Blood Relations Page 43

  She motioned with it toward the south. “Keep going.”

  Ahead of them a hundred yards, the land took a sharp turn to the right. A seawall held back a grassy slope planted with trees—royal palms among flowering oleanders with their long, pointed leaves. Lights blinked in and out among the foliage.

  Keeping her eyes on the gun, Caitlin stumbled when a rock shifted under her foot. She caught herself on her hands, feeling the sting of salt. “What do you want?”

  “Listen to me carefully. Before we reach the road, I want you to understand why you’re here.”

  “I’ve never seen you before in my life,” Caitlin said. “Why are you doing this?”

  The woman glanced at the ground, stepped over a piece of rotted, barnacled lumber, then said, “You really don’t know who I am, do you?” Amusement played through the rich voice.

  In the shadow of the trees the woman’s face was indistinct, but even so, the knowledge flared in Caitlin’s mind. She stood still for a few moments, looking at her. “You’re Sam’s wife.”

  “Yes. Dina Hagen. We met a few times. Where? Do you remember?”

  Caitlin’s mouth was dry and her voice shook. “I saw you—at Frank’s office. It’s been a long time.”

  The barrel of the gun motioned Caitlin on. “But you do recall. I wonder. When you shook my hand, had you already touched my husband?”

  Her left shoe, which had come untied, now slipped off entirely. Rocks scraped at the sole of her foot. “We’re not having an affair! I swear to you. I’m leaving Miami.” Her legs swirled through the water. “If you’re getting a divorce, it isn’t my fault.”

  “He told you we’re getting a divorce?”

  “I swear to Christ, I’ll never see him again.”

  “Be quiet, Caitlin. I want to tell you something.”

  “Look. If you do anything to me, you’ll go to prison. Sam will probably lose his job. Is that what you want? What about your daughter?”

  Dina Hagen raised the gun and cocked it. Caitlin gasped and backed up.

  “Stop there! I’m ready to pull this trigger. Do what I tell you. Keep walking. We will have our talk. Then you can flag down a car. Do whatever you like. But for now, listen to me.” The barrel of the gun, with its staring eye, gestured toward the road.

  Caitlin walked, limping.

  Dina Hagen pushed a branch aside, then looked back at Caitlin. “We’re not here because of Sam. It’s someone else. Let’s see how smart you are. Can you guess who it might be?”

  “No! Who? Frank?”

  “Not even close. Someone considerably younger.”

  Her legs buckling under her, Caitlin fell on her knee, grinding the skin against crushed shell and rock.

  “You know who I mean, don’t you? Get up.”

  “No. I can’t.” She sat in the water, leaning on her hands, weeping now.

  “I told you. We’re walking to the causeway. Then you can go. I’m sorry about the gun, but you wouldn’t have come with me otherwise. Now. Stand up. And when we get there—before I let you go—I want your apology for what you did to him. So think about how you’re going to phrase it. I want to hear you tell me—the mother of this young man, this boy, whom you ruined—how sorry you are.”

  Ryabin begged Sam to slow down; he could hear the engine roaring over the car phone. Did he want to kill himself? Sam hit the brakes coming off the MacArthur Causeway Bridge, keeping just ahead of the flow of traffic.

  “Gene, can you call in a bulletin for her car? It’s a Toyota, a blue one. Damn, I don’t know the model. Dina’s, then. It’s a 1992 white Volvo sedan. Four-door.”

  He was quickly approaching South Beach. The line of bright streetlights would lead past the private islands on the left, then past the Coast Guard station and the marina. The road would dead end on Ocean Drive. He would have to turn before that to avoid the traffic outside the restaurants and clubs. Dina could be anywhere from the park at South Pointe to the big hotels five miles north.

  Ryabin’s voice was low and measured. “Are you certain this is all correct? I was so sure about Frank Tolin.”

  “No, I’m not certain. I may be going crazy.” With the phone pressed to his ear, Sam said, “What did Caitlin tell you this morning? Where was she supposed to go?”

  “Wait. Let me remember.” There was a pause. Then some words muttered in Russian. “A birthday party, which you know about. A live rock band. His twentieth birthday. I’m sorry, that’s all she said.”

  The narrow, curving flyover to Alton Road was approaching on the left. From the far right lane, Sam hit his brakes and cut across the street. Two other cars swerved and nearly collided.

