Blood Relations

by Parker, Barbara

  He paused to light another cigarette. He inhaled deeply, then blew smoke toward the stars, considering what Sam Hagen would like to have heard her say. Caitlin had murmured, If I die, please tell Sam that I loved him. Tell him never to forget me. Yes, perfect.

  The wail of a siren grew closer.

  Standing up, Ryabin could see the lights. He took a puff of his cigarette, then snatched it from his mouth and stared at it. It was nearly half gone. His eleventh. Anna would ask him when he got home. How could he explain?

  He flicked the cigarette toward the dark water. It made a brief orange arc, then disappeared.

  chapter thirty-seven

  Tarpon Springs

  August 17

  Dear Sam,

  How’s everything in Tampa? We’re all fine here. I got your check, as usual, though it’s more than we need for now, so I put the rest in the savings account.

  Dad got out of the hospital for his kidney trouble yesterday, and he’s better, but we don’t think he will be with us much longer. We haven’t told Dina, but she senses it. She and Costas sit on the back porch together in the evenings. He rocks in his chair and she watches the river. It’s a comfort to him, having her home again.

  Her new thing on Saturday is cleaning the sanctuary at the cathedral. It’s hard for me to see my sister scrubbing the floor, knowing what she used to be, but she says it makes her feel closer to God, the more she’s down there on her knees. Aunt Betty says if it she wants to do it, let her. Dina still has no memory of certain things, and that is a blessing. I won’t say she’s happy, but she’s not unhappy.

  I hope you’re liking your new job. I guess it’s a change, but we know you’ll do fine, like you always have. (Now, ole buddy, the next thing is to turn you into a fan of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. Ha.)

  The girls send their love to Melanie, and did she get the pictures they sent? Dottie just told me to tell you hello and take care of yourself. Maybe we can all get together over the Labor Day weekend.

  Best regards,

  Nick

  822 W. 11th St.

  New York, NY

  September 22

  Dear Sam,

  Thank you so much for the lovely letter, which I just this minute read. After a week in Canada, it was nice to be welcomed home by that familiar scrawl.

  To answer your question: Yes, of course! I’d love to see you for Christmas. (Only you, Sam, would plan things so far in advance.) And yes, I’ll send you subway maps and bus schedules and lists of touristy things to do, or (my humble suggestion) you could just forget about all that for once and let me show you around. I’m a terrific tour guide.

  Naturally you’ll want to have a long visit with your cousins in Brooklyn (how did you find them after thirty-five years?!), but why not let Melanie spend a day or two with me? I wasn’t much older than fifteen when I first saw Greenwich Village. My new place is a shoebox, but there’s room for two girls in it. I should know: Ali Duncan came through town after a shoot in London, and she stayed with me for nearly a week. (Here’s some gossip: Moda Ruffini U.S.A. filed for bankruptcy, and the store in Miami has closed. Even better: Tereza Ruffini kicked Klaus out of their villa in Milan when she caught him with her fitting model. Ali couldn’t stop laughing when she told me about it.)

  I’ll be in Miami at the end of the month. It’s just a weekend, to take some shots of the new trade center. I know Tampa isn’t across the street, but if you could pull yourself away from your clients for only a day …

  I realized, Sam—dearest Sam—as I read your letter, that next week is the first anniversary of Matthew’s death. I hope you don’t mind my mentioning it, but I have thought of him lately—and not with sadness. He just comes into my mind; then he goes out, like paying me a visit. It’s good to think of him without dwelling on all the other stuff. If there is a heaven, I’m sure he’s up there. That’s all. I just wanted you to know.

  Since our last phone call, I’ve been doing some thinking, as you asked me to. Really, I can’t tell what I want to do in the long term. It’s much too soon to say. I know you don’t want to put any pressure on me, and I feel the same. However … it’s good to know that after all the hell they’ve been through, two people can still care about each other. I mean really care, not just say the right words. But your words are right. No pretty phrases, just the facts. Oh, well. I don’t try to figure anything out these days. I just look in the lens and click the shutter.

  Write soon,

  Love,

  Caitlin

  The noises of South Beach faded and the late summer glare dimmed when Harold Perlstein closed the heavy door. Sam looked around, his eyes adjusting. The place belonged to another country. Another century. Dark wood. The curtains, the candles, the carved pews. Then he noticed the deep turquoise carpet. Not so far from Miami Beach after all.

  He put on the yarmulke that Perlstein handed him, patting it down onto his hair.

  “You’ll have to excuse me for not remembering much. I haven’t been in a synagogue since I was a kid. I’m just in Miami for the day, anyway.”

  “I know. You told me. You’re not religious. That’s all right.” Perlstein led him through a side door. “Come on, I’ll show you around.” They went down a short hallway tiled in cracked squares of green and tan linoleum, then through another door. “This is where I work.”

  The room was brightly lit, painted white, with sunlight streaming in along one side. An air conditioner dripped into a bucket. Perlstein’s desk was heavy oak, scratched from years of use. The veneer was peeling up.

  Perlstein wore a blue knit shirt with a horizontal white stripe, and pale yellow pants. “How did he die, your son? You didn’t say.” He dropped a bib apron over his head, then tied it in the back.

  “In a motorcycle accident,” Sam said.

  “Ohhh. Too bad. Kids. They go so fast on those things.” He handed Sam some folded pages. A pamphlet. “This I got for you from the rabbi. Look. This part here. Yiz-kor Elohim nish-mas b’nee haw-ahoov—”

  “What does it mean?”

  Perlstein took it back, read it over, then said, “‘O heavenly Father, remember … the soul of my beloved son, who I recall with love in this … solemn hour. His memory is in my heart. May his soul … live in eternal life.’ Something like that. ‘Amen.’ Nice, right?”

