Caged

by Hilary Norman

  ‘God forbid,’ Jess said.

  Though everyone now involved in the investigation was uncomfortably aware that the staged elements of the slayings made it all too possible that whoever was responsible might just feel like rounding off the ‘achievement’ with a third pair.

  God forbid, as Jess had said.

  Suddenly, midway through the afternoon, something.

  A few grains of sand found in the wheel tracks on the Christou lawn.

  On the face of it, not the biggest deal, considering Prairie Avenue was in Miami Beach. Except Crime Scene were saying that this was not Miami Beach sand, which was golden and comparatively coarse.

  The sand in those tracks was white and finer, more like Gulf Coast sand or even sand up in north-west Florida, which had some of the purest, whitest sand in the state – or it might just be from a bunker on one of the numerous golf courses in the area. And given time, they would probably be able to analyze it further, narrow it down. But for now, all they knew was that it wasn’t local beach sand, and no one could guess how that might help nail the killers of the fish tank victims.

  But it was, at least, something.

  It was too late when Sam got home for the kind of Friday evening that he loved; too late for candle lighting and the family gathering around the Jewish Sabbath table that even Grace, born of Italian Catholic and Swedish Protestant parents, had come to cherish since their marriage – and it was a source of pleasure and amusement for the Beckets, on occasions like Thanksgiving, to list their remarkable multiracial, national and religious legacies, with Sam always claiming, until Joshua’s birth, that he had won the melting pot contest as an African-Bahamian-Episcopalian-Jewish-American descendant of a runaway slave.

  Late as it was tonight, though his son was sound asleep, Grace was waiting for him with beef and potato soup simmering in a copper pan, a ciabatta loaf ready for slicing, and the remains of the good Chianti they’d shared last night standing on the kitchen table.

  Sam kissed his wife, sank on to a chair, fondled Woody’s ears as the dog leaned against his right leg.

  ‘My day for being spoiled,’ he said.

  He’d already told her about Jess bringing in lunch.

  ‘Must mean you deserve it,’ Grace said.

  ‘Talk about good enough to eat,’ Sam said. ‘Look at you.’

  Nothing overtly sensuous about what she was wearing – Grace didn’t do slinky or black lace – but she could make one of his old white shirts look a damned sight sexier than any GQ spread.

  ‘You look bushed,’ she said, ladling soup into a ceramic bowl.

  ‘Truth,’ he said. ‘I am.’

  ‘Too tired to talk over an idea?’ She set down the bowl in front of him, sliced a hunk of bread and poured him a glass of wine.

  ‘Of course not.’ He grasped at her hand. ‘Thank you, Gracie.’

  ‘You’re very welcome,’ she said, loving the fact that he still bothered to thank her for small kindnesses.

  ‘And the idea?’ He had a spoonful of soup. ‘That is so good.’

  ‘Do you think Al would mind if we threw him and Jess a party?’

  Sam raised both eyebrows in surprise. ‘Really?’

  She sat down beside him. ‘Only I can’t picture him arranging that kind of thing, but I think they might like it, so if you think it would be OK, I’d love to do it.’

  ‘You are truly a spectacular woman,’ Sam said.

  ‘Is that a yes?’

  ‘Definitely,’ he said. ‘Except I’m not sure we can invite anyone from the department.’

  ‘So they’re really not telling people yet?’ She pulled a face. ‘I don’t know who we could invite then. I’ve never heard Al talk about friends outside the office.’

  ‘He doesn’t really have much of a life outside,’ Sam said.

  ‘He didn’t,’ Grace said, ‘but he does now.’

  ‘So maybe we’ll just make them a family dinner – our family being his.’

  ‘That’s fine with me,’ Grace said. ‘And should it be a surprise, do you think, or should we consult with them?’

  ‘I think we should tell Al, and if he goes for it, leave it up to him to decide if he wants to tell Jess or not.’ Sam didn’t think he was up to organizing more than one surprise at a time.

  ‘That leaves the biggest problem,’ Grace said. ‘Finding a free evening for you guys with this case.’

  Sam sighed because that was so true. ‘Let’s see what the next few days bring.’ He picked up his spoon, then set it down again, his appetite gone.

