Caged (10 page)

THIRTY

S
am’s mind kept veering off the case to his surprise plans for Grace’s birthday.

She wouldn’t be expecting anything, this being her thirty-ninth, but he hadn’t wanted to wait a whole year until the ‘big’ one because Grace deserved something special
now
, and when it came to her fortieth, he’d do something else, something even bigger, if their reserves held out; and his mom’s legacy had made a substantial difference to their security, and Judy would have approved of his putting some of it into spoiling Grace, because she’d grown to adore her daughter-in-law in the five years they’d spent together.

So this year, for her birthday on March first, it was going to be a cruise – departure three days earlier from Fort Lauderdale.

One of Sam’s concerns was that the surprise was a bit of a long shot, because cruising was something they’d never considered before, and for all he knew, they might both hate the whole thing, and Lord knew their previous experiences with boats had been small and anything
but
soothing . . . Still, First International’s
Stardust
was certainly not small, and he wanted to whisk Grace away from it all, but he couldn’t take more than a few days, and this way there’d be no need to negotiate airports and long flights, and if by chance they hit bad weather or got seasick or hated vacationing with so many other people, then heck, it was only four nights and, bottom line, they’d still be away and together . . .

And the notion of sweeping his Gracie right off her gorgeous feet and on to a beautiful cruise ship, when she was expecting nothing grander than a family dinner, warmed him right down to his toes.

Hardly anyone knew about the plan to date – just his dad, Martinez, Sergeant Alvarez and Captain Kennedy, all of whom he’d had to inform before he’d handed over his Amex details to First International – but he was going to have to involve Saul and Cathy soon, because they’d have to help him play this little game, and he couldn’t wait much longer.

Except, before they left, there was a double homicide to solve, and no signs of an imminent breakthrough, so Sam needed to keep
all
of his mind on the job and off the cruise.

THIRTY-ONE

O
n Friday morning, when Karen Christou first opened her bedroom blinds and looked out on to her backyard, her first reaction was to laugh out loud, because the joke was
so
on her sonofabitch husband.

And then she took a closer look.

Stopped laughing.

Started screaming instead.

Loud enough to wake the neighbours.

But not the dead.

Neither the scores of exotic fish and shrimp spilled over their lawn.

Nor the two wretched human souls who had displaced them in their three hundred gallon acrylic home.

Elliot Sanders – given a heads-up by the on-call medical examiner, Mike Dietrich – notified Sam at ten twenty-two.

‘You and Al need to get over here,’ he said.

To a one-storey house on Prairie Avenue.

‘We got another one,’ Sanders told him. ‘That is, another two.’

Sam felt his insides clench. ‘Same MO?’

‘Not exactly,’ the ME said. ‘But close enough.’

‘Throats cut?’ asked Sam.

‘Yes. Sliced across, not slashed.’

‘Glue?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ Sanders said.

The lady of the house was still in shock when the Miami Beach detectives arrived.

Handsome house, gleaming white with a red-tiled roof, beautifully planted front yard and Spanish-style front door.

Crime scene now.

Neal Peterson, one of the patrol officers who’d been first on the scene and who knew Sam and Martinez of old, told them that Mrs Christou’s husband, a restaurateur, was on the way down from his place in Boca Raton.

‘Separated, not divorced,’ he said. ‘Not too amicably, by the sounds of it.’

‘Think she recognized the victims?’ Sam asked.

‘I don’t think she got close enough,’ Peterson said. ‘Can’t say I blame her.’

Sam and Martinez headed straight through to the back.

The stink of the dead fish already warming in the sun caught them right off.

‘Nice.’ Elliot Sanders nodded at them. ‘Real nice.’

‘Jesus,’ Sam said under his breath.

The victims lay inside a huge fish tank. One male, one female, both Caucasian, both mid- to late-twenties, the female lying on top of the male.

Face to face.

Outside, on the lawn, fish and shrimp were spread all over the grass.

The tank in which the human dead lay measured ninety-six inches in length, but only twenty-four inches deep, and though even on its stone plinth the whole thing stood just forty-five inches high, there was no space for anyone else to get inside.

‘They’re about ready to cut out the front of the tank,’ Sanders told Sam, ‘but the dust’s going to fly, however careful they are, so I asked them to wait so you could take a look first, get the picture.’

