Caged

by Hilary Norman

  They’d begun calling the case the Couples Slayings, which Sam guessed had been inevitable, and it was clear now that they were gunning for him, which he’d also expected and could live with.

  ‘Do you have time for “private” matters, Detective Becket,’ one of the journalists who’d followed him from the hospital called now, ‘when the families of six Miami citizens have been shattered forever, and when all decent, loving couples are fearing for their lives?’

  The day he did not find some way to make time to go sit with a sick loved one was the day Sam figured he’d seriously consider giving up the job.

  But he knew better than to tell them that.

  Still nothing in on the Resslers to shed any more light on why they’d been chosen. And the hell of it was that if there was a pattern to the timing of the killings, with six days having passed between the first and second, then five between the second couple and the third, the squad was grimly aware that another couple might already have been taken.

  No missing persons reports ringing alarm bells yet.

  Cops didn’t tend to admit to knocking on wood, not out loud anyway.

  Sam, having caught the habit from Grace, was sure as hell silently doing that very thing.

  ‘Effie Stephanopoulos called,’ Riley told Sam at nine thirty. ‘She said it’d be real hard for Mr Christou to make himself available today, because Saturdays are crazy all day for them, but if it’s important, he says he’ll do his best.’

  ‘Big of him,’ Sam said.

  ‘So do we want to see him?’ Riley asked.

  ‘Not today,’ Sam said.

  Not with nothing solid to hang an interview on yet – if ever.

  ‘Effie said Mrs Christou’s gone out of town to stay with friends, but she gave me a number for her if we need it. I said we’d appreciate the name and address of the friends – ’ Riley loaded the word – ‘and Effie’s going to call back with those.’ She took a breath. ‘And Cutter’s still working on Mrs C.’

  Ransacking databases for anything of interest on Karen Christou, but nothing new yet. Maiden name Carlsen. Danish-born father, American mother, married to Anthony for nearly eleven years. Two complaints from neighbours on Prairie Avenue about noise from domestic disputes. Nothing since the couple separated two years ago, not even a gripe over the fish tank.

  Larry Beatty was home this morning.

  Apartment 14D was more tasteful than his office. A modern Miami Beach easy-living residence, with tile floors and a couple of blue rugs and toning lounging furniture, glass units on the walls and broad floor-to-ceiling windows. It looked well maintained and comfortable, but gave no cymbal crash clues about its occupant.

  ‘I’m a little surprised you’ve come here,’ he said after Sam had introduced Beth Riley.

  ‘You don’t work weekends,’ Sam said. ‘I hope it isn’t inconvenient.’

  ‘Even if it was, as I’ve told you, I want to do anything I can to help.’

  He offered them coffee and mineral water, which they declined, and they all sat down, Riley and Sam on the sofa, Beatty in an armchair.

  ‘Is Detective Martinez taking the weekend off too?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s sick,’ Sam said.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  Sam thanked him, and went directly to it.

  ‘Can you tell us about your relationship with Allison Moore?’

  ‘Relationship?’ Beatty’s fair eyebrows rose. ‘We’re colleagues, as you know. She works for me.’

  ‘Would you say you were friends?’ Riley asked.

  ‘I’d like to think all my close colleagues are friends.’

  ‘Outside the office,’ Sam said. ‘Are you friends there too?’

  ‘We’ve had the occasional drink and a couple of lunches.’ Beatty shrugged. ‘Another form of meeting, really.’

  ‘What can you tell us about Ms Moore?’ Riley asked.

  Beatty sat forward. ‘Am I allowed to ask you a question?’

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ Riley said.

  ‘Is she under suspicion of something?’

  ‘Should she be?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Of course not.’ Beatty shook his head. ‘Though how would I know?’

  ‘You asked the question, sir,’ Riley said.

  Sam smiled. ‘Shall we start again?’

  ‘OK,’ Beatty said easily.

  ‘We’re interested in learning a little more about everyone we’ve encountered during these investigations.’ Sam paused. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard about the other killings.’

  ‘Hard not to,’ Beatty said. ‘It’s getting scary out there.’

  ‘Mostly for couples,’ Riley said.