  Coming down off the ramp, heading north, he said into the phone, “Gene, I think I know where they are.”

  Dina Hagen was walking directly behind Caitlin now, both of them splashing at the water’s edge. Dina wore thick-soled black sneakers. Caitlin was limping. Her hope that anyone would see them vanished as they came closer to the causeway. To her left were trees; ahead she could hear the traffic but couldn’t see it past the thickly planted oleander. To her right was the bay, its surface moving, glinting with lights.

  “Stop here. Don’t move.”

  Caitlin stopped. There came rustling noises from behind her. Then Dina’s fingers were winding through her hair, holding tightly. Something firm pressed into her back.

  “Please. Don’t. Don’t do this.” The muscles in her neck strained.

  “My son died here,” Dina said. “He wanted to die. He drank until he could hardly stand up. Then he got on his motorcycle and he killed himself. Maybe it was better that he did die. After you and the others were finished with him, he had nothing left, not even his dignity.”

  “Please. I didn’t do anything. I tried to help—” Caitlin cried out from pain when the hand pulled backward on her hair and the thing that Dina held against her spine dug in deeper.

  “Matthew was traveling over sixty miles an hour on that road, trying to go around a truck. He lost control and went into the water. It was very shallow, and they could reach him easily. He was still alive, just a little. He was so badly hurt. He asked for me. Then he died. Right there.”

  Caitlin’s words were a ceaseless babble. “No. No, please don’t. I didn’t mean it, I swear. Dina, please.”

  She could feel Dina’s warm breath on her cheek. “Have you heard of the Furies?”

  Caitlin was sobbing.

  “It’s an old Greek myth. The Furies are the goddesses of vengeance. They bring punishment. They act purely, freely, without regard to mercy. I suppose that sounds overly dramatic to you, but I think it fits.” Dina jerked downward, and Caitlin tried to pry back the fingers that wound through her hair. The hand tightened. “Now. Kneel down. I’ll make this very fast.”

  Shoving a shoulder into Dina’s chest, spinning around, Caitlin heard the gun go off, a loud pop. Dina’s right hand was hidden inside her black shoulder bag. Flames glowed from a hole in it for an instant, and bits of fire hissed, then vanished on the wobbling surface of the water. Dina pulled her hand free, and the long barrel of the pistol rose out of the bag. The gun fixed on Caitlin’s face.

  Then wavered. Dina had glanced toward shore, puzzled, her brows knitting together.

  Putting all her strength into a single movement, Caitlin lunged to one side. The fingers closed around her hair again, but not soon enough. She felt her hair tearing from the roots. Then there was a tremendous explosion of noise, a blaze of light, and a great weight that spun her around. She fell, dragged herself to her feet, then ran limping through the shallow water toward shore. Warmth gushed from her waist, and she knew it was her own blood.

  Stumbling toward the shadows under a dense sea grape tree, she collided with something in the darkness. Someone had caught her. She began to collapse, but Frank Tolin held her up.

  “Frank! Oh, God. You’re here!” Caitlin clutched at him. “It’s Sam’s wife. She’s trying to kill me!”

  His fingers bit int
o her upper arms, and the faint light from the causeway deepened the hollows in his sharply boned face. A bandage shone white at the corner of one eye. He shook her. “I never wanted this, Catie, believe me. I loved you.”

  “Frank, help me, please!”

  Whipping her around by one arm, Frank pulled her toward the water. He was yelling, “Dina! I’ve got her.”

  Dina Hagen’s face was pale, the eyes enormous. Water to her knees, she stood motionless, the gun by her side. “Frank?”

  He half-dragged, half-carried Caitlin. “I followed you, Dina. I had to make sure she didn’t hurt you. Look what she did to me. She did worse to Matthew. She told me about it, Dina. She admitted what she did, sleeping with your boy. Doing dirty things to him. She laughed about it.”

  “Dina, no!” Caitlin struck out at Frank and gasped from the pain. She touched her side and felt bone coming through the fabric of her dress. “He’s lying! I never slept with Matthew. He wants to kill me because he hates me! I wouldn’t go back to him. He lied! Dina, he lied to you. Matthew was a boy. I’d never have touched him!”

