Shimmer

by Hilary Norman

  Nothing ventured, he’d decided on waking that morning. And best to go in daylight, with plenty of people around, and if it turned out that the cops were waiting for him there, then so be it.

  No one so far.

  The little marina was quiet, no activity on or around any of the neighbouring boats, just a couple of guys and a middle-aged woman looking about ready to take out a well-maintained Chapparal cruiser over on the other side.

  No cops.

  Everything on board was just as he’d left it. Nice and shipshape on deck and in the cockpit.

  Nothing overtly wrong down below either, unless, of course, you were looking for evidence of something having happened here.

  Like sex and death.

  The bike was OK – Daisy, his sexy tandem pick-up cycle – taking up too much space down below, and that had been one of the tough parts the other night, getting Daisy below instead of leaving her chained up on deck as he usually did, but he’d figured he couldn’t afford for her to be visible, so he’d got the job done – and a whole lot more besides.

  All visible traces of what had happened after that last seduction were gone, along with his Walmart comforter – and its blend of his-and-his DNA – and the old rug (a threadbare, smelly thing that had come with the cruiser) in which he’d wrapped up his friend until he’d been able to wash him down and roll him into the rowboat. The comforter and rug and the other man’s clothes and wallet – out of which he’d stolen all of the sixty-five bucks that had been in there (which made him a thief, too, now, not like back in Wilmington), but none of the credit cards, because he wasn’t a fool – and the gloves Cal had worn to protect his own hands, had all been taken out to sea, weighted down with some bits of broken slabs taken from a dumpster outside a building on 16th.

  Gone.

  Cal wasn’t exactly sure why he hadn’t sent the dead man the same way. Especially considering all the physical effort and emotional strain that had gone into stealing the damned rowboat, let alone making the transfer.

  The closest guess he could pin down was that he was, at heart, an exhibitionist. That maybe he wanted what he’d done to be seen by someone.

  Not that he wanted to be caught and put back in the slammer, Jesus, no.

  But if no one ever found out what he’d done, how would anyone ever get to know what had been done to him, how he’d suffered? And just telling someone like a shrink about Jewel and stuff wouldn’t be nearly enough, because all that would make him was just another guy in therapy, no one giving a damn about him.

  Prison, though. Just the thought of it . . .

  Not forgetting Death Row and Florida’s lethal injections.

  That made his soul cringe, OK.

  Which meant that he should not have done that, should not have taken all those risks, should not have stolen that rowboat and rolled him in and waited to see what happened next.

  Nothing had happened.

  Not so far, anyway.

  The stink of bleach was still there, had jetted right up his nostrils the instant he’d boarded Baby again, catching at the back of his throat and bringing it all vividly back.

  What he’d done to him.

  Not the cord around his neck, nor even the ending of his life.

  What he’d done after.

  At least the guy had already been dead, hadn’t gotten to know what that felt like.

  Cal knew about that.

  All about it.

  Work to be done.

  He’d gone shopping on his way over from the pisshole, had brought more bleach with him, and a roll of plastic trash bags and new rubber gloves and a pack of surgical masks from the drugstore. And a new, cheap white quilt from a kitschy bargain store with some god-awful name like Good Nite, but the quilt would be soft enough for sleeping on when he felt ready to come back for real.

  He hadn’t needed a new scrubbing brush, because the one he’d used was still here, stashed in the storage space between the cabin floor and the hull. And that was another curious decision he’d made, because every last damned atom of the head on that brush had to be coated with DNA, so he ought to have sent that down into the deep with the other stuff, but he hadn’t wanted to, had chosen to keep it, though again, he couldn’t say precisely why.

  You do want to be caught.

  Maybe.

  You want to use it again.

  Maybe that too.

  35

  Jerome Cooper didn’t have a criminal record, but that didn’t make Frank Lucca’s pathetic, blackmailing stepson any less of a sleazeball, and just the thought of him coming near his family again was making Sam feel sick to his stomach.

