Sam had predicted ten days or so earlier that sooner or later Broderick would want to talk, want to brag about his achievements.
He was talking now.
They asked him about Peter Hayman. He said that, much as he would have loved to have taken credit for actively creating that particular scenario, he could only claim to have taken advantage of the situation that had presented itself to him so conveniently. He’d been keeping an eye on Grace Lucca ever since she’d first gone to Frances Dean’s home in Goral Gables to see Cathy. He was, as they’d already figured out, an avid watcher – an opportunist he supposed they’d call him. It was one of the entertainments that had kept him going during his years of waiting: observing those who had no idea they were being observed. Broderick recalled two instances when he’d seen Grace sense someone watching her – once in Saks close to home in glitzy Bal Harbour; the other time right after the black Jew cop’s little brother’s barmitzvah, on the road to the Keys to visit with her sister. He’d noted the way she’d squirmed in the department store, the way she’d had to keep checking the rearview mirror of her Mazda, and he’d enjoyed the power it had given him over her.
Broderick hadn’t known that Peter Hayman, psychiatrist and published expert on MSBP, had even existed before he’d watched him drawing Grace aside that day at the Westin in Key Largo, but after that he’d made it his business to find out all there was to know about him – and oh, it had been almost blissful to learn how much there was to know. That was when he’d decided to turn himself into Dr Eric Parés, he told his team of interviewers – at that time including Detective Martinez for the Miami Beach Police Department, Sergeant Rodriguez for the City of Miami and the State Attorney. And, of course, after that it had been just a matter of time before Parés had been ready to apply for his job in whichever prison facility the girl had ended up in. After all, everyone knew how hungry they were for qualified physicians in those miserable places, and doctors willing to put up with low-life patients, lousy conditions and pay were hard to come by. It had suited him, though, in many ways. His daughter aside, he had found those women fascinating, to watch and to treat and, when it was safe, to play his games with.
‘He wanted to know if we could guess why he took the name,’ Martinez told Sam later, back at the department. ‘He knew we couldn’t guess – the slime was smirking all over his face.’
‘It’s an anagram,’ Sam said.
‘You got that?’ Martinez looked surprised.
‘Grace got it,’ Sam told him. ‘Last night. She was doing some reading on MSBP, and suddenly she remembered the guy who’d turned the original Baron Münchhausen’s tall tales into a book.’
‘Rudolph Erich Raspe,’ Martinez contributed.
‘That’s the guy.’
Martinez shook his head. ‘Arrogant sick fuck,’ he said.
Many things became crystal clear as Broderick went on spewing up his secrets like a magician entertaining a rapt audience. Other things remained mysteries, might always be destined, Sam and Grace feared, to be guessed about and never confirmed. The things, for example, that had happened during the week before Broderick had launched his final attack, the things that Cathy had apparently done that had so unnerved Grace and brought Sam into her house as lover and bodyguard.
Had Cathy actually done those things? Had she, driven by – virtually controlled by – Parés’ drugs and hypnosis programme, personally composed that last H-A-T-E password-protected journal entry on Grace’s computer, or had Broderick slithered his way into the house without their knowledge? On the afternoon Grace had been down on the deck talking with Gregory Lee, had Cathy perhaps dozed off while reading, and then sleepwalked her way – perhaps under some kind of hypnotic suggestion – into picking up Harry and placing him up on the parapet outside Grace’s bedroom? Or had Cathy always been a sleepwalker, even as a young child? There was no one credible left alive to ask.
Broderick stopped talking after a while. He began trying to make deals again. A new confession for a computer in his cell. Another for books of his choice. Something really ‘big’ in exchange for regular trips to the library. No one was impressed. Even the FBI profiler now visiting him was confident that he would find it tough to stay silent for long.
Either way, they had most of what they really needed.
He’d confessed to – boasted about – drugging and killing Marie and Arnold Robbins, and Beatrice Flager.
He’d confessed to letting himself in and out of the Robbins’ house over the last two years whenever it had suited him. He’d talked about doping Cathy with cannabis and cutting the heads off Marie’s goldfish – and about, on the night of the first murders, burning one of Cathy’s voile nightgowns in the outside incinerator for the police to find. He’d also admitted to the attack on the other female prisoner in the House of Detention and to the planting of the potato peeler in his daughter’s cell.
He had admitted freely to the manslaughter of Paul Harding.
He had refused pointblank to confess to any of the scalpel attacks in doctors’ offices – even the one on David Becket. And he had also, thus far, refused to admit to creating any of the entries on Cathy’s computer, or to killing Frances Dean, or to burying the silver scalpel and rubber kitchen gloves in the backyard at Pine Tree Drive.
‘That’s just for the hell of it,’ Sam said to Grace. ‘So that the game doesn’t have to end yet. Maybe so he still gets to have his trial.’
