Cane and Abe

by James Grippando

“I am looking,” I said.

  “Look at your dinner plate.”

  I enlarged the image and zoomed in on my plate.

  Rid asked, “What were you eating at the restaurant that night with Tyla?”

  I was staring at the screen, my entrée clearly visible in the photograph. It was a dish I’d never heard of before meeting Angelina, but after tasting hers, I ordered it whenever a restaurant had it on the menu. “Osso buco.”

  “What did Angelina cook for you on the night she disappeared?”

  I didn’t answer right away.

  “I know you remember,” he said, “because I ate it, loved it, and told you it was better than oxtail.”

  “Osso buco,” I said.

  “Yeah,” said Rid. “If you think that’s a coincidence, you’re a fucking moron. Angelina was messing with you, Abe. She’s been messing with you.”

  I handed the phone back to him. The traffic light turned green. Rid drove another block closer to the Boomerang and pulled up to the curb. “This close enough?” he asked.

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  I opened the passenger-side door, but he stopped me before I climbed out. “Abe, you know we can’t talk any more about this, right?”

  I nodded.

  “We cool then?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “We’re cool.”

  I stepped out onto the sidewalk, shut the door, and watched him drive away.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Victoria left the Beckham residence at 10:00 a.m. Detective Reyes stayed behind to wrap up the crime scene.

  The law office of Jeffrey Winters was Victoria’s destination, but she took a circuitous route. She hopped onto the expressway, exited north of downtown at Overtown, and cut across the design district in a zigzag pattern of one-way streets. She’d refused any comment to the media outside the Beckham house, and several reporters had followed her, curious to know where she and the story were headed. At least two remained on her tail all through the design district.

  “Let’s go ’round again, boys,” she said as she checked her mirror.

  She got back on the expressway and started the pointless journey all over again, determined to repeat as necessary until the tail was gone. Her concern wasn’t so much the media, per se. Rather, she didn’t want Abe to find out through media coverage or otherwise that the FBI was about to speak to his wife without him.

  By the third loop around the city, the last of the media vans had given up and disappeared from her rearview mirror. She parked on the street outside Winters’ building, went inside, and rode the elevator to the penthouse. The young and pretty receptionist struck Victoria as polite but not too bright—a ditz, in fact, someone who might show up for an American Idol audition wearing a string bikini and leave in tears because no one had told her that a voice was required. The young woman offered a warm greeting, which cooled a bit when Victoria introduced herself.

  “You’re an FBI agent? Seriously?”

  “Yes, seriously.”

  “Is Mr. Winters expecting you?”

  “Only if he’s really smart.”

  The receptionist had no idea how to handle that one. Flustered, she buzzed Winters’ assistant, told her that “Agent Smart” was in the lobby, and asked Victoria to have a seat. Victoria went to the waiting area and perused the law firm’s impressive art collection, which leaned toward the ultramodern. Probably from Art Basel. Or from a drug dealer who couldn’t pay his lawyer in cash.

  “I’m sorry,” said the receptionist. “What was your name again?”

  Victoria had wondered how long it would take her to correct the “Agent Smart” mix up. She set the girl straight and turned back to the art.

  Beckham’s story about the attempted bribe had been intriguing, and Victoria knew exactly where Abe was going with it. A follow-up with Brian Belter was definitely in order. But first she wanted to know what Angelina’s lawyer thought about it.

  “Mr. Winters will see you now,” said the receptionist.

  Victoria followed her down the hallway to an empty conference room. She took a seat at the glass-topped table and waited. It wasn’t long before Winters and one of his associates entered. They seemed a little surprised that Victoria was alone, not the usual FBI duo. Victoria didn’t bother to explain that she had her own way of doing things when she pushed the outer limits of her FBI authority, which was one reason she was back in a field office and no longer working out of Quantico at what should have been the height of her career. They exchanged introductions and sat on opposite sides of the table, two against one.

