Blood Relations Page 36

  The line went dead.

  Juan Casares stared at the telephone, then said softly, “Christ Almighty.”

  “He’s digging his grave with his mouth,” Lydia said.

  “Hey, I heard something really outrageous about Klaus Ruffini,” McGee said. “He made Marty Cass kiss his behind. I’m not lying. He pulled down his pants and Marty Cass kissed his butt.”

  “Why?” Lydia laughed.

  “Cass wanted him to buy some property, is what I heard.”

  “I didn’t know the market was that bad.”

  Sam pulled the tape out of the recorder on his credenza. He looked at McGee. “Where’d you hear about it?”

  “Reporter from the New Times told me.” Hands in his pockets, Joe McGee leaned against the door frame. “They’re working on an investigation of the politicos in Miami Beach, Hal Delucca in particular. Ruffini’s name came up. They wanted to ask us some questions.”

  Sam shook his head. “Not yet.” He unlocked a drawer in his desk and dropped the tape inside.

  “That’s what I told him. Delucca’s saying he hardly knows Ruffini.”

  “Oh, really? Two months ago he would’ve puckered up for him.”

  Also locked in Sam’s desk were prints of the photographs Caitlin Dorn had taken four years ago at the opening of Claudia Otero’s boutique. Hal Delucca had been present, smiling into the camera alongside Marty Cass. Cass, the man who knew—or claimed to know—everything happening on South Beach. Detective Gene Ryabin wanted to question him, see what he could shake loose about the state attorney and Klaus Ruffini.

  And then Sam would decide what, if anything, to say to Eddie Mora.

  He had just picked up his papers again when the phone buzzed. Gloria Potter’s voice came on the line. “Sam? I’m so sorry to break in again, but we’ve got a situation in the hall. Idelfonso García is asking to see you.”

  “What in hell?” The others looked at him. Sam put a hand over the phone and said, “Adela Ramos’s brother is outside.”

  “Who’s that?” Lydia asked.

  Joe McGee started to explain it. The Luis Balmaseda case, the little boy thrown from the window.

  “The receptionist is about to call security.” Gloria was agitated.

  “Look. Tell García to go up to the fourth floor and ask for Victoria Duran. She seems to have taken a personal interest.”

  “Sam, no! He says he’s done something terrible, and he wants to talk to you before they take him to jail.”

  They did take him to jail. Two uniformed Metro-Dade officers arrived to place Idelfonso García under arrest for first-degree murder. They took him away in handcuffs, and Sam walked with them across the street.

  García had nodded deferentially when Sam came to the small waiting area outside Major Crimes. He rose from the chrome-legged chair and said, “Now you can make another trial, Mr. Hagen, with me. I just killed Luis Balmaseda.”

  After the meaning of this hit him, Sam glanced over his shoulder and told someone to call security. People had gathered, staring, “Mr. García, come with me.” He beckoned to Juan Casares. “Keep us company, Juan.”

  They went into the conference room to wait. Sam told García to extend his arms. He patted him down for weapons, found nothing, then told him to have a seat at the table. García sat. He was trembling slightly, and kept clearing his throat. He said, “‘Ojo por ojo, diente por diente.’ Do you know what that is?”

  The lawyers stood on either side of him. Casares said, “It means ‘an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.’”

  “Mr. Hagen, I want to tell you what I did.”

  “No. I’m not your attorney,” Sam said. “I can’t help you.”

  “But I came to talk to you, to explain.”

  Casares said quietly, “Advise him of his rights, Sam.”

  “Mr. García, listen to me. You will be taken into custody. You don’t have to talk to us, you don’t have to talk to the police, and if you—”

  “I have to explain.” García turned in his chair.

  Sam held up a hand. “If you do say anything, whatever you say could be used against you as evidence. If you want an attorney, one will be provided. These are your rights. Do you understand them?”

  “Yes.” He laughed. “I have a lot of rights. That’s good.”

  Sam exchanged a look with Juan Casares. The man could be out of his mind. He could be telling the truth. Or Balmaseda might be injured but still alive.

  Casares asked, “What happened, Mr. García?”