‘Appreciate it,’ Sam said, his mind recoiling along with his gut.

Martinez had his notebook out, was already making a sketch, his face stony.

The ME waited as Sam took it all in, then nodded to two men in coveralls, booties and masks, waiting over by one of the white stone walls with sheeting and a powerful-looking saw.

‘Took some time to get what they needed from the lawn and the outside of the tank,’ Sanders said. ‘They’ll bring the whole damned thing over on the flatbed later, but Mike Dietrich and I got a good first look.’

The guys were efficient as lumberjacks and painstaking as surgeons, carving out the huge slab of solid acrylic in one piece and contriving to keep most of the dust and debris outside the tank.

The ME went in first, moving fastidiously, treading the same path as the techs, then taking his time over his examination and returning to the detectives.

‘Rigor still present,’ Sanders said. ‘Washed and moved after death again. Blade used might be the same. No wedding ring marks this time. More later. You guys go ahead.’

The victims were both attractive, as the Eastermans had been, but this woman had shoulder-length dark hair and the man’s buzz cut hair was fair. Partially obscured as their faces were, there was more visible suffering in the woman’s expression than the man’s, who, Sam thought, looked almost peaceful.

‘If you hunker down right there,’ Sanders said from a few feet back, ‘you can see the glue. I suspect there’s more that’s not visible from here, but that much is clear enough.’

‘Holy shit,’ said Martinez.

Sam quietly exhaled.

‘Lips this time.’ Sanders’s voice held pure disgust. ‘We won’t be able to say if it’s filling their oral cavities or not till they’re back at our place.’ He watched the detectives scanning the bodies. ‘I can’t see any traces around their genitalia.’

‘We got ourselves a monster,’ Martinez said grimly.

‘Or more than one,’ Sam said.

‘Lot of work for one perp,’ Martinez said.

‘Could be one mastermind,’ Sam said, ‘running a team.’

They straightened up, took another look around. Whoever had done this had first scooped out the fish in a wholesale massacre, dumped them on the grass and drained out the water before placing the human bodies in the tank.

‘I’d say they were lowered in very carefully,’ Sanders said. ‘So as not to ruin the gluing handiwork or the positioning.’

Sam turned, then crouched again, eyes narrow, looking at a section of grass that had been cordoned off and flagged.

A double row of wheel tracks of similar appearance to those at the mansion.

‘I’m guessing a gurney,’ he said. ‘Maybe the kind where you can adjust height. That would make it easier for a solo perp.’

‘Something else to add to our shopping list,’ Martinez said. ‘Pricey.’

‘Not if they stole it from a hospital,’ Sanders said. ‘Maybe with a hoist, too, to help with the lowering.’

‘Lot of equipment to move around discreetly,’ Sam said, then looked up and around. ‘No cameras.’ He glanced back at the house. ‘Mrs Christou must be one hell of a sound sleeper to have missed all this.’

‘Her neighbours, too,’ Martinez said, making notes.

‘I guess it could have been done pretty quietly,’ Sam said. ‘Well-oiled wheels on the gurney, mostly over grass. Draining the tank.’

‘And fish don’t scream,’ Elliot Sanders said.

THIRTY-TWO

A
nthony Christou arrived less than an hour later, went out to the backyard with Sam and Martinez to take a look, and then, visibly shaken and close to tears, followed them back inside, into the living room, where his wife sat huddled on the sofa, smoking a cigarette.

The drapes were drawn, blotting out the horrors, and the air-con was blowing cold air, but the room was still unpleasantly smoky, five lipstick-tipped butts resting in a chunky glass ashtray on the marble-topped coffee table.

‘You got what you wanted then,’ Christou said aggressively.

He wore a black T-shirt and black jeans, a stocky man with dark hair gelled and combed straight back, flicking up a little at his neck. His brown eyes held anger and, Sam thought, a measure of real pain.

‘What the fuck,’ his wife asked, ‘do you think this has to do with me?’

‘You hated them.’

Karen Christou’s eyes were turquoise – probably, Sam suspected, achieved with tinted lenses – and her ash blonde-streaked hair looked carefully brushed. She’d also taken the time to apply pale lipstick at some stage, but she still wore the long green silk caftan that Peterson said she’d had on when they’d arrived.

