‘Riley and I are working a possible lead,’ he said.
‘I know,’ Alvarez said. ‘And Beatty and Moore may have something weird going, but as yet it isn’t what I’d call a lead.’ He shrugged. ‘Though you still have two clear days to pull something out of the hat.’
‘Do you think the killing has stopped?’ Sam asked.
‘Five days between disappearances instead of four?’ Alvarez spread his hands. ‘Personally, I don’t think it means as much as we’d all like, though maybe three’s a charm and that’s going to be the end of it.’
‘Unholy trinity,’ Sam said.
Which seemed to take him right back to Moore and Beatty again.
‘Go home, Sam,’ Alvarez told him. ‘Start again in the morning.’
‘OK,’ Sam said.
‘And no sitting up all night googling satanism or whatever, right?’
Sam got up, relieved to stretch his legs.
‘As if,’ he said.
SEVENTY-NINE
He’d poured them both a glass of wine and told Grace about the Jess hospital incident within a half-hour of getting home.
‘That’s not good,’ she said. ‘How worried are you for Al?’
‘If she breaks his heart . . .’ Sam shook his head. ‘Who am I kidding? Not a whole lot I can do if she does.’
‘You can help mend him,’ Grace said.
They looked at each other and then, no words necessary, they did what they always did when they felt especially good, bad or sad. They went upstairs and into their son’s room for a while, watched him sleep, whispered love messages to him.
Later, back in the den, Woody between them on the couch, Sam showed her the photograph he’d brought home.
‘Beth wondered if you might cast your psychologist’s eye over this.’
Grace surveyed it. ‘Not painted by a child. Nor a teen.’
Sam shook his head. ‘By a person of interest.’
Grace frowned. ‘You have experts to do that.’
‘And they are,’ Sam said. ‘But Beth thought it wouldn’t hurt to show you.’
‘All right. So long as we all remember this is not my field.’
‘Goes without saying. We’d still value your opinion.’
She looked at it again, saw what appeared to be a dark, jagged landscape with no redeeming light from above, the only glow emanating from below, and that menacingly flickering rather than consoling. Peering more closely, she thought she saw creatures within the darkness that might have been snakes or worms . . .
‘Take your time,’ Sam said.
‘I am,’ she said, taking a Jungian slant, as she was sure they were hoping she would, trying to psychoanalyze through this single and, therefore, far too limited example of this artist’s work. ‘But I’m getting nowhere, because there’s simply so little to go with, which means there’s a risk of over-reacting to what we do have.’
‘We’ve seen more,’ Sam said. ‘Which—’
‘Don’t tell me,’ Grace said. ‘Not yet, at least.’
She took a few more moments.
‘I can only say that if this were an adolescent’s work – imagining a less proficiently painted version of the same – I would probably have some concerns about the child in question.’ She shook her head. ‘Which is a very far cry from daring to suggest that the artist here might have any connection with violent death. Which I presume is what you and Beth are asking.’
‘It’s called “Erebus”,’ Sam said. ‘As in Hades’s location.’
‘How old is the artist?’
‘She’s twenty-seven.’
‘She,’ Grace repeated.
‘Does that make a difference?’
‘Not really.’ She went on studying the photograph. ‘Many young people have become fascinated by satanic or demonic issues mostly because they’re fed so much through TV and computer games.’ She shook her head. ‘Mind, I’m way out of touch these days.’
‘This is an adult,’ Sam told her.
‘Quite.’ Grace paused. ‘Are we talking about the woman from the gallery?’
Sam had told her a little about Moore and Beatty, though the way she’d read it, she’d believed it was Beatty he had issues with.
‘We are,’ Sam said. ‘And she has at least one witchcraft-related painting on her wall at home. By Goya – Witches In the Air.’
‘That’s a wonderful painting,’ Grace said. ‘I’d have it on my wall.’ She paused. ‘So Allison Moore’s an artist.’
‘Riley thinks her work is very dark,’ Sam said.
