Blood Relations Page 37

  He returned to the body. With a slight tremor of disgust, Ryabin took a deep breath before squatting down for a closer look. The flesh of Cass’s right hand was split and oozing. The hand lay palm up, and there appeared to be a cut on the thumb and another wound dead center, though it was difficult to tell, with the hand so grotesquely swollen. Some blood, not much, had flowed out onto the beige carpet. The hand and arm had turned dark, putrefaction having set in. Cass’s blue silk shirt was already soaked, mostly toward the back, which pressed against the floor. His neck, cheeks, and facial features had also turned dark.

  Nestor Lopez stood by the table. “That looks like a stab wound to me.”

  A uniformed officer said, “You ask me, it’s a bullet hole.”

  “No, it’s not round enough. It’s a cut. A defensive wound. I say he was stabbed to death.”

  “Where?”

  “The back. It has to be in his back.”

  “Well, if that’s a defensive wound, where’s the wounds on his left hand? You don’t defend yourself with just one hand.”

  “What it shows is, the assailant was left-handed, attacking from Cass’s right side.”

  Four other officers had gathered around. Ryabin took his pen from his shirt pocket. Technically, the body wasn’t supposed to be touched until the medical examiner arrived, but Ryabin pressed the pen into the carpet, then eased it under the back of Cass’s right hand. He raised it an inch, then another. Rigor mortis had abated, and the limb was flaccid. Finally Ryabin made a murmur of discovery. As he had thought, the hole went completely through. The thumb dangled. It had been almost completely severed. Ryabin carefully lowered the hand.

  Lopez said, “I told you so.”

  “Give me a paper towel,” Ryabin said. Someone did so, and he wrapped the pen to throw away. A cheap pen; he would not have sacrificed his Waterman.

  One of the officers wondered if Cass had bled to death.

  Another said, “From his hand? No way. There’s not that much blood under there.”

  “I’m telling you, he was stabbed in the back. Look. He’s got blood coming out.”

  “No, he had to be shot. Look at the carpet. There’s blood spatter. You don’t get spatter from a knife.”

  “You can.”

  “I still say he was shot.”

  “The neighbors I talked to didn’t hear a gun.”

  “Maybe he got shot, then stabbed.”

  “That don’t make sense. Who carries a knife and a gun around?”

  “A lot of people. I arrested a guy yesterday had two butterfly knives, a Bowie strapped to his leg, and a twenty-two in his pocket.”

  Leaving them to speculate, Ryabin went into Cass’s bedroom and put on a pair of cotton gloves. He planned to go through Cass’s personal papers until the medical examiner arrived. He had considered calling Sam Hagen, but another man, the assistant state attorney on duty for homicides today, whoever that might be, had already been notified. And so far, despite the intriguing connection between Marty Cass and Klaus Ruffini, this death seemed to have no connection to any of Sam Hagen’s current prosecutions.

  Ten minutes later, as the assistant M.E. was taking his initial photographs of the scene, Gene Ryabin was working his way through four legal-size file drawers and a brown accordion folder in Cass’s bedroom. He had opened the window and turned on the ceiling fan to reduce the odor, although the bedroom had its own aroma of stale sheets and unwashed clothing. The accordion folder, which had been kept on a nightstand, held a collection of full-color erotic photographs, alphabetized and cross-indexed by subject matter: Anal Sex; Autoeroticism; Bears; Bondage; Breasts—Ryabin lingered a bit over the folder, then turned his attention to the file cabinet in the corner. The contents, largely financial, confirmed what he already suspected about Martin Cass: a man whose net worth existed at some receding point in the future. Recent letters to creditors, neatly typed, alternately pleading and indignant, made assurances of payment. Soon. Within the month. I am in anticipation of a sum of money within the month that will liquidate this debt.

  Returning the letters to their folders, Ryabin ventured deeper into Marty Cass’s files. The second drawer contained other personal matters: medical, dental, a pending divorce from Uta Ernst. Ryabin recalled that Cass’s wife had been one of Charlie Sullivan’s toys. It was indeed odd, he thought, that the contents of the folders were in such disarray, when the erotica in the accordion file had been a model of organization. Some of the folders were even in the wrong order: Car Insurance followed a folder marked Education.