  ‘I spoke with a pal in Bay Harbor PD,’ he told Grace on the phone. ‘No big production, don’t worry, no explanations, just letting them know we’ve had an unwelcome visitor, so they can keep an eye open.’

  ‘Surely they wanted to know a little more than that?’ Grace was dubious.

  ‘I told them a half-truth, said it’s a family thing, and they understood.’

  He and Grace had formed a number of good relationships on the islands, though back in ’98, before they’d begun living together, it had concerned Sam, for her and Cathy’s sake, that some people might not be too keen on having a black homicide cop in their midst, even if he was moving in with a psychologist pillar of their community; but those issues had been laid swiftly to rest, as they’d made him welcome almost from the beginning.

  He hoped now that their kind, well-mannered neighbours hadn’t spotted him kicking Cooper’s ass that morning.

  Though maybe if they’d known a little more about the bastard, they might have applauded.

  Which was more than Barun Adani – who’d telephoned earlier to request a meeting – was likely to do when he came in to the office this afternoon.

  No progress on the investigation into his brother’s homicide.

  That was sickening, too.

  36

  ‘So now what do I do?’ Claudia asked Grace at lunchtime.

  She’d been hiding out in Cathy’s room for most of the time since Cooper’s visit, but Grace had finally come to get her a half-hour ago, and now they were at the kitchen table, Joshua between them in his highchair.

  ‘Call Daniel, I guess,’ Grace said. ‘Tell him what’s happened.’

  ‘Over the phone?’ Claudia was horrified. ‘I can’t do that to him.’

  Grace waited until Joshua had swallowed down the previous spoonful of squash, then offered him the next. ‘I’m not sure you really have too many choices.’

  Claudia sat in silence, unable to eat the avocado salad she’d prepared for the two of them, because the imagined photographs were making her feel nauseous, and the thought of Robbie or Mike ever seeing them was enough to make her want to scream.

  ‘If Jerome’s given up on the money,’ Grace went on, ‘he may just want to upset the boys out of pure spite. You can’t risk that happening without somehow warning Daniel.’

  Claudia imagined Robbie at his computer, opening mail, seeing . . .

  She gave a low, choking cry, pushed back her chair and ran from the kitchen.

  ‘Baba,’ Joshua said, picked up a soft bagel from his highchair tray and waved it at Grace. ‘Baba nooga!’

  ‘Absolutely right, sweet boy,’ his mother said, her heart aching for her sister.

  Such tough times ahead for her, no matter how she handled it from now on.

  And not a damned thing Grace or Sam could do to help her.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Daniel asked, on the phone.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Claudia lied. ‘Missing you all.’

  She’d gone straight up to Cathy’s room and made the call right away, but knew already that she could not bring herself to tell him.

  Monstrous coward.

  ‘Maybe you should just come straight home.’ Daniel paused. ‘Perhaps Grace would like to come visit with us for a change?’

  ‘She has Joshua,’ Claudia said. ‘It’s not that easy.’

  ‘Mom
s travel with babies all the time,’ Daniel pointed out. ‘And if Sam can’t take time out to come along, he’s always struck me as a pretty self-sufficient guy.’

  ‘I’ll talk to them about it,’ Claudia said.

  ‘Will you?’

  There was a touch of disbelief behind the words that chilled Claudia.

  What if he knew?

  If he knew, she told herself, he’d have come right out and said so.

  At least said something.

  The fact was he did not know anything, either about her infidelity, or about the photographs or blackmail.

  ‘I miss you,’ Daniel said. ‘We all do.’

  Pure shame flooded her. She opened her mouth to speak, to confess, just blurt it out, deliver the hammer blow to their marriage, and then she shut it again.

  ‘Claudia?’

  ‘I miss you too,’ she said. ‘But I think that if you don’t mind coping just a little longer, I’d like to spend a few more days here. Try to do a little bonding with my nephew, as well as help out.’

  ‘If that’s what you’d like,’ Daniel said, stiffly, ‘I can cope.’

  ‘Are the boys OK?’ Claudia said. ‘No problems?’