  He had thrown Luis Balmaseda out an eighth-floor window. Two floors higher than Carlito Ramos had dropped, but García said it was the only place he could find for his purposes. He had tied Balmaseda’s hands and forced him up the stairs at knifepoint. Didn’t want to kill him. Didn’t want to knock him out. Wanted him to know what was coming for him, and why.

  “It’s not your fault, Mr. Hagen, that the jury let him go. I was so angry because nothing, nothing happened to Luis, but it wasn’t your fault. They couldn’t hear the confession, I understand this. And I understand the rule about only one trial. You told me about the law, but I said to myself, where’s the law for Adela? For Carlito?”

  Idelfonso García held up his hands, the skin leathery and dark. He had held Balmaseda over the window edge and told him, just before he let him go, to pray to God for mercy.

  Looking down on the twisted body in the alley, García thought for a while about throwing himself over, too, but that was cowardly. Besides, he didn’t want his blood mixed with the blood of a murderer. He knew that sooner or later the police would come for him. And so here he was, to give himself up. To explain. And to absolve Samuel Hagen, for truly, Luis Balmaseda had brought this on himself.

  It was past six o’clock when Sam remembered Caitlin. Cursing under his breath, he pulled into his driveway and hit the button for the garage door. As it rolled up, he dialed her number on his car phone. No answer.

  He fixed himself a drink and went upstairs to change clothes. Passing Melanie’s door he heard the thud of music. He knocked.

  When her face appeared at the crack, he said, “You want some dinner? How about we order some pizza?”

  “I already ate.” He hair was uncombed, falling into her eyes, and her body was lost in a pair of overalls and a baggy shirt.

  He said, “Can I come in for a minute?”

  After a second or two, she nodded. He had to step over a pile of clothes to get to the chair. A small room, made more so by things strewn, dropped, stacked, or pinned to walls. One wall was painted pungent green. He didn’t know when that had happened. A month ago, or less, her room had been reasonably neat.

  “You mind turning the music down?”

  Melanie lowered the volume, then stood in the middle of her room with her arms crossed. Sam felt like he was about to be interrogated. He moved some magazines and set his drink on a corner of her desk. “This was your last week of school. How’d the exams go?”

  She shrugged. “I passed everything.”

  “That’s good.” Leaning his forearms on his thighs, he looked around the room. “What are your plans for this summer?” he asked.

  “Hang out. I don’t know.”

  “Maybe you’d like to go somewhere. A vacation. The two of us.”

  “Where?”

  “Well … we could go fishing.”

  She stared at him.

  “How about Disney World?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No.” He took a sip of his drink. “What would you like to do?”

  “I don’t know.” Tossing her hair back, she sat on the edge of her waterbed and bobbed up and down before settling. They looked at each other a minute.

  Sam said, “We haven’t seen much of each other lately. I’m sorry about that.” He put his glass on the desk. He turned back to her and said, “Melanie, I love you. If I haven’t told you that in a while, I should have.”

  She looked at him steadily. “Are you and mom gettin
g a divorce?”

  He took a while to answer. “Probably.”

  Her expression told him this news came as no surprise. “Because you had an affair?”

  “Did she tell you that?”

  “No. I heard you and her fighting about it.”

  After a moment, he said, “I don’t know what’s going to happen. Your mother and I will figure it out. I don’t want you to worry, okay? You won’t have to leave your school, anything like that.”

  “She talked about moving to Tarpon Springs. I don’t want to.”

  “You don’t have to,” he said. “Whatever you want, I promise.”

  Melanie started to cry.

  Sam got up and stood beside her and awkwardly patted her back, then bent to kiss her cheek. She leaned against him and sobbed. He kissed her again, then said, “Come on, now. Where’s my big girl?”

  “Why is Mom the only one who gets to cry?” she wailed.

  “Oh, honey. You can, too.” He sat down on the edge of the waterbed and hugged her tightly.

  She wiped her eyes on a corner of the sheet and said she was okay. Music was still playing on the stereo, something else now. Sam asked, “Since when do you like Led Zeppelin?”