‘In case you haven’t noticed,’ she said, ‘there are two dead bodies out there.’

‘Of course I’ve fucking noticed,’ Anthony said. ‘I’m not blind.’

Karen looked up at the detectives. ‘And just in case you were wondering who the “them” is my husband said I hated, it was the fish, not those poor people.’ Abruptly, she began to cry, tugged a tissue from a box on the table.

Christou dropped into one of the armchairs, a hand over his eyes.

Sam and Martinez shared a glance, a tacit agreement to let these two roll on unhindered for at least a few moments longer.

‘You probably think it’s weird – ’ Christou let his hand fall into his lap – ‘a man sitting here weeping for fish.’

‘Not especially,’ Sam said.

‘It’s just because I’ve tried so hard to give them a good life.’

‘I’m sure,’ Martinez said.

‘That’s why I bought such a big tank,’ Christou went on. ‘Because I figured if I wanted to indulge myself with their beauty, I owed it to them to give them as much space as I could, and now . . .’

‘He loved them so much he walked out on them.’ Karen Christou stubbed out her cigarette.

‘I walked out on you,’ Anthony said. ‘Not my fish.’

‘He promised to have the tank moved, but his promises mean zip, you know?’ Karen went on. ‘I’ve had to feed them every fucking day because he’s too busy to come do it himself.’

‘I have to work, remember?’

‘So you can afford to keep your fish in their fucking heated tank.’

Sam and Martinez exchanged another look.

‘OK,’ Sam said. ‘That’s enough.’

‘A little respect,’ Martinez added.

‘And a few questions,’ Sam said.

‘I’m sorry,’ Anthony Christou said. ‘Ask your questions.’

‘Would you like to sit down?’ There was a slight lick of shame in Karen Christou’s tone as she lit another Marlboro Light with a plastic lighter. ‘I could get you some coffee.’

‘We’re good,’ Sam said. ‘But thank you.’

He and Martinez sat in the two empty armchairs.

‘Do you have to do that?’ Anthony regarded Karen’s cigarette.

‘What do you think?’ she said, then deferred to Sam. ‘Do you mind?’

‘It’s your home,’ he said.

‘All our lungs, though,’ Anthony said.

Karen took a long drag, turned away from him again. ‘I told the cops who came first, that I didn’t recognize those people.’ Her voice was quieter now. ‘Not that I saw them close to.’ The turquoise eyes widened. ‘Please don’t make me look at them again.’

‘We’ll be showing you both some photographs in due course,’ Sam said. ‘Only of their faces. Just in case.’

‘Sure,’ Anthony said. ‘No problem.’ He made the sign of the cross with an abrupt, jerky motion, then shook his head. ‘I really am sorry, guys.’

‘That’s OK, sir,’ Sam said.

‘It must have been a terrible shock,’ Martinez said.

‘At least you were warned,’ Karen told Anthony. ‘Imagine what it did to me.’

‘I know,’ he said.

‘I don’t understand,’ his wife said. ‘Why us?’ She drew her robe more tightly around herself as if suddenly cold.

‘Why
here
, you mean,’ Anthony said. ‘It has nothing to do with us.’

‘It’s your backyard, sir,’ Martinez said.

‘I don’t even live here anymore,’ Christou said.

‘You’re incredible,’ Karen said, then caught Sam’s expression and shook her head. ‘Sorry.’

‘You don’t really think – ’ her husband asked the detectives – ‘that this
could
have anything to do with us?’

‘Can you think of any reason why it should have, sir?’ Sam asked.

‘Of course not.’

‘My husband’s in the restaurant business,’ Karen said.

Leaving Sam unsure if she meant that might preclude enmity or criminality of any kind – or the opposite.

‘You own a restaurant?’ Martinez asked, as if it were news to him.

‘Three,’ Christou said. ‘All specializing mainly in fish, cooked Greek style.’

Which ruled out goulash or stroganoff on his menus, Sam supposed, his mind clicking automatically back to the first case.

‘That’s one of the reasons I liked taking such good care of my beauties here,’ Christou went on. ‘God knows I’m guilty of having cooked enough of them in my line of business, so I figured it was my way of putting something back, you know?’