Blood Relations Page 41

  “Not well. I’ve met him a few times.”

  “People say that he and Marty Cass had recently a disagreement, a falling out.”

  “Over the Grand Caribe Resort,” she said. “Marty wanted more control, and Klaus thought he was incompetent, which, well, he was. The Grand Caribe was in financial trouble after Klaus was arrested. The city didn’t grant the zoning permits. Marty threatened to go to the backers and persuade them to pull out entirely unless Klaus paid him off. Everyone thinks the Grand Caribe was Klaus’s, but it wasn’t. He used his name, and he has a lot of rich friends. He pulled them together. That’s his talent. The Ruffini money is really his wife’s, Tereza’s. She has the say-so.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Well, I pick up a lot, just being around.” She combed her hair back from her face with her fingers. A beautiful woman, such shiny blond hair.

  Ryabin took a cigarette out of the pack. “Miss Dorn—may I call you Caitlin?”

  “Of course.”

  “Forgive such a personal question, but, Did you ever have a sexual relationship with Charlie Sullivan?”

  She laughed. “Are you serious?”

  “He slept with women, too. He never suggested …?”

  “All right, he suggested. I told him no.”

  “Your boyfriend at the time—Frank Tolin?—he didn’t mind?”

  “Yes, but he got over it.” She shook her head, smiling as if the man beside her could be shocked by such things. “Look, Detective. I was a model. I’m used to men coming on to me. It doesn’t mean anything. Why on earth did you ask me about Sullivan?”

  Ryabin made a noncommittal noise and drew his cigarette back and forth between his fingers.

  “Are you going to smoke that?”

  “I promised my wife I would cut down.”

  “I’ll help you,” she said. She took the cigarette then let him light it for her. “I’ve quit, too,” She inhaled deeply.

  Ryabin took another and lit it for himself. “Now I won’t be able to have one after lunch.”

  “Yes, you will. Smoke the one you’ve scheduled for after dinner. That’s what I used to do,” she said. “But then I’d advance the one from after breakfast the next day. I think I got something like a thousand cigarettes ahead of myself.”

  She tapped her cigarette into the red-lipped ashtray.

  “Caitlin, you’re not with Frank Tolin anymore. Correct?” Her expression said she knew that he already had the answer to that. Ryabin said, “Does he have a cocaine habit? Was that a problem between you?”

  She exhaled smoke. “You’re awfully interested in my relationships.”

  “It’s a professional interest.” Ryabin smiled. He had been told that women found the space between his front teeth endearing. “I heard from I don’t remember who that George Fonseca sold him drugs.”

  “Sometimes,” she said slowly, perhaps wondering if this police detective was going to accuse her of a narcotics violation. Then she made a short laugh. “More than sometimes.”

  “Maybe you can help me.” Ryabin sat forward in the bizarre wooden chair. “Last week I talked to Frank Tolin. I asked him to tell me about Marty Cass. What kind of man was he, and so on. Tolin said Cass couldn’t be trusted. They’d had problems. I asked him what he meant, but then, suddenly, he didn’t want to talk about it.”

  Her eyes told him he had hit a vein of truth.

  Ryabin furrowed his brow. “He mentioned some property they owned together.”

  “You don’t think Frank shot Marty Cass.”

  “Why not?” She stared at him, and Ryabin decided to embroider the truth. “What if I told you that Frank has no alibi for the time of Martin Cass’s death?” He paused, then added, “And that we have a witness who saw a man in cowboy boots go into his apartment.” Ryabin watched for a reaction. “What would you say?”

  She seemed frozen into the chair. Then she took a breath. “Marty was trying to extort money from Frank. You’re right, it was about the apartment building I used to live in, the Englander. Four years ago Frank wanted to buy it. The owner didn’t want to sell at the right price, so Marty arranged for a fire. It was supposed to be a small one, but something went wrong, and the owner died. I understand she was your wife’s sister.”

  “Rivka Levitsky.”

  “Yes. I didn’t know till Frank told me. I’m so sorry.”

  “And Frank’s part in it?”