  ‘You don’t have a partner, do you?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Not at present,’ Beatty said. ‘Maybe I should be glad it’s only me.’ He paused. ‘So are you asking Ally the same kind of questions about me? Is that how you work?’

  ‘Ms Moore’s an artist, isn’t she?’ Sam said.

  ‘An amateur artist, yes, I believe so.’

  ‘Have you seen her work?’ Sam asked.

  ‘I think I saw one of her paintings one time.’

  ‘You think?’ Riley said.

  Beatty’s headshake betrayed slight irritation. ‘I did see one. There was an exhibition, and one of her paintings was included and a few people from the office went along to be supportive.’

  ‘What did you think of it?’ Riley asked.

  ‘Of the painting?’

  ‘Did you feel she’s a talented artist?’ Sam asked.

  ‘To be honest, I’m not sure I even remember it.’ Beatty shrugged again. ‘I’m no judge, Detective.’

  ‘You managed the Oates Gallery,’ Riley said.

  ‘Only from the property standpoint,’ Beatty said.

  ‘Has Ms Moore ever shown you her studio?’ Sam asked.

  ‘No,’ Beatty said. ‘I don’t know if she has one.’

  ‘According to the catalogue of the exhibition in which her painting was shown,’ Sam said, ‘her work has a dark quality.’

  Something happened in Beatty’s hazel eyes for an instant, just a small flutter of something, quickly covered, then gone.

  ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘As I said, I hardly remember it.’

  ‘Do you know if Ms Moore has a partner?’ Sam changed tack.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Beatty said. ‘She isn’t married.’

  ‘Does she live alone?’ asked Riley.

  ‘I’ve never heard her mention anyone special,’ Beatty said. ‘Surely you don’t need me to answer something like that?’

  ‘We’re just interested,’ Sam said.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Beatty said, ‘but I just don’t have any more to tell you about Ally. If I did, I would.’ His smile was strained. ‘How about some questions about me? At least that’s something I’d be equipped to answer.’

  ‘Not today,’ Sam said.

  ‘Some other time perhaps,’ Riley added.

  Beatty laughed. ‘You sound as if you’re about to tell me not to leave town.’

  ‘Why would we do that?’ Sam asked.

  ‘No reason I know.’ The humour was gone.

  ‘OK,’ Sam said. ‘Two questions about you, Mr Beatty.’

  The other man waited.

  ‘When did you last take a vacation?’

  ‘In October.’ Now he looked mystified. ‘I went to New York City.’

  ‘No weekends away since?’ Riley asked.

  Beatty shook his head.

  ‘Last question, sir,’ Sam said.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Are you a golfer?’

  Beatty smiled again, wryly this time. ‘A very poor one.’

  ‘Do you belong to a club?’ asked Riley.

  ‘No.’ Beatty paused. ‘Why?’

  ‘Where do you usually play?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Wherever I’m invited.’ He thought. ‘Last round I had was at one of the Doral courses. Why?’

  ‘Just interested,’ Sam said again.


  SEVENTY

  Cathy called Sam just as he was walking into the hospital at lunchtime.

  ‘I want to say I’m sorry for what I said about Jess.’

  Sam stepped back out into the sunlight, away from the sliding doors and the people heading in and out. ‘That’s OK, sweetheart,’ he told her. ‘You were saying what you felt.’

  ‘I know, but I’ve been unloading a little to Simone – nothing specific,’ she added hastily. ‘And definitely not saying who I was talking about, obviously. But she said that sometimes it’s better to keep your opinions to yourself rather than risk causing people hurt, and that struck a chord.’

  ‘You haven’t said anything to Martinez or Jess,’ Sam said. ‘So no one’s hurt.’

  ‘But surely if anyone ought to know the harm of gossip or even just plain thoughtlessness, it’s me, don’t you think?’

  Sam smiled. ‘Clearly, you do know it, which is what counts.’

  ‘Still, I should have thought before speaking.’

  ‘Stop giving yourself such a hard time,’ Sam told her.

  ‘I love you, Sam,’ Cathy said.

  ‘I love you too, sweetheart.’

