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Authors: Hilary Norman

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BOOK: Caged
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‘What did you think you were doing?’ Sam was trying to keep his voice low, but he was too shocked, too mad at her. ‘Your fiancé – my partner, my best friend – is lying in there sick.’
‘It was just the relief.’ Tears sprang into her eyes. ‘It was only meant to be a hug. Please forgive me, please, Sam.’
‘That was a whole lot more than a hug.’ He was shaken, appalled.
‘But I didn’t mean it to happen. I love Al, truly. I’d never do anything to hurt him – I swear I didn’t mean that, I
swear
it.’
‘OK.’ Sam was still reeling. ‘OK, forget it.’
‘But you’re going to hate me now,’ Jess said. ‘I can see it in your face. You’re going to tell Al, and you’re going to tell Grace, and you’re all going to hate me.’
‘No one’s going to hate you, Jess.’ Sam looked back and forth along the hallway, knew there’d been no one in earshot and was glad of that much. ‘And I’m certainly not going to tell Al anything – though I hope that if there’s anything that does need telling, you’ll be the one to do it.’ He shook his head, grim-faced. ‘But not while he’s sick, right?’
‘Not ever, Sam,’ Jess said.
‘That’s between you and Al,’ Sam said. ‘But if you cause him any more pain while he’s in bad shape, you will have me to answer to.’
‘All right.’ Her voice was hushed, small.
‘Then we can forget this,’ Sam said.
‘What about Grace? Will you tell her?’
‘I tell Grace everything.’
‘But she’ll—’
‘She won’t mention it to anyone,’ Sam cut her off. ‘Like I said, we can forget this happened.’
‘Thank you.’ She was white-faced again now, just two spots of high colour remaining like smears over her cheekbones. ‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am.’
‘Forget it,’ he said, not harsh, but firm. ‘Just forget about it.’
Except he knew he would not be able to do that. And he hated what had just happened. Hated that it meant that Cathy had been right in her suspicions, hated that he was not, for a very long time – if ever – going to feel easy in Jess’s company, and worse, that he was going to have to lie to his friend.
Most of all, he hated its implications for Martinez and the happiness he’d only just found.
Hated
it.
More on his mind than Jess Kowalski or even Martinez by the end of that long day of mixed blessings. Tomorrow he and Riley planned to go on cross-checking alibis, would pay a visit to Moore at Beatty Management, dig their heels in if necessary until they got to see her; but they still had nothing good enough to bring in either her or Beatty, still had nothing good enough
period
.
And meantime there might still be some new innocent couple out there in the gravest possible danger.
He went to see Mike Alvarez again before he left.
‘In the circumstances – ’ he hit the point without preamble – ‘I really feel I have to cancel my leave.’
‘Quit right there, Sam,’ Alvarez said, ‘and sit down.’
He waited a moment.
‘I thought we had this conversation already. I told you I didn’t want to hear of you cancelling this—’
‘Unless the sky really started caving in,’ Sam said.
‘You know something I don’t?’ Alvarez asked.
‘No, I don’t,’ Sam said. ‘Which is the whole point.’
The other man leaned forward. ‘I get how bad you’re feeling, Sam. But this is a cruise, bought and paid for, plus I can’t recall the last time you and Grace took a vacation.’
Now Sam was almost thrown, because this kind of thing just did not happen. Senior officers did
not
take this benevolent an attitude with a serial killer on the loose in their jurisdiction, and maybe Michael Alvarez
was
going soft . . .
‘We had a few days in Chicago last year,’ he said.
‘To close up her sick father’s house, hardly a vacation for Grace.’
‘We stayed in a nice hotel.’
‘Whoop-de-doo,’ Alvarez came back, dryly, leaning back again. ‘I happen to think your wife’s a very special lady.’
‘Join the club,’ Sam said.
Starting to wonder now if something else was going on here: if maybe Agent Duval or the Captain or even the Chief had been questioning his performance, and maybe this was Alvarez’s way of getting him off the scene for a few days, and maybe when he got back, the shit would really start hitting . . .
‘This is Grace’s birthday coming up, right?’ Alvarez said. ‘And it’s a surprise.’
‘Which is why it won’t matter to her if I cancel.’
‘And you’ll get your money back?’
