Maybe she’d gone overseas with an altered identity; maybe Hildy was in Europe, maybe in Hungary in celebration of the past, or perhaps she’d settled in some tax haven, set up for a contented old age.
Or maybe she was holed up someplace geographically much closer, enjoying their lack of progress. Perhaps even now she was with her gang of four – unless she used different teams for each kill – planning with them, giving new orders.
‘Maybe,’ Sam said, ‘she’s raising a glass to Alida, her muse.’
‘Or maybe we’re on the wrong track altogether,’ Martinez said.
‘Maybe,’ Sam said, feeling depressed as hell. ‘Who knows?’
‘Who the fuck?’ Martinez agreed.
The relatives were in town. Jay Sandhu’s parents and brothers driving restlessly back and forth from Fort Lauderdale; Lorna Munro’s mother, father and younger sister from Vermont staying in a hotel while they struggled to deal with the unbearable.
Clearly no love lost between the two sets of parents. Everyone distraught, but aloof, even hostile, when they came together. Awful vibes all around, racial divide plainly driving that, yet nothing more, Sam and Martinez both felt, than the old story of differences. Not the stuff that homicide was made of – certainly not serial murder.
‘I think we pushed them together,’ Rita Sandhu had said quietly during their initial meeting. ‘If we’d been less opposed, less angry, perhaps they mightn’t have felt they had anything to prove, and we might still have them.’
Sam felt only pity for the bereaved mother, however warped her logic, wished that she had reached that conclusion long ago, if only so that Jay and Lorna could have had their happiness unspoiled.
The outcome, he suspected, would have been no different.
Because their children would probably have stayed together.
Would, more than likely, still have been chosen.
Not karma, exactly. But perhaps their destiny from the moment they had met.
Who knew?
Monday was the worst day ever for CB.
The pain, he became more convinced by the hour, was divine wrath – maybe only a small taster of what was to come – but his jaw, his gums, his whole wicked head was on fire now.
He’d loaded up with painkillers at Walgreens and CVS, but nothing was working, and he knew he ought to simply accept the pain, but he was a weak, spineless creature, so he would take the pills he’d bought. And he’d already swallowed way more than the recommended dose, and he’d mixed them too, which was unhealthy, maybe even dangerous, but he didn’t care.
He’d seen Mrs H once today, had averted his eyes and scurried away. He’d seen Jerry once, too, and he’d looked OK, at least on the surface, like some satisfied big cat who’d landed himself a tasty kill.
Maybe, if it weren’t for the pain, CB might look that way too, but he doubted it. Because some people were made to be killers, and he was just made to do other people’s bidding and do his best for his mother and brother, no matter how high the cost. Way too high.
And oh, Lord, but it hurt.
Joe Sheldon had finally found them an old but usable photograph of the lady.
Still the only game in town, but no one feeling real confident about the move they had, nonetheless, agreed on.
The latest press release being issued late Monday by Beth Riley showed a photo of a woman taken in her late forties at a party: a handsome woman with strong features, clear blue eyes and fair, wavy hair, smiling at the camera. Alongside that, a computer-enhanced version showing the same person approximately twenty years on.
Person of Interest in Miami Beach Murders
Wanted for Questioning
HILDEGARD BENEDICT aka BENEDEK
This person is not a suspect, but Miami Beach Police urgently need to speak to her.
If you are Hildegard Benedict, or if you know of her whereabouts, please call the Homicide Hotline
Joe Duval and Captain Kennedy were going with Sam’s gut feeling.
A whole lot riding on it.
‘If the department gets sued, Becket,’ Kovac said after the conference, ‘it’ll be your ass.’ The lieutenant smiling as he said it.
‘Don’t remember the last time I saw Kovac smile at you,’ Martinez said.
‘I know,’ Sam said. ‘Makes you feel kind of queasy.’
Hard liquor was the best thing for a real bad toothache, one of the guys at work had told him.
