Cane and Abe

by James Grippando

  “You’re overanalyzing this, Abe.”

  “Am I? Anyone who has watched the news in the last two weeks knows all about Tyla Tomkins, knows where the body was found, and knows that the police are looking for a serial killer. That’s the kind of information a guy can use to his advantage if he spots a woman alone in the pawnshop district of Little Havana. Let’s say it’s late, the woman is desperate, and she needs a ride. He stops. She knows better than to get in, but he pulls her into his car and violates her. For some reason he lets her go, or maybe she fights and gets away. But he has her purse and her cell phone, and he wants to throw the police off his trail. He tosses the victim’s phone out the car window on the Tamiami Trail. He gets the police looking for Cutter, not him.”

  We were pushing up against the five-minute deadline, but I gave Angelina thirty seconds to consider my words. Had she been a stranger, I would have known what to say next. I would have told her that none of this was her fault, that there was no shame in having once been a victim, and that now she was a survivor. I would have explained that too many sexual assaults went unreported, and that it was important to catch the guy who had done this to her and make sure he didn’t do it again. But the script went out the window when speaking to Angelina, and for the life of me, I couldn’t tell what was going through her head. Finally, she spoke.

  “Abe, I understand what you’re doing. I know you’re trying to help. But you can’t put words in my mouth. That would be a story.”

  “Angelina, please.”

  “No, Abe. What you just said may sound more like the truth. But I’m sticking with the real truth.”

  There was a crisp knock on the door, and Winters entered.

  “Can we have another minute, please,” I said, annoyed.

  “Both of you need to see this,” he said as he grabbed the television remote. The flat-screen TV on the wall switched on, and Winters put on the local morning edition of the Action News channel.

  “They’re at your house again,” said Winters.

  “The media?” I asked.

  “The police,” he said as he increased the volume.

  On screen was the same Action News reporter who had interviewed me on Saturday after Angelina’s disappearance. She appeared much less subdued in this broadcast, a genuine air of excitement about her.

  “We expected to see Angelina Beckham return home this morning,” she said into the camera, microphone in hand. “Instead, it is the Miami-Dade police who have returned. While we have no word yet as to what law enforcement is looking for, clearly the Beckham residence remains an active crime scene.”

  The camera switched to a broader angle from the sidewalk and panned across our front yard and driveway. I recognized Agent Santos’ car parked behind the MDPD squad cars.

  “Isn’t that your friend?” asked Angelina.

  “You mean Santos?”

  “No. The guy behind the reporter. Isn’t that Detective Riddel?”

  I rose and walked around the conference table for a closer look at the TV. In the background, behind the Action News reporter, a man was running up the driveway and trying to break free from other reporters on his way toward my house.

  “It sure is,” I said.

  Winters went to the phone. “This needs to end. I’ll speak directly to the chief of police about this.”

  I stepped around the table and pressed the disconnect button, ending his call in mid-dial.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  I looked at Angelina. “Do you swear I’m wrong? That I was totally off base? That what I just said to you didn’t happen?”

  She met my stare. “It didn’t happen.”

  “Then I’ll take care of Riddel.”

  She looked at me with concern. “How?”

  “I’m going home.”

  “That’s crazy,” said Winters. “It’s a hornets’ nest. You can’t go there.”

  “Watch me,” I said.

  “What the hell do you think you’re going to do when you get there?” he asked.

  I glanced back at the television to see a mob of reporters pushing against the crime scene tape and calling my friend’s name as he disappeared through my front door.

  “I’m gonna get right in Rid’s face,” I said.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  The media assault began the instant I stepped out of my car. Reporters pushed, shoved, and jockeyed for position as I walked up the sidewalk. This wasn’t the first time that microphones had been thrust in my face, but past experiences had been on the courthouse steps, never on my front lawn. I didn’t run or bully my way through the crowd, and I tried not to look annoyed as I stopped and delivered the short and innocuous statement that I’d rehearsed during the car ride.

  “I want to thank each of you for the professional manner in which the media did its job while respecting our privacy after Angelina went missing. The apology that she issued this morning was from the heart. I hope you will continue to respect our privacy, especially around our home, now that this is behind us. Again, thank you.”

  I continued toward the house. The mob moved with me, surrounding me. I was the glob of jelly trying to find some way to squish his way out of the center of the doughnut. Their questions ran together—Where is Angelina, why are the police here, what are they looking for?—but I ignored them. I ducked beneath the police tape, well aware of how it would look on the news if I ran up the front steps and slammed the door on the media. I walked calmly, turned and waved to the cameras, and went inside.

  My camera smile disappeared immediately. Santos was waiting for me.

  “Your house is still a crime scene,” she said. “You can’t come in here.”

  “This is bullshit,” I said. “There can’t be a crime scene where there’s no crime.”

  Detective Reyes stepped out of the kitchen and joined us. “It’s a domestic violence investigation, Abe.”

  “That’s not true. I was watching the TV coverage and saw Riddel come into the house.”

  “I sent him away. Homicide is not involved.”

