Bereavement. Grief. Shock. Mourning.
William Burton had accepted their offer to drive him home from Jackson Memorial, on the understanding that they would speak to him honestly.
‘I’m not sick,’ he said in Martinez’s Chevy. ‘My family were just murdered.’ He looked haggard, like a man who’d been hit by a wrecking ball. ‘So you can interview the crap out of me, whatever you need, so long as I can do something for my boy and his sweet wife and their poor friends. Just let me do something.’
His Surfside apartment was semi-dark when they arrived, the blinds still drawn, the kitchen garbage smelling bad, sections of last Sunday’s New York Times strewn over the couch and floor in the sitting room.
‘Nick must be in a bad way,’ he said, after hearing about Gibson’s concern.
‘He seemed very shocked,’ Martinez said. ‘He’d been traveling and only found out this morning.’
‘Not “seemed”,’ Burton said firmly, and sat heavily on the Sunday Review on the couch. ‘I guess your line of work must make you suspicious of everyone, but I can tell you those boys were real close. If Nick Gibson tells you he’s shocked, believe him.’
‘Good to know,’ Sam told him.
‘So,’ Burton said. ‘Why don’t you both take a load off so we can start?’ He paused. ‘I’m assuming you haven’t arrested anyone yet?’
‘No, sir,’ Sam said.
‘Could I make you a cup of something, Mr Burton?’ Martinez asked. ‘Maybe get a little light into the place?’
‘Later,’ Burton said. ‘Sit down, please.’
They sat.
‘No suspects?’ Burton asked.
‘Not yet,’ Martinez said.
‘Lines of enquiry?’
‘Several,’ Sam said.
‘Which you can’t discuss with me, right?’
‘Not at this stage, no, sir.’
Burton’s pain was palpable, and both detectives felt that if he were alone he’d break down, had probably had no privacy since the identification and his own collapse.
‘So, what can I tell you?’ He rallied. ‘I can tell you about my son. That he was a good, decent boy growing up. That he loved his mother and me, too. That he was never big on learning, more the athletic, lighthearted type. Gary laughed a lot, was never moody. When he met Nick and they opened the club, it made him happy.’ Burton’s eyes glistened with tears. ‘Which made us happy too, because Gary liked sharing things with people he loved. He was an optimist.’
Neither Sam nor Martinez spoke.
‘They made mistakes,’ Burton continued. ‘Opened more clubs when they should probably have stuck with the one and paid a price for that, which scared Gary, I can tell you, because Molly was in his life by then. But she helped him keep their heads above water. They were a team. They would have made fine parents.’
The sorrow, the waste, pierced Sam to the core.
‘Molly miscarried twice,’ Burton said softly. ‘I’m not sure how to feel about that now. Maybe it’s better there aren’t any little ones.’
Sam gave him a moment. ‘Did your son talk to you about those rough times? About anyone who might have lost money, perhaps held that against Gary?’
Burton shook his head. ‘He always hated us knowing if he’d flunked an exam at school or got in any trouble, so no, if there were people like that he probably wouldn’t have told me.’ He paused. ‘I don’t know if anyone else mentioned it, but Gary and Pete were pretty keen on gambling.’
‘No, sir,’ Martinez said.
‘Strictly small stuff, so far as I know. Molly used to tease him about it, complain a little about their poker nights and Vegas weekends – did you know that’s where Gary and Molly first met?’
Sam nodded. ‘Molly’s uncle told us about that.’
Burton made a disparaging sound.
‘Mr Lin not your favorite person, sir?’ Martinez asked.
‘I only met him twice,’ Burton said, ‘so I may have been mistaken, but let’s just say I got the impression Mr Lin didn’t feel that Gary was good enough for his niece. I didn’t take kindly to that.’
‘Did he object to the marriage?’ Sam asked.
‘Not that I was told. But Molly was strong, and it was plain from the first time Gary introduced her to us that she was in love with him. If James Lin had tried to split them up, he wouldn’t have stood a chance.’ The pain came back into his face. ‘I can’t stand to think about what they did to her and my boy.’ He shook his head. ‘I just can’t.’
