Tom Kennedy was already standing and naming the victims.
‘Mrs Susan Easterman. Mr Michael Easterman.’ He paused between names, giving just the right amount of emphasis and respect to each. ‘Ms Elizabeth Price. Mr André Duprez. Mrs Evelyn Ressler – ’
A sound came up from the crowd in the plaza, a strangled female cry, and Sam couldn’t see who’d uttered it, but he knew it didn’t bode well, and they’d tried hard to shield relatives from this conference, but . . .
‘And Mr Frank Ressler.’
Silence fell for one long moment – and then the Captain handed over to Sergeant Alvarez, who commenced a brief, heavily censored account of each crime, with approximate discovery locations, following up with an appeal to the public:
‘Anyone with information that might lead to the apprehension of the person or persons guilty of these wicked crimes will be treated in strictest confidence.’
More facts missing than included: no mention of glue, nor of the plastic dome or fish tank or kiln. Deemed wiser for the investigation, and an avoidance of sensationalism, in any case, had been agreed upon, the basic facts being grim and alarming enough.
Alvarez continued with help from Joe Duval’s profile.
‘It’s thought that these were signature killings, couples taken either together or separately, then murdered and, finally, left in locations where they were sure to be found sooner rather than later. There was a sense of “display” in all cases, and the time lapse between disappearance and discovery was also similar in all three cases, indicating a high level of organization and a clear desire to show off.’
In the report itself, Duval had said that though none of the victims had been sexually assaulted, there was nonetheless the strong possibility of a sexual motivation in the crimes, certainly of power issues.
Sam was grateful for Alvarez’s sensitivity in leaving that out here and now. Lord knew it was all bad enough, whether or not there were relatives present in the crowd beyond the semi-circle of journalists and reporters, but any mention of sexual motivation would have been fodder for lurid headlines.
‘Our department’s intention until now,’ the sergeant went on, ‘has been to choke off the publicity oxygen that the killer has very likely been craving, but now that a third couple have suffered such a monstrous, tragic end, it’s become clear that while there’s no need for mass alarm, there is now, sad to say, a real need for vigilance in the Miami-Dade area.’
The questions began, came thick and fast, sharp, searching questions from Fox, 7 News, CBS 4 and the other big guns, and Alvarez had left enough unsaid to give him room to answer some, but with so much to be kept under wraps, he was at a major disadvantage.
‘That’s the third question you’ve evaded,’ Ann Nuñez from the Miami Daily News snapped, and a chorus of frustration and hostility rose around her.
Time, Alvarez knew – only a glint of sweat on his forehead betraying his stress – to offer them one hard ingredient, partly to appease, but also because it was the kind of thing that might just draw out a real lead.
‘We do have reason to believe that in all three cases the victims were brought to their final destinations on a wheeled cart or trolley, possibly a hospital gurney.’
‘But you don’t know that, do you?’ Sandy Reiner from the Miami Star called out, his voice hard and clear. ‘And you don’t have the first clue who you’re looking for. Six people already dead, and you don’t even know for sure if you’re looking for one killer or eight.’
‘And we’re not going to comment on that today, Sandy – ’ Alvarez’s answer was controlled – ‘because it’s too close to the investigation, but we’ll provide more details—’
‘—at a later time,’ Reiner finished for him. ‘Yeah, yeah.’
A female voice rang out in the plaza.
‘How do you explain leaving the people of Miami in the dark, Sergeant?’
There was a stir in the crowd, and then a woman stepped forward through the line of invited journalists, and the news people let her through, sensing a ‘moment’ and eager for it.
She was a tall, middle-aged brunette in a black linen shift dress, and Sam had not met the Resslers’ daughter, but he’d seen a photo of her, and his heart sank.
‘You left an elderly couple who lived alone completely vulnerable.’
Barbara Herman’s voice trembled, yet it seemed to fill the air, and every lens and mike was now trained on the grieving, patently angry woman.
‘My parents never hurt anyone in their lives.’ She choked back tears, but she wasn’t finished and no one was trying to stop her. ‘They didn’t have a chance, because they didn’t even know their lives were in danger. How do you explain that?’
