BLOOD RELATIONS

By: Barbara Parker

Synopsis:

When a seventeen year-old model claims she was raped in the VIP room of
a south beach nightclub by three high-profile men, it's up to Sam Hagen,
head of major crimes for Dade County, to decide if they should be put on
trial.  Hagen's ambition to become the next state attorney outweighs his
reluctance to be drawn back into the moral twilight of south beach,
where his own teenage son died the year before.  Hagen's investigation
of the case only exacerbates his wife's ongoing grief over their son's
death, broadening the gulf between them and driving him into the arms of
a woman from his past.  When a key witness is found brutally murdered,
Hagen is swept into a storm of suspicion that leads, in a shocking
twist, back into his own shattered family.

A SIGNET BOOK Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Books USA Inc., 375
Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

Penguin Books Ltd, 27 Wrights Lane, London W8 5TZ, England

Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood, Victoria, Australia

Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcom Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V
3132

Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road, Auckland 10, New Zealand

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

Published by Signet, an imprint of Dutton Signet, a division of Penguin
Books USA Inc.  Previously published in a Dutton edition.

First Signet Printing, January, 1997

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Copyright (D Barbara Parker, All rights reserved

With admiration and gratitude to Lynn Chandler, a brave and beautiful
lady and a model for us all

(1953-1995)

REGISTERED TRADEMARK -MARCA REGISTRADA

Printed in the United States of America Without limiting the rights
under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or
transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written
permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this
book.

PUBLISHER'S NOTE This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places,
and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are
used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A writer never knows if it is a complaint or a compliment when a reader
says, "Good heavens, there are so many characters in this book!" The
only excuse I can offer is this: So many people told me such good
stories that I wanted to include them all.

The best storyteller at the Dade County State Attorney's Office has to
be David Waksman of the Major Crimes Division.  (Before law school he
walked a beat in the Bronx; he'll tell you all about it.)

Again, thanks to Detective Gary Schiaffo of the Miami Beach Police
Department (Gary, what will I do for cop stories when you retire?) and
to Sergeant Tim O'Regan, who let me ride midnights.  I learned more than
I wanted to know from Dr.  Robert C.  Sykes and Dr.  Lee Hearn of the
Dade County Medical Examiner's Office.  Jess Galan, ballistics expert
with the Metro-Dade Police Department, filled me in on firearms.  Dr.
Karen J.  Simmons of the Rape Treatment Center at Jackson Memorial
Hospital generously shared her time and knowledge.

Modeling agents Allee Newhoff and Deborah Fischer of the Irene Marie
Agency took me into the world of fashion, where I met models Klaus Baer
and Jeff Gawley, agents Cory Bautista and Judy Lane, and hair/makeup
designers Danny Morrow, Scott Barnes, and Rhea White.

For Lynn Chandler, her own page.

Photography credit goes to Bobi Dimond, Gonzalo Miranda, and Scott
Foust, who showed me how a fashion photographer sees it.

Angela Lopez was my tour guide to South Beach nightlife, and Louis
Canales explained why it's such a terrific place, day or night.  Reid
Vogelhut is the best storyteller on the Beach.  And thank you, as
always, Warren Lee.

Merci beaucoup to my panel on foreign languages and culture: Christine
Raffini, for the French and Italian; Dolly Yanishevky, who took me from
Ukraine to Israel; Sophia Economos, for some lovely words in Greek;
Siegfried Grammel, for the bits of German; Trudy Malin, for stories of
Jewish life; and Peter Lavery, who made my British character British.
The Spanish and any mistakes are mine.

Rolland M.  Miller, former infantry first sergeant, U.S. Army, told me
what it was like in Vietnam; and Odessa Tevis, Tarpon Springs Historical
Society, made that town's past come alive.

Many thanks to my legal experts, attorneys Kelly Luther (wrongful death)
and Michael A.  Matters (criminal defense).  Ray King showed me how to
load a Colt .45; Richard C.  David shared his knowledge of family
psychology; and Elizabeth S.  Pittenger supplied horticultural details:

For inspiration and guidance in the early stages, I owe much to Cliff
Yudell.  For brainstorming me through the tough parts, love to my sister
Laura.  For insights on the not-quite-final manuscript, who else but
writer Judy Cuevas.  Thank you, Anne Williams, Headline Publishing,
England, for correcting some of my oversights.  Credit for final
polishing goes, as ever, to all the great folks at Dutton, especially
Audrey LaFehr, my champion and editor, and copy editor Juli Barbato.

Chapter one

Just after dawn on Saturday morning, as the clouds over the Atlantic
brightened from pale blue to white, Ali D., who should have been at a
modeling shoot on Miami Beach, was instead in the Rape Treatment Center
at the public hospital downtown.

Ali D.  was her professional name.  Her real name, she told the doctor,
was Alice Doris Duncan.  Ali made a face, tried to laugh about it. Alice
Doris.  You can't be a model with a name like that.  The doctor smiled.
She was young, and her clean red hair was held back with a gold
barrette.  She told Ali to sit up now, please, and she scraped under
Ali's fingernails and put the scrapings on slides.  Still dizzy from too
much champagne, Ali closed her eyes to shut out the fluorescent lights
and the horrible pink wallpaper.  She wanted to go home.  Just go home.

She shared an apartment on Lenox Avenue with two other girls, all of
them models at the same agency.  Her roommates had the bedrooms, but
they let her use the sofa bed for practically nothing because Ali wasn't
making much money yet.  But someday she would.  She planned to establish
herself on South Beach, put her book together, then go to New York.  But
she would have to do it fast, because there wasn't much time.  She was
almost eighteen.

If you don't make it before you're twenty, forget it.  Some girls would
keep trying, but really, you had to feel sorry for them.

Ali had been thinking about this as she left her apartment just before
midnight to walk to the Apocalypse, a nightclub over on Washington
Avenue.  Her current exboyfriend, George, had invited her.  Some kind of
special party.  That's what he did-plan parties for the clubs, or
sometimes for people with money, like if it was their birthday.

Red hair bouncing on her shoulders, arms swinging, she made her way
through the crowds on the sidewalks.  Men followed her with their eyes.

The agency had called this afternoon with a booking for a German catalog
company.  Here it was, May already, and the models would be wearing
boots and wool coats.

Everybody had to show up at the Clevelander Hotel at 6:00 A.m.  The
production van would take them to the site.

No problem.  Ali had slept most of the day.  She would party at the club
till maybe three, go home, shower and change, have some breakfast, then
go to work.  Make about $500.

At the door to the Apocalypse, people were jammed up waiting to get in.
Ali pushed her way to the front and told the bouncer that George had
invited her.  The bouncer sat there on his stool, with his huge arms and
fat neck, and told her to get in line.  A couple of girls said something
to their dates, like, Who does this bitch think she is?  Just then
George came to check on things.  Ali held out her arms.  "Georgieee!"
George was wearing tight jeans and a leather vest, looking totally buff.
He had a two-way radio on his belt and a headset looped around his neck.
He told the bouncer to unclip the rope, this girl was one of the models,
for God's sake.

"Thought you weren't coming." George kissed her cheek and took her
through the foyer, which was an aluminum tube with rows of lights
leading into the darkness.

Music was blasting from the main room.  Ali went to clubs three or four
nights a week.  The owners wanted models to come; then the good people
would show up, not just the college kids or the tourists or the causeway
crowd from the mainland.  It was getting late in the season, but this
party looked okay, Ali thought.  The heavy bass beat from the speakers
pounded on her cheeks and shook the bones in her chest.

George pulled three tickets out of his vest pocket.

"Drinks," he yelled.

She put the tickets in her little shoulder purse, then turned around,
showing him her dress.  "You like it?"

"Nice .

Ali yelled, "I heard Madonna was going to be here."

"What?"

"Madonna.  Is she coming?"

"Yeah.  I think so.  But maybe not, you know?"

Ali had been to one of Madonna's parties.  She had a mansion on the
water, up the street from Sylvester Stallone's place.  Madonna herself
had run her fingers through Ali's long red hair, asked if it was
natural.  Yes, it was.  Ali had noticed that Madonna had dark roots.

"I hope she shows up," Ali shouted.  "She's really cool."

Moving with the music now, Ali looked around to see if she recognized
anybody in the crowd.  The Apocalypse had a bar along one side of the
long, high-ceilinged room and another on the second floor, with railings
and catwalks.  The metallic walls were lit by tiny spotlights.  A bank
of TV screens flashed with MTV videos.

George shouted, "Don't get lost.  There are some people coming over.
Could be good for you.  They're having dinner at Amnesia; then they'll
come over.  Klaus Ruffini."

"Who?"

He laughed into her ear.  "Moda Ruffini, baby."

"Brilliant!" Moda Ruffini was a boutique on Lincoln Road, a few blocks
north.  Ali had seen Klaus Ruffini around the Beach.  Megarich, always
with a bunch of models and artists and celebrities.  Ali grabbed
George's arm.  "Dance with me!  I love this song!"

George looked down at the beeper on his belt.  His mouth moved,
something like Can't.  Later.  Frowning, Ali watched him go, then pushed
her way to the dance floor.

Bodies flashed blue-white in the strobes, stop-action: a girl's hair
flying out around her head; a man in a muscle tee and jogging shorts,
his body gleaming with sweat.

Vents opened in the ceiling and clouds billowed out, settling like blue
fog.  Ali noticed a funny old leather queen in a biker hat, his round
belly showing under an X of studded leather.

She danced with a booker from her agency for a while, then with some
frat boys.  They had on T-shirts from Boston College.  They wanted her
to smoke some weed with them in their hotel room.  She laughed and said
no way, what did they think she was?

An hour or so later, things were cranking.  Ali looked around for
George, hoping he hadn't forgotten she was there.  On the main bar a
girl in red thigh boots and a corset laced with chains was zapping
everybody with a toy laser gun.  Ali had a drink, then danced with an
agent who booked TV commercials.  They went to the men's room, which
looked like the inside of a computer.  The floor was tiled with green
circuit boards.  He closed the door to one of the stalls and laid out a
couple of lines on the toilet tank, which was made of shiny metal. There
were long smudges where people had run a finger to pick up residue.  Ali
said she didn't want any.  She wanted to know if he needed any girls
with red hair, blue eyes, fivenine.  He said to come by with a reel or
her book and talk to him.  Then he French-kissed her.  And she'd thought
he was gay.  She had some coke after all to be polite.  When they came
out, somebody was barfing into the sink, somebody else wetting a paper
towel for his face.  The guy who wasn't barfing asked where he could get
some downers.

Ali said she didn't know.  He said she did, that everybody on the Beach
knew.  He followed her out the door, cursing in German when she gave him
the finger.

Ali danced for a while with a couple of guys from Brazil.  They bought
her a beer, then went off to dance together.  A while later she found
herself beside a blond girl she'd met at a shoot.  The girl was wearing
low-cut jeans.

There was a ring through her navel.  She had just done an assignment in
Europe, Ali thought.  Or maybe England.

"I heard Madonna might show up," Ali shouted.

"B.F.D.  She's over." The girl yelled, "Keanu Reeves is in town
shooting.  I heard he was going to come, but I doubt it.  It's fucking
two o'clock already.  There's nobody here."

"Klaus Ruffini is coming.  He might want to put me in an ad."

"Cool." They danced beside each other for a while.

Then the girl went off to the bathroom with the drummer for a Spanish
rock band.

Ali saw someone waving at her, a woman with a camera.  Caitlin, who used
to model in New York.  Ali hugged her.  Caidin said she was taking
pictures freelance tonight for the society pages in Latin American
Vogue.  Ali told her that she might be doing some work for Moda Ruffini
pretty soon.  Then a shriek came from behind them.  It was Pussy Katz,
wearing a red wig and polka-dot dress with crinolines.  She put her arm
around Ali.

"Oh, take me, take a picture of me and this cute thing here.  Look.  All
this red hair, both of us.  I mean, is this wild?  Tonight I'm like Lucy
Ricardo.  Ricky?  Ricky, where are you?" She reached out and pinched the
butt of a dark-haired guy walking by.  He jumped sideways, and his
friends laughed and pointed.

Caitlin took a picture of Ali and Pussy Katz with their cheeks pressed
together, eyes wide open, their mouths in big O's.  Ali had met Pussy at
a gay club on drag night.

Ali liked the gay clubs because you could dance without the men hitting
on you.

When Pussy Katz left, Caitlin took Ali's arm and asked if she was
stoned.  "No," Ali said.  "I'm having a good time, all right?"

Hands slid around her waist.  It was George.  She couldn't hear what he
was saying, except that he wanted her to come with him.  They went
toward the stairs leading to the second level, a run of blue lights on
the curved wall to show the way.  Halfway up, George turned toward the
wall so no one could see him and gave her one of the pills out of his
vest pocket.  On the second level the security guy opened the door to
the private room and they went in.  The room had black walls, white
statues of nudes draped with gold cloth, and blue lights in plaster
sconces.  Long windows looked down on the main dance floor, and the
glass vibrated in time to the music.

There were probably twenty people in the VIP room.

Ali recognized an actress from the soaps with her bare feet in someone's
lap.  A black movie actor.  A girl singer for a New York rock band
called Phobos, talking about bondage as the ultimate expression of
trust.  The man next to her nodded, said, We're all bound in one way or
another.  Someone's bodyguard stood by the door.  A blond male model was
dancing by himself.  White shirt hanging open.  Incredibly gorgeous. Ali
had seen his pictures in men's magazines.

A girl looked up slowly from an armchair, squinted at Ali.  "Are you
somebody I should know?"

"I model for Moschino."

"Bullshit." The girl hiccupped.

George took Ali over to meet a man in a yellow silk shirt with palm
trees and flamingos on it.  Klaus Ruffini.

He was younger than she'd expected, maybe thirty-five.

Ali said hi, and Klaus took a handful of her hair and made a beard for
himself.  Everyone laughed.

It was late, too late to matter what time it was.  The singer left with
her people.  Then the soap opera actress staggered out, held up by two
men.  A flash went off.

Caitlin had come in to take some society-page photos.

Everybody posed and smiled, and finally Caitlin put her camera down and
somebody gave her a glass of champagne.  Somebody else bumped her and
the champagne spilled on the drunk girl asleep on the floor.  Klaus was
on the sofa drinking Cristal out of the bottle.  A Japanese girl sat
beside him smoking a joint.  Her eyes were closed.  Ali held out her
champagne glass and he filled it.  She said his store was fabulous.  She
shopped there all the time.  "I think I've got the look for Moda
Ruffini.  Do you want my card?  You could call me."

The Japanese girl slid off the sofa.

Klaus pulled Ali onto his lap and kissed her.  His tongue slid into her
mouth, tasting like tobacco.  He rubbed her thigh.  She wanted to push
him away, but thought it would make him mad.  So she laughed and got up
to dance with the black movie actor.  She tried to remember his name.

Klaus was talking to George, looking at Ali, his cigar glowing red
between his fingers.  Ali dancing, lifting her hair, letting it fall.
She stumbled.  The heel of her shoe broke, and she kicked them both off.
Then George danced with her and moved her toward the back of the room.
The floor tilted, and Ali held on to his shoulders.

She asked why he didn't call her anymore.  He said something into her
ear but she couldn't make it out.  His voice sounded like it was coming
out of a long pipe.  They ---q pwp'@

kissed for a while.  Then she was moving backward, bumping against
something.  A table.  George swept the glasses off it and pushed her
onto her back.  She tried to get up, but he held her down with an arm
across her chest.

His hand went between her legs, pulling at her underwear.

He unzipped his pants.  She yelled for him to get off.  She tried to
twist her hips away but he was too heavy.

When he finished, he kept his hands on her wrists.

Someone else was pushing her legs apart.  The movie actor leaned into
her, eyes squinted shut, while George held her down and told her over
and over it was okay, be quiet, baby, it's okay.  Ali felt like she was
up in the ceiling looking down, and she could see herself, pale in the
darkness, and the men around her, and her mouth open, yelling, but there
was only the hard beat of the music in her ears.

Klaus Ruffini was laughing silently.  He stuck his cigar between his
teeth and leaned over to pick up an unopened bottle of champagne off the
floor.  He shoved the actor aside and motioned for George to turn Ali
over on her stomach.

Fingers went inside her, then something heavy and cold.  She screamed
and twisted when the pain tore through her.  Faces floated like moons in
the darkness, watching.  Finally the thing was gone, and Klaus let her
up.  He said she was very pretty and tried to kiss her.  She hit him in
the chest.

George pulled her off Klaus and told her to shut up.  Ali was screaming
and crying.  She grabbed a glass and threw it at him, then a half-full
bottle of rum.  George ducked and the bottle knocked down one of the
sconces.  The light glared harsh and white into the room, showing lines
of liquid running down the wall.  The bodyguard dragged her to the door
and pushed her through it.  She slid to the floor.

Then Caitlin was there, bending over her.  Bastards!

What did they do to you?  Ali, please.  You have to get up.

The walls tilted and moved.  Caidin gripped her arm and pulled.
Half-carried her down the stairs, through the bodies on the dance floor,
all heat and sweat and noise.

Outside, people stared.  Then somehow Ali was in Caitlin's car.  But not
going home.  Going across the causeway to Miami.  Then stumbling
barefoot along a corridor with a shiny floor.  Caitlin put her into a
chair in a waiting room with pink wallpaper.

Ali remembered her booking at six o'clock and tried to get up, hitting
at Caitlin and crying when she wouldn't let her go.  Caitlin held Ali's
head in her lap and cried, too, and stroked her hair.  Oh, Ali, I'm
sorry.  Damn them all.

Oh, God.  I'm so sorry.

CHAPTER Two

The murder of Carlito Ramos brought three television news reporters and
a satellite truck to his mother's apartment on Miami Beach to record the
scene, but when the case finally came up for trial a year later, none of
them covered it.  The big trial that week was the robbery-homicide of a
Japanese couple who had become lost on their way to Metro Zoo in broad
daylight and had stopped to ask directions.  The Ramos case, which most
people had forgotten about, was a domestic dispute of no real
significance for the tourist trade.

Sam Hagen had been a prosecutor in Miami for eighteen years, and by now
most first-degree murder trials had become routine-if violent deaths
could ever be routine.

He could almost accept those cases where the killing was at least
explainable, or where the victim was as bad as his killer, but this one
had made him burn with rage.  Carlito Ramos, four years old.  His mother
told her live-in boyfriend to get out, she never wanted to see his face
again.  Luis screamed that he'd give her something to remember him by.
He ran into Carlito's room, picked up the sleeping child, and hurled him
through the window.  Carlito fell sixty-seven feet to a concrete
sidewalk.  His skull shattered like a melon.

After final arguments the jurors filed out.  They would be called back
in a while to be given instructions.  The judge gaveled a recess.  Sam
Hagen watched the observers leave the courtroom-the defendant's parents,
in tears;

two law school grads here to pick up some pointers; and a group of
retirees who spent their spare time watching criminal trials.  Adela
Ramos, the dead boy's mother, went out leaning on her brother's arm.

At the prosecution table Sam dropped wearily into hiis chair.  He was
forty-six and feeling every year of it.  He reached up to squeeze the
younger prosecutor's shoulder.

"Good job, Joe."

He had let Joe McGee make the final argument.  Sam or another of the
dozen prosecutors on the Major Crimes staff would supervise heavy cases
to make sure they weren't lost or reversed on appeal through an
inadvertent screw-up by someone with less experience.  McGee was a black
Miami ex-cop who had decided he would live longer in court than on the
streets.  Smart and aggressive, he had moved up fast through the felony
division, but this was his first death-penalty murder trial.

Sam saw him glance toward the defense table, nostrils flaring as if he'd
smelled something vile.  I want the son of a bitch," McGee said between
his teeth.

Luis Balmaseda.  Good-looking dark-haired guy; twenty-eight years old,
dressed in a neat blue suit.  His lawyer sat on the railing, swinging
one foot, talking to an associate in the firm.  The lawyers laughed and
Balmaseda smiled.

With the jury out of sight, everybody relaxed.  The lawyers could kid
around, and the defendant might laugh at their jokes.  And for a minute
you could almost forget what he had done, just as he could forget he
might die for it.

Turning away, McGee pulled a stack of notes and xeroxed jury
instructions out of a box and tossed them onto the table.  He sat down.
"You got any inspirations here, boss?"

"Yeah.  A rope."

Before trial the defense had offered a plea to seconddegree murder.
Greenbaum denied that his client had killed the boy, but even if he had
killed him, first degree didn't apply.  The act wasn't premeditated.
Balmaseda and his girlfriend were drunk and arguing violently.  A plea
to second would mean fifteen or twenty years.  Why not take a sure
thing?  Sam had said no fucking way.

In a while court would reconvene.  The judge would tell the jury what
the law was, reading from instructions agreed to by both sides.
Greenbaum was gambling.  He wanted the judge to instruct the jury only
on premeditated murder, not on second or manslaughter.  The jurors would
then have only two choices: first-degree murder or acquittal.  If
convicted, Luis Balmaseda would face the minimum mandatory of
twenty-five years, possibly the electric chair. But if the jury had any
doubts, Balmaseda would walk.

Sam looked at McGee.  "What do you think, Joe?"

McGee blew out a breath, took another one.  "I think Greenbaum wants us
to crawl over there and beg him to take a plea to second before the jury
gets the case."

"I'd say so," Giving no hint of his own preference, Sam waited for McGee
to lay out the alternatives.  He'd been told he didn't make it easy for
younger lawyers in the office.

McGee said, "We could ask for second degree ourselves.  Tell the judge
to instruct on lesser-includeds, Give the jury some room to compromise."

"We could do that."

"And Balmaseda could be out in five." McGee stared across the room.  "Or
we go with instructions on first degree and we pray."

Unfortunately, the case had taken a hit at the outset.

When two uniformed officers arrived in response to a neighbor's 911
call, Adela Ramos was incoherent and Balmaseda was on his knees crying.
One of the cops put handcuffs on him, dragged him into the living room,
and asked what the hell had happened.  Balmaseda babbled in Spanish, "I
killed them both.  I want to die.  Shoot me, please." The officers read
him his rights.  The subject refused to say anything else, either at the
scene or later at Miami Beach Police Headquarters.  Only that he wanted
a lawyer.

On a motion to suppress, the judge ruled that the officers had taken
Balmaseda into custody without probable cause; therefore, his statement
couldn't be used against him.  They should have asked him what had
happened, then handcuffed him.  The state took an appeal, but the
judge's ruling was affirmed.

Alan Greenbaum had leaned hard on Carlito's mother.

Through a court translator, Adela answered in a lifeless monotone,
unable to meet the lawyer's eyes.  A nervous woman with her nails bitten
ragged, whose voice shook, whose heart must have been heavy with remorse
that somehow she had let this happen to her son.  All Sam could do was
try to repair the damage on redirect.

Luis Balmaseda turned his soulful brown eyes to the jury and admitted
he'd been jealous.  He had loved Adela so much.  But when he caught her
cheating and said he wouldn't stay with her anymore, Adela went crazy.
She ran into the boy's room and threw Carlito through the window.
Carlito!  He was like my own son!  Sobbing, B almaseda said Adela
started to climb through the window to her own death, but he dragged her
back.  The police got it all wrong.

Drying his tears, he had faced Sam Hagen's tough questions on cross. Sam
had shaken him, but what did the jury believe?

Sam motioned to Balmaseda's lawyer.  "Let's talk."

Alan Greenbaum walked over, snapping his fingers in a rhythm, slapping a
fist into his palm.  He had a high, intelfigent forehead, a neat
mustache, and a custom-tailored suit.  Sam had heard this was his last
criminal case; he had taken a job with a civil practice firm.

The three men faced each other in a tight circle.

"What's this shit about instructions only on first degree?  Your client
could be sent to the chair.  Did you explain that to him?"

Greenbaum whispered, "Take it easy, Hagen.  He says he's innocent.  I
can't make him do anything.  You want, I'll renew the offer of a plea to
second."

"Too late." Sam fixed a look on him.  "I told you, we're not pleading
this out."

There was a quick grin.  "Sure.  Then what do you care if we go for
instructions on first?  You want me to ask for second so the jury can
grab it and it won't look like pleabargaining.  I told you, babe, you
should've taken a plea last year.  He'd be in Raiford as we speak."

The defendant, with an arm extended casually across the railing behind
him, turned to speak to his father, who had come back in.  The jailer
motioned for the man to move back.  The father kissed his son, then sat
down with Balmaseda's mother, who had a tissue pressed to her nose.

A big man, Sam had a few inches on Greenbaum, and he leaned into his
face.  "You tell your client, we get a conviction I'll have the press
all over this courtroom.  This judge will burn him.  Give me a plea to
first, right here, right now, I'll recommend life."

"Push him in a fucking corner, why don't you?"

"Go complain to the kid he killed."

"Hey.  You want an instruction on second degree, go for it." Greenbaum's
eyes shifted toward his client, then back to Sam.  "Frankly, I don't
give a shit.  But my client will not permit me to ask for anything but
first." With a final lift of his eyebrows to make sure Sam got it, he
walked back to his associate, who had drifted closer, listening.

"Oh, boy." Joe McGee's forehead gleamed with sweat.

The court reporter looked over the top of her novel, then turned a page.

A movement at the door caught Sam's attention.

A woman was striding down the aisle in a black suit accented with white
lapels.  Auburn hair curled to her shoulders, and her brown eyes were
heavily outlined.

Vicky Duran.  She pulled Sam aside.  "I have to talk to YOU."

He gave her a look.  "We're in trial, Beekie."

Victoria Duran was the state attorney's deputy chief of administration.
Born in Cuba, she had a leftover accent, and someone had put a Spanish
twist to her name.

Beekie.  It had stuck.

"The trial is in recess," she corrected.  "Come on, Sam.

It's important."

"All right.  Wait for me outside."

After a glance at her watch, she left.  The heavy wooden door swung shut
behind her.

:'What'd Beekie want?" McGee asked.

'Who the hell knows?" Sam turned back to him.

"Okay.  Show time.  The judge is going to come back in here expecting us
and the defense to have agreed on a set of jury instructions."

"You want to give him the lesser-included offenses?"

"I'll let you call it, Joe."

"Oh, shit." McGee breathed heavily in and out.  "Okay if we put in the
lesser-includeds, we can't do worse than second degree.  God damn.  It's
as good as walking him."

McGee put his hands on his hips.  "No.  Let's go for it.  Fry the
bastard."

For a while Sam let himself look at Luis Balmaseda.  In his younger days
he would have said the same thing: Go for it.  A hundred murder trials
had taught him not to gamble, but he was sick to death of being careful.
Balmaseda must have felt Sam watching him.  He looked around and a smile
flickered at one corner of his mouth.  Go for it.

"Is that what you want to do, Joe?"

"Hell, yes."

"All right.  Tell Greenbaum he's on.  I'll be outside."

In the tiled, echoing corridor, with glass-enclosed entrances to
courtrooms along the length of it, and people coming and going, Sam
ignored Vicky Duran and spoke for a moment with Adela Ramos.  She sat
alone on one of the wooden benches along the wall, clutching her purse
in her lap.

"Where's your brother?" Sam asked.

"He go ...  for my coffee."

"Are you okay?" He sat down beside her.

She nodded, not looking okay.  She was a petite, darkhaired woman who
must have been pretty before all this happened to her.  Her eyes were
fixed on Sam.

"Listen, Ms.  Ramos.  I think you ought to go home.

Rest.  Have some lunch.  I'll call you when the jury comes back in with
a decision."

"When they coming back?"

Sam didn't know.  "Maybe this afternoon, but I think tomorrow.  Mahana.
I'll call you," he repeated.  "Or you call me.  Anytime." He took a card
out of his pocket and wrote a number on the back.  I have a beeper. Call
me if you need to talk.  Do you understand?"

"Yes.  Okay."

Still sitting, he shook her hand, thinking how shaking this young
woman's hand came nowhere near what she needed.  Not for the first time
Sam regretted taking this damned case.  He should have assigned it to
someone else in Major Crimes.  The subject matter, losing a child, had
slashed too close to the bone.  He should have said to McGee, Here,
finish this.  I can't do it.  But he hated to hear excuses, especially
his own.  Elbows on his knees, he stared blindly at the gray terrazzo
floor until he could unclench his jaw.

Adela Ramos said softly, "Thank you.  I say to my brother he take me
home."

Sam looked around at her, smiled briefly, then went to speak to Beekie.

She was standing near the entrance to the next courtroom.  A stack of
green-and-white computer pages lay on a wall-mounted desk, the day's
business.  A girl with a baby slung on one hip came along to thumb
through it, and Beekie walked farther along the corridor, Sam alongside.
Her arms were crossed, making cleavage at the vee in her jacket.

"What's up?"

Beekie pushed her heavy mane of hair back from her face, and her gold
bracelets jingled.  In the buzzing fluorescent lights the makeup made
her skin look orange.  She had a bad complexion, which she managed to
hide fairly well.  Her full lips were outlined in brown and filled in
with bright red.  "Eddie left you a message to see him about the sexual
battery from the Beach last weekend?"

Eddie Mora was the state attorney, and Victoria Duran, among her other
duties, had given herself the role of chief expediter.

Sam said, "And I sent a message back.  I don't have time.  I don't have
time for my own cases, let alone those outside my division."

"It's not just any case, Sam.  The people involved are going to draw
some media attention.  Everything has to be done right.  You remember
just after Eddie came in, there was a girl who said she'd been raped by
that rap singer."

Beekie pressed long-nailed fingertips to her forehead.

"What was his name?"

"Henry Wells, aka Doctor Deep."

"Yes.  We filed the case, and meanwhile she was suing him in civil
court.  All the time, it was a lie.  The case was poorly investigated.
The Sexual Battery unit gave it to a prosecutor trying to make a name
for herself We had the black organizations on our neck, and then the
women's groups.  When we dismissed, the Herald wrote that snide
editorial, saying we were scared off.  That isn't going to happen
again."

Good old Beekie.  Throwing herself in front of Eddie Mora before the
bullets started flying.  Victoria Duran had been slogging through the
swamps of the juvenile division when Eddie came in.  Within two years
she'd made it to chief of the felony division, and now she was out of
the courtroom with an office down the hall from the state attorney, in
charge of the day-to-day operations of the office and its two
thousand-plus employees.  Despite the inevitable rumors that she was
sexually involved with Eddie, Sam had always assumed that Beekie was
simply ambitious.  She had the brittle, edgy manner of a woman who hears
the doors closing.

He said, "Who are we talking about as potential defendants?"

"Three men took part.  One of them, supposedly, was Marquis Lamont.  You
know the name?"

"Sure.  Used to play for the Giants, out of Florida State."

"He's acting in movies now."

"No kidding.  What was he in?"

"I have no idea," she said impatiently.  "The second man is an Italian
businessman, Klaus Ruffini, who owns some property on the Beach.  The
third is a local of no consequence.  And the victim is a model.  So she
says.

There are witnesses, but their stories conflict."

"What a surprise.  Did the victim show up at the pre-file conference?"

"There hasn't been one," Beekie said.  "Nor have there been any arrests.
The Miami Beach police want our opinion first."

"You mean, they dump it on us, we say we won't prosecute, and they're
off the hook with the press." Sam shook his head, smiling a little.
"Uh-uh.  Not my thing.

Give it to the Sexual Battery unit."   11 "Eddie wants to talk to you,"
she said.  "You specifically.

"Why?"

"Sam." She squeezed his wrist.  "Go talk to him.  I think he would
appreciate your help."

He gave her a long look.  In Vicky Duran's oblique way, she was telling
him something.

It took until past eleven o'clock for the judge to finish reading the
instructions to the jury.  The two alternate jurors were dismissed, and
the other twelve retired to the jury room, where the bailiff would bring
them lunch.  Balmaseda was handcuffed and taken back to his cell across
the street.

Hands braced on smooth black rubber, Sam rode the narrow escalator down
from the fourth floor behind a Metro-Dade detective, who asked if a
certain strongarm robbery trial was still set for Monday.  Sam said no,
the victim had not shown up for her deposition.  The state would
probably offer probation and a withhold of adjudication rather than see
the case dismissed.  The detective got off at the police liaison office
on three, and a private defense lawyer saw Sam and rode down to second
with him.  He wanted the state to reduce a burglary to a misdemeanor;
otherwise his client, who was completing a drug program, would be kicked
out for violation of probation.  Sam said forget it, not for a sixth
burglary.  The attorney shrugged, said he would have to go to trial-both
of them knowing the remoteness of that possibility, given Sam's
caseload.  Something would be worked out.

Pausing on the second floor, Sam took out his memo book to make a note
to himself about a home-invasion robbery.  In the corridor this morning
he had offered the P.D.  twenty years, a good deal for perpetrators out
on parole when they did the crime.  He fumbled for a pen, then wrote
slowly in the little book.  He knew his handwriting was miserable.  The
pen went dry.  Sam sighed and stuck it into his coat pocket.  Coming
down to the first floor, where the escalator walls were mirrored, he
caught a glimpse of himself-wide face, closely trimmed brown hair, going
a little gray.  His tie was crooked.  He pulled it straight, then leaned
heavily on the rubber rails again.

The view of the lobby opened up, making visible a swirl of police,
lawyers, criminals, victims, witnesses, people putting briefcases and
bags on the X-ray machines just inside the glass doors, and others going
out again.  A steady flow.

Miami, the Magic City.  Number one in crime.  Two hundred and fifty
prosecutors couldn't keep up, Even with a thousand, there wouldn't be
the judges to hear the cases or a place to put the criminals if they
were convicted.  it had become a plea-bargaining bazaar.  There was
hardly a case without a deal.  A cut-rate discount store of deals, with
the public paying in one way or another.  More crime, more taxes,
residents fleeing over the county line to Fort Lauderdale, which had
only the sixth-highest crime rate in the United States.

In the crowded hallway outside the cafeteria, Sam put down fifty cents
on the counter for a shot of Cuban coffee, then drank it on the way out
the back entrance.  He tossed the cup into a can.  The pink marble steps
were gra with grime.  Sam turned right, squinting in the sun.  His
office was across the next street.

Most of the young assistants signed on for the courtroom experience.
They had the energy to handle two or three hundred open cases, with a
hundred set for trial at any one time.  They learned, they made a name,
then they found a job that paid good money and didn't grind them up.

Dina-Sam's wife-used to complain about that.  He was never home.  He
didn't earn enough.  How could they send the children to college?  Four
years ago, after a lot of thought, Sam decided she was right.  He took a
job at a civil practice firm with a friend of his, a guy he'd served
with in the 101st Airborne in Vietnam.  They gave him a mahogany-veneer
desk in a tenth-floor office on Flagler Street, with clients in clean
clothes, most of whom had never been the victims of anything worse than
the auto accident or slip-and-fall that had brought them there.  Sam
filed claims and dictated letters to his secretary.  This firm has been
retained by (fill in name) in connection with (describe accident), a
result of your negligence, which caused (describe injuries), said
injuries resulting in pain, disfigurement, temporary andlor permanent
disability, and loss of earnings.

He did all right in trial, but not many cases went that far.  He spent
more time at his desk than in a courtroom, signing dozens of letters and
pleadings and motions.  Then one evening, working late, gazing out his
window at the I 101op streets of Miami going away in a neat grid, west
and n6Pnthrough neighborhoods that didn't seem so bad from that angle,
Sam Hagen saw the sodium vapor crime lights come on, and realized that
he had turned into a pencil dick.

He got his job back in Major Crimes and moved up to head of the division
the following year.  Dina understood, or said she did.  Sam didn't know
what he was accomplishing, if anything.  Coming out of law school, ready
for action, he had thought he could do some good in the state attorney's
office.  As a prosecutor he had only seen more crime, more violence.
Maybe the criminal justice system was as ultimately doomed as any other
product of human invention.  But there had to be some system of order,
and someone to stand guard.

Sam went through the rear entrance of the curving, glass-and-tan
concrete building that housed the state attorney's office.  He nodded to
the guard, walked past the X rays and metal detectors, and took the
elevator to the fourth floor.

"Sam.  Come in.  Vicky said you were on your way up."

Eddie Mora motioned to shut the door, then finished knotting his tie. He
looked into a circular mirror propped on a shelf of his bookcase. "Lunch
with the Beacon Council."

His image in the mirror smiled.  I think that's it.  sit down." He
ducked his head to see his hair and smoothed it with his fingers.  The
hairline was receding.  Even so, Eddie seemed younger than forty-one,
with his round face and quick movements, Edward Jos6 Mora was a Harvard
grad, born in the United States to Cuban parents.  His father had run
the Hilton hotels in Cuba, pre-Castro, getting his money out before the
country went to hell.  Eddie Mora had grown up in Manhattan and the
family's summer home in Connecticut.  He had clerked for Supreme Court
justice Scalia, then rocketed upward in the Justice Department.  He
married the dark-eyed daughter of a former sugar baron, then moved to
Miami to reorganize the U.S.  Attorney's office, getting some good press
in the national media.  When the prior Dade state attorney died of a
stroke, the governor passed over everyone in the office and asked Eddie
Mora to fill in.  The Cuban exiles would like it, and the governor
wanted to carry Dade County in the election.  Sam, considered a safe bet
for the job, had clamped down hard on his disappointment.

The office had lurched on pretty much as usual, though last year's dip
in the crime rate had put Edward Mora on the cover of Newsweek: "Young
Hispanics Making a Difference." Sam knew that Eddie respected his work
in Major Crimes.  On a personal level, he didn't know what Eddie
thought, and didn't care.

Mora tossed the mirror into a drawer and stood by his desk, his fingers
tapping lightly on its surface.  He kept a neat office.  Diplomas and
certificates marched across one wall.  Papers were in order.  The
furniture was new and modern, with a long leather sofa facing the
windows and two chairs at his desk.  Sam sat in one of them.

"Vicki gave you the facts on this sexual battery thing."

"Briefly.  She didn't seem to think it was much of a case."

"It isn't.  Or wouldn't be, except for the people involved." Mora gave a
short laugh.  "Every time we get a celebrity-especially movie
actors-here come the reporters, busily misreporting."

Sam said, "You're referring to Marquis Lamont?"

"Played for the Giants," Mora said, showing he knew football.  "Wide
receiver."

"That's right."

"Was he any good?"

"Pretty good as a rookie, maybe the first two seasons.  I think they
would have let him go, but his knee went out and saved them the trouble.
He was better at Florida State." Sam added, "I haven't seen his movies."

Mora shook his head.  "What passes for celebrity on Miami Beach amazes
me."

Sam waited for Eddie Mora to get to the point.

The state attorney sat on the edge of his desk.  "First, a summary of
what happened over there.  Late last Thursday night a young lady by the
name of Alice Duncan went to a nightclub called the Apocalypse at the
invitation of a George Fonseca, who may have a managerial position
there, although that point is somewhat unclear.  In any event, he does
have-or used to have-a sexual relationship with the alleged victim.
According to Miss Duncan, they went to a room in the club where a
private party was being held.  During the course of the party, Fonseca
forcibly raped her, then restrained her while Marquis Lamont did so. She
states that Ruffini sodomized her with the neck of a champagne bottle.
Most of the people at the scene didn't see it, or say they didn't. Given
the general level of intoxication in that room, I wouldn't put much
credence in what any of them have to say." A smile slowly formed on
Eddie Mora's lips.

"Can you imagine the parade of characters coming before the court?  The
jury would think they were watching a Fellini film.  And the girl-is she
credible?  The best defense attorneys in Miami will be baying for blood.
And assuming we survived a motion to dismiss and went to trial, what
would a jury do with a defendant like Lamont?"

Sam said, "I'm surprised the Miami Beach P.D.  has gone this far with
it."

"They wouldn't have, but the doctor at the Rape Treatment Center called
it in, and a detective went over."

"Was the girl injured?"

"Not badly.  Some abrasions from the metal wrapping on the neck of the
bottle.  They have to report a rape when the victim is under eighteen."

"How far under eighteen?"

"I'm not sure."

Sam swiveled the chair, following Mora, who had started to pace around
the room.  A habit of his.  The man couldn't sit still.  Sam said,
"Vicky alluded to some problem the Beach police have with publicity."

"Correct.  In the past they've been accused, as you know, of not filing
charges against people with influence.

The new chief wants to put an end to that perception.  I admire the man.
If I can help him, I'll do it." Mora stopped walking.  "You want to know
why I don't send this case through routine pre-file downstairs and let
them mark it no action."

