Blood Relations (42 page)

Anna, bewildered that her husband would take her to such an expensive store, went inside when he explained the purpose. They spoke Russian and pretended to admire the fashions while the manager, a young woman with short-cropped hair, snorted cocaine in the back with her friends. When Ryabin politely called her aside and asked if she would answer a few questions, she not-so-politely refused, because wasn’t it obvious that these dumpy, middle-aged people were only looking, taking up her time? Then Ryabin smiled, pulled out his badge, and told her she was under arrest for possession of a controlled substance. She became more cooperative at the station.

Ryabin said, “I don’t speak Spanish well, but Lopez does. You might not believe me, Sam, but Lopez is a talented man. At six o’clock Monday morning we’re calling Spain. Then France. I’m running all over the building, finding officers to speak French and German.

The telephone bills are going to be outrageous. In any event, Otero, the company, has the main offices in Madrid. I’m making a report in writing, which later you can read. Now I’ll give you the gist. Claudia Otero’s family left Cuba in 1961 and went to Spain. In 1968 they relocated to New York and became American citizens, but Claudia stayed in Europe. She studied art. She was a fashion model briefly, then married one rich man, then another, and became involved in designing. Ten years ago in Paris she opened a clothing store, then another in Madrid, then one in Nice, and so on. Now she has forty-six of them. Europe, North and South America, most of them resort areas. In Japan she has three. And a new one-but the opening has been postponed-in Cuba.”

“Cuba.” Sam locked his fingers on top of his head and leaned back in his chair. “Why was it postponed?”

“They say red tape with the Cuban government.”

Ryabin made a wry smile.

“Lots of tourists in Havana? With money?”

“Oh, yes. Many Europeans, many from Eastern European countries. Many English and Canadians. But not Americans, of course, because our State Department won’t allow us to travel to Cuba. Some get in, family members, journalists, and so on, but Anna and I had to go through Jamaica.”

“What were you and Anna doing in Cuba?”

“Enjoying the beach and the nightclubs. We went because the State Department forbids it.” His face was round, smiling. “I’m an American now, Sam, but if I wanted restrictions on my travel, I would never have left the Soviet Union.”

“You didn’t see Amalia Mora dancing at the Tropicana?”

Ryabin laughed. “No. But she met Claudia Otero last October at a nearby resort town that caters to rich Spaniards and where, by coincidence, Claudia’s store will be located-when it opens.”

“The Cuban exile community wouldn’t be pleased with Amalia Mora, if they knew.”

“The American government wouldn’t like Amalia Mora helping her sister open a business in Cuba.” He added regretfully, “I believe this, but I don’t have proof”

Sam had to get out of his chair and walk around the office awhile. He thought of what Caitlin Dom had told him about the fashion industry. How insular and selfreferential. He said, “Klaus Ruffini may have known about Claudia and Amalia, being in the same business.

His wife, Tereza, is a designer.”

Ryabin nodded. “That occurred to me, too.”

“But why hasn’t this made the news? Ruffini was arraigned this morning. He would have said something already.”

“Maybe it’s too late. You decided to prosecute. Eddie couldn’t stop you. It was out of his control. If Ruffini talks now, Eddie might make it worse for him, if not in the criminal courts, then with his political friends. Ruffini could be deported. So. A standoff.”

“Only until there isn’t a case anymore,” Sam said, “then Ruffini walks. Sullivan is dead. George is dead. My witnesses are scared, and I don’t blame them.”

Ryabin sat with his fingers knitted over his belly. He looked at Sam. “When the state attorney comes back, I think you should talk to him. Tell him that the Miami Beach police want to question him in connection with the deaths of Charlie Sullivan and George Fonseca, both of whom were prepared to testify on a case that he didn’t want to prosecute. Ask about Dale Finley, his chief investigator, who once was a spy for the CIA in Cuba and who attempted to persuade Ali Duncan not to talk to you. And ask him about his wife’s visits to Cuba and about her financial interests in Otero. Ask him if Amalia persuaded her sister, Claudia, not to open the boutique near Havana because she knew that it could ruin Eddie Mora’s political future.”

Sam laughed. “You looking for an early retirement, Gene?” .

“No. I have two unsolved murders.”

“Just doing your job. Does Chief Mazik know about this?”

“Not yet. No one knows except you and me. When you say to talk to Mazik, then I’ll talk to him.”

