Authors: Hilary Norman
‘Was he a surgeon?’ Grace asked.
‘A physician,’ Becket answered, ‘but his father was a surgeon.’
‘So if the missing scalpel was the weapon,’ she mused, ‘the murderer might have known about the pouch?’
‘It’s a possibility. The house wasn’t ransacked. We don’t feel there was anything random about the killings.’
‘But you said there was a break-in?’ Becket had said something earlier on the telephone about a forced window at the rear of the house.
‘Maybe,’ he said now.
Grace looked across the desk, querying.
‘That was how it looked.’
‘So what’s changed?’ She saw indecision in his expression. ‘Is this information you can’t share with me?’ She gave him a second or two. ‘I do
understand, detective, but you must realize that confidentiality gets a pretty high rating in my line of work, too.’
Becket studied her for a moment before making up his mind. ‘The crime-scene people think the window may have been broken from inside the house.’
Grace waited again. He offered nothing more, but the implication seemed perfectly clear to her.
‘You think someone wanted it to look as if it was broken from outside?’
‘It’s a possibility,’ he said again. ‘Though if that was the intent, they did a poor job.’
‘Mightn’t it have been broken before?’ Grace asked. ‘In the past?’
‘It might,’ he said. ‘It might also be unconnected.’
‘What does the housekeeper say?’
‘Mrs del Fuego says she has no knowledge of the window being broken before Thursday, but she can’t be sure because it’s not a room she went into every day.’
Grace thought about Anita del Fuego and the impact of coming suddenly upon that kind of mayhem. ‘How’s she doing?’
‘Coping,’ Becket said.
‘That’s a word I mistrust,’ Grace said. ‘I hear it all the time.’
‘Still, coping’s what people do, isn’t it?’ the detective asked her. ‘They cope – they get by. They survive.’
‘Of course.’ She gave a small grimace. ‘They also bottle up nightmares, wall themselves up.’
‘Storing up problems for the future,’ he said.
They were both silent for a moment.
‘Cathy looks like she’s coping,’ Grace said, ‘but we both know she isn’t. She can’t be. It isn’t possible.’ She noticed suddenly that Becket was
looking at her intently, and she bristled slightly. ‘Do I have a smudge on my face?’
‘I’m sorry.’ He paused. ‘It’s just the similarity.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Between you and Cathy Robbins.’ He saw her startled expression. ‘You’re really quite alike, physically, Dr Lucca.’
‘Are we?’ Grace said coolly. ‘I didn’t notice. Looks were not uppermost in my mind when I was talking to Cathy.’
‘No, I don’t imagine they were,’ Becket said. ‘I’m sorry.’
Grace had learned the tough way, as had many of her professional contemporaries, to slap down references to her appearance by colleagues, male or female. Her own blue eyes and straight blonde
hair were certainly irrelevant here, yet Cathy’s fairness and fragility were clear in her mind; and with them, overriding the youthful femininity, the absence of character-defining features
that had troubled Grace briefly when she’d met the teenager. She knew from photographs that her own face, even as a young child, had already testified to her personality, and it had taken her
years of practice to learn to mask private feelings or reactions that were better kept within. Cathy Robbins’ face was a little like a poorly executed portrait; pretty but too blank. Grace
thought it might be symptomatic of the effects of her desolation, like an empty wasteland left by a bomb strike, but it was much too soon to be sure of that.
‘The window,’ she said abruptly, bringing herself back to the police findings. ‘Do you really think it might be an inside job?’
‘We have to consider it.’ Becket was careful again.
‘The housekeeper?’
‘With her mother and children until she left for work. We’re checking.’
‘Who else has keys to the house?’
‘The aunt – Mrs Dean.’
Grace was sceptical. ‘Marie Robbins’ sister?’
‘She knew about the surgical instruments,’ Becket said.
Grace thought about the bereft woman. ‘I don’t think so.’
Becket waited a moment. ‘What about the girl?’ he asked, quietly.
Grace’s head went up sharply. ‘What about her?’
‘What were your first impressions of her? Generally.’
The surge of anger she felt startled Grace. ‘No way,’ she said. ‘No
way
.’
