Caged (12 page)

‘We need to know if the victims liked Greek food,’ Sam said.

‘I’d settle for their names first,’ Beth Riley said.

‘Moussaka has to make the Christous more interesting,’ Martinez said.

‘Except it was goulash with the Eastermans,’ Cutter said.

‘And fish,’ Martinez said.

‘We’re reaching, guys,’ Sam said. ‘Unpleasant as the Christous are, I can’t see them being crazy enough to have to have killed these people and then displayed them in their own fish tank – not to mention calling 911—’

‘Karen made the call,’ Martinez pointed out. ‘Not Anthony.’

‘Maybe their backyard was chosen for more reasons than the fish tank being there,’ Sam said.

‘Still here,’ Sanders jolted them from the speaker on Sam’s desk.

‘Sorry, Doc,’ Sam said.

‘The glue was in both their mouths, and plenty of it. But I’d venture to say that the big deal here – maybe the turn on, but that’s for you people to establish – was the joining of their
lips
, same way the Eastermans were joined down below.’

‘Hips and lips,’ Martinez said sourly after the ME had signed off. ‘Think we got a poet?’

‘It wasn’t hips, though, remember,’ Sam said.

‘Sure I remember.’ Martinez shook his head. ‘
So
sick.’

The missing persons report came through just before lunch.

The stuff of nightmares for two more families, and only the beginning.

‘Two lawyers from the same firm,’ Sam told Martinez, scanning the printout in his hand. ‘Not married or even cohabiting, but definitely a couple.’

Elizabeth Ann Price, aged thirty-three, and André Duprez, a year older, both AWOL from their office on Biscayne Boulevard since Thursday morning, according to their close friend and colleague Michelle Webster, who’d been out that day but had felt something was amiss when neither of them had shown up for work on Friday – and had
known
that something was badly wrong when both had failed to respond either to her texts or calls to their homes, cells or Skype lines.

‘Ms Webster said she tried to convince herself that they were just acting against type and taking a couple of unscheduled personal days,’ Sam went on reading. ‘But then she drove to Ms Price’s townhouse in North Miami Beach and saw that Mr Duprez’s BMW was parked on the street, and Ms Price’s Honda was in the garage.’

Michelle Webster stated, in her report, that she’d held off until Saturday afternoon, telling herself they could have gone out with friends or taken a cab to the airport, gone someplace for the weekend. But none of that rang true, so finally she’d driven to André Duprez’s apartment building in Miami Shores, and had talked the super into using his key to see if all was well.

Which it certainly had
seemed
to be. If André had eaten there recently, either alone or with Elizabeth, there was no sign of it; in fact, Michelle had reported that the kitchen was pristine, but looking around with the super, she’d seen that all André’s suitcases seemed to be there, right down to his weekend bag.

Sam put down the report.

‘No signs of a struggle,’ he said, ‘so far as she could see.’

‘She go inside Ms Price’s house?’ Martinez asked.

‘No key.’ Sam paused. ‘Elizabeth’s father and sister live up in Sarasota, mother deceased. André Duprez is from Quebec City – a snowbird who came down about ten years ago and never went home. Both parents alive and living there.’

The photograph handed over on Saturday by Michelle Webster came through.

Two attractive young people having fun at a party. The woman a brunette, with high cheekbones and a laughing mouth, wearing a simple, classy-looking black dress. The young man in an open-necked white shirt, also sharp-looking, his fair hair buzz-cut, his eyes blue and keen.

No real doubts about their identity.

Elizabeth Price’s father, Edward, would be getting a visit from the Sarasota Police Department before the hour was out. Same deal in Quebec City. Arrangements would be made for them to fly to Miami as soon as possible.

Their permission would be requested to enter and search their children’s properties, and search warrants would be obtained to help the police try to determine if anything bad had occurred at either address, or if the victims’ lifestyles – perhaps even their taste in art – might throw up a link with the Oates Gallery couple.

In the meantime, Sam and Martinez would meet with Michelle Webster and head over to the law offices of Tiller, Valdez, Weinman, where two of the senior partners had agreed to come in to help find some other possible connection between the two couples.

Other than their slaying.

And now at least the new John and Jane Doe had real names.