  The third drawer was labeled Grand Caribe, and inside were brochures, floor plans, correspondence and assorted papers. Ryabin closed the drawer after taking a cursory mental inventory. The bottom drawer, titled Real Estate, Personal contained copies of legal documents related to property in which Cass had held an interest. Ryabin noted that Cass’s residence was not a rental apartment, but a unit in a condominium. There were deeds to property which Cass had purchased, then sold, all listed alphabetically. Misfiled between Morton Towers and Oceanside was a familiar name, the Englander Apartments. Ryabin pulled out the folder. His own sister-in-law, Rivka Levitsky, had once owned that building, the first property she had purchased as a new American citizen. At her death in the fire, it had gone to Anna, who hadn’t wanted to keep it—a sad memory. She had listed the property with Marty Cass, and Frank Tolin had eventually bought it.

  Puzzled, Ryabin wondered why this folder had been filed with properties Cass had owned, if Cass had been involved in the Englander only as the real estate agent.

  He was sitting on the end of the double bed reading the documents when Nestor Lopez opened the door. “Come on out, Gene, you’re gonna love this.”

  Dave Corso, the M.E., had turned over the corpse. A few of the police officers had dispersed, wandering into the hall, or to the grassy backyard, which had a pleasant fountain to gaze at and flowers to smell.

  Ryabin took a moment to recover, then asked Corso, “What did you find?”

  Corso was sitting on his heels by the body. He looked up at Ryabin through his rimless glasses. “He was shot, Detective. It wasn’t easy to see at first, with the decomposition, but a very big bullet chewed a hole right between his seventh and eighth vertebrae.”

  “It didn’t go through him,” Ryabin noted.

  Nestor Lopez, who had his fingers pressed to his nostrils, said, “Take a look at what’s stuck to his shirt.”

  As he moved closer, Ryabin saw the bits of shredded fabric, now dark with blood and putrefaction, which surrounded the hole between Cass’s shoulder blades.

  Stretching luxuriantly, arching her back, Caitlin kept an eye on Sam. He’d gone into the bathroom to comb his hair. Her head hung over the edge of the bed, and she could see him upside down. Nice, strong profile. Graying above the ears. The bank-executive type, if she had to put him a magazine ad. But not in that sport shirt, with the tails still hanging out of his pants. As he combed his hair, she could see the muscles moving in his forearms and wished he hadn’t put his clothes back on, so she could see the rest of him.

  He glanced into the bedroom. “What are you smiling about, woman?”

  “What do you think?” Caitlin said huskily.

  He turned off the bathroom light, but the sunlight was coming around the edges of the heavy curtains. Votive candles still burned on the dresser. The ceiling fan rotated slowly overhead. He kissed her, and his mouth was velvety.

  She reached up to hold his face. “Do you feel bad, coming to a hotel?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “It isn’t tawdry and cheap, is it, Sam? I’d hate it if you felt that way.”

  “Caitlin, no. I’m glad you did this.” He sat beside her to put on his socks and shoes. “I just wish we’d had more time.”

  “Next Sunday, too.” She laughed. “Our Sunday services. And Wednesday prayer meeting. But it’s going to cost a fortune. Oh, darling, we’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

  This had been
her idea. She had called him to say, I can’t stand not seeing you. I’ve done something silly. I have a room at the Ritz. The hotel was on the beach, flamboyantly art deco, but big enough to be anonymous. She’d spent the night here by herself, waiting for him to arrive in the morning. He couldn’t leave his daughter alone at night; Caitlin understood.

  She had decorated the room with flowers and candles and brought champagne and orange juice to make mimosas. At 7:00 A.M. she woke up and bathed in a scented tub. After room service left, she dressed in a negligee and sat with a cup of coffee, waiting, leaving the bed turned down and candles glowing in their holders.

  Finished tying his shoes, Sam leaned over and kissed her. “It was wonderful.”

  “But you can’t do it again,” she said.

  “Not right away. But soon.”

  “Do you think so, Sam?”

