Sam walked Grace back to her Mazda, parked outside the restaurant.
‘Going back to work?’ she asked, unlocking the driver’s door.
‘Not tonight,’ he answered. ‘Not unless I have to.’
She looked up at him. ‘Paperwork for me, I’m afraid.’
‘Like that as much as me, do you?’
‘Do I ever.’ She smiled.
‘I’m going to wander back to my place,’ Sam said, sounding lazy, ‘and then I’m going to head up to my roof, which is where I like to hang out, and I’m going to sing a couple of arias and give my neighbours something to bitch about.’
‘You’re a singer?’ Grace was surprised, and sounded it.
‘Oh, yeah,’ Sam said, and grinned. ‘I’m not great, but I’m not too bad either – but even if I was the worst baritone in south Florida, I couldn’t give it up. Singing and listening to opera’s what I love to do more than anything.’
‘I like to listen, too.’
‘Like?’ Sam shook his head. ‘No such word when you’re talking about opera, Grace Lucca. Love or hate. Nothing in between.’
‘Perhaps I need teaching how to listen.’
‘Perhaps you do,’ Sam said.
Chapter Sixteen
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 15, 1998
The whole of Tuesday and most of Wednesday flew by for Grace with scarcely enough time to draw breath let alone spend it worrying about Cathy Robbins. Patients and paperwork aside, she had a minor flood to deal with that stemmed – according to Ramon, the plumber, one of Teddy Lopez’s many friends – from some pipework running between Grace’s bedroom floor and kitchen ceiling. What had started out as a large patch of glistening damp had turned into a mess of wet and chunks of plaster.
‘If you don’ lemme do this now,’ Ramon had warned direly before starting work, ‘the whole ceilin’s gonna cave in on you.’
It was hard, come Wednesday afternoon, to tell the difference.
She had just brewed fresh coffee for Ramon, Teddy and herself, and was fishing around in her own cup trying to remove a large paint flake, when the phone rang.
‘How are things with you?’ Sam asked.
‘Don’t ask.’
‘Okay.’ He paused. ‘I have the information you asked for.’
Grace looked around for somewhere clean to set down her cup, but Ramon was drinking his coffee halfway up his ladder, and Teddy was picking plaster bits out of Harry’s coat, so she decided to leave the kitchen and headed for the den instead.
‘Okay,’ she told Sam. ‘I have a pen now.’
‘I don’t have many details,’ he said, ‘but what I do have looks enough to be going on with, from your point-of-view.’
Grace felt a lick of foreboding. ‘Go ahead.’
‘Marie Robbins’ first husband was a Dr John Broderick. He was a physician at Lafayette Hospital up in Tallahassee, which was where Cathy was born. The Brodericks were separated when he died in ’89, though they had not divorced.’ Sam paused. ‘Seems the doctor was in quite a jam at the time, being investigated by the ethics committee at his hospital, which was why he took his own life.’
‘Suicide?’ Grace thought about Cathy aged five. Oh, Christ.
‘He kept a sailboat at the Pensacola shore – it was hurricane season. He waited for the next big storm to hit, left a note for Marie, took off in his boat and got himself drowned.’
Grace said nothing. She didn’t know what to say.
‘Grace, are you okay?’
‘Yes, I’m okay. It’s like you said Monday night – it’s not my pain, is it?’ She paused. ‘I guess it may begin to explain why her aunt doesn’t like talking about the past.’
‘A heavy load for a child to carry,’ Sam said.
Grace knew what he was thinking. That the information represented more bad news for Cathy now. A severely traumatized young child, bearing Lord knew what kind of emotional scars into her adolescence, with a mother who had to have had her own burden to deal with . . . More grist to the State Attorney’s mill if the intention was to suggest that they were looking at an out-of-control, perhaps even psychotic, teenager.
‘It’s not going to help her case, is it?’ she said.
‘Not so far as I can see.’ Sam paused. ‘I’m sorry, Grace.’
‘I know you are.’
She hadn’t seen or had a real conversation with Frances Dean for over a week – come to that, she’d never had much of a conversation with her. But after what Sam had just said, Grace was determined to try to put that right.