THIRTY-SIX

T
hey met with Michelle Webster at the Medical Examiner’s Office as she emerged from the Family Grieving Room just after three o’clock. The young woman had just identified horrific photographs of two dear friends, and was plainly distraught. She was, she told them, Elizabeth’s best friend, but had grown very fond of André too.

‘I just can’t seem to believe it,’ she said. ‘I can’t take it in.’

She was diminutive, about five-one, Sam thought, with short, raven hair and eyes almost as dark behind oval spectacles, their sides glittery with tiny jewels, though that was all that sparkled about the young woman in black.

Her voice was strained, as if it hurt to talk, words coming in intense bursts, between bouts of weeping. Sam and Martinez doubted that there was anything more of practical use that they would glean from Michelle Webster today.

They were gentle, told her that Edward Price and his younger daughter, Margie, would be arriving at Miami International late that night, and that Gérard and Claudine Duprez were booked on the first flight out of Quebec City in the morning.

‘Can we drive you home?’ Sam offered.

Michelle shook her head. ‘I don’t think I could bear to go home yet. I’d rather go to the office.’ She saw their hesitation. ‘I know it’s Sunday. I don’t plan to work, just to be there. I already called Rachel – that’s Rachel Weinman, one of the senior partners.’

‘We know,’ Sam said. ‘In fact, we’re heading over there shortly.’

‘Was I wrong to tell her?’ Behind the spectacles, her eyes looked scared.

‘Of course not,’ Sam reassured her. ‘You need all the support you can get.’

‘Just one question for now, ma’am,’ Martinez said.

‘Michelle,’ she said. ‘Please. And ask me anything, as many questions as you need to. I want to help so badly.’

‘Did your friends like Greek food?’

‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Now and then.’ And suddenly she seemed to guess the fact behind the question, and her eyes filled with fresh tears of grief and horror.

‘We’re very sorry for your loss,’ Martinez told her.

Nothing more they could say.

The reception room of Tiller, Valdez, Weinman was sleek, expensive and confidence-inspiring – until, Sam supposed, for some of their clients, it came to fees.

The two partners were waiting, grave-faced. The sight of them started Michelle Webster weeping again, and Rachel Weinman, a sturdy woman with short grey hair, wearing a charcoal pants suit and black blouse, took the younger woman in her arms, while Victor Valdez, tall, slim and elegant in a dark suit, patted Michelle’s shoulder and explained to Sam and Martinez that their partner, Stephen Tiller, was presently in Berlin.

‘Though he’s available, should you need to speak with him,’ Weinman said. ‘I have numbers for him, or he can call you, as you wish.’

‘I imagine what you’ll need most at this stage,’ Valdez said, ‘will be to speak to Elizabeth’s and André’s colleagues, which won’t be easy to arrange until tomorrow.’

‘That’ll be soon enough,’ Sam said.

‘In the meantime,’ Weinman said, ‘I’ve made copies of their personnel files for you.’ She paused. ‘André was Canadian, as you may already know, but he was a member of the Florida State Bar.’

‘
Was
.’ Michelle shuddered.

‘It’s terrible,’ Weinman said.

‘Such fine young people.’ Valdez shook his head. ‘They should have had outstanding careers ahead of them.’

‘They should have had
life
ahead of them,’ Weinman added.

Tears in her eyes now, too.

They agreed, back in the car, that the lawyers had seemed like decent people. Sam had liked the way they’d worked together, arranging to collect the Prices, both tactful with the bereft young woman, not pushy but getting a tough job done well, making the firm’s Aventura apartment ready for Edward and Margie Price in case they’d made no plans.

‘So what we got here seems like another real nice, regular young couple,’ Martinez said.

No known enemies or angry clients, accordingly to the partners.

‘Seems that way,’ Sam said.

‘Depressing as hell,’ Martinez said.

THIRTY-SEVEN

T
he search warrant obtained, they took a first look at Elizabeth Price’s townhouse, moving in simultaneously with Crime Scene.

If the couple had been taken together, then, with both their cars left behind, this was the most likely abduction location, and the techs were paying particular attention to the garage and its access to the house. Evidence collection and photography first, as always, no chemicals being brought into the possible scene, the print techs waiting until after that first close look.