Not that CB had been managing to work properly, barely going through the motions until finally he’d been sent home.
‘Via the dentist,’ he’d been instructed. ‘And don’t come back till you’re fit.’
He’d settled for a bar instead.
No drinker, but despair and agony could make a man do things he ordinarily wouldn’t.
‘Shut up,’ he told his thoughts. ‘Shut the fuck up.’
It was going OK until another customer looked at him once too often. The booze was mixing with the drugs, making him feel weird and spacey, and it was obvious this guy was a racist, which struck him as ironic.
There it was again, that look.
‘What you looking at?’
CB heard his own aggressive tone, felt surprised by it because he never spoke to anyone that way, and his sister had once said he wouldn’t say boo to a goose, but that was then and this was now.
‘I asked what you’re looking at.’
The other man was big, looked like he worked out, tougher-looking than even CB’s fellow monsters, and he wondered if any of them would stand up for him in any kind of a situation, knew that they would not, that he was alone now in this ugly new world.
The other man laughed.
‘Don’t you laugh at me,’ CB said.
He knew what he was doing. He was trying to provoke a fight, which he’d never done before, had always believed himself to be gentle, slow to anger and, whenever possible, kind.
The derisive sound that emerged from him was self-directed, but the other man wasn’t going to know that, and the guy was saying something, maybe trying to placate him, and the bartender was talking too. But something was happening now in CB’s head, like a loud clamor, almost like screaming, mixing with the pain in his jaw, in his soul, and suddenly he was screaming, getting off his bar stool, and the world tilted but he didn’t care, and he stumbled toward the stranger, felt their bodies collide.
‘Hey!’ he thought the other man said.
CB took a swing.
First time he’d punched another person.
Killed, yes. Oh, Lord, yes. But never punched.
It felt good, real good, like if he went on doing that maybe the poison would siphon out into the air, or maybe he could smash his way into this stranger, pass it on to him.
He wanted rid of it.
He wanted it gone.
The siren became part of the noise in his head.
The uniforms grabbing at his arms a part of the battle.
So he swung at them too.
Anything to have it gone.
June 18
Jeanne called Cathy at five minutes after ten on Tuesday morning.
‘Nic wants you to know that the situation has been resolved.’
‘Resolved?’ Cathy was half asleep, and it seemed like only minutes since she’d gotten home, locked the door, pulled off her clothes and crawled into bed.
‘We have the person responsible,’ Jeanne said.
Cathy sat up, rubbed the side of her face, tried to focus. ‘Who?’
‘I can’t tell you that.’
‘Why not?’ Fear gripped her, because what she was most afraid of was that it might be Gabe. ‘Jeanne, you can’t put everyone through all that and make accusations and then not tell us.’
‘First, we made no accusations, even though Gabe seemed to think we had.’
‘He was understandably upset.’
‘He’s over-sensitive,’ Jeanne said.
‘Are you admitting it wasn’t him?’
‘No one said
that it was,’ Jeanne said. ‘But OK, that I can tell you. We know it was not Gabe.’
‘Have you told him?’ She was angry now. ‘Have you apologized?’
‘He’s not answering his phone. I hoped he might be with you.’
‘He isn’t,’ Cathy said. ‘He was too upset.’
‘Do you know where he is?’ Jeanne asked.
‘No,’ Cathy said. ‘But I’ll find him.’
‘Please. And ask him to call me.’
‘I can ask.’ Curiosity resurfaced. ‘Jeanne, why can’t you tell me who it is?’
‘There are legal considerations. I’m sure you understand.’
Not Gabe. All that really mattered.
‘You said “the person responsible”. Does that mean for all the tricks?’
‘It seems likely,’ Jeanne said. ‘Though I don’t think that “tricks” is the right word now. What happened on Sunday evening was criminal.’
Cathy felt sudden guilt. ‘I haven’t asked how those poor people are.’
‘My understanding is that they are all much better. The culprit is luckier than he deserves. Someone might have died.’