  “Count on it.” He glanced down, then took his beeper out of his pants pocket.

  “I was hoping you hadn’t brought that,” she said. “Is there a problem with Melanie?”

  “No, it’s Detective Ryabin’s portable phone.”

  “He calls you on Sundays?”

  “Not usually.”

  On her knees in bed, Caitlin nuzzled his ear. “Don’t call him back.”

  Sam dropped the beeper on the nightstand, turned around, and dragged her across the mattress so he could stretch out on top of her. The delicious, solid weight of him. She parted her legs and pulled the tail of his shirt out of his waistband and moved her hands on his back. She wanted him to lose control, to take her, to say poetic things, romantic things, about never loving anyone else, ever. Oh, my sweet love. I would die for you.

  He kissed her, then propped himself on his elbows. “Caitlin?”

  “I know. You have to go.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said.

  His wife would be back tonight. Caitlin said, “You’d better call. And don’t forget, like you did on Friday.” She quickly kissed his lips.

  “I didn’t forget,” he said, his face growing serious. “I told you what happened.”

  “Uh-huh. So busy saving Miami from crime you can’t take time out for one little phone call.” She let him go.

  He went over to the dresser for his car keys. He seemed to be thinking of what to say. “I’m going to talk to Frank sometime this week.”

  Caitlin sat up. “Just call him. You don’t have to go to his office to fire him off a case, do you?”

  “No, but I prefer to do it in person.”

  “You won’t mention me, will you?”

  “Of course not.”

  Standing now, Caitlin wrapped the sheet around herself. “Is this some kind of male territorial thing?”

  “What?” He laughed. “No. Don’t worry about it. Your name won’t come up.”

  “But I don’t understand why you have to talk to him at all. Mail him a letter. ‘Frank, you’re fired.’”

  Sam looked at her. “Why are you reacting like this?”

  She’d nearly forgotten. Samuel J. Hagen hadn’t gotten where he was by being thickheaded. She climbed off the bed, sheet dragging across the carpet. “Because, sweetheart, Frank isn’t happy with me at the moment. If he thinks you and I are together, he’ll be vile. He’ll tell all kinds of lies. He could make it difficult for us.”

  “Don’t worry about him. I told you that already.”

  “I know. I know.” She let out a breath.

  “It’s going to work out this time. Just be patient.”

  “I will.”

  “Caitlin.” He held her face. “You have to believe in me a little. In all this time, and all that’s happened to both of us, I never stopped loving you.”

  “Oh, Sam. I could cry.”

  He kissed her forehead. “I should see what Gene Ryabin wants.” He sat on the bed to make the call.

  Listening to his side of the conversation, Caitlin couldn’t make out what had happened, but his expression was grim. He hung up. “Somebody shot Marty Cass in the back.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “In his apartment. It happened three or four days ago. Nobody saw anything. One of the neighbors called the police when the body started to smell.”

  Caitlin closed her eyes. She knew who had a reason to kill him. Knees going weak, she sat down on the bed. Sam was still talking, pacing now, the knuckles of one hand tapping across the surface of the dresser.

  He said, “Marty Cass was killed by the same person who murdered Charlie Sullivan and George Fonseca. That’s only a guess, but the evidence points that way.”

  Blinking, Caitlin looked at Sam. She could think of no reason, none, why Frank Tolin would have wanted to kill Sullivan or George. Clearly, then, he hadn’t done this. No, it hadn’t been Frank. She let out a breath. She’d come close to telling Sam about the arson, the blackmail. And then having to explain why she hadn’t told him before. Dear God. Leave it alone. He would never understand.

  Sam came over to her, and she reached up and hugged him around the waist. “Call me?” she said.

  “I promise.” He bent to kiss her. “I’ll see you as soon as I can. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  At the door he looked back at her. “I love you,” he said.

  “And this is so you won’t forget it.” Standing up, Caitlin dropped the sheet. Naked, she did a model’s walk across the bedroom, then looked over her shoulder.

  Sam glanced into the hall, then whispered, “Don’t ever stop doing that.” Smiling, he closed the door.