Michelle Webster’s prints had been taken for elimination, but no one was holding their breath for anything obvious here – though they did have some hopes that another warrant applied for regarding the recordings of vehicles entering and leaving the gated road might yield something of use.

Moving carefully around the small, attractive house, wearing gloves and shoe covers, touching only when necessary, Sam and Martinez found nothing unexpected. Nice quality furniture and fixtures, no overt extravagances, a great many books, mostly alphabetized on shelves, either read or well thumbed; law volumes, biographies and memoirs, novels ranging from Austen to Kafka to Grisham. Two books – Donald Woods’
Biko
and Barack Obama’s
Dreams from My Father
– on a side table near the couch, and Sue Miller’s
The Good Mother
on a kitchen counter, leather bookmarks in all three books.

There were photographs in every room, some that might be family, one beautifully framed shot of Elizabeth and André on a sailboat, both looking radiant, but in general there was minimal clutter and few frills. Two closets filled mostly with woman’s clothing and shoes, much of it conservative, with a section of men’s clothes, presumably André’s. A hamper overflowing with items for washing. No diary in immediate evidence, the only visible notes stuck to the refrigerator door and relating to food shopping. Any number of kitchen knives that might, in theory, have been used for bloody murder, then washed and replaced – though there was no one left to tell if one or more was missing.

Nothing of particular interest inside the refrigerator: yoghurt, mineral water, a bottle of Sauvignon blanc, a pack of red apples, four eggs and some salad dressing, but no salad.

‘I guess shopping was on her weekend schedule,’ Sam said.

Feeling sad as hell for her.

And angrier by the second for both of them.

Elizabeth’s home office, on the first floor, was organized, everything in its place, though it would soon be taken apart by investigators, the MacBook on the desk removed and examined for clues as to what might have turned this young law associate and her boyfriend into murder victims.

There were no signs anywhere of violence. Everything in the house and on the deck at the rear was well maintained and clean, the king-size bed upstairs neatly made, same as at the Eastermans – and was that the way Elizabeth had always left it, they wondered, or had someone else made it up, someone as skilled as, say, Mayumi Santos?

‘My bed never looks like that,’ Martinez remarked.

‘Maybe she had a housekeeper too,’ Sam said.

‘Maybe Ms Santos was moonlighting,’ Martinez said.

‘You’re reaching again,’ Sam said.

‘So sue me,’ Martinez said.

Almost, but not entirely, the same deal at Duprez’s third-floor Juniper Terrace condo. No trace of a break-in or violence or even intrusion, but his bed
was
rumpled, his pillows dented, and there were indications that the young Canadian had been working in his sitting room some time prior to his abduction or voluntary departure.

‘No dirty dishes here either,’ Sam said, in the kitchen, an efficient, basic workspace.

‘Not even a coffee cup on the drain board,’ Martinez said.

Sam used a gloved index finger to open a drawer. ‘Not a lot of sharp knives.’

‘How many does a guy need?’ Martinez said. ‘I got one big, one small.’

Sam’s nose wrinkled. ‘Can you smell something?’

Martinez sniffed, and his dark eyes sharpened. ‘Moussaka?’

‘Maybe.’ Sam was more cautious.

Martinez opened the refrigerator door. ‘Bingo.’

Sam looked over his shoulder, saw one shiny eggplant, a half pack of tomatoes and some grated kefalotiri cheese. ‘Left here for us, maybe?’

‘You think?’ Martinez scratched his head. ‘Though if Duprez did do the cooking himself, who the fuck added the sedatives?’

They checked the trash can, found no food remains, shone a flashlight into the waste disposal unit – which the techs would remove later, examining it and the pipes immediately beyond it – but for now it all looked as clean and shiny as the rest of the kitchen.

‘I don’t buy all this hygiene,’ Martinez said. ‘The Price house was neat and clean, but this isn’t normal.’

They headed into the bathroom, found Bayer aspirin, Tylenol and an out-of-date bottle of cough medication.

‘No temazepam,’ Martinez said.

‘What’s that?’ Sam pointed to a bottle at the back of the top shelf.