‘He,’ Cathy repeated.
‘So I can leave you to find Gabe?’ Jeanne said.
‘I’ll do my best.’ Cathy paused. ‘Any news on reopening?’
‘Not yet,’ Jeanne said. ‘As soon as we know more, we’ll contact you all.’
The line went dead.
Cathy took a moment, absorbing, feeling one thing above all else. Shame.
She looked at her phone, reflected briefly how tired she felt, then called Gabe, got no answer. About to leave a voicemail, she decided against it, because this had to be done direct.
She called Rafael’s apartment. No answer there either, which made sense, because Tuesday was one of Rafi’s mornings at Forville. Which meant that either Gabe was at Rafi’s and not answering, or maybe he was in Golfe-Juan, in which case she’d have to go there because there was no landline.
‘Oh, Gabe,’ she said, trying his cell again.
Jeanne had called him ‘over-sensitive’.
True enough, thinking back to how he’d yelled at her earlier, and maybe all this had done was highlight fundamental trust issues between them. So rather than rush out now, when she was physically and emotionally drained and more likely to trigger another argument …
Voicemail.
Then sleep.
Sam heard about the break in the case at six a.m.
‘Some drunk picked up last night for disorderly conduct in Dewey’s,’ Martinez told him. ‘Real messed up on booze and meds and whining about toothache.’
‘And?’ Sam had just gotten in the Saab with honorable intentions vis-à-vis paperwork. ‘Did we get him a dentist?’
‘He said he didn’t deserve a dentist.’ Martinez paused. ‘Not after what he’d done.’
Sam felt a familiar prickle in his spine, and waited.
‘He told the uniforms who arrested him that he was one of “the four”, and then he started to cry. I mean they said he bawled his eyes out.’
‘He confessed?’ Hope sprang.
‘Not exactly,’ Martinez said. ‘But while the guys were putting him in the car, he was talking to himself, and they both heard him mumble something about letters to Becket.’
Sam pulled over to the right.
So he could enjoy it.
One of those moments.
‘There’s more,’ Martinez said. ‘Another name.’
‘Hit me,’ Sam said.
‘Virginia,’ Martinez said.
The only name they had for him so far was Miguel.
Written with a shaky hand inside a small birthday card folded into the back pocket of his denim jeans. A Miguel, mi niño especial. El amor siempre, Mamá.
‘To Miguel, my special boy. Love always, Mama.’
Caution being exercised all round, because dealing with spontaneous statements could be worse than tricky, leading to a potentially corrosive situation – though soon as they’d realized what they might be dealing with, knowing that detectives would be getting involved, the patrolmen had refrained from reading Miguel his Miranda rights.
So far, so good.
No one in Dewey’s had admitted to knowing him, the bartender adamant he’d never seen him before, but describing Miguel as an amateur drinker desperate to blot out the world.
No ID, nothing in his vinyl wallet except two tens and a five. No drivers license, no Social Security card. Nothing else on him except a bottle of Advil and Excedrin, both almost empty, a handful of loose change and his Nokia phone. Search warrant needed before anyone would look at that.
The drunk was sleeping it off in a single cell, being monitored in case he became ill, because nobody wanted this guy choking on his own vomit and not waking up.
Sam took a look at him, comparing what he saw against a photo of ‘the four’.
‘I guess he could be the smallest guy. Then again, he could be just about anyone.’
‘“Virginia” could’ve been leaked,’ Martinez said. ‘But seems like he knows the messages were addressed to you.’
Sam nodded.
‘Gut feeling?’ Duval asked.
‘What am I now, the local psychic?’ Sam said sourly.
‘You’re the hunch-man of Washington Avenue, man,’ Martinez reminded him.
‘Nothing coming through,’ Sam said. ‘Except maybe sympathy. He looks pathetic.’
They left the holding area and went up to the squad room, all three men quiet now, working things through from as many angles as they could.