  Her voice was thick. “It’s the Rolling Stones.”

  “Uh-uh. That’s definitely Led Zeppelin. ‘You Shook Me.’ I used to know every cut on this album.”

  She got up to check. “You’re right. This was Matthew’s CD. I borrow them when Mom’s not here. She doesn’t like me to touch his stuff.”

  “Want me to talk to her?”

  “She’ll just say no.”

  “Buy your own, then,” he said.

  “I don’t have any money.”

  “What do they cost?”

  Melanie gave him a disbelieving look. “You don’t even know? About fifteen dollars.”

  He leaned back a little to reach his wallet. He found three twenties in it. “Here. If you go to the mall this weekend you can buy four of them.”

  Melanie put her arm over his shoulder. “Dad. It’s okay.”

  He nodded, then put the money back. “All right. So. No pizza, huh?”

  “I’m on a diet,” she said.

  “Well, maybe I won’t have any, either,” he said.

  She sat beside him again. “We could get a movie.”

  He looked at her. “You want a movie?”

  “Sure.”

  “All right. We could do that.”

  Sam tried to call Caitlin again about ten-thirty, but her friend, the gallery owner, said she was out. He had to stop himself from asking where. He might have gone to find her.

  Downstairs in the silent kitchen he fixed another drink, took a couple of aspirins, then topped off his glass with more bourbon. If he went to bed now, he wouldn’t sleep. In the family room he watched the last of a police drama on television. Music was coming faintly from upstairs. Melanie working her way through her brother’s CD collection.

  A wrong thing to do, giving a kid money out of the blue. Sam didn’t know what Melanie needed. If his ability as a lawyer were measured by his parenting skills, he would have been disbarred a long time ago. But he loved her. She had to know that. He’d just told her, and he’d tell her every damned day if that’s what it took to keep her safe. To make her care if she lived or died.

  Sipping his drink on the sofa, where he lay prone, Sam didn’t know what he’d tell her if she asked him. What’s the point? Would somebody please just tell me what the fucking point is? Matthew’s question. He’d asked it as if he’d just figured out the entire world was crazy. Sam remembered giving him some inane response. Well, when you grow up, you’ll find out the fucking point is not to ride around with your friends till three in the morning—

  Sam wondered what he would do if someone murdered Melanie, and then a jackass prosecutor made a bad call and the guy was out walking the street. He might use his own hands to even up the score, as Idelfonso García had done. If García didn’t wind up in the state hospital, he might get twenty years, be out in ten to twelve. Maybe he had saved Adela’s life. Listening to García talk, Sam had wanted to pat the man on the back, not send him up to Raiford. What García should have done was push Balmaseda over the edge, but keep his mouth shut. Better still, choose some other method. Giving Balmaseda what he’d given Carlito was too obvious. Shoot the son of a bitch with a silenced .45. That had done the job with Charlie Sullivan.

  In fact, Sullivan’s death had been as fitting as Luis Balmaseda’s. One bullet in his heart, another to take his pretty face off. Payback for what he’d done to Matthew. For putting his hands on him. For using him.

  Sam was holding his drink on his stomach. He relaxed his grip on the glass, then took another sip.

  Fitting that George Fonseca had thrown up blood and shit his pants before he died. Maybe he’d been the one to show Matthew how to cook smack in a spoon before injecting it. No big deal. Just a fad, all the models are into it.

  Laughing a little, Sam lifted his glass. “Here’s to you, Detective. You were right, by God. Everything balances. George earned what he got. So did Charlie Sullivan. The accounts are always balanced in the end.”

  Sam finished his drink, then suddenly clutched at the sofa as the room began to swing around. “Oh, Jesus.” He sat up, staring blankly ahead of him.

  Then he groaned aloud and thrust his glass toward the end table. It hit the edge and overturned. Taking several deep breaths, Sam walked into the kitchen and picked up the telephone, dialed a number. Hit the wrong button. Tried again.

  Nicholas Pondakos answered on the sixth ring.

  “Nick, it’s Sam. I thought you might still be up.”

  “I am now. What do you want?”

