Caged (11 page)

‘Sure,’ Martinez said, poker-faced. ‘You do takeout, sir?’

Clearly on the same track as Sam.

‘For some customers,’ Christou said. ‘It’s not a big thing for us.’

‘I used to work with Anthony in the business,’ Karen said. ‘Now I just stay home and mind his fucking pets.’

Malice never far below the surface with these two.

‘You did a great job,’ Christou said sarcastically.

‘Fuck off,’ she said.

‘Nice.’ Her husband glanced at the detectives. ‘They don’t need this, Karen.’

‘And we do?’ she said.

A moment passed, not exactly of truce, but at least of silence, and then Christou got to his feet. ‘I need a drink. Anyone else want something?’

‘No, thank you,’ Sam said.

‘Me neither,’ Martinez said.

They waited as the man opened a cabinet and poured two fingers of whisky into a crystal glass, half-expected Christou’s wife to object, but the truce held.

‘Who would know,’ Sam asked, ‘about the fish tank? Other than your friends and neighbours?’

‘A lot of people know about it.’ Christou sat down again, took a drink. ‘Our customers, for a start.’

‘He has big photos of the tank on the walls of all the restaurants,’ Karen said.

‘And there was a piece in
Miami Today
,’ Christou said.

‘And a review in the
Herald
a couple of years ago,’ Karen added.

‘I don’t think the tank got a mention in that.’ Christou paused. ‘One of the officers told me we’re going to have to move out because our home is a crime scene now. Is that true?’

‘I’m afraid it is,’ Sam said.

‘But surely . . .’ New horror appeared to strike Karen Christou. ‘You don’t think they were actually
killed
here? Surely they were just left here, after . . .’

‘Almost certainly they were just left,’ Sam said.

‘Thank God.’ She thought for a moment. ‘So where am I supposed to go?’

Christou said, grudgingly: ‘You could come to my place.’

‘Can I go to a hotel?’ Karen asked, blanking his offer.

‘Sure,’ Sam said. ‘A hotel, family, friends.’

‘So long as we know where you’re staying,’ Martinez said.

Reality kicked in for the couple.

‘Oh, my God, Tony,’ Karen said, close to tears again.

‘Tell me about it,’ her husband said.

‘Quite a pair,’ Sam said, outside.

‘It’s good to be out of there,’ Martinez said.

Not that it was possible to feel too much relief when faced with the macabre scene still out in the backyard.

Not just brutal homicide here.

A particular kind of degradation, perpetrated for a second time, making them both sick to their souls.

And then, as always happened in the worst cases, they felt it start to galvanize them, to fill them with a determination to do their jobs to the utmost of their abilities.

And then some.

THIRTY-THREE

T
hey had a small amount of good luck with Karen Christou’s neighbours, merely in that they were almost all home when Sam and Martinez came knocking. But that was where the luck ended, because no one was admitting to having seen or heard anything suspicious last evening or night.

Still, at least they were
home
, and could therefore be checked off the ever-growing list of things the squad had to do. All of it painstaking and much of it a grind, the tasks that had to be taken care of more meticulously than ever without a big lead. Not that they bitched about it too much because they all knew it was how the job went, and it was all worth doing, too, so long as they got there in the end. Which didn’t make it easy, but it was what they were paid for, and it was what they owed the victims.

Big time.

One good thing about today.

Jessica Kowalski was off duty, and having heard about the new homicides, she’d felt a great urge to take care of her brand-new fiancé and had brought in a picnic basket lunch for him and his partner.

Crusty rolls, Canadian cheddar, cold chicken and bottled water.

‘I didn’t bring wine,’ she said. ‘With you guys being on a case.’

‘Are you kidding?’ Martinez said. ‘We eat all this, we’ll snooze the rest of the day.’

‘It’s too much,’ Jess said, crestfallen. ‘I didn’t think.’

‘Too much?’ Sam said. ‘It’s the best thing anyone’s ever done for us in this place.’

‘And it means I get to see you,’ Martinez said.

‘I hope you realize we could get used to this,’ Sam said.