"

"It crossed my mind," Sam said.

Mora stuck his hands in his pockets and wandered over to the windows.
The vertical blinds were tilted open.

Eddie had the same view Sam did, only two stories higher: trees, white
stucco houses and apartments, the expressway arching over them, then the
downtown sky scrapers a couple of miles away, silvery against a blue
sky.  The windows needed cleaning up here, too.

"Yesterday I was in a meeting, and I got an urgent message to call the
city manager of Miami Beach.  Fine.  So I excused myself and called Hal
Delucca at his office.

Delucca told me that one of his-his-most important businessmen was being
falsely accused of rape and that a film studio was threatening to pull
out of a deal to shoot a movie on South Beach.  Delucca said the girl
was making an obvious attempt at a shakedown.  He said she was coming on
to Marquis Lamont when she danced with him.

Then she offered to sleep with Klaus Ruffini in exchange for a modeling
job, and there are witnesses to say so.

Delucca wanted me to tell the police to back off.  Well, of course I
couldn't do that, and I told him I was insulted at the suggestion." Mora
straightened one of the vertical blinds at his window.

He turned around.  "This puts me in a touchy position, Sam.  Do I file
this case to prove Delucca has no influence over me?  Or do I let it go
and have it appear that he does?

That telephone call wasn't only between me and Hal Delucca.  Other
people in his office must have known what he was doing.  He may have
made promises to the men involved in this incident."

Even as Sam had grown increasingly impatient, listening to the details
of a tawdry case that would never be filed, much less go to trial, he
had become fascinated by the spectacle of Edward J.  Mora practically
hyperventilat ing because a bozo like Hal Delucca had asked him for a
favor.

"What is it you want, Eddie?"

"I want to be able to tell the press-tell anyone who asks-that we looked
into it.  That we care about this young woman and so forth, but that
given the lack of concrete evidence, we decline to prosecute.  I can't
handle this myself, you understand that.  Whenever I become involved
with a case, it makes a statement, and I can't make a statement on this.
I didn't immediately consider you be PPW cause, well, I've always felt a
distance between us.  You wanted this job.  The governor gave it to me."

Sam made a little shrug.  I didn't hold it against you."

"I know." Eddie Mora paced back to the window.  "You could have caused
me some serious grief, but you didn't.

That's why you're here now.  Why I trust you.  You're not flamboyant,
but you get the job done.  And your integrity is unquestioned.  People
recognize that.  If Hagen says a case is trash, it is." From across the
room Eddie said, "I want you to handle this case.  Do whatever you think
is right."

"I don't want it," Sam said.  "Let it go through the sys term, Eddie.
Pre-file can notify the girl to come in, but ten to one, she won't show
up.  It'll wash out."

"No.  I want a senior prosecutor on this.  I want you, Sam."

Absently, S.am massaged the joint in his thumb.  There was some pain
there occasionally.  Minor arthritis, his wife would say, dismissing it.

"Eddie-you know, this doesn't seem like that big a deal."

Mora looked at him a few moments, then said, "All right, I'm going to
tell you what the deal is, but what I say doesn't leave this office."

"Sure."

"I'm on the short list to run on the Republican ticket this fall."

It took Sam a while to absorb that.  "As vice president."

"Correct."

"Jesus."

"That's what I said." Mora smiled.  "Who me?  The first Hispanic on the
ticket.  And the youngest man ever.  How about that?  I'd have to resign
from this job, though, to give it my best shot.  I can't do both."

Slowly at first, then with a sudden rush of understanding that took his
breath, Sam knew where this conversation was going.  He gripped the arms
of the chair to keep himself steady.

Mora said, "I've been told my name will be on top, but anything could
happen." Smiling, he lifted his shoulders in a shrug.  "So.  There's the
situation, Sam.  Even small things can be a problem."

"And you want my help."

"I would be grateful, yes."

Three years ago, when Edward Mora, as a political convenience, had been
given this position, a man well under forty, with his easy smiles and
expensive suits, a man not even from Florida, who had not tried one case
in a state court, Sam had kept his mouth shut.  He had gone along.

He had forced himself not to think about how much he had wanted this
job.  If he had let himself dwell on the years that stretched out ahead
of him-most state attorneys in Miami stayed in office until they retired
or dropped dead-he might have come close to despair.

Samuel Hagen, the trustworthy plodder, not known for his flamboyance ...

He kept his expression neutral, but the emotions slammed through his
body.  He knew then how much he disliked Eddie Mora, had always disliked
him.

Mora was smiling slightly, waiting for an answer.

"I'll take care of it," Sam said.

"Good." Mora rose from the chair.  "You know, Sam, I feel I ought to
apologize, pushing this on you."

Standing up, Sam looked at him curiously.  "Why?"

"Well ...  South Beach.  The modeling crowd.  It's got to be hard for
you, so soon after your son's death.  Such a loss for you and Dina." The
quiet tone was meant to convey sincerity.  "Under the circumstances I'm
doubly appreciative.  I want you to know that." He took a hand out of
his pocket long enough to grip Sam's shoulder.

"It's not a problem, Eddie."

"You sure?  Tell me." Speaking in nearly a whisper now.  The brows
knitting.

"I said it's not a problem."

Sam shut the door when he left, then stood there for a moment staring
into its slick, painted surface.  It had been weeks since anyone outside
the family had brought that up.  Matthew Hagen.  Only nineteen years
old.  Such a good-looking kid, too.  A model.  Got drunk at a nightclub
and crashed his motorcycle on the causeway at four in the morning.  And
his father a top prosecutor with the state attorney's office.  What a
shame.  After eight months, Sam was getting damned tired of polite,
phony expressions of sympathy.

He wondered how long it would be till someone else said how fucking
sorry they were for his loss.  And if there would come a time when he
could think about his son and not want to smash the nearest thing at
hand.

Chapter Three

ingertips moving quickly over the damp earth, Dina Hagen scraped
together the leaves and twigs, then tossed them into a brown paper
grocery sack.  She nudged the piece of cardboard she'd been kneeling on
farther along the walkway.  Herringbone bricks bordered the screened
terrace, leading across the thick Bermuda grass to the redwood gazebo
where she had hung her orchids and staghorn fern.  She had planted a low
hedge of ixora as a border-a mistake, for the plants were far too
uncontrolled.  It would take some effort to trim them back.

The clippers fell into a steady rhythm, a counterpoint to the
chk-chk-chk of a sprinkler over the wooden fence that circled the
garden.  The smell of wet, rich earth and blooming gardenia floated in
the still air.

Of course one did not have a garden behind a house in the flat,
monotonous suburbs southwest of Miami; one had a backyard.  But this was
a garden, designed with an eye to color and shape and to the dry or
rainy seasons as well, so that the yellow tabebuia would flower in one
corner while the red bottlebrush stood dormant in another.

Just after Dina and Sam and the children had moved in, her brother
Nicholas, who owned a plant nursery north of Tampa, had driven three
hundred miles with a truckful of soil and fertilizer and pots of
flowers, shrubs, and palm trees, all verdant and shining.  Nick had
installed a sprin NIEL

kler system and hidden lights on timers, and it was all perfect.

Then two years later the hurricane had blown through, leaving everything
smashed and ruined; even the tile roof had been ripped off the house in
a great groan and cry, like a limb torn from a body.  Nick had returned
the next spring with more plants.  The garden had been replanted exactly
as it had been before-better than before-and the house had been rebuilt.

Sitting back on her heels, Dina caught a glimpse of a face at the
kitchen window.  Her daughter, watching her.

Melanie had shouted from the terrace awhile ago to say she had a phone
call, and Dina, feeling invaded, had snapped at her, then apologized.
Now the face disappeared, and Dina moved along the walkway.    Her knees
ached a little, but she paid no mind to that.  From behind her she heard
the laughter of the teenager next door, a shriek, then a splash as
though someone had gone into the pool.  The boy's high, clear voice
pierced her with a stab of despair so acute it was almost physical.

Taking a few deep breaths, Dina trimmed a scraggly branch down to the
proper level.  A cluster of blood-red blossoms dropped into her hand.
For a while now, she had not taken her pills.  They dulled the pain but
made her sleep too much, and she couldn't think clearly.

She moved the cardboard and knelt again.  She wore loose cotton pants.
Her wide-brimmed hat lay across the yard on a step of the gazebo; the
sun had gone behind the black olive trees on the neighbors' property.
There was time for this today because she'd skipped her doctor's
appointment.  She had driven by his office in that ugly, square,
glass-walled building without even slowing her car.  The dread she had
felt, thinking of going inside, had changed to giddy exhilaration as the
building shrank in her rearview mirror.  The last four sessions Dr.
Berman had gone probing into her past, as if there he might find some
clue to explain why she grieved so.  She had wanted to scream at him.
You idiot, this is not in my past.

it is here, now.  Always with me.  He was poking for faults and
weaknesses, as if the fault, once isolated, could be fixed.  But is
grief a fault?  He had given an answer so infuriatingly irrelevant that
she had quite forgotten it.  She finally understood that he was leading
her to his own conclusion: Dina Hagen was weak.  Weak and
self-indulgent.

Sam had sent her to this doctor hoping it would help.

For months Sam had watched her, humored her, treated her like a sick
child.  Sometimes his patience would fray, then he would go out and run
until it was too dark to see, or work out on his weight machine-clank,
clank, clank- until he could hardly stand up.

His way was to bear it.  Be strong.  He was such a master, Sam was, at
burying things and pouring concrete into the grave, then piling boulders
on top and turning his back.  But Dina could not do it, and nothing,
nothing had dulled her pain.  It was too much to bear.

Dragging the bag along, Dina moved slowly toward the gazebo.  She tucked
a tendril of hair into the knot at the nape of her neck, then blotted
her face on her sleeve.  The shirt was one of Sam's, tied at her waist,
the scent of his body still in the fabric.  He didn't wear cologne, so
it was only Sam that she smelled.  Lie in the same bed with a man for
half your life, and you know everything about him: his scent, his voice,
the feel of his body, his moods, his thoughts.  His infidelity, Three
years ago he had been unfaithful.  By the time Dina had been sure enough
to accuse him, Sam said it was over.  He had refused to name this woman,
though Dina suspected it must have been one of the lawyers at his
office.  Dina had seen them at holiday parties.  Pretty women, with
their white teeth and lustrous hair and narrow waists, doting on Sam
Hagen.  Young spiders, catching men that age, a trade of youth for
power.

After his apology for hurting her, Sam would not speak of it again, as
if such things could be forgotten.  Then the troubles with Matthew had
grown worse.  Sam became so angry, so often, that he must have been
relieved when Matthew left home, though he would not admit it.  Sam had
taken his death better than any of them, but he couldn't pretend it had
left him unaffected.  Sometimes she could see the utter emptiness on his
face, and it frightened her because she didn't know what to do.

He had not divorced her, but he had left her in other ways.  When he
reached out for her in bed, she could have been anyone.  Their
lovemaking was performed joylessly, in silence.  She felt old; betrayed.
He was her husband, and he had abandoned her in his heart.

Where had all this begun?  Dina was certain that each terrible event had
a cause; nothing was random.  Dina had once flown at Sam, striking him.
It had been his sin that brought this down upon them.  His adultery,
ripping like a storm through their life, tearing it apart.

"Momma!" Her daughter's thin voice came across the yard from the
terrace.

Dina closed her eyes, hoping that Melanie would just go back inside.
Instead, the voice came again.  "What?"

Dina called back.

"Dad's home, and dinner's ready."

She waved a hand.  "You two go ahead."

Melanie was fourteen and overly sensitive.  Dina often had to force
herself to be kind to her, although there was no reason not to be kind.
Melanie was sweet; she was compliant.  She kept her room clean, and her
grades in school were average.  She was not pretty, but neither was she
plain.  From time to time, Dina felt a wave of pity for her daughter. It
was as if she had unwittingly poured everything she had into her
firstborn, leaving so little for the second.  Melanie was a shadow of
her brother.

Matthew had been ...  beautiful.  There was no other word.

Perhaps this was the fault.  Dina knew the old warning.

If you are proud, if you say your child is beautiful, you make the gods
jealous, and they will take him out of spite.

Matthew had certainly not been perfect.  He had been demanding and
hurtful.  He had suffered and had caused those around him to suffer, and
eventually he had been destroyed.  But she did love him.  Oh, God.  She
had loved him more.

Was it her own pride, then?  Had she caused this?  Dina squeezed her
eyes shut.  A cry caught in her throat.  The pain was like a thorny stem
dragged over bleeding wounds, tearing away new bits of flesh.  She
dropped the clippers and braced a hand on the brick walkway.

When she opened her eyes the sun was a red-orange flame in the trees.
She looked down and saw she had clutched the cross around her neck.  It
was her grandmother Sevasti's Orthodox cross.  Dina had seen it in a
drawer two weeks ago.  Today she had put it on as a talis man, a last
resort.  For Sevasti's courage.

Her grandmother had come to America in 1921 from a family of ethnic
Greeks with a farm outside Constantinople-now Istanbul.  At sixteen,
Sevasti had seen her father shot dead and her mother raped by a Turkish
soldier, then bayonetted.  She hid in the barn, waiting with her
father's ax.  The soldier pushed open the door and stepped into the
darkness ...  then she split his skull.  She ran for three days,
starving and hiding, and finally crossed over to Greece on a fishing
boat.  She begged money from relatives for passage to America, not
knowing what she would do when she arrived.  On the ship she met a young
man, Stavros Pondakos.  By the time the ship docked in New York they
were married.  She went south with him to Tarpon Springs, a Greek
sponge-fishing community on the west coast of Florida, where he had
already secured work on a dive boat.  They lived a long time, and had
seven children.

Their first son, Dina's father, was now dying in the worst way, losing
his mind slowly to forgetfulness.  His sister, old herself, took care of
him now in the house on Spring Street.  Dina had been reared in that
house, two stories with gingerbread trim and a porch that wrapped around
the side.  There were white lawn chairs under oak trees hung with
Spanish moss.  Her father had built her a little boat, which she had
mostly kept tied to the dock.

She took it out sometimes along the bayou, which led through twists and
turns to the Gulf of Mexico.  Dina hated herself for leaving: As the
eldest daughter she should care for Costas, but she didn't want to go
back to Tarpon Springs; the town was too provincial and narrow.

Going back would be like exile.

Wincing against a new throb of pain in her breast, Dina shifted on the
walkway.

She had, for a time, considered suicide, seduced by the idea, flirting
with it as she brought the wheels of her car closer and closer to the
shoulder of the road.  She had poured into her hand all the pills that
the doctor had given her.  She had unlocked the cabinet where Sam kept
his pistol and stared down at it, gray and cold and final.

Why hadn't she done it, then?  It was not fear of darn nation for an
unholy act.  Dina had not believed in damnation for a long time, not
since realizing that there was more of it on earth than she thought
possible in the hereafter.  Dina didn't consider herself Orthodox
anymore, or a Christian of any variety.  Sam had no answers, either.

His mother-long dead-had been Jewish, but he followed no religion.

If she took the pills or pulled the trigger, then what?

Nothing.  Not even the awareness of nothing.  It was much better, she
had finally concluded, to remember, and have the pain of it, than to
risk having nothing at all.

Dina blotted her forehead again with her sleeve, then picked up the
clippers.  She would finish trimming the border, then go in to dinner.

In the kitchen, Melanie got up from the table to check the heat under
the pot roast.  Then she crossed the kitchen to look through the sliding
glass door a ain.  Her mother was nearly at the end of the walkway.  She
would have to come in soon, Melanie thought.  The sun was about to set.
Her father was upstairs changing his clothes.  He would be down in a few
minutes.

Melanie had put glasses and plates on the counter, with linen napkins
folded like fans, and the good silverware on placemats.  She was hoping
they could all sit down together.  Nobody ate in the dining room
anymore, even on holidays.  Last year-forget it.  Matthew had died in
September, and Christmas had been awful.  They didn't eat at the kitchen
table because it was piled with papers from her dad's office, a TV to be
fixed that had been there a month, and a bunch of mail.  Plus her
mother's briefcase and a stack of tax books.  Her mother was a CPA.  She
used to have a private secretary and her own office, but she'd been
sick, and she was just starting back to work full-time.

Melanie had cleared enough space for her homework.

She slid back into her chair, nibbling on a carrot stick.

That's all she would have, salad.  Plus maybe a small piece of roast to
keep her dad from asking if she wanted to make herself sick, or what.
School would be out in three weeks, and all her friends were buying
swimsuits.

She'd been working on a tan in the backyard, but her thighs were gross.
Her mom had mentioned it last night: Melanie, you're getting chubby.

A fist under her cheekbone, she read aloud, "Find the values of X where
the value of the function of X is zero."

She tapped the eraser end of her pencil on a piece of graph paper.

Without even opening the book, Matthew could have figured it out.  He
was awesome.  He made straight As, till he started skipping school.  Her
mother had said Matthew needed a psychologist.  Her dad said he needed a
goddamn military school.  He never did find out some of the stuff
Matthew did, like shoplifting, because their mother handled it herself.
Melanie knew only because she'd overheard them talking about it.  In
tenth grade he got suspended for smoking pot, and he told Melanie he
would personally kick her butt if she tried it.  Then they thought he
was suicidal and put him in the hospital.  He told Melanie it was an
act, what he did, holding the pistol to his head like that.  And he
laughed.  Damn!  You should have seen the old man's reaction.

On the graph paper, Melanie ticked off ten spaces above the intersection
of the x and y axes, then four to the left.  "I hate this.  I fucking
hate it," she muttered.

Matthew used to come over and help her even after he moved out.  He'd
never finished high school.  He failed his classes his junior year.
Their father screamed at him for that and grabbed him by the shirt.
Matthew tried to punch him, but he got knocked across the room.  Then
they both cried and hugged each other.  But Matthew started staying
away, and finally he moved to an apartment on South Beach.  He became a
model.  Then he died.

Frowning, Melanie brushed aside some bits of rubber her eraser had left
on the graph paper.  This was useless, she thought.  Totally pointless.
She'd call somebody in her math class after dinner and ask how to do it.

In the backyard her mother stood up and pushed a piece of cardboard
across the walkway with her toe.  Melanie thought she would be okay when
she came in.  Usually she was nice; sometimes she could be a total
bitch.  At least she didn't cry as much anymore.  In fact, she hadn't
taken her pills lately either.  There was a prescription bottle that
Melanie kept an eye on.  One of the girls at school, her mother had
tried to kill herself that way.  But this girl's mother was an alcoholic
and totally irresponsible besides.

Footsteps thumped on the stairs , and Melanie looked around.  Her dad
came into the kitchen in running shoes that looked like he had waded
through mud puddles in them.  An old towel hung around his neck.  She
was afraid someone would see him.  He wore gray sweatpants cut off at
the knees, and a T-shirt with a rip in the pocket.  He was starting to
get a stomach.  He worked out, but it didn't seem to make a difference.
There was a fitness machine in the family room and some charts showing
the daily reps he was supposed to do, but half the days were blank.

When he was in the army he jumped out of helicopters and ran for miles
with an eighty-five-pound pack and an M- 16, getting shot at by the VC.
He used to tell Matthew about it.  That's what it was like in war, son,
and that's what it's like in life, You have to be tough.  Blah, blah,
blah, And when their dad wasn't watching, Matthew would catch Melanie's
eye and mouth the words, and she would nearly crack up laughing.

He walked over to the window, looking out.

She asked, "You're not going running now, are you?"

"I thought so, before it gets dark."

"There's pot roast on the stove.  It's leftovers, but I added some more
veggies."

He was still staring outside.  "How's your mom

':All right, I guess."

'You guess?" He looked around.

"She didn't go to her appointment."

"Why not?"

"I don't know.  She got home about four-thirty and went right outside."

He sighed, hanging on to the towel.

Melanie said, "She's about done, I think.  Then we can eat."

Her dad turned his head toward the stove.  "What do I smell?"

"Pot roast."

,I'm sorry, you told me." He came over and kissed her on top of the head
and patted her cheek.

She said, "I put plates and silverware out."

"So you did." He left his hand on her shoulder.  "It looks very nice,
honey." He let out a breath like he'd been lifting weights.

"Did you have a rotten day or something?"

He didn't answer, then said, "We lost one.  Jury acquitted on a first
degree."

"Oh.  Too bad.  What did the guy do?"

"Threw somebody through a sixth-floor window." He turned her math book
around so he could see it.  "How's school, Mel?"

"Okay." Melanie knew that the murder must have been bloody and gruesome.
He never told her about those, even if she asked.

He tapped the book.  "Quadratic equations.  I remember this."

"It's hard." She looked up at him.

"Study the examples," he said.  "That's what I used to do.  If you don't
try it yourself, you won't learn it."

Lecture number 27, she thought.  Which meant that he didn't know how to
do it either.  She said, "Do you want me to serve the plates?"

He smiled.  "Why not?  Let me bring your mother in first." He tossed his
towel over a chair and went out the sliding glass door.

When Sam called her name, Dina glanced up.  There Was a streak of dirt
across her chin.  He wiped it off with his thumb, then bent down to kiss
her.

She smiled, tugging the ragged hem of his sweatpants.

"Look at us, Sam.  We could be street people, the way we're dressed."

The gazebo was a few yards farther along the walk.  He moved her straw
hat out of the way and sat on the middle step.  "How was your day?" He
noticed that she wasn't wearing her gardening gloves, and her nails were
filthy and cracked.  Before, she had been proud of her strong, beautiful
hands.  Before, Everything was divided into before or after, he had come
to realize.

I had meetings all day and didn't get anything done."

She clipped a twig.  The hedge was low and green with clumps of red
flowers.  It ran as straight beside the stones as if she had trimmed it
with a laser l3earn.  "And you?"

"All right." Sam propped his forearms on his knees.  He wanted to tell
her about the verdict in the Balmaseda case.

Not for sympathy, exactly.  Just to tell her.  But he wasn't sure how
she would react.

Sam finally said, "You missed your appointment this afternoon."

"Melanie's tattling on me."

"She wasn't tattling.  She's worried about you.  Why didn't you go?"

"I didn't feel like it."

"What about next week?"

"Next week we'll see," Dina threw a handful of clippings into a grocery
sack.  "I went to church this afternoon," she said in a tone that meant
he was to ask her about it.

"What church?" They didn't belong to a church in Miami.  Dina went
several times a year to the cathedral in Tarpon Springs, but never here.

"St.  Sophia's," she said, "on my way home.  No one was there, except
for an old man dusting the sacristy.  Then a woman came in to pray.  She
said the Lord's Prayer in Greek.  On the way out, I lit a candle for
Matthew.  I could feel him with me, Sam."

Studying the pattern in the bricks at his feet, Sam debated whether to
suggest they go inside.  She had accused him, rightly, of not wanting to
talk about their son.  For months after he died, all they had done was
talk about Matthew.  Sam had run out of words.

"It did me more good than Dr.  Berman.  Look." Dina turned on her knees
to face Sam directly.  On her breast lay a flat silver cross with the
three semicircles on each point that made it took so Eastern Orthodox.
Sam hadn't seen it in a long time.

He didn't know what to say, Dina asked, "Does it bother you?"

He shook his head.  "No.  If you want to wear it, go ahead."

She smiled.  "It wouldn't go with my suits." She went back to trimming
leaves, and the cross swung with the movement of her arm, ticking on a
button.  She was wearing one of his old shirts.

With Dina's head bowed over the clippers, Sam could see how her hair was
coming in gray.  It was parted in the middle and pinned behind her neck.
Dark brown at the ends, more gray at the crown.  He could have traced
with a finger the line that indicated when Matthew died.  She had aged
since last summer.  Even so, she was still a striking woman, with dark
eyes and a mouth so full and red she didn't need lipstick.

He knew he loved her, but in a different way than twenty-some years ago.
They'd been through a lot, most of which he didn't like to dwell on.  He
had considered divorce more than once; had even talked to a divorce
attorney.  Nothing had come of it for one reason or another.

Kids.  The job.  Money.

Then Matthew died, and she fell apart, and that had made him think about
what mattered in the long run.

Everything has a time, he had finally realized.  There's a point when
you can make big changes, and after that you can't.  A few years ago he
would let himself get worked up over what-ifs.  Sit out here in the
gazebo by himself and drink, and then he'd feel like hell, as if his
heart was going to give out, or any minute he'd start to cry.

Where would they be in twenty more years?  Sliding toward seventy, an
absurd idea.  Wherever they were, it wouldn't be here.  The house was
too big.  When Dina took a leave of absence, too sick to work, Sam had
refinanced it.  The monthly payments still made him a little lightheaded
every time he signed the check.

He watched her for a while, then asked, "Dina, doesn't your firm have a
fair number of clients over on the Beach?" Jacobs Ross & Rendell, of
which she was a partner, was the Miami branch of an accounting practice
headquartered on Wall Street.

"Several.  Why?"

"What about Klaus Ruffini?"

"Ruffini.  No, he isn't one of ours, not directly.  I believe someone in
the office did a financial forecast for a project he's involved in.  A
resort.  There was an article in the Herald a few months ago.  Didn't
you see it?  They want to build a big hotel and several hundred
time-share apartments, all very low class, if you ask me.  If we're
lucky it will all sink under its own weight."

"What do you know about Ruffini?"

"He's from northern Italy.  His mother's Swiss, I think.

His father owns a shipping line or a steel mill, something like that.
Why are you so interested in Klaus Ruffini?"

"He's been accused of sexual battery.  He and two other men, in the VIP
room of a nightclub on Washington Avenue.  Eddie wants me to check it
out."

A cool smiled curved Dina's lips.  She brushed some leaves out of the
cracks between the bricks.  A vacuum cleaner could not have done a more
thorough j said, "Rape.  On South Beach, how shocking.  They'll buy oh.
She her off.  Or scare her off."

"Probably so."

She said, "I see people like that all the time.  They do what they want
and no one touches them."

"Have you met Klaus Riiffini9"

"Someone pointed him out to me in a restaurant downtown.  He was with
his wife, a fashion designer.  They own Moda Ruffini."

11W

hat's that?"

"Sam, you really are out of touch in the Justice Building." Dina tugged
on a root.  "Moda Ruffini is a clothing store, along the lines of Armani
or Versace, but not quite as chic.  Matthew tried out for a magazine ad
for them, but they didn't use him." Dina dropped the root into the bag.

"A little strange, isn't it, that Eddie gave the case to you?"

"Not really.  I'm the only one in the office that people know won't kiss
his ass.  He's trying to dump the case without people thinking he was
influenced."

She arched a brow.  "Was he?"

Sam shrugged.  "The city manager wants the case to go away.  Eddie
agrees that it should, but he's trying damned hard not to look cozy with
Hal Delucca."

"And so he's letting you do the dirty work." Dina laughed.  "Eddie's
more devious than you are, sweet.  Be careful."

He didn't tell her the rest of it, that Eddie Mora might not be the
state attorney much longer.  That Eddie had hanged for hinted at
supporting Sam as his successor, in exc h he was a little help on this.
Sam wasn't sure how muc reading into it.  He wanted to let it sit for a
while.  ho's the Dina shifted the cardboard under her knees.  "W

woman?  I assume the victim is a female, though one can never be sure
over there."

"A model, supposedly.  Seventeen years old."

"Seventeen.  My God.  She's a child.  Sam, you have to pursue this."

"You told me a minute ago there's no way I could win."

"What about statutory rape?  She's under the age of consent."

"It doesn't apply."

"Why not?" Dina demanded.

"Because statutory rape requires a minor of previously chaste
character." Sam said, "This girl isn't.  She went to a nightclub, took
drugs, got drunk-"

"And got what she deserved."

"I didn't say that.  I said it's probably not a case we could win.  If
the jury won't buy it, we've got nothing." He watched Dina's clippers
snap at stray twigs.  He said, "The jury in the Balmaseda case came back
with a verdict."

She glanced up, waiting.

"An acquittal.  It took them four hours."

"They let him go, after what he did to that little boy?"

"They had more than a reasonable doubt about who did it, I guess.  The
judge excluded his confession." Sam flexed his right hand, rotating his
thumb.  "They might have voted for second degree, if we'd given them the
chance.  Joe McGee-he's the division chief-wanted to go with jury
instructions on first degree, and I let him do it.  I feel bad about
that.  It was a risk.  I shouldn't have gambled."

Dina made an exasperated laugh.  "It isn't your fault.

Balmaseda got away with it.  Some people seem to get away with things,
don't they?"

"Not all of them, or I'd quit this business," Sam said.

"He murdered a child and got away with it.  How many other criminals
like Balmaseda get away with it?"

Suddenly weary, Sam said, "Let's go in.  I want to hit the sack early.
What about you?"

But Dina was still staring intently at him.  "Nothing will happen to
Klaus Ruffini either.  Don't dare tell me the girl was responsible.
Three men and a seventeen-year-old girl." Dina's expression darkened
further.  "Have you spoken to her?"

"Not yet."

"Had you even planned to?" She laughed.  "Of course not.  She should
have known better."

"Yes, I plan to speak to the girl," Sam said, trying not to show his
irritation.  "If it's a good case, I'll file it.  If it isn't, I won't."

flush of red had risen in Dina's cheeks.  "You can't.

You're stuck in a system that has no connection to justice, only to
expediency, or to whoever has the most money or power.  Oh, you'll say
it isn't that way, but it is.  Men with money can rape a young woman and
nothing will be done about it."

Sam leaned heavily against the framed opening of the gazebo.  Shadows
stretched across the grass.  On the other side of the fence the
sprinklers slowed, then stopped.

When he looked at Dina again, she was twisting the clippers through a
handful of stems.

"Is this girl from a good family, Sam?  You should find out.  Do her
parents know what happened to her?  I almost want to call them myself.
We should have a support group.  Parents of Children Ruined by South
Beach, what do you think?"

"Dina, for Christ's sake.  Matthew died because he got drunk and crashed
his damned motorcycle." Sam could feel his neck getting hot.  "He did it
to himself.  There was nothing you could have done to prevent it, and
even less you can do about it now.  How long do we have to go over and
over this?"

She pulled back as if he had struck her.

"Oh, Jesus," he said, "I didn't mean to yell at you.  Why don't we go
in?  Melanie made dinner."

"Sam, do you suppose we're being punished for something?"

"By what?"

"God.  Eternity."

"No." Sam rested his forehead on his fists.  "I don't believe in that."

"Strange thing for a lawyer to say." The clippers made metallic clicks.
"The universe has laws, doesn't it?  And laws imply judgment.  You know
that well enough.  If someone suffers, there has to be a reason.  A
system of laws must be rational.  If one is punished, the next question
is, what is the punishmentfor?"

The breathlessness of her voice made him look at her.

She was crying.  Tears were spilling down her cheeks.

Sam picked up her straw hat.  He said gently, "Come on, honey.  Let's go
in."

"I'm not finished.  I want to finish this before it gets dark."

He stepped down to the walkway, holding Dina's hat out to her.  Then he
saw her left hand.  She was still clipping off the last few branches,
and blood ran down her arm in bright streaks, soaking into the rolled
cuff of the white shirt, He knelt and grabbed her wrist.  "Dina!  What-"
The clippers clattered to the bricks.

There was a gash in her left thumb between the first and second joints.
"It doesn't hurt," she said wonderingly.

"Isn't that funny?  It doesn't hurt at all." The blood was dripping onto
her slacks now and spattering the walkway.  Sam let go long enough to
pull his T-shirt over his head.  He wrapped the hem of it around her
thumb and pressed.

"This is deep.  You'll need stitches."

"No." She struggled to pull her hand away.  "No, I don't want to go to a
doctor.  Not for this." Her head sank onto his chest.  "You fix it for
me, Sam.  Please."

With an arm around her back, he lifted Dina to her feet and took her
inside.

Sam bound the cut with gauze and tape while Melanie watched, grimacing.
He said he would check it in the morning, and if it looked bad, she
would go to the doctor, no arguments.  Melanie hovered until Dina told
her to please stop.  She was all right, for heaven's sake.

Now Dina lay in bed.  She had taken a pill, and her eyes were nearly
closed.  "I cause so much trouble," she whispered.  "Poor Sam.  I've
worn you out."

"No.  Go to sleep." He smoothed her hair, which lay in unruly tangles on
the pillow.

"I won't dream tonight," she said.  "When I take these pills I don't
dream.  But this week he's been in my dreams every night."

"Bad dreams?"

She nodded.  "Very bad.  Do you ever dream of him, Sam?"

"No." He noticed that the silver cross lay upside down on the
nightstand, its chain jumbled.  "You took it off."

She laughed sleepily.  "The pills work better.  I think I was having a
flashback to my childhood.  Put it back in my dresser, will you?  Throw
it out, I don't care."

He opened the drawer of the nightstand and dropped the cross inside.

"Sam?  Lie down with me."

"Sure.  Scoot over." He put an arm under her neck, kissed her forehead,
then gazed out the window at the darkening sky while her breathing
deepened.

They had met when he was twenty-two years old, just out of the army. His
father had died the year before in Winter Haven, where he had owned an
orange grove.  Sam went to settle some matters with the estate, then
drove up to the University of Florida in Gainesville to see about
enrolling.  He didn't know what he wanted to study, but he had some GI
benefits and enough pay saved to get through four years if he was
careful.  He picked up a catalog from admissions, then strolled around
the leafy oldbrick campus.  He was wearing his green T-shirt, and his
hair was regulation short.

A pack of hippies began to trail him.  Tie-dyed, bellbottomed freaks.
One wore an army jacket with a black armband.  They shouted at him.  How
many babies had he killed in Vietnam?  Hey, soldier-boy, did you bomb
any villages?  How many women did you rape?  Did you get off on it?

Sam's hands went into fists.  He waited for them to make a move, wanted
them to.  He was ready to break some bones.  Then he heard another
voice.  A dark-haired girl with books in her arms pushed through,
shouting for them to stop it, leave him alone.  They stared at her long
enough for the mood to break.

Sam followed her and asked why she had done that.

She shrugged.  "It wasn't fair.  They don't know who you are."

"Neither do you.  Maybe I did kill people over there.

Maybe I liked it."

Then this dark-eyed girl stopped walking.  She studied him.  "No.  I
don't think you liked it."

Sam knew he couldn't let her just walk away, vanishing into the crowd of
students.

Her name, she told him later, was Constandina Pondakos.  And then she
laughed.  "Dina for short, okay?"

It was still dark outside when Sam woke up.  He lay in bed for a while,
then swung his feet over the edge, trying not to wake Dina.  He went
around to the other side and pulled the blanket up around her shoulders.
She didn't stir.  Sam put on slacks and a T-shirt, then went downstairs
to make some coffee.  The refrigerator hummed, and a tree frog croaked
in the backyard.

Police reports on the Alice Duncan sexual battery case were in his
briefcase.  He pulled out the folder, lay it on the kitchen table, and
flipped it open.  He put on his glasses and sat down.  The ten pages
included a summary by the lead detective, along with supplemental
reports by two other men in the Personal Crimes Unit and the four
uniformed officers who had secured the premises, gathered evidence, and
interviewed witnesses at the scene.

Sipping his coffee, Sam scanned the report.  Victim stated that Fonseca
forced her to engage in sexual intercourse with him and then with
Lamont.  Fonseca and Ruffini then restrained victim while Ruffini
sodomized her with the neck of a champagne bottle.

Sam skipped ahead.  After the premises were secured the following items
were taken into evidence.  The sordid list included ladies pantyhose; a
used condom; a .22-caliber double-shot pistol; a crack pipe; two
hypodermic syringes; several forms and varieties of drugs in vials,
plastic bags, pills, rocks, capsules; and rolling paper.

Everyone in the room must have tossed their pockets when the police came
in.

Victim was transported to the Rape Treatment Center by a friend, WIth
Caitlin Dorn, 35 (see attached witness list).

Sam stared down at the name.  Took a breath, let it out.

Felt the blood squeeze through his chest.

The last time he had seen Caitlin Dorn she was wearing a jade-green silk
bathrobe with nothing underneath.  He had gone to her apartment, but it
was to tell her that he wouldn't be back again.  Their affair was over.
When he tried to explain, to tell her he was sorry, Caitlin grabbed a
lamp off a nightstand and hurled it at him, missing his head by inches.

Sam turned the report over on the kitchen table as if the woman to whom
the name belonged might otherwise float up from the page.

CHAPTER Four

aidin Dom had set up her camera pointing north.  It was attached to a
fat telephoto lens, and the lens was mounted on a tripod. A beach
umbrella shaded Caitlin, the camera, and a cartful of photographic
equipment.

Through the viewfinder she could see a backdrop of sparkling ocean,
golden sand, and white hotels, all converging at a misty blue point. The
sand sloped gently to the shoreline, where the turquoise water broke
into frothy waves, a continuous shushing sound.  Puffy clouds floated
lazily in the perfect blue dome of the sky, and seagulls wheeled and
dipped.  Slightly to the left, waiting for a signal to begin, stood a
family of idealized tourists.  Woman in sun hat and flowery dress,
sandals dangling from her hand.  Man in khaki pants rolled to mid-calf,
shirt hanging open.  Some chest hair, not too much.  And a little boy,
five years old, wearing shorts and a T-shirt.  All of them with
medium-brown hair, an allpurpose ethnicity.

The idea was that they had just escaped to Miami Beach from the frigid
blasts of Chicago or New Jersey or Montreal, had taken off their shoes,
couldn't wait to feel the tickle of surf on their toes.  This shot would
go on the cover of a brochure for potential investors in a new resort
designed to lure families down from Disney World and Universal Studios
to the international playground of the chic and beautiful, safely across
the bay from dark, urban, crime-infested Miami.

Caidin stepped aside to let her assistant take the shot.

Tommy Chang was a student at the local community college, working mostly
for the experience, which was about all Caitlin could afford to pay him.
He had a bandanna for a headband, sunglasses, a collection of silver
pendants around his neck on cords, a water bottle at his waist, no
shirt, baggy shorts, and Velcro-strapped sandals.

She had never seen a photographer's assistant dress much differently.

Tommy pulled out the proof.  This camera held instant film so they could
check the lighting and composition.

She raised her sunglasses to look at it while Tommy changed cameras.
They would shoot three or four rolls of 120-millimeter film, 30
exposures per roll.

Caitlin had been a model till a few years ago.  She had picked up
photography as a hobby in New York, but on South Beach it had become a
way to survive.  Getting this job had been a stroke of luck: her
boyfriend knew the man in charge of the project.  Caidin knew she was
good at what she did, but nobody was down at her end of the beach
kissing her ass, as they did with most photographers.  The two girls in
swimsuits she had finished shooting earlier were hanging out on
weathered, wood-slatted beach loungers, smoking.  They had showered the
salt water out of their hair in the production van, which was parked in
the metered lot next to the beach.  They sipped water out of bright
containers with plastic lids and bendable straws.  Caitlin could hear
bits of chirpy conversation.  The van owner sat in a folding chair
reading the paper, a fishing hat to keep the sun off his bald spot.  It
was his kid playing the son in the tourist family.

The art director, a blond woman named Uta, was fussing unnecessarily
with the female model's skirt.  The model smiled at her.  Yes, kiss the
art director's fanny, Caitlin thought.  Everybody did that.

Tommy took off down the beach to hold a reflector and passed Rafael
Soto, the hair and makeup designer, coming the other way.  Rafael
trudged through the sand in high-top red canvas sneakers.

Stopping under Caitlin's umbrella, he dug a lighter and cigarettes out
of his pocket, lit one.  The flame reflected in his big round
sunglasses.  He asked, "How's her hair look?

I sprayed the hell out of it."

She told him it looked fine.  Caitlin had last seen this model
half-dressed in a magazine ad for a South Beach lingerie boutique, but
Rafael had made her look like a Girl Scout troop leader from the
suburbs.

Holding a meter to the light, Tommy called out the exposure.
"Eight-five, eight-two.  Wait.  There's a cloud.  Just a second.  Okay,
coming out.  Eight-eight.  Eleven.  Blue sky, here we go."

The camera whirred and clicked at two frames per second.  The models
walked along the same few yards of sand again and again, backing up,
going forward, pretending to have a fabulous time.  Swinging the little
boy by the hands.  Laughing.  Kicking up the surf.

The art director yelled to the man not to get his trousers wet.

Rafael gossiped with Caitlin while Tommy reloaded the camera, marked the
film canister, and sprinted back to the models.  Tommy scooped up a
reflector and tossed it up and caught it, a giant silver circle. Caitlin
took her cap off for a minute to redo her hair into a ponytail.