Grace thought about it. ‘So supposing she is into some kind of dark arts thing – even supposing she’s all the way down into satanism. Does that connect with these homicides in any way?’
‘Not on any obvious level,’ Sam said.
‘Have I helped at all?’
‘You always help,’ he said.
‘Not to nail this killer,’ Grace said.
‘Not tonight,’ Sam said.
EIGHTY
February 24
At eight thirty Tuesday morning they were back at Beatty Management.
Moore was in her office on the first floor, behind the reception area, her calendar ready and waiting for them.
‘Mr Beatty told me you’d be wanting this,’ she said after inviting them to sit.
Her space was small, plain, well organized, the chairs not matching, as if she’d borrowed them for her visitors. Sam found himself wishing, as he sat on yet another too small, uncomfortable chair, that the day might come when someone more considerate of tall humans, maybe someone like Saul, might be commissioned to redesign office furniture.
‘Mr Beatty?’ Riley raised an eyebrow. ‘Very formal.’
‘He’s my boss.’
‘And a little more besides,’ Sam said.
‘The sketch,’ Moore said flatly.
‘He told you about that, too,’ Riley said.
‘Why wouldn’t he?’ Moore said. ‘Those questions seemed so odd to him.’
‘Especially as he’s never posed for you,’ Riley said. ‘According to him.’
‘He hasn’t,’ Moore said.
‘But the sketch was of Lawrence Beatty?’ Sam asked.
Moore hesitated before answering. ‘I don’t understand why this is important.’ She shook her head. ‘I mean, I’ve told you I really want to cooperate, but this stuff seems private to me.’
‘And we regret asking you questions about private matters,’ Sam said. ‘But it’s in the nature of homicide investigations to have to work through layers. If the surface doesn’t yield much, we start digging a little deeper.’
‘So you’re digging around everyone connected, however tenuously, to all these killings?’ Moore asked.
‘Sure,’ Riley said. ‘Though your connection isn’t as tenuous as some, given that you were the person who most frequently visited the location where the Eastermans were left.’
‘Surely that makes me more of a potential witness than a suspect.’
‘No one’s referred to you as a suspect, Ms Moore,’ Riley said.
‘Unless Mr Beatty gave you that impression,’ Sam said.
Riley was glancing around. ‘Is this your office?’
‘It is,’ Moore said. ‘Why?’
‘No posters,’ Riley said. ‘Nothing art-related.’
‘It’s my workplace.’
‘Was that sketch of Lawrence Beatty?’ Sam asked again.
Moore exhaled a swift, irritated breath. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘I sketched him. One time. He was unaware, and the nude aspect was purely imaginary.’
‘Do you remember when you sketched him?’ Riley asked.
‘No,’ Moore said. ‘Or not exactly. It was over time. It’s how I work sometimes, go back and forth with a piece.’
‘OK,’ Sam said. ‘Thank you.’
They continued the interview with what they’d officially come for: the checking of her calendars, both business and personal, the results as inconclusive as Beatt
y’s; though if the shadow of suspicion did begin to broaden over both or either of them, their alibis, such as they were, would be quadruple-checked.
‘You look tired, Ms Moore,’ Riley said when they were through.
‘More troubled than tired.’ Her telephone rang. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘It’ll go to voicemail.’ It stopped after four more rings.
‘Troubled by our questions?’ Sam asked.
‘By the dreadfulness of these killings,’ Moore said, ‘and the fact that I should be deemed to have involvement at any level.’ She moved restlessly in her chair. ‘I’m sorry. It’s a strain.’
‘It’s a dreadful time,’ Sam said.
‘Especially for the families,’ Riley said.
‘Do you imagine I don’t know that?’ Moore said.
She seemed suddenly close to tears, and Sam’s instant gut reaction was to believe her. And then his mind drifted briefly to Jess Kowalski, and it occurred to him, worried him somewhat, that he might, for all his years of experience, be a sucker for women’s tears.
He told her they were done, but as Moore was accompanying them out into the reception area, Riley paused.
‘I’d like to see that sketch again.’