  ‘No ID yet on this couple?’

  ‘We can’t even be sure they are a couple.’

  ‘Dear Lord,’ Grace said.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  February 14

  Romeo the Fifth was missing in action.

  The keeper didn’t know whether to be more upset or impressed.

  It had been apparent, from the go, that he was a rough one, and now it was clear that he was a tough guy, too, with an independent streak, and face it, the buck would have had to go soon anyway.

  Anyway, the good news, as it happened, far outweighed the bad.

  Because Isabella the Seventh was expecting.

  Well, of course she was, fecund little mom that she was.

  The keeper wasn’t going to bug her with stats this weekend, would allow Isabella to celebrate in peaceful isolation.

  And who knew, maybe Romeo would show up again.

  Food and sex on offer, after all.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The squad had come to the station for a Sunday morning meeting, gathering in their own office rather than in the conference room since most of the other detectives were off duty.

  Second Sunday in a row for some of them, and they’d had to work late yesterday evening – not that any of them were too sold on Valentine’s, but that wasn’t the point; what mattered was that they were tired, and some of them had families, and Sam, like most of them, had this old-fashioned wish to be home with Grace and Joshua, which seemed to happen too damned seldom. Though usually when he was pulling overtime, it was because of overdue paperwork, not the violent crimes themselves.

  They worked and lived in a peaceful place, for the most part.

  All the more reason for them to protect it as well as they could.

  The intention this morning was to brainstorm, as well as pool existing information again, trying their damnedest to refresh their minds and produce something new and useful.

  One, two or even more killers remained the unsatisfactory consensus, and there was the strong possibility that they were dealing with a strong, highly organized individual, working alone or hiring help – which was their best hope of a weak link – but Sam had brought a sickening list to the meeting, of past partner or team serial killers in the US and worldwide. Lessons to be learned, maybe, or some ingredient of those cases to help trigger new insight in their own squad.

  There were more photographs pinned up on the board than there had been just twenty-four hours earlier. John and Jane Doe joining the Eastermans, and the indignity of nameless victims always made Sam’s heart ache.

  One question was taxing them all, and Martinez voiced it first:

  ‘I still don’t get what the hell kind of message is a goddamned fish tank?’

  ‘And how does it relate to the dome?’ Sam added.

  ‘The tank’s acrylic,’ Riley said.

  The notion of a plastics-motivated killer gripped no one.

  Exhibition was self-evident, but there was no other link they’d managed to conjure up between the garden of a former gallery and the backyard of an occupied luxury home.

  Outdoors probably chosen just because it was easier than breaking in.

  ‘And because the displays were more likely to be found,’ Cutter said, ‘though that goes more for the Christou house.’

  ‘For the gallery too,’ Sam said, ‘if they knew the gardener’s routine. Which would make the dumping sites highly premeditated.’
/>   ‘Does that make the victims more or less likely to be randomly chosen?’ Riley asked.

  The phone rang. Elliot Sanders bringing them up to date.

  ‘I’m putting you on speaker, Doc,’ Sam told him.

  ‘Same knife,’ the ME said, ‘or damned close. And we have stomach contents for you. Beef, egg plant, tomatoes and cheese.’

  ‘Moussaka,’ Riley said.

  ‘Christou’s Greek,’ Martinez said.

  ‘His restaurants serve fish,’ Sam said.

  ‘Bet he knows how to cook moussaka,’ Martinez persisted.

  ‘Not usually with sedatives, though, I’d imagine,’ Sanders’s voice said through the speaker. ‘Temazepam again. Higher levels in the male, maybe just because he ate more dinner. He may have been unconscious before he died.’ He paused. ‘More to follow, as always, but I thought you’d want to know.’

  ‘We need to know if the victims liked Greek food,’ Sam said.

  ‘I’d settle for their names first,’ Beth Riley said.

  ‘Moussaka has to make the Christous more interesting,’ Martinez said.

  ‘Except it was goulash with the Eastermans,’ Cutter said.

  ‘And fish,’ Martinez said.