"Uh-oh.  Your roots are starting to show," Rafael scolded, standing on
his toes to look.  "Want me to fix it for you sometime?"

"Yeah, do me a new head." She looked longingly at his cigarette.  "Let
me have a drag.  One?"

"No!  You told me not to." He held it out of reach.

"Selfish.  You should quit, too, you know."

"Why?  Everyone needs at least one vice in order to remain humble."
Rafael smiled, putting the cigarette to his lips.  He inhaled greedily.

Sighing, Caitlin peered through the viewfinder again.

"What the hell?" She cupped her hands around her mouth.

"Tommy!" He looked around.  "Tell him to take off his nipple ring! Every
time the wind opens his shirt, I can see it."

"He wore that to a shoot?" Rafael laughed.

"Better than the time that girl showed up with a spider tattoo on her
butt, and we were doing swimsuits, remember that?"

"WOW, "God, yes.  I had to put on the Dermablend with a putty knife!"
His laughter trailed off into a muttered "Oh, shit."

Caitlin turned to see what he was staring at-a man standing by the
production van, a tall blond in loose khakis and a white shirt with the
cuffs rolled up.  Caitlin recognized him: Charlie Sullivan, one of
Ford's top male models.  British, but living in the States.  She
wondered what he was doing here.  It wasn't for this gig, not playing
Mr.  Middle America.  If Sullivan were on a beach, he'd be lying
half-nude in the surf, pulling an equally stunning female slowly up his
torso, his mouth pressed to her throat, the sun bouncing off every
welldefined muscle in his body.  She had seen his model composite, a
variety of poses and outfits.  A tux.  Tweeds.

Business attire.  A cashmere coat over an Italian suit.  Or nothing but
low-slung jeans and rippling stomach muscles.  He was big time now,
double-page editorial shots in Details and GQ.

Caitlin glanced at Rafael.  Under the big sunglasses his mouth was
compressed into a tight line.  She said, "You want me to tell him to get
lost?  I could say it's a closed set."

"No, forget it."

She touched his arm.  "You all right?"

"Peachy."

Until a few months ago, Rafael had been staying at Sullivan's beach
front condo, keeping the place neat, even paying the mortgage.  Sullivan
returned from a trip to London and kicked him out.  Caitlin had tried to
warn Rafael, but he'd been deaf and blind.

She went back to her camera.  The man and woman and child filled the
viewfinder.  The boy had a little Miami Marlins cap on now.  Cute kid.
Rosy cheeks, round tummy.

Draping an arm over the telephoto she shouted, "Uta!

Did you get a release from the Marlins?"

Uta yelled back, "For what?"

"The hat."

Uta put her hands on her hips, then trotted back toward the water.  She
had long, tanned legs, and her blond braid bounced on her back.  She
motioned for Tommy to take off the boy's hat.  He sailed it toward her
in an arc and she ran to catch it one-handed.  Coming back up the slope,
Uta caught sight of Sullivan and held out her arms.  Caitlin heard her
voice sliding down the scale.  "Hi-i-iiii.` They kissed lightly, and
Sullivan left his arm around her shoulders.

"Such a whore," Rafael said.

"Which one?"

"Both of them.  I saw them at Follia last night with their hands all
over each other.  Where was her husband, I'd like to know?"

"Sullivan's in his hetero phase," she said.  "Next week it will be dogs
or something."

Rafael said, "If he comes over here, I'm leaving."

But when Sullivan headed in their direction, Rafael didn't move.  The
two swimsuit models trailed along behind him, one barefoot, one in
thongs.  One from a town in Alabama, the other a light-skinned Haitian
whose father, according to rumor, had fled to Paris with a big chunk of
the island's treasury.

Sullivan sat on a wooden beach lounger a few yards away from the
umbrella.  The sun gleamed on his dark blond hair.  "Hello, everyone."
He smiled, showing his perfect white teeth.

One of the models dropped down beside him.  "Comment Ca va, mon cher?
When did you get back?"

He gave her a peck on the lips.  "Forever ago.  Two weeks, at least.  I
was in Oslo, where I nearly froze my bum off."

The American girl bumped his shoulder with a hip.  "I heard something
about you."

"Should I ask?"

"You're the runway feature model in Milan for DolceGabbana's winter
collection."

"Yes, my agent called last week, and I'm still in shock."

Rafael said coolly, "And here you are, slumming on a shoot for a resort
designed for the bowling-alley crowd."

"I came to watch your hair-spray technique."

He glared down at Sullivan through his sunglasses.  "By the way, You
still have several of my CDs.  I would like to come pick them up."

"Whenever you like.  I'll leave them downstairs with the doorman."
Sullivan smiled.

Rafael spun around and headed up the beach.

Caitlin said, "I don't think it's such a hot idea, your being here. It's
upsetting Rafael."

"Everything upsets Rafael.  Actually, it's you I came to talk to."

"What about?"

"The thing at the Apocalypse last week, what else?"

The Haitian girl sat cross-legged on the sand and lit a cigarette.  Her
toenails were painted red, and a thin gold chain glittered on her ankle.
"Everybody is talking about it.  They say you were there."

Sullivan nodded.  "Yes, sorry to say.  Having nothing better to do that
night, and being in the mood for something trashy, which George
Fonseca's parties always are, I went along."

The American girl adjusted the straw in her insulated tumbler.  "I can't
believe it was rape.  I mean, Ali Duncan is such a slut."

Caitlin said, "Excuse me?  She's a friend of mine.  And not a slut."

The girl raised one slender shoulder.

"I was there, too," Caitlin said, "and I'm not going to talk about it.
Sullivan, you shouldn't either."

The Haitian model said, 1 read the article in the New Times, but they
made it to be that everyone was drunk and this happens all the time,
every night."

"Oh, doesn't it?" Sullivan drawled.  "The tourists will be so
disappointed."

The other girl said, "A friend of mine was there with her boyfriend, and
she told me that the lights came on and the music went off, and
everybody was like, 'What's going on?  What's happening?"

"

Sullivan said, "Caitlin, after you and Ali left, a policeman barged
right into the VIP room.  He was screaming, 'Get back, turn on the
fucking lights!  Nobody move." Klaus's bodyguard tried to push him out,
but he drew his gun and called for some backup.  They came in like storm
troopers, blocking the exits, taking names.

Everyone looked quite dazed.  Never, never turn on the lights in a
nightclub.  The carpet alone will make you in.

And meanwhile Klaus Ruffini was pouring himself another glass of
champagne and smiling as if he'd never had so much fun.  They didn't
arrest him because, well, look who they'd be arresting, but I personally
know that the matter is now under investigation."

The Haitian girl nodded, excited to be in on this.  "The police want to
raid the Apocalypse for a long time.  I heard they have arrest many
people that night for drugs.  They might close it down because of
letting girls in so young, do you think so?"

Caitlin refocused the telephoto, then circled her hand in the air to
signal she was ready.  Tommy called out the exposure.  "Eleven ...
eight-seven ...  eleven ...  Okay, holding at eleven."

In a hushed voice, the American girl said, "Sullivan, tell us.  What did
they do to her?  Like, with a champagne bottle?  Ewww!"

"Sorry, I've been instructed not to discuss that.  But I distinctly
heard George tell Klaus that he had arranged a surprise for him.  He
meant Ali, of course, as if she were an hors d'ouevre.  Then Klaus said
he wanted to see Marquis Lamont do it to her first."

"He didn't!"

"He offered George five thousand dollars to see the big black guy have
sex with her.  But he said it in words too crude to repeat."

The American model shrieked.  "Oh, God!  That is so gross!  Five
thousand dollars?  You lie!"

"It's true, I swear." He broke into laughter.  "Oh, stop, that tickles."

"You're a lying sack!"

Caitlin spun around from the camera.  "All of you, shut up!  I'm trying
to work."

The models climbed off Sullivan, and with a sigh he leaned back on the
lounge chair, locked his wrists over his forehead, and closed his eyes.
There were suffused giggles from the women, then silence.

Caitlin looked through the camera.  Little boy digging in the sand with
red plastic shovel.  Mom looking at a shell.

Dad on one knee, hand on mom's shoulder.  Everybody smiling.  Tommy and
Rafael holding the reflectors just right.  No harsh shadows.  Perfect.

Then the man swung the little boy onto his shoulders.

The woman smiled up at them.  They laughed silently in the viewfinder,
and their feet in the water kicked up froth but made no sound.  Again
and again.

The camera whirred and clicked.  Finally Caitlin signaled the end of the
roll.

Someone was whispering midway through a story.

"She puked down his back, all over his jacket, which was this really fab
green silk, and he was looking the other way and he didn't even notice
because he was like totally smashed, and she just walked out of the
restaurant-"

Tommy trotted back down the beach to reload.  Caitlin could have done
it, but he considered it his job.  Rafael stayed where he was, arms
crossed, kicking idly at a scrap of driftwood. With deft movements,
Tommy detached the camera from the lens, attached a loaded camera, then
took the film out of the first.  He marked the roll, zipped it onto a
bag on the cart, reloaded, then jogged back to the models, his black
hair flowing out behind him.

Sullivan asked, "Who is that kid?  He looks sort of Asian."

Caitlin said, "His father's Chinese, and he's eighteen years old.  Leave
him alone."

"You're in a funny mood.  I was only asking."

Caitlin grabbed some bottled water out of a small ice chest and
unscrewed the cap.  She had planned to shoot the other roll of film.
Just in case.  In case what?  Maybe Martin Cassie, hired by the Grand
Caribe Resortand who happened to be Uta's husband-wouldn't like any of
these.  Maybe Marty didn't like doing favors.

Maybe Caitlin hadn't kissed Uta's fanny sincerely enough.  Maybe it
would have been better not to have taken this job at all.

Still waiting, the male model cupped his hands and shouted, "Are we
about done?  I have to take a leak."

Caitlin tossed the bottle back into the cooler.  "Yes!

That's it!  We're done."

Sullivan swung his feet off the beach lounger.  "You girls go to the van
and fetch me some water, will you?"

"Have some of mine." The Haitian girl held out her insulated tumbler
with the straw through the top.

"Don't make me be rude.  Go on, I have to talk to Caitlin.  And tell
that Chinese kid to give us a minute as well." He waited for them to
leave, then walked over to where Caitlin was unsnapping the latches on
her camera case.

"What is it, Sullivan?"

"Are you going to testify against Klaus Ruffini, if there's a trial?"

"I haven't thought about it." She laid the camera into its fitted nic'he
and closed the lid.

"Have you been to the state attorney's office yet?"

Caitlin stopped with the telephoto half off the tripod.

"No.  What for?"

"They had me down there for two hours yesterday, asking questions.  You
mean nobody called you?  I went with Mirabelle-you know Mirabelle.  She
said she didn't see much, but she certainly did.  Anyway, we got lost in
the criminal courts-God, what a freak show!and finally stumbled into the
right building.  Not gray and blocky, as you would expect.  The walls
are turquoise, and the carpet is deep pink.  Sort of Kafka tropicale.

They wanted to know exactly what I saw, what I was doing at the club
that night, who else was there, who I had come with, whether I was high.
As if I were on trial.  You'll never guess who's in command of the
interrogations."

Caitlin lowered the lens into its case.  "Who?"

"You remember that boy who died in a motorcycle accident last year?
Stavros?  Don't look so blank, Caitlin.

You know who I mean.  You and he worked on a French sportswear catalog."

She stared at him for another second, then said, "Yes, of course,"

"Well, the prosecutor is Stavros's father.  Can you believe it?  His
name is Hagen, a hulking, stone-faced man with a government haircut and
an atrocious blue suit.  I'd never have guessed, because there's not
much resemblance to Stavros, but when I told him I was a model, he said
his son was a model on South Beachwas, as in deceased.  So I asked who,
and he said Matthew Hagen, who had also called himself Stavros.  So I
said, yes, of course I had known his son, that we'd been friends, in
fact, and that I was terribly shocked when he died, although I had been
out of the country at the time."

Caitlin began to fold up her tripod.

Sullivan said, "Hagen asked me if I would testify if it came to a trial,
and I said I would.  Are you sure he hasn't tried to contact you?"

"Positive."

"He must have done.  You were a witness."

"He has you," Caitlin said.  "You saw more than I did."

She lowered the umbrella.

Sullivan followed her back to the cart.  "I'm not keen to be the only
one.  Not that I'm afraid of George Fonseca or a half-rate movie actor
or even Klaus Ruffini.  In fact, the publicity couldn't hurt.  But if
I'm the only strong witness besides Ali-well, I'd feel quite
outnumbered."

She loaded the tripod and jammed the umbrella into a corner of the cart.
"Sullivan, for a minute there I thought you were developing a
conscience.  I mean, you didn't do a damn thing when Ali was attacked."

Squinting slightly in the sun, he lowered his face to hers.  He smiled.
"Neither did you, darling."

"Caitlin?" Tommy Chang was standing a few yards away with the
reflectors, which he had twisted into smaller silver circles.  "You
ready to go?"

She turned.  "Sure.  Do me a favor?  Load up everything and take it to
the studio, okay?" She grabbed her Nikon and slung the strap over her
shoulder.  "And run the film by the lab."

"Where are you goings"

"To get paid for this.  See you later."

Sullivan waved his fingers.  "Ciao."

Caitlin headed west, crossing Ocean Drive with its slow traffic and
packs of tourists, then going farther into the business district of
South Beach.  Marty Cassie lived on Jefferson Avenue.  He had said he
would be there.  Maybe this time she wouldn't have to go to hell and
back, looking for her money.

She had brought her camera along because she always brought her camera,
a used Nikon she'd bought in New York years ago. She could hide behind
its 70- to 210-millimeter zoom and shoot inconspicuously from a
distance.

Commercial photography paid the bills, but her heart was elsewhere.

On Washington Avenue she stopped under the shade of an awning outside a
market.  She looked through the lens at a thin, gray-haired woman across
the street bathing herself with water from a garden hose.  Caitlin had
seen her before, usually on one of the benches near the police station.
The woman wore red shorts and canvas slippers, and her breasts hung
loosely inside a faded halter top.  The hose curled out the side door of
a French bistro, and a white-jacketed kitchen helper leaned on his
elbows on the railing, smoking, waiting for her to finish so he could
mop the steps.  The water made rainbows of mist.  Caitlin could see
everything so clearly through the lens.  The white wall, white jacket,
blue painted railing, red shorts, the woman's glistening black skin, and
a splash of silvery water.

In the instant before her finger pressed the shutter release, she
wondered if the finished print would show all this.  Too often, between
the lens and the developer the light changed, or the balance shifted,
and the result would be no better than an ordinary snapshot.  Sometimes,
though, her photos were good.  More than good.  They made her certain
that yes!, she could do this, put it all on film, more real than life.
Caitlin used to work hard at taking photos that would look good in a
galleryOnce she had wanted them to mean something.  She didn't think
much about that anymore.  They meant what they meant.

The woman was singing now.  Caitlin could see her mouth move, see her
thin arms swaying above her head.

The kitchen helper stuck his cigarette in his mouth and applauded.
Caitlin kept her finger on the shutter, and the camera clicked and
whirred to the end of the roll.

She had thousands of photographs, color and blackand-white and weird
combinations, with no idea what they meant.  Less idea now, in fact,
than when she had begun.

She found Marty Cassie's apartment on a shady residential block in a
fourplex dating from the sixties.  Whoever had renovated the place had
painted it pink and put a horizontal stripe of purple at the top, trying
to get the art deco look, though the architecture was a few decades off.

Caitlin pressed the buzzer outside his door on the first floor.  A
business card was taped under the peephole: Martin Cassie, Tropic Realty
and Investments.

In the still air, she took off her cap and fanned her face.

A muffled salsa tune came from upstairs.  The tiled hall ran straight
back through the building, opening up to flowering shrubs and a
fountain.  A plump gray cat in the next doorway got up, stretched, then
came to see who she was.

Frank Tolin had persuaded Marty to let Caitlin do the resort brochure.
Frank was a lawyer downtown, and the two men had some business dealings
together.  If Marty didn't pay Caitlin, Frank would handle it.  But then
she would have to listen to Frank tell her how much he had done for her,
and wasn't she lucky?

Rumbling with purrs, the cat wound itself around Caitlin's ankles.  She
bent over to scratch under its chin.

"Hello, kitty-cat."

She and Frank had an off-on relationship.  Currently on, she thought. In
the middle of the Miami Vice craze, she had come down to see what was
going on, liked the sunshine, and stayed.  No, not entirely true.  She
had been fired from a Vogue shoot for showing up stoned and had no money
to get back to New York.  Frank had let her stay at his place in Coconut
Grove till she found an apartment.

They had been together-off and on-ever since.  Nobody was talking about
marriage.  Frank had been married and divorced twice already, and
Caitlin liked to come and go as she pleased.

She pressed her ear to the door of Marty's apartment.

"Damn." She rang once more, then gave up.  He could be anywhere.

At a pay phone a couple of blocks away she left her number at his office
and on his beeper.  She carried a beeper herself; Marty couldn't say he
wasn't able to reach her.  She checked a few of the sidewalk restaurants
and two real estate offices.  No one had seen Marty Cassie.

Unwrapping a deli sandwich as she walked, Caitlin headed north toward
Lincoln Road.  Tommy Chang had an extra key to her studio; he would have
taken the cart and equipment up there by now.  She owed him a hundred
dollars.  That and processing the film they had shot would just about
clear out her account-unless she put off paying the rent on the studio
for another week or so.  Or borrowed the money from Frank.  At least she
didn't have to worry about her apartment.  Frank owned the building and
wouldn't let her pay.

Stopping at a crosswalk in a crowd of pedestrians, Caitlin waited for
the light to change.  In the middle of the next block she spotted the
Apocalypse, looking pretty tame in broad daylight, Just another white
concrete front with an awning over the door, except this building used
to be synagogue, which might have amused her under other circumstances.
It had curves like Mosaic tablets at the roof-two curves and a dome with
silver paint.  She supposed the congregation had died off or had moved a
few miles north, or off the Beach entirely.  A year ago, sure of
herself, Caitlin had lain in wait with her camera until a family of
Hasidic Jews had wandered by, father in black suit and hat, mother in
calico dress and head scarf following behind with the children.  Caitlin
had clicked happily away, and when she got the photos back, they were
one cliche after another.

The traffic light changed.  Caitlin didn't move, only gazed through her
sunglasses across the intersection.

The prospect of having to talk to Sam Hagen was going through her mind.
Having to sit across a desk from him, being interrogated, as Sullivan
had been interrogated.

That Sam had not already contacted her might mean he wasn't going to.
But if he did, what then?

Why had she been at the Apocalypse that night?  Well, taking freelance
society photographs for a local magazine.  And why had she not
confronted those men, pulled her friend to safety, screamed for help?

Because in the dark I couldn't see; then it was too late.

And because, if you really want to know, at first I was mad at Ali, that
she would let this happen, for nothing, for a laugh, for the pure hell
of it.  Sam knew such things happened, because she had trusted him
enough to tell him about that other life.  .

Sam Hagen, his steady gray eyes on her.  As if he had a right to make
judgments about her.  About anybody, the bastard, They had met when he
started working at Frank's office.  She had joked around with him.
Nothing serious.  But the way he looked at her, she knew what he was
thinking.

He didn't do anything about it, though.  Then later, after he'd gone
back to his old job as a prosecutor and she was in one of her off
periods with Frank, Sam Hagen showed up one night at her door, and she,
like a fool, opened it.

He let her believe he was unhappy, that he would leave his wife.  Then
after several weeks, and with a suddenness that stunned her, he said he
couldn't see her anymore.  So sorry.  Good-bye.  She might have brought
herself to forgive him-he had a family, after all-if she hadn't found
out that he'd expected to be named as the interim state attorney.
Cheating on your wife is one thing; fucking your career is another.

By pure accident, Caitlin spotted Marty Cassie coming out of a bank on
Lincoln Road.  His hair was pulled back into a little ponytail, which he
had fastened with a red rubber band, and he carried a small leather bag
and a cellular phone.

When she planted herself in front of him, he held out an arm.  "Caitlin!
How's it going?  You look great!" He smiled at her through a pair of
Polo sunglasses.

She didn't smile back.  "I went by your apartment.  You said to come
pick up a check."

"Today?" He seemed puzzled and began to walk west on the mall.  Years
ago auto traffic had been replaced with planters, fountains, and
pedestrians.  "It's Saturday."

Caitlin fell into step.  "I don't care what day it is, Marty.

You said you'd be home.  You'd pay me when I finished the shoot for the
Grand Caribe brochure.  It's finished.

Where's the check?"

He shrugged.  "Where are the photos?"

She said, "The money is for processing costs.  You gave me a retainer of
a thousand dollars.  Now I need five hundred for processing and
printing.  After that, I'll want the balance."

"Oh, wow, I wish you'd told me that before."

I did tell you."

Marty Cassie seemed perplexed.  His brow creased.  "The resort
development office is closed today, and they have to approve all the
checks.  Hey, I don't like it either.

You know, these guys have put me off, too, Caitlin.

They brought me in to do publicity and gave me a share instead of a
salary.  A share of what, I ask you.  The city was supposed to approve a
zoning change, but I don't know what's going to happen now.  They could
get real nervous about what happened at the Apocalypse.  I mean,
Ruffini's the main player on the project."

"Poor Klaus," Caitlin said.  "Pay me for the brochure, Marty, but don't
suggest I do anything else for him."

Marty Cassie moved closer.  "Did he rape that gifl?  Or is she making it
up?  What's the story?  You were there, rightT' "Yes, but I didn't see
anything."

"Right.  But what happened?  Between you and me."

"I don't know."

"Yeah.  If I were there, I wouldn't know either." He stopped walking.
"Listen.  Was my wife at the shoot this morning?"

"Of course.  Uta designed the brochure."

"Who'd she come with?"

"She came in the production van with the models."

Marty gazed through his sunglasses, then slowly smiled.  His teeth were
small and even.  He said, "I drove by, thought I'd see how it was going,
and there was that faggot model-excuse me for being incorrect here-you
know who I mean."

"He was there to speak to me," Caitlin said.

Marty smiled again.  "Are you protecting Uta, Caidin?

Did she ask you not to tell me where she was, what she was doing?"

"Come on, Marty."

"We broke up.  I don't know if Uta mentioned it or not."

"No, she didn't."

"Yeah, well.  I lay it at the door of our mutual friend.

He'll get his one day." Marty unzipped his bag and allows dropped his
tiny telephone inside.  "She married me to get her green card.  I should
have known better."

C-Caitlin said, "Marty, my check."

"It's as good as done." He glanced at his watch.  "Wow, I'm late.  Look,
call me next week." He was walking backward.  "We'll get together for
lunch and you can show me the proofs.  I can't wait to see them.  Call
me."

"I will.  Monday morning.  Early."

Four years ago, Caitlin had exhibited her black-and-white
decadence-and-decay prints at a gallery on Lincoln Road owned by a
friend who liked such stuff.  She sold three prints.  There were wine
and fruit and a platter of cheese cubes on ruffled toothpicks.  People
she knew showed up and kissed her on both cheeks and said the exhibit
was marvelous.  Caidin wore tight jeans and a denim vest and smoked
French cigarettes.  She listened to a fashion editor describe the Karl
Lagerfeld spring collection he had seen in the company of Paolo di
Niscemi.  Had Caitlin met Paolo?  He had just opened a restaurant at
Ocean and Twelfth, which had tirarnisu to die for.

Then Caitlin saw Sam Hagen folding his umbrella by the door.  The hems
of his suit pants were spattered with rain.  He saw her, smiled quickly,
then went to look at the pictures mounted on the gallery walls.  He put
his glasses on.  The pools of light from the ceiling fell on his
shoulders and slid away as he moved through the exhibit.

Caitlin was standing there with her elbow on her hip, smoking.  She
tossed her hair back.  Watched him look at her photographs, at each one.

When he came finally to speak to her, she said he didn't have to buy
anything.  He did anyway, a grainy shot of an empty beach.  The gallery
closed early, and they went next door for cappuccino.  Setting down her
empty cup she pointed out that he hadn't said what he thought of her
show, be honest.

"I don't know much about photography."

She laughed.  "Say it.  I don't care.  They're pretentious and shallow."

"No, I didn't think that.  Why don't you tell me what they're about?"
His face was serious; he wanted to know.

With his umbrella over their heads, they walked the length of Lincoln
Road and back again, and she told him what she saw when she looked
through a camera, and how it made her happier than anything she'd ever
done, and, no, she never wanted to stop.

CHAPTER Five

ullivan took Tommy Chang to the Seahorse Grill on Ocean Drive.  He had
offered-rather generously, he Sthought-both lunch and an insider's look
at the top end of the fashion industry.

They sat at a small sidewalk table, one of a dozen, their backs to the
polished coral rock wall of the hotel terrace behind them, looking out
at palm trees and beach through pedestrians and across two lanes of
traffic.  Some tables had red Cinzano umbrellas fluttering over them,
but Sullivan chose one without.  He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it
loose at the waist.  The sun felt gloriously warm on his skin.

He told the waiter, "Grilled salmon.  A green salad with balsamic
vinegar.  And cranberry juice.  No ice." He looked at Tommy Chang,
seated to his left.

The kid was still reading the menu.

"It's on me, Tommy.  Whatever you want." When Tommy only nodded,
Sullivan said, "Hamburger and fries?"

"Okay.  Sure.  And a Coke."

"Naturally." Sullivan handed the waiter their menus.

The kid sat back in his chair, looking around, one knee bouncing.

Reaching into his pocket, Sullivan pulled out the small plastic vial
that contained his vitamins.  He counted out four different varieties
and took them with water.  Tommy Chang watched him.  Sullivan asked,
"Tell me.  How were you hired by Caidin Dorn?" He tossed back the last
capsule.

" My photography teacher at Miami-Dade knows her, and he recommended me
when she needed somebody to help out and stuff." Tommy shrugged.  "Not
like it's any big deal or anything."

"But it is.  Everybody starts somewhere.  And so you've decided to
become a fashion photographer."

"Well, I'm exploring my options.  Maybe get on the staff of a magazine
someday."

"That's ambitious." Sullivan wondered if he himself had ever been so
naive.  "Where are you from?" he asked.

"From?  Like maybe China?" Tommy smiled broadly.

He had clear, long-lashed, almond-shaped eyes.  "My dad was born in San
Diego."

'You still live at home?"

'For now.  They don't make me pay rent." Tommy laughed.

Sullivan settled back into his chair, angling away to make some room for
his legs, which he crossed at the knee.  "Well, let's see what I can
tell you.  I've worked with the best fashion photographers in the world.
Avedon, von Wangenheim, Arthur Elgort, Helmut Newton, for instance.  I
could show you my book if you want.  I know several local photographers.
Caitlin is all right but not very imaginative.  Well, can anyone be
imaginative with catalog, I ask you?  Learn what you can from her; then
move on.  And for God's sake, get out of Miami if possible.  It's full
of has-beens, mediocrities, B-list celebrities, and all the fame-fuckers
who tag along after them."

The kid grinned.  "What are you doing here?"

Such a clever boy.  Sullivan smiled.  "I come for the sun, not the
social life.  Genuine social life in Miami Beach is dead.  When you see
the Gap and Taco Bell, you know it's over.  This town after dark has
become as phony as Bourbon Street, as tawdry as Daytona Beach during
spring break.  Tourists come to gawk at the transvestites.  Fraternity
boys throw up their beer and piss on the pavements.  The Beach can't
decide between debauchery and commercialism, but either way it's the
walking dead."

The kid was staring at him.

Sullivan stared back until Tommy lowered his eyes and worked at
unfolding his napkin.

"Have you ever done any modeling?"

"Me?"

"You've got the looks.  No, honestly, I'm not kidding you.  I've seen,
oh, God, hundreds of young models.

Thousands.  Most of them haven't a chance.  You do.  I would know,
believe me."

Sullivan turned in his chair to study Tommy Chang's face.  "The ethnic
look is strong right now.  You've seen it for years in Benetton ads.
Good profile.  Great cheekbones.  Must be the Chinese blood." He reached
out and took off Tommy's bandanna headband and tossed it into his lap.

"Hair's a bit long.  You're tall enough, good muscle definition.  Asians
tend to photograph as rather fragile.  I don't think you would, though."

The kid drew back as if Sullivan might go for his underwear next.  The
edge of his boxers-dear God, a Miami Hurricanes motif-showed over his
denim shorts, and a darkish line of hair sprouted between his pecs and
vanished below his navel.  Sullivan raised his eyes.

Tommy had put on a defiant glare."I'm straight, man.

You'd better know that up front."

"Marvelous, but so what?  Most models are straight, in case you wondered
about that.  But what does it mean?

Straight.  And don't use labels-it's not polite.  Labels don't tell you
what a person is, deep within himself.  A person is anything he wants to
be." Christ, what drivel.

Chastened, the kid said, "Sorry."

Sullivan gave him a comradely slap on the back.  "Forget it.  Listen,
you wanted some advice.  Stay out of fashion photography.  There are too
many people in it already.

Take Caidin, for example.  She's not without talent, but she couldn't
survive if she didn't have a lover who provides some ready cash now and
then.  He's a lawyer.  Am I telling you things you don't know?  Oh, take
pictures if you have to, but then what do you live on?  I'd try modeling
if I were you.  It isn't hard, and you could fit it around your classes
in school."

Tommy took a long swallow of Coke, then put down his glass.  "Nah.  I
see these guys posing, making faces.  I don't think I could do that."

"Of course you could.  It's fun.  It's like acting.  Watch."

Sullivan had a repertoire of attitudes.  He demonstrated a few of them.
The moist-lipped desire of cologne ads; the arrogance they wanted for
Italian menswear; the breathless intensity from the jeans ad where he
had simulated screwing an anorexic teenage girl against a rusty water
tank on a New York rooftop.  Then a blue-eyed grin for innocent fun,
just the thing for Father's Day, kid-on-theknee shots.

"Cool." Tommy's eyes made crescent-shaped slits.

"That's pretty good."

There was something in his laugh that reminded Sullivan of Stavros's
laughter: full, open, nothing fake about it.  Whatever else Stavros
might have been-sullen, angry, self-destructive-he hadn't been phony.

Sullivan raised his hands, which he knew were graceful and strong, then
spread his arms wide, like wings.  His white Emporio Armani shirt
lifted, then opened, showing everything from neck to belt buckle.  He
was aware that people on the sidewalk were slowing as they walked by,
but he was used to that.

"Look.  No tattoos, no rings through various parts of my body.  No
cosmetic surgery-not yet, anyway." He laughed.  "Although I'm
thirty-one, and it won't last much longer, will it?"

Tommy shrugged.

:'You mustn't get into drugs," Sullivan said.

'I don't."

"Good.  Don't drink either."

The waiter brought the food.

Sullivan watched the kid splatter ketchup all over the beef patty.
Averting his eyes, Sullivan picked up his own fork and flaked off a
wedge of grilled salmon.  Fresh and pink.  A sprig of basil on top.  How
much of this damned fish had he consumed on South Beach?

"You're eighteen, aren't you?"

Tommy nodded and chewed.

"It helps, at your age, to know someone who's been around.  I've been
lucky that way.  You remember the TV ad a couple of years ago for Polo
cologne, where the man was riding a horse along the beach in slow
motion?"

"You did that?"

"Yes.  I got the job because I knew someone.  I made over a hundred
thousand dollars in residuals."

The almond eyes were fixed on him, and Sullivan felt a little electric
jolt of connection.  He had Tommy's attention now.

At age fifteen in London, Charlie Sullivan had been on one of his
customary pilfering expeditions, this time at Harrods, where he'd found
a smashing silk shirt.  Someone spotted him, a pock-marked man of about
forty.

A clerk saw him at the same time and grabbed him by the back of the
neck, but the man told the clerk he was this boy's uncle, to let him go.
The man paid for that shirt and two more besides.  He turned out to be a
baronet who lived in a townhouse in Kensington with six bedrooms, all of
which Sullivan got to know intimately.  His benefactor bought him
clothes, paid for speech lessons, and taught him which fork to use and
other sorts of useful, pretty bits of information.  When Sullivan was
eighteen he took a gold-inlaid Victorian music box from the baronet's
house, pawned it for two thousand pounds, and flew to the Bahamas with
some pals.  After three months he was broke and starving, pondering
whether to crawl home or sell his sweet white ass, wh6 someone saved it
for him-a forty-five-year-old woman on vacation from a New York art
gallery.  She took him to the States and got him a green card.  More
polishing, more money, more clothes.  Et voild!  But she liked to be
tied up and beaten, and she was a junkie besides.  Sullivan began making
the rounds of modeling agencies with a few head shots, as one of his
girlfriends had suggested.  It had taken him five hard years to become
established.

Sullivan looked at Tommy Chang and felt a sudden desire to toss his
napkin on the table and go home.  He took a deep breath.  Cold, gray
melancholy would descend upon him out of nowhere lately, for no reason
at all.

Last night he'd gone out with three friends he'd met in Milan last year,
even taking one of them to his flat.  And then ...  nothing.  He had
preferred falling asleep, and after he'd heard the door slam he'd lain
awake for hours, his chest aching as if he might at any moment burst
into tears.

The kid was talking about money now.  Then a question, and Sullivan had
to think of what it was.

"No, men don't make nearly as much as the girls, of course, but we
manage well enough." He could see the question in Tommy's mind.  "I
average about two thousand a day plus expenses, depending on the job.
For runway modeling it's less, but you do it for the exposure.

I can always find work in Germany or Scandinavia because of my coloring,
but it keeps me from a lot of jobs in South America.  Oddly enough, the
Japanese like blonds.  The French are okay to work with.  The Italians
don't pay as well, but I have a good time.  What's really cool-" Oh,
God, could he get his mouth around these juvenile speech patterns
without gagging?  "You get to see places.  And meet girls.  Lots of
them.  Do you have a girlfriend?"

The kid shook his head and swallowed, then wiped a finger across his lip
to catch a smear of ketchup.  "Not at the present time.  Me and her
broke up about a month ago."

She and I, you moron.  Were they all like this?  No.  Not all of them.
Stavros had been more refined, when he wasn't playing at being a
delinquent.

How would this turn out?  Sullivan wondered.  How would he play it?
Assuming he wanted to play at all.  It was always interesting, never
knowing what he himself would do, never mind anyone else.

Men and women had come on to him, some of them incredibly beautiful.  He
could say yes, or he could tell them to fuck off, depending on his mood.
Not that his mood seemed to matter, they would still have that sappy
look on their faces.  He had slapped a particularly sappy woman again
and again, wanting to know how many slaps would knock it off.  Six.

With a clank he laid down his fork on the clear glass plate.  "Don't
expect glamour," he said.  "It's just a job.

There's no glamour to it.  And it's not easy."

"You just said it was."

"it isn't.  All right, I'll tell you what it is when you start out.  A
phony agent will charge you hundreds of dollars and produce nothing.  A
photographer will have his hands on your arse.  You show up at a go-see,
seven A.M., to see if they'll hire you to model cheap sportswear for a
discount department store.  Everybody and his brother is in line ahead
of you.  Finally you get into the room, they ask for your card, the art
director looks at it, not at you, because you're only what appears on a
piece of paper, after all, and he says, 'Sorry, not what we want. Next!"
Then you go to another call, and another and-"

"That happened to you?"

"Of course.  Do you suppose that someone's going to snatch you off the
street for the next Calvin Klein underwear campaign?  If you can't stand
the word no, you don't belong here."

Tommy Chang was nodding, taking a big bite of hamburger, gripping the
bun in both hands, wondering if he was up to the challenge.  Not looking
sappy yet, but give him time.

The screech of brakes drew Sullivan's attention.  A shabby red Mustang
convertible was making a U-turn down the street, coming back.

"Shit." He didn't know he'd said it aloud until the kid asked him what
was the matter.

"It's George Fonseca.  He's one of the men who raped that girl in the
Apocalypse." The Mustang pulled into a space at the curb, and the driver
vaulted over the door.  He wore big sneakers and in-fitting shorts that
cupped his genitals.

Sullivan waited, his muscles tensing.

A 11 shadow fell across the table.  "I been looking for you.

"What do you want, George?"

"I want to know what the fuck you think you're doing."

His black T-shirt had no sleeves.  Gold's Gym.  Lots of armpit hair.

Sullivan exhaled.  "The state attorney's office asked me some questions,
and I told them the truth."

"I am not happy, man."

"After what you did, I should think not."

"What I did.  You lying fuck."

"Go away, George.  You're making people stare."

George glanced around, then grabbed another chair and forced himself
down into it, but it appeared he would spring back up at any moment, as
if he were a piece of metal that had been bent.

"Look, Sullivan.  We gotta talk sooner or later."

George's eyes went for a moment to Tommy, whose back was pressed up
against the wall.  "You're still pissed off about Stavros.  Okay.  What
the fuck do you want me to do, man?  That wasn't my fault, I told you."

"This isn7t about Stavros.  The thing is, George, that Klaus Ruffini is
going down the tubes, and you're simply on the same piece of toilet
paper."

George spoke through his teeth.  "I get it.  It's your buddy, that cunt
Claudia Otero.  She'd give her right tit to put Moda Ruffini out of
business.  Is she paying you to do this?"

Tommy shifted as if he might have to run for it.  Sullivan touched his
forearm.  "Notice, Tommy, how he froths at the mouth, literally.  The
spit is bubbling in the corners."

"You're dead meat."

"That's original." Sullivan dropped his voice to a growl.  "Leave,
George, before I kick your bleeding ass across Ocean Drive."

George's wicker-backed chair clattered to the sidewalk when he stood up.
"Do it, motherfucker.  I'll bust that pretty mouth of yours.  No stomach
punches.  I'm going' for the teeth."

A waiter hustled over, followed by the manager, then a cook with a huge
neck and a scowl, wiping his hands on his apron.  Sullivan knitted his
fingers over his belly, relaxing.  He could see which way this would go.

The manager took George's arm, spoke close to his ear.

"What're you doing, George?  Come on, cut it out.  I can't have this."

George jerked away and leaned into Sullivan's face.

"You're through on the Beach, asshole."

"Gee.  I'll never work in this town again."

He watched George stomp back across the street, get into his miserable
car, and screech out of the parking space, barely missing a van with an
Ohio plate.  A horn blared.  A cloud of bluish smoke drifted slowly
upward.

The manager put the chair back.

Sullivan waited until his hands were steady before he reached for his
juice.  People at the other tables gradually returned to their
conversations, and the flow continued on the sidewalk.

The kid's mouth was hanging open.  "Aren't you scared he'll do
something?"

Sullivan shrugged.  "I can deal with George."

Tommy leaned closer, a hand on Sullivan's chair.

"What's Stavros?"

"Not what.  Who." He exhaled.  "Stavros was a friend of mine who became
involved with George Fonseca.  He's now dead."

"No shit.  You mean ...  George killed him?"

Sullivan looked steadily at Tommy Chang.  "No.

Stavros died in a motorcycle accident, but he was working his way up
from cocaine and meth to heroin, thanks to George.  Ask Caitlin, she
knew him." For a while Sullivan sat without speaking.

Tommy Chang's curiosity hadn't run dry.  He prodded, "Who's Claudia
Otero?" He had scooted his chair closer, and Sullivan could feel the
heat radiating off his body.

Sullivan took another swallow of cranberry juice, then set down the
glass.  In the sunlight, the liquid danced red on the white tablecloth.

"Claudia Otero is a designer from Madrid, born in Havana.  She has a
boutique on Lincoln Road.  She and Tereza Ruffini hate each other's
guts.  Claudia has talent.

Tereza recycles last year's Versace at half the price.  Just the thing
for South Beach." He added, "Claudia and I spent some time together.  I
met her on my first trip to Paris, when I was twenty-two."

The kid grinned.  "You went out with her?"

Sullivan slid his arm across Tommy's shoulders and said quietly, "I did
not 'go out with her,' Tommy.  I fucked her for a week solid up and down
the C6te d'Azur on a yacht owned by Nino Ser-uti."

"Bitchin'."

"Believe it.  We're still friends.  In fact, you should meet her." Just
in time, Sullivan stopped himself from mentioning Claudia's party at La
Voile Rouge on Friday.  He wouldn't mind taking this kid to La Voile
Rouge, but not without a haircut and some manners.

"Tell you what.  Come over to the Colony Hotel tonight.