‘Why?’ Moore’s voice rose with frustration. ‘For God’s sake.’
‘I only saw it briefly,’ Riley said, ‘and Detective Becket never saw it at all.’
‘Do you have a particular objection to showing it to us?’ Sam asked.
‘No, of course not – but like I said before, it’s private.’ She looked around, lowered her voice again. ‘And frankly, it’s embarrassing as hell.’
‘Which seemed, I thought when I looked at your work,’ Riley said, ‘to be an interest of yours. Hell, I mean.’
‘Might we come to your home again – ’ Sam had noted her flush, had gone right on – ‘after work today?’
‘Just to look at the sketch,’ Riley said.
Moore shook her head, visibly sagging. ‘What can I say?’
‘You can refuse,’ Sam said.
‘I don’t refuse,’ Moore said.
‘Six o’clock?’ Riley asked.
‘I’ll be there,’ Moore said.
Sam and Riley walked out on to Collins, the traffic slow.
‘Why did you ask to see it again?’ Sam asked.
‘A sudden feeling,’ Riley said.
‘I’m all for those,’ Sam said.
They headed for the Saab.
‘It’s not the subject,’ Riley said. ‘More the background.’
‘Good,’ Sam said.
The afternoon meeting in the situation room yielded no positive progress.
Negatives on all Cutter’s remaining checks on the Christous. Anthony had called the office again this morning to make himself available and to ask if Karen might move back into the house on Prairie Avenue. And maybe they might turn out to be the craziest, boldest serial killers imaginable, but no one believed that.
Beatty and Moore seemed like the only glimmer of hope, though both were still being regarded as persons of interest rather than full-blown suspects.
Negativity all over. The great hope continuing that these had been pattern killings and that the spree would end at three. Six victims.
‘I’m not convinced there is a pattern,’ Sam said. ‘Not to the timing, at least.’
‘You have an alternative?’ Joe Duval asked.
‘One I hope to be wrong about.’ He looked around, saw the team waiting, wished he had something worth sharing with them. ‘Just the feeling we’re being played with. That our frustration, maybe even our ineptitude, is being relished every bit as much as the victims’ suffering.’
‘You think they’re enjoying making us wait for more,’ Duval said.
Sam was grim-faced. ‘We all know how addictive that kind of evil pleasure seems to be.’
‘Too addictive to give up,’ Riley said bleakly.
‘Someone please tell me I’m wrong,’ Sam said to the group.
No one could.
EIGHTY-ONE
At six on the nose, Sam and Riley were back at Moore’s apartment.
She did not invite them to sit this time, simply handed the photograph of the sketch to Riley.
‘You took it out of the album,’ Sam said.
‘I’m sorry,’ Moore said, ‘but wasn’t this the sketch you wanted to see again?’
Her belligerence was starting to show, Sam noted. Moving further away from the gentle, straightforward young woman she’d first displayed herself to be.
‘It is,’ Riley said. ‘Thank you.’
She moved beneath the overhead lamp – two screw-in bulbs connected to a ceiling fan – took a long look, then handed it to Sam.
Who saw it too.
‘All right?’ Moore asked.
‘We’re interested in the background,’ Sam said.
‘Background?’
Sam brought the photo back to her, keeping hold of it. ‘The subject, Mr Beatty, is in the foreground. There’s a column in the background.’
‘Yes,’ she said, her colour heightening.
‘It looks familiar to us,’ Sam said.
‘It’s just a column,’ Moore said. ‘It doesn’t mean anything. It isn’t a real place.’
‘Oh, that’s right,’ Riley said. ‘Because Mr Beatty didn’t pose for you. This was just a work of imagination.’
‘Yes,’ Moore said again. ‘It was.’
‘Yet Mr Beatty is a real person,’ Sam said. ‘So chances are, same goes for the background.’
‘That column sure does look familiar,’ Riley said.
‘You said,’ Moore said.
Sam and Riley exchanged looks.
Time marching on, time they could ill afford.
‘Looks like one of the columns in the Oates Gallery to me,’ Sam said.