  “Your client is welcome to join us,” said Victoria.

  “Pass,” said Winters, smiling.

  “That’s fine. Her husband has done plenty of talking for her.”

  His smile faded. “Talking where?”

  “I didn’t mean any place specifically. Everywhere.”

  The lawyers exchanged uneasy glances, and then Winters focused his gaze on Victoria. “Has Mr. Beckham been talking directly to you?”

  “Of course.”

  “About what?”

  “That’s what I wanted to discuss with you. See, I’ve been working very hard on the Cutter task force, and it’s my very firm conclusion that Tommy Salvo had nothing to do with the murder of Tyla Tomkins. I’ve spoken to Abe Beckham about this, and he is pushing hard in the direction of Brian Belter. You know Mr. Belter, I’m sure.”

  “Yes, I know him. Managing partner of BB&L, lawyer for Big Sugar.”

  “And Tyla Tomkins’ supervising partner. So I totally get Abe’s theory. The senior partner is bedding Tyla Tomkins, rising star. Tyla gains the kind of access to Cortinas Sugar that only someone who’s sleeping with Brian Belter could get. She visits the company’s plantation in Nicaragua and witnesses appalling business practices, then comes back to Miami and calls ‘an old friend’ at the state attorney’s office to see if anything can be done about it. Belter finds out she’s talking to law enforcement—maybe he even discovers that Abe Beckham is her new favorite married man to sleep with, which makes Belter even crazier. Belter suddenly stands to lose his wife, his mistress, his best client, and everything else that matters to him. Tyla Tomkins ends up dead.”

  “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Winters.

  “Your client does, so take good notes, Junior,” she said, glancing at the associate.

  “My client knows nothing about the death of Tyla Tomkins,” said Winters.

  “Let’s hope you’re right. But Angelina still needs to be very concerned. Her husband’s theory about Brian Belter has holes, and I intend to blow those holes wide open. When I do, Abe Beckham will realize that it’s pointless to keep pointing the finger at Brian Belter. When that happens, he is going to point in another direction.”

  Winters didn’t answer, but it was clear that he fully grasped Victoria’s implication: Angelina would be Abe’s next scapegoat.

  “There’s been an awful lot of talk about homicide,” said Winters. “Right now, Angelina’s only concern is a potential criminal charge for making herself disappear.”

  “It all ties together,” said Victoria. “See, I watched the YouTube video, and I don’t think Angelina ran out of fear of Cutter. I think she ran out of fear of her husband. But unlike some of my friends in the domestic violence unit at MDPD, I don’t believe that Abe was a habitual abuser. I see it as an isolated incident. Angelina uncovered something about Tyla. Specifically, about her murder. I think she confronted Abe with it. Abe had his own version of events, and Angelina was afraid or refused to go along with it. So she ran.”

  Winters showed no reaction, but the associate beside him was scribbling furiously. Victoria had planted the seeds.

  “This is all very interesting,” said Winters.

  “There’s more,” said Victoria. She laid her iPad on the table and brought up the photographs of Tyla and Abe at the restaurant.

  “I’ve seen these,” said Winters. “Those are the pictures that the k
iller left in her mailbox.”

  “Another misstatement in Angelina’s video,” said Victoria. “She didn’t get these from Cutter.”

  “Then who sent them?”

  Victoria leaned closer, making sure she had his full attention. “Abe Beckham.”

  The associate stopped writing. Even Winters was unable to hide his surprise. “Why would he do that?”

  “To create the impression that Cutter killed Tyla and that Abe Beckham did not. Outing yourself as a cheater is better than being convicted as a murderer.”

  “You know this for a fact?” asked Winters. “Abe sent these photographs?”

  “Not yet,” said Victoria. “But I am going to prove it. And if your client knows what’s good for her, she will stop playing her husband’s game and help me.”