‘And so that Cathy gets to go on suffering,’ Grace added.
No one was being naive enough to imagine that Broderick’s confessions and incarceration would bring an end to Cathy’s pain.
That was going to run and run.
Even she agreed that she was going to need therapy for some time to help her get through. Her personal first choice for a therapist was still Grace, but she accepted now that that was impossible. Not just because Grace had become much too close, but because the Department of Children and Families was considering her application to become a long-term foster parent to Cathy.
For now, though, there was still John Broderick to contend with. Still getting his jollies from setting people in motion, like mice in a maze with a lump of cheese at the centre. He hadn’t needed drugs to set Grace in motion – he’d found other ways of manipulating her. Broderick’s disease might have started out with jealousy and hatred and a desire for revenge, but these days Grace believed that he was getting genuine gratification from the mind games he was so gifted at playing – from setting people against each other.
Fine sport for a dead man.
And opportunities galore still to come on Death Row, if that was where they ended up sending him.
Chapter Eighty-four
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 9, 1998
Two days after Labor Day, Jerry Wagner called Grace.
‘You’re not going to believe this,’ he told her straight out, ‘and you’re going to like it even less.’
‘What now?’ Apprehension hit the pit of her stomach.
‘Broderick’s instructed his lawyer to try and block your application to foster Cathy.’
‘He can’t do that!’
‘He’s not likely to succeed,’ Wagner qualified, ‘but he can certainly create problems for you. Hate it or not, he’s still Cathy’s father—’
‘Who’s confessed to murdering her mother.’ Grace’s voice was loud with outrage, making Harry, over in the comer of her office, twitch his ears. ‘Who’s stated, in front of witnesses, how much he hates his daughter.’
‘No question about any of that, Grace,’ Wagner agreed.
‘Well, then?’
‘You still need to be prepared,’ the attorney told her.
‘For what?’ Outrage simmered down to unease.
‘Broderick’s told his lawyer that he won’t allow his daughter to continue to be exposed to “an immoral and unsuitable relationship”. His words, Grace, obviously.’ Wagner sounded embarrassed.
‘Obviously.’
�
�I’m sorry to have to load you with this, just when things looked like starting to settle down for Cathy.’
‘Not your fault, Jerry.’ Grace paused. ‘He can’t win on this, can he?’
‘I find it highly unlikely.’
‘Not impossible?’
‘Highly unlikely, Grace.’
‘But not impossible.’
‘Nothing’s impossible,’ the lawyer said.
Grace closed her eyes.
‘I’d like to kill him, Jerry.’
‘Off the record, Grace,’ Wagner said, ‘you’re not the only one.’
Chapter Eighty-five
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 11, 1998
The note was waiting for Sam when he and Martinez walked into the big white police department building just after lunch. Sam’s return to full duty had been granted two weeks before, and the detectives were both feeling relaxed after successfully helping to tie up a series of assaults around Indian Creek Drive.
‘Know who left this for me?’ Sam asked one of the uniformed guys at the desk as he started to slit open the envelope.
‘No idea,’ he said. ‘It was here when I came on duty.’
Martinez saw the expression changing on Sam’s face as he read. ‘What?’
Sam folded the small sheet of paper back in half. ‘You don’t want to know.’
Martinez laid a hand on Sam’s arm and steered him over to the far side of the lobby. ‘I got a feeling I do want to know.’ He paused. ‘Share, man.’
‘It’s heavy.’
‘Is it from Broderick?’
Sam shook his head. ‘Not exactly.’
‘Share,’ Martinez said again.
Sam handed him the note and envelope.
Martinez read, his face a mask.
Dad’s getting offed unless someone moves him fast. Otherwise this one’s for her.
Brothers in lo-places.
He said nothing, just folded it again and put it into the envelope.
‘What do you think?’ Sam asked.
Martinez took a moment. ‘About what?’
‘What do I do about the message, Al?’
Martinez’s eyes were grim. ‘I don’t see any message.’
The two men looked at each other for several more seconds.
‘How about I buy you a cup of coffee?’ Sam asked.
‘We just ate.’
‘I want another cup.’
Martinez nodded and gave Sam back the envelope. ‘Let’s go.’
They walked back outside into the hot sunshine, strolled down the broad stone steps and turned left along Washington until they reached the corner of 13th Street.
‘Got a light?’ Sam asked Martinez.
The other detective pulled a matchbook out of his pocket.
‘If this boomerangs,’ Sam said, ‘it’s on me, okay?’
‘It won’t.’
‘But if it does.’
‘Light the match, Becket.’
‘I mean it, Al,’ Sam said harshly. ‘You never saw this.’
‘Just do it,’ Martinez told him.