My agency is throwing a party.  Free champagne.  Meet the folks."

He could see the emotions flitting across the kid's face.

"I don't know these people.  I can't, like, just walk in."

"You know me." Sullivan spoke softly into his ear.

"Listen, Tommy.  It doesn't matter who you are if you know the right
people.  Yes, it's a spurious sort of existence, I grant you, but what
other kind is there, when you really think about it?"

"I guess." Tommy was a little dazed.  The cream of American youth.  At
that moment Sullivan wanted to backhand him.

Then he played with the idea of suggesting that Tommy come by his flat
first.  They could go to the hotel together, wouldn't that be easier? Of
course he would say yes.  The kid was smiling already, thinking of how
to impress all those cool people.

A chill passed over Sullivan's neck as if a blast of air conditioning
had rolled out the door of the restaurant onto the sidewalk.  He pulled
away from Tommy and crossed his arms.  The melancholy was settling down
like a cold, wet dog on his chest.

Tommy said, "What am I supposed to do?  Like, wait for you outside the
bar, or what?  Hey, are they going to card me?  I could get a fake ID."

For several seconds, Sullivan looked at him, unbearably weary.  "You
know, you really should clean yourself up.

It's disgusting.  You chew with your mouth open and you have the
vocabulary of a twelve-year-old."

Confused, Tommy said, "Hey."

"Yeah.  Hey.  Like, why don't you shove off?  Go play with your Kodak."

After a second, the kid pushed away from the table.

"Fuck you, man.  You're crazy."

Sullivan watched him through the crowd of pedestrians on the sidewalk,
his long, black hair gleaming on his bare shoulders, bouncing with each
step.  Nice shoulders.

Too bad.

He noticed a man at the next table looking at him from behind sunglasses
with shiny silver lenses.

Sullivan stared coldly into them for a minute, then turned his chair,
closed his eyes, and let the sun pour down on his face.

CHAPTER six

Leaning back with his cowboy boots propped on the edge of the table,
Frank Tolin heard the elevator whine to a stop.  Then a muffled ding. He
went back to the peach yogurt he'd found in Caitlin's refrigerator.

It was quiet here, five floors above the traffic on Collins Avenue.  The
studio was on the southeast corner of what used to be a stockbroker's
office.  Light streamed in through the blinds onto an empty expanse of
concrete where the carpet had been peeled up.  There were lamps on
tripods, props and colored backdrops, and a wall of shelves filled with
photographic equipment and storage boxes.  She had a small darkroom, a
kitchenette, and a daybed.  Frank's money had paid for it.  Caidin
tended to forget that fact.

Taking another spoonful of yogurt, he kept his eyes on the door.  A few
minutes ago, he'd been gazing out the window to pass the time and had
noticed Caitlin talking to Marty Cassie down on Lincoln Road.  Twenty
years as a trial attorney had taught Frank about body language.

Now he was wondering whether it had been wise of him to ask Marty to
give Caitlin that job.  Marty was probably trying to stiff her.  He was
getting to be a pain in the ass.

Keys jangled at the lock.  Frank blotted his mustache on a napkin and
set the yogurt aside.

She came in and turned to fasten the deadbolt.  A camera swung from her
shoulder.  She was wearing shorts, and her legs were tanned from the
sun.  Her streaky blond hair was under a cap, a ponytail sticking out
the back.

When she turned around she saw him and jumped.

He smiled at her over the tooled leather toes of his boots.  "Boo!"

"Daminit, Frank." She tossed her hat onto an armchair stacked with
photography magazines.  'I wish you wouldn't just come in here like
that."

"Afraid I might catch you at something?"

"Ha-ha." Caitlin set her camera on a workbench by the darkroom door.  "I
thought you were going to be at my apartment later.  Someone wants me to
do some head shots at three o'clock, and I really can't stop to talk."

"It's nice to be missed."

"Aww-w-w." She came around the table to kiss him.

He didn't respond other than to tilt his face up, wanting to see how
much she would put into it.

Not much.  It was a friendly peck on the lips.

She patted his shoulder.  "Did Tommy Chang come byT' "He just left.  He
said to tell you he's taking the film to the lab." Frank watched her go
over to the sink to wash her hands and face.  Her fanny moved when she
worked up the suds.  He asked, "How'd the Grand Caribe shoot go?"

"Fine.  I think we got some good ones."

"Everything okay with Marty?  Did he pay you?"

She dried her hands.  "He wasn't there.  I'll see him next week for a
check."

"You didn't see him today?"

"No." She hung up the towel on a hook.  "If I have any problems with
Marty, I'll let you know."

Frank smiled.  What made her lie like that?  It was a challenge,
figuring out what she held back, what she would tell him.  "Let's go to
the Strand tonight," he said.

"I've got some clients coming, so wear something nice.

The blue dress I bought you.  My suit's in my car.  I'll change at your
place."

She stood with a hand on her hip as if she was going to say something,
then shook her head.  He knew what that was about.  She didn't want him
making himself at home in her apartment.  They had already had that
argument more than once, and he didn't want to start it up again.  He
decided not to remind her that he owned the building and she didn't pay
a dime in rent.

He said, "If you don't mind."

She shook her head, then leaned over to unload the cart her assistant
had brought up.  Frank noticed the broken vein on the back of her left
thigh.  And she was getting lines around her eyes.  Her body wasn't as
firm as it used to be either, but none of that mattered to him.  Caitlin
Dom was still a beauty.  Eight years ago he had met her at a party for
the production staff of Miami Vice, and her smile had nearly knocked him
out.  Some of his friends dated younger women, often in their early
twenties.  They went through one after another of these girls.

Frank didn't want that.  What he and Caitlin had was permanent.

But now and then they'd hit a rough spot, and she'd have to be by
herself for a few months.  He used to tell himself that an occasional
separation kept the relationship fresh, but he was getting tired of this
game.  Maybe he spoiled her.  Caidin didn't realize how few good men
there were out there, especially for women her age.  Frank knew he was a
good catch.  He had a successful law practice.  He was healthy and trim,
appearing younger than his age, which was forty-seven.  He got along
with just about everyone, provided they weren't total assholes.

Lately Frank had started thinking about marriage, which he'd sworn never
to do again, having been through two of them.  Last week, in fact, he
was about to suggest that Caitlin move her things into his condo in the
Grove, but there were those vibes again, like the small tremors that
precede a major earthquake.

Something was going on with her, ever since that model had been raped.
Possibly that was bothering Caitlin, but Frank didn't think so.  He was
afraid it was something else.

About three years ago, during one of their longer separations, he had
suspected she was running around.  He hired a private investigator and
got the story.  She'd been cheating on him with Sam Hagen.  A double
betrayal.

Frank had brought Sam into his office a year or two before that, paid
him a good salary, and spent considerable effort showing him what a
civil trial practice was all about.  All as a favor for Sam's wife. Dina
Hagen had come to him privately, had told him they were having money
problems.  Then she mentioned that incident in Vietnam, as if Frank owed
Sam for something that had ha pened when they'd been kids.  He could see
Sam brag .  p ging to Dina about saving Frank Tolin's hide.  An
embarrassment then, more so now.

Sam Hagen lacked the drive for personal injury work, so he'd gone back
to the state attorney's office.

Then a few months later he started fooling around with Caidin.  Frank
had been so torn up he'd had fantasies about getting out his shotgun and
blowing them both to hell.  He stayed drunk for a week instead, dosing
himself on uppers to get to the office.  Then Caitlin came back, as she
always did.

Now Frank had reason to think she had seen Sam Hagen again.  He dropped
his feet to the floor and stood up.

His boots echoed on the concrete.

Caitlin was dusting off her telephoto lens, putting it back in its case.
He went over and lifted her ponytail, and tickled her neck with his
mustache.  Smiling, she turned around and kissed him.  This one was
better.

After a while he drew back far enough to see her face clearly.  "I heard
the state attorney's office is investigating that rape you saw at the
Apocalypse."

"Oh?"

"Marty Cassie told me." Frank wound a loose strand of her hair around
his finger.

"Yes, I heard the same thing," Caitlin said.

"You didn't tell me." He tugged on the strand of hair.

"Ouch." Wincing, she pulled it out of his grasp.  "I just found out,
Frank.  Just this morning."

"Have you talked to Sam Hagen about it?"

"Sam Hagen?  No.  Why?"

"He's the prosecutor in charge.  You didn't know?"

Frank locked his hands behind her waist and pulled her up against him.

I do know that, yes."

"Marty says Hagen is talking to witnesses.  You're a witness.  You
haven't talked to him?"

"No.  I said I hadn't." Those big green eyes of hers could convey such
innocence.  "There were other witnesses, better than U' She slipped out
of his arms to latch the case on her telephoto.  "The best witness told
me this morning that he has already given a statement. Maybe I won't
have to."

He was curious.  "What witness?"

She went around a divider that separated kitchen area from studio to put
the camera away.  He heard her voice.

"Sullivan.  Charlie Sullivan.  I told you he was there that night."

"Oh, yeah.  Superstud."

There was silence; then Caitlin said, "If this gets to trial-"

Frank waited, then asked, "If this gets to trial?  What, sweetheart?"

She reappeared.  "I don't care about Sullivan, believe me, but if he
testifies-" Caitlin turned her green eyes on Frank.  "You know about
trials, how nasty they can get.

This one, particularly.  Reporters and private investigators rooting
around for anything the slightest bit juicy."

"Like what, Catie?" Her affair with Sam Hagen would be a juicy bit for a
defense attorney to discover.

She said, "Like the prime witness being involved with the prosecutor's
son."

Frank stared at her.  "Give me that again?"

"Charlie Sullivan seduced Matthew." Caitlin took his hands.  "Please,
Frank.  Swear you'll never mention this to anyone."

"Matthew?"

"Yes, Matthew.  You must have met him.

"Sure, once or twice, when Sam brought him around to the office.  I
don't remember him very well." Caitlin gripped his hands tighter, and he
said, "No, I won't tell anyone."

She let him go.  "Sullivan wouldn't deny it, if anyone asked him.  It's
nothing to him, but Klaus Ruffini's defense attorney would love to use
that information.

"How did you find out?"

"Matthew and I worked together.  I did the photos for his book.  We got
to know each other, and I more or less picked up on what was going on
with him.  He was only nineteen, and he was so trusting.  Oh, God,
Frank.  You don't know.  Sullivan is such a vampire.  Poor Matthew."

"Sam Hagen's boy?" Frank smiled, thinking of the irony.  Hagen must have
gone ballistic.

Caitlin's face flushed.  "It's not humorous in the least.

It's awful, what happened to him."

"No, Catie, you surprised me, that's all.  Look, this is Miami Beach,
not rural Alabama.  If Sam Hagen's kid had a thing going with another
guy, so what?"

"Frank, you don't understand.  Matthew was depressed and confused.
Sullivan told him he was a loser, he'd never make it as a model.  He
died in a motorcycle crash only two weeks later, drunk out of his mind.
What does that look like?"

"You mean he did it deliberately?  Killed himself?"

"People could think so."

"I guess they could." Frank rubbed her back through her T-shirt, feeling
the warmth of her skin through the thin cotton.  I wonder if Sam knows
about this."

"I doubt it.  Matthew told me they had problems talking to each other.
He was intensely afraid of anyone in his family finding out."

Frank spoke softly, his lips against her temple.  "Are you worried how
Sam would take it?"

She laughed.  "Not much bothers Sam Hagen." Then her face emptied.
"Well, I shouldn't care, but I do.  His only son died.  You have a son,
Frank.  What if he killed himself?  It would be horrible.  Worse than an
accident.  And not just for Sam.  What about Matthew's mother?  Think of
it.  I mean, there was this person you loved, and then suddenly somebody
tells you he was queer, and he killed himself because his boyfriend
called him a loser.  Or maybe he was a drug addict who couldn't stand
himself anymore and ran his motorcycle off the road.  Whatever twisted
image is thrown in your face, the person you loved is not only dead-he's
erased.  You have nothing.

You don't know who he was or even why he died.  I'll tell you about
Matthew." Caitlin's eyes suddenly glistened.

"He was a good person, Frank.  He would have been okay."

She went to make herself busy at her workbench.

Frank stared at her, wondering what the tears were all about.  Then he
knew: Caitlin was scared.  She was afraid he would find out about her
affair with Sam Hagen.

Caitlin said firmly, "I don't want to testify.  I've seen what lawyers
can do, how they can twist the truth and tear people apart." She
laughed.  "God knows I don't get into much trouble lately, in my old
age, but nobody cares about reformed sinners.  They only want to hear
about the sins."

With his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his jeans, Frank watched Caidin
rewind the film in her camera, pop oper the back, and take it out.
Finally he went over and turned her around.  "Sweetheart, listen to me.

You're working yourself up over nothing.  The state attorney's office is
going to check it out, then do a nofile.  The investigation is to
satisfy potential critics, that's all."

She looked at him, wanting to believe him.  "How do you know this?"

"Marty told me.  He says Hal Delucca has a line to the state attorney."
Frank kissed one of her eyes, then the other, tasting salt on his lips.
"You know Dade County politics.  Anything bad for the tourist industry,
it's going to disappear.  They can't go after Marquis Lamont or Klaus
Ruffini.  Don't you worry about it, all right?"

She laid her forehead on his shoulder, and her arms went around him, She
needed him.  He hugged her tightly.

Here they were, the two of them, needing each other.  He could be a fool
sometimes, forgetting that.

"Oh, Catie.  If you knew how much you mean to me."

He held her face and kissed her, brushing his mustache across her lips,
then kissing her again.  He moved his hands over her breasts then down
to unsnap the waistband of her shorts.

She stirred.  "Frank, there isn't time."

"There's time.  I want you so much I could even do it on the floor." He
dropped to his knees and hugged her.  "Nobody else could love you this
much.  We belong to each other.  Do you believe that, Catie?"

Laughing a little, she pushed her hair off her forehead.

"I'd better.  Who else would have me?"

"Let's go lie down on your daybed."

"Frank!"

"I mean it." He buried his face in her stomach.  "I need you, Catie."

She leaned over, put her cheek on top of his head.  "All right.  Let me
go to the bathroom first, okay?"

"Hurry up." He watched her walk across the room, smile at him from the
bathroom door, then go inside.

Water ran in the sink.  Frank stood up slowly.  The concrete floor was
damned hard.  He pulled his shirt out of his pants, started on his belt
buckle.  Then he heard a knock at the door.  He glared at it.  The knock
came again, louder.

He went over and opened the door far enough to see through the crack.  A
tall, skinny girl with curly red hair was standing there with her hands
twisting at her waist.

Long, thin legs sticking out of a little dress.

"What do you want?"

The girl blinked.  "Is Caitlin here?"

"Who are you?"

"Ah."

He knew his tone was surly.  "Ali what, sweetheart?"

"Duncan.  Is she here?"

It came to him.  The rape victim.  No makeup, skin you could see the
veins through, collarbones like coat hangers.  He couldn't imagine doing
it with a girl like this.  She looked fourteen.  The men must have been
on drugs.

The girl's wide blue eyes shifted to a spot behind him.

Caitlin was there, curious, smoothing her hair down.

"Ali!" Nearly shoving Frank aside, she drew the girl into the studio. "I
called and called.  Where have you been?"

The girl glanced at Frank, then back at Caitlin.  "I have to talk to
you," she said.

"Sure.  This is my friend, Frank Tolin."

"Hi.7 The girl couldn't seem to get her voice out.

Caitlin mouthed please at Frank.  He gave her a stem look, then smiled.
"I'll just go over there by the windows.

You girls chat away.  Don't mind me." His boot heels thudded on the
concrete.  He stood by the row of windows.

Waited.  There was whispered conversation behind one of the dividers.
Then a sob.  Beyond the windows, the low roofs and white buildings of
South Beach shone in the sun, and light fell in a long rectangle cut by
slanting shadows.  He looked at his watch.

Finally, Caitlin led Ali to the door and closed it softly behind her.
She didn't lock it.  She came across the studio to where Frank leaned
against a window sill, arms crossed.

She said, "I asked her to wait outside for a minute.

They called her yesterday from the state attorney's office.

They want to see her."

:'NowT., 'Monday.  She's so scared.  She wants to talk to me about it."

"And who are they?  Sam Hagen?"

Caitlin hesitated before nodding.  "I'll probably go with her."

Frank was outraged.  He said calmly, "I told you.  The case won't be
filed.  You don't have to become involved in this.  Tell her to go
home."

"No.  She can't leave in her condition, Frank.  Ali is extremely upset."

"What about me?  I don't count?  I'm upset."

She looked toward the ceiling, exhaling.  "Frank.  For God's sake."

Frank smiled.  "Okay.  You go ahead and talk to your friend.  I'm out of
here."

She said coldly, "I'll be home by six." Not giving a shit if he stuck
around or not.

He said, "No.  Don't rush.  Spend all the time you need with this little
whore.  You're another one."

"Damn you, don't say that!"

He tucked in his shirt, and his hands were shaking.  He had trouble
getting his buckle fastened.  "What were you doing at the Apocalypse
that night?"

She glared at him.  "I told you.  Freelancing for a magazine.  You want
me to show you the damned pictures?"

With a forefinger he flipped the end of her nose.  She dodged away. "Did
you do some lines?  Get a little high?

Won't do it with Frank anymore."

"Stop it, Frank."

e grabbed her wrist, jerking her toward him.  "George Fonseca gives the
stuff away at those parties.  You didn't ask for a taste?"

"No !"

"Hell, I don't know what you do." He poked her shoulder with stiff
fingers.  She bumped into the divider, which rocked on its base.  He
closed in, poking her again.  "I don't know who you go out with.  If
you're getting laid behind my back."

"Shut up!"

He grabbed her upper arms.  "I can't trust you, and that tears me up
inside." He shook her.  "I'd share everything I have with you, because
I'm crazy enough to love you, but what do I get in return?  What?"

He shoved her away, got a few paces, then turned around and walked back
to where she stood.  She flinched, but he didn't touch her.  His voice
was quiet now, under control.  "You know, you really ought to take a
good look at yourself, sweetheart.  I'm telling you.  This is sad.

You're thirty-five years old.  No college degree.  Too old to model
anymore.  Now you want to be a photographer, like everybody else on
South Beach with a camera.  You can't keep up with the rent on this
studio, and you don't pay a dime for your apartment.  Wake up!  You're
living in a fantasy world, and you want me to subsidize it."

She was crying.  Her nose was red, and her face was crumpled.  Ugly now,
looking old and ugly.  He wanted to hit her, feel the release of it.
Then suddenly he was relenting, giving in, his feet on quicksand.  "Oh,
God.

Honey, I'm sorry."

She turned away, weeping.

"Come here." He took her in his arms.  "Come on, now.  I'm sorry if I
lost my temper, babe." She struggled a little, then finally went limp on
his shoulder.

"I wanted to make love to you, Catie.  That's all.  You make me want
you, then you shut me out.  It makes me think you don't love me anymore.
You do love me, don't you?" He tilted her head back and looked at her.
"Catie?

Please.  Don't you love me?"

"Oh, Frank.  I can't stand this."

"Say it.  For me?" He kissed her forehead.  "You're tearing me apart."
His throat was tight.  "Please.  Say it, Catie."

Her eyes closed.  "I love you, Frank."

"And I love you.  More than anyone.  Or anything in this world.  I'll
never leave you, I swear it." He held her tightly, stroking her back.
"We're stuck with each other, Catie.  Ain't nothing we can do about it."

CHAPTER Seven

ugene Ryabin, a homicide detective with the Miami Beach Police
Department, sat by the window in Sam Hagen's office smoking. Ryabin was
waiting to be called across the street to testify in the strangulation
murder of a transvestite prostitute, a young Puerto Rican who called
himself Monique when he worked the area around Fifteenth and Collins.
"With such a body, even you he would have fooled."

Ryabin was a compact, white-haired man in his mid fifties, with sloping
shoulders and an expression of weary bermisement.  His skin was pale and
lined, with pouches around his eyes and the blue sheen of beard under a
close, cologne-scented shave.  Gold cufflinks twinkled at the cuffs of
his starched shirt, and a semiautomatic pistol rested in a holster at
his waist.  His suit coat, arms neatly aligned, lay across a stack of
cardboard boxes containing files for a contract killing Sam was taking
to trial in a week.

He had dropped by to see what was happening with the Duncan sexual
battery case.  Sam told him that the victim was due to show up at two
o'clock that afternoon.  His latest message on her answering machine,
after a week of messages, had threatened to have the police bring her in
if she didn't come on her own.  It had been Sam's experience that
victims who avoided the prosecutor were usually lying.

Considering that for a moment, Ryabin said, "Do you want an opinion?"

"Please."

"My opinion is she's not lying."

Sam asked, "Did she ever get picked up for prostitution?  Drunk and
disorderly?  Possession of drugs?"

To each, Ryabin shook his head.  Nothing on the Beach, that he knew of.
Sam said, "I've ordered her juvenile records."

"This is the victim, may I remind you?"

Sam asked Ryabin what he thought of Alice Duncan.

Ryabin tilted open the window to let out the smoke.

A truck ground its gears in the street below.  He said, "Ambitious.
Smart, but not as smart as she thinks.  She left home at sixteen, and
earned a high school degree at night.  Her parents are divorced.  She
comes from the suburbs west of Fort Lauderdale.  Have you been up there,
Sam?  So many shopping malls and subdivisions and houses the same as the
next, and landscaped walls around them.  Miami Beach to a girl like that
would be paradise."

Several years ago in the Club Deuce, back when it was seedy instead of
tame, Ryabin, sipping a fourth glass of beer, had told Sam how he
himself happened to be on Miami Beach.  He was not Russian, bite your
tongue, but Ukrainian, born Yevgeny Ryabin in the city of Odessa, which,
as a seaport with an established criminal class, offered certain
opportunities for a clever young man.  Yevgeny-Zhenya to his
friends-became a fardzovshik, a low-level black marketeer.  Even so,
life was not easy.  In 1972, with Jews getting out on special
invitations to Israel, he arranged for a Jewish wife.

He paid the equivalent of $5,000 for Anna Levitsky, daughter of a poor,
intellectual family (such families were nearly always poor).  As soon as
the system had spit out the paperwork, Zhenya left the Soviet Union with
his bride and her sister and their widowed mother.  To his surprise, he
grew fond of these three women, his new family.  They settled near the
Golan Heights, where he learned to drive a tractor and shoot at Syrians.

In 1982 his mother-in-law, who with Anna's sister had gone to live in
Miami Beach, was robbed and brutally beaten.  She died a week later, her
daughters and son-inlaw at her side.  The suspect was a criminal from a
Cuban prison, sent by Castro in the Mariel boatlift, one of dozens of
such men who settled on South Beach, which was then in a state of decay.
The police sought him until his body turned up in Flamingo Park, neatly
garroted.  It was assumed, but never proved, that one of the local drug
dealers had done it.

Ryabin and his wife stayed in the U.S.  with her sister.

He changed his name to Eugene, polished his English, and joined the
police department.  Better the sands of Miami Beach than the sand of the
Negev, he had told Sam.

It's great here.  A piece of cake.

Now he was looking at Sam over the glowing tip of his cigarette.  "What
do the witnesses tell you?"

"Depends.  on whose side they're on," Sam said.  "You listed nine of
them.  Two haven't returned my calls.  So far I've spoken to five
others.  Three now swear they didn't see anything.  One is sure she
heard Ms.  Duncan say she wanted to have sex with Marquis Lamont.  A
British male model says she was attacked.  He's convincing, but I get
the feeling he'd like to nail Ruffini.  His name's Charlie Sullivan.
What did you think when you interviewed him?"

"The same.  But a lot of people would like to see Klaus Ruffini go down,
if only for amusement.  The Beach loves gossip, and what happened at the
Apocalypse is on everyone's mind.  The best gossip of the season."

"What can you tell me about Ruffini?"

"Besides the gossip?" Ryabin's grin revealed the gap between his front
teeth, which were stained with nicotine.  "He's a generous man.  Last
Christmas he sent baskets to the Jewish Home for the Aged.  This is
true.  Swiss chocolates, wine, cheese, patd.  He gave the city library a
check for a hundred grand.  The mayor made a speech, how lucky we are to
have Klaus Ruffini in our town.  And to the Police Athletic League he
gave I believe fifty thousand dollars.  For this he can make illegal
U-turns and park in handicapped zones."

Ryabin blew a stream of smoke toward the crack in the window.  "Last
week," he said, "I went to Ruffini's house and had a conversation with
the intercom at the gate.

He's deeply hurt to be the victim of false accusations.

Maybe Alice Duncan wants revenge because he didn't agree to hire her as
a model.  Then he said I should call his attorney.  The same from George
Fonseca and Marquis Lamont.  Fonseca said to me, 'You're a detective. Go
detect."

" Ryabin exhaled a smoky sigh.  "It makes me nostalgic for Odessa.
People were more cooperative there."

Sam smiled.  "All right.  They deserve to be prosecuted.

So do a lot of people." He gestured toward the files stacked on his
desk, laid out across the sofa, and packed in boxes on the floor.  "I'm
supervising fifty or sixty cases, eight of which are set for jury trial
this week.  If this one washes out, I'm not going to cry about it."

At the sound of a knock on the door, Sam swiveled around.  "Come in."

It was Joe McGee, holding half a guava pastry, flakes of crust dotting
his tie.  He said, "Got a message for you from Adela Ramos." He lifted a
hand toward Ryabin.

"Zdrastye, comrade."

"Buenos dias, " said Ryabin.

"You know about Ramos, right?"

Ryabin nodded slowly.  "The child whose stepfather threw him from the
window."

"Yeah, but Adela Ramos, the kid's mother, never married the guy."
Chewing the last of the pastry, McGee wiped his mouth, then said to Sam,
"She called this morning, had a neighbor on the line to translate.  You
were in a meeting, so Gloria put the call through to me.

Seems like an acquittal wasn't good enough for Balmaseda.  The prick's
been following her.  He calls her at work, says stuff like, 'You bitch,
you think you can talk like that about me." I told her to get a
restraining order and meanwhile stay low till he cools off.  Woman's
petrified."

Ryabin smiled, cigarette at his lips.  "Tell her to buy a gun."

"I'll call her," Sam said.  "Make sure I've got her number.  Gene, where
is she living now, do you know?" It hadn't been Ryabin's case, but the
entire department knew about it.

"I think with the brother, who has an apartment on Eighth Street, not
far from the station.  I'll send someone to check on her."

McGee paused at the door and said to Sam, "You want to grab lunch? We're
doing Chinese."

"Can't today," Sam said.  "I'm meeting my wife downtown."

After the door closed, Ryabin looked across the office at him.  "How is
Dina?" he asked gently.

This was more than a polite inquiry.  Ryabin had visited her at the
hospital a few times.  Sam didn't know what to say except, "Better.
She's working again.  I'll tell her you asked about her."

Ryabin nodded.

When Dina had called an hour ago she hadn't told Sam why she needed to
talk to him in the middle of the day, only that it was important.  When
he said he had no time for lunch, a sigh had come over the line. Please,
Sam.  I have to see you.

Sam pushed himself out of his chair.  "Give me a call tomorrow on
Duncan.  I should know by then what we're going to do."

Ryabin didn't get up.  Extending an arm toward the windowsill, he tapped
ashes into his Styrofoam coffee cup.  "I'm noticing a strange thing,
Sam.  The physical evidence is still in the property room.  Usually by
now it would be in the lab for analysis.  Blood type, hair samples,
semen.  But the lieutenant said never mind.  I said, 'What do you meanT
He told me never mind sending the evidence to the lab.  It would be a
waste of time because the case wouldn't be filed."

"Why did he say that?"

Ryabin shrugged.  "I asked.  He said I could take it up with the captain
if I didn't like it.  What can I think, Sam?

Only that the captain will send me to the chief-unless he first tells me
to go to hell.  I'm not crazy enough to ask Chief Mazik where he's
getting such information."

Ryabin took a final drag off his cigarette and dropped it into the cup,
where it hissed briefly in the remaining coffee and went out.

"He didn't get it from me," Sam said.

"From who, then?"

"Try the city manager.  Hal Delucca called Eddie Mora last week and said
he wanted this case to go away.

Apparently Delucca likes to take care of his VIPs over there.  Eddie
told him forget it, then asked me to check it out." Sam spread his arms.
"It's my sterling reputation, Gene.  Nobody can accuse the state
attorney of being pressured not to prosecute.  You don't have to repeat
that."

"No, of course not." Frowning, Ryabin pulled on his earlobe.

Sam had told Dina that Eddie might leave the office.

The only other person he would trust with that information was sitting
in this room, but Sam knew how Ryabin might see it: the head of Major
Crimes putting his seal of approval on a no-action in exchange for
Eddie's job.  It wasn't that way, but it bothered Sam enough to make him
ask a question.

"Have you heard any talk about Eddie Mora and Hal Delucca?"

Ryabin raised his eyes, pale blue under heavy brows, deep lines at the
corners.  "Talk about what?"

'Connections."

'No.  I don't like either of them.  Is that enough in common?  Why are
you asking this?"

" Just being careful.  If I tell your department not to file charges, I
don't want to find out later that somebody benefitted."

:'Somebody who?  Eddie Mora?"

'Anybody.  The Tourist Commission.  The fashion industry.  The Miami
Film Bureau.  Or any of our three subjects." Sam laughed, leaning back
into his chair.  "How much do you think they've already paid Alice
Duncan to come in here and tell me it was all a misunderstanding?

'No, no, Mr.  Hagen, please don't make me testify.  I didn't mean it."

"

Dropping his coffee cup into the basket beside Sam's desk, Ryabin said,
"What if she says otherwise?"

"Come on, Gene.  I had to twist her arm to get her here today."

The street noises faded when Ryabin pushed shut the bottom section of
the metal-framed window.  He lifted his jacket off the stack of boxes
and brushed some dust off a sleeve.

"You know, Sam, if you visit South Beach, and you have money, you expect
certain things.  Marquis Lamont and his friends, they're in town making
a movie.

They want to have a good time, so they go out to a club.

Klaus Ruffini and his friends go also.  The clubs fill up if everyone
thinks important people are there.  This is how George Fonseca earns his
living.  He fills the clubs.  The owners give him a percentage, and
Fonseca gives the VIPs what they want so they'll show up.  Drinks, food,
music.  Girls.  The models get in free.  And maybe not always girls. You
want a boy, okay.  Or maybe some cocaine so you can feel good at three
o'clock in the morning.  PCP, speed, heroin, whatever you want. Enjoy
the hospitality.  Is this a crime?  No, it's a party.  All private.  Who
does it hurt?"

Slipping one arm into his neatly pressed jacket, then the other, Ryabin
said, "I know that George Fonseca has friends in organized crime.  I
know that he distributes drugs in some of the nightclubs.  We used to
have in the budget money for special undercover units.  I myself would
see bags of cocaine in plain sight.  Not now.  We stay out of the clubs.
The city wants us to chase the kids from Hialeah and Liberty City who
come over to snatch purses, and the thieves who prey on the tourists.
Real crime."

"Gene, I can't file a case to make a point."

With a smile, Ryabin said, "Am I preaching?  You should tell me to be
quiet." He buttoned his jacket over his pistol and adjusted his cuffs.

"All right," Sam said.  "Go ahead and send the evidence to the lab.  Say
I told you to.  If you get any heat, call me."

The gap appeared between Ryabin's front teeth.  "Maybe we should send it
to Metro-Dade."

The Beach police had a crime scene unit, but the county's was more
sophisticated-and possibly more secure.  Apparently, Ryabin was
concerned about it.  Sam said, "Whatever.  Metro-Dade.  Look, even if we
get a warrant to take samples from all three guys, and we get DNA
matches on swabs from the victim, we've still got consent to worry
about.  We might prove they had sex with her.  It's harder to prove she
didn't let them do it."

At the door, Ryabin stood looking into the mauvecarpeted corridor for a
moment.  Then his eyes shifted back to Sam.  "Don't judge her too
quickly.  You don't like South Beach.  The party life, what goes on
there.

This I can understand.  But don't judge her too quickly, Sam."

Eugene Ryabin often spoke in a roundabout way, so that his words, beyond
their apparent meaning, carried subtleties that only those who knew the
context could discern.  The listener would hear the obvious, and then,
like the grumble of thunder following a distant flicker of lightning,
would come rolling echoes of comprehension.

It was only after Sam was back at his desk with a deposition transcript
in another case that he realized that Ryabin had been talking about
Matthew.

Close to noon, Sam's secretary stopped him on his way past her cubicle.
She had a batch of papers for him to sign.  He checked his watch, then
felt his pockets for a pen.  She gave him one, and he leaned over her
desk.  The secretarial furniture was modern, sleek, and speckled gray.
Gloria's work space was jammed with lopsided craft projects her various
grandchildren had made.  Their faces smiled from a garden of tiny photo
frames.

Sam was supposed to have his own secretary but instead shared Gloria
Potter with two other attorneys in Major Crimes, the budget being what
it was.

"Joe McGee left Adela Ramos's number for you," Glona said.

"All right, let me have it." Sam shifted the pen to a better position
and scrawled his signature, which consisted of cramped initials ending
in straight horizontal lines.  His thumb was aching today.

Gloria patted a little yellow note onto his coat sleeve.

"Here.  And Vicky Duran wants to see you."

"I don't have time.  I've got lunch downtown with Dina."

Sam went around an upholstered partition to the next desk, sat in the
empty chair, and punched in the number for Adela Ramos.

Not a damn thing he could do for the woman, he thought, leaning his
forehead on extended fingers.

The phone puffed in his ear.  The system had fucked her over.  No, not
the system.  A bad call.  The weight of his decision from last week bore
down on him.  He could make sure the police kept an eye on Luis
Balmaseda.  Arrest Balmaseda for stalking if it got bad; throw his ass
in jail.

"Sam."

He looked up.  Beekie.

Victoria Duran came around the partition and stood over him.  Bright
green suit with black buttons.  Auburn hair.  Colorful as a parrot.  Sam
held up a hand, listened through another ring, then replaced the
receiver.

Gloria had gone to the copy machine.  Her cardigan sweater hung over the
back of her chair.  Beekie spun the chair around and sat down.  She
crossed her impressive legs.  They I shone in sheer hose from thigh to
open-toed pumps.

"Do we have a decision on the alleged sexual battery case?"

"The alleged victim is coming in at two o'clock," Sam said.

"Because Eddie is getting phone calls," Beekie said, her eyes going
momentarily toward the corridor.  "Reporters, the attorney for Klaus
Ruffini, Lamont's producer.  I told them you're handling the case.  They
say they called, but you don't call back."

"As soon as I have something to tell them, I will.  For now, we're still
looking into it." Sam stood up.  "Sorry, Vicky, I've got an
appointment."

"Wait a minute." She reached up from her chair to stop him.  "I asked
Dale Finley to help you out.  He can do the background checks, collect
evidence, whatever you need."

Finley was an investigator for the state attorney's office, hired by
Eddie Mora a couple of years ago.  The story was Dale Finley had worked
for the CIA, got busted in Havana, and spent some hard years in
Combinado del Este prison before being exchanged for a Cuban spy grabbed
in Panama.

"I don't recall asking for backup," Sam said.  "Whose idea was this?
Eddie's?"

"Mine.

"Isn't that outside your job description, Beekie?"

Her back stiffened.  "I want to help you, okay?"

:'Why is that?"

'Are you trying to be rude?"

:'No, I'm just curious why you care."

'I care t ' hat this matter isn't mishandled."

Sam patted her shoulder, his hand bouncing a little on the jutting
shoulder pad.  "Thanks for the vote of confidence.  Tell Dale Finley I
don't need him."

" He would go straight to Eddie.  I already told Eddie that Finley is
working with you.  What would he think?

You'll make yourself look bad."

Halfway to the corridor, Sam turned slowly around.

"Vicky, pay attention.  Stay out of this.  If at some point I need Dale
Finley, I will talk to him."

Under the already vivid powder on her cheeks, Victoria Duran's color
heightened.  She uncrossed her legs and stood up next to him.  Sam could
see the reddish sun blotches on her chest, the skin wrinkling a bit at
the cleavage.  She spoke in a low voice.  "I told Eddie to turn the case
over to someone in the sexual battery unit.  Treat it more like a
routine matter, which it is.  If we give it to the head of Major Crimes,
people will wonder why such a heavy gun.  But he trusts you.  So I said,
'Okay, have it your way, Eddie." But Sam, you've had this over a week.
People are asking questions.

Don't make it into something it's not.  I know what you think of Eddie.
He took your job.  Don't stab him in the back."

Holding back a laugh, Sam realized that Vicky Duran's feelings for the
state attorney went way beyond professional.  The poor woman was in love
with him.

She had her fingers clamped around Sam's coat sleeve now, like talons,
digging in when he started to move.

"Don't.  If you ruin his chances, Sam, you won't be happy working here."

He raised his eyes to hers and she dropped his sleeve.

He came in closer, conscious of his size, and of her moving backward a
step, bumping the desk.  He said quietly, "Better hope he takes you with
him, Vicky."

Sam was twenty minutes late meeting Dina for lunch.

She had chosen the restaurant downstairs from her accounting firm, a
walnut-paneled place with a threetiered salad bar and classical music
coming out of hidden speakers.  Walking in, smoothing his wind-blown
hair, Sam bypassed the maitre d' and went to Dina's table, located to
one side under a painting of a Bahamian fishing village.

The waiter came over and he ordered iced tea, nothing else.

Dina's lunch was already on the table, a fillet of grilled fish.  She
had eaten it into a square, apparently, then had cut off the corners to
make a perfect octagon.

Sam asked, "What's up?"

"Thank you for tearing yourself away from the office," Dina said.

"Sorry.  I got here as soon as I could.  Are you okay?"

"Yes, fine." Her olive green suit made her skin sallow, and the brown
shadows beneath her eyes might have been painted on.  She stirred cream
into her coffee.  "I was thinking of going to Tarpon Springs next
weekend.

Would you mind?"

He smiled a little, trying not to show his annoyance.  He turned the
cut-glass salt shaker around and around.  "Dina, I told you.  I have a
trial starting Monday."

"I know that," she said.  "I don't expect you to go with me.  I'll fly
to Tampa.  Nick can meet me at the airport.  He says Dad's a little
better.  He was asking for me the other day." Her mouth twisted into a
smile.  "Pou ineh i Constandina?  Maybe this time he'll remember who I
am when he sees me."

She'd last been in Tarpon Springs at Easter, a month and a half ago, but
not only to visit her father.  Nick had told Sam that whenever Dina went
home she would pick up some potted flowers from his nursery and take
them out to the cemetery.

The waiter brought iced tea in a frosted glass.  A thin wedge of lime
sat on the rim.

Sam said, "Sure.  Go ahead.  You want to take Melanie along?"

Dina shook her head.

"That's fine.  We'll make do." He tore open a blue pack of fake sugar
and stiffed it into the tea.  He didn't know what she wanted him to say.
"Go up anytime you like.  You don't have to ask my permission."

As he lifted the glass he noticed the way her attention seemed focused
on a spot past his chair.  "What's the matter, Dina?"

She shifted her eyes to his, then said, "I've made an appointment with
Frank Tolin for five-thirty this afternoon, for both of us.  Frank will
tell us if we have grounds to file a lawsuit for wrongful death."

Carefully he replaced his glass on the table.

Dina smiled, then said, "I believe that is the correct term, isn't it?
Wrongful death?"

His mind finally caught up to the meaning of the words.

"A lawsuit?  Against whom, for God's sake?"

"The bar where Matthew had been drinking.  He wasn't twenty-one.  He
didn't have an ID, even a false one.

They broke the law, and they should be held accountable.

We can sue Harley-Davidson if there was a defect in his motorcycle.  And
the city of Miami Beach.  Did anyone ever ask if the road was properly
maintained?  And what about the owner of the truck?  It was changing
lanes-"

"Hold it." Sam lifted his hands.  "When did you see Frank Tolin?"

"I haven't yet.  I called him this morning, we discussed it briefly over
the telephone, and he said to come in.  Five-thirty is the only time he
has available till next week.

You're not in trial this afternoon.  There's no reason we can't go."

"I can't believe this."

Dina asked, "Do you have some objections to Frank Tolin?  I've noticed
that since you left his office you never mention his name."

:'You want to sue Harley-Davidson?"