  “Nothing, except being involved with Marty. After the sale went through, Marty told him what had happened. Then about three weeks ago Marty came to Frank’s condo and demanded money. He said he’d tell everyone that Frank had planned it, unless Frank gave him a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Did Frank ever pay him?”

  “I doubt that he would, but I can’t say. That was the only time we talked about it.”

  Ryabin watched a plastic penguin rotate across the pool, driven by a gust of air. “Frank told you all of this?”

  “Yes, after Marty left.” She sat silently for a while. “No, I didn’t hear the conversation. So Frank could have lied to me. With Frank, I believed what I wanted to believe. I spent eight years making excuses for him. And for myself, for not having the guts to leave him.”

  “What do you think, Caitlin? You know him better than anybody. Is he capable of pulling a trigger? Shooting someone in the back?”

  She took a long time to answer. “I think he’s basically a coward. He used to hit me. Well, I hit him too. We had some pretty bad moments. When I left him he became hostile. The awful letters, the phone calls. He made threats. I was afraid, but he didn’t come after me. I haven’t heard from him in over a week. Some men love too much. They become so jealous and angry they kill what they supposedly love. But Frank? No, he’s too much in love with his money to go to jail, not for me or for Marty Cass.” She shrugged. “Anyway, that’s my opinion.”

  Sitting in the bright red-and-yellow chair on the patio of this mansion, Gene Ryabin thought fleetingly, sorrowfully, of Adela Ramos and her son Carlito, the boy who had been murdered because someone had loved too much.

  Sam finally told his secretary to hold his calls. There had been so many calls of congratulations on Monday, and people dropping by to chat, that today Sam had fled to the third floor to talk to Juan Casares, head of the felony division. The two men talked about changes to be made when Sam officially took charge next week. Sam had already noticed that people had begun to speak to him differently. More deferentially. He thought he could get used to it.

  Joe McGee knocked on the door, then stuck his head in. “Sam? News flash. Ali Duncan’s on her way to Paris, courtesy of Moda Ruffini.”

  “What?” Sam stared at him across the room.

  McGee said, “Detective Ryabin called. I thought you’d like to know.”

  Before the door closed again, Sam said, “Joe?” McGee came back in. “Find out what happened. Track down Ali Duncan if you have to and get a statement. Tell her she won’t be prosecuted when she comes back to Dade County. I want that son of a bitch Ruffini charged with witness tampering. Then we’ll bring in Immigration and tell them to deport his ass.”

  “You got it.”

  Sam looked across the office at Casares, who seemed amused. Sam shrugged. “Yes, Juan, I know Immigration has better things to do.”

  Casares said, “Is Ruffini trying to help you get elected in November?”

  “If I run into him again,” Sam said, “I’ll have to say thanks.”

  Dina Hagen sat on the deep leather sofa in Frank Tolin’s office with her coffee on her lap. The coffee cup was French porcelain, with little feet and gold leaf around the rim. The handle was of the precise thickness and angle to accommodate a woman’s thumb and first two fingers. Yellow roses decorated the cup itself, and more of them formed a wreath on the saucer, which had also been touched with gold. Ordinarily a male lawyer would not have provided such a thing for his clients but now that Dina had come to know Frank Tolin better, she understood how i
t revealed his nature.

  Frank was sitting on the other end of the sofa, weeping softly. His elbow was on the arm of the sofa and his hand was over his eyes.

  The first time he had wept, she had been embarrassed, but he’d said he needed for her to listen, and so she had. Now he expressed his emotions as freely as a woman, and had told her many times that if not for her, he would have killed himself. He wanted to die like Matthew had died, Oh, forgive me, Dina, but I would buy a motorcycle, run it off the causeway, and drown myself. Not linger in pain, but end it quickly.

  Dina took another sip of coffee. There was no rush to get back to work because she had no work to go to. The managing partner at Jacobs Ross & Rendell had called her to his office over a week ago and asked if she needed more time off. She had told him she would be leaving soon, please send her final check. But she still got up early, as usual, and dressed and drove into Miami. She walked. She sat in the library. She hired a service to do her résumé, which she mailed to accounting firms around Tarpon Springs. She went to the Cathedral of St. Sophia’s every afternoon on the way home. And she had been at Frank’s office every day.

