Blood Relations (36 page)

The contact sheets consisted of two sheets of developing paper with tiny photos shot directly from strips of blackand-white negatives. Attached was a piece of paper with a list of frame numbers and the names of whoever was in the shot. Sam removed the paper clip.

Caitlin sat down again. “I was shooting with two cameras that night, one with color film, the other blackand white. I don’t know where the color negatives went to.”

She took off her earrings. They made a bell-like jingle when she tossed them onto the table. The cat came over and bumped its nose into her chin. She tilted her head back, laughing a little, then stroked her hand along its flank. The cat curled up on her lap, the tip of its tail twitching.

Through the magnifying glass, Sam swept over one photo, then the next. Celebrities, models, and less important people who hadn’t made it into the magazine. Sullivan reappeared. So did George Fonseca. And the man who’d been mayor of the Beach at the time. People smiling at the camera. Good teeth. Glasses of champagne.

Sam backed up a few frames. Claudia Otero. She was with another woman, both smiling. He moved the contact sheet closer to the light coming through the window and looked again. The women’s heads were touching. Arms around each other’s waists. He checked the list. Frame 23.

Claudia and Arnalia (her sister).

He took a while to let this sink in. Claudia Otero had looked familiar. Now he knew why. She was enough like her sister to be a twin. Her sister was Eddie Mora’s wife.

Arnalia Otero Mora.

“What did you see?”

Sam asked if she had the negatives.

:‘Why? Did you find something?”

‘I’m not sure yet.”

Yes, you are, you’d just rather play prosecutor.” She lifted the cat off her lap and went back to the boxes on the floor.

Sam had met Amalia Mora maybe half a dozen times since Eddie had been appointed state attorney. Eddie kept his personal and public lives separate. He and Arnalia had come to Matthew’s funeral. She rarely appeared at the office. A pretty woman, mid-thirties, dark hair, spoke perfect English. Cultured, well dressed. Not as flashy as many of the Cuban women in Miami. Her father had owned sugar in Cuba, pre-revolution.

Caitlin returned with negatives pocketed in a clear plastic sheet.

Sam said, “This list that goes with the photos. Where did you get the names on it?”

“From the people in the pictures. I had a tape recorder with me and before I took the picture I’d ask who they were, and I’d record it.”

:‘Some don’t have last names.”

‘Some people don’t like to say.”

He considered that as he drank his beer. It was smooth and cold. She used to keep a sixpack of bottled Amstel in the refrigerator. He sank farther into the armchair, his body heavy as poured cement. He put his glasses back into his shirt pocket.

The air conditioner compressor went off and he could hear the cat purring. Caitlin was scratching under its chin.

After a while her eyes lifted, seemed to focus somewhere on the carpet, then move to Sam’s face. Her irises caught the color of the plants in the window, and the light made them shine. Her blond hair fell from a center part, framing her face. Sam lifted his mug and took another swallow.

Her bedroom door was open, a corner of the bed showing. A bedspread. The bed was made, or maybe turned down at the head, where he couldn’t see it. The same blue curtains at the window. Her dresser. A pair of shoes, one turned on its side, carelessly kicked off.

He finished his beer.

IL

Caitlin sipped hers. “Can I get you a refill?”

“No, I should go. A couple of aspirin, that would be good.”

She looked at him for a few seconds, then put down her mug. “Sure.” He watched her walk into the kitchen: long muscles in her legs, a slight sway to the hips. A few seconds later ice cubes dropped into a glass. He wondered if she still kept bourbon, decided not to ask. He could have used a bourbon more than the beer.

She came out of the kitchen. Moving in that way she had. Bare feet. Bare legs to the hem of her skirt, halfway up her thighs. He could feel a pulse in his temples, tightness in his groin. He wanted to slide his hand under the hem till he found her flesh. Pull her panties aside, if she was wearing any.

Her fingernails lightly grazed his palm when she gave him the aspirins. She stood so close he could see the stitching in the seam of her skirt. She wore a long-sleeved shirt, and her hand was tanned, the skin paler and delicate at the wrist.

He took the glass of water from her.

Her laughter was breathless. “I never thought you’d be in this room again. I would have shot you if you had come through the door.”

He tossed the aspirin into his mouth, then swallowed some water. He held the glass for a minute, debating where on the table to set it, not to make a ring. The table was made of some light wood. He put the glass on a section of newspaper.

