Blood Relations (30 page)

Two motives.”

“I think there’s more in this connection to Claudia Otero,” Sam said. “We know Sullivan was involved with her. Rafael Soto confirmed it. And that angle leads us to Klaus Ruffini.”

“True.” Ryabin gave in and tapped a cigarette out of his pack. “We’ll pursue it with George Fonseca this afternoon, if his lawyer allows us.” He clicked his gold lighter.

His fingers were stained brown with nicotine. “And as for Matthew, I’ll have to bring that up as well.” With an eye on Sam, Ryabin slid the lighter back into his pants pocket.

“You understand,” he said.

“Sure .

“You’re the lead prosecutor, but may I suggest that you not be in the same room?” Ryabin said. “If Fonseca knows who Matthew was, we might not get straight answers.”

“So I’ll sit behind the mirror again.”

Sometime during the year before Matthew died, Sam had come to the apartment he rented with two of his friends, half of a duplex south of Fifth Street in a shabby neighborhood. The grass in the yard was dead, and there were rusting security bars on the windows.

Eleven o’clock in the morning, Matthew came to the door barefoot, squinting and unshaven. Sam wanted to take him to lunch. To talk. To find out what was going on with him, since it had been weeks since they had seen each other. The apartment, predictably, was a shambles. Beer cans on every horizontal surface.

Open pizza boxes. A girl asleep on the sofa in her underwear.

Matthew came along reluctantly. They went to the News Cafd and sat indoors, where it wasn’t as crowded.

Matthew refused to take off his sunglasses. He crossed his arms over his lean stomach and barely touched his food. He said they’d had a party last night, the apartment wasn’t usually so messy. Yes, he had work. He was a waiter in between bookings. Yes, he was paying his bills. No, he wasn’t on coke. Yes, he was using condoms. Jesus, Dad, get off it. When Sam said he’d arranged a job for him as assistant manager of a music store downtown, Matthew was insulted. No, he said. He liked modeling. He was doing what he wanted for the first time in his life. Sam filled the ensuing silence by talking about his own work. But they couldn’t connect. Eventually they argued. Sam told him he was a disappointment to him and to his mother. That as soon as he got himself straightened out, they would have something to talk about, but until then, they had nothing to say to each other.

Matthew looked across the table through his sunglasses, then smiled. You’re such a hypocrite, telling me how tucked up my life is. Why don’t you take a good look at your own, you phony?

It was three months before they spoke to each other again. Matthew would come home occasionally, but at times when Sam was likely not to be there. Dina held Sam responsible for the rift and begged him to relent. Finally he told Matthew he was sorry they had argued, he’d been out of line. Both of them came close to tears. Sam embraced him. But gradually the old resentments rose again to the surface, and relations between them remained cool.

He was aware now, too late, that Matthew had known the truth about him, had seen clearly his failings, his infidelity. Sam would never know if Matthew had forgiven him for that or had ever seen him as more than a pompous, judgmental fake.

It seemed now to Sam that Matthew’s death might not have been an accident but a choice. From his boyhood he had tended toward gloomy introspection. Dina had once found a book of poetry on his desk, a bookmark at a page and a certain passage underlined. I am half in love wiT@ easeful death….

Matthew had not found joy in family, in school, in work, in love, or even in what George Fonseca had EL

r offered: the hazy oblivion of narcotics. He had been looking for meaning on South Beach, with its shoddy values and pitiless judgments. Blue sky and sunshine, then the long, dark night. One more drink. Another half-turn of the accelerator on the handlebar. Easier that way, Thinking of this brought Sam to the point of utter despair and sent a wave of black depression washing over him, threatening to pull him under. If Matthew had lived, would he have been happy? He might have suspected sooner or later in his adulthood, as Sam did now, that he had been wise at nineteen to send his motorcycle hurtling into the darkness.

The lawyer was a heavy, obnoxious man named Don Gessing. Sam had seen him around the courthouse on drug cases. He seemed to have a steady South American clientele.

Joe McGee, assigned to the prosecution team on the Duncan sexual battery case, sat opposite Gessing at the interview table. McGee had a pen and a legal pad with notes on what to ask about. It had been decided that he would go first, then Detective Ryabin would follow up.

Ryabin sat at the end of the table, opposite George Fonseca.