  A long sigh came from the other end of the sofa. He cleared his throat. “Dina? Could you hand me another Kleenex? I’m sorry to get like this.”

  “Well, of course, it must have been so awful for you.” His cheekbone was still bruised, and she touched it lightly.

  “Dina, please. Don’t patronize me. I feel bad enough already. I’ve never been struck by a woman before, not one I loved so much.” Frank fell back against the sofa and closed his eyes. “It’s like she took a knife to my privates. I apologize for being graphic, and I know, I know I ought to forget the whole thing, but I can’t. I thought the stars were in that woman’s eyes,” he said. “She’s so beautiful.”

  “A spider.” Dina sipped her coffee. “Don’t blame yourself.”

  “No, I don’t. But I worry what else she’ll do.” Frank moved closer on the sofa. “I could tell you—” He stopped speaking.

  She put the cup into its saucer. “What, Frank?”

  “Tommy Chang. I’ve seen them together. Do you know who I mean?” Frank took her hand. “He’s a young man, about Matthew’s age.”

  “Yes, I know who you mean.” Dina said.

  “She was kissing him on the mouth. I saw them, Dina. She took him into her house.”

  “Are you going to get upset again?”

  “No.” He fixed his eyes on hers for a long, long moment. Brown eyes, almost as dark as Matthew’s had been. “I worship you, Dina.”

  “Oh, Frank. Don’t be dramatic.”

  “You’re an angel. A goddess.” He slid down to the carpeted floor beside her.

  “Stop that.” She laughed.

  He put his forehead on her knees. After a minute she stroked his head. He had such thick, dark hair.

  chapter thirty-five

  Sam found Melanie watching MTV in the family room. She was stretched out on the floor with her head on a small sofa pillow. He leaned over and ruffled her hair. “Hey, honey. Where’s your mother?”

  “She went to the grocery store.” Melanie had a plastic bag of carrots and offered him one. He declined. “I saw you on the news,” she said. “You’re going to make a great state attorney, Dad.”

  He smiled at her and sat down on the sofa. There was a staff meeting in the morning to prepare for, but Sam had no energy. He knew he ought to be either working or celebrating, but he couldn’t bring himself to do either.

  “Are you all right, Dad?”

  “I’m feeling old and gray.”

  “You’re not old and gray.” She twisted her neck around to see him. “I thought you looked really nice on TV.”

  “Thanks, but you’re supposed to think that.”

  There had been a few moments in the last week or so when he wondered just how in the hell he was going to do this, raise a daughter. It would be just the two of them. Melanie was still a kid, really. There were still plenty of chances to commit a major screwup.

  On the television, a barechested man with a guitar was playing in the desert without benefit of electricity, and a young woman wound herself around his legs like a snake.

  “You doing okay, Mel?”

  She glanced at him. Must have caught something in his voice. “Sure, Dad.” She smiled. She rolled over and hugged the small pillow under her chest. “You want to hear something weird? I was thinking that one day I’ll be older than Matthew.”

  “How’s that, honey?”

  “This is his birthday, but he’s still nineteen and I’m getting older. I’m almost fifteen now. And one day I’ll be older than he was when he died.”

  Sam had to think. “This is his birthday?”

  “Yes. June twenty-first.”

  “Jesus,” he said softly, then looked back at her. “He was a good kid, Melanie. Don’t ever forget that. He loved you a lot.”

  She smiled at him. “I know, Dad.”

  Sam went into the kitchen to make some coffee and drank it looking out into the backyard, which was turning into a jungle. Somebody had forgotten to pay the yardman, so the yardman had forgotten to come by and mow the yard.

  They would have to sell this house. Soon as Dina came back from the store they’d have to talk about it. Nearly a week had gone by since he and Dina had engaged in any sort of conversation about their future. It was time. The subject hung over them like a toxic fog.

  “Jesus,” Sam repeated. “Twenty years old.” It made him feel strange. He wouldn’t have been the father of a teenage boy anymore. Ever since last week, when he’d spoken to Caitlin, he’d felt strange. Dislocated. She’d given him a word: lost.