Jess’s cheeks grew warm. ‘I guess Grace can’t do stuff like this, not with her work and the baby to take care of.’

Sam smiled. ‘Oh, you’d be surprised at how much Grace can do.’

Not much else that was good about today.

About double homicide.

Quadruple now.

‘What defines serial killing?’ Jess asked just before she left.

‘Not this,’ Martinez said, then knocked on his desk. ‘We hope.’

‘Unlawful homicide of at least two people,’ Sam said, ‘carried out in a series over a period of time, seems to be the minimal definition. Though cops tend not to think in serial terms without something more conclusive than that.’

‘More killings, in other words,’ Martinez said.

‘God forbid,’ Jess said.

Though everyone now involved in the investigation was uncomfortably aware that the staged elements of the slayings made it all too possible that whoever was responsible might just feel like rounding off the ‘achievement’ with a third pair.

God forbid, as Jess had said.

Suddenly, midway through the afternoon,
something.

A few grains of sand found in the wheel tracks on the Christou lawn.

On the face of it, not the biggest deal, considering Prairie Avenue was in Miami Beach. Except Crime Scene were saying that this was
not
Miami Beach sand, which was golden and comparatively coarse.

The sand in those tracks was white and finer, more like Gulf Coast sand or even sand up in north-west Florida, which had some of the purest, whitest sand in the state – or it might just be from a bunker on one of the numerous golf courses in the area. And given time, they would probably be able to analyze it further, narrow it down. But for now, all they knew was that it wasn’t local beach sand, and no one could guess how that might help nail the killers of the fish tank victims.

But it was, at least, something.

It was too late when Sam got home for the kind of Friday evening that he loved; too late for candle lighting and the family gathering around the Jewish Sabbath table that even Grace, born of Italian Catholic and Swedish Protestant parents, had come to cherish since their marriage – and it was a source of pleasure and amusement for the Beckets, on occasions like Thanksgiving, to list their remarkable multiracial, national and religious legacies, with Sam always claiming, until Joshua’s birth, that he had won the melting pot contest as an African-Bahamian-Episcopalian-Jewish-American descendant of a runaway slave.

Late as it was tonight, though his son was sound asleep, Grace was waiting for him with beef and potato soup simmering in a copper pan, a ciabatta loaf ready for slicing, and the remains of the good Chianti they’d shared last night standing on the kitchen table.

Sam kissed his wife, sank on to a chair, fondled Woody’s ears as the dog leaned against his right leg.

‘My day for being spoiled,’ he said.

He’d already told her about Jess bringing in lunch.

‘Must mean you deserve it,’ Grace said.

‘Talk about good enough to eat,’ Sam said. ‘Look at you.’

Nothing overtly sensuous about what she was wearing – Grace didn’t do slinky or black lace – but she could make one of his old white shirts look a damned sight sexier than any GQ spread.

‘You look bushed,’ she said, ladling soup into a ceramic bowl.

‘Truth,’ he said. ‘I am.’

‘Too tired to talk over an idea?’ She set down the bowl in front of him, sliced a hunk of bread and poured him a glass of wine.

‘Of course not.’ He grasped at her hand. ‘Thank you, Gracie.’

‘You’re very welcome,’ she said, loving the fact that he still bothered to thank her for small kindnesses.

‘And the idea?’ He had a spoonful of soup. ‘That is
so
good.’

‘Do you think Al would mind if we threw him and Jess a party?’

Sam raised both eyebrows in surprise. ‘Really?’

She sat down beside him. ‘Only I can’t picture him arranging that kind of thing, but I think they might like it, so if you think it would be OK, I’d love to do it.’

‘You are truly a spectacular woman,’ Sam said.

‘Is that a yes?’

‘Definitely,’ he said. ‘Except I’m not sure we can invite anyone from the department.’

‘So they’re really not telling people yet?’ She pulled a face. ‘I don’t know who we could invite then. I’ve never heard Al talk about friends outside the office.’

‘He doesn’t really have much of a life outside,’ Sam said.

‘He didn’t,’ Grace said, ‘but he does now.’

‘So maybe we’ll just make them a family dinner – our family being his.’