  Frank slapped her and she staggered. “Dina, please! Matthew never mentioned Marty Cass, did he? They never knew each other. Frank lied to you. He wanted Marty dead, because Marty was blackmailing him. He used you like he uses everyone! He made you believe—”

  His fist slammed into her face. Caitlin fell, and the water covered her head. When she came up, coughing and gagging, Dina was staring at Frank.

  “You told me. You said Marty Cass stole everything from Matthew. You told me that.”

  Ryabin could see it happening as he swerved and dodged through the oleanders. He could hear them. Caitlin and Tolin yelling. Dina closing on them, the pistol in her hand.

  Then Dina’s long scream, her face tilted to the sky.

  Sam hurtled past Ryabin, leaping over the retaining wall, his T-shirt a moving spot in the darkness. Ryabin reached into his holster for his pistol and slipped on the damp grass planted on the slope of the causeway.

  He saw the heavy gun fall to Dina’s side. A half second later Caitlin twisted away from Tolin. Sam was shouting, closing the distance fast. Tolin saw him and leaped toward Dina for the gun. But Caitlin got there first.

  Sam yelled for her to drop it, don’t shoot.

  Caitlin lifted the gun with both hands and swung it toward Tolin. Inches from his face, the barrel flamed. Tolin’s head jerked backward and bits of it kept going. Water splashed around his body when he fell.

  Nearly there now, Ryabin saw Sam take the pistol out of Caitlin’s hands. A dark stain was covering her dress. She collapsed near Tolin’s feet.

  Gasping for air, hand on his chest, Ryabin reached them, gun drawn.

  For a minute they all seemed frozen into position, except for Dina, who was rocking back and forth, keening. Her eyes were closed.

  Ryabin reholstered his pistol. Frank Tolin’s body floated in a foot of water. The toes of his cowboy boots pointed upward. The bullet had entered just under his right eye and had taken the back of his head off. Caitlin was bleeding but alive, moaning, supporting herself on one arm. Sam stared at his wife.

  Sloshing through ankle-deep water, Ryabin went over and looked down at the pistol Sam was holding on his lap. “This is yours?”

  As if waking up, Sam nodded, then looked around, blinking.

  Ryabin said, “Is it licensed in your name?”

  “What?”

  “Licensed! Do you have a license for this pistol?”

  “No. I brought it back from Vietnam.”

  Ryabin thought for a moment, then said, “I think Tolin brought it back.” Wiping off the gun with his handkerchief, he walked over to the body shifting and bobbing in the water. He picked up the right hand, pressed it around the pistol, then let hand and pistol drop.

  “What are you doing?” Sam struggled to his feet.

  “I think that Frank Tolin just used this gun to commit suicide,” Ryabin said. He was still breathing hard, but not so much from physical exertion anymore. Now his mind was running, madly racing to fit a hundred details together before it was too late.

  He gripped the fabric of Sam’s T-shirt in his fist. “Tolin shot Caitlin, then himself. She was going to reveal that he had murdered Sullivan, Fonseca, and Marty Cass. He had to kill her. But he missed. Believing she was dead, he shot himself.”

  Sam stared at him. “Are you out of your mind?”

  “Do you prefer to see your wife arrested for three murders?”

  “I’ll tell them I did it.”

  “Don’t be stupid. They won’t believe you. But if you go, right now, Sam—No one is looking for her. They won’t look for you.”

  “We can’t run away, Gene. For God’s sake—”

  “Who’s guiltier here? Dina killed Charlie Sullivan and George Fonseca out of madness and grief. Tolin realized this. She went to him to file a lawsuit, and maybe she told him what she had done or maybe he guessed. Tolin worked on her mind. He convinced her that Cass defrauded your son and took his money. And what about Caitlin? She left him, and Frank made Dina believe—forgive me, Sam—that Caitlin slept with your son. I heard them arguing about it as I approached. Frank Tolin pointed Dina like a gun at Marty Cass, then at Caitlin Dorn. Dina pulled the trigger, but it was his hand that guided her. Can you prove it? Never. In the eyes of the law, Frank Tolin was an innocent man.”

  Ryabin put a hand on Sam Hagen’s chest and shoved. “Take Dina and get out of here! Let them see a murderer obsessed by Caitlin Dorn. He brought her to this place. He shot her. Then he turned the gun on himself. This man who has killed already three people.”