  From the icy tone, Sam knew that Dina had already told her family what he had done. He said, “I assume Dina’s staying at her father’s house?”

  “Yeah. She always stays over there.”

  Sam closed his eyes and straight-armed the wall by the telephone. “Nick, I want to ask you something.”

  “No, don’t get me involved between the two of you. I’m going to hang up before I say something rude.”

  “Wait. She’s your sister, but I’ve got no quarrel with you, Nick. All right?” He could imagine Nick Pondakos, big arms and beer gut, trying to decide whether to slam the phone down or tell Sam Hagen to go screw himself.

  “All right, but make it fast. I have to get up in the morning.”

  “Last time Dina flew up there—you remember? The third weekend of May. She caught a flight back from Tampa to Miami. What day was that?” For a minute Sam thought the connection had been broken. “Nick?”

  “What day? Sunday. Right?”

  Sam nodded, breathing again. “Did you take her to the airport on Sunday?”

  “Yeah. After church we had lunch someplace, then I drove her to Tampa. What are you asking me this for?”

  “It’s—just something I was wondering about.”

  “You checking up on her? Let me tell you something, pal. She’s not the one that needs checking up on.”

  “Okay. Good night, Nick.”

  “You guys have been married a long time. I can understand a little … you know, now and then, but that doesn’t mean it’s over. I like you a lot, Sam, but if you walk out on my sister, you can rot in hell, as far as I’m concerned.”

  There was a sharp click in his ear. Sam hung up the telephone, then let himself down carefully onto a stool at the kitchen counter, sucking in breath till his heart went back to a normal speed.

  He felt as if he himself had been acquitted. But not innocent. And not falsely accused.

  chapter twenty-nine

  It was the smell that tenants of the Delancy Apartments first noticed, the vaguely sweet, heavy smell that by Sunday morning, when they went into the hall to pick up their newspapers, could not be dismissed as someone’s garbage or a dead mouse in the fuse box.

  Detective Gene Ryabin, roused from a pleasant sleep with his wife, had gone
to bed expecting French toast and freshly ground Jamaican coffee. Instead, he drank from a Dunkin’ Donuts carryout cup while Miami Beach officers roped off the crime scene with yellow tape, and the technicians began the gruesome task of collecting evidence and photographing Martin Cass’s bloated body. The air conditioning was on, which had slowed decomposition a little; Ryabin’s partner, arriving first, had turned the fan to exhaust.

  Now, Lopez had his fingers clamped on his nose. “Forget about replacing the carpet. They’re gonna have to replace the fuckin’ floor. He’s soakin’ into the wood.”

  While officers searched the three-room apartment, Gene Ryabin walked around, then stood quietly looking at the body. The medical examiner had been called; he would arrive shortly.

  The paramedics, who had known when they entered the building that it was much too late, had found the door unlocked. Martin Cass lay sprawled fully dressed on his back beside the dining table.

  The table apparently doubled as a desk, and there were two glasses on it, one containing a dark liquid, lighter and more diluted at the top. Ryabin guessed Coca-Cola, as there was an opened half-empty liter in the refrigerator. The other glass had tipped over, wetting papers and splashing onto the typewriter. Cass had probably sipped it as he referred to a list of apartment buildings on a computer printout, which now lay askew on the table. A calculator was upside down on the carpet near Cass’s left leg, and the chair was overturned.

  Looking at all this, Ryabin thought that perhaps the visitor had been a potential buyer or seller of real estate, or an existing client of Cass’s. He remembered the business card taped to the front door: Martin Cass, Tropic Realty and Investments. He and his visitor had sat at the table discussing investments and drinking a Coke, but the visitor hadn’t touched his glass. Then Marty Cass had died.

  Across the room talk radio played at low volume—a preacher talking about secular humanism, which leads inevitably to crime, abortions, and homosexuality. Ryabin went over to the cheap, wood-finish wall unit to look at the channel. This wasn’t a religious station, except for Sunday, eleven to noon. But then, Marty Cass never struck Ryabin as a religious man. With the cap of his pen, Ryabin pushed the button to turn off the stereo.