  Martinez was no worse, but no better.

  Still no diagnosis.

  David had just been in to see the patient when Sam arrived, and father and son took a moment to hug.

  ‘I was about to call you,’ David said. ‘One of the docs was asking if I knew if Al might have been in contact with rats.’

  ‘Are they thinking Weil’s disease?’

  ‘More likely rat bite fever or hantavirus,’ David said. ‘I said I’d pass on the question to you.’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ Sam said. ‘How important could it be?’

  ‘Could be crucial.’ His father’s craggy face was calm but intent.

  ‘I’ll visit a few minutes, then get over to his place, take a look around.’

  ‘Do you know what rat droppings look like, son?’

  ‘Bigger than mouse droppings,’ Sam said.

  ‘Much bigger. Capsule-shaped.’

  ‘Good,’ Sam said. ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  ‘Don’t wait too long,’ David told him.

  ‘You bet,’ Sam said.

  He was at Martinez’s house within the hour, let himself in with the keys his partner had given him when he’d moved in, having had no one else back then to name as spare keyholder.

  The place looked different to the last time Sam had been here.

  Not quite a bachelor pad any more. A softer edge to it all, somehow, even though Jess didn’t seem to have pushed flowers or any other overtly feminine touches on to her mostly macho guy.

  Right now, what it felt more than anything was empty. The kind of empty that ground at Sam’s stomach.

  He found a flashlight in the cupboard under the kitchen sink and started to check around, began in there, then moved through the rest of the first floor before heading upstairs, checking inside closets and behind drawers, feeling intrusive at the start, but quickly dismissing that, because the way things were going at the hospital this might just be life or death.

  Nothing here. No signs of vermin of any kind.

  Clean as the proverbial whistle.

  That was probably down to Jess, too, since Martinez hadn’t always bothered that much about domestic stuff; though on the other hand, he might be taking more trouble because he wanted the place to be nice for her.

  Sam thought back to Cathy’s call, was glad she’d made it.

  It made him feel better about Jess, too.

  He replaced the flashlight, spent a few minutes checking around to make sure Martinez had turned everything off when he’d left the house yesterday morning, and then he locked up carefully, and keyed his father’s speed dial number as he got into the Saab.

  ‘No sign of rats at his house.’ He kept it short. ‘I figured it might be better if you called the hospital, Dad, if you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘I’ll do it right now,’ David said. ‘Try not to worry too much.’

  ‘Sure,’ Sam said.

  SEVENTY-ONE

  Allison Moore’s apartment was on NW 122nd Street not far from Oleander Park, in a building that looked fit to be knocked down.

  Sam and Riley went in as pre-agreed: one set of questions only for her today, all relating to her art and nothing else, unless Moore’s responses took them someplace else interesting. Keeping it friendly, assuring her that everyone in the case was of interest to them – same opening spiel as with Beatty, but with no questions about him.

  ‘Any way I can help,’ she told them.

  Same reaction as Beatty. Surprised to find them at her front door, but not overly fazed, and though she asked, as her boss had, about Martinez’s absence and then wished him well, both Sam and Riley felt Beatty had alerted her to the possibility of their dropping by; not in itself an unlikely thing for one colleague to do for another.

  ‘That’s great,’ Sam said.

  She looked pretty, he thought, wearing blue dungarees with a white T-shirt with cut-off sleeves. Her freckles appeared more striking than when they’d previously met, but that was only because in the office she’d worn light make-up, and off-duty she clearly preferred the natural look.

  ‘There’s nothing for you to be worried about,’ Riley told her.

  ‘I’m not worried,’ Moore said, her grey eyes calm.

  Her place was small but clean, though there was, Sam noticed as she invited them to sit on her rattan couch, a smell of damp, the kind it was hard to eradicate. She appeared to favour wicker and cane and boldly printed fabrics. There were a number of framed fine art posters on the walls in her tiny hallway and living room, one or two familiar to Sam.

  ‘We’d like to ask you some questions about your other life,’ he said.

  ‘Other life?’ She looked puzzled.

  ‘We gather you’re an artist,’ Riley said.

