“I appreciate the offer,” I’d told her, “but I’m not going.”
It was a position that I had staked out with personal and professional conviction, but I’d been rethinking it all day. Not for the reason Carmen had given. One much more compelling was weighing on my mind. I knew Carmen well enough to finally come to the realization that this other reason, the one she’d only implied, was the real reason behind her invitation.
I glanced in the rearview mirror, as if to check my own resolve. Then I dialed Carmen on my cell and told her that I would meet her at the funeral home.
“That’s a good decision,” she said. “We don’t have to stay long.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “This won’t take long.”
We hung up, and I was certain that Carmen understood what I had meant by “this.”
I wanted to meet Brian Belter man-to-man, face-to-face. I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to see him at a time, and at a place, where I could look him right in the eye and see all the way to his soul.
And I needed to do this—for me.
Chapter Twenty
A memorial service was scheduled for seven at Seaver’s Funeral Home, just off Miami Avenue. It was closer to six thirty, half an hour past sunset, when I found a parking space and killed the engine. There was no rush, but if I intended to go through with this, I needed to do more than sit frozen behind the wheel, unable to open the car door. The internal conflict was on many levels. Angelina and Tyla were obviously at the center of it, but there was more. Seaver’s was where we’d held the memorial service for Samantha.
Just do this, I told myself.
Tyla had been part of a large professional family, a mega law firm that numbered more than three hundred attorneys in the Miami office alone, not to mention administrators, staff, and the spouses of all of the above. Friday evening’s service was for the broader group, with a more intimate service for her family and closest friends scheduled for Saturday morning at the Mission Hill Baptist Church of Coconut Grove. A necktie was in order, and fortunately, mine was still in the backseat, along with my jacket, from the morning court appearance. A shave wouldn’t have hurt, but the best I could do was run a comb through my hair. I drew a breath, clutched my keys, and stepped out of the car into the early-evening darkness.
You have to do this.
The parking lot was filling up quickly. Visitors came from various directions, some having parked a block or more down the street, others in the overflow lot across from the funeral home. One woman was sobbing and dabbing away tears. Others appeared numb, or at the very least at a loss for words. I looked away, only to catch sight of the black hearse parked beneath the porte cochere alongside the building. The thought of Tyla heading to a cemetery was almost incomprehensible, but she wouldn’t be laid to rest any time soon. The family didn’t want to put off the service any longer, but the burial plan was on hold until law enforcement advised that there was absolutely no hope of ever recovering the rest of the body. The search in the Everglades was ongoing, and it seemed that all but Tyla’s immediate family had come to accept that her head would never be found.
“Wait up, Abe.”
It was Carmen. I stopped long enough for her to catch me, and together we walked to the entrance.
“You okay?” she asked. Carmen knew the history with Samantha at Seaver’s.
“Better than I thought I would be.”
There was a small gathering of guests at the sign-in register in the lobby. I let Carmen sign first, and it somehow made me feel better about showing up at Tyla’s memorial to see my name directly below hers, as if that made it more legitimate, or at least okay.
Several other clusters of quiet conversation dotted the room. Bouquets of white roses and chrysanthemums adorned antique tables. It was all very subdued and traditional, except for the poster-size photographs of Tyla that greeted us in the parlor. Her childhood was to the right. On the immediate left was Tyla the track star, not an ounce of fat on her body as she flew across the finish line in the 800-meter run. Next was Tyla in her crimson robe, graduation day from Harvard Law. And on it went, all along the wall, one shot from each stage of her life.
“You sure you’re okay with this?” Carmen asked quietly.
“I’m sure.”
Barely had the response crossed my lips before I took a turn for the worse. It was surely the photographs, but whatever the reason, the words Carmen had spoken to me in her office, that Tyla was “a symptom of a grieving man adrift,” were rushing through my mind: Abe, I’m not blind. Tyla is a beautiful woman. And she looks one heck of a lot like Samantha.
It all left a knot in my stomach.