‘It’s another possibility,’ Becket said, remaining quiet. ‘The instruments belong to her.’
‘Only because they were left to her.’ Grace reminded herself that it was obvious that Cathy would need to be ruled out as a suspect, and that the detective was just doing his job.
‘If I’m any judge,’ she said, trying to stay calm, ‘Cathy’s involvement is purely as victim, nothing more sinister.’ There was a knot tightening in her stomach.
‘She’s a traumatized, grieving adolescent, Detective Becket, not a killer.’
‘Do you know how many killings are attributed to fourteen-year-old girls in this country these days, especially stabbings?’ Becket wasn’t scoring points. He looked the way he
felt. Sad. Sick at heart.
Anger and dismay gave way to sudden suspicion. ‘When did you learn about the window?’ Grace enquired.
Becket understood her meaning instantly. ‘After I asked you to meet with Cathy, Dr Lucca.’
Grace had no choice but to accept what he said, but felt compelled to go on in the teenager’s defence. ‘She’s very fragile.’
‘Emotionally, of course.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I noticed a number of school trophies in the house. For running.’ The detective paused. ‘Not that physical strength necessarily played a great part in these killings. Marie
and Arnold Robbins both took sleeping tablets before they retired on Thursday night – they’d have been in no condition to fight.’
‘Oh God.’ Grace tried not to picture the possible scene.
‘If it’s any consolation,’ Becket told her, ‘my own instincts are with yours.’
‘You don’t believe Cathy did it either.’
Becket shrugged. ‘One of my problems is I never want to suspect a young person – especially not a kid as patently vulnerable as this. But you must have come across your share of
violent adolescents, doctor – you know as well as I do that kids can kill.’
‘Of course I know,’ Grace said, more heatedly than she meant to. ‘On the streets, with knives and guns and broken bottles and stolen cars.’ She fought to sound logical.
‘But with a
scalpel
? Have you ever come across a fourteen-year-old girl who’s taken a surgical instrument and sliced her parents’ throats?’ She looked across at the
detective, trying to read him again, to imagine the paternal influences of David Becket, wise, kindly paediatrician, on this powerful-looking street cop. ‘What does your father say about
this?’
‘We haven’t talked since Cathy was discharged from the hospital, but I’m sure if he were here listening, he’d be in complete agreement with you.’ Becket looked
around the room, which had, for the moment, emptied out. His face was very grim. ‘But then, the idea of the child-woman parent killer isn’t an image my father would find easy to conjure
up.’
They were both silent again for a moment. A telephone rang on another desk, then stopped.
‘You said you haven’t found the weapon yet?’ Grace asked.
‘Not yet.’
‘Was there any physical evidence taken from Cathy?’
‘Sure. But given the circumstances, I wouldn’t expect to find anything either way. They were parents and child – prints, fibres, hairs, skin traces would have been all over
each other, all over the house.’
‘And she must have been covered with their blood,’ Grace said quietly.
‘Yes,’ Becket said.
Grace went home, fed Harry, made herself a bowl of pasta and sat in front of the TV, staring at, but not really seeing, what was on the screen.
There was one thing she did keep on seeing, in her mind’s eye, over and over again, a small, nagging, trivial thing like a smudge of dirt on a pair of sunglasses that only went away
completely when one got around to cleaning the lens.
The Band-Aid on Cathy Robbins’ arm.
It hadn’t just come back to Grace since getting home. She’d thought about it more than once during her meeting with Becket, had wanted to ask if he knew what lay beneath the sticking
plaster – had wanted the assurance that it was not a cut that might have been inflicted with a scalpel. But the fact was she hadn’t dared ask.
Which seemed to her now to indicate that she was taking sides. Which was bad news, unprofessional news under the circumstances. She was not, after all, even Cathy’s psychologist. Neither
the girl nor her aunt had approached her – the introduction had been effected unofficially by a third party.
Yet by not asking Detective Becket about that Band-Aid, Grace knew she was already withholding the seedling of a suspicion.
Why?
The answer was simple.
Because Cathy Robbins had touched her.