It was not easy to arrange. She called the same afternoon, asked Frances if she might drop by and see her, but she said she had an appointment, and next day, too, according to Frances, was too busy. Possibly, Grace thought afterwards, Frances hadn’t been prepared for her persistence, which was why she ran out of excuses when Grace asked if she could come to Coral Gables on Friday morning.
‘Cathy won’t be here, you know,’ Frances said. ‘She’s back in school.’
‘I’m glad,’ Grace said. ‘That may help her a little.’
‘Maybe,’ Frances said. ‘Nothing else has.’
Frances looked worse, Grace thought, each time she saw her. They sat in her living room as before, Frances sitting bolt upright, face pale and drawn, hands nervous in her lap. Grace regretted already that she was about to delve into an area that this intensely private woman undoubtedly considered no-go, but she also knew that if she was hoping to be of any significant use to Cathy, she needed to know as much as possible about her troubled early childhood.
Frances Dean did not want to talk about it. She wished, she said straight away, that Grace would leave her sister’s past alone. That was what Marie had wanted more than anything when she’d left Tallahassee and brought Cathy to Miami. To start a new life, and to forget the old.
‘She begged me not to talk about it to anyone,’ Frances said.
‘I understand that,’ Grace said, ‘but surely under the circumstances —’
‘I made my sister a promise. No circumstances can or should change that.’ She read the frustration in Grace’s expression. ‘I’m talking about guilt, Grace,’ she explained. ‘We’re Catholics, you know, but my sister was far more devout than me, and far more burdened by guilt – much good it did her, God rest her poor soul.’
‘Why did she feel guilty?’ Grace asked, gently.
‘She had nothing to feel guilty about,’ Frances said, darkly, ‘except perhaps, for choosing John Broderick as her husband.’ She shook her head. ‘But, being so devout, her vows meant everything to Marie, and she thought it at least partly her fault that their marriage turned bad.’
‘I gather they were separated at the time of her husband’s death?’
‘Marie would never have divorced,’ Frances said. ‘And of course, when John died, she blamed herself for that too.’
Grace saw the other woman’s lips purse tightly for a moment, observed the anger in her eyes, felt her almost straining against its power, and hoped she might let it go.
‘I will tell you one thing, and no more,’ Frances went on. ‘John Broderick was a wicked, cruel man who used his position to abuse his wife and child.’
Awful, cold dismay lashed at Grace again. ‘He abused Cathy?’ Her voice was hushed.
‘Not in the way you’re thinking,’ Frances said, ‘though, Lord knows, what he did wasn’t much better.’
‘It might help if I knew.’
‘Why? How? Cathy doesn’t know about it. She was too young – she doesn’t remember, which is at least one blessing.’
‘She may not consciously remember, but —’
‘Oh, please.’ Frances rose from her armchair, propelled out of it by scorn, but then she brought herself visibly back under control, and sat down again. ‘I’m sorry, Dr Lucca,’ she said, reverting to formality, ‘but I simply don’t believe in these theories about forcing people to face dreadful things they’ve been fortunate enough to bury.’
‘I don’t neces
sarily disagree with you,’ Grace said.
‘My sister wasn’t one of those women who use every opportunity to speak badly about their children’s fathers. She was a good, kind, decent, God-fearing woman, Dr Lucca —’ the anger was still there, still only just being held at bay ‘— and there are only two things left for me to do for her now, and one of those is to keep my word to her.’
‘If you shared at least a little more with me, Frances,’ Grace said, ‘I promise you it would go no further.’
‘That’s not good enough. Marie wanted to leave all that shame behind her, and not be reminded of it ever again.’ Frances’ eyes filled suddenly with tears; she fished for her handkerchief in her pocket, found it, used it.
‘And you don’t think that my knowing about the past might help Cathy?’
‘How could your knowing anything help her?’ The scorn was evident again. ‘Digging up the past isn’t going to help find out who killed Marie and Arnold.’ Frances took a breath, composed herself. ‘If there is any justice beyond this world, John Broderick’s burning in hell now, and Marie’s surely in heaven. There’s only one thing that’s going to help that child now, and that’s for the Miami Beach Police Department to do its job and catch the person who killed those good people, so that Cathy can go on with her life and put it behind her.’