Sam lit a match, touched the flame to the corner of the envelope and held on to it until the small blaze was almost at his fingertips. It swirled silently down on to the concrete sidewalk and turned into ash.
‘God forgive me,’ Sam said, ‘but I think I hope they mean it.’
Martinez put the sole of his right shoe over the ash and scuffed it around.
‘God forgives you, man.’ His dark eyes were sharper than ever. ‘If I know anything about anything, I figure He’s probably cheering.’
Chapter Eighty-six
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 1998
It went down on Sunday afternoon.
No one parted with dope easily in that place.
For Broderick, it seemed, a few of them made an exception.
A handful of condoms, stuffed with a contaminated blend of smack, coke and dust, and forced down his throat.
Then, when the time was right, a few sharp blows to the abdomen.
He had to have screamed while he was dying.
But no one heard.
Or came.
It had, the guards agreed later, to have been a far more agonizing way to go than anything the hot chair might ultimately have offered.
It seemed, they reckoned privately, a fitting kind of an end for a real piece of scum like John Broderick.
Cathy’s Journal
Saturday, November 28, 1998
Know your enemies. That’s what he taught me. It was a good lesson in the end.
I remember he once said the same thing about friends.
Thanksgiving was hard this year. I missed my mom and Arnie and Aunt Frances. But Grace and Sam are the best. She says it’s too soon to say if they’ll stay together for ever. I guess they have a lot to think about.
I don’t think I’ll ever understand why he did what he did. Grace says there are some things we can’t ever expect to understand. She says it’s okay for me to hate him, so long as I let myself move on. She says we all have to take things a day at a time.
I still get scared sometimes, and there are things I don’t think I’ll ever get used to again. Like knowing people are watching me. And being in the dark. Sometimes I’m scared to go to sleep. I haven’t told anyone about that – I don’t want Grace to know. I worry about bad stuff, too, like how I could have done what I did to Harry that day. Grace and my new shrink say that wasn’t really me. I wish I could be sure of that.
I try not to think about it too much. I try to think about how lucky I am. I know I’m lucky to have Grace and Sam. But it all still comes crawling into my head at night in the dark. I can’t seem to stop it.
More than anything else in the world, I hope Grace is right about one thing. I hope I’m not like him.
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The Murder Room
Where Criminal Minds Meet
themurderroom.com
By Hilary Norman
(titles that appear in bold are published by The Murder Room)
Sam Becket Mysteries
Mind Games (1999)
Last Run (2007)
Shimmer (2009)
Caged (2010)
Hell (2011)
Eclipse (2012)
Standalone Novels
In Love and Friendship (1986)
Chateau Ella (1988)
Shattered Stars (1991)
Fascination (1992)
Spellbound (1993)
Laura (1994)
If I Should Die (1995) (originally published under the pen name Alexandra Henry)
The Key to Susanna (1996)
Susanna (1996)
The Pact (1997)
Too Close (1998)
Blind Fear (2000)
Deadly Games (2001)
Twisted Minds (2002)
No Escape (2003)
Guilt (2004)
Compulsion (2005)
Ralph’s Children (2008)
For Angela Heard.
A greatly missed friend who always
wanted me to write thrillers.
This one’s for you, Angie.
Grateful thanks to (in alphabetical order): Howard Barmad; Jennifer Bloch; Lynn Curtis; Sara Fisher; Gillian Green; Jonathan Kern, for helping in so very many ways; Rose Klayman of the Miami Herald; Kate Miller; Detectives Paul Marcus and Paul Scrimshaw of the Miami Beach Police Department, who shared their knowledge and world with kindness and great patience, even though I showed up at the worst possible time for them; Herta Norman, as always for her crucial daily ‘reviews’; Judy Piatkus; Helen Rose; staff at the Sheraton, Bal Harbour. And extra special thanks to the ‘Tarlow connection’ – Alison R. Tarlow, M.S., Scott J. Sale, Sharon Tarlow and, as always, Dr Jonathan Tarlow (this time as much for sailing expertise as medical!).
As always in my novels, all
characters and situations are purely fictitious. So, in this case, (though the locations are certainly real) is the Florida weather.
Hilary Norman
Hilary Norman was born and educated in London. After working as an actress she had careers in the fashion and broadcasting industries. She travelled extensively throughout Europe and lived for a time in the United States before writing her first international bestseller, In Love and Friendship, which has been translated into a dozen languages. Her subsequent novels have been equally successful. She lives in North London, where she has spent most of her life, with her husband and their beloved RSPCA rescue dog.
An Orion ebook
Copyright © Hilary Norman 1999
The right of Hilary Norman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This ebook first published in Great Britain in 2013
by Orion
The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
Orion House
5 Upper St Martin’s Lane
London WC2H 9EA
An Hachette UK company
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 4719 0829 3
All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
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