Hell (16 page)

Killing him again.

She slept for a short while, fitful, dream-filled sleep, and then woke to the bleak horror of fresh realization.

Sam was still with her, watching her again.

‘Have you been doing that all night?' she asked him.

Something close to resentment in her tone, for which she could have cut out her tongue, and another rush of emotions took flight: pity for him, fresh shame, and another new realization, that she might have to learn to guard her thoughts, to be less open.

Their marriage, their partnership, had been built on openness.

Another casualty.

‘I'm OK,' she told him.

‘No, you're not,' he told her.

She thought she smiled at him.

He kissed her, and she managed not to pull away, though she wanted to, and she had no understanding of why that should be, unless it was more about her being undeserving of love . . .

More psycho garbage.

‘Are you going to work?' she asked him, a moment later.

Knowing that she wanted him gone, at least for a while.

‘I don't think so,' Sam said. ‘It's Saturday.'

‘You must need to, though,' she said. ‘All that time out, and the case.'

Please
, she heard in her head.
Please go.

‘I guess,' he said. ‘But I don't want to leave you, not today.'

‘Why not?' she said. ‘Claudia will be here.'

‘Cathy said she's going to be here, too,' Sam said.

Her guards, Grace thought, and felt another burst of anger against herself.

‘That's nice,' she said. ‘We can all hang out together, and you can go to work and do what you have to do.'

Sam looked at the woman who looked like his wife, but did not seem like her.

‘You're not OK,' he said.

‘No,' she said. ‘Of course I'm not.'

‘We'll get through this,' he said, as he had when they'd left the detention center yesterday.

Don't argue it
, she told herself.

She kissed him instead, on the lips.

‘Go to work, Sam,' she said.

‘Something not right about this guy, Duggan,' Martinez told Sam as soon as he walked into the unit at nine twenty-five. ‘Did they tell you he had no ID on him at the scene?'

Having worked long hours since the second heart had been found at the Fontainebleau, most of the detectives were taking the weekend, which meant the office was quiet, though Martinez, upset as all hell about Grace, had been there since before eight.

‘They did not.' Sam sank into his chair, but the small hairs on the back of his neck were already lifting.

‘Seems Mrs Mankowitz said Duggan told her he was working on Virginia Key at the university marine lab, but they never heard of him there.'

‘Maybe she misunderstood.'

‘I talked with her fifteen minutes ago. It's what he told her.' Martinez paused. ‘And that's not all. His car isn't registered in his name either.' He glanced down at a Post-it sticker on his desk. ‘The RO's a Bernice van Heusen in Savannah, Georgia.'

‘Stolen?'

‘Not reported.'

‘Where does Duggan live?' Sam asked.

‘No one seems to know,' Martinez said. ‘No ID, no nothing on him, so no way of informing his family. There's a bunch of Duggans listed in South Florida who I'm sure Key Biscayne or Miami-Dade are calling, but I've started too.'

‘Give me the list,' Sam said. ‘I'll carry on.'

‘How's about we share?' Martinez said.

Sam smiled. ‘You can take off the kid gloves now. I'm not cracking up.'

‘No point,' his partner said.

By ten fifteen, they'd spoken to two Charles Duggans, both very much alive.

No other people by that name.

Hard to say what it might mean if they and the official investigators did not find any trace of the Duggan who had been Sara Mankowitz's friend.

But it meant
something
, that was for sure.

‘By the book, of course,' Martinez pointed out, ‘we shouldn't be checking up on this guy.'

Sam was silent for a moment or two.

‘Seems to me,' he said, ‘Alvarez might be right about my taking some time.'

‘You going to see Mrs Mankowitz?'

‘Could be,' Sam said.

‘Go carefully, man,' Martinez said.

Sam found Sara Mankowitz at home.

A one-storey single family dwelling, well maintained, the way most houses were on Key Biscayne.

He knew he ought not to have come, off-duty or not.

Grace had been forbidden from speaking to witnesses, though no such stipulation had been made so far as he was concerned.