“Thank you for coming,” a young man said.
I turned, but he was addressing Carmen. He introduced himself as Tyla’s brother. “It means a lot to our family for the state attorney to make the time to be here,” he said.
Carmen expressed her sympathies and introduced me. I shook his hand, making no mention of how long I’d known Tyla.
“This is so painful,” he said. “We didn’t want to have to do two services, but the outpouring from Tyla’s law firm was overwhelming. BB&L was so good to her.”
“It’s obvious she was very highly regarded at the firm,” I said.
“Very,” he said, his gaze drifting toward Tyla’s law-school graduation photo. “Last Thanksgiving Tyla and I had a nice talk. She told me how she was promoted from doing the work for Cortinas Sugar, which everybody at BB&L does, to doing the legal work for the Cortinas family, which is like an invitation to the inner sanctum. She was so proud. I work in DC, and the only person I’ve seen happier about a promotion was a friend of mine who got a White House press pass.”
Her brother smiled wistfully at the memory, and I smiled with him, but it was the first I’d heard of Tyla being part of the Cortinas family “inner sanctum.” It put yet another shade of light on her voice-mail message.
“Y’all go ahead and find seats,” he said. “We’re going to start soon.”
He stepped away. I followed Carmen down the side aisle. There were more photographs, each one separated from the next by an impressive stand of flowers. We passed a magnificent arrangement of roses on our way to an open row of seating. It was by far the largest single assortment in the room, and I checked the card.
“With deepest sympathy, the Cortinas family.”
It certainly backed up what Tyla’s brother had just told me.
We found open seats on the aisle, and I checked the printed program on the seat. Another image of Tyla was on the front, but I went right to the list of speakers. Brian Belter was the first eulogist. I was about to point out his name to Carmen, but Maggie Green had strategically grabbed the seat beside Carmen and snagged her attention. I didn’t know Green well, but Agent Santos had told me that the former federal prosecutor was part of the meeting she and Rid had attended at BB&L.
Green was working Carmen hard.
“This isn’t the appropriate time,” said Green, “but I need to follow up with you on the search of Tyla’s computer files and e-mails at the firm. I received a subpoena today from the feds, and I’d like to coordinate with both your office and the US attorney.”
“Maggie, you are so right,” said Carmen. “This isn’t the appropriate time. But I’m available.”
A young lawyer approached, beyond obsequious, clearly a first- or second-year associate with little more standing in the firm than a messenger. “Sorry to interrupt, Ms. Green.”
Green looked annoyed. “What is it?”
“It looks like you’re going to have to speak.”
“What?”
“Mr. Belter can’t make it this evening.”
Carmen glanced in my direction. His sudden no-show was intriguing, but Carmen played it cool. “Oh, no. Has Brian taken ill?”
“Called out of town,” the young lawyer said. “Unexpectedly.”
“I see. These things happen,” said Carmen.
Green shook
the state attorney’s hand and thanked her. “I’ll be in touch.”
“I’ll wait for your call,” said Carmen. Green and the BB&L associate left, and Carmen and I returned to our seats.
“Out of town, my ass,” Carmen whispered through her teeth. “Coward.”
“The worst kind,” I said.
“But I’m still glad we came,” Carmen said.
I was thinking of those words from Tyla’s brother, curious to know what Tyla might have learned in that “inner sanctum,” and wondering what the “Michael Phelps of cane cutting” might tell me when I followed up on Ed Brumbel’s lead.
“Me too,” I said.
Chapter Twenty-One
Agent Santos attended Tyla’s memorial service, but no one would ever know it. That was the way she wanted it.
The disguise was not elaborate, and it was certainly nothing like what an agent might do for an undercover operation. But the blond wig, funeral-appropriate hat, and general low profile were enough to keep anyone from recognizing her. Even Abe Beckham had walked right past her. Wandering the room, with no one aware that she was an FBI agent, was an excellent way to pick up a stray comment that might not otherwise be shared with law enforcement—some unvarnished truth about Tyla or someone she knew that might help catch a serial killer. It could be a friend expressing her suspicions of one of Tyla’s old boyfriends. Or maybe a relative wondering out loud about a cousin who was just a little too fond of Tyla.
