Blood Relations Page 3

  The office had lurched on pretty much as usual, though last year’s dip in the crime rate had put Edward Mora on the cover of Newsweek: “Young Hispanics Making a Difference.” Sam knew that Eddie respected his work in Major Crimes. On a personal level, he didn’t know what Eddie thought, and didn’t care.

  Mora tossed the mirror into a drawer and stood by his desk, his fingers tapping lightly on its surface. He kept a neat office. Diplomas and certificates marched across one wall. Papers were in order. The furniture was new and modern, with a long leather sofa facing the windows and two chairs at his desk. Sam sat in one of them.

  “Vicki gave you the facts on this sexual battery thing.”

  “Briefly. She didn’t seem to think it was much of a case.”

  “It isn’t. Or wouldn’t be, except for the people involved.” Mora gave a short laugh. “Every time we get a celebrity—especially movie actors—here come the reporters, busily misreporting.”

  Sam said, “You’re referring to Marquis Lamont?”

  “Played for the Giants,” Mora said, showing he knew football. “Wide receiver.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Was he any good?”

  “Pretty good as a rookie, maybe the first two seasons. I think they would have let him go, but his knee went out and saved them the trouble. He was better at Florida State.” Sam added, “I haven’t seen his movies.”

  Mora shook his head. “What passes for celebrity on Miami Beach amazes me.”

  Sam waited for Eddie Mora to get to the point.

  The state attorney sat on the edge of his desk. “First, a summary of what happened over there. Late last Thursday night a young lady by the name of Alice Duncan went to a nightclub called the Apocalypse at the invitation of a George Fonseca, who may have a managerial position there, although that point is somewhat unclear. In any event, he does have—or used to have—a sexual relationship with the alleged victim. According to Miss Duncan, they went to a room in the club where a private party was being held. During the course of the party, Fonseca forcibly raped her, then restrained her while Marquis Lamont did so. She states that Ruffini sodomized her with the neck of a champagne bottle. Most of the people at the scene didn’t see it, or say they didn’t. Given the general level of intoxication in that room, I wouldn’t put much credence in what any of them have to say.” A smile slowly formed on Eddie Mora’s lips.

  “Can you imagine the parade of characters coming before the court? The jury would think they were watching a Fellini film. And the girl—is she credible? The best defense attorneys in Miami will be baying for blood. And assuming we survived a motion to dismiss and went to trial, what would a jury do with a defendant like Lamont?”

  Sam said, “I’m surprised the Miami Beach P.D. has gone this far with it.”

  “They wouldn’t have, but the doctor at the Rape Treatment Center called it in, and a detective went over.”

  “Was the girl injured?”

  “Not badly. Some abrasions from the metal wrapping on the neck of the bottle. They have to report a rape when the victim is under eighteen.”

  “How far under eighteen?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Sam swiveled the chair, following Mora, who had started to pace around the room. A habit of his. The man couldn’t sit still. Sam said, “Vicky alluded to some problem the Beach police have with publicity.”

  “Correct. In the past they’ve been accused, as you know, of not filing charges against people with influence. The new chief wants to put an end to that perception. I admire the man. If I can help him, I’ll do it.” Mora stopped walking. “You want to know why I don’t send this case through routine pre-file downstairs and let them mark it ‘no action.’”

  “It crossed my mind,” Sam said.

  Mora stuck his hands in his pockets and wandered over to the windows. The vertical blinds were tilted open. Eddie had the same view Sam did, only two stories higher: trees, white stucco houses and apartments, the expressway arching over them, then the downtown skyscrapers a couple of miles away, silvery against a blue sky. The windows needed cleaning up here, too.

  “Yesterday I was in a meeting, and I got an urgent message to call the city manager of Miami Beach. Fine. So I excused myself and called Hal Delucca at his office. Delucca told me that one of his—his—most important businessmen was being falsely accused of rape and that a film studio was threatening to pull out of a deal to shoot a movie on South Beach. Delucca said the girl was making an obvious attempt at a shakedown. He said she was coming on to Marquis Lamont when she danced with him. Then she offered to sleep with Klaus Ruffini in exchange for a modeling job, and there are witnesses to say so. Delucca wanted me to tell the police to back off. Well, of course I couldn’t do that, and I told him I was insulted at the suggestion.” Mora straightened one of the vertical blinds at his window.