“I’m sorry, Caitlin.” He let out a breath. “Jesus. I said that the last time I was here, didn’t IT’

Across the room the plants behind him were casting an odd shadow on a window-shaped patch of sun. Harold Perlstein and his wife were probably sitting down to dinner. Sam decided he would run a few miles when he got home. Then have a couple of drinks and something to eat and stretch out in the family room. Watch some TV.

“I don’t want you to be sorry, Sam.”

Her voice was soft, and memories rolled over him in a black and hopeless wave. He could walk out and nothing would have changed. Or he could stay a while longer.

Turn around and sink into those green eyes. Say the right words. Pull her into his lap. Kiss her. She was waiting for him to do that. He could hear it in her voice. She wouldn’t shy away if he touched her.

He had known all this before he had climbed those stairs, without knowing it consciously. And now the blood was roaring in his veins. He knew what it was like to touch her. Breasts that fit perfectly in his hands. Inside she was warm and slick. He knew the sounds she would make when she came. They weren’t strangers. He could take her to bed. And then walk out and pretend it hadn’t mattered to either of them.

The moment ebbed. He could feel it flowing away from him. Saw the room come back into focus.

He checked his watch, made a noise. “I’ve got to get going.” He picked up the mug and took it into her kitchen.

When he came back out, Caitlin stood by her desk sliding some enlargements into a big white envelope. She glanced over her shoulder. “While you were downstairs I found some portraits of Matthew. I’d like you to have them.”

Sam was at a loss. “What am I supposed to do with them?”

“Take them with you. Frame them, put them in an album, I don’t know.”

:‘Thanks, but we’ve got plenty of photos of Matthew.”

‘Not these.”

:‘What are they, the nudes you said you took?”

‘No, Sam. They’re blackand-white portraits. His face.

There are a few of him standing up, but he’s got a pair of jeans on.” She folded back the flap. “I’ll show you.” She grasped the edges of several sheets of photographic paper and pulled.

“I said I didn’t want them, Caitlin.” The words had a bite he hadn’t intended.

They looked across the room at each other. She let the photos drop back inside the envelope. “Fine.” She laid the envelope on the table. “What are you afraid you’ll see?”

“No. You’re wrong,” he said. “You don’t do that, Caitlin. You don’t push photographs of a man’s dead son in his face.”

She evidently hadn’t considered that. She nodded.

“Forget it.” Sam looked around, trying to remember IL

what he had to take with him when he left here. He spotted the magazines and contact sheets and negatives in the armchair. He picked them up, stood there a second, then dropped them back on the seat.

He said, I want to ask you something. About Matthew.” He turned around and looked at her.

She crossed her arms over her chest, raised one shoulder in a shrug. “All right.”

“You knew him pretty well. You told me you did.”

“I suppose so.”

Sam felt like he’d run up several flights of stairs. “Was Matthew gay?”

Her eyes widened a little. “Gay?”

“Come on, Caitlin. You know what I’m talking about.”

“Why are you asking that?”

“Yes or no?”

She continued to look at him. “No. He wasn’t.”

The witness was lying. Sam moved in a little closer.

“Then would you mind telling me what Matthew was doing with Charlie Sullivan?”

“Oh, Sam. What you’re thinking-” She shook her head. “No. It wasn’t-” Her eyes closed, then opened.

“He and Sullivan had a brief relationship, but for Matthew-”

“Brief.” Sam laughed. “Well, that’s all right, then.

Brief. But Charlie Sullivan’s relationships were always brief, weren’t they?”

“Sam, please. You need to understand this.”

I do understand.” He raised his hands. “Details are not required.”

“For God’s sake, he wasn’t gay!” she shouted. “And if he was, it wouldn’t have been the damned end of the world, but he wasn’t. Can’t you listen?”

There was silence for a moment. Sam said, “All right.

Tell me.”

She raked her fingers through her hair, then said, “When Matthew came to South Beach, he wanted to be a model, not for the most mature reasons in the world, but that’s what he wanted. Except he didn’t know how hard it would be. He wasn’t prepared for that. The hard work, the rejections. He met Sullivan, who was everything he dreamed of being. A top international model. A celebrity.

People fawning all over him. Sullivan had looks, he had money, he traveled. He was older. Sophisticated. And incredibly seductive. Whatever Sullivan wanted, he could usually have. And he wanted Matthew.”