Time to take some heat.
Sam stood and stepped forward.
‘Mrs Herman, we’re so terribly sorry for your great loss, and if you’re ready—’
‘Ready for what, Detective Becket?’ The bereaved woman’s guns were blazing. ‘For you to fob me off with excuses about how you couldn’t know who was going to be taken next?’
‘No excuses—’
‘Of course you couldn’t know that,’ Barbara Herman cut back in. ‘No one expects miracles, Detective, but they weren’t even warned.’
The Chief was up again, a clear message for Sam to give way.
‘Mrs Herman,’ Hernandez said, ‘may I take—’
‘No, you may not.’ She was not done with them yet, and her tears were flowing now, but she was making no move to wipe them away, and Sam knew that the press and media people were loving it.
‘Because of your ineptitude, my mother and father died in the most unimaginably horrific way.’ Mrs Herman turned to face the assembled gathering, visibly shaking. ‘And I’m damned sure these people are not telling you the whole truth about this, because they certainly haven’t told us everything yet. But you can bet that as soon as my husband and I find out what happened – and we will – we’ll be making sure that the people of Miami know it, too.’
At last she stopped and walked back the way she’d come, and a man – her husband, Sam supposed – stepped forward to support her, and the cameras whirred and clicked again.
And not long after that, Captain Kennedy called a halt to the conference.
Damage done. A real body blow to the department.
And Sam Becket, for one, didn’t blame that poor distraught woman one bit.
SIXTY
They headed out of the station with Jess before noon for an early lunch break, not because any of them were hungry, but Sam and Martinez both wanted a brief time-out after the new load of guilt that had weighed down on them along with the press conference, and Jess, feeling bad for them both, had asked if she could come along.
‘If you don’t mind,’ she’d said. ‘I don’t want to intrude if you were going to discuss the case or guy stuff.’
‘No guy stuff,’ Martinez said.
‘Hey,’ Sam said. ‘Maybe you two’d like some time alone?’
‘No way,’ Jess said. ‘Not when I can have the both of you.’ She tucked her right arm through her fiancé’s, then linked her left arm with Sam’s. ‘OK?’
‘Sure,’ Sam said, and was glad all over again for Martinez, though he knew it was going to take more than a sweet-natured half-hour with Jess to seriously boost either of them.
It was sunny and hot now for February, with record highs forecast, and folk out on Washington seemed to be enjoying it, tourists and workers alike, a bustle in the air which was good news for South Beach, Sam felt, with the economy having ground the place down a little over the past year or so. Like everywhere, he guessed, but he had a particular fondness for this district, had formerly lived in a rooftop apartment in a pink-and-white curvy Art Deco building on Collins, a home he’d negotiated for himself through pure luck. He’d loved that place, had spent whole nights in real hot weather out on the roof itself, and he doubted if anything less forceful than his passion for Grace Lucca would have gotten him out of there.
‘Hey!’
Jess’s cry startled him and Martinez as she let go both their arms and took off ahead of them along Washington . . .
‘Jess!’ Martinez yelled.
It took a good two seconds for both men to register what she’d seen, what she was heading toward, and they both took off after her, but it was too late to stop her as she hurled herself at a tall teenaged African-American boy.
‘Jess, stop!’ Martinez shouted.
She whacked the kid hard with her shoulder bag, and he gave a yelp of pain and dropped a black wallet, and Sam and Martinez were on them just as Jess was about to put the kid into an armlock.
‘Jess, hold it!’ Sam told her.
‘He took her wallet!’ Jess was breathless, still excited.
‘What are you, crazy?’ A woman, short, round and outraged, grabbed at the teenager. ‘That’s my son!’
‘I saw him take the wallet out of your purse.’ Jess was stunned, her face reddening. ‘Ma’am, I saw it.’
Sam and Martinez both had their badges out. ‘Police, ma’am.’
‘He’s my son,’ the woman said again. ‘I gave him the wallet.’