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  We waited until 11:35 p.m. and the end of the late local news broadcasts. The camera crews packed up their equipment, our front lawn darkened, and the media vans drove away. Across the networks, the gist of the “breaking news at eleven” had been that “the Beckham house is no longer a crime scene, but there is no sign of Abe and Angelina Beckham and no word when they will return.”

  Then Angelina and I went home. Together.

  Angelina entered first. I closed the door and secured it with both the dead bolt and the chain. I noticed the mark on the panel where Angelina had nailed it with a beer bottle on Friday night. So did she. We ignored it.

  “Home sweet home,” she said flatly.

  I went to the landline on the table and checked our voice mail. “Thirty-eight messages,” I told Angelina. “Probably all from reporters.”

  I didn’t have the energy to listen to them. I hung up and silenced the ringer so that we could get through the night.

  “What do we do if the news people come back?”

  “Turn on the sprinklers.” I was only half kidding. She didn’t laugh.

  “I’m getting ready for bed.” She turned and disappeared down the hallway to the master. I went to the couch and sat in front of the TV. My hand was preprogrammed to reach for the remote and surf, but I resisted. I opted for no television, not even satellite radio. Silence.

  The previous twelve hours had been a marital standoff, me refusing to return to the law office of Jeffrey Winters and Angelina refusing to leave until her lawyer said it was time. The state attorney’s office became my fortress. No media ambushes. No phone calls I didn’t want to take. I told Carmen and the head of our public corruption unit about Belter’s attempted bribery of an assistant state attorney, namely, me. I intended to follow up later in the week, but my plan for the rest of the day had simply been to retreat from reality and throw myself into one of my pending cases, which proved to be impossible. One colleague after another popped by my office to show support. All had seen Angelina’s YouTube video. No one said he believed her. No one said he didn’t. I did notice that not a single prosecutor from our domestic violence unit came by to talk. I kept most of the conversations short. Only once had I been tempted to discuss matters in greater depth. Our head of the sexual assault unit would have been a great sounding board for my fears that something awful had happened to Angelina in the wee hours of the morning in Little Havana, something so traumatizing that she’d decided to tell no one. The most experienced sexual-assault prosecutor in the state of Florida had been standing right in my office, but on the heels of my talk with Rid and his view that Angelina was “messing with me,” I chose not to bring it up. I wondered if I should have.

  “Abe?”

  I glanced over my shoulder. Angelina was standing in the shadows at the end of the hallway, not quite inside the living room. She was wearing her nightgown.

  “Are you coming to bed?” she asked.

  “In a little bit.”

  “You should come now.” She turned and went into the bedroom.

  I blinked, confused. What did that mean, “You should come now?” I want to lie down beside my husband? I want you to hold me? I want to make love to you? Don’t sit out here till two and then come crawling into bed and wake me up, asshole?

  “Okay,” I said, even though she was gone.

  I walked to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, and pulled on a clean pair of running shorts and a T-shirt. Angelina was on her side of the bed, lying in the dark, when I entered the master. I crossed the room, peeled back the comforter, and climbed in beside her. She rolled onto her back. So did I. We lay in silence, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

  Darkness. Stillness. Utter quiet. There was no place like a bed, and nothing was more palpable than the line that ran down the middle of one.

  “I talked to Rid finally,” I said.

  “What did he say?”

  I hesitated, not sure how to answer. That you’ve been messing with me? That Santos thinks you killed Tyla Tomkins?

  “He says he can’t talk to me anymore about any of this.”

  “I’m not surprised,” she said.

  More silence. The air conditioner kicked on, and chilly air breathed on us from above. My pupils were adjusting to the darkness, and I could see cracks in the ceiling. Long, meandering cracks that reached from wall to wall. Cracks that had existed since Angelina and I had moved in and that I had never noticed. Until now.

  “Abe, there’s something I have to tell you.”

  My mind raced. Was Rid right, and was a confession coming? Was I right, and was she about to tell me what really happened to her in Little Havana?