It was still wrong, and he knew it.

Right now, he didn't give a damn.

‘How did you know where I live?'

She was defensive rather than hostile. Her face was pale and her eyes were red from weeping or exhaustion, probably both.

‘I knew you lived near my sister-in-law's home.'

‘And you're a detective, after all.' She opened the front door more fully to let him in, then hesitated. ‘I'm not sure I should be talking to you.'

‘It's OK,' Sam said. ‘This has nothing to do with what happened.'

‘Really?' Still doubtful, Sara closed the door and walked ahead of him into her living room. ‘Would you like to sit down?'

‘Thank you.' Sam sat in a gray leather armchair.

‘Coffee?'

‘No, thank you,' he said. ‘How are you and your son doing?'

‘Pete's resting,' she said. ‘He hasn't slept much since.'

‘And you?'

‘I'm as you might expect, in the circumstances.' Sara paused. ‘What do you want from me, Detective Becket?'

‘I was hoping you might have Charles Duggan's address.'

‘I don't.' She was still standing. ‘I've already told the police.'

‘Do you know whereabouts he lived?'

‘In Coral Gables, near the university.'

‘Near UM?' Sam said. ‘But you never visited him there?'

‘Why are you asking me these questions?'

‘Because we haven't been able to find an address for Mr Duggan.'

Sara sat down in the second armchair. ‘That does seem strange.'

‘It is,' Sam said. ‘What can you tell me about him?'

‘He was a nice man,' she said. ‘I haven't known him very long.'

‘How did you meet?'

For a moment, he thought she might refuse to answer, but then she leaned back, and Sam realized this was perhaps what she needed, to talk about her lost friend.

‘We met one morning after I'd dropped Pete off at school.'

Her voice had dropped, as if she was afraid her son might overhear.

‘You met at the school?'

She shook her head. ‘In a coffee shop nearby. I needed a shot of caffeine, and Charlie was at the next table. He smiled at me, said something about the weather, then left me in peace, which I thought was polite.'

Sam waited, knew there would be more.

‘A week or so later, I saw him in the post office and we chatted while we waited in line.' Sara stopped.

‘And you became friends,' Sam said. ‘I'm so sorry for your loss.'

He waited for her to go on, but she remained silent.

‘I gather Pete wasn't so keen,' he said.

‘That ought to be privileged information.' She was sharp, her cheeks flushed.

‘I'm not sure it qualifies under patient confidentiality,' Sam said, ‘which Grace takes very seriously, as I'm sure you know.' He leaned forward, keeping his manner gentle. ‘But there were things she had to tell me when I got to the scene on Thursday evening.' He paused. ‘Why, for example, you had felt it necessary to call her out to a potentially dangerous situation.'

‘She was Pete's psychologist,' Sara said. ‘He needed her help.'

The ‘
was
' bugged Sam. A lot.

‘At the side of a busy highway?'

Her expression changed. ‘I know.' She looked briefly close to tears. ‘I wish I hadn't called, believe me, and I am sorrier than you could know.'

Again, he gave her a few moments.

‘Why was Pete afraid of Mr Duggan?'

‘I don't think it was Charlie he was afraid of,' Sara defended the dead man. ‘Pete is easily scared, and he'd been spooked earlier.'

‘At Jimbo's.'

‘Yes.'

‘Mr Duggan's choice, I believe.'

‘Yes.'

‘A curious choice for a nervous boy, don't you think?'

‘I'd never been there before,' Sara said.

‘But Mr Duggan probably had, since he'd been working at the marine lab.'

‘Why are you interrogating me?'

‘I'm just trying to get a picture of what happened.'

‘Before your wife ran down an innocent man.' Her mouth trembled.

Sam's instincts were to stop and comfort her, to say how sorry Grace was, how sorry they both were for her pain, but he knew he might never have another shot at this kind of questioning.

‘I am a little confused,' he said.

‘About what?'

‘No one at the lab on Virginia Key seems to have heard of Charles Duggan. He was not working there.'