Grace liked to think she knew when she was beaten.
‘I didn’t come here to pry, Frances,’ she said. ‘I hope you know that.’
‘I’m not sure why you are here, Dr Lucca,’ Frances said stiffly.
‘I’m here as Cathy’s psychologist and as her friend.’
‘You’re only here because the police asked you to come.’
‘That’s not true. I came in the first place because Dr Becket thought I might be able to help Cathy.’
‘Because of what happened to her parents,’ Frances said. ‘Not what happened years ago.’ She stood up again, this time with an air of finality. ‘My sister and brother-in-law’s bodies have been released for burial, doctor. The funeral is arranged for next Wednesday. That will be more than enough for Cathy to have to bear without making things even more terrible. I don’t believe in dredging up every bad thing that’s ever happened to a person.’
‘Nor do I, Frances.’ Grace stood up, too, knowing she was being dismissed. ‘I never have believed in that.’
‘Then let it rest.’ Frances Dean paused. ‘If you really want to help Cathy, then please just let it be. Otherwise, as her guardian, I may have to ask you to stop seeing her.’
Ramon was standing on the kitchen table when Grace got home, plastering the hole in the ceiling.
‘How you doin’, Gracie?’
She wondered where he’d got that from. She didn’t think Teddy called her Gracie, but then again she supposed she didn’t know what anyone called her behind her back. Not that it bothered her. If it was good enough for George Burns’ wife, she figured, it was good enough for her.
She escaped back into her office and, with Harry up on her lap, debated getting back in touch with Sam. What Grace wanted now was to know what John Broderick had done to Cathy and her mother. Sam Becket was the obvious route to go, but she was concerned that all she’d achieved to date with her prodding was to give the police and the State Attorney more reason to suspect Cathy.
She decided to call David Becket instead, reached him at the medical centre in downtown Miami that he shared with two other physicians. He came to the phone directly, his voice warm and friendly.
‘How’s my favourite shrink?’
‘Troubled.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Nothing to do with that son of mine, I hope?’
Grace wasn’t sure how she felt about that question, but it made her smile. David Becket usually made her smile, now she came to think about it.
‘Cathy Robbins,’ she said. ‘I need some information about her background, and I’d prefer to get it off-the-record.’
‘And you think I can help?’
‘David, do you have contacts at Lafayette Hospital up in Tallahassee?’
‘As a matter of fact, I do.’
‘Are they the kind of contacts who might have access to nine- or ten-year-old information about a physician at the hospital?’
‘Who are we talking about here?’ David asked.
‘A Dr John Broderick,’ Grace answered. ‘Cathy’s natural father.’
He came back to her within the hour.
‘Details I’m going to have to wait for,’ he said, ‘but I thought you’d probably want whatever I could get right away.’
‘All tidbits welcome.’ Grace grabbed a pen.
‘What I have is very ugly,’ he cautioned.
‘Ugliness is what brings half the people I see to me,’ she reminded him.
‘Poor Grace,’ the doctor said.
She called Sam just after nine a.m., having hardly slept all night.
‘John Broderick,’ she said.
‘What about him?’
‘Has anyone – have you – checked into his suicide?’ She paused. ‘You said he drowned, Sam, but I heard from someone else that he was just presumed drowned.’
‘Who’d you hear that from?’
David had asked Grace not to tell his son about their conversation in case Sam thought they were meddling in police business.
‘That’s not important,’ she said, hoping he wouldn’t get heavy. ‘I just want to know if there was an actual body.’
‘Why would you doubt it, Grace?’
‘I’m not sure. I’d just really appreciate knowing.’
Grace took an hour at lunchtime – she didn’t really have the time to spare, but she needed to get out of the house, clear her head, be among people whose problems she didn’t have to worry about. Nameless people.