'The motorcycle is still around.  We can have it examined.  A friend of
Matthew's bought it, and it's still in his garage till he finds the
money to-"

"Forget it."

Her dark eyes were on him, accusing.

"Dina.  Listen to me." He dropped his hand over hers, which stiffened
under his fingers.  "Honey.  Whatever Frank told you over the phone, if
we file a lawsuitwhich I can't imagine he'd advise us to do-the chances
of winning, much less collecting damages--2'

"I don't give a damn about the money.  It's the principle.  People can't
be allowed to get away with this."

"With what?"

"With destroying our son.  What was his death if not wrongful?  And
Matthew wasn't the only one destroyed.

What about us?  You're morose and edgy.  Melanie's grades are terrible.
My career is in tatters."

"Dina, I am familiar with personal injury law.  We are not-"

"You've never done a wrongful death case.  Have you?"

He spoke slowly, his forefinger accenting the words.

"We are not going to spend money we do not have to file a lawsuit
begging a jury to compensate us for an accident caused by the negligence
of a nineteen-year-old who chose to drink, who chose to exceed the speed
limit on a souped up, fifteen-thousand-dollar motorcycle at four o'clock
in the-"

"He didn't choose the result."

"No.  He didn't.  That was just tough luck.  He's not around to see the
consequences, but we are.  And that's our tough luck.  I'm not going to
lay the blame on somebody else.  There's already too goddamn much of
that these days." Sam picked up his tea, then put it down.

He turned sideways in his chair and forced his breathing to slow.

When he glanced at her again, Dina said, "You're worried how it might
appear, I suppose.  What people would say if the next state attorney for
Dade County sued the city of Miami Beach-"

His angry, warning look stopped her in mid-sentence.

Then he added quietly, "The answer is no."

"You astonish me," she said.  "Your only son is gone and it causes
barely a ripple.  You'll show someone his picture in our photo album
next year, or in ten years, and say, 'This was our son Matthew." And
they say, 'Oh.

What a shame." Yes.  What a shame.  Tell me, Sam.  Is it that you didn't
care, or are you afraid to admit you loved him?"

Sam swirled the ice in his tea, then took a swallow.

"Great set of alternatives you're giving me.  I'm either an unfeeling
bastard or a total coward." As he watched, the color drained from her
face, and she stiffened, hugging her arms over her chest.  "Dina?"

She turned her cheek away from his hand and took a deep breath, then
another.  Her voice, when it came, was calm.  She smiled.  "You know,
Sam, I grew up believin in God.  It's easy to do if nothing bad has
happened.

Well, here's what I think, now that I'm older and presumably wiser: If
there is a God, he got bored with us a long time ago, and now he's busy
elsewhere.  The innocent perish and the wicked are raised up, but don't
wait for the Almighty to balance the accounts.  I don't know if there's
eternal justice or not, but I can tell you this.  Here on earth we'd
better make our own.  That's what you do, isn't it, Sam?  Hand out
justice, or try to.  Your own substitute for God.  Well, guess what? Our
son is dead.  And the funny thing is we're dying, too, and you just
don't care."

Laughing suddenly, she raised her fingers to her lips.  "I said it.
Dead.  Usually I can't get the word past my teeth.

Matthew is dead.  His flesh is rotting in a coffin, and by God some
point should be made of it.  He is dead.  I wish you would acknowledge
that fact.  And I would dearly love it if someone would simply say, 'I'm
sorry."

" Her eyes gleamed with tears.

He took her hand.  "Dina, no.  You think a lawsuit will fix everything.
Believe me, it won't.  Let me call Dr. Berman."

Her smile wavered.  "I have tried Dr.  Berman.  I have taken the pills
he prescribed.  I have said prayers to a God in whom I no longer
believe.  I have considered going back to Tarpon Springs to live.  I
have even thought of not living at all.  That would be effective,
certainly, but a little extreme."

"Oh, Jesus." Sam leaned on an elbow, knuckles supporting his cheek,
which had grown some stubble since he had shaved at five-thirty this
morning.

"I want-need-a resolution.  I don't know what will happen after I talk
to Frank, but I'm going to keep that appointment, whether you go with me
or not."

Sam could see it: Dina sitting in the leather wing chair in Frank
Tolin's office, weeping.  Sam had never Shown much pity during Matthew's
LIFE.  He had yelled at Matthew, then at Dina for taking Matthew's side,
the two of them forming an alliance against him.  And Sam was still
demanding that she make a choice: her husband or her son.  It wasn't
fair.

"All right," Sam said.  "I'll go with you."

"NO." She aligned the corners of her napkin and smoothed it flat on the
table.  "You've told me how you feel.  Tonight-if you have time, or if
you're interestedI'll tell you what Frank said."

"Jesus.  You wanted me to go.  I'm saying I will."

Anger flashed across her face.  "Is it too much to ask that you treat me
as a wife, rather than as another of your obligations?"

Stunned, he didn't reply.

For an instant her emotions seemed to hang like a stone at its apogee,
then her features sank into something like despair.  "I love you, Sam."

He nodded.  "I love you, too, Dina."

She laughed self-consciously, picked up her purse from the adjacent
chair, then held it in her lap, studying the gold clasp.  "We nearly
lost each other once, didn't we?  I wish I knew why; I'd fix it.  I've
been a terrible mother to Melanie and such a burden to you."

"No.  Don't say that."

'Have we lost each other, Sam?"

'How could we?"

"Why do I feel it, then?  As if you're somewhere else?"

"I'm not.  I'm right here."

Her -dark, shadowed eyes lifted to his.  "Sam, please.

Don't lie to me.  I've been your wife for twenty-two years.

Do you think I don't know what's in your heart?  Come with me if you
want, or not.  But please, don't lie to me anymore."

CHAPTER Eight

C'ome on, baby.  Open up."

"I'm not letting you in." Ali snapped her cigarette out of her mouth and
blew smoke toward the door.  The white paint chipping off around the
bottom showed a pukey shade of pink underneath.  Dark smudges circled
the deadbolt and doorknob.  Her roommates were pigs.  It was weird, she
thought, how she'd never noticed it before.

"Don't make me stand out here in the hall, Ali.  I'm not gonna hurt you.
I want to talk, that's all, I promise."

"Forget it, George." Through the window she had seen him jumping out of
his Mustang convertible.  Strutting up the walk in his fucking Tommy
Hilfiger shirt, trying to look good.  Like it would matter.

"I'm sorry for what happened.  Jesus, if I could take back that whole
night.  I was totally wasted.  I didn't know what was going on."

"Yeah, right.  I was crying, you asshole.  Were you blind?"

"You let me do it, Ali.  You wanted me to."

"In front of God and the world?  With three guys?" Ali made a little
scream of frustration.  "I didn't even want it with you!  What do you
think I am?"

"Okay, okay.  Look, I can understand being mad, but you're overreacting.
You want the police to arrest me, put me in prison the rest of my life?
If I'd been the only one, would you be doing this?"

"Shut up, George."

"No.  You wouldn't.  So it's not me you're mad at."

There was a silence; then he said, "Maybe you don't believe this now,
but I swear to you, Ali, I swear on ...  on anything holy you could name
that I care about you.  I've been out with other women, but you've
always been special, baby doll."

She laughed.  "That is so pathetic.  George, go away.

Caitlin will be here any minute.  And the police are coming, too.
They're escorting me, so you'd better leave."

George knew she was going to the state attorney's office.  Ali had told
him when he called her half an hour ago.

She wouldn't have answered but the caller-ID showed her agency's number.
He had used their phone, the fucker, and now here he was.  It was true
about Caitlin, but not about the police escort.

"Go away!"

A low moan came through the crack at the door frame, like his lips were
pressed to it.  "If I could explain to you, tell you straight to your
face how sorry I am.  Take your hand.  Like friends.  Haven't we been
friends, at least?

Please, I'm begging you."

The sound of his voice descended toward the floor, followed by a thud.
"Jesus, I don't believe this.  I'm on my knees to you, woman.  Ali, I
was stoned.  We were making love, then Marquis pushed me out of the
way-"

"You held me down, you shit." Ali rushed forward and slammed her fist on
the door.  "Then you let Marquis Lamont do it to me.  And then Klaus,
who is even worse!  I had to have stitches, and don't you dare tell me
it wasn't your fault!"

Eyes stinging, she ran across the small living room and grabbed a
kitchen towel off the back of a chromelegged chair.  She pressed her
face into the cloth and cried.  The towel was damp and reeked sourly.
She hurled it into the sink, where it sank in dishwater and sent a
palmetto bug scrabbling across the counter.  Ali went to the faded plaid
sofa and dropped heavily on one end of it, drawing up her knees and
resting her cheek on them.  She remembered a year ago, carrying up her
boxes and her new clothes, the apartment shiny as in a TV ad with a
housewife holding a mop and smiling at her kitchen floor.

"Are you crying, Ali?" She heard a soft knock.  "Hey.

Are you all right?  Oh, baby.  You're in there alone, forgetting all the
good times we had.  Remember Key West?

Ali?  It was great, wasn't it?  Don't throw it all away.  Jesus, I'm
sorry!"

Lighting a cigarette, she watched the door.  George Fonseca out there
begging.  Sounding like he meant it.  She wondered if the prosecutor,
Samuel Hagen, could sue just Marquis and Klaus.  Put them in jail and
threaten George, something like that.  Make him really sorry.  When they
were going out George didn't used to be so horrible.  She wondered if he
had changed, or if he'd always been a total sleazewad.

"Ali, please-" She heard footsteps coming up the stairs, a pause, then
George mumbling, "Hi.  Just waiting for Ali."

He must have gotten to his feet.  The landing out there was small, with
stained green carpet and two doors leading off it.  A Mexican couple
lived across the hall.  Ali heard keys jingling, then a soap opera on
Spanish radio turned way up, then a door closing.  The neighbor was
illegal, so he wasn't likely to call the cops.  Not that Ali was afraid
of George Fonseca.  In all the time they'd gone out, he'd been nice.
Until that night at the Apocalypse.

She pawed through her black leather backpack for a mirror and checked
her makeup.  She wet the tip of her forefinger and rubbed away the
splotches of mascara under her eyes.

George said, "Ali?  You listening?  I talked to Marquis.

I said, 'Marquis, maybe you could get Ali a part in that movie." And he
said, 'Sure, tell her to come see me." 11

"You're a liar," Ali said.  She tossed her compact into her bag.  "The
stars don't hire people, and Marquis Lamont isn't even a star.  And it's
a low-budget flick anyway.  Terrorists taking over a cruise ship.  How
lame."

"Baby doll, you're being stupid here.  I mean, you're not thinking this
through.  Okay, forget Marquis.  You're a model. Klaus Ruffini could get
you some bookings.  Think about it."

"I have.  He's a total turd." She added, "Worse than you, George." She
picked up her cigarette from where she had laid it across an empty Diet
Coke can.

Crossed her legs, swung her foot.  Waited.  Maybe she could forgive him
after all, depending on how long he groveled.

There were dull thuds on the door, as if George was banging his forehead
on it.  "What the hell do you want?"

She screamed, "You do not give me to your friends, George!  You do not
screw me in front of a roomful of people.  Nobody does that to me!"

"I fucking said I was sorry, for God's sake!"

"Sorry you got caught!  Sorry you might go to jail!"

She could hear him breathing.

Finally he said, "I don't have any money, if that's what you're after."

"Fuck you.  Who asked you for money?"

"Listen to me.  Klaus might be a turd, but he's a very rich turd.  He'd
pay you to drop this.  He would.  I could talk to him."

Eyes closing, Ali dropped her head to the back of the sofa and groaned.

'Let me in, I'll call him right now."

'I said no." She got up and stood by the window, parting the dusty
miniblinds to see out.  Where the hell was Caitlin?  Ali glanced at her
watch.  Twelve-forty-five already.  They'd be late.

George was saying, "You've got the man by the shorts, if you'd just
realize it.  Ali, you know that project on First Street?  Grand Caribe?
He's into it big time, him and some high rollers.  Nobody's gonna let
him run it from jail.  If he gets hit with a rape charge, he's in deep
caca.  Use your head for once."

"I am not a whore!"

"Go ahead.  Make your point.  Then what?  People talk for a while, then
they forget and they're on to the next thing, and where are you?  Oh,
yeah, the girl that banged three guys in the Apocalypse, what was her
name?  On the other hand, however, say you snag ten, twenty grand off of
Klaus.  You go to New York, make him get you some bookings up there.
You'd be set. I've learned something about life, baby.  If you have
money you are never a whore."

Raising the miniblinds, Ali looked both ways along the narrow street.
Two guys in nothing but swim trunks and sunglasses rolled by on skates.
Still no Caitlin.

The doorknob rattled.  "Jesus!  Talk to me, will you?  I could kick this
door down, but I'm trying to be nice." A wooden bang reverberated
through the apartment.

Ali watched the lock, hoping it would hold.  "Stop it!

I'll call 91 1.  I mean it!"

"Yeah?  Tell them about that stash your roommate has in her closet." The
door groaned and thudded, and Ali backed away.  "We're gonna talk one
way or the other."

The molding creaked.

She sprinted into the tiny kitchen, skidded in her clogs, and threw open
a drawer, metal clanging inside.  She found a twelve-inch serrated bread
knife and sped back across the living room.  "Stop that!  I've got a
knife, a big one.  If you come in here, I swear to God I'll kill you!"

The door bounced.  "Don't!  I'll cut you in pieces like dog food!"

A surprised laugh came from the hall.  "Jesus.  You're such a bitch, you
know that?  What the fuck, wasting my time." His voice faded, then his
footsteps returned.

His palm hit the wood and Ali flinched.  "You're on coke and you pop
heroin.  Nobody would believe a word you said."

"And you deal!  Everybody knows it.  If you don't leave I 'II tell the
police what you do!" Ali heard the toot of a horn and ran to the window.
A blue Toyota was doubleparked.  With some effort she cranked open the
jalousies.

"Caitlin!" she yelled through the screen.  "Watch out!

George is up here!"

"Don't fuck with me, Ali."

His voice was right behind her.  She spun around with the knife, ready
to strike.  But he was on his side of the door, his voice hissing
through the crack.

"Some people I know would definitely take exception if you open your
mouth about certain matters Do you understand what I'm saying?  I hope
you like the Everglades, baby, cause you might be taking a trip out
there real soon."

And then his feet were thudding down the stairs.

Flying over MacArthur Causeway bridge, Caitlin checked the rearview
mirror again to make sure no one was following.  George Fonseca's
Mustang had roared out of the parking space at the curb, but she was
afraid he had doubled back.  He hadn't, and she took a deep breath,
trying not to show she was nervous.

In the passenger seat, Ali was reaching up to tap ashes out the
partially opened window.  Her eyes were obscured by silver-framed
sunglasses with lenses the size of quarters, her lips shone with gloss,
and her red hair was a flaming cloud around her head.  She wore a black
miniskirt, patterned thigh-high hose, and a long-sleeved leotard that
glimmered like mercury.  No bra.  Caidin wondered if she ought to lend
Ali her jacket.  She herself didn't intend to go upstairs at the state
attorney's office, only to wait in the lobby.

Ali smiled through an exhalation of smoke.  "George was so pissed off.
God, you should've heard him screaming."

"I heard enough." Caitlin looked at her.  "Are you stoned?"

"No, but I could use a Xanax." Ali held up her palms.

"Kidding!  Caitlin, I was kidding.  I haven't done anything since that
night, honest.  I don't know what happened to me, but it's weird.  I'm
all---2' She lifted her hands and splayed her long fingers.  "Boing!
Wake up!"

Caitlin said, "Could I have a drag off that cigarette?"

"What?  No, you said you quit."

"I did, but I'm about to climb out of my skin."

"Really, Caitlin.  You shouldn't.  They say it gives you wrinkles.  Out
it goes.  Say bye." After a last, deep lungful of smoke, Ali flicked the
cigarette through the crack and rolled up the window.  "Why did I ever
go out with him?  I was out of my mind." She shook her head.  "That's
it.

Over.  I'm finished with men.  They're trouble, that's for sure.

A resolution like that wouldn't last long, Caitlin knew, but at
seventeen, Ali needed all the resolve she could get.

"Make sure you tell Sam Hagen everything George said to you.  The
threats, everything."

"Somebody from his office knocked on my door this morning," Ali said.
She opened her bag and rummaged through it.

"Whose office?"

"Mr.  Hagen's.  I pretended not to be home.  He goes, 'Miss Duncan, I
know you're in there.  Miss Duncan, we need to talk." It was a creepy
old guy with a limp.

Not old old, but his hair was white.  I looked out the window when he
left.  He was wearing a guayabera, but his name isn't Spanish.  He put
his card under the door.  On the back it says to call him." She held it
up.  Dale Finley, Investigator, Office of the State Attorney.

"Did you call?"

"No way.  The detective with the Beach Police-what's his name?  With the
accent?"

"Detective Ryabin."

"Right.  He told me not to talk to anybody---except Sam Hagen."

"That's probably a good idea."

Ali gave a casual shrug.  "A reporter from the New Times wants to
interview me.  Plus Channel 7 and the Miami Herald left messages.  My
mom called.  She was drunk, as usual.  She goes, 'Call Sixty Minutes.
Call Inside Edition." No way.  It would screw up the trial.  You hear
about that all the time on TV.  But maybe after it's over I could sell
my story." Ali flipped up the cover on the visor mirror, took off her
sunglasses, and checked her makeup.

"Should I get a lawyer, do you think?  What about Mr.  Hagen?  Does he
do that?"

"No.  He's a prosecutor."

"But he's a lawyer, right?"

"Very much so," Caitlin said.  "He's yours, but only for the criminal
proceedings."

"Brilliant." Watching her image in the mirror, Ali said, "Speak to my
lawyer, George.  No, Mr.  Ruffini, I cannot talk to you.  My lawyer
advised me against it." She laughed and put her sunglasses back on.

Caitlin said nothing.  Ali Duncan was floating on a giddy rush of
excitement, the star in a drama that the rest of the world didn't care
about, except as a passing example of sordid excess.

Just two days ago Ali had come trembling to Caitlin's studio, not
knowing whether to go back home to her mother or tell the police it was
all a mistake.  And Caidin had rushed in with the answer Ali had wanted
most of all.  Of course you didn't deserve that.  You've done some dumb
things, but you're a decent person at heart.  First Ali had sobbed.  And
then she had become angry.

Glancing now at the girl beside her, Caitlin didn't want to talk her out
of it.  Ali D.  had snapped into a young woman Caidin had never seen
before.

Maybe the case wouldn't be filed at all, if Frank was state attorright
about the city manager whispering in the they Is ear.  But that
information had come from Marty Cassie, who was hardly reliable.  And
anyway, Sam Hagen, for all his faults, couldn't be bought.  If Ali had
the guts to go through with this, Caitlin could, too.

She blew out a little puff of air and resettled her hands on the
steering wheel.

And if it came out about her affair with Sam, she would deal with Frank
somehow.  And if, by some remote chance, anyone learned about
Matthew-well, that was in the past as well.  It would hurt Sam and Dina
to know it, but they could work out their own problems.  And nothing
could hurt Matthew anymore.

The expressway rose high over the Miami River, over the rusty freighters
and boatyards and small white houses with tile roofs.  Far to the west,
heavy gray clouds were forming over the Everglades, where the sprawl of
asphalt and concrete finally ended in wetlands.

"Let me give you a hint about Sam Hagen.  I know him.

Well, I used to.  He practiced law with Frank a few years ago."

"Frank?"

"Frank Tolin.  You met him Saturday."

"Oh, yeah.  Your boyfriend."

Caitlin glanced at her, then said, "Listen, Ali.  Sam isn't going to be
impressed by the fact that you're a model.  He doesn't like South Beach,
the club scene, or the fashion industry."

"Why not?"

"He doesn't, that's all.  Be polite, be ladylike, and watch your mouth.
Try to be respectful.  He'd appreciate that."

Above the sunglasses, little creases appeared in the smooth skin between
Ali's eyebrows.  "Wait a minute.  I'm not the one who committed a crime.
Why do I have to suck up to the prosecutor?  Sam's supposed to be on my
side."

"Don't call him Sam.  It's Mr.  Hagen.  He is on your side, but I've
seen how you act around people you want to impress-men especially."

:'What do you mean, how I act?  I don't act."

'Ali, you do.  You laugh too loudly and you talk too much.  Don't try it
with Sam Hagen.  He isn't like the people you're used to.  He has a low
tolerance for bullshit.

And you ought to wear something over that shirt.  Take my jacket."

"God!  I'm nervous enough and now you start criticizing me.  How I talk,
what I'm wearing.  Thanks a lot." Her voice shook.

Caitlin said sharply, "I'm trying to help you."

:'Why should you?"

'Well, excuse me to hell and back.  I didn't have to drive you over
here."

"I didn't ask you to." Ali stared straight through the windshield, thin
arms crossed tightly over her chest.  "Just drop me off and leave.  I
can get home by myself."

Caitlin guided the car off the exit ramp.  "You'd be somebody's lunch."

They waited at an intersection for the light to turn green.  The state
attorney's office was in the five-story, salmon-pink building to their
right.  No one was visible through the heavily tinted glass.

Ali said, "Caitlin?  I'm sorry.  Okay?  I mean, I'm like really scared
about this."

Caitlin looked over at her, then reached across the seat.

"It'll be okay." She squeezed Ali's hand.  The bones seemed as fragile
as a kitten's.

"Damn." Ali sucked in a breath.  "It won't do any good.

Klaus Ruffini convicted of rape?  Like it would ever happen." She
laughed shakily.  "Or Marquis either.  And they'll say George was my
boyfriend once, so it wasn't rape at all.  I could do what George said
and collect a pile of money to shut up about it."

"Is that what you want?"

Ali's head was moving slowly back and forth.  She said quietly, "I
remember everything they did to me.  They think I don't, but I do.  They
are going to be very sorry they ever saw me."

The light changed, and Caitlin drove past the criminal court building,
slowing while people crossed the street.

The sky was saturated with blue.

"Ali-what I told you about how to deal with Sam Hagen?  Never mind. Just
tell him what happened.  He'll listen to you."

When she was Ali's age, Caitlin was modeling for a department store in
Pittsburgh to make extra money for high school.  After her stepfather
came into her room one night, her mother told her she'd have to leave.
Caitlin stayed with a married cousin in a trailer and slept on the sofa
bed.  At eighteen she was sharing an East Village walk-up with a friend
who had won a contract with the Wilhelmina agency in a "silky hair"
contest.  Caitlin had some head shots taken, made the rounds, and
finally an agency signed her.  They put her smiling face in a rack on
the wall with her stats: height 5'8', size 5/6, bust 34, waist 24, hips
34, shoe 8, hair blond, eyes green.  Then her European sizes in French
and German.  Another clone of Cheryl Tiegs.

During the day she rode the subway, noisy and crowded, to her
appointments, where she was turned down more often than not.  If she had
no bookings, she didn't eat.  But at night she might be picked up in a
limo and given champagne on the way to dinner at restaurants where the
prices were printed on his menu, not on hers.  She waited tables, made
floral deliveries, walked dogs, froze in the winter, kept her energy up
on cocaine if it was offered, and stole from delis when she was hungry.

Men with money liked to have models around, and the agency gave the
girls invitations to parties in apartments overlooking Central Park or
the river, with antiques, thick carpets, original art, catered food,
and, in those days, crystal bowls of cocaine on polished tables.  In a
penthouse on Park Avenue, Caitlin stumbled into an immense bathroom with
a marble floor and a wide, silk chaise where a senator with a pelt of
white chest hair lay with two teenage models, his ruddy, glistening
member ludicrously erect.  She used the toilet, then left. They never
noticed.  That winter a lawyer for Chase Manhattan Bank woke her at
dawn, said he'd forgotten his wife and kids were coming back from Disney
World at noon.  He sent a fur coat by way of apology, and when Caitlin
refused to see him again he sent someone to retrieve it.  The man
reached into her closet and she knew better than to object.

Most people in the industry did their jobs and went home.  Caitlin
joined the club scene: models and photographers and designers partying
with rock stars and other celebrities, going from club to club in limos,
getting drunk, getting stoned, dancing until sunrise, then snorting or
popping whatever they needed to get through the shoots scheduled for
eight o'clock in the morning.

Caitlin found work.  Her book grew thick with tear sheets from catalogs
and magazines, and clients began to ask for her by name, paying up to
$5,000 a day.  She flew a dozen times to Europe-a hair color commercial
in Paris, runway shows in Milan, shoots in Spain, Sweden, Greece.  One
cosmetic company had rights to her eyes, another to her hair, and a
hosiery company owned her legs.

She felt just as fractured inside, aware that who she was depended on
what the camera might record at any given moment.

She married a TV producer and divorced him when she found him with
another man.  She passed out in a shoot for Richard Avedon that had
taken two weeks to arrange.  She was arrested twice for DUI, evicted
from several apartments, and had an abortion and a miscarriage.  A
doctor told her she would never conceive again.  Her heroin use ended
after she nearly died of an overdose.  Her agency kept it all quiet.

In Miami no one cared that her career was in decline; the town was
hungry for any kind of celebrity.  As she closed in on thirty, there
were fewer fashion ads and more products-a deodorant, a cruise line, the
female half of a couple having dinner at a hotel.  Then an ad for
Correctol, smiling ani stretching in her nightie as if she'd had a good
night's sleep for a change.  Caitlin began to imagine the inevitable
progression: grocery shopping, laxatives, dentures, then incontinence
pads, and then what?

Coffins?

At the clubs she kept it down to an occasional line of coke with her
friends.  She drank too much.  She thought seriously of suicide.

Frank pulled her back from the edge.  Not a perfect white knight, but he
saved her, then stuck around.  Some days were hard, others weren't so
bad.  She wanted to take photographs and make a living at it, although
being an artist of any kind was risky, and the competition was
murderous.  Of her earlier days, she could almost swear they had
happened to another woman, or in a book she had read a long time ago.

Caitlin had told Sam about her life.  Bits and pieces, what she thought
she could afford to give away, and then everything in a flood of words
and tears.  Sam's arms around her, his warm breath in her hair.  But in
the end it was too much for him.  A man with a responsible job, a wife,
and two children.

But he would listen to Ali.  Caitlin was sure of that, if she knew
anything at all about Sam Hagen.

On the ground floor Ali gave her name through a glass window, then she
and Caitlin found places to sit.  Several dozen chairs faced front,
bolted together in long rows.

The room was crowded and noisy with people.  A couple of young Hispanic
cops in dark blue city of Miami uniforms stared openly at Ali.  Even in
Caitlin's jacket, two sizes too big, she had that effect.

Five minutes after they had come in, Caitlin felt Ali's fingers clamp
around her forearm.

She whispered, "It's him.  The guy outside my apartment this morning."

A man with a bristly white crew cut stood in the open door to the lobby.
A scar ran through his bottom lip to his chin-as if it had been slashed
with a knife-giving him a tilted, off-center cleft.

After a minute he came over, walking with a limp.  A waist holster made
a bulge under his loose-fitting guayabera.  He looked down at Ali, who
stared back up at him.  "Miss Duncan."

She nodded.

"Good afternoon.  I'm Dale Finley.  I work for Edward Mora."

'Who?"

'The state attorney." He made a slight smile, then glanced at Caitlin.
His eyes were icy blue with flecks of yellow.  "Who are you, a
relative?"

"A friend."

"What's your name?"      r, Why?"

"Because I asked you."

She shrugged.  "Caitlin Dorn."

There was a flicker of recognition.  "Were you asked to appear, 11 Miss
Dorn?"

'No.

'What are you doing here?"

"I came with Ali.  Does it matter?"

"Not at the moment." He held an arm toward the lobby.

"Let's talk for a minute, Miss Duncan."

She took Caitlin's hand.  "You come, too."

"Miss Dom can sit right here.  We won't be long."

Ali raised her chin.  "I don't have to talk to you at all.

Detective Ryabin said for me not to talk to anybody but Sam Hagen." She
raised an eyebrow.  "I assume you know Detective Ryabin?"

Whatever Finley thought of her response, he made none of his own.  He
put his foot on the chair adjacent to hers and leaned over so she could
hear him, crossing his arms on his knee.

He smiled at Ali.  "I bet you're tough, aren't you?

That's good, because with the men you're accusing, why, there might be
half a dozen defense attorneys, all itching to get at you.  We need to
know in advance that you can take the pressure, that you're not going to
give up halfway through a trial."

She laughed.  "I won't."

"Good." He nodded, then came closer.  "Once this case is filed, if it
is, they'll want to know about you.

Your sexual practices, your boyfriends, the drugs you take, everything.
We need to know about it first, so before Mr.  Hagen sends for you, put
your thinking cap on.  That'll make it go a little faster, if you're
ready with your answers when he starts asking questions.

Some people say it's like a trip to the dentist, but if you don't hold
back, you'll be out of here before you know it." The scar through his
lip whitened when he smiled.

Ali stared up at him.

He said, "We've got police reports and statements by a number of
witnesses.  Some of them say you were a little tipsy.  Maybe you don't
recall the events as clearly as we'd like.  I don't care, myself, but
Sam Hagen's not as forgiving as me when people want to file a case, then
change their story when the going gets rough.  You have to be straight
with us.  Can you do that?"

She nodded.

"That's great.  I wouldn't want to see you charged with perjury." He
patted her arm.  Then he turned toward Caitlin.  "Miss Dorn.  I might
have to pay you a visit, ask you some questions.  I'm afraid you can't
get any special treatment from this office."

"Excuse me?"

"Aren't you dating Mr.  Hagen's former law partner?"

"That's none of your damned business."

He smiled and straightened up, taking his foot off the chair, leaving a
dusty shoe print.  "I appreciate you ladies taking the time to talk to
me.  Mr.  Hagen is busy right now.  He'll send someone down in a while
to get you, Miss Duncan.  See you later."

Dale Finley limped out of the waiting room and vanished in the direction
of the elevators.  Caidin looked back at Ali.  She was taking deep
breaths, and her eyes were fixed on Caitlin, burning with indignation
and betrayal.

"I told you.  They won't do anything.  I knew it.  They wouldn't care if
I walked out that door."

"Stay here.  I'll be back." Caitlin abruptly grabbed her purse and stood
up.

"Where are you going?"

"To find out what the hell is going on."

CHAPTER Nine

The reason Sam had not been able to reach Adela Ramos, he discovered
when he returned from lunch, Twas that Adela Ramos had been on her way
to his office.  She had brought her brother with her.  She wanted Sam to
explain to him why the jury had acquitted a guilty man. Adela had tried
to explain it herself, the American system of justice was difficult to
understand.

delfonso Garcfa and Adela sat side by side on the sofa.

Joe McGee, Sam's co-counsel on the case, sat in a chair facing them, Sam
in another.  Garcfa worked construction, and it was hard for him to take
time off.  He had worn a suit and a white shirt and a tie, showing these
lawyers he was worthy of some respect.

He wanted to know: If Luis Balmaseda had confessed, why had the judge
not allowed the jury to hear it?  Had the judge been paid off?  Perhaps
the jury had found Bal maseda not guilty because he was an American
citizen and Adela was not.  Did the life of a four-year-old boy mean so
little to them?

Garcfa's thick wrists stuck out past the hems of his coat sleeves.  He
could have crushed a brick in his sunburned, muscular hand, but he
gently held his sister's in it.  He had moved Adela over to his place
because she didn't want to live in the apartment where Luis Balmaseda
had murdered her son.

For the last fifteen minutes or so, Sam had been explaining the
exclusionary rule, not calling it that, but telling delfonso Garcia that
if the police made mistakes in gathering evidence, they couldn't use
what they found, including confessions.

"Nobody was paid off," Sam said.  "The judge didn't want to exclude
Balmaseda's statement, but he had to.  The rule is meant to protect
ordinary citizens from the police, and we all have to follow it.  As a
prosecutor, there are times I'd like to take shortcuts, believe me.  But
if I did that, I'd be breaking a law I'm supposed to uphold."

Sam spoke the words, but they sounded condescending to him.  Even
absurd.  Carlito Ramos, this man's nephew, his sister's only child, was
dead.

Garcia thought about it for a while, not convinced, but sensing the
futility of argument.  Finally he said, "I told your friend-" He nodded
toward Joe McGee.  "-that Luis has been calling Adela on the telephone.
When I answer he hangs up.  If Adela answers, he uses bad language with
her.  I don't want to say in English." Ramos had a heavy accent, but he
spoke slowly, as if it was his nature to take his time, being careful.

McGee said, "Mr.  Garcia, you could change the number.  Or get
Caller-ID.  There are ways to block the calls."

"Why do I have to pay for Luis to stop?  The police should put him in
jail.  They say they can't."

"Well, Mr.  Garcia, they will if you prove harassment or if you get a
restraining order.  Then they can put him in jail if he makes threats,
or if he hangs around your apartment.  If he follows Adela, that sort of
thing." For an instant McGee's eyes met Sam's.  If Balmaseda had walked
into the room right now, either of them might have slammed him against
the wall.

Adela spoke up.  She looked a little better than she had ten days ago.
She wore lipstick, and her long dark hair spilled down her back from a
gold clip at the top of her head.  "The policeman, Robin-" She meant
Ryabin, Sam realized.  '@-he coming to my brother house for say ...

about arrest Luis."

Sam said, "Here's what I want you to do.  Go straight to see Detective
Ryabin.  Tell him I sent you.  Make out a police report."

"St.  He say the same." She looked at her brother.  "Despurs de salir de
aqui, vamos a la policia.

An anguished expression fell over Garcia's face.  He shook his head.  I
knew Luis before Adela did.  I brought him to meet her.  I introduced
them."

She touched his arm.  "Shhh, Idelito.  No es la culpa tuya." She was
telling him it wasn't his fault.  How could he have known it would turn
out this way?  Sam remembered Luis Balmaseda: good-looking guy, nice
clothes, some money to spend on a pretty woman like Adela.  She would
have fallen in love with him.  But what quirk of psychology had made her
put up with the abuse he handed out?  To take it for months and months,
not telling anyone, even her brother, who obviously cared for her.

Adela nudged him, then stood up, tucking a bra strap under her neckline,
adjusting her shoulder bag.  She extended her small hand to the
prosecutors.  "Thank you, Mr. Hagen and Mr.  McGee."

Garcia didn't speak.  He held the door for Adela.  Joe McGee said he
would take them downstairs.

After they left, Sam sat alone in his office for a while, feet sprawled
in front of him, too tired to move.  He couldn't count the number of
times that scene had been played out in one fashion or another, so many
sets of victims and survivors of victims.  They were all, himself
included, caught in a clanking, inefficient machine that ran on habit,
custom, and lack of any reasonable alternative.

Not exactly a substitute for God, as Dina had said.  And she wasn't
entirely right about the guilty being raised up, either, although yes,
it did happen.  Just often enough to make people cynical.  Sam knew he
would lose faith entirely if he dwelled on the ones that turned out
badly." Most of the time-he was confident of this-the system worked all
right.  He won nearly all his trials, and the accused were sent to
prison.  Sometimes survivors would stay in touch.  One set of parents
gave him a new tie every Christmas, a thank you for convicting the man
who had raped their daughter, then blinded her with a pencil.  Six so
far, nineteen to go-unless the guy got out early on parole.

Dina had heard too many of the bad stories.  Too many descriptions of
the unspeakable things a person could do to another human body.  Sam
knew he shouldn't have burdened his wife with it.

Four hours from now he would be walking into Frank Tolin's office to
hear Frank tell Dina the same thing he had just told Carlito Ramos's
uncle: I know you're feeling bad, and the system sucks, but there isn't
a damn thing I can do for you.  I share your loss.

Sam went over to his desk, picked up the telephone, and punched in Frank
Tolin's number, which he still remembered.  He announced himself to a
receptionist whose voice he didn't recognize.  She put him on hold.

Then Frank came on the line.  "Sam.  How's it going?"

"Well, I'm not sure.  I'd like to know what you discussed with Dina
relative to a wrongful death suit.

She told me about it over lunch today.  I can't say I approve."

After a few seconds of silence, Frank said, "There was no intention to
hide anything from you, Sam.  Dina called me this morning, and I assumed
you knew about it."

Frank's office was on a corner, with floor-to-ceiling windows that gave
a view of Biscayne Bay.  Frank might have his feet propped up on his
desk right now.  Ostrich skin cowboy boots, twelve hundred bucks.

"This is a lousy idea, Frank.  Were you aware she spent most of last
October in a hospital?"

"Yes, I'm aware.  It isn't uncommon, Sam, to seek help after the death
of a child.  Dina sounded perfectly competent to me."

"She is," Sam said.  "Now she is.  We've got our lives back, and I'm
doing my damnedest to keep it that way.  I don't want my wife going
through any more emotional trauma like she-"

"Sam, I've done this for years, counseling people who've lost loved
ones.  I know just how you feel."

"You fucking do not know how I feet." There was only silence on the
line.  He said more reasonably, "Did you tell her we had grounds to file
a complaint?"

"Of course not.  Listen.  Matthew had been drinkiag at a club that
shouldn't have served him.  That's all I know.

Dina wants to see what can be done, if anything.  I'll talk to her.  I
think she needs to get it out of her system.  Let her do it.  You've
handled the loss in our way; let her do it in hers."

"I'm telling you here and now, Frank, I don't want to file a lawsuit,
and I don't want you raising her hopes."

"No, no." His voice was soothing.  "I'm going to listen to what she has
to say, that's all.  And don't jump in.  Just let her talk.  If I advise
against legal action, Dina might accept it better if you don't say, 'I
told you so." Sam nearly hung up.

"You know, Sam, we didn't end our professional association on the best
of terms, that's true, but I still consider us friends.  We go back,
buddy.  Don't worry, I'll take care of Dina.  It's the least I can do."

He could imagine Frank Tolin signing papers with his Mont Blanc at the
same time he was telling Sam what buddies they were.  How far back,
Frank?  Bien Loc?

Frank a second lieutenant and Sam a specialist, fourth class.  In the
thickly forested hills outside Bien Loc their platoon had come under
heavy NVA artillery attack.

Gunships put down covering fire, and the men were ordered to fall back.
The place was a hell of smoke and explosions.  Tolin lay in a gulley
with his arms over his head, leaving a gap in the line.  Nobody noticed
but Sam, who dragged him by his web belt to the Huey and threw him
aboard like a duffel bag.  The chopper barely made it out.  Frank never
mentioned the incident again.  Now what?  Gratitude after all these
years?

Sam made himself reply, "We'll see you at five-thirty."

He heard a disconnect and slammed down the phone.

Almost immediately it buzzed.

He swept it up.  "What?"

It was Gloria.  "Sam?  I noticed Adela Ramos leave a while ago, with her
brother.  I wanted to remind you about Duncan."

" I haven't forgotten." He rubbed his forehead.  "Send her up."

"Someone else wants to talk to you first.  Caitlin Dom.

She called awhile ago from a phone downstairs.  She was insistent. Rude,
if you want to ow.

His mind reeled.  "Caitlin Dom?  What does she want?"

"She refused to say.  I told her you didn't have time to talk to anyone
else, but she made me promise to mention it to you." Gloria waited.
"Sam?  Are you there?"

"Yes.  Send them both up.  I'll see Miss Dom first."

Sam met them in the small waiting room outside Major Crimes.  Alice
Duncan was as he had expected: a tall, skinny attitude problem with a
God-awful choice in clothes.  It was hard to tell her age.  She asked if
she could smoke.  He said no.

He led Caitlin through the maze of corridors on the second floor.  He
had recovered from the shock of seeing her again after three years.
Three years except for the time he had passed her by accident in the art
museum.

Then he had ducked behind a divider until his heart had stopped
pounding.  Now he could not imagine what she wanted.

She kept up with him, just off the point of his left shoulder, and
neither of them spoke.  Sam could see people glance at her as she swept
past.  Caitlin had a way of moving, a syncopated, chin-up, long-legged
stride that originated in the hips, each foot firmly planted, blond hair
swinging with each step.  She wore tight jeans and a black pullover with
the sleeves pushed up.  Her eyes were slightly narrowed, and Sam felt
himself tensing for the mayhem to follow.

He shut the door to his office.  "Have a seat."

She tossed her purse onto a chair.  "What was the meaning of the
welcoming committee downstairs?"

"You want to tell me what you're talking about, or do I have to guess?"

"Dale Finley, your investigator, whatever he is.  He scared the hell out
of Ali.  He said you were ready to throw her in jail for making a false
report.  I can understand defense attorneys intimidating a victim, but
not you.