By Victoria’s estimate, Tyla’s service had drawn close to seven hundred guests. It was to be expected, given the tragic death of such a young and successful woman, a partner at a prominent law firm, killed so senselessly. At one point or another Victoria had her eye on each of them. Most were from BB&L or other prominent law firms, many of them sad or even grief-stricken. A few had come purely out of professional obligation, signing the registry, expressing brief condolences to the family, and leaving before the eulogies. Still others had nothing to do with Tyla’s life at BB&L. Older guests consoled Tyla’s parents, occasionally taking a seat on the couch to rest their swollen feet. Some were there for Tyla’s two older brothers. Some barely knew anyone in the room, speaking to no one, perhaps old friends from high school or the neighborhood where Tyla had grown up, having lost touch with Tyla years earlier but feeling the loss nonetheless.
Victoria’s interest was in none of them, but not because she didn’t care. She was looking for the lone wolf in the crowd. She knew from years of experience, both at Quantico and in the field, that when it came to serial killers, the stereotypes were often true. It heightened the thrill to return to the scene of the crime, help in the manhunt, even watch the funeral and visit the victim’s grave. The memorial services for Cutter’s previous victims had been very private affairs, too risky for a stranger to drop in unnoticed. Tyla’s was very different. If it was in his psychological makeup at all, Cutter would make his appearance here.
Victoria stepped away from the crowd and found a spot behind a stand of white mums and daisies, where she checked in with local police who were monitoring the parking lot. She wasn’t miked up, but text messaging was a less conspicuous way to communicate with a uniformed officer in this setting.
Anything? she texted.
A reply came in less than a minute: Keep an eye on the guy with the cheap blue suit and the Converse All Stars. Looks a little suspicious.
Victoria had already checked him out. He was the somewhat eccentric head of BB&L’s commercial litigation department, one of the top-ranked trial lawyers in America, known for showing up in court wearing wrinkled suits and sneakers. It was part of his jury appeal.
Know him. Not a POI, she texted back.
The immediate family took their places in the front row. Most of the guests had found seats, and latecomers were filling in the few random openings. It was standing room only, and Victoria made one last pass through the parlor, pretending to be looking for a seat near someone she knew, hunting for a killer she was dying to know. Her search led her to the back of the room. No suspects. She stepped into the lobby and checked for any messages from the officers. Nothing. The parlor doors were closed, and she was the lone guest in the lobby as the speaker in the ceiling crackled with the voice of a minister.
“The Lord be with you,” he said in a solemn voice.
Victoria prayed with them, albeit from the next room, but she stepped outside before the first eulogy. The temperature had dropped since sunset, and the cool night air was refreshing. The area around the funeral home felt more residential than commercial, and many of the nearby businesses were on large lots, formerly single-family homes. It was a moonless night, and the dense canopy of broad-limbed oaks and sprawling poinciana trees turned the neighborhood into a dark suburban forest. Hundreds of parked cars lined the street, but the police were redirecting traffic at the intersections on either end, so it was completely quiet. Eerily quiet.
Victoria stepped to the porch railing and looked out into the darkness, taking it all in. A young couple came running up the sidewalk, obviously late. Victoria opened the door and let them pass. Other than the squad car monitoring the main lot, there was little else to take note of. The occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. A distant chorus of crickets. And a tiny, glowing orange dot in the overflow parking lot across the street.
What is that?
She narrowed her eyes, straining for a better look. The orange dot was still there, but ever so slightly it seemed to have moved. Someone was standing there smoking.
Jeffrey Dahmer had been a chain smoker. So had many of the other serial killers she’d studied and even profiled.
Victoria texted one of the officers outside, alerting him to check out the orange dot, but before she could hit send, the orange dot disappeared.