Gessing, facing McGee, knitted his fingers in front of him. He had a ring on each hand and a diamond Rolex on his wrist. “My client is here voluntarily in the spirit of cooperation to help you with a murder investigation. No inquiries on any other matter. Mr. Fonseca will answer about fifteen minutes’ worth of questions, then we’re done.”

McGee got right to it. “Mr. Fonseca, where were you between about eight P.m. and three A.M. last Saturday night, Sunday morning?”

in his tight T-shirt, George Fonseca looked like he had overpumped at the gym. His thick forearms were covered with dark hair. He said, “I was out with friends. We Went to dinner at Lario’s, then to the clubs. Chili Pepper, Club One, Amnesia.”

“Could you give me the names of your friends?” There was a tape recorder on the table.

Fonseca gave the names and addresses of three people.

“And they were with you the entire times”

“That’s correct.”

“we have a report from the manager of the Seahorse Grill that you and Charlie Sullivan got into an altercation a couple of weeks ago.”

“A discussion. I wouldn’t call it an altercation.”

“The young man with Sullivan called it a fight.”

“Call it what you want,” Fonseca said.

“Do you know Tommy Chang?”

I 11

‘No.

“He was the young man at the table,” McGee said.

“Had you ever seen him before?”

“No.”

“You know a woman named Claudia Otero?”

“I heard of her.”

:‘Who is she?”

,:A fashion designer from New York.”

Have you met her personally?”

“I might have. Probably.”

“She was intimate with Charlie Sullivan9”

“Correct.”

“Did you ever see them together?”

:‘Yeah, I probably did, at the clubs and whatnot.”

‘And in the conversation with Sullivan at the Seahorse Grill you mentioned her as a rival to Tereza Ruffini. Tell me about that, Mr. Fonseca.”

The lawyer put a hand on George’s arm. “No. You don’t mention the name Ruffini to my client, Mr. McGee.”

Joe McGee said, “This isn’t about the sexual battery charges, Mr. Gessing. It’s to elicit what Mr. Fonseca might know about a rivalry between Tereza Ruffini and Claudia Otero, as a possible source of information about Klaus Ruffini and Charlie Sullivan.”

Gessing said, “You don’t hear? I said no questions on that topic.”

McGee lifted a sheet on his legal pad to see what was written underneath, then said, “What is your personal relation to Claudia Otero?”

“I don’t have one. I know her. That’s it.”

“What do you think of hers Do you like hers Dislike her?”

“I don’t have any feelings one way or the other.”

“Did you and Charlie Sullivan ever discuss Ms. Otero or his relationship to her?”

“Nope.”

“Mr. Fonseca, have you ever been arrested for or charged with possession of any form of controlled substance?”

He glanced at his lawyer, who nodded slightly. The roll of fat around his neck rested on his collar.

“Possession of cocaine. That was like two years ago, and the charges were dropped.” He looked at Gene Ryabin. “The Miami Beach Police Department planted it in my car, and I had a witness see them do it.”

The lawyer glanced at his watch.

Ryabin said, “Mr. Fonseca, you also mentioned in your conversation with Charlie Sullivan a young man named Stavros. Who is he?”

“A model. One of his boys.”

“Meaning … T’ “One of his boys. You know. His boyfriends. Sullivan swung both ways. Stavros died last year. Not AIDS. It was a traffic accident.”

Ryabin sat without speaking for a few seconds, then asked, “How well did you know this young man?”

“I saw him around the clubs. I didn’t know him.”

“Do you know his last name?”

“All I heard was Stavros. That’s all I know.”

“Did you provide him with cocaine or heroin?”

The lawyer said, “Don’t answer that, George. What’s the point of this, Detective?”

Ryabin asked, “Mr. Fonseca, do you know if Stavros was shooting heroin?”

Don Gessing shifted his weight. “Okay. You can answer that one.”

Fonseca said, “Yeah. He was doing it. A lot of the mod els are into smack. It’s a fad. Recreational use, you know?

You see it around a lot.”

:‘Where do they get it?”

‘Not from me.”

7from where, if you know.”

‘Used to be they’d have to drive over to the black section.” Fonseca glanced at Joe McGee, then shrugged. “Liberty City, like that. It was dangerous. Not now. Now you can get high-quality dope all over the place. But I don’t know where they get it. Not from me .

Ryabin said, “Sullivan accused you of causing Stavros’s death. Is this why he was going to testify against you?”