Which meant that Grace was going to have to be careful. Stand back a little.
Becket had said that she and Cathy were physically alike. Grace wondered now if she herself had, perhaps subconsciously, noted a resemblance between the teenager and her own Nordic-rooted looks
inherited from her mother. She wondered if that superficial link had perhaps evoked echoes of her own troubled childhood; wondered if all that had, somehow, impacted on her in some way, perhaps
even tilting her objectivity a little.
Surely not. She hoped not.
But a small warning voice in her mind was already making her wish that Becket’s father had not suggested his son call her. That she had never heard of Cathy Robbins.
It was past midnight when Sam got back to his South Beach home a few short blocks from the police department – the close-to-miraculous apartment he’d managed to
acquire four years earlier in a deal that had raised a few eyebrows at work, but which no one had ever suggested was anything other than the kind of dumb luck any one of them might have hoped
for.
The building he lived in was a pink-and-white curvy Art Deco guest house on Collins Avenue between Ninth and Tenth Streets. Sam had passed it often enough without a second glance since joining
the department, but his first close encounter had come about when an old college friend now living in New York City had taken a room there. Sam had paid a visit and gotten into conversation with
the owner, a guy who’d known better times. It seemed the roof was in bad shape and the whole top floor, and the only real question was whether he was going to go under financially before the
authorities closed him down. Sam had fallen in love with the place, and had made a deal whereby he had agreed to take care of the renovations and make the building passable for the inspectors,
provided the whole floor – along with the roof – became his private, permanent home.
Taking an ice-cold beer and the still-hot dish of conch-filled tamale he’d picked up on the way back, Sam headed up to the roof now. It was still not much more than a small square of
concrete, cluttered by a cooling tank, satellite dish and pipes, yet it was his favourite place for hanging out and unwinding at night. Lit by glints of neon and starlight, removed from the tourist
hustle that spread out nightly from Ocean Drive, it was also his number one rehearsal venue. A borderline opera fanatic, Sam possessed a rich enough baritone to get him regular leading roles with
S-BOP – the South Beach Opera – a local group of more than adequately gifted enthusiasts. Any day now, the guys were going to be holding auditions for their summer production of
Il
Trovatore
, and Sam was just itching to get his teeth into the part of the Count di Luna – always providing, of course, that the others were prepared to go on tolerating his frequent
no-shows. It was a measure of their respect for his voice and his passion, he supposed, that they had put up with an unreliable black cop singing traditionally white roles for so long – that,
and the weird-but-true fact that Sam knew most of the baritone roles written by Verdi, Puccini, Mozart, Wagner and even Gounod, off by heart – even weirder given that the only foreign
language he actually
spoke
with any fluency was Spanish.
He was taking his first bite of tamale when his phone rang. He could hear it through the open trapdoor that led from the fire stairs to the roof.
It rang four times before his machine picked up – he already knew that it wasn’t likely to be work, because his pager was still in his pocket. A minute later it rang again, for two
rings this time, then stopped. And began again.
Ma was the only person who did that, the only person who knew that if Sam was there – even if he was dead on or off his feet, or up on the roof, or in the shower or, if he was damned
lucky, in bed with a lady (when had
that
last happened, by the way?) – her simply coded rings would drag him to the phone sure as a hand on his collar.
He looked at the tamale and at the beer, then tilted up his face and grabbed a swift fix of Miami night sky, determined to relax.
Why in hell was his mother calling after midnight?
Sam was up on his feet and down the stairs and back in his living room in about five seconds flat. He played back the last message.
‘It’s after midnight, Samuel Becket, so where are you?’
Accusing, like only Judy Becket knew how to be. Her adopted son might be thirty-four years old, six foot three and a police detective, but she still figured she ought to be informed of his
whereabouts after the witching hour.
‘This is your mother.’
Sam grinned at the machine.
‘If you get home anytime before three, call me. Don’t worry about waking me because I can’t sleep, and don’t worry about waking your father because I turned off the bell
in our room.’
Dad hated her doing that in case a patient needed him.
‘And don’t worry – I’ll turn it on again when I go to bed.’
Meaningful pause.