’

  ‘He’s just a little boy,’ Grace said. ‘Please, just put him down.’

  ‘If I do that he’ll either run to you or try running away, and then I’ll have to shoot him, and neither of us wants that, do we?’

  For an instant, Grace felt faint and she leaned against the wall for support.

  Sam, where are you?

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘Sam will understand,’ he said.

  ‘He’ll be back any minute.’

  ‘Best get started then.’

  Started.

  ‘Please, just give me my son.’

  On cue, Joshua wriggled fiercely, shook off the big hand and started howling, tears rolling down his cheeks.

  ‘I warned you,’ he said, and slapped the child hard across the face.

  ‘You bastard!’ Grace lost it, flew across the room, primeval rage taking over, and Joshua’s screams intensified as she tried to wrest him away and kicked out hard with her right foot.

  ‘Bitch!’ the man said, and backhanded her.

  Grace felt her head spinning from the blow even before she collided with the dresser to her left.

  ‘Mommy!’

  Joshua’s scream masked the cracking sound of the back of her skull hitting the wood crafted by his uncle.

  Out cold.

  Ron Kovac set to work.

  ‘I was wondering how to deal with this,’ Harper Benedict said. ‘On the drive back from Naples. I thought maybe I might need a lawyer – and I guess I would have arranged that, only t
hen you showed up.’

  ‘Did you write this?’ Sam asked.

  White letter-size paper folded over inside the envelope.

  ‘Of course not,’ Harper said.

  ‘Then I don’t think you need a lawyer,’ he said. ‘Though by all means call one, if you’d feel more comfortable.’

  ‘I might feel more – or possibly less – comfortable if you would just read that.’

  Sam nodded, extracted the paper with care, unfolded it, held it by one corner.

  For the Very Personal Attention of Detective Samuel Becket

  I fear my piece has almost run its course.

  Not quite, though.

  The Main Event is yet to happen.

  If my final planning has gone to order, you may yet be able to attend. Perhaps even to prevent it, who knows? You are an adequate policeman, after all.

  Though not so fine as to have spotted the co-perpetrator right under your nose.

  Constance and I could not have done it without our trusty lieutenant. His Aunt Connie’s favorite patsy, blessed with a working life of invaluable contacts, a talent for snooping and a disconsolate, greedy soul. He hates you and your wife so much that we were never certain which carrots were more irresistible to him. The Cezary estate, which may, amusingly, never come to him.

  Or the knowledge that you and yours were last on our shortlist.

  You should have known better.

  We can’t stop you all.

  But I am about to stop YOU.

  Love Virginia

  The words blurred.

  ‘Sam?’ Harper Benedict’s eyes were concerned. ‘What did she say?’

  Colors spun in his head.

  Get a grip.

  He felt for his iPhone, photographed the letter, sent it to Martinez, then called him. The letter fell from his hand onto the floor, and Harper stared at it.

  Sam ignored voicemail, called again, already on his way to the front door.

  ‘Al, listen to me. Hildy Benedict was in it with Cezary, but they had help.’

  ‘Sam—’ Martinez sounded confused. ‘What the—?’

  ‘Kovac.’ He was through the door, on the stairs. ‘Al, I’m leaving Harper Benedict’s apartment now, but I think Kovac might be at my house.’ He passed the doorman, yanked the front door open himself. ‘Hildy killed herself but she sent me a letter. Same style, same font as the windshield messages, telling me we’re next. I just mailed it to you. He could be there now.’