  A dull ache twisted in his chest. He had almost wanted Caitlin to lie to him, and to do it so expertly that each word would fit to the next as tightly as the pages in a bible on the judge’s bench. But she hadn’t lied. She could have, but she hadn’t.

  He finished the coffee in his study. He set the mug on his desk and picked up the telephone. He looked up her number, which he’d written on a card in his wallet, and punched the buttons. A woman answered and he told her who he was, and asked to speak to Caitlin Dorn. He sat on the edge of the cot to wait. The blankets and sheets were disarrayed. He tossed the pillow to the proper end of the bed.

  There was some delay. Then the sounds of voices, then heels on a tile floor.

  “Sam? I can’t talk, I was just on my way out.” Then she said, “What is it?”

  “A huge apology. I’d like to start there.”

  He heard the silence. Then a sigh. “You don’t need to do that.”

  He said, “When can I see you?”

  “I’m leaving in a few days, and I’m just swamped with work to finish.”

  “Tomorrow. Give me an hour.” He rested his elbows on his knees. “I have so much to tell you, Caitlin. I’m not sure right now if this sounds coherent, but I’ve thought so much about everything you said.”

  “Sam, please. I’m really happy for you, making state attorney, and I’m sure you’ll be the best—”

  “It doesn’t matter, Caitlin, what happened between you and Matthew.”

  “I’m not going to talk about this any more.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to say.” He stood up. “It’s over. Let’s go from here.”

  She laughed a little. “No. Things like that are never over. They will always haunt you. Always. I know you, Sam.”

  “No, you don’t,” he said. “But I want you to.”

  He listened, the receiver pressed to his ear, and there was the sound of a breath.

  “Caitlin, go to New York. I know it’s important. Go wherever you have to go. But listen to me, please, when I say this. I love you. I know that as clearly as I’ve known anything in my life. Maybe I destroyed what you felt for me. I hope not, but it doesn’t change what’s in my heart for you. Will you remember that?”

  After a while, she said, “I’ll remember.”

  “Okay,” he
said. “That’s all I wanted. Go on, I don’t want to make you late.”

  He heard nothing, then a click. He replaced the phone.

  Through the window of his study, which looked into the backyard, he could see shadows stretching across the lawn. Thick grass had sprouted between the herringbone bricks in the walkway. The hedge leading to the gazebo was heavy with red blossoms. Vines wrapped themselves around the fence, and pods on the tamarind tree were bursting open. Everything in the yard was growing wild, pushing out roots and tendrils and leaves.

  Laughing a little, Sam let the curtain fall back into place. Caitlin wouldn’t be gone forever. Gene Ryabin had come by the state attorney’s office at noon today. If Ryabin’s theory was correct, Sam could wind up prosecuting Frank Tolin for the murder of Martin Cass. And he would have to call Caitlin Dorn as a witness. Fly her to Miami from wherever she was. Bring her back.

  She would testify to motive. The elderly woman across the street would say Frank had entered the building a day or so after Cass’s death. Forensics had already found his prints on the files in the bedroom. He’d been rifling through them, looking for notes, anything, proving Frank’s role in the arson. The police didn’t have enough yet for an arrest. They hadn’t tied him to the other homicides—yet—but he was clearly tied to this one.

  Sam flexed the fingers in his right hand. It still hurt, but not as much. It had been worth every bruised knuckle and cracked bone. Funny that Frank hadn’t made a police report. And even odder, why had he hacked at Marty Cass’s hand?

  Frank could have been out of his mind, completely unhinged. After he had shot Marty Cass in the back he had stretched Cass’s arm out on the floor, had turned his right hand palm up, and had savagely stabbed it four times, one blow going all the way through flesh and muscle, between the bones, and through the carpet. As if he were making a statement.

  Idelfonso García had made a statement by throwing Luis Balmaseda out a window, as Balmaseda had done with his sister’s boy, Carlito Ramos. This is what he deserved. Cass had tried to reach out and take Frank Tolin’s money. A hundred thousand dollars of it. He deserved to have his hand slashed.