‘How about that cup of tea now?’ Martinez said gently.
‘No tea.’ Burton stood up. ‘Thank you for your kindness.’
Sam and Martinez rose too.
‘Perhaps we could let Mr Gibson know you’re home?’ Sam said.
‘I imagine he’ll be in touch soon enough,’ Burton said. ‘You don’t need to worry about me. Just do whatever you can to put them away.’
‘You can depend on it,’ Sam said.
‘I am,’ Burton said. ‘I’d say it’s about the only thing holding me together – that you seem to care.’
They walked toward the front door, Sam and Martinez uncomfortably aware of the blinds still drawn, the garbage still not taken out.
‘I know the place stinks,’ Burton said. ‘I’ll be dealing with that.’
‘It’s no problem for us to lend you a hand, sir,’ Martinez said.
‘It would be a problem for me,’ Burton said. ‘I’m grieving, not losing my marbles.’
‘No, sir.’ Sam hesitated, then had to ask: ‘Do you think that your son might ever have got in over his head, maybe playing poker? Any big debts?’
Burton stood up straighter. ‘Big enough for someone to arrange a hit, you mean?’ Even in the dim light, his outrage showed. ‘No way on earth. My son had his head screwed on, and he wouldn’t have done that to Molly, believe me.’
‘We do,’ Sam said.
‘Are you sure there’s nothing we can do for you?’ Martinez tried again.
‘I’m all right. Or as right as I’m ever going to be.’ Burton paused. ‘There’ll be a funeral to arrange soon enough, and then I’ll just wait my time.’
Neither detective asked for what, both all too sure they knew.
William Burton felt he had nothing left to live for.
Next stop the First Choice Inn and the Reardons.
Joseph Reardon came down to the lobby, told them that Rose was finally sleeping, that he’d be grateful if they could put off their interview for another day.
‘It’s not as if we feel we have anything to tell you that would help,’ he said.
Sam asked if their son might be ready to talk.
‘Sean isn’t here,’ his father said. ‘He’s out walking. He’s always done that when something’s upset him.’ His eyes, behind their spectacles, became rheumy. ‘This has hit him very hard.’
They left a note for the son, asking him to call so that they could continue their conversation with him.
‘Want to go look for him?’ Martinez asked on their way back to the car.
‘Big haystack,’ Sam said. ‘Let’s go see what we can dig up about him.’
‘And Molly’s Uncle James too.’
‘Then I guess we go talk to a few people at GG Fitness,’ Sam said.
‘The usual,’ Martinez said, getting into the Chevy.
Nothing yet but a few niggles, none of them pointing to multiple homicide.
And then, of course, there was ‘Virginia’.
Gabe arrived early Tuesday evening, back from the Var with a large jar of olives and an armful of fresh lavender, and they went straight to bed. Cathy told him that she’d missed him, and he said the same back.
They agreed on many things. They disliked the mega-rich end of Cannes, hated Monaco, loved the stunning coast, spent many hours of their spare time swooping in and out of traffic, taking in breathtaking views, riding up to St-Paul-de-Vence, enjoying the Chagalls and Picassos and Giacomettis; and once, after they’d drunk
too much wine in a small restaurant up in Eze, as the Ducati roared around bends on the way back, Cathy had thought that they might be killed, but each time Gabe had steadied the bike and laughed, she’d felt more certain that she loved him.
She hadn’t told him that, nor had he told her how he felt. Nor had he shared much more about his past or family or any innermost secrets. She knew more than she had: that his home was a small apartment on the top floor of a little pale green house in Golfe-Juan, that his market partner was a forty-something man named Rafael Fillon who rode a Harley Davidson and lived alone in a small apartment in the rue de la Miséricorde, where Gabe sometimes stayed. That he’d been given a lopin de terre, a small parcel of land, by his Uncle Yves – Yves Rémy, his mother’s brother, a farmer – and she thought that was probably where he went when he left town for a few days at a time, and she’d asked what grew there, olives or fruit trees or lavender, perhaps. But Gabe had just smiled and told her that he’d take her there some day when the time was right.