  “Right, I’m an abuser,” I said with a shake of my head. “We’re back to this again? Really?”

  “I’m doing my job,” said Reyes. “There was a broken beer bottle on the floor. The lab confirmed that the blood on one of the shards was Angelina’s.”

  I knew about the blood but not the lab report. The confirmation of the connection to Angelina didn’t come as a shock. “She probably stepped on it.”

  “Your physical examination revealed a bruise on your arm.”

  “I already explained this once. I banged my arm when I fell at my brother-in-law’s apartment.”

  “Maybe you did. And maybe we’d believe you, if we were to conduct a physical examination of Angelina’s body and found nothing.”

  I kept my anger in check, but I couldn’t take the edge off my voice entirely. “The only abuse in this house is an abuse of police power. If you’re looking for something, get a search warrant. And by the way,” I said, my gaze shifting toward Santos, “since when is the FBI involved in a domestic violence investigation?”

  We were locked in a stare-down, and I seriously wanted an answer.

  “Let’s talk in the kitchen,” she said.

  Reyes seemed befuddled to be out of the loop so suddenly, but she deferred and stayed behind. I followed Santos into the kitchen. We stood on opposite sides of the counter, where fewer than three days earlier Rid had wolfed down a plate of Angelina’s osso buco.

  “You could force us to get a warrant,” Santos said. “But if you think the media is stirred up now, wait until they hear that a warrant has been issued and the police are searching your house. I’m actually doing you a favor by keeping it low-key and at least creating the impression that we’re here simply to wrap up a crime scene.”

  “You’re doing me a favor?” I said, scoffing. “The FBI is doing itself a favor. I see what’s going on here. My house was a task force crime scene. Now that Cutter is
in custody, your authority as task force coordinator ends, and the FBI goes back to catching bank robbers and to life as J. Edgar Hoover intended it. You’re using Detective Reyes and this domestic violence bullshit to reach beyond federal jurisdiction and get inside my house. What are you looking for, Santos? What are you really looking for?”

  “Cutter didn’t kill Tyla Tomkins. I want to know who did.”

  “If she wasn’t one of Cutter’s victims, then it’s none of your business. Step aside and let the locals investigate.”

  She came closer, her eyes narrowing. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Let your buddy Riddel handle the investigation into Tyla Tomkins’ murder.”

  I wanted to push back, but I could see that it would get me nowhere. I needed to go on the offensive.

  “All right, if you’re determined to stick your FBI nose where it doesn’t belong, you might as well stick it in the right place. When’s the last time you knocked on Brian Belter’s door?”

  “I’m on to Belter.”

  “Not as much as you should be. He’s in big-time cover-up mode.”

  “It’s not surprising that a law firm would fight a subpoena to examine the e-mails and computers of one of its partners. Especially a partner like Tyla, who was one of Big Sugar’s most trusted advisers.”

  “I’m not talking about your subpoena. Belter offered me a bribe yesterday. A quarter million dollars.”

  “Yesterday? And you’re just getting around to telling me today?”

  “I told Carmen last night.” I lied, and I wasn’t entirely sure why. It was becoming a bad habit when questions from Santos made me uncomfortable.

  “Is the state attorney’s office going to convene a grand jury?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t even written up a full report yet. Believe it or not, I’ve had other things on my mind in the last sixteen hours.” That much was true.

  “What did Belter want you to do for a quarter million dollars?”

  I hesitated, not sure how much to tell Santos before having a fuller discussion with Carmen. But Carmen wasn’t the one I needed out of my house. A little cooperation among law enforcement officers could go a long way. At least, that had been my experience prior to meeting Agent Santos.

  “He was dancing around a bit, and I shut him down hard. But I have a pretty good idea of where he was going.”

  “You want to share it?”

  “You want to quit busting my ass?”

  “Maybe. Let’s hear your theory.”

  Again I hesitated. I had no reason to believe that “my theory” would completely knock me off her shit list. But I could at least slow down the train.

  “All right, but bear in mind that this involves some supposition on my part. Belter believes that the prime suspect in Tyla Tomkins’ murder will be someone who slept with her. I think he was angling for a truce between the two of us. He won’t point the finger at me if I don’t point the finger at him, so long as we both point the finger at Mr. Cortinas.”

  “Cortinas was sleeping with Tyla Tomkins? Do you know that for a fact?”

  “I know that Tyla used a prepaid cell phone to talk to certain men. One of the numbers connected to her phone still has never been linked to an identifiable caller. Am I right?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “I thought so,” I said. “Belter says it was Alberto Cortinas. He had his own prepaid cell that he used when he and Tyla talked rendezvous.”

  Santos studied my expression carefully as she considered my words. My candor seemed to have repaired some of the damage. For the time being, at least.

  “Thank you for this,” she said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “We’ll be out of your house in one hour. The crime scene tape will be gone. You and your wife are free to return. Fair enough?”

  “Fair enough,” I said.

  She turned and went back into the living room. I left through the back door and cut through the neighbor’s yard to the next street over. The media could have my car. A cab would suit me just fine.