“Shit!”
Victoria hurried down the steps and ran straight to the officer in the parking lot. No one wanted a scene at Tyla’s memorial service, but Victoria had to trust her own instincts. Several squad cars were in the area for traffic control, but she’d heard no engine start and seen no car lights after the cigarette was extinguished. She grabbed the officer’s radio and sent the best be-on-the-lookout alert that she could articulate.
“Intercept subject on foot leaving Seaver’s overflow lot. No ID as yet. Definitely a smoker, so may smell of cigarettes or have them on his person.”
“A smoker?” the cop beside her asked. “That’s all you got?”
“That’s all we’ll ever have if you don’t help. Fan out!”
Victoria kept his radio, drew her weapon, and ran across the street into the overflow lot. The officer swept to the left, approaching the lot from another street entrance. One of the squad cars from traffic control pulled up, beacons flashing. A pair of officers jumped out. One switched on the spotlight and scanned the overflow lot, while the other checked between rows of parked vehicles, his gun drawn. In a sea of cars, law enforcement was the only sign of movement.
One of the officers circled back to Victoria and asked, “What did you see, exactly?”
“Someone smoking a cigarette, standing right around here. Watching.”
This officer had some seniority, and he seemed to grasp the significance of a man standing in the dark and watching a young woman’s funeral from across the street. He keyed his radio and reiterated Victoria’s earlier message.
Victoria breathed deep, appreciating the officer’s follow-through, but knowing that the window of opportunity was closing. The orange dot had vanished. So had the smoker. There wasn’t much to go on. At this point, unless the guy was stupid enough to be caught running down the street with a lit cigarette in his hand, no amount of perimeter control in the neighborhood was likely to be of help.
“Check this out,” another officer said. He was down on one knee, his flashlight illuminating a black patch of asphalt behind a parked car. Victoria knelt for a closer look.
Sprinkled across the ground were traces of ash, the droppings from someone’s cigarette. Ashes wou
ldn’t yield DNA from saliva or anything else she could work with. But there was hope.
“Check for cigarette butts, everywhere, the whole parking lot.” She rose slowly, gazing across the street toward the packed funeral home. “One mistake. That’s all it takes. And we find this guy.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Brian Belter peered out the helicopter window, the black Atlantic below him, the south Florida Gold Coast on the western horizon, a continuous blur of lights from Miami to Palm Beach.
Belter was in his usual leather cabin seat of a Eurocopter EC225 Super Puma helicopter. It was the fastest of three helicopters used by the lawyers for Cortinas Sugar, big enough to transport an entire trial team at speeds up to 170 mph above the south Florida gridlock. Tonight, it was just Belter and a trusted associate, the only BB&L lawyers not attending Tyla’s memorial service, in the spacious cabin, even though it had been Belter’s full intention to deliver the eulogy. He’d massaged the draft for hours, choosing just the right words, striking exactly the right tone, touching precisely the right emotions. Of course he had run it by Alberto Cortinas well in advance.
“Nice,” Cortinas had told him. “Get someone else to deliver it.”
“Why?”
“I need you in the Dominican Republic tonight. Take the helicopter to Palm Beach. The jet leaves for La Romana at seven.”
That had been the end of the matter. Brian Belter would miss Tyla Tomkins’ memorial service, which was no big deal in the larger scheme of things. Belter had missed countless funerals and weddings over the years, missed his wife’s fortieth birthday celebration, missed the forty-fifth birthday celebration that she had planned for him, missed the births of both their children, missed saying good-bye to his mother on her deathbed, and, yes, even missed her memorial service. All for one good reason.
Because Alberto Cortinas needed him.
The chopper touched down gently on the helipad at Palm Beach County International Airport. Belter’s associate reached across the narrow aisle and handed him the phone. The pilot was powering down the Eurocopter, and the roar of twin engines was quickly cut in half, making it unnecessary to use headsets or even raise their voices when talking.
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