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Agent Santos met with my lawyer today.”

  Not what I was expecting. “When?”

  “Sometime before lunch. It wasn’t a planned thing. Santos just showed up and wanted to talk.”

  “Why?”

  “I wasn’t there. But Jeffrey said she’s investigating the murder of Tyla Tomkins. And she’s targeting you.”

  I propped myself up on one elbow and looked at her. She remained on her back. “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”

  “Jeffrey didn’t say anything about it till an hour ago. He was against my decision to come home with you. Telling me this was his last attempt to convince me that I shouldn’t.”

  I was glad that she’d ignored his advice, but I still didn’t like it that she’d waited until we were in bed to tell me. “This goes without saying, but you know I didn’t kill Tyla Tomkins.”

  “I know. Technically speaking, Agent Santos doesn’t think you did, either.”

  “You just said she was targeting me.”

  “She thinks you’re responsible, but she doesn’t think you’re the one who physically hit Tyla with a machete.”

  It felt as if someone had just hit me with the machete. I rolled onto my back again and stared at those cracks in the ceiling. “Somehow I knew they would try to drag J.T. into this.”

  “Do you think it’s possible?”

  “No.”

  “He’s always scared me.”

  “He’s not a violent person.”

  “He attacked that bus driver.”

  “That was more of a misunderstanding than an attack.”

  “His father was a cane cutter.”

  “Angelina, it makes no sense. What reason would J.T. have to kill Tyla Tomkins?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “See,” I said. “No motive. There was no reason for him to commit this crime. None.”

  “None,” she said with a hint of nervousness. “Unless you asked him to.”

  I was up on my elbow again and looking straight at her. “Is that what you think?”

  “No, Abe. That’s what Agent Santos thinks.”

  I moved a little closer to her, but I didn’t cross that line in the bed. “Angelina, this is a game Santos is playing. She’s trying to drive a wedge between us. She talks to my friend Rid and says you killed Tyla. She talks to your lawyer and says I got J.T. to kill her.”

  “She told Riddel that I killed Tyla?”

  “Yes.”

&nb
sp; She was suddenly up on her elbow, the same reaction I’d had to her lawyer’s meeting with Santos. We were eye to eye, staring at each other from opposite sides of that imaginary line down our mattress like two soldiers in the trenches.

  “Santos thinks I killed Tyla, and you didn’t tell me? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I thought it was so preposterous that I didn’t need to,” I said.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. Tyla was hacked to death with a machete. It was a bloody, gruesome death.”

  “Oh, so if it had been a nice clean bullet to the back of the head, that would be different. That’s something you could see me doing?”

  This wasn’t the time to get into “rolling pins” and Rid’s alternative theories on cause of death. “No. I didn’t say that.”

  She lowered herself onto her back and folded her arms atop the comforter.

  “Angelina, please, let’s not get like this. We’re playing right into Agent Santos’ hands. Her strategy is to break down the trust between us. She wants us to turn against each other.”

  “Do you trust me?” she asked.

  It was a simple question, but the answer felt complicated. I hesitated too long.

  “Abe, do you trust me?” she asked again.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Don’t say ‘of course.’ Nothing is of course anymore. We have to rebuild. I want to rebuild. But not if you’re going to say dumbass things like ‘Of course I trust you, honey.’ It’s dismissive of me and everything that’s happened.”

  She had a point. “I’m sorry.”

  She took a breath and sank a little deeper into the mattress. I lay back and did the same.

  “I didn’t kill Tyla,” I said. “J.T. didn’t kill Tyla. I didn’t get J.T. to kill Tyla.”

  I heard her take another deep breath in the darkness. “Thank you,” she said.

  “You’re welcome. Anything else you want to know?”

  “Not right now.”

  “Good.”

  “Well, maybe one thing,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Just to be clear: when I close my eyes to go to sleep, J.T. isn’t going to jump out of the closet with a machete, is he?”