As he continued to look at Ryabin, Sam could see what he was doing. He was letting Sam decide if Chief Mazik should be told at all. He was handing over this information about Eddie Mora’s wife to use or not, in whatever way Sam chose to do it. Push the state attorney up against a wall, or let him go.

When Eddie Mora had been put in charge, Sam’s career-his life-had been stolen. He’d played the good soldier, getting right into line. And on the Duncan case, he’d been used. When Eddie Mora had needed someone to keep the shit off him, he’d come to Sam Hagen. Sam, snared by his own ambition.

On the porch of the En lander Apartments, the old man sat in a chair in the shade. Perlstein. He of the inky hand.

The scribe. Not feeding the birds today, just watching the street. He watched Sam come through the iron gate and walk toward the building.

h “Hello. It’s my used-to-be-Jewish friend. Caitlin isn’t ere. She moved out.”

Sam stopped, looking up at her window. The tan le of green plants was gone. The panes were empty, reflecting only trees and sky. “Where did she go?”

“She left. She went to New York.”

“Already?”

“Saturday morning she’s packing. Sunday there’s a pickup truck and her friends to take her things away. My wife and I might have to move, too. This building is going to be turned into condominiums. They’re going to raise our rent. Jordanians bought it, what do you think of that?

Arabs. On Miami Beach, Arabs.”

“Did she give you her forwarding address? A phone liumber.”

Perlstein shook his head.

“She must have told you where she was going,” Sam said. “It’s important that I locate her.” He came up the Steps.

A woman’s face appeared at the window behind Perlstein, peering through the glass slats. Her eyes were fixed on Sam. She said, “Harry. Your lunch is ready. Come eat.” She leaned over a plump armchair. A cat lay across the back of it washing a paw.

Perlstein picked up his cane. “I have to go in. Excuse me.”

Sam moved closer to the window. “nat’s Caitlin’s cat.”

“No,” Mrs. Perlstein said, “it’s ours.” She shoved the cat off the armchair.

He took a step toward Perlstein. “You know where she is.”

“Harry!” The wife’s voice quavered. “Come in. Your lunch will get cold.”

Sam saw he was frightening the woman; he was a maniac, a jackbooted thug here to break down doors and threaten the helpless. He took a card out of his wallet and held it to the screen. “Mrs. Perlstein, it’s all right. My name is Sam Hagen. I’m a prosecutor with the state attorney’s office. Caitlin Dom is a witness on a case of mine, and I need to speak to her about that.”

“Another man from your office came by yesterday, and we told him the same thing. We don’t know where she is.”

“What man?”

“I don’t know. Not so young. He wasn’t dressed in a suit, like you.”

“White hair? A limp? What was his name?”

“I don’t know his name, but the limp I remember. We told him, we don’t know where she is. Harry, come inside!”

“A minute! Dvorah, in a minute.” He waved a hand at the screen. “Go on. I’m talking to Mr. Hagen.” He pushed himself unsteadily out of his chair and went to the other end of the porch. A mockingbird fluttered away to perch on a red hibiscus bush.

. The hand that wrapped around Sam’s wrist was surprisingly strong. Perlstein said in a low voice, I think she left because of the boyfriend. He came around, making trouble for her.”

“What do you mean?”

“Trouble. He bothered her. Phone calls, letters. Coming around, watching. I saw him parked up the block there. Last week he comes. He asks me where she goes, who she is with. Don’t worry, I didn’t tell him you were here. I never liked that man. I told her, This guy is no good for you, but-women! I hope she doesn’t go back with him.”

Sam felt his jaw clenching. He looked down into Perlstein’s face. “Where did she go?”

“I’m sorry.” He patted Sam’s shoulder. “Caitlin made us promise not to say. This is what I’ll do. I’ll call her, and she can contact you. All right?”

“She’s still in town, isn’t she?”

He shrugged.

“I’m a friend, Mr. Perlstein.”

From the window his wife shouted, “Harry!”

Rafael Soto lived on the third floor of a building on Pine Tree Drive. He opened the door far enough to talk. Behind him Sam could see cheap furniture and colorful pillows and lamps. Music was playing: a swing band from the forties.

He held out his card. “I’m Sam Hagen.”

Soto didn’t take it. “I know who you are.”

The smell of pork and garlic came out into the hall. A Hispanic guy about Soto’s age stuck his head around the corner from the kitchen. “Rafael! i Quign es?”

“Nada. Un abogado delfiscal.

“I’m here to see Caitlin Dom.”

“Caidin isn’t here.”