‘That’s fine with me,’ Grace said. ‘And should it be a surprise, do you think, or should we consult with them?’

‘I think we should tell Al, and if he goes for it, leave it up to him to decide if he wants to tell Jess or not.’ Sam didn’t think he was up to organizing more than one surprise at a time.

‘That leaves the biggest problem,’ Grace said. ‘Finding a free evening for you guys with this case.’

Sam sighed because that was so true. ‘Let’s see what the next few days bring.’ He picked up his spoon, then set it down again, his appetite gone.

‘No ID yet on this couple?’

‘We can’t even be sure they are a couple.’

‘Dear Lord,’ Grace said.

THIRTY-FOUR

R
omeo the Fifth was missing in action.

The keeper didn’t know whether to be more upset or impressed.

It had been apparent, from the go, that he was a rough one, and now it was clear that he was a tough guy, too, with an independent streak, and face it, the buck would have had to go soon anyway.

Anyway, the good news, as it happened, far outweighed the bad.

Because Isabella the Seventh was expecting.

Well, of
course
she was, fecund little mom that she was.

The keeper wasn’t going to bug her with stats this weekend, would allow Isabella to celebrate in peaceful isolation.

And who knew, maybe Romeo would show up again.

Food and sex on offer, after all.

THIRTY-FIVE

T
he squad had come to the station for a Sunday morning meeting, gathering in their own office rather than in the conference room since most of the other detectives were off duty.

Second Sunday in a row for some of them, and they’d had to work late yesterday evening – not that any of them were too sold on Valentine’s, but that wasn’t the point; what mattered was that they were tired, and some of them had families, and Sam, like most of them, had this old-fashioned wish to be home with Grace and Joshua, which seemed to happen too damned seldom. Though usually when he was pulling overtime, it was because of overdue paperwork, not the violent crimes themselves.

They worked and lived in a peaceful place, for the most part.

All the more reason for them to protect it as well as they could.

The intention this morning was to brainstorm, as well as pool existing information again, trying their damnedest to refresh their minds and produce something new and useful.

One, two or even more killers remained the unsatisfactory consensus, and there was the strong possibility that they were dealing with a strong, highly organized individual, working alone or hiring help – which was their best hope of a weak link – but Sam had brought a sickening list to the meeting, of past partner or team serial killers in the US and worldwide. Lessons to be learned, maybe, or some ingredient of those cases to help trigger new insight in their own squad.

There were more photographs pinned up on the board than there had been just twenty-four hours earlier. John and Jane Doe joining the Eastermans, and the indignity of nameless victims always made Sam’s heart ache.

One question was taxing them all, and Martinez voiced it first:

‘I still don’t get what the hell kind of message is a goddamned fish tank?’

‘And how does it relate to the dome?’ Sam added.

‘The tank’s acrylic,’ Riley said.

The notion of a plastics-motivated killer gripped no one.

Exhibition was self-evident, but there was no other link they’d managed to conjure up between the garden of a former gallery and the backyard of an occupied luxury home.

Outdoors probably chosen just because it was easier than breaking in.

‘And because the displays were more likely to be found,’ Cutter said, ‘though that goes more for the Christou house.’

‘For the gallery too,’ Sam said, ‘if they knew the gardener’s routine. Which would make the dumping sites highly premeditated.’

‘Does that make the victims more or less likely to be randomly chosen?’ Riley asked.

The phone rang. Elliot Sanders bringing them up to date.

‘I’m putting you on speaker, Doc,’ Sam told him.

‘Same knife,’ the ME said, ‘or damned close. And we have stomach contents for you. Beef, egg plant, tomatoes and cheese.’

‘Moussaka,’ Riley said.

‘Christou’s Greek,’ Martinez said.

‘His restaurants serve fish,’ Sam said.

‘Bet he knows how to cook moussaka,’ Martinez persisted.

‘Not usually with sedatives, though, I’d imagine,’ Sanders’s voice said through the speaker. ‘Temazepam again. Higher levels in the male, maybe just because he ate more dinner. He may have been unconscious before he died.’ He paused. ‘More to follow, as always, but I thought you’d want to know.’