  The telephone rang five minutes later.

  Caitlin clambered across the bed to pick it up. She hugged the receiver, laughing. “That was fast.”

  There was a second of silence, before a voice said, “My, my. Fucking the future state attorney in the middle of the day.”

  Every muscle in her body froze, an instant of reeling incomprehension.

  She heard Frank Tolin’s low laughter. “What do you think he’s going to do, Catie, if he finds out what you did to his son? I’m still willing to take you back, but my patience is about to run dry.”

  Shaking violently, Caitlin slammed down the phone.

  chapter thirty

  During the week following Dina’s return from Tarpon Springs, she barely spoke to Sam. Her anger had lifted, so far as he could tell, replaced with cool indifference. Sam had been sleeping in his study, on a cot that had been stored in the garage. He had thought, before she came back, that he would find an apartment, but Dina told him not to bother. She herself intended to leave Miami as soon as possible. She had already given notice at her accounting firm. The speed and finality of this decision surprised Sam. Maybe she should think about it a little more? No, she had made up her mind.

  Sam suggested they put the house up for sale; Dina could take the proceeds. He asked how much she needed in alimony. Did she want him to pay off her car? She listened politely for a minute, then said it didn’t matter, to do what he wanted. Her plans for the future seemed hazy. No, she hadn’t found a job in Tarpon Springs. She might stay with her father. Perhaps with Nick, it didn’t matter. On the subject of Melanie, she simply said, I can’t force her to go.

  She didn’t appear depressed. She seemed simply not to care, as if she had resigned herself to what had to come. This was a relief to Sam, who was supervising two major jury trials this week, and therefore less time than usual for his own concerns. He averaged five hours of sleep a night and on Tuesday stayed over at the office. At first he expected Dina to sink into weeping and lethargy, as she had after Matthew’s death, but she continued in her unruffled mood. He asked friends for the names of divorce attorneys, but had no time to call any of them.

  He hadn’t seen Caitlin since Sunday morning, but her face or touch, or the smell or sound of her, had come into his mind, most often when he lay on the narrow cot in his study. They had spoken twice; she said she understood how busy he was, not to worry. She would be driving up to New York in two weeks with her friend Rafael, where she
would spend the summer. Sam promised that somehow, before she left, they would have at least one day together.

  The lunch crowd in the cafeteria on the ground floor of the Justice Building tended to empty out by two o’clock. Coming down during a break in a trial on Wednesday, Sam had no trouble spotting Dale Finley in the back corner behind a copy of El Nuevo Herald. The state attorney’s chief investigator had stretched his legs out under the table, and one ankle had a holster wrapped around it. Brown socks, tan polyester pants.

  Finley’s eyes shifted when Sam sat in the chair across from him, and his white eyebrows lifted, making deep ridges in his forehead.

  Sam said, “Got a question for you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “One of my witnesses on Ruffini and Lamont says you were looking for her at her apartment last week. Caitlin Dorn. Why?”

  Finley folded the paper. “Just keeping track of everybody. I am under the assumption, correct me if I’m wrong, that the state likes to know where its witnesses are.”

  “You’re not assigned to this case. So who told you to go looking for Caitlin Dorn?”

  Leaning across the table, Finley smiled, and the scar on his chin whitened. “I’ll be candid with you, counselor. I think it’s highly probable that the witnesses, along with the victim, are going to flip on us. We’re going to be left with our thumb up our ass. Now, the aforesaid Ms. Dorn, being the remaining prime witness, is of particular interest.”

  Sam laughed. “You wanted this case dropped, Finley. You tried to scare Ali Duncan off.”

  “Well, we don’t always get what we want, in the parlance of the old song. My major concern at this juncture is to see that when State vs. Ruffini crashes, it doesn’t fall the wrong way.”

  “On Eddie Mora.”

  “Being candid? Yes.”

  Leaning back in his chair, Sam watched a couple of private defense lawyers kid around with one of the county judges, down to grab some coffee before the afternoon session started. The judge had started out as a public defender, and one of the defense lawyers had been a prosecutor in the felony division. Sam had often wondered what it was like, jumping across the fence like that.