Not the prosecution."

"Hold it right there." Sam lifted a hand and kept it raised.  He would
corner Beekie Duran about this, but he couldn't do it now.  "What did he
say, precisely, to make you conclude that he intended to frighten Ms.

Duncan?"

"Oh, Jesus, don't be such a goddamned lawyer." Caitlin began to pace,
and the office seemed to quiver with her energy.  Her hair swung around
her face when she turned.

"Ali wanted to walk out of here, the hell with all of you.

Was that what you had in mind?  Then you keep her waiting half an hour
to give her plenty of time to think about it."

"Keep your voice down," Sam said sharply.

Caitlin came over to him, furious but in control.  "I heard you have no
intention of going after the mer who attacked her.  Is it true?"

"No.  It isn't.  Who told you that?"

"Someone I know."

He leaned a little closer, "I'd like a name, Caitlin."

She said nothing, then shrugged.  "Martin Cassie."

Sam frowned.  The name was familiar.  "I met him at Frank Tolin's office
a few years ago.  What's your connection to Martin Cassie?"

"I'm doing an advertising brochure for him for a big development
project.  Not his project.  Klaus Ruffini's.

Well, isn't this a coincidence?  The same Ruffini that you're supposed
to be prosecuting."

"What about Marty Cassie?" Sam repeated.

Caitlin said, "Oh, Marty is generally a self-aggrandizing blowhard, but
he knows everybody on the Beach.  Including Klaus.  Marty says the city
manager persuaded the state attorney not to prosecute.  I thought he was
full of shit, but now I wonder, after the reception we got downstairs."

His mind grasping at the implications of this, Sam couldn't think of
what to say.

Caitlin misread his hesitation.  "It is true.  My goodness.  Saint
Samuel is playing in the dirt with the rest of us."

"What are you doing here, Caitlin?"

"Dale Finley asked me the same thing," she said.

"Now I'm asking."

She looked at him steadily, then said, "Ali Duncan is my friend."

"Your friend got herself into some trouble," Sam said.  "I'm attempting
to find out what happened.  Whether you believe that or not, I don't
give a damn.  If you have something to add, then do it.  If not, I'll
talk to Ms.

Duncan."

Caitlin's green eyes were blazing.  "Okay.  You want facts, try these.
George Fonseca came to Ali's apartment just before I arrived.  She
wouldn't let him in.  He suggested that she'd be smart to take money not
to testify.

When she said no, he tried to break her door down.  He said if she
talked about the drugs he's been dealing, she'd wind up in the
Everglades."

Sam said, "Did she call the police?"

"There was no time."

"She can call from my office.  If Fonseca did what you describe, he
committed a felony."

Caitlin stared sullenly at him.  She obviously hadn't expected this
response.

Sam said, "Before I talk to Ms.  Duncan, it would be helpful to know
what you saw at the Apocalypse that night,"

Abruptly turning away, she paced to the window, arms crossed under her
breasts.  Her narrow waist was circled by a silver belt.  She had aged
some, but not much.  Still the small, neat jaw, smooth skin, and
generous mouth.  A nose that tilted upward, which she had once
complained was too short.

"Are you going to call me as a witness?"

"Not if I don't have to," he said.

"No, I suppose not."

She was smirking.  Caitlin Dorn had become damnably hard-edged, Sam
thought.  He asked, "What about the incident at the Apocalypse?  Was
Alice Duncan assaulted or not?"

"Ali."

"What?"

"She calls herself Ali.  She doesn't like Alice."

"Ali, then." He was still waiting for an answer.

Caitlin nodded.

"You're certainT' "Yes.  Yes, she was." Caitlin exhaled through her
teeth.

"I said so to the police.  Didn't you read my statement?"

"All twenty-five words of it.  You were there, you confirmed that Ms.
Duncan was sexually assaulted.  I want to hear it from you.  What
happened?" Sam sat on the edge of his desk and straightened his suit
coat.  He put his hands on his thigh.

Caitlin looked back at him for a second, then walked to the wall where
his diplomas and certificates hung, then to the cluttered bookshelves.
She pivoted slowly, taking it all in.  The boxes stacked in the corner,
a coffee stain near the door, a scratched metal cabinet, law books, a
heavy desk, a photo of his daughter, another of Dina, framed newspaper
clippings of cases he'd won, the two conference chairs, the battered
sofa.

She wore canvas shoes with open toes.  Thin straps wound around her
ankles.  The jeans clung to her slender legs and outlined her derriere.
He was aware of the scent of her perfume.  It seemed familiar.  Her hair
gleamed, pale gold.

She glanced over her shoulder.  "I expected a grander office for someone
in your exalted position."

He said, "I work for the state."

Smiling, she faced him fully now, her weight on one hip.  He could see a
curve of breast at the low neckline of the blouse.  Her eyes swept over
him.

He shrugged.  "My hair's going gray.  I've gained a few pounds. Anything
else different?"

"No.  You look ...  substantial.  The ideal prosecutor."

"Is that a compliment?"

"If you like."

She walked over to the window, looked closely at it.

She fitted the tip of her forefinger into a concavity in the glass.
"What was this, a bullet?"

"A .38.  It clipped a chair and ended up in the wall."

She smiled, her tongue touching for an instant the lower edge of even
white teeth.  "Were they aiming at you?"

"No.  I came in on a monday a couple of years ago and found it.  Just
another weekend shootout in Overtown."

"You can't get it fixed?"

:'I don't want it fixed," he said.

'A good conversation piece."

"It's to frighten defense attorneys."

"Or your witnesses."

Then he noticed the diamond on a thin chain that twinkled in the hollow
at the base of her throat.  She had once said she wasn't the type to
wear diamonds.  Maybe Frank Tolin had bought it for her.

"Why were you at the Apocalypse?" Sam asked, closing in on the subject
again.

Casually she said, "Freelancing for a magazine.  Fun on the South Beach
party scene.  No candid photos of a rape, unfortunately."

"So you still have the negatives?"

"Yes.  I didn't print them.  I didn't think it would be appropriate if
they were published." She added, "You won't find much of value."

"What happened, Caitlin?"

"Ali's ' outside.  Ask her.  She's been waiting long enough."

Sam got off the desk and turned one of the chairs toward her.  "I'd
rather talk to you."

She glanced at the chair, then at him.  "If you're not going to call me
as a witness, what difference-"

"You want to help your friend or not?" Sam sat in the chair facing hers
and held his hand toward the other one.

"Please."

Giving Sam a cool look, she crossed the room, pulled the chair around so
it was at more of an angle, then sat down.

He said, "Tell me about the place where it happened.

Some kind of room off the main party room?"

"Yes.  Upstairs in the VIP room there's a sort of alcove.

It had a couple of chairs and a table with drinks on it, bottles, extra
glasses.  There's not much light, only a small sconce on the wall."

"Before the incident, did you hear any conversation between Ali and any
of the men involved?"

"Not really.  The usual stuff.  Kidding around.  It was hard to hear
anything with the music coming from downstairs." Caidin gave him a look.
"What do you mean?  Was she propositioning anyone?  The answer is no."

"She wasn't on Ruffini's lap?  Kissing him?"

Caitlin let out a breath.  "Yes.  She shouldn't have,and she knows it
now.  I think she was trying to get a reaction from George.  I guess she
succeeded."

Sam asked, "Are they involved?"

"They used to be.  Not anymore."

"Did you come with anyone?"

"No.

"Had you been drinking?"

"I wasn't drunk."

"Caitlin.  What had you been drinking, and how much?"

"Soda and lime.  I can't work and drink at the same time.  And no, I
wasn't on anything else." She laughed, stretching her arms over her
head.  "I've even stopped smoking, aren't you proud of me?"

Sam looked at her awhile.  She crossed her legs and swung a foot.  He
said, "What about Ali?"

"She had champagne.  A few glasses.  I don't know how many."

"Any drugs?"

"Sam, she wasn't wasted." Caitlin closed her eyes for a second, then
said.  "She had some coke in the bathroom downstairs.  She didn't say
so, but I could tell.  This was earlier, around midnight.  And she took
a pill of some kind just before she came into the VIP room.  She told me
about that later.  She said George gave it to her.  That was before I
came up.  George always has something in his pockets."

"When did you go upstairs?" Sam asked.

"About three o'clock."

"When did she go into the alcove with George?"

"About an hour later.  We got to the hospital at a quarter of five."

"How far were you standing from where it happened?"

Caitlin looked around for a reference point.  "'From that wall to the
other.  Fifteen feet?"

"All right.  What happened after that?"

She bit down on her lips, then released them.  "I wasn't paying much
attention at first.  I was talking to somebody.

I had already shot some pictures, a dozen or so.  But then I noticed
Klaus Ruffini taking Marquis Lamont back there, pushing him along.  They
were laughing.  And then I saw her on the table.  And George on top of
her.  It was dark, but I knew what they were doing.  I only saw
glimpses, because people were in the way.  I didn't know, at first, that
he made her do it.  Then he-George-"

Caitlin glanced up toward the ceiling, taking a breath.

"George got off and he held her down while Marquis stood between her
legs."

:'What did you see?"

'He was moving his hips.  It took him thirty seconds.

What did I have to see?"

"Then what happened?" Sam asked quietly.

"Then Klaus-Klaus turned her over and used a bottle of champagne.
Cristal." She laughed shakily.  "How could I have noticed that?  But I
did.  It was unopened.  The cork-you know-it's held in with metal and
wire.  Ali was screaming, but I thought maybe it was the music, because
it couldn't be real.  Not that; not people I knew.  And besides, no one
was doing anything to stop it." She laughed, pushed her hair off her
forehead, then let her hand fall to her lap.

"it was real.  And 1-1 couldn't move.  I couldn't.  Like I was made of
stone, or dreaming.  And then Ali started to throw things, and George
told her to get out, and I followed her, and she was on the floor-"
Caitlin's voice broke.  "Oh, God.  Sam, I keep seeing her like that."
She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes.  "I hate it.  I hate
it all."

Still slouched in the adjacent chair, Sam ground his teeth together.  He
listened to the hum of traffic through the window for a while.  An
ambulance wailed by, heading for the public hospital down the street,
Finally he spoke.

"I told you about the time I saw the guy in my squad get killed by a
sniper in Vietnam.  Remember?" When she didn't respond, he said,
"Caitlin?"

She lifted her head, blinking as if coming out of the dark.  Her face
was pate.

"The sniper aimed, and I watched him; then I saw a guy twenty feet away
from me drop.  I told you."

She nodded.

"Two weeks in the field.  I froze.  It happens, but I felt bad about it
for a long time.  I didn't let it happen again."

He had never told her what he had done in the madness that had exploded
later.  Had never told anyone.

He said, "You still taking pictures on the streets?  Real life, all that
gritty stuff?"

She cleared her throat, then said, "Yes."

"I ran across your name in the paper a few months ago.

You had an exhibit at the art museum downtown."

"Oh, well.  Me and a bunch of other local photographers.  You're in the
paper all the time.  Samuel Hagen, chief of Major Crimes, quoted again."
She laughed.

"But you're doing all right?" he asked.

"Oh, sure.  I'm busy."

"That's good."

They were silent for a while.  Sam wanted to ask her how it was going
with Frank Tolin, but he caught himself.

He watched a jet go in and out of a cloud, then vanish past the edge of
the window.

Caitlin asked, "And you?  Are you all right?  You and Dina.  With
Matthew gone, I mean.  It must have been so awful."

"For a while.  It's better now." Sam said, "I should tell you this.
We're going to talk to Frank this afternoon about a wrongful death suit.
In case he mentions it to you.  But we don't expect it to go anywhere.
Matthew made his choices, like everybody else."

"Oh, Sam.  I was such a coward," she said.  "I wanted to call you, come
see you, something.  I didn't know how.  I wrote you three different
letters and tore them all up.

Nothing I could say would be enough."

"Don't worry about it."

Caitlin had turned toward Sam, and her hand lay on the arm of the chair.
Her nails were bare and clean.  She still wore a silver Celtic ring with
loops of filigree.  "Did you know I did Matthew's composite?"

"What's that?"

"The photos he showed to the agencies.  You know.

Dressed in various clothes, different looks.  But besides that, I took
some studio portraits of him.  Good ones.  They really are.  And if
you-if his mother-if you want, I could make copies."

"No, we've got pictures." Then he added, "Thanks."

"I have a show in a gallery on Lincoln Road next month.  I was thinking
of showing some of his photos.

Would you mind?"

Sam smiled.  "Are they nudes9"

"Well ...  a few.  But they're so powerful."

"I'd rather not, but that's your business.  Matthew did a lot of things
I don't necessarily approve of."

"I could tell you about him, Sam.  He said you and he didn't talk to
each other a lot.  He was a terrific kid.  Well, I'm sure you know that,
but he may not have told you much about his life-"

"Caitlin." He raised a hand.

"I'm so sorry."

Sam stood up.  "Let's go find Ms.  Duncan." Caitlin's eyes followed him
as he crossed the office.  He opened the door and waited.

Her lips compressed.  She picked up her purse and walked out.

He could have blamed Caitlin.  The way she used to look at him, that
sideways glance just short of provocation.  She must have picked up on
his troubles with Dina, the way women sense that kind of thing.  But Sam
would never have touched her as long as she was involved with Frank.

She knew that.  He had assumed she was trying to needle Frank, to make
him jealous.  Another reason not to be stupid.  But Sam worked late,
hoping to catch a glimpse of her, and she knew that, too.  He smelled
her perfume in the hallway when she left, and his head swam with wanting
her.

When he left Frank's office it was primarily because he hated the work,
but also because of Caitlin Dorn.  He ran into her a few times in the
next year or so, being friendly, asking her out for coffee, talking
about this and that.  Then he heard she and Frank split up.  A week
later he knocked on her door.

Caitlin opened it wearing a long T-shirt, nothing else.

Her eyes widened.  He stood there, not saying a damn thing, till she put
a hand around his wrist and drew him inside.  He took her standing up
against the wall, his arms under her thighs, her legs around his waist,
her sucking on his tongue, then they were on the floor and he was
screwing her there, too, slamming into her, everything sticky and wet.
He could have fucked her in her mouth, up the ass, between her breasts,
all of which, and more, he had eventually done.  Her apartment had
smelled of cigarettes, dirty laundry, and a cat box.  There were dishes
in the sink and photographs jumbled everywhere.  The breeze had belled
the curtains inward and cooled the sweat and sex on their bodies where
they lay panting on the floor.

Just past five o'clock, the state attorney stood by his bookcase, making
what appeared to be piano chords with his right hand on one of the
shelves.  Glancing at his fingers, he rubbed them lightly, producing
dust that swirled downward, visible against the deep blue of his suit.

Sam had just explained why arrest warrants should be issued in the
Duncan case.

"Well.  I'd been told there was nothing to it," Mora said.

"You were misinformed."

"Apparently so." He made a slight smile.  His round cheeks were smooth
and taut.  "Who's going to take it from here?  Somebody in the Sexual
Battery Unit?"

"No, I'm taking it.  I'll appoint co-counsel."

"And do we have a press conference scheduled?"

"Not yet.  You want to do it?"

Mora lifted an arm.  "No, by all means.  It's your case.

What about bond on the defendants?"

"I want a hundred grand on each of them.  And Ruffini's passport."

"This will be something to see.  TV satellite trucks lined up outside.
Press conferences every afternoon, live at five." Walking past his desk,
Eddie Mora drummed his fingers across its surface like hoo eats.  ' d
you te Miss Duncan we're filing charges?"

"I said thank you for coming in, I'd get in touch."

"Then I suggest you tell her that we decline to prosecute."

Sam kept his voice low and even.  "I've already told my staff to draw up
the arrest warrants and find a judge to sign them."

"Before you consulted me."

"What do you want, Eddie?  You told me to handle it.

Now you don't like the result."

Mora shot him a malevolent glare.  "I thought you'd be impartial.  I was
wrong.  You're using this case as a vehicle for some kind of personal
vendetta."

"Not remotely true." Sam leaned his weight on the back of a chair,
pressing down so he wouldn't pick it up and smash it over Eddie Mora's
desk.  "I wondered about that, Eddie.  Why you'd give it to me.  My son
is dead and I'd walk away from a case that took me anywhere near South
Beach.  Am I reading it right?"

Eddie Mora made a laugh of disbelief.  "No.  You are not reading it
right.  What I thought, Sam, was that you, with your experience, would
see, as well as I do, that if we proceed, this office will waste six or
eightfucking months on a case that we can't win, where we will blow the
fucking budget, be accused of harassment or racism or politics or all of
the above, because no matter what the fuck you tell me, the witnesses
are totally unreliable.  Little Miss Duncan will change her fucking
mind, and we will all look like publicity-grabbing, incompetent fucking
idiots!" Eddie Mora's face had turned red with rage.

For several seconds the two of them stared at each other.  Then Sam
said, "Anything else, Eddie?  I've got to be someplace at five-thirty."

"No.  That's it."

The meeting was over.

On his way out Sam left a message for Eugene Ryabin, and they finally
connected by car phone in heavy traffic on Flagler Street.

"Tell Chief Mazik the warrants have been authorized in Duncan.  You want
to come by early?  We can discuss procedure."

Ryabin's chuckle came over the line.  "Such service I get from you."

"Not for free." Sam swung into a parking garage and lowered the window
to grab the ticket from the machine at the gate.  "Do you know the name
Martin Cassie?"

A pause.  "Yes.  Real estate.  A small man, big mouth.

What has he to do with this?"

"I'm not sure.  See who he knows at the city manager's office.  And
another thing.  Ms.  Duncan says our Italian friend is involved in a
project called the Grand Caribe.  I think Cassie is working on
promotion.  See what you can find out."

Ryabin said it might take him a few days; Sam could buy him a beer.

Sam wheeled into a space and cut the engine.  The Duncan case was going
to be filed.  He knew without doubt that any chance he had of taking
over Eddie Mora's job was now lost, and had been lost from the moment he
let Caitlin Dom into his office.  Unless he could find out why the state
attorney had really wanted this case to disappear.

CHAPTER Ten

corge said, "This place is worse than you can imagine.

I never been in a place like this, man.  It's like in the movies.  The
food sucks, the toilet stinks.  And they pack you in with like eight or
ten guys, gold teeth, massive B.O.  One of them says he wants to do
things to you that you wouldn't even let a woman do--"

"Hey." The lawyer's fat fingers, interlaced on the table, tapped up and
down.  "My heart bleeds.  Look, I was told to come down and see what you
want.  I assume you would like to arrange legal representation.  Do you
have a method whereby you can pay the fees or no?"

"Yeah.  I mean, I will.  First I have to get out of here."

The lawyer shifted as if to stand up.

"No, wait.  I want you to talk to Alberto for me.  I couldn't, you know,
on the phone.  I mean, it's probably bugged or something."

"Bugged.  They don't bug the fucking phone."

"Can you talk to him?"

"In what regard?  If I could know, it would be of some help here."

"Ask him if he'd go the bail, all right?"

"The bail." The lawyer smiled.  "He would risk a hundred grand for you?"

"Listen to me.  Alberto said if I ever-ever-needed a favor, to ask him."

"That's the way he expresses himself.  He's a very friendly person.  But
not that friendly.  I don't think so."

"He's gotta help me out, man."

"He don't gotta do nothing.  You're in jail, that's your fucking
problem."

"Man, you're an asshole, you know that?"

"For two hundred an hour, why not?  Pardon me, but I have other matters
to attend to."

"Wait.  Sit down.  It's not good for Alberto, me being in here, okay?  I
know things."

"What things might that be?"

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah?  I'll tell him you said so."

George said, "No.  Jesus, I don't mean at.  mean, what if I get beat up?
Or stabbed?  Then I'm in a coma and say something by mistake?"

"What a moron."

"Listen, dammit.  I'm not asking him to give me the money, not like
give.  And it's not a hundred grand, it's ten, which is the bondsman's
fee.  That's nothing for Alberto.  There's no way I'd skip town and
stick him with the whole hundred, so don't worry about it.  I'll pay
interest, naturally.  Ten, twenty percent.  Whatever.  Think of it as an
investment."

"You got no money for a lawyer.  No money for bail.

Tell me.  Where's the money to repay a loan?"

"Klaus Ruffini.  You know who I mean?"

"Yes.  So?"

"Klaus will pay me if I can get Ali to drop the charges.

I know he will.  Then I pay Alberto back.  Okay?  Give me two weeks.
Three at the outside."

"And how will you persuade the girl to change her mind?"

"I got ways."

"You got ways." The lawyer wiped his eyes.  "I love how you put it,
George.  Do you propose to whack this girl?  Break her legs, perhaps?"

"No.  Oh, man.  I wouldn't do that to Ali.  Come on."

"Enlighten me, then.  What ways?"

"I'd talk to her.  I tried already, but I lost my temper.

You do that with a woman and it's over, man.  Now I know my mistakes."

"I see.  You believe she would respond positively?"

"Yeah.  She likes me."

"You gang-bang the chick and she likes you?"

"I didn't mean to."

"No, it slipped and fell in."

"Would you--oh, fuck.  Fuck!  I didn't mean to, all right?"

The lawyer put a finger to his lips.  "I will give you five seconds of
free legal advice.  When other people may be walking past the door,
refrain from screaming that you didn't mean to do it, because they might
conclude that you did it."

"Sorry."

"I'm impressed you have such rapport with women, George.  All right.
I'll talk to Alberto." when the lawyer stood up he was smiling.  "In
person.  I want to see his face."

Rocking slowly in his big leather desk chair, Norman Singletary studied
the young man who was staring morosely out the window at blue sky and
clouds from forty-six stories up.  Handsome kid, thirty years old.
Paying a price for stupidity.

"Marquis, I hate to plead a case like this.  It's not too late to change
your mind."

"No, it's way too late, Mr.  Singletary."

"You know, I was looking forward to a few rounds with Sam Hagen.  I was
his division chief when he first started, did I tell you that?  Lord.
That's almost twenty years ago.

He's a heavyweight now.  Not a stylish fighter, but he can go the
distance and put you away if you don't watch yourself." Singletary gave
a low chuckle.  "I don't enjoy the new guys near as much."

The figure at the window gave a weary sigh.  "My wife's about to divorce
me.  I might get kicked off the movie.  I don't have money for a trial.
Between your fees and the bail, I can't do it."

"Hagen and I have had, oh, a dozen good bouts since I left.  I think
we're six to five."

Marquis Lamont glanced around.  "That makes eleven."

"One was a hung jury.  The defendant was knifed by another inmate before
the retrial.  That doesn't count."

"Who's ahead, you or him?"

The phone buzzed and Singletary reached over to pick it up.  His
secretary said, "Mr.  Hagen on line two, sir."

"Thanks.  And Doreen?  Could I trouble you for some refills?" He lifted
his empty glass toward Marquis, who shook his head.  "Just mine."

Singletary pressed the button.  "Sam?  It's Norman." He smiled.  "Yes,
it has.  Too long.  How's it going'?...  Yeah, I'm just fine." He
laughed.  "Yeah, I hear you....  Well, what I called about....  Right.
I've had some discussions with my client.  He's here in my office.  I
want to pass a couple of ideas by you.  All hypothetical, you
understand."

Singletary kept an eye on Marquis, who had paced across the office and
was now coming back.  "I could tell you the work my client does with
young people in the poor neighborhoods, but you know all that.  What I
want to say is, Marquis Lamont is the wrong man to put on trial....
Well, that's true, but hear me out.  Let's say there's a fine young man,
a family man, who goes to a nightclub in a strange town with some people
he doesn't know very well."

Marquis sank onto one end of the L-shaped sofa and put his head in his
hands.

"Now, at this party they give him free drinks, and they pass around some
cocaine-not his thing, but he doesn't want his new friends to think he's
not with the program.

So all right.  He's having a good time.  The music is hot, everything's
cooking.  Then a young lady dances with him, rubs herself up against
him.  You know, Sam, there are girls who like to do it with celebrities,
and this young man is a celebrity, in a small way.  Now what if someone
at the party were to say, 'You know that girl you were dancing with? She
wants you.  Come on, have some fun.

Look, there she is.  She's ready."

"

Doreen came in with another diet cola and lime in a crystal rocks glass.
As Singletary talked, he squeezed the lime, then patted his fingertips
on a cocktail napkin.

"Our young man is led into this, Sam.  For the amusement of the people,
you understand what I'm saying?  A circus act, but he doesn't see that.
My investigator spoke to a witness who recalls hearing someone at the
party, maybe a wealthy foreign gentleman, say he would pay a large sum
Of money to see the big nigger fuck the white   J girl.  And let us say
the young man foolishly accepts what has been offered.  But he can't
even get it up, he's so far gone, whereupon he is pushed aside, and the
foreign gentleman assaults the young lady with a champagne bottle.  Our
young man is horrified.  He staggers away, goes into a corner, and
throws up.  Now, how can any reasonable person conclude that he had the
requisite intent to commit a crime?  Nevertheless, two weeks later the
police arrest him for sexual battery, and the state demands a bond of
one hundred thousand dollars."

Singletary reached into a desk drawer for his flask of Bacardi and
poured.  He moved a swizzle stick and the ice tinkled in the glass.
Slumped on the sofa, Marquis Lamont was staring upward at the ceiling.

"Tell me, Sam.  How many years of his life should our young man spend in
prison?  Would you not prefer that he testify against those who
instigated this crime?  ...  Well, I think a dismissal of the charges
would be appropriate, yes."

Listening to Hagen's response, Singletary chuckled.

"He wasn't so drunk he can't recall who did what.  If you work with me
on this, you might get a fast guilty plea out of the other two.  Unless
you want a trial.  A trial would look mighty good on TV.  Maybe that is
what you want."

He sipped his drink.

"This case wouldn't have been filed if not for Marquis.  .  .  .  Damn
right, and I'll say so to the national media, if I have to.  .  .  .
Race certainly is a relevant issue, and I'd be shirking my duty to my
client not to raise it."

He listened to Sam Hagen tell him he was full of shit.

"Then what do you suggest?  ...  Maybe, but only if there's a withhold
of adjudication."

Elbows on knees, Marquis gazed fixedly at Singletary, waiting.

"Uh-huh.  I'd appreciate that, Sam.  Next week is fine....  Take care,
now." Singletary hung up.

"Did he say he'll do it?"

"He'll consider it."

Leaping to his feet, Marquis raised a fist.  "All right!"

Norman Singletary's voice rumbled across the room.  "Mr.  Lamont.  What
I have just conveyed to the prosecutor was a bucket of horse manure.  I
know it and he knows it. And yet it is the dance we all do in this
business.  if you are saved from prison, it won't be because Samuel
Hagen likes the way you played at Florida State, but because he can use
you.  You are expedient.  You are not innocent.  In fact, you should be
ashamed."

"What?"

"Ashamed.  For playing the fool.  For sucking up to noaccount trash in
their fancy clothes, with their fancy ways.  For believing for one
drunken, self-deluded moment that they wanted more from You than the
chance to snicker behind your back."

Marquis Lamont stared at the carpet.  unfolded his Singletary took a sip
of his drink, then glasses and put them on.  "Did you bring my
retainer?"

"Yes, sir."

"Don't you hang your head in my office, you hear me?"

Marquis Lamont took a check from his wallet and handed it across the
desk.  A certified check for $25,000.

"Mr.  Singletary?"

He glanced up, looking over his glasses.

"Six wins to five.  Who's got the six, you or him?"

Jerry Fine, a partner in the firm of Cohen, Kaplan, Porter, Wolfe &
Berkowitz, had come to Klaus Ruffini's house to discuss the criminal
charges against him.  Collar open and jacket off, Fine sat on the
terrace in the shade of a canopy in a metal-framed, blue canvas
butterfly chair from-the fifties, his knees level with his chest.  The
house was sleek and white, with yellow metal lattice over the windows
and tubular red railings on the second level.

Fine could see Biscayne Bay and the Miami skyline a few miles west.  The
sun glittered like bits of glass on the turquoise water.

one of several persons who seemed not to have a defined function at the
house had brought Jerry Fine a vodka and soda in a heavy, chilled glass.
Others came and went.  The guy who served aj Klaus's bodyguard and
Tereza's masseur was lifting weights by the pool, watching the naked
girl swimming around in it.  Another model in a thong bikini, sound
asleep or comatose, was working on a sunburn.  A fat, bald man dressed
completely in black, except for a red scarf at his neck, carried some
swatches of fabric over to Tereza Ruffini, who waved him away.  She was
in the middle of an argument with Klaus.

They were circling a white limestone table screaming at each other in
several different languages.  Rather, Tereza Ruffini was screaming.
Klaus was laughing.  A very jolly guy, Fine had observed.  Klaus had
straight brown hair that flopped over his forehead and bright blue eyes.
He was barefoot, wearing khaki pants and a faded shirt with palm trees
on it.  At thirty-four, three years younger than Jerry, he was already
getting soft in the belly.  His wife Tereza was tall and skinny, with
black hair so short it looked like it was painted on her skull, and an
incredible pair of hooters.  Jerry Fine couldn't pick up even the
English words they shouted at each other because someone had put a CD of
Little Richard on the stereo inside, and the massive speakers were
blasting through the open French doors.

The law firm that Jerry Fine worked for was the largest, most powerful
in Miami.  They took care of all the Ruffinis' legal matters when they
were in the States.  Otherwise, the couple might be found at their
houses in Milan, Aix-en-Provence, or Geneva.  Tereza designed clothes;
Klaus managed the multinational chain of boutiques where they were sold.
He also played with real estate.  Cohen Kaplan billed nearly a million
dollars a year to handle his deals, his proposed deals, his traffic
tickets, and the occasional shakedowns-of which this alleged rape could
be the latest.

Jerry Fine did not like defending people accused of sordid crimes like
rape.  He had a master's degree in tax law and a CPA.  He preferred
financial crimes: tax evasion, embezzlement, or bank fraud.  Cohen
Kaplan's clients did not commit rape.  But Jerry Fine would defend this
case, sordid or not.  It would cost Klaus a quarter million for a trial,
possibly twice that.  Jerry Fine could think of no reason to enter a
plea.  He would assemble a team of private investigators and experts in
forensic evidence, psychology, and jury selection.  But first he had to
discuss the case with Klaus.  So far Klaus had only slapped him on the
back and told him not to worry.

At an hourly rate of $300, sipping a second vodka and soda, and watching
the naked girl climb the ladder and dive into the pool, Jerry Fine was
in no particular hurry.  As Little Richard gave way to the crooning of
the - Platters, Fine took out his portable phone and conducted Some
other business while Tereza and Klaus finished theirs.

Finally, Klaus came over and sank into the yellow butterfly chair beside
Jerry Fine's blue one.  Tereza had already begun another argument with a
blond woman in heavy, black-framed glasses.  Her assistant designer.  Or
her interior decorator.

Klaus put a hand on Jerry Fine's thigh.  Fine had learned that Klaus
wasn't queer; he simply liked to touch people.

"Jerry, you know what?  George Fonseca wants $50,000 and he will make
the Duncan girl dismiss the case.  What do you think?"

Is a felony, Jerry Fine looked at him, then said, "No.  It called
witness tampering. Besides, only a judge or the state attorney can
dismiss a case."

Klaus nodded in the direction of the man lifting weights.  "You know
what Franco says?" He moved closer to Fine and whispered, "Franco says
we should put her in a bag and throw her into the ocean.  We can use my
boat."

"For the love of God."

"Why do you take so seriously everything, Jerry?  I'm kidding!" He
laughed.  "Did you see the prosecutor, Samuel Hagen, at the bond
hearing?  More serious than you, even.  Like a cowboy, so tough.  Jerry,
come to dinner with Tereza and me tonight.  The Strand, okay?  The art
director of Vanity Fair will be there." Klaus could make these abrupt
turns in conversations.

Jerry Fine said, "Let's go inside.  We need to talk."

Then Tereza came over, followed by the bald guy in black whining that he
needed her signature.  He made Jerry Fine's skin crawl.  Tereza looked
down at Jerry through impenetrably dark sunglasses with rhinestones on
the frames.  She said, "Hello, baby," then leaned over and kissed him on
both cheeks.  He could see straight down her shiny turquoise dress.  It
was one of her own creations, which she wore with white high heels and
pink anklets.

Now the stereo was pumping out "Shake Your Groove Thing." Two girls by
the pool were doing some disco moves in their swimsuits.  Tereza
screamed, "Stop it!

Stop!  Now!" The music went off.  "I can't stand that.  it's horrible."

As she signed her name to six different pieces of paper, Tereza glanced
at Jerry Fine.  "Tell my idiot husband to pay the puttana bugiarda who
says he raped her."

"Jerry won't let me." Klaus slid his hand up his wife's bare leg. "Jerry
says it's a crime to pay her."

"How'much does she want?"

"I don't know, Tereza mia.  I haven't talked to her.  I haven't sent
anyone to talk to her."

"Now it's too late!  Look what you have done!"

"Will You miss me when I go to jail?"

"No.  You make me insane.  I will be happy."

"But you love me.  Insanely." Klaus pinched her thigh, "They have taken
Your passport," she pouted, "You can't go to Paris with me.  You can't
go anywhere.  Non potrai andare da nessuna parte con me!"

He was laughing.  "I don't want to go anywhere.  I like it here.  The
tourists are leaving, the weather is perfect.  At this moment Miami is
heaven.  I could stay forever."

Tereza turned her sparkly sunglasses toward Jerry Fine, "I tell you who
is behind this.  Claudia Otero.  Feccia di una ragazza!" She spat out
the words.  "Claudia has her show the same night as me next week.  I bet
you she's the arranger of this.  Klaus, did the girl model for her?
Maybe Claudia paid the girl to lie."

Klaus shook his head.  "No.  Claudia likes dark models.

The girl was pale, and too much red hair." Then he gunned.  "Look at my
wife, how excited she is."

"Sta'zitto, Klaus." Tereza grabbed Jerry F me's arm.

"YOU know who she is, the bitch?  Her sister Amalia is married to the
Dade district attorney.  What's his name?"

Jerry Fine said, "Edward Mora?  He,s the state attorney."

"I Right, right.  Amalia, his wife, is the sister of Claudia.

heard this from I forget where."

"I don't see what you're driving at."

"of course you see it," Tereza said.  "Claudia told the district
attorney, her brother-in-law, to arrest Klaus."

Jerry Fine smiled.  "I don't think so."

"I'm hungry," Klaus said.  "Let's go to Nick's at the marina."

"You have a cook," Fine said, annoyed.  "If you're hungry we can eat
here."

Tereza knelt and put her forehead on Fine's shoulder.

"You have to do something about her, Jerry.  Hire a private detective."

Fine said, "Let me see if I follow this.  You're suggesting that your
business competitor told her sister to tell the sister's husband, the
state attorney, to file this case against your husband, in order to put
you out of business."

"Yes.  Why not?"

"No, Tereza.  Trust me.  No."

"Who is saying these things against my husband?

You know who?  Claudia's friend, Sullivan.  And she is forty-two years
old and he still sleeps with her.  You know him, Klaus.  The model for
Armani in Uomo this month."

Klaus said, "I'm hungry."

"Jerry, find out about this."

To shut her up, he said, "Okay, Tereza."

With a gasp, she noticed her watch.  "Dio!  I have to meet the buyers
from Macy's ten minutes ago!" She kissed Klaus on the mouth.  "Ciao,
caro."

He reached up and squeezed her breasts.  "Ciao, befla.

"Va bene.  And Iamo.  Let's go." She headed for the house, trailed by
the blond woman and the fat homosexual in black.

Jerry Fine said, "Klaus, we need to talk."

pedicured, but the sole was gray with dirt.  "You know Klaus propped one
bare foot on his knee.  The toes were what?  Miami was getting a little
boring.  Same, same, same.  And now it's very interesting."

"I hope you find prison interesting, Klaus."

"it won't happen.  Come on.  Let's go have lunch at Nick's."

"What do you mean, 'It won't happen'T' "You worry so much." Klaus began
to rub Jerry Fine's chest, a strong, side to side motion.  Sweat broke
out on Fine's neck.  He would have shifted away but this chair was
shaped like a sack.  Klaus said, "Tereza worries also.  She is crazy.
Claudia Otero this and that and so on.  But you know what?  When Tereza
is crazy, she makes love like-oh, God, you should see."Laughing, Klaus
sprawled in his chair.  "No, I won't let you see that."

Fine said, "Have you done something you don't want to tell me about?"

"No, Jerry." Klaus's mouth twitched upward.  "But I know something about
a boutique soon to be in Havana, special to the tourists, next door to
Benetton."

"Moda Ruffini?  I didn't know you and Tereza wer Cuba."       e in

"Not us.  Claudia.  Don't tell Tereza."

"What in hell are you doing?" Fine could bear his voice rising.  "I'm
your lawyer.  You pay me to worry.  And I'm telling you.  If you don't
get serious about this, Sam Ha gen is going to nail you to the fucking
floor!"

Klaus laughed.  "This is for me like a movie, so exciting,"

Jerry Fine tipped back his drink and finished it off.

From the door a young man in bicycle shorts yelled to get Klaus's
attention.  "Du, Klaus, these Nervensdge von Vertreter ist wieder an der
Tiir!  Was soll which ihin sagen?

Klaus frowned but didn't answer.

"What is it?" Fine asked.

"He wants to know if he should tell Marty Cassie to go away."

"Who?"

Klaus shouted back at the young man, then said, "For you, Jerry, I'll
let him in.  Marty Cassie put money, not so much, in the Grand Caribe,
and he thinks now he's my partner.  After the red-haired girl made up
those lies, Marty said he was a close friend of Hal Defucca, and nothing
would happen."

"Holy Christ.  You didn't bribe the City manager."

Ruffini's blue eyes widened in surprise.  "No, never."

Then he said, "It's funny, Jerry.  People do things for me all the time,
and they ask for nothing.  Isn't that strange?"

It was the way the world worked at these heights, Fine thought.  People
of lesser status doing favors for those higher up, some kind of natural
obeisance hard-wired into the human brain, perhaps.  Or a hope that
beauty, sex, and power could be vicariously obtained.

Hal Delucca, along with a few other gushing sycophants in city hall, had
supported Klaus's pet project, the Grand Caribe.  Delucca himself had
cut the ribbon on phase one.  So far only a twelve-story time-share
apartment building had been constructed.  The model under glass in
Klaus's office showed a Caribbean-theme village with shopping,
restaurants, water slides, a lagoon, and a mega-hotel.  The village
would be as much fun as the real Caribbean, but cleaner, with no
guiltinducing Bahamians or Trinidadians gazing through the fence.

Klaus Ruffini squeezed Jerry's knee.  "I didn't ask Marty Cassie to talk
to Hal Delucca.  He did it because he thinks he's my partner, to help
me."

"You're telling me Delucca went to the state attorney?"

"He said no, he didn't.  But now I look bad to the city of Miami Beach
because of Marty Cassie, and I don't get my zoning approved.  Look. Here
he is." Klaus settled into his chair.

Coming across the terrace was a man in his late thirties dressed in
open-weave shoes, linen slacks, and a green silk shirt.  He carried a
small leather pouch and a portable telephone.  His eyes were hidden
behind expensive tortoise-shell sunglasses.  He ducked under the edge of
the canopy.  "Klaus!  How's it going?"

"Say hi to Jerry Fine.  Jerry's my lawyer."

"Hi." Marty Cassie shook Fine's hand.

Klaus smiled up at him.  "How is Uta, your fantastic and beautiful
wife?"

Cassie hesitated, then said, "We split up.  You didn't know?"

"Oh, that is so sad." Klaus laid a hand on Jerry Fine's arm.  "Uta was
sleeping with another man.  A model, very young and blond and
good-looking.  Of course Marty would throw her out."

Marty Cassie's face twitched.  "Klaus, have you got a minute?  This is
business."

"Sure.  Talk.  Jerry knows all my business.  I hire Jewish lawyers,
Marty.  Very sharp.- Klaus waved toward a chair.

"Sit."

Marty Cassie pulled up a plastic pedestal chair upholstered in
blue-and-white stripes.  His ponytail curled at his collar.  He put his
ba   under g and telephone on the terrace floor, then dropped his
sunglasses to his chest, dangling from their cord.  His eyes looked as
if he'd stayed out all night in a smoky bar.