That time, apparently, had not come, though it scarcely seemed to matter, because he shared himself with her almost daily, and she thought she could ask for no more.
That, perhaps, she wanted no more.
‘I keep remembering the roaches,’ she told him tonight, in bed.
‘Try thinking about other things,’ Gabe said. ‘Like what we just did.’
She smiled. ‘So what were the nasty tricks Sadi and Marcel mentioned before Aniela shut them down?’
‘Couple of things,’ Gabe said. ‘A plague of carpenter ants last year.’
‘Yuck.’
‘Legions of them. The restaurant was closed for two days before CHSCT – health and safety – pronounced it clean.’
‘But those things happen, surely?’
‘Not usually in a place run as rigorously as Le Rêve.’
‘OK,’ Cathy said. ‘What else?’
‘Something more subtle, but a lot worse. A big copper pan switched with an unlined pan. If Jeanne hadn’t spotted it—’
‘Verdigris poisoning,’ Cathy said.
‘Potentially,’ Gabe agreed, and stretched.
‘Is that all?’
‘In my time, yes,’ he said.
‘So what’s Nic done about it?’
‘Beats me.’
‘Didn’t he bring in the police?’
‘I doubt it.’ Gabe paused. ‘Did he call them today?’
‘Not that I know of. He joined in with the cleanup for a while, but then he disappeared into his office. Jeanne told us later that although we were closed till evening we’d all be paid for our shifts, and Nic paid for us to go to La Pizza for lunch, which was nice of him.’
‘He’s a great guy,’ Gabe said. ‘But I’m not surprised he didn’t call the cops. More risk of damage to the restaurant’s reputation, besides which, I imagine Nic has his own ways of dealing with things.’
‘You think he knows who’s done these things?’
‘If he does, he won’t be sharing it with us.’ Gabe yawned, closed his eyes.
‘But—’
‘Goodnight, Marple.’
June 5
By noon on Wednesday they’d all seen their images on TV, in newspapers and on the Internet, including a video on Channel 6 of their walk back from the Burton house – the kill house, the boss called it – to the boat.
The Boss.
Who hadn’t laid a hand on the victims, but was the scariest of them all.
None of them ever spoke about her among themselves. Fact was, despite the rewards and cash and promises of more to come, they were all scared to death of her.
Death linked them all now.
This was the first time they’d all gotten together since early Monday morning, when they’d gone about their respective post-job tasks as laid down for them by the boss.
Mrs Hood.
This was to be a short meeting, she’d told them, summoning them individually with brief phone calls, her orders clear and concise, her manner affable.
She came for them, one by one, in a black stretch limo with driver and tinted windows, had pre-arranged pickup points, told them to dress respectably but not in a way that would draw attention.
‘What do you want me to wear?’ Leon had asked.
The only one who’d dared ask for clarification, she’d noted.
Still team leader quality.
‘Not the same look as Sunday,’ she said.
She picked him up first, outside Dunkin Donuts at the corner of Sheridan and Arthur Godfrey, saw that he was wearing beige chinos, a navy short-sleeved shirt and sunglasses. He looked like a thousand other men in Miami.
‘I figured no baseball cap,’ he said, right after climbing in.
‘No one’s going to recognize you,’ she told him.
Leon looked around the back of the limo, saw the bar, the chilled champagne, felt a buzz and saw Mrs Hood smile a little, though she didn’t offer him anything, said nothing more as they drove on.
Next pickup still on Sheridan and West Forty-second, where Andy was waiting outside the HSBC, then right onto Pine Tree Drive, left back onto West Forty-first, over the Intracoastal to Collins and Forty-third for Jerry, standing out front at the Days Inn in denims and a skin-tight red T-shirt.
‘Afternoon, Boss.’ He nodded at the others. ‘Guys.’
‘Showing off your oily biceps and six-pack is not my idea of trying not to stand out in the crowd,’ Mrs Hood said.
‘Just my regular look, Mrs H,’ Jerry said.
‘Tone it down next time.’
They continued up Collins, getting snarled up in traffic, finally making the Fontainebleau bend before ducking into the Hertz Rent-A-Car forecourt to pick up CB.