Miguel had not asked for a lawyer yet. But he’d been drunk, maybe drugged – probably just on the meds he’d been carrying – so they were going to have to assess his condition when he woke, decide if he needed to be cleared at the ER.
For now, he slept.
Cathy woke again to a headache and an instant sense of depression because Gabe had not called. Which meant that he was still mad at her.
And now, in the bright, beautiful light of another Côte d’Azur noontime, she found that her own annoyance with him had completely dissipated, only regret, remorse and anxiety remaining. She tried his phone again, then Rafael’s. Left another voicemail on Gabe’s cell.
‘Please call me, Gabe. We need to talk. I need to see you so I can apologize. I get why you were so upset, and I’m so sorry, but there’s news about the poisoning, which you may know about from Jeanne – and oh, Gabe, I should have walked out with you, I know that now. Please call me.’
She winced as she ended the call, not keen on groveling but knowing it was necessary, because she had been wrong.
She picked up the phone again, redialed. ‘I forgot to say don’t come to my place, because I’ll be out looking for you. Just call me, please.’
She ran to Forville, but Rafael had already left, so she bought a big bunch of sunflowers – Gabe’s favorite – hurried to the rue de la Miséricorde, pressed Rafael’s buzzer and waited.
Nothing, and neither Rafi’s Harley nor the Ducati were outside, but still, when another man came out of the street door, Cathy ran inside and up to the second floor.
She knocked, called Rafi’s name then Gabe’s, pressed her ear to the door, listening, though she doubted that he’d skulk inside, refusing to answer.
No one there, which left, she guessed, the bus to Golfe-Juan. Or a taxi, she thought – regularly forgetting that even at Cannes prices, she could afford taxis every single day.
This time of day in June, she decided, it might take longer to find a taxi.
Gripping the sunflowers in one hand, checking for messages again with the other, she headed for the Croisette.
At eleven a.m. Miguel was bleary, but awake and ready for interview.
He was about five-nine, one hundred and fifty pounds, Latino with minimal accent, probably Mexican. He was perspiring, trembling, unshaven and, without question, in pain, but the consensus was that since he seemed in no danger and could, in any
case, not be administered more painkillers for several hours, he was just going to have to suffer for now.
Hard to see this wrecked young man as a monster.
A patsy, Sam was guessing, maybe a fall guy, guilt oozing from every pore.
One of the four, if his drunken ramblings were to be believed.
And he knew about the letters from Virginia. Which meant that he was, at very least, connected with some or all of the murders.
Sam remembered the victims. Looked at this man, cradling his jaw.
Knew that he deserved no sympathy.
This was their break, for sure.
Three against one. Sam, Martinez and Duval. Captain Kennedy on his way to observe through the one-way mirror; Lieutenant Kovac and Riley both keen to see how this might play out.
Martinez read him his rights, though the prisoner scarcely seemed to be listening, too absorbed in himself, perhaps by his pain, maybe his conscience.
‘Did you understand your rights?’ Sam asked.
‘This thing is killing me,’ Miguel said, clasping his jaw.
‘Seems to me like you’d be best off talking to us,’ Martinez said.
‘Might take your mind off your pain,’ Sam added.
‘After all’ – Duval’s tone was kindly – ‘they say confession’s good for the soul, so maybe that goes for toothache too.’
‘You think?’ Miguel’s desperate eyes turned to him.
‘Might as well give it a try,’ Sam said. ‘You already told the officers at the bar that you were “one of the four”. So why not tell us the rest?’
Miguel groaned softly. ‘OK.’
‘So,’ Sam repeated patiently, ‘did you understand your rights?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then how about we start with your full name?’ Sam said.
‘Miguel Ernesto López.’
‘Thank you, Mr López.’
‘We’re going to run your name,’ Duval told him. ‘But how about you save us some time and tell us what we’re going to find?’
‘You mean, like a record?’ López shook his head, winced. ‘Nothing. You won’t find anything. I’ve never been in trouble.’
Fear and Loathing Page 17
