Blood Relations Page 13

Sam met them in the small waiting room outside Major Crimes. Alice Duncan was as he had expected: a tall, skinny attitude problem with a God-awful choice in clothes. It was hard to tell her age. She asked if she could smoke. He said no.

  He led Caitlin through the maze of corridors on the second floor. He had recovered from the shock of seeing her again after three years. Three years except for the time he had passed her by accident in the art museum. Then he had ducked behind a divider until his heart had stopped pounding. Now he could not imagine what she wanted.

  She kept up with him, just off the point of his left shoulder, and neither of them spoke. Sam could see people glance at her as she swept past. Caitlin had a way of moving, a syncopated, chin-up, long-legged stride that originated in the hips, each foot firmly planted, blond hair swinging with each step. She wore tight jeans and a black pullover with the sleeves pushed up. Her eyes were slightly narrowed, and Sam felt himself tensing for the mayhem to follow.

  He shut the door to his office. “Have a seat.”

  She tossed her purse onto a chair. “What was the meaning of the welcoming committee downstairs?”

  “You want to tell me what you’re talking about, or do I have to guess?”

  “Dale Finley, your investigator, whatever he is. He scared the hell out of Ali. He said you were ready to throw her in jail for making a false report. I can understand defense attorneys intimidating a victim, but not you. Not the prosecution.”

  “Hold it right there.” Sam lifted a hand and kept it raised. He would corner Beekie Duran about this, but he couldn’t do it now. “What did he say, precisely, to make you conclude that he intended to frighten Ms. Duncan?”

  “Oh, Jesus, don’t be such a goddamned lawyer.” Caitlin began to pace, and the office seemed to quiver with her energy. Her hair swung around her face when she turned. “Ali wanted to walk out of here, the hell with all of you. Was that what you had in mind? Then you keep her waiting half an hour to give her plenty of time to think about it.”

  “Keep your voice down,” Sam said sharply.

  Caitlin came over to him, furious but in control. “I heard you have no intention of going after the men who attacked her. Is it true?”

  “No. It isn’t. Who told you that?”

  “Someone I know.”

  He leaned a little closer. “I’d like a name, Caitlin.”

  She said nothing, then shrugged. “Martin Cass.”

  Sam frowned. The name was familiar. “I met him at Frank Tolin’s office a few years ago. What’s your connection to Martin Cass?”

  “I’m doing an advertising brochure for him for a big development project. Not his project. Klaus Ruffini’s. Well, isn’t this a coincidence? The same Ruffini that you’re supposed to be prosecuting.”

  “What about Marty Cass?” Sam repeated.

  Caitlin said, “Oh, Marty is generally a self-aggrandizing blow-hard, but he knows everybody on the Beach. Including Klaus. Marty says the city manager persuaded the state attorney not to prosecute. I thought he was full of shit, but now I wonder, after the reception we got downstairs.”

  His mind grasping at the implications of this, Sam couldn’t think of what to say.

  Caitlin misread his hesitation. “It is true. My goodness. Saint Samuel is playing in the dirt with the rest of us.”

  “What are you doing here, Caitlin?”

  “Dale Finley asked me the same thing,” she said.

  “Now I’m asking.”

  She looked at him steadily, then said, “Ali Duncan is my friend.”

  “Your friend got herself into some trouble,” Sam said. “I’m attempting to find out what happened. Whether you believe that or not, I don’t give a damn. If you have something to add, then do it. If not, I’ll talk to Ms. Duncan.”

  Caitlin’s green eyes were blazing. “Okay. You want facts, try these. George Fonseca came to Ali’s apartment just before I arrived. She wouldn’t let him in. He suggested that she’d be smart to take money not to testify. When she said no, he tried to break her door down. He said if she talked about the drugs he’s been dealing, she’d wind up in the Everglades.”

  Sam said, “Did she call the police?”

  “There was no time.”

  “She can call from my office. If Fonseca did what you describe, he committed a felony.”

  Caitlin stared sullenly at him. She obviously hadn’t expected this response.