"A couple of things," he said.  "First, I've got people to take care of
on the Grand Caribe brochure._Th@ photographer's been hounding me for
days.  Bitch, bitch, bitch. "How much?" Klaus said.

"With her, the printer, the production people ...  five grand."

:'Okay.  I get you a check before you leave."

'Great," Marty said.  "Now, the other thing-"

Klaus smiled.  "YOU know what?  The city commission will vote next week
on the zoning.  They will tell me no because now I've been falsely
accused of raping that redhaired model.  A terrible thing!  You said the
city manager would help me.  You promised."

"I know, I know.  Hal tried, but the state attorney took it the wrong
way.  Hal says Mora filed the case for spite, the Cuban bastard.  I did
my best for you, Klaus.  Look, they haven't voted yet.  I could talk to
them for you."

"I'm thirsty.  Dominique!" Klaus shouted.  A woman at an umbrella table
across the terrace put down her copy of Vogue and uncrossed her legs.
She wore leopard print toreador pants and a gold bikini top.
"APporte-moi un coca, ma petite, et le M46me pour mon copain.  Marty,
You should see the Coke machine.  It works on nickels.

Why did You come, Marty?  To tell me what I know already?"

"It's about the rental property you wanted.  Let's iron out the details,
then I can do the Contract and bring it back for you to sign."

:'What rental property?"

'The apartments, Klaus.  The Englander."

"I don't recall this."

Jerry Fine knew what property.  So did Klaus.  The tax department at
Cohen Kaplan had said Klaus could buy it if he wanted, but it was
overpriced.

Marty Cassie's nervous smile reappeared.  "The Englander.  Sixteen-unit
on Drexel Avenue, held at present in the name of Tolin Associates.  I've
been trying to get in touch with you all week."

"Ahhh." Then Klaus shrugged.  "I don't know.  With my T'

other problem, which you said you would fix, I'm not in the mood
anymore."

"You wanted it, Klaus.  It's perfect.  The location, everything."

Klaus's bare foot bounced on his knee.  "But the property belongs to
someone else.  You have only ten percent, so why do you care?"

'I told you all about this."

"Tell me again so Jerry can hear."

He made a little shrug in Fine's direction.  "I have ten percent.  My
partner Frank Tolin has the rest.  He owes me money.  He says he can't
pay-which is a lie, by the way.

So we'll settle up when the apartments are sold.  My own partner.  We
were supposed to be in fifty-fifty, and he screwed me down to ten
percent."

Klaus looked at Jerry Fine.  "I find out that four years ago the
building caught on fire.  Jerry, would you advise me to buy a building
like that?  It might collapse, don't you think so?"

Marty Cassie protested.  "It was rebuilt, Klaus.  New roof, everything.
It's in great shape.  Back to the original art deco design."

Dominique came clattering out in her black high heels and toreador pants
with two green glass bottles of CocaCola.  Marty said thank you, then
set the bottle on the terrace.

Klaus said, "Okay.  Maybe I do want the building."

"It's a good deal, Klaus."

"If I buy the building, what would you do for me?"

:'Do?"

'Do you think I'm a nice guy?" He smiled.

Perplexed, Marty Cassie replied, "Sure.  A very nice guy, Klaus."

"Do you like me?"

Cassie shrugged.  "Yeah, sure.  You're funny.  I have a good time at
your parties."

Jerry Fine looked across the terrace, out toward Miami.

He wondered what would happen if he got up and left.  He could see his
law firm's building among the others down town, shiny blue and white.

Klaus said to Marty Cassie, "Would you help Tereza with her show next
week?"

"Okay.  What do you want me to do, some promotion?

C @!l some people?"

No, She needs someone to help her set up the chairs."

Marty exhaled, glancing at Jerry Fine, who said nothing.  "Why not?
W4?re all nice guys here." He laughed.

"And would you help clean up afterward?  Please?  For Tereza.  You know.
She's so tired, planning for her big show.  We can talk about the
apartments if you promise to help Tereza."

"Jesus.  Sure, okay."

"And would you kiss my ass if I asked you to?  If I promised to buy the
property, would you kiss my ass right now?"

Marty made a high-pitched whinny and glanced around.

The other half-dozen people on the terrace were watching.

The naked girl, who had wrapped a towel around her self, hid a gi-2gle
behind her hand.

"I, T not going to kiss your ass," Marty said.  "Kiss mine.

Gripping the curved metal frame of the chair on either side of his
knees, Klaus pulled himself up.  He took out his wallet and counted five
hundred-dollar bills.  "Okay, here's a deposit, which I give to my
attorney in escrow.

Not enough.  I need more cash.  Dominique!  Va, cherche moi encore de
Vargent!" Klaus pointed.  "Jerry, write a contract.  You have paper?
Good.  The Englander Apartments.  Address, such and so.  Seller-Tolin
Associates'

Right?  Yes.  Purchaser, Ruffini Properties.  Price-" He looked at Marty
Cassie.  "I forgot the price.  How much?"

"Six hundred."

"Six hundred thousand dollars, all cash, standard terms, and so on.
Okay?"

Marty stared up at him from his chair.

"Okay or not?"

"Jesus.  You're kidding."

"Does this look like kidding?  Am I kidding you?"

Klaus dropped his trousers and his blue jockey shorts, holding on with
both hands to keep them from falling -tree shirt hung just down
entirely.  The hem of his palm below his groin.  The pink tip of an
uncircumcised penis who pressed bobbled as, he turned his back toward
Marty, himself against the chair.

Klaus wiggled his fanny.  "Marty, you want me to do something for you?
Okay, do this for me.  It's clean.  If you kiss it I'll tell my attorney
to write the contract.  Jerry, did you hear what I said?  Call your
office, get the legal description.  Do it!"

Muttering darkly to himself, Fine flipped open his portable phone and
punched in the number.  Dominique came cropping out onto the terrace
again, carrying several banded stacks of hundreds With loathing, Marty
Cassie braced his hands on his thighs, and took a breath.  He gritted
his teeth, then reached out to lift the hem of Klaus Ruffini's shirt.

Quickly Klaus whirled around, pulling up his pants, laughing.  "My God!
He would do it!  Oh, no!"

Cassie stumbled out of the chair, nearly weeping with rage.  His voice
was choked.  -you lousy fuck.  May you rot in hell."

"Marty, I was making a little joke.  l,m sorry.  I didn't think you
would do it." Klaus was laughing and trying to zip his pants at the same
time.  "Go with us to Nick's for lunch.  Okay?  Watch the boats, have a
drink with us.

Come on." He put his arms around Marty Cassie.

"Go to hell, you dago bastard." Marty Cassie violently pushed him away,
grabbed his bag and portable phone, and ran across the terrace. Laughter
came from the onlookers.  Klaus hid his face in his hands and sank to
his knees, a parody of remorse.

Jerry Fine closed his telephone.  He felt dizzy, and the sun reflecting
on the bay made shards of light that hurt his eyes.

"Everybody!" Klaus rebuckled his belt.  "Let's go to Nick's.  I am
starving." He paused beside Jerry Fine and rubbed his shoulder.  "We'll
get a separate table from the rest, okay?  Then you can tell me how to
save myself from Edward Mora."

At the door he called, "Jerry!  Come on."

After a moment, Jerry Fine struggled out of the butter fly chair and
followed him across the terrace.

CHAPTER Eleven

The press conference in State vs.  Ruffini, Lamont, and Fonseca was held
just before noon, in time to be edited Tor the midday news and
rebroadcast in the evening.

Sam Hagen stood at a cluster of microphones in a blaze of light, the
state and U.S.  flags behind him.  He swept his gaze around the room and
denied that the sexual battery charges had been filed for political
reasons.  This was not part of a plan to stop development of the Grand
Caribe Resort.  A crime had been committed, and the defendants would be
brought to trial.  Sam was flanked by two other assistant state
attorneys he had named as members of the prosecution team: a woman from
the Sexual Battery Unit and Joe McGee, on temporary loan from the Felony
Division.

Insiders in the state attorney's office knew what was going on here.
Edward Mora might he leaving.  Whoever he recommended as his interim
replacement, Sam Hagen would be running for state attorney in the fall.
The battle was starting now, in front of these cameras.

"Mr.  Hagen, the girl is seventeen years old.  Is there any indication
that the defendants realized this?  Did she pre sent herself as older?"
A local TV reporter in the front row had stood up so he could get
himself on video.

Sam heard the unstated question, What kind of girl is this?  He said, "I
don't know what they thought.  Whether she looked fifteen or
twenty-five, does it matter?" Sam waited a beat for emphasis.  "No one
deserves to be the victim of such a brutal attack."

"What can you tell us about her?"

"Well, first, I admire her courage.  She's willing to testify against
people who could influence her career.  The young lady is a native of
our area.  She's been modeling for about a year, and she hopes to pay
her way through college.  That's all I'm prepared to tell you at this
time."

Florida law prohibited publication of her name.  Sam had begun to refer
to Ali Duncan as the victim or the Young lady.  He didn't want details
of her life to show up in the Press-not yet-although sooner or later the
media would sniff them out.  For now, she was the girl next door.

A reporter from the Miami Herald asked about evidence, and Sam gave a
brief overview, keeping his response as nonspecific as he could and
refusing to give the names of any witnesses.

The story had hit the national news the day before, but only in the form
of a ten-second announcement on NBC that actor Marquis Lamont, along
with two other men, had been arrested for an alleged sexual assault on a
model 4 in a Miami Beach night club.  An entertainment news show had
asked Sam for an interview, but he had refused to talk to them.  Klaus
Ruffini had not been mentioned except as a codefendant, and George
Fonseca not at all.  The only in-depth coverage was local, although a
pale young woman in black had come from New York to do a story for
Women's Wear Daily.  Eddie Mora's predictions of media bedlam had been
wildly off the mark.

The state attorney himself was absent.  He had gone to a Cuban-American
Bar Association meeting, tending to his own political fortunes, making
sure he kept the local exile community happy so they didn't scuttle his
chances to go to Washington.

"How did the girl get into the Apocalypse at age seventeen?" someone
asked.

Sam replied, "She was let in by the management.  Most clubs are careful
about this, but there are a few that cause problems." He glanced around
at his prosecution team, then said, "We've talked to Chief Mazik of the
Miami Beach police department about a joint effort to identify and
prosecute those owners and managers who don't

19 ppp@

control the doors or who permit the use or distribution of narcotics on
the premises, usually in the rest rooms or the so-called VIP rooms. This
is not, and I stress this, a judgment on Miami Beach nightlife as a
whole.  Most of the clubs and restaurants are great places to go, an
asset to the community."

As several reporters called out questions, Sam lifted a hand, then said,
"You know, what concerns me, as a prosecutor and a resident of Dade
County, is the idea that because we rely so much on tourist dollars, we
have to excuse things that most other communities wouldn't put up with.
The attitude that people with enough money or sophistication ought to be
indulged.  This has consequences, particularly for our young people.
What do they learn when we say that not everyone has to be held
accountable to the same rules?  I see forty thousand felony cases come
through this office every year, and I can tell you that most of those
defendants think that somehow the rules just don't apply to them."

After a few more questions Sam checked his watch, apologized for having
to cut it short, and thanked every one for coming.

Avoiding the lunchtime crowds in the elevators, Sam took the stairs to
the ground floor with Joe McGee and Lydia Hernandez.  Lydia, from Sexual
Battery, was a petite young woman with frizzy blond hair.  Hustling down
the stairwell in her flats, she said that the motions demanding blood
samples would be personally served on the defense attorneys in the
morning.

Joe McGee rounded the landing.  "Good.  We won't have a whole lot of
time.  Fonseca's lawyer says he's going to ask for a speedy trial."

When he reached for the handle of the heavy steel door, Sam told him to
wait a second.

"I had a phone call this morning from Norman Singletary.  He says
Marquis Lamont isn't so sure now he wants to plead out."

McGee groaned.  "Oh, man.  We're offering the moon.

What does he want?"

"A not-guilty verdict," Sam said.  "He doesn't want to plead to
anything.  If we lose him as a witness, someone has made it worth the
risk."

"Klaus Ruffini," McGee concluded.

:'Probably."

'Son of a bitch," Lydia said.  "How much do we need Lamont?"

McGee said, "We'll be okay if the witnesses don't crap out."

"Let's see what happens between now and the arraignment," Sam said.
"Then I'll have another talk with Norman.  Threaten some serious jail
time.  That might change Lam ont's mind.  Or we give him immunity from
prosecution and force him to testify.  We're in for a rough ride, boys
and girls."

Sam opened the door, and they walked into the lobby, then out the rear
entrance of the building, squinting in the bright light.  Wind tossed
the tops of the trees and chased tattered pages from the newspaper
across the parking lot.

Joe McGee was grinning.  "I feel a little sorry for Marquis."

"Why, for God's sake?" Lydia demanded.

"Well, he isn't getting much media coverage.  He's probably going, 'Hey,
where is everybody?  You mean I'm not big enough to have all the TV
networks down here?  Nobody wants to put me on the cover of the National
Enquirer!" " McGee jerked his head toward the Justice Building.  "Sam,
you coming over to the cafeteria?"

"No, you two go ahead.  I've got a meeting."

Sam's silver Honda was parked in a private space.  As he approached he
noticed someone leaning against the fender, a white-haired man in a tan
sport jacket and knit shirt.  Dale Finley.  Sam hadn't seen Finley since
telling Beekie to get him off the investigation team in the Duncan case.

Finley came a couple of steps closer with his uneven gait.

"You're looking for me?" Sam took his keys out of his pants pocket.

"I caught the press conference on TV," Finley said.

All that about setting examples for our young people.

Very inspiring."

Sam stuck the key in the car door.  "Excuse me.  I'm late for an
appointment."

"With Gene Ryabin." Finley smiled, and the scar across his chin pulled
at his lower lip.  "I asked your secretary."

"What do you want, Finley?"

"Cut to the chase." Finley's scalp gleamed through the bristly white
crew cut.  "Detective Ryabin, so I have been given to understand, has
been making inquiries about membered that Mr.  Cassie is an associate of
a businessman Martin Cassie.  What reason?  I pondered this.  Then I re
from Italy currently residing on Miami Beach.  And Mr. Cassie has been
heard to remark that he personally asked Hal Delucca, the city manager,
to persuade the Dade state attorney not to proceed on a certain sexual
battery case involving the said Italian businessman."

Finle 's pale eyes, which had been taking in the movement of people
through the parking lot, fixed now on Sam Hagen.  He said, "I know what
you're thinking.  You're mistaken, but I won't argue with you.  Consider
this, though.  If you fuck up his nomination, he will stay here, and you
can't beat him in an election, not in Dade County, amigo."

Sam opened his door.  "Stay out of my sight, Finley."

"It could be an interesting trial," Dale Finley said.  He watched Sam
take off his jacket and put it on a hanger behind the front seat.  "The
lead prosecutor asking questions of the witness, then the defense asking
the witness did she ever spread for the prosecutor."

As Sam slowly grasped what Dale Finley was saying, he felt a wave of
fury build, then sweep through him.  He turned slowly around, wanting to
get his fists around Finley's lapels.

"You don't have to be concerned anybody's going to run out and blow
bells and whistles." Finley gave a slight shrug.  "As long as we
understand each other."

He turned and limped across the parking lot toward the state attorney's
office, the sides of his sport coat lifting and failing in the wind.

Waiting for Ryabin, Sam stood outside the Criminal Investigation Unit
looking down into the terrazzo-floored lobby.  A piece of publicly
funded art hung just below him, suspended on thin cables from the high
ceiling.  The sunlight pouring through the windows glowed through blue
and green glass disks and bounced off turquoise, brown, and maroon rods
and wires bent into weird shapes.

Every time he came over here he tried to figure out what it was supposed
to mean, beyond the $85,000 it had cost the city.  Up where the eyebolts
screwed into the walls, the plaster was getting rust-colored and flaky.
That much money could have fixed the leaks in the roof.

Sam leaned his elbows on the railing.  Maybe it was seaweed.
Occasionally maintenance would pull out a Styrofoam cup, like the ones
that washed up on the beach.

Ryabin had told Sam he'd seen an open-mouthed inflatable doll'in black
fishnet stockings caught among the wires.  Nobody had consulted the
rank-and-file before the scaffolds went up to install the thing.

Behind him the door opened, and Eugene Ryabin emerged in a
white-on-white shirt with French cuffs.  His holster and badge were on
his belt.  He pressed the down button on the elevator.

"I apologize for keeping you waiting," Ryabin said.  His accent turned
his last word into waitink.  "We're interviewing a girl who says a man
she met last night, a student from Holland, beat her up." He shrugged.
"The tourists are striking back."

They took the elevator to the lobby.

Sam said, "I ran into Dale Finley just now.  He's aware you've been
asking questions about Marty Cassie."

"Where I come from," Ryabin said, "they had men like Dale Finley on the
police force.  He would have used pliers on a suspect's testicles.  What
did he say to you?"

"He assumes I'm out to get Eddie Mora, and it would be better if I lay
off.  Let Eddie go to Washington, then I can win the election in
November."

:'Do you think Eddie asked him to approach you?"

'I don't know," Sam said.  "It isn't Eddie's style.  Finley has a reason
to act on his own.  If Eddie gets some national attention, Finley will
be back in action.  He can forget the stuff we give him-rounding up
witnesses, taking statements, serving warrants.  He probably got off on
working for the CIA, before the Cubans broke his legs."

Beyond the automatic glass doors a long walkway slanted to the street.
Among the trees between police headquarters and city hall, bums sat or
lay on white concrete benches.  Their ranks were thinning out now that
warm weather had set in.  Soon the sun would melt asphalt, turn puddles
into steam, and leave the Beach prostrate and panting.  Sam loosened his
tie.  He had left his jacket in the car.

He said, "Finley told me I'm wrong, by the way.  Eddie wouldn't commit
political suicide over this case.  Meaning he wanted it dumped for the
reasons he gave me-the girl is lying, the witnesses cancel each other
out, and we'll bust the budget on a sure loser."

Ryabin's heavy brows lifted.  "You believe him?"

"I might, except for the way Finley came at Ali Duncan.  He tried to
make her run, Gene.  Just before she was supposed to talk to me, Finley
tried to scare her off."

Ryabin walked in silence for a while.  The top of his head was about
level with Sam's shoulder.  Then he said, "Why did Eddie Mora give you
the case?  That, Sam, has made me curious."

Sam watched a mixed-race Hispanic woman coming out of a market across
the street, pulling a small child by the hand.  Bleached hair.  No bra.
Filthy white T-shirt knotted at the waist.  She staggered enough for him
to realize she was drunk.

"For whatever reason, Eddie wanted this case to go away.  He thought I'd
rubber-stamp his decision not to prosecute.  I wouldn't want to get
sucked into South Beach."

"Because of Matthew."

"And because I wanted Eddie's job.  Call it a bribe if you want to.  It
feels that way to me now."

Ryabin looked at him.

"Eddie said he would be grateful.  And I was ambitious.

I wouldn't question a damn thing."

They waited on the corner for traffic to pass.  Washington Avenue had
two lanes each way and parking meters at the curbs.  A few scraggly palm
trees were stuck into narrow, grassy medians.  In the space of a few
years, Sam had seen the neighborhood shops die off one by one: the old
barber shop replaced by a chic salon, the diner by a restaurant that
charged twenty bucks for a plate of sushi.  High rents were killing off
the old places, and chain stores were taking over; ugly but profitable
cardboard glamour.

"I have a question," Ryabin said.

At a break in the traffic they dashed across the intersection.  When
they reached the other side Sam said, "What's the question?"

"What is Dale Finley using to get your attention?"

After a second or two, Sam said, "He knows about me and Caitlin."

They turned north.  "Who told him?"

"I don't know, Gene.  He asked around."

"Is this another reason you took the case?  Because of Caitlin?"

"Christ, no.  I didn't read the incident report till after I told Eddie
I'd handle it."

A guilty grimace deepened the lines on Ryabin's face.

"I interviewed her myself at the Rape Treatment Center, where she took
Miss Duncan.  I'm sorry.  I should have called you."

Sam waved a hand.  "Forget it."

"I see her sometimes, walking with her camera.  I say hello.  She says
hello." Ryabin added, "You never told Dina."

"No.  She met Caitlin when I was working at Frank Tolin's office, and I
didn't want to tell her.  I still don't.

She had a rough time with Matthew's accident.  And then I imagine my
daughter hearing about this from some kid at school who read it in the
paper." Sam laughed.  "Caitlin never told Frank, either.  And now Dina's
consulting him about a wrongful death suit.  The whole thing has
infinite possibilities for blowing up in someone's face."

Ryabin nodded.  "And what is Dale Finley going to do, light the fuse?"

"Not if I leave Eddie Mora alone."

"Will you?"

"That would be the intelligent thing to do."

They were silent for a while, walking.  They had decided on a bar a
couple of blocks away that served sandwiches.  Ryabin said, "So.  What
next?  Do you let Eddie Mora go to Washington, to solve crime in America
for us?

Perhaps work his way into the Oval Office in eight T, "I frankly don't
give a shit."

Filling his lungs, Ryabin rested his fingertips lightly on the starched
front of his shirt.  "You should come lie on the beach, Sam.  Get a tan.
Relax."

"You really get a kick out of this place, don't you?"

"I know.  Reading the newspapers you think Miami is worse than the South
Bronx.  But look.  Sunshine.  The blue sky, the lovely young people."
Ryabin nodded toward a threesome of girls skating past on long
honey-gold legs, backpacks over their shoulders.

Blue sky and sunshine.  Enough of it to blind you, Sam thought.  Palm
trees and bare skin and the endless, blinding glitter.  Rushing over the
causeway, climbing the stairs to Caitlin Dorn's apartment, hearing the
summer downpour outside the open window by her bed, believing things
could be so simple.

"Do you still want to know about Martin Cassie?"

"Sure.  Tell me about Martin Cassie."

Ryabin said, "Thirty-six, born in Queens, father a trumpet player on the
Tonight Show with Jack Paar.  Attended but never finished City College.
Real estate license with Tropic Realty and Investments.  They say he
made a sale three months ago, one condo unit.  He married a year ago-a
German named Uta Ernst, but she's not living with him at present.  His
secondhand BMW was repossessed last month, and he is overdrawn at First
Union Bank."

Sam looked at him.  "Very good."

"He was the realtor for the building where Caitlin lives," Ryabin said.
"The Englander Apartments.  Frank Tolin bought it from Anna.  You
remember."

Anna was Ryabin's wife.  Four years ago Anna had owned the Englander.
She had inherited the apartments from her sister Rivka, who had died
when the building burned.  Another tragedy for the women Eugene Ryabin
had brought out of the Soviet Union.

Ryabin had suspected arson, but without a motive or suspect, the case
eventually died.  Frank Tolin poured money into the place, and by the
time Sam left his office, Frank was still complaining that it had been a
mistake.

Bad luck, he had said.  Ghosts.

Ryabin continued his recitation.  "Marty Cassie has coordinated
publicity for Miami Beach civic groups-unpaid, but good for making
contacts.  He knows the city councilmen, the mayor, the heads of the
departments.  He pretends to have money.  Now he's claiming partnership
with Klaus Ruffini."

He paused to move around a man shouting through the open door of a small
gift shop with a display of gay postcards and T-shirts in the window.

The man's hair had gone a little wild, and his pants hung so low his
plaid shirt had come halfway out.  He was carrying a limp,
leather-covered Bible with pages edged in gold leaf.

"What is so hard about that, my friends?  Man was made for woman, woman
was made for man.  It's simple.  It's in the Bible.  Man for woman,
woman for man.  Is that a difficult concept for you to understand?"

A muscular man with a shaved head, heavy work boots, and tight denim
shorts slit up the sides came out of the shop, unlocked his bicycle, and
steered it into the flow of traffic.

"What a freaking circus," Sam muttered.

"You know, Sam, in this city, if you act important, and maybe even fool
yourself, and you do it with flair, and you wear the right clothes, and
you have a good tan, people will believe you."

Sam could vaguely picture Marty Cassie from more than four years ago:
the perpetual smile, the jaunty little ponytail, the silk sport jacket.

"From what I've heard," Sam said, "the Grand Caribe is Ruffini's answer
to Disney World."

"Yes, like an island in the Caribbean." Ryabin smiled.

"I went to the sales office for the condominium, which already is built.
They told me there's too much of Europe here, too much trying to be
Cannes or Portofino.  The Grand Caribe is more Miami.  There will be
buses to and from the discount malls, the cruise ships, and Orlando.

And of course room for a casino, which sooner or later the voters will
approve."

They stopped walking, having reached the place they had agreed on for
lunch.

"Ruffini must be out of his mind," Sam said.

Ryabin's eyes danced with evident amusement.  "No!

Klaus Ruffini understands American culture very well."

They went into Pogo's, a dark, wood-paneled dive with dusty windows and
faded posters of old Miami Dolphin games, where a cold draft could still
he had for under two bucks.  By now the plain-clothes cops who usually
came in for lunch had gone back on duty.  A slender black woman in a
gauzy Indian skirt wrapped over a swimsuit sat on a bar stool speaking
into a portable telephone in a language Sam couldn't place.  There was a
small lightning bolt tattooed on her left breast.

They took a table in the back and ordered sandwiches.

The waitress brought their drinks.  Iced tea and a beer.  The air
conditioner buzzed in the wall.

Ryabin took a cigarette from his pack.  "Don't move away yet.  The city
commission is going to vote no on the Grand Caribe." His gold lighter
flamed, illuminating his lined face and throwing shadows upward from his
tangled eyebrows.

Sam picked up his beer.  "Nastrovye." He closed his eyes and took a few
deep swallows, then set the glass back on the wooden table in the ring
it had left.  He rubbed his forehead for a while.

"Edward Jos6 Mora went to Harvard Law School," he said.  "Did you know
that?"

"No." Smoke wreathed Ryabin's head.

"Eddie graduated near the top of his class." Sam stretched out his legs.
"I was about midway down the list at the U.  of Florida-which is not a
bad school, by the way."

Ryabin sipped his iced tea.

"He clerked for a justice of the U.S.  Supreme Court, and he married a
woman whose father owned half the sugar plantations in Cuba."

"Is that so?"

"And Edward Mora, who learned Spanish from Berlitz, and who is so
fucking preppy he buys his toilet paper from Brooks Brothers, would be
delighted to see Klaus Ruffini in prison.  One would think."

"Yes.  One would," Ryabin said, and smoked his cigarette.

"And one also wonders, Detective, why Eddie Mora is associating with a
lowlife like Dale Finley."

Ryabin sat looking at Sam Hagen for a while.  Finally he smiled broadly,
and the gap between his front teeth showed.  I thought-forgive me-that
you were going to leave it alone."

Sam picked up his beer.  I thought so, too."

CHAPTER Twelve

in the entrance hall of the Cathedral of St.  Nicholas, an old woman in
a flowered dress sat reading the Bible on her knees, smoothing the pages
with pale, twisted fingers.  She looked up and smiled when Dina Hagen
came in.  Light reflected off her heavy glasses, " Kalispera,
Constandinamou."

Dina nodded.  "Kalispera, kyria.

She put money into the box for a candle and carried it into the small,
overheated room where two dozen or more were already burning.  She lit
the candle and wedged it into the sand, then crossed herself, right to
left, and kissed the icon of the Blessed Virgin.

An hour ago she had kissed her father on the forehead and told him she
was going to take a walk.  She had left him in his chair on the back
porch, gazing dimly through the screen, his feet in slippers.  Aunt
Betty was clattering dishes in the sink.  Go, she had said.  I'll look
out for him.

No one was in the sanctuary.  Dina walked slowly up the red-carpeted
aisle, her hand trailing along the wooden pews.  Each arch and curve of
this church were familiar to her, the white marble and gold trim, the
icons, the crystal chandeliers, the walls vaulting upward to a skyblue
dome.  God himself was painted on those upper reaches, and farther down,
his prophets.  The names of all four of Dina's grandparents were written
on stained glass windows.  When her father died, he would be remembered
on a plaque or pew, along with her mother, already gone. Matthew's name
was carved on a granite bench outside.

As a girl, Constandina Pondakos, like her friends, had dreamed of being
married here in a long, white dress.

There would be flowers at the attar, the smell of incense, the ancient
liturgy, everyone dancing afterward.  But the priest said no, not unless
her fiance converted.

Sam explained to him that yes, his mother had been Jewish, but he wasn't
religious at all.  Father Demetrious had shaken his head, the long, gray
beard moving across the black robe and heavy silver cross.  My son,
believing in nothing is worse than being a Jew.  Sam would have to
become Greek Orthodox.  Or Catholic, if he preferred.

Insulted, Sam had stubbornly refused, on principle, he said, even when
Dina begged, then threatened to give back his ring.

She had married him anyway, love outweighing pride.

Now, on principle, Sam was resisting the idea of a lawsuit: Matthew had
been to blame for his own death.

Sam was wrong, of course, and in the end he would be glad Dina had
insisted.  He would understand.  He knew the horrible perversities human
beings were capable of.  He had seen the smashed bones of the child who
had been thrown through a window to his death.  And he had brought
charges against the men who had raped that poor girl on South Beach.
Those were his causes.  Dina would fight for hers, and eventually Sam
would understand.

At the altar she knelt before the icon of the Blessed Virgin with the
infant Jesus Christ and made the sign of the cross.

"Panagiamou, anapafse tin psihe tou agapimenou pe diou-" Mother of our
Lord Jesus, bless the soul of my beloved son-"

Dina's words trailed off.  Who was listening?  Only oil and canvas.
Mother and child in two dimensions.  And God, if he was here at all, was
no more substantial than the painted image on the rotunda a hundred feet
above her head.  There was more help on earth.  Yesterday, Friday, she
had gone to Frank Tolin's office for the second time.  Sam didn't know.
She'd had no appointment, but Frank had seen her anyway.  He had sat
beside her on the sofa, and his secretary had brought them tea.  Don't
blame yourself, he said.  Matthew had been pulled into a swamp, that
life on South Beach, the clubs, the drugs, the easy sex.  Frank listened
until his floor-to-ceiling windows went dark and he had to turn on the
lights.  Dina had nearly fallen to her knees in gratitude.  He had
performed a miracle, of sorts: since that day in his office she had not
felt one twinge of pain.

Dina suddenly tensed.  From behind her had come a whisper.  An echo.

She silently mouthed his name: Matthew.  But how could he follow her
here, into this place?  What did he want?

Beyond the altar the silent faces of the apostles and the Holy Family
gazed back at her.  Jesus lifted a hand, palm outward.  St.  George, in
his armor, raised his sword.  A white dove carved of marble perched on a
corner of the pulpit, wings lifted as if in flight.

If she turned around, she might see Matthew in the shadows in the back
of the cathedral, under the icons of the saints.  Last night he had come
into her father's house while she slept upstairs in the small room that
had been hers as a girl.  One moment asleep, the next awake, trembling,
hearing only the crickets in the backyard.  The moon shone blue-white
through the window and fell across the bed, holding her there as if
moonlight had weight and substance.  She saw the glass doorknob turn,
turn.  Then a face in fragments, abraded to the bone.  Her screams had
brought Aunt Betty, bathrobe flapping, running into her room.

Dina closed her eyes tightly.  Of course he wasn't real; she knew that.
The laughter she heard at night wasn't real.  Or the door that closed on
the other side of an empty room.  Nor was Matthew's face when it had
appeared in her bathtub, his hair lifting and falling with the movement
of the water.  The worst had been yesterday, leaving Frank Tolin's
office.  Alone in the elevator she had heard the hollow drip of liquid,
then a gush.  Looking down she saw a pool of blood, foaming and surging,
sticky and red, sucking at her feet, swirling into' vortices.  When the
door opened, the blood flowed into the crack.  Gone.  Not a drop of it
on her shoes.

She whirled around, heart leaping.  There had been a flutter, like
birds' wings, and now a shadow seemed to pass in and out among the white
columns along the side of the cathedral.

Above the doors were the faces of the saints, dark, bearded men with
heavy-lidded eyes and long, tapering fingers at their hearts.

As in a dream, she struggled to move her lips and whisper, Matthew.  The
light in the cathedral dimmed, then brightened-a cloud passing over the
sun, nothing more.

Steadying herself on a pew, Dina got up and walked out of the sanctuary.
The old woman again looked up from her reading and smiled.  "Kalinichta,
koritsimou." Good night, my dear.

"Kalinichtasas, kyria.

Dina went down the broad steps to the street.  A faint smell of brine
and seaweed came from the sponge docks.  Main Street was just ahead,
curving down a low hill, with its tidy shops and old-brick storefronts.

If only they had come to live here, instead.  Sam could have opened an
office in town, and Dina would have hers close by.  Melanie would do
better at the church school.  And Matthew would not have been destroyed.

Last Monday in Frank's office, Sam had sat impassively, hardly speaking.
Then Frank had said the case should be investigated, and Sam had argued,
until Dina had begged him to stop.  Of course, Sam believed that nothing
would come of it; let him think what he wanted.  She had realized, in
the cold light of perfect vision, that she was the stronger one.  She
could redeem their son; Sam could not.  Such terrible knowled e, because
now she knew how utterly alone she had become.

On her way back to her father's house Dina walked a street too far and
found herself at Spring Bayou, at the top of the stone steps that led
down to the water.  Palmetto palms grew on either side of the steps, and
a sidewalk fronted around the bayou, which was shaded by pines and oaks.

Dina walked out onto the concrete platform.  The graygreen water threw
back reflections of the clouds.  A cool breeze arose, winding its way
from the Gulf.  Her skirt pressed close to her thighs, then fluttered.

On Epiphany Day three Januaries ago, Matthew had been one of sixty or so
young men who dove for the cross.  After services in the cathedral
ended, the people, thousands of them, marched to Spring Bayou.

The archbishop in his miter led the way, his gold-embroidered robes sewn
with bells.  Behind him came the bishops and the priests with censers;
children in native costumes; marching bands; and then the crowd, the
crush of people.

The boys went out into the bayou in small boats to form a semicircle
around the platform where Dina now stood, which at the time was
decorated with flowers.  It was cold that day, and the boys shivered in
swim trunks and white T-shirts.  Lovely, innocent young men.  Tensed and
ready, they fixed their eyes on the archbishop.  He said a prayer, then
dipped the cross into the water, once, twice.  The third time he flung
it high, and at the same moment a girl behind him released a dove.  It
soared upward, white ribbons streaming from its feet, wings beating
against the clear blue sky.

Before the cross touched the surface, there was a huge splash of young
men diving for it.  Dina could still see the flashing arc of Matthew's
bare legs and extended arms.

Other boys came up, took in air, and dove again.  Watching them, holding
her own breath, Dina clutched at Sam's arm.  Matthew could be drowning!

Then he burst to the surface, mouth open, gasping, water streaming over
his face.  In one upraised hand he held the cross.  The people cheered.
Dina jumped up and down like a girl, laughing, hugging Sam.  Matthew
scanned the C, crowd, smiling when he saw her, his hair dark and wet on
his forehead.

The other boys carried him on their shoulders to the archbishop, who
took the cross from him and blessed him.  It meant Matthew would have a
long and happy life.

CHAPTER Thirteen

rider a brightening sky, Sam Hagen picked up his pace.

Pushing himself a little, keeping a steady rhythm.  He Uran the usual
route, four miles in a long rectangle through the subdivision where he
lived.  Brookwood.  No brooks, no woods.  Only flat terrain with
curbless streets and houses on a common theme, worth two or three
hundred grand apiece.  Blank windows and empty yards at this hour, the
Sunday paper lying in driveways.  There would be an article, with
pictures, about Eddie Mora.  Someone in Washington had leaked the story
about his being Michigan senator Phil Kirkman's choice as running mate.

Kirkman, needing some minority blood on the ticket.  Edward Jos6 Mora. A
little young, said the commentators, but the V.P.  hopeful on both
tickets this election year would be a sop to minorities.

Sam breathed the damp, heavy air in and out and concentrated on the
ground ahead of him.  He wore an elastic band on his left knee and
five-pound wrist weights.

As a kid, when he'd run through his father's orange grove or around the
track for football practice, the rhythm had been enough, the joy of
blood rushing through his veins and the earth blurring under his feet.
There wasn't much joy in this, the slow pounding on asphalt and
concrete, but not doing it made him feel vaguely dissatisfied with
himself.

He had awakened before dawn, not used to sleeping alone.  Dina was in
Tarpon Springs with her father.

She had called yesterday morning to say she'd made it safely, which was
the drill whenever anybody went out of town.  Sam had asked how Costas
was.  Fine.  He's fishing off the dock.  Pick me up at the airport
Sunday atfour-thirty.  Then she'd hung up as he was in the middle of
saying, Tell the old man to catch a few for me.

She was still incensed that Sam had given her a hard time about taking
two thousand dollars out of their savings account.  She hadn't asked,
just carried the cash to Frank Tolin on Friday as a cost deposit.

Then she 'told Sam about it as she was packing a bag for the trip.  He'd
been irritated, said he was going to call Frank and get it back.  And
Dina had calmly looked around from her closet and said no.  Would you
rather I get more Prozac from Dr.  Berman?  Would that be easier?

He had to admit her mood had improved, if anger could be called an
improvement on depression.

Last Monday afternoon, Frank Tolin had explained how difficult a
wrongful death suit would be in a case like this.

The city, which had maintained the street, had immunity from
prosecution.  Uncle Andy's, the bar that had served Matthew, was still
in business, but did they have enough assets to pay a judgment or the
insurance to cover it?  And even if Matthew's Harley, nearly new, had
been defective in some way, had the defect contributed to the accident?

Dina had been undeterred; Frank promised to look into it.  He never said
he wanted a two-thousand-dollar cost deposit.

What irritated Sam most was that out of professional courtesy, if not
good manners, Frank should have discussed money with the father of the
decedent before he asked the mother for two thousand dollars.  Sam had
thought Frank was doing this as a favor.  Hey, buddy, we go way back.

The brake on Sam's temper was realizing it had been partly his own
fault: He had made it clear this was Dina's undertaking, not his.  He
had gone with her just the one time.  He didn't care to see that office
again, where he had made no success of private practice.  And he didn't
want to see Caitlin Dorn, if she happened to drop by.  He had imagined
Frank showing him and Dina out just as Caitlin came breezing in.

Rounding the corner past some pine trees, Sam ran directly at the sun. A
few trees still lay in the underbrush, toppled by the hurricane; the lot
was tangled and overgrown.  Sam took a deep lungful of air and expelled
it slowly, then again to ease the stitch in his side.  He wondered if he
was at the age where a man could drop in his tracks, sprawling on the
pavement a half mile from home.  There had been times when he would have
welcomed it.

He stretched out his arms, feeling the pull of the wrist weights, and
finally the bum in his muscles.

Since showing up in his office, Caitlin Dorn had reappeared in his
thoughts.  That Dale Finley knew about her made Sam churn with helpless
fury.  He felt vulnerable, caught in a lie no longer relevant.  They
hadn't been careful, three years ago.  Finley had found out; other
people could, too.

If Caitlin testified, one of the other prosecutors would do the
questioning, Sam had decided.  If she ever got to the stand.  She might
swear in a deposition she had seen nothing.  Sam had seen witnesses fade
out.  Indignation over a crime only lasted so long, when it had happened
to someone else.  Then a witness would start thinking about other
choices.  Caitlin could be offered an assignment for a major fashion
magazine in Italy.  If she didn't look out for herself, who would?
Loyalties were fleeting on South Beach.

Fleeting everywhere.

Open-handed, she had struck a glancing, ineffectual blow across Sam's
cheek, then tried to shove him off her.

He pressed her wrists into the mattress.  "What in hell's the matter
with you?"

"I don't want to hear it.  How much you love me.  Next you'll tell me
you've been thinking of a divorce." She turned herface.  "Don't ruin it,
okay?"

He laughed, astonished.  "Don't you trust anyone?

When Sam slowed in his own driveway, breathing through his mouth, hands
on hips, the muscles in his legs were trembling.  Sweat soaked his
shorts and T-shirt.  He picked up the Sunday paper, then went inside to
shower and change.

Before going downstairs to make coffee he looked in on his daughter. The
blinds were shut tightly, and in the near-dark he could make out
Melanie's shape, her hair tangled on the pillow, and the pink curve of
her hand.  A bear with half its fur gone lay upside down on the carpet.

Fourteen years old, and she still slept with her bear.  Sam quietly
closed the door.