Sam stared at the wall.

Caitlin went on, “What Matthew felt for Sullivan-I don’t know, call it hero-worship. Loneliness, confusion.

Sullivan took advantage. Then it was over, and Matthew was sick about it. He’s your son. He had your values to contend with as well as his own. It happens to people, Sam.”

“In this environment, I’m sure it does.”

“Don’t judge,” she said sharply. “You have no right.”

“Yes, Caitlin. I goddamn well do have a right. My son was sleeping with another man and shooting dope.

Heroin. Another little surprise. Yes or no?” Sam waited for a response. “Yes or no, Caitlin?”

“Smoking it, more than shooting, and he was stopping, Sam. He was.”

“Why in hell didn’t you tell me?”

“Me? How could I have?”

He brought his voice back down. “No, you couldn’t have. If there’s any fault here-and there’s plenty-it isn’t yours.” He picked up the magazines from the armchair and rolled them into a tight tube. “I’m glad someone shot the perverted son of a bitch. I might have done it myself, if I had known this. Matthew couldn’t tell me, could he? Christ, no. I’m the last person he would have come to.”

Her cheeks were blazing with color. “Matthew wasn’t a boy anymore. He had to work it out on his own. He would have, Sam. Please believe that.”

Sam noticed through the jumble of plants in the window that the clouds were starting to turn pink. With the roll of magazines he pushed aside a cascade of philodendron leaves.

“It doesn’t matter what I’d like to believe. I know how it was. Matthew and 1, at some point, stopped connecting.

I told you some of what we went through, so maybe you can understand. A lot of fathers and sons, that’s the way it is. I said, okay, Matt, if that’s what you want, you go do your own thing. And he did. I figured we’d get past all this one day. Then he takes a ride off the deep end. I don’t know why he turned out the way he did. His sister’s nothing like him, and she has the same parents, so how do you figure? I can’t go back and fix it. What I said, how I handled it. He’s gone. I lost him a long time ago.”

A muffled noise came from the sofa. Sam looked around. Caidin was sitting on the edge of it crying. “Oh, God.” He walked over to her. “Caitlin, what is this?”

She took a napkin off the end table. It still had the imprint of his beer mug in it. She pressed the napkin to her eyes with her long, slender fingers.

“What’s this about?” He touched her hair, let his hand move to her cheek.

She turned her head. In a thick voice, she said, “I want you to go.”

“Caitlin.”

“Please. Get the hell out, will you?”

He looked at her a while longer, then went over and picked up the negatives and contact sheets and stuck them in the pages of one of the magazines. He glanced across the room as he closed the door. For a second her eyes cut toward him, then she crossed her arms tightly over her chest and turned away.

am was halfway across the MacArthur Causeway when he got the call, Gene Ryabin telling him that George SFonseca had been found shot to death. At a break in ffic, Sam made a U-turn and sped back toward Miami Beach.

The location was a parking lot outside a boarded-up motel on the northern end of the Beach, just off Collins Avenue. The last half mile Sam found himself behind one of the gray Ford sedans from the M.E.“s office. It splashed through a pothole near the sidewalk, then drove slowly to the rear of the lot, its headlamps sweeping over six Miami Beach police cruisers and a crime-scene van.

Dense Australian pine trees grew wild along the perimeter of the property. Beside the two-story motel, lights had been set up to illuminate the scene, a blaze of white.

Dave Corso got out of the sedan with his camera and flash unit and waited for Sam. “What is this, Hagen? You get all the Beach homicides now?”

“Looks that way,” Sam said. “This could be related to the one from Sunday, Charlie Sullivan.”

The model without a face.”

‘He was a witness on a sexual battery case I’m prosecuting, and today’s victim was one of the defendants.”

“No kidding. First a witness, then a defendant. Be careful. They might go for the lawyers next.” Corso looked around. “Who’s the lead detective? Ryabin again?”

Sam nodded, and Corso went to see what was what before he got started.

The hotel was called Pelican Harbor. No pelicans, no water, except for the scummy rainwater in the swimming pool behind a low chain-link fence. The faded pink paint was decorated with graffiti, and sheets of plywood had been bolted over the lobby windows. The swooping concrete portico dated the construction from the 1950s, before this part of Miami Beach had slid downhill and stayed there.