  Sam said, “Before I talk to Ms. Duncan, it would be helpful to know what you saw at the Apocalypse that night.”

  Abruptly turning away, she paced to the window, arms crossed under her breasts. Her narrow waist was circled by a silver belt. She had aged some, but not much. Still the small, neat jaw, smooth skin, and generous mouth. A nose that tilted upward, which she had once complained was too short.

  “Are you going to call me as a witness?”

  “Not if I don’t have to,” he said.

  “No, I suppose not.”

  She was smirking. Caitlin Dorn had become damnably hard-edged, Sam thought. He asked, “What about the incident at the Apocalypse? Was Alice Duncan assaulted or not?”

  “Ali.”

  “What?”

  “She calls herself Ali. She doesn’t like Alice.”

  “Ali, then.” He was still waiting for an answer.

  Caitlin nodded.

  “You’re certain?”

  “Yes. Yes, she was.” Caitlin exhaled through her teeth. “I said so to the police. Didn’t you read my statement?”

  “All twenty-five words of it. You were there, you confirmed that Ms. Duncan was sexually assaulted. I want to hear it from you. What happened?” Sam sat on the edge of his desk and straightened his suit coat. He put his hands on his thigh.

  Caitlin looked back at him for a second, then walked to the wall where his diplomas and certificates hung, then to the cluttered bookshelves. She pivoted slowly, taking it all in. The boxes stacked in the corner, a coffee stain near the door, a scratched metal cabinet, law books, a heavy desk, a photo of his daughter, another of Dina, framed newspaper clippings of cases he’d won, the two conference chairs, the battered sofa.

  She wore canvas shoes with open toes. Thin straps wound around her ankles. The jeans clung to her slender legs and outlined her derriere. He was aware of the scent of her perfume. It seemed familiar. Her hair gleamed, pale gold.

  She glanced over her shoulder. “I expected a grander office for someone in your exalted position.”

  He said, “I work for the state.”

  Smiling, she faced him fully now, her weight on one hip. He could see a curve of breast at the low neckline of the blouse. Her eyes swept over him.

  He shrugged. “My hair’s going gray. I’ve gained a few pounds. Anything else different?”

  “No. You look … substantial. The ideal prosecutor.”

  “Is that a compliment?”

  “If you like.”

  She walked over to the window, looked closely at it. She fitted the tip of her forefinger into a concavity in the glass. “What was this, a bullet?”

  “A .38. It clipped a chair and ended up in the wall.”

  She smiled, her tongue touching for an instant the lower edge of even white teeth. “Were they aiming at you?”

  “No. I came in on a Monday a couple of years ago and found it. Just another weekend shootout in Overtown.”

  “You can’t get it fixed?”

  “I don’t want it fixed,” he said.

  “A good conversation piece.”

  “It’s to frighten defense attorneys.”

  “Or your witnesses.”

  Then he noticed the diamond on a thin chain that twinkled in the hollow at the base of her throat. She had once said she wasn’t the type to wear diamonds. Maybe Frank Tolin had bought it for her.

  “Why were you at the Apocalypse?” Sam asked, closing in on the subject again.

  Casually she said, “Freelancing for a magazine. Fun on the South Beach party scene. No candid photos of a rape, un
fortunately.”

  “So you still have the negatives?”

  “Yes. I didn’t print them. I didn’t think it would be appropriate if they were published.” She added, “You won’t find much of value.”

  “What happened, Caitlin?”

  “Ali’s outside. Ask her. She’s been waiting long enough.”

  Sam got off the desk and turned one of the chairs toward her. “I’d rather talk to you.”

  She glanced at the chair, then at him. “If you’re not going to call me as a witness, what difference—”

  “You want to help your friend or not?” Sam sat down in the chair facing hers and held his hand toward the other one. “Please.”

  Giving Sam a cool look, she crossed the room, pulled the chair around so it was at more of an angle, then sat down, crossing her legs.

  He said, “Tell me about the place where it happened. Some kind of room off the main party room?”