  He turned around. “This puts me in a touchy position, Sam. Do I file this case to prove Delucca has no influence over me? Or do I let it go and have it appear that he does? That telephone call wasn’t only between me and Hal Delucca. Other people in his office must have known what he was doing. He may have made promises to the men involved in this incident.”

  Even as Sam had grown increasingly impatient, listening to the details of a tawdry case that would never be filed, much less go to trial, he had become fascinated by the spectacle of Edward J. Mora practically hyperventilating because a bozo like Hal Delucca had asked him for a favor.

  “What is it you want, Eddie?”

  “I want to be able to tell the press—tell anyone who asks—that we looked into it. That we care about this young woman and so forth, but that given the lack of concrete evidence, we decline to prosecute. I can’t handle this myself, you understand that. Whenever I become involved with a case, it makes a statement, and I can’t make a statement on this. I didn’t immediately consider you because, well, I’ve always felt a distance between us. You wanted this job. The governor gave it to me.

  Sam made a little shrug. “I didn’t hold it against you.”

  “I know.” Eddie Mora paced back to the window. “You could have caused me some serious grief, but you didn’t. That’s why you’re here now. Why I trust you. You’re not flamboyant, but you get the job done. And your integrity is unquestioned. People recognize that. If Hagen says a case is trash, it is.” From across the room Eddie said, “I want you to handle this case. Do whatever you think is right.”

  “I don’t want it,” Sam said. “Let it go through the system, Eddie. Pre-file can notify the girl to come in, but ten to one, she won’t show up. It’ll wash out.”

  “No. I want a senior prosecutor on this. I want you, Sam.”

  Absently, Sam massaged the joint in his thumb. There was some pain there occasionally. Minor arthritis, his wife would say, dismissing it.

  “Eddie—you know, this doesn’t seem like that big a deal.”

  Mora looked at him a few moments, then said, “All right, I’m going to tell you what the deal is, but what I say doesn’t leave this office.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m on the short list to run on the Republican ticket this fall.”

  It took Sam a while to absorb that. “As vice president.”

  “Correct.”

  “Jesus.”

  “That’s what I said.” Mora smiled. “Who me? The first Hispanic on the ticket. And the youngest man ever. How about that? I’d have to resign from this job, though, to give it my best shot. I can’t do both.”

  Slowly at first, then with a sudden rush of understanding that took his breath, Sam knew where this conversation was going. He gripped the arms of the chair to keep himself steady.

  Mora said, “I’ve been told my name will be on top, but anything could happen.” Smiling, he lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “So. There’s the situation, Sam. Even small things can be a problem.”

  “And you want my help.”

  “I would be grateful, yes.”

  Three
years ago, when Edward Mora, as a political convenience, had been given this position, a man well under forty, with his easy smiles and expensive suits, a man not even from Florida, who had not tried one case in a state court, Sam had kept his mouth shut. He had gone along. He had forced himself not to think about how much he had wanted this job. If he had let himself dwell on the years that stretched out ahead of him—most state attorneys in Miami stayed in office until they retired or dropped dead—he might have come close to despair. Samuel Hagen, the trustworthy plodder, not known for his flamboyance …

  He kept his expression neutral, but the emotions slammed through his body. He knew then how much he disliked Eddie Mora, had always disliked him.

  Mora was smiling slightly, waiting for an answer.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Sam said.

  “Good.” Mora rose from the chair. “You know, Sam, I feel I ought to apologize, pushing this on you.”

  Standing up, Sam looked at him curiously. “Why?”

  “Well … South Beach. The modeling crowd. It’s got to be hard for you, so soon after your son’s death. Such a loss for you and Dina.” The quiet tone was meant to convey sincerity. “Under the circumstances I’m doubly appreciative. I want you to know that.” He took a hand out of his pocket long enough to grip Sam’s shoulder.

  “It’s not a problem, Eddie.”

  “You sure? Tell me.” Speaking in nearly a whisper now. The brows knitting.

  “I said it’s not a problem.”