  Chapter Sixty

  I walked four blocks from my house and decided against a taxi. I took a shot and called Rid instead. This time he answered.

  “Why have you been avoiding me all morning?” I asked.

  “You think I got one case I work on?”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Rid. I went by my house after I saw you on the news, but you were already gone. Did Santos and Detective Reyes actually tell you to leave?”

  “Yup. They said it’s not a homicide investigation, but that’s not the real reason they kicked me out.”

  “What’s the real reason?”

  “I talk too much. To you. Which needs to stop, Abe.”

  He sounded downtrodden, which usually meant he was fed up with police bureaucracy. “Did someone come down on you for being too chummy with me in this investigation?”

  “Nahhhh,” he said with a heavy dose of sarcasm. “What would give you that idea?”

  “I tell you what,” I said. “How about you just swing by and give me a ride?”

  “Didn’t you hear what I just said?”

  “You don’t have to tell me a thing. I talk, you listen. Give me that much.”

  “I know what I should give you,” he said, grumbling. Then he hung up. I took that as a yes and texted him my location. Five minutes later, Rid picked me up at a gas station in an unmarked police car. “Where to?” he asked.

  “Boomerang.”

  He knew the joke, but he wasn’t smiling. He pulled into traffic and headed toward my office. I wasn’t sure where to begin, so he started.

  “You got a big problem on your hands, Abe. Bigger than you think.”

  He hung a left turn toward the river. It was the long way to the state attorney’s office, the scenic route. I could see that he was conflicted about whether he should even be having a conversation with me, but there was something he needed to tell me.

  “I’ve been thinking about the photographs of you and Tyla Tomkins at the restaurant,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road.

  “What about them?”

  “How did Angelina get them?”

  “They were left in her mailbox.”

  “Who left them there?”

  “Cutter.”

  “How did Cutter get them?”

  “Cutter was stalking his victims. We’ve been over this.”

  He made another turn. We were cruising along the riverfront, past a Panamanian freighter that was headed upriver at no-wake speed. “That’s bullshit,” said Rid.

  “You sound like Santos,” I said.

  He glanced over in my direction. “I agree with Santos.”

  “Agree with her on what?”

  “I watched the video of Cutter’s interview. He denies he killed Tyla. He denies he sent the photos to Angelina, denies that he even knew who Angelina was. The black ash on Tyla’s face doesn’t fit into Cutter’s profile. The crazy son of a bitch summed it up pretty good himself: why color a black face black? It makes no sense. Unless you’re trying to make it look like Cutter sent the photos.”

  I waited for him to continue, but he stopped. We drove another block. I got the impression that he would have liked to tell me more, but he’d already gone further than allowed. I nudged him along. “Who would do that, Rid? If Cutter didn’t send the photos, who did?”

  “I was going to ask you that question.”

  “I’d give you the same answer I gave Carmen,” I said. “We talked back when all this started, right after you and Santos went to Belter’s office and accused him of sleeping with Tyla. Sending those photographs was his return shot across the bow, his way of saying ‘You ruin my marriage, I’ll ruin Abe Beckham.’”

  “Whoever sent those photographs had to know the killer’s signature. That’s not Belter.”

  “So it’s probably Cutter. The only other option is someone in law enforcement.”

  “Or someone married to law enforcement.” A siren wailed beh
ind us. Rid steered to the right to let an ambulance pass. “Santos says it was Angelina.”

  He was pulling back into traffic, not looking at me as he spoke, and I wondered if I’d heard him correctly.

  “What did you say?”

  “Santos thinks Angelina sent them to herself.”

  The ambulance siren faded, but things were no less clear to me. “How would she know the signature of the ash on the face?”

  “Maybe you slipped. Maybe she overheard you talking on the telephone.”

  “I’m more careful than that, but let’s put that aside. Why would she send those photographs to herself ?”

  “To create the impression that she didn’t know you were cheating on her until after Tyla was dead.”

  “I didn’t cheat on Angelina.”

  “You’re missing the point. It’s not a matter of whether you were or you weren’t actually cheating on your wife. It matters only if she thought you were, and when she thought it. It’s a question of motive.”

  “Motive . . . to kill Tyla Tomkins?”

  “Bingo.”

  “Rid, come on. This was a gruesome, bloody murder with a machete.”

  “Was it? We never recovered Tyla’s head. No way to examine it for blunt trauma. Maybe it was as clean as someone sneaking up from behind and hitting her in the back of the skull with a fucking rolling pin.”

  “The medical examiner says it was a blow to the back of the neck with a large knife.”

  “Yeah, and maybe Tyla was already dead when that blow was delivered. Maybe the only point of that machete wound was to make it look like Cutter.”

  I wasn’t comfortable with this discussion at all, but I couldn’t disprove any of it. “Angelina is not a killer.”

  I expected him to second the notion, but he didn’t. “Like I told you, Abe. I’ve been thinking about those photographs. I’ve been studying them, in fact.”

  “And?”

  We stopped at a red light, and Rid handed me his phone. One of the photographs of Tyla and me was on the screen. “Look closely,” he said.