‘As I told another detective who phoned this morning, maybe he was just using their facilities,' Sara said. ‘He was a researcher.'

‘Who did he work for?'

‘He was freelance, but he'd studied marine life at college, so I guess it would make sense if he was using their library.'

‘Which college, do you know?'

‘I don't know.'

‘He didn't tell you?'

‘It didn't come up.' Sara stood up. ‘I think I've had enough of this.'

‘Of course.' Sam got up too. ‘Just one last thing?'

She sighed. ‘What is it?'

‘Do you have a photograph of Mr Duggan?' He thought it unlikely she'd hand it over if she did, since if she'd had one, she'd already have given it to Miami-Dade or Key Biscayne PD.

‘Why?'

‘Because it's proving hard to find his family, and it would be kinder if they don't have to use images from the scene, as you can imagine.'

‘Of course.' For a moment, she seemed about to cry again. ‘I told the police after it happened that Charlie said his mom lived in North Miami, so I don't understand why it should be so hard tracking her down.'

‘What about his father?'

‘Charlie said he died years ago.'

‘That's why a photograph might help,' Sam persisted. ‘We'd hate for his mother to find out from the TV or newspapers.'

‘But the story's already out there,' Sara said.

‘He hasn't been named,' Sam pointed out.

‘As a matter of fact – ' she looked a little awkward – ‘I forgot, when they asked me Thursday, that I did have one photo, on my cellphone. I was looking at it just this morning, and I figured that I should maybe call someone.'

‘Would you mind forwarding it to my phone?' Sam asked, pushing his luck.

‘I don't know how. Pete usually does stuff like that for me.'

‘I could show you, if you don't mind.'

Her purse was on a sideboard beneath a painting of Greenwich Village, and she took out the phone, located the photo and handed the phone to Sam, and he itched to take the whole thing.

‘Did you have a phone number for Mr Duggan?'

‘Only a cellphone number,' she said. ‘I've given it to the police.'

He didn't ask for her number, knew he'd be pushing his luck. But he badly wanted the photograph, had been unable to take any shots of the dead man Thursday night.

He scrutinized the picture, set it up to send. ‘He looked nice.'

‘He was nice,' she said.

The photo was of the dead man seated on a white garden chair, a glass in one hand, smiling into the lens, and if Sam half-closed his eyes, he thought he could see how, in the darkness and confusion, Grace might have believed him to be Cooper.

‘Your backyard?' he asked, and sent the shot.

Sara Mankowitz nodded, abruptly, close to tears again.

‘Will you tell Grace I'm sorry?' she said. ‘For getting her involved.'

‘You know she was just trying to help, don't you?' He checked to make sure the photo had reached his own cell, then handed back her phone.

‘I know,' she said. ‘But so was Charlie.'

He asked his final question at the door.

‘Did he ever mention a Bernice van Heusen to you?'

‘No. Who is she?'

‘I don't know,' said Sam.

His next stop was a photo lab on Crandon Boulevard, where he asked the technician and his assistant if either of them recognized Duggan while their software uploaded the dead man's photo and produced a number of prints.

No recognition, no big surprise.

Virginia Key his next port of call.

Jimbo Luznar's place on Duck Lake Road had been something of a South Florida institution for more than fifty years, a shrimp shack complete with bocce court, pretty much a dump, but popular with movie producers and fishermen alike.

Just a dump in Sam's book.

He decided against showing his badge, paid the five bucks entrance fee and drove along Arthur Lamb Road past the waste-water treatment plant, and, arriving at Jimbo's, seeing the mess of trucks and bikes, some dumped, others fit to be, he thought about Grace's instant suspicion of a man who'd thought this an appropriate place to bring a sensitive kid.

His wife's instincts so seldom off track, and faint pinpricks of hope were still buzzing through his veins as he parked the Saab.

Something
wrong
about Duggan, Martinez had said.

‘Not right' – his exact words.

Translating to Sam as ‘get the hell out the office and go dig up whatever you can because it just
might
help Grace'.

Alejandro Martinez loved Grace too.