‘Now here’s my idea of a man no one would look at twice,’ Mrs Hood said.
‘You really know how to pay a guy a compliment, Mrs H,’ Jerry said.
She looked at him, her eyes cold as frostbite.
CB kept silent, sat back in his seat, dread tightening his gut, and wondered for the umpteenth time how he’d ever gotten himself caught up in this ungodly horror.
No one spoke again until the driver – in chauffeur’s hat, all but invisible beyond dark glass – had pulled into a strip mall just past Sixty-fifth and parked the limo near Domino’s Pizza.
‘Hey,’ Andy said. ‘Good choice. I’m starved.’
‘We’re not here to eat,’ Mrs Hood said.
CB saw Andy’s face grow hot, felt a glimmer of relief at not being the only man in the car ill at ease. Ease, hell – they were among killers. They were killers. Wanted men.
‘I thought you might need a little reassurance,’ the boss said, ‘after seeing how famous you’ve all become.’
Clearly she was unfazed by the coverage, Leon saw, his admiration growing.
CB saw Leon’s approving gaze, looked at Jerry, strong enough to snap a man’s neck, then at Andy, whose eyes were currently fixed on the limo’s carpet.
No one as afraid as he was, he felt sure, scared to death every minute, day and night, and his toothache had been worse than ever since his treatment, and he wasn’t sure he believed the dentist’s assurance that it would ease with antibiotics and time. Not that he was complaining. First because he wouldn’t dare, but mostly because he deserved pain.
‘You must realize there’s no way any of you could be recognized from that recording.’ Mrs Hood’s blue eyes were calm.
‘Only because we dodged the damn camera on the first walk,’ Jerry said.
‘We should have timed it better on the way back.’ Leon regarded the boss squarely. ‘I screwed up.’
‘No harm done,’ Mrs Hood said. ‘It was dark and you were well disguised.’
‘How do we know it didn’t catch us when we got off the boat?’ Andy said nervously.
‘They got computers that recognize faces,’ Jerry added to the angst.
‘Facial recognition doesn’t work well on subjects in big sunglasses,’ Mrs Hood said. ‘And unles
s the sun was full on you, the caps would have shaded you too. Darkness makes it a total no-no.’ She paused. ‘I imagine you were all paying better attention when you arrived. You need to watch those nerves, gentlemen.’
‘I wasn’t nervous,’ Jerry said.
‘Then you’re a damned fool,’ she said. ‘And if you weren’t at least edgy after that job, then you were probably high on adrenalin, which can be just as dangerous. We’ll all be more observant next time.’
‘Next time,’ CB echoed.
‘You know there’s going to be a next time, CB,’ she said.
‘When?’ Leon asked.
‘Soon, very soon.’ She smiled at him. ‘Patience, eager beaver.’
Leon nodded.
‘Now,’ Mrs Hood said, ‘what I really want to know is if you all enjoyed your treats.’
CB listened as, one by one, the others told her they had; Leon almost fawning, Andy teetering between too much or too little enthusiasm, Jerry smirking his thanks.
‘Still painful, CB?’ she asked.
He hadn’t even been conscious of touching his jaw.
‘A little.’ He flushed. ‘Less than before.’
Pain aside, he felt at a great disadvantage. He had no idea, didn’t want to know, what the other three had been rewarded with, yet they all knew about his dental problems, which he found humiliating.
‘The doctor says two more sessions should improve things,’ Mrs Hood said.
Just the thought of that made him want to weep. ‘I’m very grateful.’
‘Me too,’ Andy said.
‘That’s what I like,’ she said. ‘A little gratitude. And more to come, for you all.’
‘That’s what I’m counting on,’ Jerry said.
She turned her eyes first on him, then the others, one by one.
Cold, empty eyes now, CB thought, suppressing a shudder.
‘We’re all counting on each other, aren’t we?’ she said.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Leon said.
‘Aren’t we?’ she repeated.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ they all said, in unison, like a school sports team.
‘So,’ Mrs Hood went on, ‘are we ready to hear about Number Two?’
Already. CB’s dread expanded again. He glanced at Andy, whose eyes met his, then veered away again.
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