  ‘We’re reaching, guys,’ Sam said. ‘Unpleasant as the Christous are, I can’t see them being crazy enough to have to have killed these people and then displayed them in their own fish tank – not to mention calling 911—’

  ‘Karen made the call,’ Martinez pointed out. ‘Not Anthony.’

  ‘Maybe their backyard was chosen for more reasons than the fish tank being there,’ Sam said.

  ‘Still here,’ Sanders jolted them from the speaker on Sam’s desk.

  ‘Sorry, Doc,’ Sam said.

  ‘The glue was in both their mouths, and plenty of it. But I’d venture to say that the big deal here – maybe the turn on, but that’s for you people to establish – was the joining of their lips, same way the Eastermans were joined down below.’

  ‘Hips and lips,’ Martinez said sourly after the ME had signed off. ‘Think we got a poet?’

  ‘It wasn’t hips, though, remember,’ Sam said.

  ‘Sure I remember.’ Martinez shook his head. ‘So sick.’

  The missing persons report came through just before lunch.

  The stuff of nightmares for two more families, and only the beginning.

  ‘Two lawyers from the same firm,’ Sam told Martinez, scanning the printout in his hand. ‘Not married or even cohabiting, but definitely a couple.’

  Elizabeth Ann Price, aged thirty-three, and André Duprez, a year older, both AWOL from their office on Biscayne Boulevard since Thursday morning, according to their close friend and colleague Michelle Webster, who’d been out that day but had felt something was amiss when neither of them had shown up for work on Friday – and had known that something was badly wrong when both had failed to respond either to her texts or calls to their homes, cells or Skype lines.

  ‘Ms Webster said she tried to convince herself that they were just acting against type and taking a couple of unscheduled personal days,’ Sam went on reading. ‘But then she drove to Ms Price’s townhouse in North Miami Beach and saw that Mr Duprez’s BMW was parked on the street, and Ms Price’s Honda was in the garage.’

  Michelle Webster stated, in her report, that she’d held off until Saturday afternoon, telling herself they could have gone out with friends or taken a cab to the airport, gone someplace for the weekend. But none of that rang true, so finally she’d driven to André Duprez’s apartment building in Miami Shores, and had talked the super into using his key to see if all was well.

  Which it certainly had seemed to be. If André had eaten there recently, either alone or with Elizabeth, there was no sign of it; in fact, Michelle had reported that the kitchen was pristine, but looking around with the super, she’d seen that all André’s suitcases seemed to be there, right down to his weekend bag.

  Sam put down the report.

  ‘No signs of a struggle,’ he said, ‘so far as she could see.’

  ‘She go inside Ms Price’s house?’ Martinez asked.

  ‘No key.’ Sam paused. ‘Elizabeth’s father and sister live up in Sarasota, mother deceased. André Duprez is from Quebec City – a snowbird who came down about ten years ago and never went home. Both parents alive and living there.’

  The photograph handed over on Saturday by Michelle Webster came through.

  Two attractive young people having fun at a party. The woman a brunette, with high cheekbones and a laughing mouth, wearing a simple, classy-looking black dress. The young man in an open-necked white shirt, also sharp-looking, his fair hair buzz-cut, his eyes blue and keen.

  No real doubts about their identity.

  Elizabeth Price’s father, Edward, would be getting a visit from the Sarasota Police Department before the hour was out. Same deal in Quebec City. Arrangements would be made for them to fly to Miami as soon as possible.

  Their permission would be requested to enter and search their children’s properties, and search warrants would be obtained to help the police try to determine if anything bad had occurred at either address, or if the victims’ lifestyles – perhaps even their taste in art – might throw up a link with the Oates Gallery couple.

  In the meantime, Sam and Martinez would meet with Michelle Webster and head over to the law offices of Tiller, Valdez, Weinman, where two of the senior partners had agreed to come in to help find some other possible connection between the two couples.

  Other than their slaying.

  And now at least the new John and Jane Doe had real names.

  THIRTY-SIX

  They met with Michelle Webster at the Medical Examiner’s Office as she emerged from the Family Grieving Room just after three o’clock. The young woman had just identified horrific photographs of two dear friends, and was plainly distraught. She was, she told them, Elizabeth’s best friend, but had grown very fond of André too.