  “I’m supposed to be sworn in as the state attorney next week!” Sam spun toward Caitlin Dorn. He dropped down and put an arm around her. He touched her side and his hand came away bloody. “My God. Oh, my God.”

  Ryabin said, “I’m sorry. Of course, this is your decision.” He crouched beside him. “My friend. Listen to me. Whatever you decide, I’ll back you up. But you must decide quickly. Someone must have heard the gunshots.”

  “This won’t work, Gene.” Sam shook his head. “We’d go to jail for the rest of our lives.”

  “You think so?” Ryabin smiled. “Who would want to believe that the wife of our new state attorney should be arrested for murder. Trust me.”

  Stumbling slightly, Sam slowly stood up. “All right. I pray to God you can tell a good story.” He held out his hand. “Give me Dina’s bag.” Ryabin threw it to him. “I’ll call 911 from my car. I’ll say I was passing here ten minutes ago. I saw a man taking a woman to the water. She was struggling.”

  “Don’t give your name,” Ryabin said.

  Sam leaned over to take Caitlin’s face in his palm. “Oh, God. Look at you.”

  “Go on!” Ryabin pulled on his arm. “I’ll take care of her. Get out of here, you and Dina. I’ll call an ambulance on my radio.”

  For a moment Sam’s eyes fixed wildly on Ryabin, unwilling to believe this, even now. Then he went back to Dina. She was a statue with staring eyes. He lifted her across his arms and carried her quickly out of the water and up the slope toward the road.

  Ryabin bent to look at Caitlin’s wound. Another inch farther in, and it would have torn her to pieces. He put a hand on her shoulder. “Do you understand what’s going on?”

  “No!” She was sobbing, trying not to collapse into the water.

  “Come with me. I’ll explain. You can lie on the grass and listen.” He put an arm around her and helped her stand. She moaned. He said, “Can you hear me? Pay attention. If you don’t follow my instructions exactly, you’ll be arrested for murder.”

  He spoke quickly as they walked across the rocky shore. On the grass he rolled his coat to cushion her head, then lit a cigarette, his last allotted for the day. His nerves more settled, he made the call from his unmarked car.

  She would do what she was told, being a sensible woman. She had herself to protect, of course, but Ryabin was certain that she would pr
otect Sam Hagen as well. He sat down beside her and smoked his cigarette. His hands trembled a little but gradually grew steady. He thought of what he would say to his lieutenant.

  Frank Tolin tried to kill her. Then he shot himself. Luckily, she had spoken to me earlier today, saying she was afraid of him. She can show you his letters. She said she had a job tonight, so I drove by to make sure she was all right. Through some miracle of fate, I saw his car, and she was in it with hint. I followed. I arrived here just in time.

  Tolin held the gun to her head. I had my own pistol aimed at him. He confessed everything. How his love for this woman overwhelmed him. He was insanely jealous. He found out she had slept with Charlie Sullivan, the model—she will admit this to you. So Tolin murdered Sullivan in a fit of passion.

  He also killed George Fonseca, his supplier of drugs. Fonseca wanted to avoid jail for sexual battery on Ali Duncan, so he called Sam Hagen, the prosecutor—surely Hagen has a record of the call. Fonseca offered to turn against Frank Tolin, a prominent lawyer who had become one of his best customers. And Marty Cass? Cass was blackmailing him. Ask Caitlin Dorn. She was present at Tolin’s apartment and heard their conversation. We already have his fingerprints on Cass’s files, and it was he, Frank Tolin, who the old woman saw returning to the apartment two days after the murder. How did he get in? Well, presumably he left the door unlocked after the murder in his hurry to get away. He must have thought of the files later. And why did he stab the right hand of Marty Cass? Well … I neglected to ask. He told me all this in the presence of Caitlin Dorn, who will attest to it. He shot her, then himself. Luckily her wound was not fatal.

  Look at the crime-scene photographs of Frank Tolin. You can see the gunpowder and stippling on his face. The water washed the gunpowder from his hand, but his fingerprints were on the gun.

  Ryabin knew he would be believed. This explanation made more sense than the truth. He knew also that Sam Hagen would suffer, whatever the outcome. If Sam wavered, Ryabin would remind him that he had a duty not only to his conscience but to the reputation of the state attorney’s office as well. And a duty to his wife, his daughter, and even to his son. And also to Caitlin Dorn, who had said—as she lay bleeding on the ground—