  She wanted to tell him to find a way to make their computers crash, to shut down their email servers, have their home fax numbers suspended, make sure that he checked any regular mail that might come addressed to them.

  Maybe, it occurred to her suddenly, she could persuade Daniel to bring Robbie and Mike down to Florida, and for a moment brilliant hope flared – and then she remembered that in the first place, Daniel wouldn’t leave his business or take the boys out of school so close to the summer break on their mother’s whim.

  And in the second place, Jerome was here.

  Anyway, their mother was not only an adulteress, but a liar. Who might not even deserve to have her sons with her just yet.

  ‘They’re doing fine,’ Daniel answered her question. ‘They’re good kids, you know that. They understand you wanting to be with your sister and Joshua.’

  ‘Just a few more days,’ Claudia said.

  Maybe by then she’d find the courage to face him again, to tell him the truth. Try to start putting things back together.

  Maybe Jerome Cooper would creep back home to Chicago, and none of them would ever hear from him again.

  If only.

  37

  Barun Adani had come to police headquarters to ask the detectives if they could help him achieve the speediest possible release of his brother’s body.

  Sam found them an unoccupied office away from the bustle, a little less bleak, he hoped, than an interview room.

  The subject matter bleak enough on its own.

  ‘Do you know anything about Hindu beliefs with regard to death?’ Barun came directly to the point as Martinez brought in three cups of coffee.

  ‘Just a little,’ Sam said, and looked at his partner. ‘Al?’

  ‘Even less,’ said Martinez. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘We believe – or are meant to believe – in reincarnation,’ Barun explained. ‘In the soul passing at death from one body to the next.’

  In ordinary circumstances, he went on, family members would pray around the departed as swiftly as possible, and traditionally the body was cremated within twenty-four hours of death.

  ‘When people die suddenly, as with my brother . . .’ His self-possession fragmented a little, and he looked down at his hands on his knees, took a moment, then continued. ‘When the deceased has had no time to prepare for death, tradition has us abandon the full rites – I guess so as not to hold up rebirth.’

  ‘Which all makes any official delay especially rough,’ Sam said, ‘but I can assure you that everyone concerned will be—’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Barun cut in. ‘Everyone’s doing their best, and I’m aware that ours is not the only faith where time is of the essence, but day by day it seems clearer to me that we all have to take care of our own.’ He shook his head, embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry to seem rude.’

  ‘You’re being honest,’ Sam said.

  ‘It’s only that for our parents, being unable to do things the right way for Sanjiv is making the whole ordeal even more unbearable.’

  ‘You need to try and make them understand –’ Martinez leaned forward in his chair, his eyes sympathetic – ‘that this isn’t just about a bunch of red tape. It’s about making sure nothing gets overlooked, not by the ME, not by us, so we can catch whoever did this to your brother.’

  ‘But you could at least speak to them?’ Barun persisted.

  ‘Of course,’ Sam said. ‘No question.’

  ‘We wanted to talk to you again anyway, sir.’ Martinez shifted the emphasis of the conversation. ‘To find out a little more about Sanjiv.’

  ‘The more we learn, the better,’ Sam said. ‘About your brother’s habits, about the places he liked going to, any pastimes or hobbies.’

  ‘We need lists,’ Martinez added, ‘of his favourite restaurants and bars, maybe nightclubs, even stores he regularly visited.’

  ‘Any friends you might have forgotten about,’ Sam said, ‘or old pals he might have been corresponding with.’

  ‘Anyone who might have harboured bad feelings about him,’ Martinez said.

  ‘Sanjiv had no enemies,’ Barun said. ‘I’m certain of that.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re probably right,’ Sam said. ‘But we’re trying to paint a picture of your brother’s life, which means the good things, the really ordinary details, can often be just as important.’

  He liked the man, thought Martinez did too. Not that it mattered a damn if they liked the grieving relatives or not, but the truth was that maybe it sometimes did serve to strengthen their resolve just a little more.

  Not doing enough for this guy or his family, that was for sure.