‘But he ran at you,’ Jess protested. ‘He grabbed it out of your purse.’
‘I sent him to the store and he forgot to take the wallet and came back for it.’ The mother was still furious. ‘Is there a law against that now?’
‘Of course not, ma’am,’ Sam told her. ‘It was just a mistake.’
‘I think the bitch broke my arm!’ The young man’s voice rose on the last word, and people were stopping now, a small audience gathering.
‘If you’re hurt,’ Sam assured the teenager, ‘we’ll call Fire and Rescue.’
‘If she’s broken his arm,’ the mother said, ‘I’ll be suing the police department.’
‘Which is your right,’ Martinez said. ‘But it was a misunderstanding, ma’am. This woman believed you were being robbed. She was just trying to help you.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Jess’s cheeks were scarlet now, her humiliation growing by the second. ‘I can’t believe what I did. I’m just so sorry.’
‘It’s OK,’ Martinez told her. ‘It was an honest mistake.’
Five minutes or so later, the mother had calmed down, her son’s arm not yet, at least, showing so much as a bruise, and certainly not seriously injured, but the detectives had offered again to call Fire and Rescue, asking the woman to come in to the station and make a complaint, if she wished, which she had elected not to do. And Sam had suggested that the young man might like to take a patrol car ride some time, and though he’d sneered at the notion at first, his mom had said she thought that might be nice for him.
‘The least they can do for you,’ she’d said.
And the small crowd, a little disappointed, had moved along.
‘All’s well,’ Sam said. ‘Shall we go get our sandwich?’
‘I don’t think I could eat,’ Jess said.
‘You should have a little something,’ Sam said.
They started walking again, and then suddenly, when they were well out of earshot of the mother and son, Martinez stopped and turned on Jess. ‘How in hell could you be so dumb? That’s the last thing in the world you do – if he’d had a weapon, you could be dead right now, not to mention that you just assaulted a teenager!’
‘Hey, man.’ Sam saw tears welling in Jess’s eyes. ‘Take it easy. She thought she was helping.’ He put an arm around her shoulders. ‘But Al’s right, Jess. You’re a brave lady, but the kid could have had a knife, and your fiancé wants to keep you around for a long time.’
‘I know.’ She wiped her eyes, hands shaking. ‘I really am sorry.’
Sam removed his arm, and Martinez stepped in, gave her a hug.
‘OK,’ Sam said. ‘That’s better.’
‘I’m sorry, too.’ Martinez kissed her. ‘I shouldn’t have gotten so mad, but you’re precious to me, like Sam said, and you gotta take care of yourself.’
Jess pulled away. ‘Not in public, Al. I’m embarrassed enough.’
‘Quite something, your fiancée,’ Sam said.
And saw her colour again.
SIXTY-ONE
Christou’s number one restaurant, Anthony’s Taste of Ionia, was closed until five, but a dark-haired young woman in a T-shirt dress and wedge sandals responded to the detectives’ knocking after a few moments, not appearing overly surprised by their badges, so, they presumed, well informed of the happenings in her boss’s backyard.
‘It’s just a courtesy call,’ Sam told her.
‘Mr Christou is out,’ the young woman said, ‘but I hope he won’t be too long, so if you’d like to come in and wait?’
She stepped back to let them into a large, dimly lit, empty restaurant, tables laid with white cloths and silver cutlery, glasses upside down.
‘I’m Effie.’ She locked the door, then turned back to them. ‘Effie Stephanopoulos, Mr Christou’s personal assistant.’ She paused. ‘This was such a terrible thing.’
‘Yes,’ Sam said. ‘It was.’
She seemed at a loss. ‘Could I offer you some coffee while you wait?’
‘I’d prefer a glass of water,’ Sam said. ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’
‘Couldn’t be easier.’ Effie walked around the long, old-fashioned bar. ‘Same for you?’ she asked Martinez. ‘Or coffee, or something stronger, perhaps?’
‘Just water, ma’am,’ Martinez said. ‘But might you happen to have a couple of headache tablets?’