  Sam shut the door when he left, then stood there for a moment staring into its slick, painted surface. It had been weeks since anyone outside the family had brought that up. Matthew Hagen. Only nineteen years old. Such a good-looking kid, too. A model. Got drunk at a nightclub and crashed his motorcycle on the causeway at four in the morning. And his father a top prosecutor with the state attorney’s office. What a shame. After eight months, Sam was getting damned tired of polite, phony expressions of sympathy.

  He wondered how long it would be till someone else said how fucking sorry they were for his loss. And if there would come a time when he could think about his son and not want to smash the nearest thing at hand.

  chapter three

  Fingertips moving quickly over the damp earth, Dina Hagen scraped together the leaves and twigs, then tossed them into a brown paper grocery sack. She nudged the piece of cardboard she’d been kneeling on farther along the walkway. Herringbone bricks bordered the screened terrace, leading across the thick Bermuda grass to the redwood gazebo where she had hung her orchids and staghorn fern. She had planted a low hedge of ixora as a border—a mistake, for the plants were far too uncontrolled. It would take some effort to trim them back.

  The clippers fell into a steady rhythm, a counterpoint to the chk-chk-chk of a sprinkler over the wooden fence that circled the garden. The smell of wet, rich earth and blooming gardenia floated in the still air.

  Of course one did not have a garden behind a house in the flat, monotonous suburbs southwest of Miami; one had a backyard. But this was a garden, designed with an eye to color and shape and to the dry or rainy seasons as well, so that the yellow tabebuia would flower in one corner while the red bottlebrush stood dormant in another. Just after Dina and Sam and the children had moved in, her brother Nicholas, who owned a plant nursery north of Tampa, had driven three hundred miles with a truckful of soil and fertilizer and pots of flowers, shrubs, and palm trees, all verdant and shining. Nick had installed a sprinkler system and hidden lights on timers, and it was all perfect.

  Then two years later the hurricane had blown through, leaving everything smashed and ruined; even the tile roof had been ripped off the house in a great groan and cry, like a limb torn from a body. Nick had returned the next spring with more plants. The garden had been replanted exactly as it had been before—better than before—and the house had been rebuilt.

  Sitting back on her heels, Dina caught a glimpse of a face at the kitchen window. Her daughter, watching her. Melanie had shouted from the terrace awhile ago to say she had a phone call, and Dina, feeling invaded, had snapped at her, then apologized. Now the face disappeared, and Dina moved along the walkway. Her knees ached a little, but she paid no mind to that. From behind her she heard the laughter of the teenager next door, a shriek, then a splash as though someone had gone into the pool. The boy’s high, clear voice pierced her with a stab of despair so acute it was almost physical.

  Taking a few deep breaths, Dina trimmed a scraggly branch down to the proper level. A cluster of blood-red blossoms dropped into her hand. For a while now, she had not taken her pills. They dulled the pain but made her sleep too much, and she couldn’t think clearly.

  She moved the cardboard and knelt again. She wore loose cotton pants. Her wide-brimmed hat lay across the yard on a step of the gazebo; the sun had gone behind the black olive trees on the neighbors’ property. There was time for this today because she’d skipped her doctor’s appointment. She had driven by his office in that ugly, square, glass-walled building without even slowing her car. The dread she had felt, thinking of going inside, had changed to giddy exhilaration as the building shrank in her rearview mirror. The last four sessions Dr. Berman had gone probing into her past, as if there he might find some clue to explain why she grieved so. She had wanted to scream at him. You idiot, this is not in my past. It is here, now. Always with me. He was poking for faults and weaknesses, as if the fault, once isolated, could be fixed. But is grief a fault? He had given an answer so infuriatingly irrelevant that she had quite forgotten it. She finally understood that he was leading her to his own conclusion: Dina Hagen was weak. Weak and self-indulgent.

  Sam had sent her to this doctor hoping it would help. For months Sam had watched her, humored her, treated her like a sick child. Sometimes his patience would fray, then he would go out and run until it was too dark to see, or work out on his weight machine—clank, clank, clank—until he could hardly stand up.