  38

  It was the first time since the homicide that Sam had made it home for dinner at a decent time.

  Claudia, Grace told him, was upstairs lying down, had said she had a headache and no appetite. Joshua was sound asleep.

  He had his wife all to himself.

  ‘I’ve missed you, Gracie.’ He leaned against the wall close to where she was working, watched as she tossed a spinach salad, then reached quickly for her left hand, brought it up to his lips and kissed her fingers.

  ‘Me too,’ she said.

  ‘So how’s our son doing with all this atmosphere?’ He kept his voice low.

  ‘He’s great,’ Grace said. ‘He loves his auntie, and she’s very good around him, takes care not to let things show too much.’

  ‘Claudia’s a good mom,’ Sam said.

  ‘Two thousand miles from her own sons,’ Grace said.

  ‘Is that a reproach, or sympathy?’

  ‘A little of both, maybe.’

  The table was already laid, so Sam grabbed a corkscrew and opened the waiting bottle of Sangiovese, sniffed the cork and set the bottle down again to breathe. Being married to a fine cook with an Italian heritage had zero disadvantages, he’d long since decided, except that these days he found he needed to work out for longer to keep himself in halfway decent shape. Grace liked to keep their food healthy on the whole, but treats like the pumpkin ravioli, and spinach and cheese agnolotti that she brought in now and again from Laurenzo’s on West Dixie were indecently fattening, and the workouts just got harder and harder as time went on.

  No complaints. Lord, no.

  Sam sliced ciabatta, brought the bread and salad to the table, poured some wine, and Grace brought over the rest of the dinner and sat down with him, smiled as she saw his obvious pleasure, saw him starting to really relax, then served herself and began to eat. Her hair was still butter-gold, still felt like pure silk when Sam ran his fingers through it, which he never stopped wanting to do. It was cut a little shorter than it used to be these days, but was still long enough for her to tie back or pin up, and every hairstyle seemed to make a different statement, brought out a different aspect of h
er.

  Sam loved them all.

  Pinned up casually this evening, a few stray hairs escaping in wisps, stroking her neck. Sexy as hell.

  ‘This is wonderful,’ he said.

  ‘Good.’ She’d made polpettone, a Tuscan-style meatloaf she tended to prepare as comfort food. ‘Though I made it partly for Claudia.’

  Sam’s mind went back to the unpleasantness, took a sip of wine. ‘Are you still sure you don’t want me to go after Cooper?’

  ‘That’s the problem, though, isn’t it?’ Grace said. ‘His name may be Cooper, but he’s also a Lucca.’

  ‘Which means what?’ Sam said. ‘You can’t want to protect that slime.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ Grace said. ‘I just don’t want anything to do with Frank. Neither of us does.’

  ‘I know how you both feel,’ Sam said. ‘But if this does go on, if Cooper does come back, we may not have much choice.’

  Grace picked up a forkful of meatloaf. ‘Do you think he believes what he said about us owing him?’ She put the fork back down, the food untouched. ‘Does he honestly think it might have been easier for him and Roxanne if Claudia and I had stayed in Melrose Park?’

  ‘I don’t give a damn what he thinks,’ Sam said, ‘so long as we never have to hear from him again.’ He ate for a moment, then wiped sauce off his plate with a piece of ciabatta. ‘I have to say I’m not happy about leaving him out there.’

  ‘Because he’s a creep, or because you think you made him mad?’

  Sam eyed Grace. ‘You think I shouldn’t have kicked his ass.’

  ‘I think – I know – his ass needed kicking.’ She paused. ‘But a lot of creeps carry knives or guns.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have humiliated him,’ Sam said.

  She looked at him, her brow furrowed. ‘Do you think he really might be dangerous?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Sam said. ‘But I think I’m going to be watching all our backs until we’re sure he’s left town.’

  ‘I think,’ Grace said, ‘I’m not sorry to hear that.’

  39

  June 11

  At ten past midnight on Wednesday morning, Cal was in the dump behind Collins, almost ready to go back out.