  ‘I just can’t seem to believe it,’ she said. ‘I can’t take it in.’

  She was diminutive, about five-one, Sam thought, with short, raven hair and eyes almost as dark behind oval spectacles, their sides glittery with tiny jewels, though that was all that sparkled about the young woman in black.

  Her voice was strained, as if it hurt to talk, words coming in intense bursts, between bouts of weeping. Sam and Martinez doubted that there was anything more of practical use that they would glean from Michelle Webster today.

  They were gentle, told her that Edward Price and his younger daughter, Margie, would be arriving at Miami International late that night, and that Gérard and Claudine Duprez were booked on the first flight out of Quebec City in the morning.

  ‘Can we drive you home?’ Sam offered.

  Michelle shook her head. ‘I don’t think I could bear to go home yet. I’d rather go to the office.’ She saw their hesitation. ‘I know it’s Sunday. I don’t plan to work, just to be there. I already called Rachel – that’s Rachel Weinman, one of the senior partners.’

  ‘We know,’ Sam said. ‘In fact, we’re heading over there shortly.’

  ‘Was I wrong to tell her?’ Behind the spectacles, her eyes looked scared.

  ‘Of course not,’ Sam reassured her. ‘You need all the support you can get.’

  ‘Just one question for now, ma’am,’ Martinez said.

  ‘Michelle,’ she said. ‘Please. And ask me anything, as many questions as you need to. I want to help so badly.’

  ‘Did your friends like Greek food?’

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Now and then.’ And suddenly she seemed to guess the fact behind the question, and her eyes filled with fresh tears of grief and horror.

  ‘We’re very sorry for your loss,’ Martinez told her.

  Nothing more they could say.

  The reception room of Tiller, Valdez, Weinman was sleek, expensive and confidence-inspiring – until, Sam supposed, for some of their clients, it came to fees.

&n
bsp; The two partners were waiting, grave-faced. The sight of them started Michelle Webster weeping again, and Rachel Weinman, a sturdy woman with short grey hair, wearing a charcoal pants suit and black blouse, took the younger woman in her arms, while Victor Valdez, tall, slim and elegant in a dark suit, patted Michelle’s shoulder and explained to Sam and Martinez that their partner, Stephen Tiller, was presently in Berlin.

  ‘Though he’s available, should you need to speak with him,’ Weinman said. ‘I have numbers for him, or he can call you, as you wish.’

  ‘I imagine what you’ll need most at this stage,’ Valdez said, ‘will be to speak to Elizabeth’s and André’s colleagues, which won’t be easy to arrange until tomorrow.’

  ‘That’ll be soon enough,’ Sam said.

  ‘In the meantime,’ Weinman said, ‘I’ve made copies of their personnel files for you.’ She paused. ‘André was Canadian, as you may already know, but he was a member of the Florida State Bar.’

  ‘Was.’ Michelle shuddered.

  ‘It’s terrible,’ Weinman said.

  ‘Such fine young people.’ Valdez shook his head. ‘They should have had outstanding careers ahead of them.’

  ‘They should have had life ahead of them,’ Weinman added.

  Tears in her eyes now, too.

  They agreed, back in the car, that the lawyers had seemed like decent people. Sam had liked the way they’d worked together, arranging to collect the Prices, both tactful with the bereft young woman, not pushy but getting a tough job done well, making the firm’s Aventura apartment ready for Edward and Margie Price in case they’d made no plans.

  ‘So what we got here seems like another real nice, regular young couple,’ Martinez said.

  No known enemies or angry clients, accordingly to the partners.

  ‘Seems that way,’ Sam said.

  ‘Depressing as hell,’ Martinez said.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  The search warrant obtained, they took a first look at Elizabeth Price’s townhouse, moving in simultaneously with Crime Scene.

  If the couple had been taken together, then, with both their cars left behind, this was the most likely abduction location, and the techs were paying particular attention to the garage and its access to the house. Evidence collection and photography first, as always, no chemicals being brought into the possible scene, the print techs waiting until after that first close look.