  His way was to bear it. Be strong. He was such a master, Sam was, at burying things and pouring concrete into the grave, then piling boulders on top and turning his back. But Dina could not do it, and nothing, nothing had dulled her pain. It was too much to bear.

  Dragging the bag along, Dina moved slowly toward the gazebo. She tucked a tendril of hair into the knot at the nape of her neck, then blotted her face on her sleeve. The shirt was one of Sam’s, tied at her waist, the scent of his body still in the fabric. He didn’t wear cologne, so it was only Sam that she smelled. Lie in the same bed with a man for half your life, and you know everything about him: his scent, his voice, the feel of his body, his moods, his thoughts. His infidelity. Three years ago he had been unfaithful. By the time Dina had been sure enough to accuse him, Sam said it was over. He had refused to name this woman, though Dina suspected it must have been one of the lawyers at his office. Dina had seen them at holiday parties. Pretty women, with their white teeth and lustrous hair and narrow waists, doting on Sam Hagen. Young spiders, catching men that age, a trade of youth for power.

  After his apology for hurting her, Sam would not speak of it again, as if such things could be forgotten. Then the troubles with Matthew had grown worse. Sam became so angry, so often, that he must have been relieved when Matthew left home, though he would not admit it. Sam had taken his death better than any of them, but he couldn’t pretend it had left him unaffected. Sometimes she could see the utter emptiness on his face, and it frightened her because she didn’t know what to do.

  He had not divorced her, but he had left her in other ways. When he reached out for her in bed, she could have been anyone. Their lovemaking was performed joylessly, in silence. She felt old; betrayed. He was her husband, and he had abandoned her in his heart.

  Where had all this begun? Dina was certain that each terrible event had a cause; nothing was random. Dina had once flown at Sam, striking him. It had been his sin that brought this down upon them. His adultery, ripping like a storm through their life, tearing it apart.

&
nbsp; “Momma!” Her daughter’s thin voice came across the yard from the terrace.

  Dina closed her eyes, hoping that Melanie would just go back inside. Instead, the voice came again. “What?” Dina called back.

  “Dad’s home, and dinner’s ready.”

  She waved a hand. “You two go ahead.”

  Melanie was fourteen and overly sensitive. Dina often had to force herself to be kind to her, although there was no reason not to be kind. Melanie was sweet; she was compliant. She kept her room clean, and her grades in school were average. She was not pretty, but neither was she plain. From time to time, Dina felt a wave of pity for her daughter. It was as if she had unwittingly poured everything she had into her firstborn, leaving so little for the second. Melanie was a shadow of her brother. Matthew had been … beautiful. There was no other word.

  Perhaps this was the fault. Dina knew the old warning. If you are proud, if you say your child is beautiful, you make the gods jealous, and they will take him out of spite. Matthew had certainly not been perfect. He had been demanding and hurtful. He had suffered and had caused those around him to suffer, and eventually he had been destroyed. But she did love him. Oh, God. She had loved him more.

  Was it her own pride, then? Had she caused this? Dina squeezed her eyes shut. A cry caught in her throat. The pain was like a thorny stem dragged over bleeding wounds, tearing away new bits of flesh. She dropped the clippers and braced a hand on the brick walkway.

  When she opened her eyes the sun was a red-orange flame in the trees. She looked down and saw she had clutched the cross around her neck. It was her grandmother Sevasti’s Orthodox cross. Dina had seen it in a drawer two weeks ago. Today she had put it on as a talisman, a last resort. For Sevasti’s courage.

  Her grandmother had come to America in 1921 from a family of ethnic Greeks with a farm outside Constantinople—now Istanbul. At sixteen, Sevasti had seen her father shot dead and her mother raped by a Turkish soldier, then bayonetted. She hid in the barn, waiting with her father’s ax. The soldier pushed open the door and stepped into the darkness … then she split his skull. She ran for three days, starving and hiding, and finally crossed over to Greece on a fishing boat. She begged money from relatives for passage to America, not knowing what she would do when she arrived. On the ship she met a young man, Stavros Pondakos. By the time the ship docked in New York they were married. She went south with him to Tarpon Springs, a Greek sponge-fishing community on the west coast of Florida, where he had already secured work on a dive boat. They lived a long time, and had seven children.