She thought about getting in the car and driving up to the bustling Aventura Mall, but she really didn’t have enough time for that, so she took a stroll across Kane Concourse and went to the Bal Harbour Shops with which she had a love-hate relationship; their lovely, if phoney, tropical garden setting made the stores amongst the most comfortable in which to wander, but their swankiness and, for the most part, sheer unaffordability, often put her hackles up. Still, Saks was still Saks, and Neiman Marcus was always worth a wander, and having to pass Chanel and Gucci and Hermès and Tiffany en route was, Grace had to admit, no great hardship.
It was what she needed today for a change of pace. Locals and wealthy tourists doing what they loved above almost anything: shopping. It all looked, on the surface at least, so gloriously uncomplicated. Grace knew better, of course, knew that if she chose to, she could sit in one of the cafés or restaurants and absorb an almost limitless psychologist’s Festspiel – demonstrations of marital conflict, addiction, self-gratification and inferiority complexes – but today all she wanted was to gaze into some pretty windows, look at some tempting displays, get a decent cup of coffee and shut down.
It would have worked perfectly well, but for the curious feeling Grace had that someone was watching her.
It struck her the first time when she was wandering around the lingerie department in Saks and had a sudden, strong sense that someone’s eyes were boring into her back. She turned around from the glorious, wildly priced racks of négligées, saw a small throng of people, but no one actually taking any notice of her whatsoever, shrugged off the feeling and turned back again.
Fifteen minutes later, sitting on what they called the sidewalk outside Coco’s, having a sandwich and espresso, the sensation hit her again. Grace turned around in her chair, moving more quickly this time, and saw – thought she saw – a young woman about fifteen feet or so away, stepping on to the down escalator and out of sight. Grace thought she was young from her contours and the swiftness of her movements. She had long blonde hair. She thought, though she knew it was more than unlikely, and she hadn’t really seen her clearly, that it might have been Cathy Robbins.
Sam called back that afternoon.
‘No body,’ he said without preamble. ‘But —’
‘No body?’ Grace’s heart-rate sped up.
‘Don’t get excited. There are too many buts.’
‘Such as?’
‘One: a suicide note, which is still on file up in Pensacola.’ Sam sounded matter-of-fact, like he was ticking items off a list. ‘Two: three independent witnesses saw Broderick taking out his sailboat on a day when storm warnings were being broadcast non-stop. Three: he may not have been found, but his boat was. Capsized.’
‘But no body,’ Grace said quietly.
‘Grace, what exactly is your angle on this?’ Now he sounded distracted, almost impatient. ‘You know enough about the ocean. You know it devours people, especially if they’re crazy enough to go sailing in a major storm – or determined enough to die.’
Or if they want it to seem as if they want to die.
‘You’re right,’ Grace said. She could tell there was no point in pushing him any farther, not today at least, with him in such an unreceptive mood. ‘Are you okay, Sam?’ she asked.
‘Fine,’ he said.
‘Any progress with the investigations?’
‘Nothing worth talking about.’
Time to go.
‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ she said.
Chapter Seventeen
SUNDAY, APRIL 19, 1998
On Sunday afternoon, Sam was in Sarasota.
It was the Florida city many people loved best, and up until nine years ago Sam had liked it a lot too, not least because it hosted so much fine opera. But it had become the place on earth he most dreaded visiting. It was the city that Althea had chosen to move to after their divorce.
It was also the place she had elected to bury their son.
Her mother lived there, and one of her sisters, and Sam had certainly heard Althea say, over and over again, that one day, when Sam had had his fill of Miami crime (she had always had that tendency – one that really pissed him off – when she was mad at him, to make it sound as if he got some sick fix from his work), she hoped they would move there too. But the cold-blooded immediacy and obstinacy of the decision Althea had made right after Sampson’s death had shocked Sam way beyond words. He knew – oh, Christ, of course he knew – that the icy spikes of her cruelty had been fashioned out of unbearable grief and despair, but the savagery of her decision – from which she had absolutely refused to shift, and from which he could not have succeeded in shifting her without prolonging an agony that was already unendurable – to bury their son over two hundred miles away from him was something he would never be able to forgive.
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