‘No,’ Sam admitted.
‘Then it just might matter one heck of a lot if she wants you to take a vacation later this year and you can’t afford it.’
‘But with Martinez off sick, and with this case still—’
‘We have a Major Crime Squad working this now,’ Alvarez reminded him crisply. ‘I hate to break this to you, Sam, but you are expendable.’
Sam considered briefly asking the sergeant if that
was
what was happening here, if he was actually on the brink of being kicked off the case, but then he reminded himself that this was not about
him
, this was about the victims.
‘Riley and I are working a possible lead,’ he said.
‘I know,’ Alvarez said. ‘And Beatty and Moore may have something weird going, but as yet it isn’t what I’d call a lead.’ He shrugged. ‘Though you still have two clear days to pull something out of the hat.’
‘Do you think the killing has stopped?’ Sam asked.
‘Five days between disappearances instead of four?’ Alvarez spread his hands. ‘Personally, I don’t think it means as much as we’d all like, though maybe three’s a charm and that’s going to be the end of it.’
‘Unholy trinity,’ Sam said.
Which seemed to take him right back to Moore and Beatty again.
‘Go home, Sam,’ Alvarez told him. ‘Start again in the morning.’
‘OK,’ Sam said.
‘And no sitting up all night googling satanism or whatever, right?’
Sam got up, relieved to stretch his legs.
‘As if,’ he said.
SEVENTY-NINE
H
e’d poured them both a glass of wine and told Grace about the Jess hospital incident within a half-hour of getting home.
‘That’s not good,’ she said. ‘How worried are you for Al?’
‘If she breaks his heart . . .’ Sam shook his head. ‘Who am I kidding? Not a whole lot I can do if she does.’
‘You can help mend him,’ Grace said.
They looked at each other and then, no words necessary, they did what they always did when they felt especially good, bad or sad. They went upstairs and into their son’s room for a while, watched him sleep, whispered love messages to him.
Later, back in the den, Woody between them on the couch, Sam showed her the photograph he’d brought home.
‘Beth wondered if you might cast your psychologist’s eye over this.’
Grace surveyed it. ‘Not painted by a child. Nor a teen.’
Sam shook his head. ‘By a person of interest.’
Grace frowned. ‘You have experts to do that.’
‘And they are,’ Sam said. ‘But Beth thought it wouldn’t hurt to show you.’
‘All right. So long as we all remember this is not my field.’
‘Goes without saying. We’d still value your opinion.’
She looked at it again, saw what appeared to be a dark, jagged landscape with no redeeming light from above, the only glow emanating from below, and that menacingly flickering rather than consoling. Peering more closely, she thought she saw creatures within the darkness that might have been snakes or worms . . .
‘Take your time,’ Sam said.
‘I am,’ she said, taking a Jungian slant, as she was sure they were hoping she would, trying to psychoanalyze through this single and, therefore, far too limited example of this artist’s work. ‘But I’m getting nowhere, because there’s simply so little to go with, which means there’s a risk of over-reacting to what we do have.’
‘We’ve seen more,’ Sam said. ‘Which—’
‘Don’t tell me,’ Grace said. ‘Not yet, at least.’
She took a few more moments.
‘I can only say that if this were an adolescent’s work – imagining a less proficiently painted version of the same – I would probably have some concerns about the child in question.’ She shook her head. ‘Which is a very far cry from daring to suggest that the artist here might have any connection with violent death. Which I presume is what you and Beth are asking.’
‘It’s called
“Erebus”
,’ Sam said. ‘As in Hades’s location.’
‘How old is the artist?’
‘She’s twenty-seven.’
‘She,’ Grace repeated.
‘Does that make a difference?’
‘Not really.’ She went on studying the photograph. ‘Many young people have become fascinated by satanic or demonic issues mostly because they’re fed so much through TV and computer games.’ She shook her head. ‘Mind, I’m way out of touch these days.’
‘This is an adult,’ Sam told her.
‘Quite.’ Grace paused. ‘Are we talking about the woman from the gallery?’
Sam had told her a little about Moore and Beatty, though the way she’d read it, she’d believed it was Beatty he had issues with.
‘We are,’ Sam said. ‘And she has at least one witchcraft-related painting on her wall at home. By Goya –
Witches In the Air
.’