  “Yes. Upstairs in the VIP room there’s a sort of alcove. It had a couple of chairs and a table with drinks on it, bottles, extra glasses. There’s not much light, only a small sconce on the wall.”

  “Before the incident, did you hear any conversation between Ali and any of the men involved?”

  “Not really. The usual stuff. Kidding around. It was hard to hear anything with the music coming from downstairs.” Caitlin gave him a look. “What do you mean? Was she propositioning anyone? The answer is no.”

  “She wasn’t on Ruffini’s lap? Kissing him?”

  Caitlin let out a breath. “Yes. She shouldn’t have, and she knows it now. I think she was trying to get a reaction from George. I guess she succeeded.”

  Sam asked, “Are they involved?”

  “They used to be. Not anymore.”

  “Did you come with anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Had you been drinking?”

  “I wasn’t drunk.”

  “Caitlin. What had you been drinking, and how much?”

  “Soda and lime. I can’t work and drink at the same time. And no, I wasn’t on anything else.” She laughed, stretching her arms over her head. “I’ve even stopped smoking, aren’t you proud of me?”

  Sam looked at her awhile. She crossed her legs and swung a foot. He said, “What about Ali?”

  “She had champagne. A few glasses. I don’t know how many.”

  “Any drugs?”

  “Sam, she wasn’t wasted.” Caitlin closed her eyes for a second, then said. “She had some coke in the bathroom downstairs. She didn’t say so, but I could tell. This was earlier, around midnight. And she took a pill of some kind just before she came into the VIP room. She told me about that later. She said George gave it to her. That was before I came up. George always has something in his pockets.”

  “When did you go upstairs?” Sam asked.

  “About three o’clock.”

  “When did she go into the alcove with George?”

  “About an hour later. We got to the hospital at a quarter of five.”

  “How far were you standing from where it happened?”

  Caitlin looked around for a reference point. “From that wall to the other. Fifteen feet?”

  “All right. What happened after that?”

  She bit down on her lips, then released them. “I wasn’t paying much attention at first. I was talking to somebody. I had already shot some pictures, a dozen or so. But then I noticed Klaus Ruffini taking Marquis Lamont back there, pushing him along. They were laughing. And then I saw her on the table. And George on top of her. It was dark, but I knew what they were doing. I only saw glimpses, because people were in the way. I didn’t know, at first, that he made her do it. Then he—George—”

  Caitlin glanced up toward the ceiling, taking a breath. “George got off and he held her down while Marquis stood between her legs.”

  “What did you see?”

  “He was moving his hips. It took him thirty seconds. What did I have to see?”

  “Then what happened?” Sam asked quietly.

  “Then Klaus—Klaus turned her over and used a bottle of champagne. Cristal.” She laughed shakily. “How could I have noticed that? But I did. It was unopened. The cork—you know—it’s held in with metal and wire. Ali was screaming, but I thought maybe it was the music, because it couldn’t be real. Not that; not people I knew. And besides, no one was doing anything to stop it.” She laughed, pushed her hair off her forehead, then let her hand fall to her lap.

  “It was real. And I—I couldn’t move. I couldn’t. Like I was made of stone, or dreaming. And then Ali started to throw things, and George told her to get out, and I followed her, and she was on the floor—” Caitlin’s voice broke. “Oh, God. Sam, I keep seeing her like that.” She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. “I hate it. I hate it all.”

  Still slouched in the adjacent chair, Sam ground his teeth together. He listened to the hum of traffic through the window for a while. An ambulance wailed by, heading for the public hospital down the street. Finally he spoke. “I told you about the time I saw the guy in my squad get killed by a sniper in Vietnam. Remember?” When she didn’t respond, he said, “Caitlin?”

  She lifted her head, blinking as if coming out of the dark. Her face was pale.

  “The sniper aimed, and I watched him; then I saw a guy twenty feet away from me drop. I told you.”

  She nodded.

  “Two weeks in the field. I froze. It happens, but I felt bad about it for a long time. I didn’t let it happen again.” He had never told her what he had done in the madness that had exploded later. Had never told anyone.

  He said, “You still taking pictures on the streets? Real life, all that gritty stuff?”