“He never told me that.”

:‘Tommy Chang heard you say it.”

‘No, I never said that. Stavros didn’t O.D., he ran his motorcycle off the causeway and broke his neck. He was a loser from the word go, man. I had nothing to do with it.”

The lawyer pushed himself out of his chair. “Okay, folks. That’s it. George, we’re done here.”

While Gessing held the door for George Fonseca, then lumbered out after him, Sam Hagen leaned heavily against a wall in the adjoining room. He savagely pulled at the knot in his tie. The two MBPD detectives who had been taking notes looked around.

One of them asked if he was okay.

“Yeah. I’m all right.” Sam wiped at his forehead with the heel of his hand.

“You sure? You don’t look so good.”

The other cop said. “No, you don’t. You got some pain?

I had chest pains last year. Doctor put me on nitro. Don’t fuck around with that, Hagen.”

“No, I’m okay. I need some air. Tell Gene I’ll be right back.” Leaving his suit coat on the back of his chair, Sam left the room and walked quickly down a narrow white hallway to the outside door. It clanged open on the parking garage, third level. The wind blew through the open sides, stirring the fumes.

An unmarked car made a turn down the ramp, tires squealing.

EL

Sam’s shirt was wet with perspiration, sticking to his back. Hands braced on the low concrete wall, he stood staring north, seeing nothing but the red, shimmering veil of his own rage.

If he had taken another exit to the ground floor. If he had come face to face with George Fonseca on the street Sam gripped the edge of the wall so hard his fingers ached. He wanted Fonseca. Wanted to slam his head into the sidewalk. Make him bleed.

Fonseca’s attorney would call. Within a week, probably. He would want to talk, not necessarily about possible murder charges against his client, but about the sexual battery case. He would be sniffing around for a deal. The state was obligated to make some kind of offer. Not a pleabargain but a good-faith offer so that trial could be avoided. I offer your asshole client a fair trial. I offer the maximum of twenty-five years.

Sam knew he ought to get off this case. So said the rules. Not kosher for the prosecutor to have it in for the defendant.

He exhaled, then again, as though he’d been running up stairs. It took him a while to realize that Gene Ryabin was standing a few feet away.

Ryabin’s pouched eyes were directed at the few cars moving slowly past on the narrow street below. “I’m going to go talk to George Fonseca’s alibi witnesses. Do you want to come along?”

“No, I’ve got things to do. Call if you find anything worthwhile.”

Elbows resting on the wall, Ryabin flicked his cigarette past the edge. The wind swirled the loose ashes. “People such as Fonseca, they don’t last too long. Something always happens. They make bad decisions. It all balances out in the end.”

“You think so.”

“I prefer to think so,” Ryabin said.

Sam laughed. “Jesus. Too late for some things, though.

Some things never balance. Unless Fonseca was the one who shot Charlie Sullivan. That has a nice symmetry to it.” Pushing away from the wall, Sam said, “But it puts me in a quandary. Do I send him to the chair or give him a fucking medal?”

Ryabin’s mournful eyes turned on Sam. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t know either, Gene. And I’m losing the ability to pretend I do.”

Munday morning had come to be almost sacred to Frank Tolin. He liked to sit on his eighth-floor terrace Soverlooking the marina at Coconut Grove, read the paper, have another cup of coffee, and think of anything but his law practice, his investments, or the various other baying dogs that snapped at him the rest of the week.

Caitlin was sitting cross-legged in the living room, just inside the open sliding glass door, going over some photographs for her show next week at the DeMarco Gallery. He could hear her humming to herself. She still hadn’t given an answer about living with him, and that annoyed him. Other than that, they’d had a good weekend so far.

From this height, Frank could see the skyline of Miami a few miles north, and the misty green expanse of Key Biscayne to the east. Sailboats, sport fishers, and motor yachts crisscrossed the bay. Sea grasses alternated with sand, making bands of green, bright blue, and turquoise.

Occasionally he would spot the dorsal fins of dolphins.

The last thing Frank wanted was to have his Sunday invaded by Marty Cassie.

Marty rang up from the lobby and said he had a signed offer on the apartments. It wouldn’t take fifteen minutes.

While Frank went to change out of his bathrobe, Caitlin let Marty in. When Frank came back out, Marty was on the terrace. He’d taken over the lounge chair in the shade.