‘Tylenol OK?’ She stooped, opened a low-level refrigerator, took out two small bottles of Evian, straightened up.
‘Great,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’ She found a small tray, opened a drawer, shook two caplets from a container, set them down with the water. ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she said, ‘but I do need to go back up to the office.’
‘That’s fine,’ Sam told her.
‘Make yourselves comfortable,’ Effie said. ‘Any table or the bar.’
They watched her leave through a door near the back, heard her tread up the stairs, and then Martinez downed the pills and most of his water.
‘Bad headache?’ Sam asked.
‘Uh-huh.’ Martinez coughed. ‘I think you gave me your cold.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Sam said.
‘Me too.’
They took a slow walk around, and there were the photographs that Karen Christou had mentioned last Friday: three handsomely framed shots of the fish tank, two with its beaming owner standing before it.
‘Hey.’ Martinez was at the far end of the long bar. ‘This remind you of something?’
Sam looked, saw an empty display stand on the bar that might be used for desserts or maybe cheeses.
It had a domed cover made of glass or plastic.
He shrugged. ‘Six feet bigger, and you might have something.’ He picked up a menu, studied it. ‘But here’s a thing. Not just a fish menu. “Anthony’s Stifado”. Like a beef stew, but with paprika and cream.’
They both fell silent for a moment, considering possible implications.
‘But it’s still nuts, right?’ Martinez said. ‘No killer in his right mind calls the cops to show off what he’s done in his own backyard.’
‘It’s only nuts if it’s Christou himself,’ Sam said.
‘Karen, you mean.’ Martinez coughed again, drank the rest of his Evian. ‘With a lover?’
‘At least that would make some vague kind of sense.’ Sam shook his head. ‘Except why kill the Eastermans first and leave them at the gallery? Just for the hell of it?’
‘If she’s framing hubby and if she’s crazy enough, who the fuck knows how far she’d go?’
They heard footsteps again, coming back down, and Effie reappeared.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, ‘but I just heard from Anthony – Mr Christou – who sends his apologies, but he doesn’t know when he’s
going to be back, and he asked if you’d mind very much making an appointment.’
‘We don’t mind,’ Sam said.
Effie pulled a face. ‘I should have brought down his calendar.’
‘No problem,’ Martinez said. ‘We’ll come up with you.’
They followed her up a linoleum-covered staircase and through a door into the front office. In another room, an old man with shaggy grey hair worked at a desk, and through a second open doorway they saw a larger office, probably Christou’s.
‘Anthony was very shocked by what happened,’ Effie said quietly.
‘Who wouldn’t be?’ Martinez said.
‘So is this where all the restaurants are run from?’ Sam asked.
‘It is.’ She smiled up at him. ‘Did you ever eat here?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Me neither,’ Martinez said.
‘You should try it. They’re all very good.’
Sam glanced up, saw certificates, photos, letters and spreadsheet printouts pinned to a cork board above what he took to be Effie’s desk.
‘Let me just look in his calendar.’ She opened up a page-to-a-day book with a number of entries on both visible pages.
Sam waited for prevarication.
‘Are you taking a vacation this year?’ Martinez asked Effie.
‘I sure hope so,’ she said. ‘No hard plans yet, though.’
‘How about Mr Christou?’ Sam asked.
‘I think he’s going to Corfu in the spring,’ Effie said.
‘I’ve never been there,’ Martinez said, then coughed again. ‘Excuse me.’
‘I sometimes wonder why people bother going overseas,’ Sam said, ‘when we’re so spoiled for choice in Florida.’
‘I know just what you mean,’ Effie said. ‘I went across to Fort Myers last year and it was so beautiful.’
‘Does the boss like the Gulf coast?’ Martinez asked.
‘I don’t recall him ever going there.’ Effie looked back down at the book on her desk. ‘How would tomorrow morning be for you gentlemen? Say around ten thirty?’
No prevarication.
‘That would be good.’ Sam stepped closer to Christou’s office, saw another fish tank photo on the facing wall. ‘He really did love those fish, didn’t he?’
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