  “Very nice,” Sam said.

  “Yes.” Perlstein patted his arm. “Okay, sit here.”

  He clicked on a metal lamp that held a long fluorescent bulb. On a wooden shelf above the desk there was a mug from Cypress Gardens with several big feathers in it. Perlstein pulled one out, a heavy brownish-gray with white flecks. “This is a goose-quill pen. I make them myself. The parchment is calfskin, but I don’t know how they do it. And the ink is made special. The rabbi blesses it, and so on.”

  From the table to his right he lifted a sheet of brown wrapping paper and pulled from under it a page of parchment. The sheet was pearly white and already bore several sections of squarish black letters.

  “This Torah, when I finish, will last for hundreds of years, longer than you or I. When we’re dust, this will still be here. What do you think about that?”

  Sam nodded and put on his glasses. Harold Perlstein settled down with his quill and ink. His hand was big, with knobby knuckles, but it moved quickly, leaving a trail of tiny, precise letters. Ink had worked under his cuticles and into the ridges and crevices of his skin.

  “There’s a prayer for each letter,” Perlstein said, dipping the quill into the ink, shaking off a drop. “I think that’s so we keep it slow and don’t make mistakes. But I’m pretty fast.” He scratched more letters, writing right to left, lifting his hand to make sure he didn’t smear the ink, blowing on it from time to time. As he worked, Sam could hear the minor-key notes and see his lips move. From time to time the old man would glance up at a printed page stuck to a corkboard with a thumbtack, but generally he kept his face bent to the parchment.

  Finally Perlstein straightened up and
leaned back in the chair. “Okay. You see how it goes. I’ve stopped so the next letter is mem. Like an M. For Matthew, your son. Now, you put your hand on mine. Not so heavy. Lighter. Yes, like that. We’ll put him here, on this line.”

  Perlstein’s skin was like parchment itself, sinking between the tendons. He sang the chant for M; then his hand moved, and Sam’s moved with it, and the black ink flowed onto the page.

  acknowledgments

  A writer never knows if it is a complaint or a compliment when a reader says, “Good heavens, there are so many characters in this book!” The only excuse I can offer is this: So many people told me such good stories, that I wanted to include them all.

  The best storyteller at the Dade County State Attorney’s Office has to be David Waksman of the Major Crimes Division. (Before law school he walked a beat in the Bronx; he’ll tell you all about it.)

  Again, thanks to Detective Gary Schiaffo of the Miami Beach Police Department (Gary, what will I do for cop stories when you retire?) and to Sgt. Tim O’Regan, who let me ride midnights. I learned more than I wanted to know from Dr. Robert C. Sykes and Dr. Lee Hearn of the Dade County Medical Examiner’s Office. Jess Galan, ballistics expert with the Metro-Dade Police Department, filled me in on firearms. Dr. Karen J. Simmons, of the Rape Treatment Center at Jackson Memorial Hospital, generously shared her time and knowledge.

  Modeling agents Allee Newhoff and Deborah Fischer of the Irene Marie Agency took me into the world of fashion, where I met models Klaus Baer and Jeff Gawley, agents Cory Bautista and Judy Lane, and hair/makeup designers Danny Morrow, Scott Barnes, and Rhea White. For Lynn Chandler, her own page.

  Photography credit goes to Bobi Dimond, Gonzalo Miranda, and Scott Foust, who showed me how a fashion photographer sees it.

  Angela Lopez was my tour guide to South Beach nightlife, and Louis Canales explained why it’s such a terrific place, day or night. Reid Vogelhut is the best storyteller on the Beach. And thank you, as always, Warren Lee.

  Merci beaucoup to my panel on foreign languages and culture: Christine Raffini, who helped me fake the French and Italian; Dolly Yanishevky, who took me from Ukraine to Israel; Sophia Economos, for some lovely words in Greek; Siegfried Grammel, for the bits of German; and Peter Lavery, who made my British character British. The Spanish and any mistakes are mine.

  Rolland M. Miller, former infantry first sergeant, U.S. Army, told me what it was like in Vietnam; and Odessa Tevis, Tarpon Springs Historical Society, made that town’s past come alive.

  Many thanks to my legal experts, attorneys Kelly Luther (wrongful death) and Michael A. Matters (criminal defense). Ray King showed me how to load a Colt .45; Richard C. David shared his knowledge of family psychology; and Elizabeth S. Pittenger supplied horticultural details.

  For inspiration and guidance in the early stages, I owe much to Cliff Yudell. For brainstorming me through the tough parts, love to my sister Laura. For insights on the not-quite-final manuscript, who else but writer Judy Cuevas. Thank you, Anne Williams, Headline Publishing, England, for correcting some of my oversights. Credit for final polishing goes, as ever, to all the great folks at Dutton, especially Audrey LaFehr, my champion and editor; and copy editor Juli Barbato.

  About the Author

  Barbara Parker was trained as a lawyer and worked as a prosecutor with the state attorney’s office in Dade County, Florida, before moving into a private practice that specialized in real estate and family law. Parker earned a master’s degree in creative writing in 1993. Her first legal thriller was Suspicion of Innocence (1994), which was followed by another seven titles featuring two lawyer protagonists, the sometime-lovers Gail Connor and Anthony Quintana. While writing the Suspicion series, Parker also produced Criminal Justice, Blood Relations, The Perfect Fake, and The Dark of Day. Suspicion of Innocence was a finalist for the Edgar Award from the Mystery Writers of America. Two of her titles, Suspicion of Deceit and Suspicion of Betrayal were New York Times bestsellers. Barbara Parker died in March 2009, at age sixty-two.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1996 by Barbara Parker

  Cover design by Andy Ross

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-2166-1

  This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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