‘That’s a wonderful painting,’ Grace said. ‘I’d have it on my wall.’ She paused. ‘So Allison Moore’s an artist.’
‘Riley thinks her work is very dark,’ Sam said.
Grace thought about it. ‘So supposing she is into some kind of dark arts thing – even supposing she’s all the way down into satanism. Does that connect with these homicides in any way?’
‘Not on any obvious level,’ Sam said.
‘Have I helped at all?’
‘You always help,’ he said.
‘Not to nail this killer,’ Grace said.
‘Not tonight,’ Sam said.
EIGHTY
February 24
A
t eight thirty Tuesday morning they were back at Beatty Management.
Moore was in her office on the first floor, behind the reception area, her calendar ready and waiting for them.
‘Mr Beatty told me you’d be wanting this,’ she said after inviting them to sit.
Her space was small, plain, well organized, the chairs not matching, as if she’d borrowed them for her visitors. Sam found himself wishing, as he sat on yet another too small, uncomfortable chair, that the day might come when someone more considerate of tall humans, maybe someone like Saul, might be commissioned to redesign office furniture.
‘
Mr
Beatty?’ Riley raised an eyebrow. ‘Very formal.’
‘He’s my boss.’
‘And a little more besides,’ Sam said.
‘The sketch,’ Moore said flatly.
‘He told you about that, too,’ Riley said.
‘Why wouldn’t he?’ Moore said. ‘Those questions seemed so odd to him.’
‘Especially as he’s never posed for you,’ Riley said. ‘According to him.’
‘He hasn’t,’ Moore said.
‘But the sketch was of Lawrence Beatty?’ Sam asked.
Moore hesitated before answering. ‘I don’t understand why this is important.’ She shook her head. ‘I mean, I’ve told you I really want to cooperate, but this stuff seems private to me.’
‘And we regret asking you questions about private matters,’ Sam said. ‘But it’s in the nature of homicide investigations to have to work through layers. If the surface doesn’t yield much, we start digging a little deeper.’
‘So you’re digging around everyone connected, however tenuously, to all these killings?’ Moore asked.
‘Sure,’ Riley said. ‘Though your connection isn’t as
tenuous
as some, given that you were the person who most frequently visited the location where the Eastermans were left.’
‘Surely that makes me more of a potential witness than a suspect.’
‘No one’s referred to you as a suspect, Ms Moore,’ Riley said.
‘Unless Mr Beatty gave you that impression,’ Sam said.
Riley was glancing around. ‘Is this your office?’
‘It is,’ Moore said. ‘Why?’
‘No posters,’ Riley said. ‘Nothing art-related.’
‘It’s my workplace.’
‘Was that sketch of Lawrence Beatty?’ Sam asked again.
Moore exhaled a swift, irritated breath. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘I sketched him. One time. He was unaware, and the nude aspect was purely imaginary.’
‘Do you remember when you sketched him?’ Riley asked.
‘No,’ Moore said. ‘Or not exactly. It was over time. It’s how I work sometimes, go back and forth with a piece.’
‘OK,’ Sam said. ‘Thank you.’
They continued the interview with what they’d officially come for: the checking of her calendars, both business and personal, the results as inconclusive as Beatty’s; though if the shadow of suspicion did begin to broaden over both or either of them, their alibis, such as they were, would be quadruple-checked.
‘You look tired, Ms Moore,’ Riley said when they were through.
‘More troubled than tired.’ Her telephone rang. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘It’ll go to voicemail.’ It stopped after four more rings.
‘Troubled by our questions?’ Sam asked.
‘By the dreadfulness of these killings,’ Moore said, ‘and the fact that I should be deemed to have involvement at any level.’ She moved restlessly in her chair. ‘I’m sorry. It’s a strain.’
‘It’s a dreadful time,’ Sam said.
‘Especially for the families,’ Riley said.
‘Do you imagine I don’t know that?’ Moore said.
She seemed suddenly close to tears, and Sam’s instant gut reaction was to believe her. And then his mind drifted briefly to Jess Kowalski, and it occurred to him, worried him somewhat, that he might, for all his years of experience, be a sucker for women’s tears.
He told her they were done, but as Moore was accompanying them out into the reception area, Riley paused.
BOOK: Caged
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