“Where is she, Mr. Soto?”

“Enroute to New York. She’ll call when she arrives to give me her address. I assume she’ll contact your office as well.”

“Look. I know she’s in town. I have to speak to her about Ali Duncan’s case. It’s urgent.”

“Well, if she’s still around, it’s news to me.”

“You talk to me or to the police,” Sam said. “Your choice.”

“Pardon me, but we’re in the middle of lunch.”

The door began to close. Sam shoved a shoulder into it. Soto nearly fell, bumped backward into the living room. Sam raised his palms, moving away a step.

He outweighed either of these guys by fifty pounds. “I’m not going to hurt anybody, but I have to know where she is.”

Rafael Soto took off his glasses and tossed them onto the sofa. His eyes glittered darkly. He wouldn’t be pushed around this time. His friend came back out of the kitchen with a long cooking fork, still greasy from the pan. Soto said, “Julio, llama a la policia.”

“She ran from Frank Tolin, didn’t she?” Sam watched Julio, who held the cooking fork out like a pitchfork to a wild animal as he sidled across the room and picked up the telephone. “Soto, if anything happens to that woman, you want to take responsibility?”

After a second, Soto spoke over his shoulder.

iCuelga!” Julio hung up the phone. Soto said, “He beat her up.”

“Jesus. When?”

“A couple of weeks ago. So she broke up with him, and now she’s worried what he’ll do. He called her so much she had to disconnect her phone, and he’s sent th most obscene letters. Unsigned, but is there any doubt?

He told her to get out of the apartment and he slashed the tires on her car.” Rafael Soto went over to the sofa for his glasses. He put them on, then looked directly at Sam.

“Maybe as Frank Tolin’s friend, maybe you can persuade him to leave her alone. I’m really afraid he might do something.”

“Rafael, tell me where she is.”

“Not here,” Soto said. “She was, but she thought he’d figure it out. Till we go to New York, she’s staying with Paula DeMarco, who has a house on Flamingo Drive. She owns the gallery where Caidin had her show. There’s a vicious Doberman, so she’s quite safe. Oh, God.” He

7 pressed a hand to his forehead. “She’s going to kill me. I swore on my mother’s grave.”

Sam opened the door, “Thanks.”

“Wait! If you’re going over there, you won’t find her.

She has a shoot outside Nick’s at the marina. She’s taking photos of jet skis.”

“Jet skis?”

He made a rueful smile. “Yeah, I know. But it pays.”

Sam left his jacket in the car and sat on a concrete bench near thedocks at the Miami Beach Marina, which was located toward the southern tip of the island. Nick’s, a high-priced restaurant Sam had never been to, took up the top floor-, with shops on the bottom, everything under a turquoise roof, lush landscaping all around.

Down the docks a bit, a store made to resemble a palm-thatched chickee hut rented catamarans, sixteenfoot outboards, and jet skis. They’d lined up three of the vile-colored machines outside in the grass. Each was at present being straddled by a model in a bikini. The girls were standing up, leaning over the handlebars.

Cheesy. A couple of old guys on the docks getting the rearview, grinning. Sam would bet Caitlin hadn’t posed this one.

Shifting on the concrete bench, Sam took out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat off his neck. Even in the shade of some Palm trees he was too warm, wearing his suit pants and dress shirt and brown leather shoes. out of place, everybody else in loose, light-colored clothing, and not much of it.

Sam had sat where he could keep an eye on her, waiting till she finished. He felt like a damned bodygu , hulkinj and and edgy. She knew he was there. Thirty yards away, he’d seen the bill of her khaki hat turn in his direction. Sunglasses hid her eyes. Sam went to the snack bar, bought a beer, and came back out to drink it.

Caitlin’s arms showed in her yellow tank top. He didn’t see any bruises. He hadn’t seen any last week at her apartment. But she’d been wearing a long-sleeved blouse, he recalled. And heavy makeup. Sam thought about why she hadn’t told him and decided it meant she was afraid he’d go have a few words with Frank about it. Get all three of them into a situation there was no easy way out of.

Finally Caitlin slung her camera bag over her shoulder.

She spoke to a man with a beer logo on his T-shirt. He had his car keys out. She held up a hand, telling him to wait. Her hat turned toward Sam. She came to see what he wanted. He stood up.

Her nose was pink from the sun. Shoulders brown, a sheen of perspiration on her chest above the neckline of her bright yellow shirt. “How’d you know I was here?”