‘Just like,’ Riley said.
Moore shrugged. ‘I guess that place might have influenced me.’
‘Because you spent so much time there,’ Sam said.
‘Not so much,’ she said, ‘but enough, I guess.’
‘Do you have a photocopier here, Ms Moore?’ asked Riley.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’
‘I thought,’ Sam said, ‘I saw a fax machine in your studio last time we came.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Yes.’
‘Would you have any objection to our taking a copy of your photograph, ma’am?’ Riley asked.
‘I’m not sure if the photo would fit in the machine,’ Moore said.
‘I think it would,’ Sam said.
Moore smiled. ‘I don’t suppose it would sit well if I did object.’
‘It’s your right to refuse,’ Sam said.
‘At this time,’ Riley added.
Allison Moore dipped her head, resentment and resignation about equal.
‘Be my guests,’ she said.
EIGHTY-TWO
Saul and Cathy were in their kitchen at the apartment, heating up pizza and planning their strategy for the surprise.
‘Mildred says she only has one patient Thursday morning,’ Saul said. ‘Nine thirty. So as long as Grace doesn’t make any more appointments, we can get her out of the house by eleven so you can pack.’
‘How am I going to know what to pack?’ Cathy opened the refrigerator, pulled out a bag of romaine lettuce and some cherry tomatoes.
‘You’re a woman,’ Saul said. ‘You’ll work it out.’
‘Don’t be sexist,’ Cathy said. ‘I’m a waitress and an amateur runner. Grace is a sophisticated psychologist and a beautiful woman. Not all women are the same, Saul, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
‘We all know what she likes wearing,’ Saul said, sticking to the point. ‘Just pack everything you see that you think she might need. And don’t forget stuff like make-up and perfume and jewellery.’
‘You don’t say,’ Cathy said. ‘What if she does schedule more appointments?’
‘Mildred’s going to do her best to make
sure that doesn’t happen.’ Saul opened the oven door, took a look at the pizza, the aroma of day-old pepperoni and onion flowing into the kitchen. ‘My job’s the tough part – getting Grace out of the house.’
‘You’ll have to have an emergency.’ Cathy ran the tomatoes under the faucet, then dried them with a piece of paper towel.
‘It’ll have to be something that only Grace could fix.’
‘She’s hardly Mrs Fix-it,’ Cathy said. ‘All she really knows how to fix is people.’
‘Oh, man,’ Saul said.
EIGHTY-THREE
‘What do they do at witches’ covens?’ Sam asked Riley back in the office just before seven.
‘How the hell should I know?’
‘You’re the one who brought up witches,’ he said. ‘I’m thinking about the blood in the gallery. And the cocaine. Do witches do drugs, do we know?’
‘I’ll call Joe Duval,’ Riley said. ‘See if he can ask his office to locate any covens in Miami-Dade.’
‘Tell him not to bother with the official Wiccan churches,’ Sam said. ‘They seem pretty respectable.’
‘Jesus,’ Riley said. ‘Less than a week ago I’m not sure I’d even heard of Wicca.’
‘Tell Duval we need an ear to the ground,’ Sam said, ‘listening out for something a little smaller, more secretive.’
‘And maybe a whole lot nastier,’ Riley said.
Sam listened to his messages, smiled.
‘What’s up?’ Riley asked.
‘Martinez is out of the CCU,’ Sam said.
‘Thank God,’ Riley said.
‘Yeah,’ Sam said, abruptly drained by relief.
She picked up her phone. ‘I’ll call Duval. You go see Martinez.’
‘I can see him later.’
‘If we get anything fast,’ Riley said, ‘you can come back.’
‘You sure?’ Sam said.
‘It’ll do you good to see him out of that place,’ Riley said.
Sam wasn’t arguing. ‘I’ll call you from there.’
Martinez was in a regular room four floors up from the CCU, a pretty room with blue drapes at the window and a framed print of a South Beach scene that Sam thought was probably identical to the one they’d seen in the gardener’s room eight days earlier.
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