  ‘Oh, that,’ Moore said.

  ‘What else might we have meant?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Beats me.’ She smiled. ‘I’m strictly amateur.’ She seemed pleased to be asked about it, the way amateurs or small-time professional artists often were. ‘I never went to art school. I took a few classes, but that was all.’

  ‘But you’ve exhibited,’ Riley said. ‘Which is more than most.’

  ‘If you’re talking about the Spring Art Show, that wasn’t a big deal,’ Moore said. ‘I just got lucky, though I guess I was pretty excited at the time.’ She paused. ‘I’ve been shown a few times over the years, but I’ve never sold a work.’

  ‘Why do you think that might be?’ asked Sam.

  A fly launched itself from a green plant behind her cane chair and flew close to her right ear, and she lifted a hand to swat at it. ‘I guess my style’s a little unusual for most people’s tastes,’ she answered.

  ‘The painting in the North Miami Beach show was called Erebus,’ Riley said.

  ‘Was that Erebus as in the son of Chaos?’ Sam asked. ‘Or as in the location of Hades?’

  ‘Or the mountain in Antarctica?’ Riley added.

  ‘I’m impressed,’ Moore said. ‘You guys know your stuff.’

  ‘That’s our job,’ Sam said. ‘So which Erebus was it?’

  ‘Couldn’t you tell from the painting?’ Her challenge was light-hearted.

  ‘We haven’t actually seen the painting,’ Riley told her. ‘Though we’d like to.’

  ‘That’s no problem,’ Moore said. ‘If you don’t mind seeing a photograph.’

  ‘That would be fine,’ Sam said.

  Moore stood, crossed the room to a small maple desk, a closed laptop on its surface, and took a black felt-covered album from the bottom drawer, turning pages until she’d found what she was looking for. ‘Here,’ she said.

  Sam took it from her. ‘Definitely Hades.’

  ‘Like it or hate it?’ Moore asked.

  ‘I think I like it,’ Sam said. ‘It’s intriguing.’ He passed the album to Riley, who
looked at the photograph in question, then started flipping through.

  ‘I don’t usually show people the others,’ Moore said.

  ‘Why’s that?’ Riley asked and went on looking.

  ‘Please,’ Moore said, and put out her hands.

  ‘Of course.’ Riley gave it back. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ Moore said, though plainly it was not.

  Sam waited as she moved back to the desk, returning the album to the drawer, observed the differences in the two women’s red hair, Moore’s a softly curling auburn, Riley’s a brighter, almost violent shade, sharply cut.

  ‘Do you have a studio?’ he asked Moore as she sat down again.

  ‘I wish,’ Moore said. ‘I work out of my spare room.’

  ‘Could we see that?’ asked Riley.

  ‘There’s nothing to see right now,’ Moore said. ‘I haven’t worked lately, and most of my work’s in storage.’

  ‘That must be pricey,’ Sam said.

  ‘Not for me,’ Moore said. ‘A friend lets me use her garage.’

  ‘Good friend,’ Riley said.

  ‘She doesn’t have a car.’ Moore paused. ‘To be honest, I don’t get why you’re so interested in my art.’ The edginess that had shown over a week before when they’d requested a DNA swab was coming through again. ‘I mean, I’m guessing this must have some connection to the Oates Gallery, but I was never exhibited there, obviously.’

  ‘You’re too modest,’ Riley said.

  Uncertain if the female detective was being wry or not, Moore shrugged.

  ‘We would still like to see the room where you work,’ Sam said.

  There was bewilderment now too. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Though there’s really nothing worth seeing.’

  She took them back through the hallway, opened a door into a small room with an easel near the window. A table held jars of brushes and charcoal, a closed sketchpad that looked new, a fax-phone and an adjustable desk lamp. There was no sign of recent work, and the smells of paint and turpentine were not fresh.

  ‘I told you,’ she said.

  They thanked her and moved back out into the hall.

  ‘You look a little tired, Ms Moore,’ Sam said. ‘When did you last take a vacation?’

  ‘The holidays,’ she said. ‘Same as most people.’

  ‘Go anyplace special?’ asked Riley.