  She cleared her throat, then said, “Yes.”

  “I ran across your name in the paper a few months ago. You had an exhibit at the art museum downtown.”

  “Oh, well. Me and a bunch of other local photographers. You’re in the paper all the time. Samuel Hagen, chief of Major Crimes, quoted again.” She laughed.

  “But you’re doing all right?” he asked.

  “Oh, sure. I’m busy.”

  “That’s good.”

  They were silent for a while. Sam wanted to ask her how it was going with Frank Tolin, but he caught himself. He watched a jet go in and out of a cloud, then vanish past the edge of the window.

  Caitlin asked, “And you? Are you all right? You and Dina. With Matthew gone, I mean. It must have been so awful.”

  “For a while. It’s better now.” Sam said, “I should tell you this. We’re going to talk to Frank this afternoon about a wrongful death suit. In case he mentions it to you. But we don’t expect it to go anywhere. Matthew made his choices, like everybody else.”

  “Oh, Sam. I was such a coward,” she said. “I wanted to call you, come see you, something. I didn’t know how. I wrote you three different letters and tore them all up. Nothing I could say would be enough.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Caitlin had turned toward Sam, and her hand lay on the arm of the chair. Her nails were bare and clean. She still wore a silver Celtic ring with loops of filigree. “Did you know I did Matthew’s composite?”

  “What’s that?”

  “The photos he showed to the agencies. You know. Dressed in various clothes, different looks. But besides that, I took some studio portraits of him. Good ones. They really are. And if you—if his mother—if you want, I could make copies.”

  “No, we’ve got pictures.” Then he added, “Thanks.”

  “I have a show in a gallery on Lincoln Road next month. I was thinking of showing some of his photos. Would you mind?”

  Sam smiled. “Are they nudes?”

  “Well … a few. But they’re so powerful.”

  “I’d rather not, but that’s your business. Matthew did a lot of things I don’t necessarily approve of.”

  “I could tell you about him, Sam. He said you and he didn’t talk to each other a lot. He was a
terrific kid. Well, I’m sure you know that, but he may not have told you much about his life—”

  “Caitlin.” He raised a hand.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Sam stood up. “Let’s go find Ms. Duncan.” Caitlin’s eyes followed him as he crossed the office. He opened the door and waited.

  Her lips compressed. She picked up her purse and walked out.

  He could have blamed Caitlin. The way she used to look at him, that sideways glance just short of provocation. She must have picked up on his troubles with Dina, the way women sense that kind of thing. But Sam would never have touched her as long as she was involved with Frank. She knew that. He had assumed she was trying to needle Frank, to make him jealous. Another reason not to be stupid. But Sam worked late, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, and she knew that, too. He smelled her perfume in the hallway when she left, and his head swam with wanting her.

  When he left Frank’s office it was primarily because he hated the work, but also because of Caitlin Dorn. He ran into her a few times in the next year or so, being friendly, asking her out for coffee, talking about this and that. Then he heard she and Frank split up. A week later he knocked on her door.

  Caitlin opened it wearing a long T-shirt, nothing else. Her eyes widened. He stood there, not saying a damn thing, till she put a hand around his wrist and drew him inside. He took her standing up against the wall, his arms under her thighs, her legs around his waist, her sucking on his tongue, then they were on the floor and he was screwing her there, too, slamming into her, everything sticky and wet. He could have fucked her in her mouth, up the ass, between her breasts, all of which, and more, he had eventually done. Her apartment had smelled of cigarettes, dirty laundry, and a cat box. There were dishes in the sink and photographs jumbled everywhere. The breeze had belled the curtains inward and cooled the sweat and sex on their bodies where they lay panting on the floor.

  Just past five o’clock, the state attorney stood by his bookcase, making what appeared to be piano chords with his right hand on one of the shelves. Glancing at his fingers, he rubbed them lightly, producing dust that swirled downward, visible against the deep blue of his suit.

  Sam had just explained why arrest warrants should be issued in the Duncan case.

  “Well. I’d been told there was nothing to it,” Mora said.