Three years ago, neither of the kids had known how close he had come to
running away, packing what would fit in his car, signing over the house
to Dina, paying alimony, child support, it didn't matter.  He'd been
alive again, leaping, breathless, the blood pounding through his body.
If he couldn't live honestly, openly, then what was the point?

He had come close, but couldn't leap that far.  Sam had always thought
of himself as having some standards in this world.  He wanted his
children to know he wasn't like the parents of some of their friends:
those adults who permitted anything and demanded nothing; who drank and
overdosed; who told their kids what a sad, rotten business life was; who
overspent and whined and slept around with the abandon of teenagers.

Matthew had never known about his father's infidelity, but he had heard
the angry voices behind the bedroom door.  He had seen his mother turn
her back in icy silence.

Had seen Sam come home late from work, then change into his running
shoes and be gone.  Matthew had carried a grudge for unnamed sins.

Melanie, if she had known, would have been all right.

She had always been more forgiving, more placid and steady.  The one who
swept up the bits of shattered glass from the back porch after her
brother had come home at dawn, stinking drunk, sixteen years old.  Sam
had seized him by the front of his jacket, and they had stumbled, both
of them, into the sliding glass door while Dina sat on the kitchen floor
and wept.

Last night Sam had awakened to noises from Matthew's room.  Grumpy and
squinting, he had found Melanie there, going through photographs and
papers that her mother had been organizing into folders for Frank Tolin.

Sam had ordered her to get back to bed.

He had watched her go obediently down the hall, a plump girl in a big
lavender sleep shirt.  At the end of the hall she turned and looked at
him.  Night, Dad.

Sam felt bad about yelling at her, and he had his knuckles on her door,
about to knock, but he didn't know what in hell he would tell her.  He
went back down the hall to Matthew's room to turn out the light.

On Frank Tolin's instructions, Dina had been organizing Matthew's school
records, yearbooks, snapshots, crayon drawings and handmade Mother's Day
cards, reports from his psychiatrists and counselors-a sad exhumation of
every scrap of information she had saved, and she had saved them all.
Sam refused to take part.  It terrified him beyond explanation.  Dina
pierced him with her own: You'd rather believe in accidents.  It lets
you off the hook, doesn't it?

If this wrongful death suit were ever filed, Frank Tolin would recreate
Matthew Stavros Hagen as he had never existed in life.  Maybe he had a
few problems, but really, don't all our teenagers go through rough
times?  The defense wouldn't dare alienate the jury by ripping into the
dead boy's parents, sitting side by side at the counsel table holding
hands and wee"ping.  In his final argument, Frank might show the jury a
series of framed photographs.  Mr.  and Mrs.  Hagen's son at birth, at
age two, age five, ten, and so on.  Here he is in his Cub Scout uniform,
here on his soccer team.  And here, the happy family on vacation in
Colorado.  But the last frame would be blank.  Frank would walk slowly
past the jurors holdin it in his hands.  How do you measure a parent's
grief, ladies and gentlemen, as you look at this empty frame?

Love quantified.  Grief translated into cash.  The deeper the grief, the
higher the recovery.  Sitting in Frank Tolin's office, jaw clenched, Sam
had found the idea revolting.

At the door to Matthew's room, Sam reached in to turn off the light but
dropped his hand by his side.  Dark blue carpet.  Single bed, chest of
drawers, desk and bookcase.

Dina had taken the lurid posters down, but other than that, it was the
same as when Matthew had moved out, a year and a half before he died.
Now there were some open boxes on the floor, and neat stacks of folders
and envelopes on the bed.

Sam used to get sick with rage, opening this door, the chaos hitting him
in the face.  Clothes that lay where they'd been dropped, a beer bottle
on the windowsill, school papers crumpled on the desk.  Three thousand
dollars' worth of stereo and video equipment, CDs scattered on the
floor.  A bass guitar and amp, used for a month then forgotten. Matthew
standing bare chested in the center of the room, laughing, his face
contorted and shiny with tears, the barrel of a Colt pistol at his
temple.  Hey, don't worry I'll blow my brains out, Dad.  I don't have
any, remember?

Sam was twenty years old when he flew home by army transport to see his
father, Lewis Hagen, for the last time.

The old man was lying wasted to bones on white hospital sheets, his
belly tight with a swollen liver, and his eyes yellow and filmy.  It
made Sam queasy, although he had seen worse where he had just come from.

The eyes rolled to see who was there.  "Hey, Sammy."

Then a dying man's reedy voice.  "It's my boy." The nurse looked around
and smiled.  Lewis said, "Damn.  Don't he make a picture?"

Sam's parents had divorced before he could walk.

He and his mother, born Lily Hirsch, had lived with her elderly aunt in
Borough Park, Brooklyn.  When he was ten, his mother died and none of
her family could take him.

The neighbors came by to say how sad it was, how terrible for Lily's
son.  Sam sat with his great-aunt and her adult children on the mourning
bench and drew himself in, numb with misery, while relatives whispered
in the kitchen.  Impossible, they said, to give him to his father.

Lily's shame, the man no one ever mentioned.  She had gone to Miami
Beach, a trip with her parents.  A pretty woman, but almost thirty.  How
they met-who knew?but they had to marry.  Of course it hadn't lasted.
Lily came home with the boy and kept house for her parents till they
passed away, and now what?  Who would take him?  Not so smart, this one.
Too quiet.  She had insurance.

That would help.

Sam's cousins glared at him from across the room, kicking the heels of
their shiny shoes on the horsehair sofa, making their opinions known.
Three days later, Lewis Hagen showed up in a coat too thin for New York
in November.  He was a towering man with a wide face, an older version
of the black-and-white snapshot Sam had seen by accident in his mother's
dresser drawer.  After her death the picture had vanished, and he'd been
afraid to ask where it had gone.

There were discussions in the front room with the door closed.  Shouts.
Outrage and threats.  Finally, Lewis Hagen tossed Sam's bag into the
trunk of his car and told him they were going to Winter Haven.  "You
know where that is, kiddo?" Sam shook his head.  "It's in Flor'da."
Lewis was driving a Ford convertible with red upholstery and dings in
two fenders.  He squealed the tires taking off, and Sam looked backward
until they turned the corner and the house was gone.  His father lit a
cigarette.  He had freckled, sunburned hands.  "I'm sorry about your
momma.  She sent me your picture.  I should've wrote you, and I'm sorry
about that, too."

They stopped at a motel in New Jersey and picked up a woman named Fay
who had kept Lewis Hagen company on the trip north.  It took two days to
get to Florida, stopping overnight with Fay's relatives in North
Carolina.  By the time they reached Georgia the top was down on the
convertible, and Sam took his coat off.  The second night he lay under a
blanket in the backscat, the wind roaring around him, and watched Fay's
fingernails scratch through his father's thick brown hair, heard her
singing with the radio.  The telephone wires along the road rose and
fell, and the moon passed overhead.  It would be years before Sam found
out that his mother's life insurance had been worth nearly fifty
thousand dollars and that Lewis had pissed it all away.

At sunrise they rolled into the scraggly yard of a concrete block,
ranch-style house.  A grove stretched out behind it, rows and rows of
bushy trees and hard, green citrus, the land gently rolling, the dirt
gray and sandy.

Lewis Hagen made a living off oranges, tangelos, and grapefruit.  If the
crop was bad, he did auto repair work.

He drank; he couldn't keep a woman; and he lost more and more acreage a
year to citrus blight or freezes.  He was a brutal man, not for the
enjoyment of it, but because that was what he himself had known.

At school, Sam was tormented for his accent and his shy, clumsy manner.
Finally Lewis Hagen took off his belt and beat him.  He couldn't stand a
whiner.  If Sam came home again with bruises and hadn't knocked the crap
out of the other boy, he'd catch it again.  By the time Sam reached
junior high his voice had settled into Florida Cracker and no one dared
touch him.  His arms and legs were muscled from climbing up and down
ladders carrying canvas bags of fruit.  His hands were callused, and the
thorns on the branches drew blood.  Like his friends, Sam learned how to
use a shotgun and a .22 rifle.  He got his restricted drivers license at
fourteen and learned to drive on the jouncing, sandy roads between the
orange trees.  He wore his hair in a crew cut and played tackle for the
Winter Haven Blue Devils.  A big boy, six-two, two hundred pounds, still
not big enough to whip Lewis.  Sam might have earned a scholarship, but
he studied just enough to stay on the team.  There was no point in going
on; he would own the grove someday.

Lewis worried about the communists.  He was opposed to antiwar
protesters and forced integration and would get drunk worrying about it,
although there were no hippies in Winter Haven, and the Negroes made few
demands.  He would get drunk to ease the pain from the shrapnel he still
carried.  He showed Sam his Purple Heart and let him hold the Luger he'd
taken off a dead German soldier.

He mortgaged the grove, then stayed too drunk to make the payments.  Sam
worked thirty hours straight during a hard January freeze, tended the
smudge pots, hired pickers, yelled at them, pushed them hard, nearly
failed his senior year, but took care of the bank.  Then Lewis signed
another mortgage that spring.  When Sam screamed profanities and threw a
bottle of Jack Daniel's into the yard, Lewis went for him.  Sam knocked
him down.  Lewis got up, spat out a mouthful of blood, and hit Sam in
the storn ach.  They continued like that until Sam saw that his father
would die before he stayed down.  Sam was the first to stop.  But
something had shifted, and Lewis Hagen left the running of the grove to
Sam, then seventeen.

In the summer of 1967, Kenny Davis, last season's Blue Devils
quarterback, was drafted into the army.  In February they sent his body
home in a steel coffin and gave his mother a folded flag.  At the
funeral somebody gave a speech about patriotism and there was a 21-gun
salute.  Sam and four other boys on the team got drunk that night and
the next day drove to the recruiting office in Tampa and signed up,
ready to go after graduation.

Lewis shook his hand and told him to be careful.

Vietnam was even hotter than Central Florida, and wetter.  Sam found
himself running through tangled, steaming underbrush, with an M- 16, two
ammunition belts, a Claymore mine, and half a dozen fragmentation
grenades.

Sliding down a wire out of a chopper.  Churning up a hill in the red mud
through the rain that drummed steadily, without letup, on his helmet and
poncho.  Sam was halfway through his second tour before he slowed down
and saw what it was.  After his lieutenant, talking on the radio next to
him, pitched backward, a neat red hole through his eye, the back of his
head gone.  After Sam saw body bags by the hundreds loaded on the same
C5As that had arrived with hundreds of fresh troops.  After Sam's squad
chased a Cong guerrilla out of the jungle.  Sam raked the thin walls of
a hut with automatic rifle fire, then went inside.  He put a boot under
the body and turned it over.  A boy about thirteen.  He had known when
he pulled the trigger, but he couldn't stop.

A couple of months later, Lewis was in the hospital for the last time,
and Sam took emergency leave.  He wore his uniform with three service
ribbons, a unit crest, and a combat infantryman's badge, and on his left
shoulder the 101st Airborne patch, the Screaming Eagles.  His boots and
belt gleamed.

Lewis smiled: thin lips pulled back over protruding teeth.  "Damn.  Look
at this boy.  Ain't he something else?"

He lifted his hand to cradle Sam's face in his dry palm.

Sam barely held himself together.  He pulled up a chair and sat down,
and told his dad it looked like the war had turned around all of a
sudden.  They had the North Vietnamese on the run now, nearly pushed
back across the DMZ, and it wouldn't be long before all the guys would
be coming home.

CHAPTER Fourteen

This late in the season, fashion shoots in Miami often began at dawn to
avoid the heat of midday.  Caitlin waited in the tiny open-air lobby of
the Century Hotel to join the caravan to the site. The production van
led the way, followed by a rented Lincoln carrying the client and his
people, and then by Caitlin in her car, crammed with her equipment.  Ali
Duncan, who would help Rafael Soto with makeup, sat in the passenger
seat with a camera bag on her lap.  Two models followed Caitlin in their
car, and Tommy Chang's Jeep brought up the rear.  Today would be the
last shots for the fall catalog of Narragansett Traders, a Boston
sportswear company.  Caitlin got the job because they liked the work
she'd done for them last year.

Now her camera was set up on some flat ground fifty yards or so from a
ten-foot-high ridge of white sand and rock, which had been tossed there
years ago by dredging machines.  Virginia Key was home to scraggly
woods, a nudist beach, some rundown boat shacks, and the Central
District Treatment Plant, the county's main sewage facility.  Low,
concrete buildings lay toward the west beyond a chain-link fence.  There
was no odor, or else the residents of Fisher Island would have raised
hell.  That exclusive piece of ground lay just north, a landscaped,
Mediterranean fantasy of red-tiled roofs and yachts tied to private
docks.  Miami Beach was out of view beyond it.

Caitlin had a crew of three today: two photo assistants and Rafael Soto.
She would have no problem paying them.  This was the last day of a
four-day shoot at fifteen hundred per, before expenses. Not great, but
not bad, either.  Caitlin had known top fashion photographers to pull in
twenty-five thousand a day.  They would shoot dozens of rolls.  But she
had never seen Richard Avedon waiting around next to a sewage plant to
do sportswear for a catalog.

Caitlin and the art director stood under her umbrella and went over some
photos from yesterday, which they had taken at a marina.  She heard the
crunch of gravel and glanced up.  Frank Tolin's green Jaguar was parked
next to her own car.  The door was opened, a flash of chrome and glass
in the early morning sun.

The art director's expression turned sour under the brim of his red
baseball cap.

"He's a friend of mine.  He won't be in the way." Frank had come to
shoots before, but only when invited.  She didn't know what he was doing
there.  Two nights ago they had argued, and she hadn't heard from him
since.

He walked around the Jaguar with a cup of coffee from McDonald's and
sipped it as he propped one booted foot on the bumper.  He knew to stay
where he was.  He contented himself with a nod in her direction.

Caitlin sent the boys to check the exposure.  Tommy Chang had brought a
friend from photography class to help out.  Jean-Louis scurried up the
rocky hill with the meter.  Blond coils of curly, sunbleached hair
bounced on his head.  He and Tommy were dressed about the same: no
shirts, baggy shorts, big sneakers.  Tommy, whose bandanna kept his hair
from blowing into his eyes, was attaching the Polaroid to the telephoto.
The people from the catalog company and the production staff, average
age well under thirty, stood around talking, waiting for the models.

When the art director went to check on something, Caitlin crossed the
road to talk to Frank.

He finished the last of his coffee and tossed the cup into some weeds.
"I'm not going to stay," he said.  "I told Marty Cassie I'd meet him
this morning." Frank smiled with one side of his mouth, his mustache
tilting.  "He's going to push me to sell the building to those
Jordanians he found the other day."

"Well.  Why not?"

"You'd have to pay rent on your apartment."

"Did you come to tell me that?"

"Oh, Catie.  That was intended to be humorous.  No, what I came for was
to apologize.  Our disagreement the other night should never have
happened."

She laughed.  "Disagreement?" It had begun with a petty snit over
flowers he had sent her, which she had neglected to thank him for.  It
had ended in profanities and mutual shoving, till she left in a fury,
her car screeching out of the parking lot ten floors below.

Frank's eyes closed for a second in acknowledgment.

"Yes.  More than a disagreement.  You deserve a proper apology.  And
here I am.  Seven o'clock in the morning, hat in hand, so to speak.  I'm
sorry.  I am immenselygalactically-sorry.  You didn't call.  I was
worried, so I went by your place last night.  I nearly came upstairs.  A
juvenile reaction, but I wanted to see you.  In the end, dignity held."

Fatigue showed in the shadows on his face.  He had a long, narrow face,
almost foxlike.  He was lean everywhere, with a flat middle, practically
no rear end, and long legs corded with sinew.  There was nothing to ease
the bumps, she had once told him.  If they were together for too long,
she would come away bruised.  Now she felt she was veering toward the
edge again, the place where all she wanted was to be left alone in an
asexual, ageless state of feeling nothing at all.

She said, "I can't talk now."

But Frank was looking past her, shaking his head and smiling.

A male model had just come out of the Winnebago in deck shoes, sailing
shorts, and a crewneck sweater.  Rafael had pinked his nose and cheeks
to simulate the effects of sun and a brisk wind off the North Atlantic.
Trailed by one of the costumers, the model started climbing the rock
pile.  Caitlin could see his underwear through a rectangle cut out of
the back of his sailing shorts, and bare skin showed through a missing
piece of sweater.  The fabric samples would be kept on file.  The
garments were held together with safety pins.

Frank said, "All this has ruined me for men's fashion magazines."

"Caitlin!" Tommy Chang was waving at her.  "They're ready to roll."

:'Gotta go," she said.  "Talk to you later."

'Wait." He grabbed her wrist.  "Take this thought with you.  I want us
to live together."

She made a disbelieving laugh.

"I'll sell my condo." He tightened his grip on her arm.

"We'll kind a place together.  Something new and untouched.  We'll be
the first ones to live in it."

"Oh, Frank.  It wouldn't work."

"How do you know?  Have we spent more than a week in each other's
company?"

I have to go."

"Think about it," he said.

With no more answer than a shake of her head, Caitlin hurried back to
her camera.

Bracing one foot on a pitted white rock, the costumer smoothed the
model's collar with a straight pin-she had a mouthful of them-then
jumped kangaroo-style down the hill.  Caitlin looked through the lens.
The wind was ruffling the model's hair.  He was a nice-looking guy,
blond and collegiate.

"You get laid a lot, Jeffrey?" The art director liked to keep them
loosened up.  He was a pudgy guy in faded green hiking shorts and a Nine
Inch Nails T-shirt.

Someone started talking about a new restaurant in Moscow called Santa
Fe, and how the steaks weren't bad if you wanted to pay fifty bucks, but
you couldn't get decent salad at any price.

Caitlin called out, "Turn your head to the side a little bit, like that.
Okay.  Great.  A little lower.  Now look out to sea." The camera whirred
and clicked.  Tommy Chang changed camera bodies, giving her a fresh
roll.  JeanLouis ran to check the exposure again, and Caitlin took a
series of the model sitting down with an arm draped over one knee.

Then the art director called a break to use the bathroom in the van.

Frank had wandered nearer, hands in his pockets.

Caitlin said quietly, "I was thinking, as I lay in bed at three o'clock
this morning trying to sleep, that I might go to New York next month
with Rafael.  He's leaving for the summer.  We could drive up together."

"New York.  Why?"

"When you hang around Miami too long, Frank, you lose your edge. There's
nothing here except people who see each other all the time at the same
places, and all they can talk about is each other, with absolutely no
sense of loyalty or perspective, while they try to avoid the worst thing
that can happen to them-boredom.  I'm so tired of this scene."

"It's all a scene, baby.  Wherever you go, it's a scene.

New York is worse, or don't you remember how it was?"

"I could see some exhibits.  Take classes.  Talk to people who are doing
what I want to do."

"Which is?"

"Taking real pictures.  Not making them up.  Not-" She lifted an arm
toward the bottom of the rock pile, where the next models had come out,
two girls in turtleneck shirts.  Their hair was perfectly disarranged,
as if they had been walking on the beach.

Unnecessarily, Caitlin checked to see if there was fresh film in her
equipment cart.  She said, "Maybe I could even go overseas and work
freelance for one of the news services for a few months."

Frank said, "You could be a war correspondent in Bosnia."

She glared at him.

He spread placating hands.  "Mind if I ask what you intend to do for
money?  Manhattan ain't cheap."

"I know people.  Last summer I stayed in Miami and nearly starved to
death.  I might just as well be poor there as here."

"Would I let you starve?"

She laughed.  "How much do I owe you already?"

"I've lost count.  You know, it's a little hard to believe, sweetheart,
that there's no work to he had in all of South Florida."

"There's work.  I know of an import-export company that wants pictures
of the company officers in the boardroom for the annual report."

"Does it pay?"

"Weddings and bar mitzvahs pay," she said.

"Yes, but those are boring."

"My God.  You can be such a bastard.  I think You should leave now."

He stood silently for a moment.  The wind lifted a strand of dark hair
on his high forehead.  "I'm sorry.  You, re making me crazy, you know.
How do you expect me to feel?  Do you think I'm happy you won't be
around?  It scares the hell out of me, thinking about you going to New
York.  You might never come home." The strong white light showed every
line and sag in his face.  "We've been together a long time, Catie. Good
or bad, but we've stayed together.  I love you."

The last words came out as a whisper, and his mouth made a lopsided
smile.  Caitlin noticed that his lips were chapped.  How weak and
unattractive, she thought.  Begging like that.  I wish you'djust go
away.  And then, embarrassed by her thoughts, she turned to a clipboard
hanging from her tripod, where notes for the next series of photos had
been written.

"I wouldn't live there permanently," she said.  "I can't stand the cold
anymore.  And I'll be back over the summer as well, for depositions and
the trial.  Sam Hagen says I'll be one of the witnesses." She had told
Frank about talking to Sam.  Not everything.  Only that she had gone to
help Ali Duncan.

Cupping her hands, Caitlin yelled to Tommy Chang.

"Take those reflectors about twenty feet down the ridge."

She watched him toss the silver circles into the air and catch them. His
black hair flowed down his back.

Frank sat on a folding metal chair and extended his legs.  "Sam looked
pretty good on TV."

She shrugged.  "I suppose so." A segment of his press conference had
been shown on the eleven o'clock news Friday night.  She and Frank had
seen it in his bedroom as they undressed after coming back from dinner.
They had never made it into bed.  Frank asked about the flowers he'd
sent, and whether she took his gifts so much for granted that a
thank-you was optional.

EL

Now Frank sat with his fingers laced behind his neck.

He tapped Caitlin's calf with the toe of his boot.  "You know what I
read in the paper this morning?  Eddie Mora's on the list of possible
running mates for Senator Kirkman.  That means Sam Hagen could he our
next state attorney, if he runs for election.  What do you think about
Sam as state attorney?"

Still holding the clipboard and pencil, Caitlin kept her eyes on the
notes she'd made.  She was deciding how to respond.  Finally she said,
"I think he'd do a good job.  He could probably win an election."

"Sam's a great guy." Frank reached out to hook the back of Caitlin's
shorts and pull her toward him.  "Did he remember you?"

"Of course.  Let go, Frank, I'm working."

Last night they and another couple, a client and his wife, had gone to
Pagliacci, a supremely chic restaurant in Coral Gables.  Three hundred
dollars for dinner.  Almost half her rent for the month, if she had to
pay rent.  Frank had gone to the men's room three times, coming back
with his nose red.  On the way home they fought about it.  He told her
he was tired, that he had needed it, that she should shut up.  Later
she'd been brushing her teeth when Frank turned on the nightly news. She
caught the words state attorney's office and sexual battery prosecution,
and she came out to see.  And there was Sam in a roomful of lights and
people.  It only lasted a few seconds, but long enough to tell her that
of course he couldn't have given all that up for her. Even so, she had
expected, as Sam Hagen had led her to his office last Monday, and closed
the door, that he would show some flicker of interest.  He was a man,
and she was still attractive.  And they had been lovers, after all.
Three years wasn't that long ago.  But she had seen nothing in his eyes.
Nothing.

"Hey, folks!  Heads up!" The art director came out of the production van
with a bottle of water, yelling for everybody to snap it up, let's go,
he had a plane to catch at noon.

Caitlin called, "Jean-Louis, I need you over here, s'il vous pla?t." He
trotted toward her umbrella, curls bouncing, eager as a puppy.

"Frank, I have to shoo you away."

The two leggy, sun-ripened girls trudged up the hill, hips swaying, one
of them grabbing the other's arm to keep from slipping down.  The backs
of their bodysuits were cut out and clipped with clothespins.  This
would be a shot from the waist up, featuring the necklines of the body
suits.  The girls' legs were bare, and they wore sandals.

"Tommy?"

"Right here," he said.

"Go get me some water, will you?" Caitlin asked.  "Lots of ice."

She brought the camera into sharp focus, and JeanLouis held up the meter
and called out the exposure.

Caitlin yelled that the models were too shiny.  The assistant costumer,
who had stepped just out of camera range, came forward to pat a sheen of
sweat off their faces.  Apparently they wore dark-tinted contacts.  They
weren't squinting in the bright sun.

The art director yelled, "Hey!  Lean back so we can see the snaps on the
crotch."

The blond model laughed.  "You want me to unsnap it?"

"Yeah, show us some bush."

Their slender figures were crisply outlined against the pure blue sky.
They posed one way then the other, side by side then apart.  Smiling
into the lens, then away.

The art director was dancing.  "Give it all, girls.  Pump it.  Pump it
UP."

Tommy Chang washed his hands in the production van bathroom, dried them
on somebody's old T-shirt, then came out to fill Caitlin's water bottle.

One of the models sat at the makeup mirror with Rafael Soto.  She had
her mouth open while he went around it with a lipstick brush, and her
face was pointed up at the TV behind the driver's seat.  She was
watching a tape somebody had made of a soap opera.  There was a model
with short blond hair reading a magazine, and the guy model was in the
back changing clothes again.

Ali Duncan stood at the table wiping off Rafael's hot curlers and
things, and Tommy had to move around her to get to the fridge.  "Hey.
What's up?"

EL

She put her blue eyes on him for a second.  She didn't talk much to guys
anymore, which was understandable.

She would hang out with Rafael Soto, but that was different.

Tommy filled Caitlin's insulated container with ice, then poured in some
Evian and screwed the lid back on.

He noticed the box of wheat crackers.  Lowfat, no salt.  He took a
handful of Chips Ahoy instead.  The van was like a little house,
everything all crammed in together.  He leaned against the counter and
looked at Ali again.  Her hair was in a red braid down her back, and
there were curls around her face where it had come loose.

He went over to stand next to her.  "Are you supposed to be the new
student of the master?"

She stared at him.

"That child is a genius," Rafael declared.  He winked at her, then
tossed the little brush into his makeup case and came back with a big
one.  He flicked powder all over the model's face.

Tommy went over to see what he was doing.  "Why's her mouth brown like
that?"

"It isn't brown, it's natural.  She has to look like your basic girl
next door, so as not to distract from the clothes.

This is catalog, not editorial." Rafael's glasses were like red letter
O's, and the lights on the makeup mirror slid across them when he moved.

"A few years ago," he said, "I was on a shoot with Helmut Newton, lots
of white skin and black lipstick and death-ray eyes.  Catalog is
something of a reversal, but you take what you can get in this trade."

"Yeah, I guess."

The dark-haired model was looking at herself in the mirror, tilting her
head this way and that.  She smiled.  "Divi .  no.  Rafael, you are
fabulous." She kissed the air beside his cheek.

"Gracias, " he said.  "The manipulation of reality to create the
illusion of truth."

She gave him a puzzled look, then went into the back to change.  The guy
was still back there, but Tommy had noticed that models didn't mind
getting undressed in front of each other.

He moved out of the way when he heard the door opening.  It was
Caitlin's boyfriend, Frank, who stepped up into the van and asked if he
could get some coffee.

"In the pot," Rafael said, waving a comb.  "Carmen, honey.  Ven aca, mi
amor.  Let's make you beautiful." The model on the sofa went over and
sat down and started talking about a guy she was going out with.  Rafael
told her the guy was a total jerk, was she crazy?

Tommy ate another cookie.  Ali was packing used makeup sponges into a
plastic bag.  He spoke to her so nobody else could hear.  "I'm sorry
about what happened.

I guess you don't want to be reminded and all, but I wanted to, you
know, tell you." His face was getting hot.

"That's it."

Her hands stopped moving.  She laid them flat on the table, then looked
at him.  "I've been meaning to tell you something, too.  You have
chocolate on your upper lip."

He brushed at his mouth, laughing a little.

"Eurotrash, if you want my opinion," Rafael was saying.  "At least they
shaved their legs.  The agent must have told them to.  You have to tell
these girls, the Germans especially, about personal hygiene."

The guy came from the back in long pants and a wind breaker, said hi,
then went out.

Ali went over to Caitlin's boyfriend.  "Excuse me?

Frank?  I mean, Mr.  Tolin?  Can I ask you a question, as a lawyer?"

"Sure." He was stirring some sugar into his coffee.

"Somebody came by my apartment yesterday who said he worked for Klaus
Ruffini's lawyers, and he wanted to take my statement.  I tried to call
Mr.  Hagen but it was Saturday.  I told the guy to go away.  Was that
all right?"

He nodded.  "You don't have to talk to anybody unless Sam Hagen says so.
Call him tomorrow, let him know what happened."

"Yeah, I will.  Thanks."

Frank Tolin went over to see Rafael put makeup on the model.

Ali picked up the magazine the model had left, then plopped down in one
of the bench seats at the table.

Tommy slid in across from her.  "Hagen.  He's the prosecutor."

"Uh-huh." Ali's head was bowed over the magazine.

MEL. She had a pink shirt on with a thin gold chain.  He could see the
pulse in her neck.

He said, "Yeah, Caitlin said you and her went to see him.  How'd it go?"

Ali lifted her face.  "All right."

"That's good."

"They're friends from a long time ago," Ali said, "She told me all about
him first, so it was okay.  I have to see him a few more times, but I
don't mind.  Except he wants me to move back home."

"Are you going to?"

"No way.  Me and my mom do not get along.  And how would I get to work?
I don't have a car."

"I do." He ate the rest of the cookie, then brushed his thumb across his
mouth.  "I mean, if you need to go somewhere I could take you.  I've got
the red Jeep.  That's my car.  I guess you saw it already."

She only looked at him, then started reading the magazine again.

Tommy asked, "Did you ever meet his son?  The one that died?"

"Yeah, a couple of times.  He was nice.  A little wild, but he was
okay."

"Know what I heard?" Tommy would have mentioned Charlie Sullivan by
name, but Rafael was there.  "Somebody told me he was hittin' the drugs.
Some serious shit."

"Yeah, I know," Ali said.

"Stupid, man.  Stupid."

"I know," she said.  "Well, I tried coke, but not anymore.  Stavros was
doing crack, which is the worst.

George Fonseca got him started on that, plus heroin."

Tommy heard the clack of a brush getting thrown onto the table at the
makeup mirror.  Rafael said, "For your information, children, Stavros
was not a junkie.  He wasn't that messed up.  He was a delightful,
intelligent young man."

Frank Tolin was eating a wheat cracker.  He said to Rafael, "How well
did you two know each other?"

The way he asked it made Rafael stare at him through his round, red
glasses.  Then he turned his back and started looking for something in
his makeup case.

Frank glanced at Tommy and Ali, then left the van.  He was whistling
through his teeth.

When the door closed, Rafael said, "Why she's in love with him I fail to
comprehend." He held his hand over the model's eyes and sprayed her
hair.

Ali settled back into the corner with the magazine.

Tommy said, "So.  You Rollerblade."

She turned a page.  "Yeah.  How'd you know that?"

"I saw you a couple of times at Lummus Park.  You're pretty good." She
looked over the top of the magazine.  He made the cookies into a stack,
then a line of four.  "Maybe you'd like to go out sometime."

"Thanks, but I'm busy."

Tommy could feel himself blushing.  "No, I mean, we could, like, meet
there and skate.  At the park." Her blue eyes were on him like
spotlights.  He shrugged and looked back down at the cookies.

"People might talk about you," she said.

He laughed.  "I don't give a damn.  And they'd better not say anything
about you either."

:'Sometimes they do, right to my face."

'if you were with me, they wouldn't.  I wouldn't let anybody bother
you."

Ali laughed, but not like she thought it was stupid, what he'd said.
"Well.  Thanks." He noticed that she had dimples.

For the last series of photos, Caitlin set up her camera close to the
shore for a view of Fisher Island's greenery and red tile roofs.  These
would appear in the background to give the impression that the models
were in the Mediterranean.

She glanced around when Frank handed her the ice water she'd asked for
ten minutes ago.

:'Where's Tommy?"

'Hitting on Ali Duncan," Frank said.

Jean-Louis nodded and laughed.  "Man, I thought he didn't have the guts
to talk to her.  I bet him five bucks he wouldn't."

"Well, go tell him to get his fanny out here, will you?

caitlin flipped the mouthpiece open on the container and drank.  It
wasn't hot yet, but in another month summer would set its teeth and not
let go till late October.

"Aren't you supposed to see Marty Cassie?" Caitlin said.

She picked up some Polaroids that Jean-Louis had just taken.

"Marty can wait." Frank took them out of her hand and laid them on the
cart.  "Before the little rascals come back, I want to know: Was George
Fonseca giving heroin to Matthew Hagen?  Ali and Tommy were talking
about it."

When Caitlin stared at him, he explained, "It matters for the lawsuit
I'm doing for the Hagens."

"I thought it wasn't going anywhere," she said.

"So far, no, it isn't, but if I find a defendant who isn't out of state,
insolvent, or immune from judgment, then maybe I'll file it to see what
happens.  But if Matthew was not only drunk but nodding off because he'd
been shooting smack-"

"What are you going to tell Sam and Dina?" she asked.

"That depends on what you tell me," Frank said.  "Was he or wasn't he?"

Caitlin finally said, "He'd had some problems, but I don't think he was
seriously hooked on anything.  He was trying hard not to be.  Don't tell
them if you don't have to."

Tommy and Jean-Louis came running out of the van.

Tommy came over to get the exposure meter, and JeanLouis picked up one
of the big reflectors on the ground near the models.

"Get over there!" The art director was jabbing at his watch.  "Places to
go, things to do, people."

Looking through the lens, Caitlin focused on a young man and a girl in
matching windbreakers, both smiling.

The girl was leaning lightly against his chest.  Caitlin pressed the
shutter and the camera clicked and buzzed, two frames per second.  The
art director came over to check the angles, then shouted for the models
to stand in another position.

"Catie?  I have to go."

"Okay." She looked through the viewfinder and pressed the shutter
release.  "I'll call you later."

"We'll talk about what I asked you before."

"All right."

Tommy told her to wait a second, the sun was going behind a cloud.

Frank said, "You don't remember what I asked you before."

She turned around and made a guilty smile.  "I'm sorry."

"Come live with me.  I'll buy us a fantastic place.  You can have your
studio right there if you want."

He was happy, she could see that.  She knew she'd have to tell him no.
"We'll talk about it later," she said.

A motion caught her eye.  The brim on the art director's hat had turned
toward the production van.  Now the client and the costumer looked in
the same direction, and so did the woman they were talking to.

Then Caitlin heard someone wailing.

Rafael Soto was at the door of the Winnebago, swinging from the frame.
He took the steps down, walked a few feet, then sank to the ground.

Everyone ran to him.  Caitlin pushed through.  "Rafael"' She knelt
beside him.  "What happened?" Looking up she saw Ali Duncan's wide-eyed
face at the door.

Rafael pressed into Caitlin's shoulder.  "He's dead!  Oh, God.  Oh, God.
They shot him."

"Shot who?  Rafael, please."

He sobbed.  "Sullivan.  He's dead.  I called the agency about the job
tomorrow, and they told me.  Someone shot him.  Oh, my God, he's dead."

CHAPTER Fifteen

t Pier Park, the southernmost point on Miami Beach, a long mound of sand
ran parallel to the beach as a storm Abreak.  A boardwalk had been
constructed along the top of it, and sea oats had been planted to keep
it from blowing away.  Just past the point where the sea oats ended and
the ground sloped gently toward the ocean, Jay the body of Charlie
Sullivan.  A Canadian couple out walking at dawn had at first thought he
was asleep, then began to wonder how he could breathe with his face in
the sand.

Sam Hagen was not the assistant state attorney on call, but Detective
Eugene Ryabin beeped him.  When Sam arrived there was yellow crime tape
across the entrance to the boardwalk and an officer posted.  He showed
his ID, went under the tape, and climbed the wooden steps.  From the top
he could see a group of about a dozen Miami Beach Police detectives and
uniformed officers gathered in a ragged semicircle twenty yards up the
beach.

Through the gaps between them he glimpsed a prone figure which he
assumed to be the remains of Charlie Sullivan.  The body, clad in tan
slacks and white shirt, lay on a diagonal axis, legs pointed roughly
toward the water, head near the grass-covered dune.

On the beach uniformed officers kept the onlookers back about fifty
yards on either side.  A few tourists had their cameras out.  Crime
scene techs walked slowly back and forth, picking up a soda can here, a
cigarette butt there.  Two news photographers had their telephotos
trained on the activity, and a helicopter from a local TV station was
hovering overhead, not quite close enough to be a nuisance.

As Sam descended the steps, Ryabin noticed him and waved him over.  Sam
could feel the sand going over the tops of his leather shoes.  Nobody
was going to get castings of footprints from this terrain.

A thin, young-looking man in a plaid sport shirt and casual stacks
squatted beside the body-David Corso from the Medical- Examiner's
office.  The police wouldn't touch the body until he had finished his
examination.

Sam stopped beside Ryabin.

"Anything so far?"

Ryabin shook his head.  "Nothing." The word came out as nothink.  "No
witnesses, nobody coming to us to say he heard gunshots.  No footprints,
no weapons, nothing left on the sand.  The money and credit cards were
still in his wallet."

The wind was lifting Charlie Sullivan's blond hair, and the sun shone
through it, turning it golden and silky.

There was a dark red entry wound at the base of the skull.

Dr.  Corso, his hands in latex, brushed aside the hair and pressed a
thumb on the hole.  Sam felt his scalp prickling.

Blood had seeped into the sand.  The bullet had gone all the way through
the skull.

"Fabric," Corso announced.  His fingers combed through the dead man's
hair.  "There's fabric around the wound."

Hands braced on knees, Ryabin leaned over to say, "Fabric?"

"Fabric, fuzz, cotton.  Green, I'd say." Corso held up a piece and
squinted through his rimless glasses.  "It's charred, probably from the
gun, wouldn't you think?"

Corso's rail-thin physique, thick glasses, and mop of light brown hair
often caused others to peg him for a computer nerd rather than a
ten-year veteran of the M.E."s office.

Ryabin gestured.  "Look down the back of his shirt."

Corso did so.  Some blood had oozed down the sides of the neck, not much
getting on the shirt.  He retrieved several irregularly shaped bits of
tattered fabric, dropped them into a plastic bag, then slit the shirt
halfway down, not finding anything more.  The skin on Charlie Sullivan's
back was pale and bloodless.

An older detective on Ryabin's shift said, "The shooter could've wrapped
the barrel to keep the noise down.

Possible?"

Ryabin agreed that it was.  He told one of the crime techs to get an
evidence tag.  And to bring something to lay under the head when they
turned the body over.  He didn't want sand in the wound, and didn't want
to lose any fabric samples that might still be present around it.

After a piece of plastic tarp had been laid next to the body, Corso
stood up and motioned for the nearest officer to help him.  He was a
burly kid in his twenties who flexed his hands a couple of times before
he touched the corpse.

Together he and Corso pulled on an arm and shoulder.

Rigor mortis had set in.  For a moment the face seemed to cling to the
sand, then come away slowly, a mass of glistening red and purplish
brown.  The jaw and forehead were still intact, teeth exposed but
twisted.  A clump of something meaty slid out where the mouth and nose
used to be.

"Holy shit," someone said.  More profanities followed, including a
remark about the ultimate blow job.

Taking a sharp breath, Sam concentrated for a few seconds on the ocean.
Morning light shone through the breakers as they crested and curled. The
tide was out, but wind whipped up the foam, Beneath the salt smell of
the Atlantic lay the darker scents of blood and human waste.

When he looked back he noticed the red circle on Charlie Sullivan's
white shirt.  The bullet had gone into the chest but hadn't exited the
body.

Sam asked one of the crime scene techs, "Did you find any shell
casings?"

"Uh-uh.  Shooter probably had a revolver, or he picked them up, which I
doubt, because it's black-ass dark out here at night."

The shirt was some grade of cotton that said money.

Likewise the thin gold watch.  One slip-on shoe was upside down beside
its foot, and the socks were tan like the slacks, patterned with white
squares.

Sam had seen dozens of corpses, and they all looked peaceful to him,
like sleeping children.  Even the worst of them, the most brutally
slashed or bludgeoned, seemed to have passed beyond pain to a state of
ultimate serenity.

He liked to think so.

Two detectives were arguing across the body whether the slug still in it
was a hollow-point or steel-jacketed.

One of the uniforms said it had to be a hollow-point to blow out the
face like that.  He mimed holding a gun, arm extended, barrel at the
back of another cop's head.  "Steel jacket's going to sail right through
the fucker."

The other cop said, "Yeah, but we got stippling on the wound there.
Means the barrel's right up against the skull, no place for the gases to
go but straight into the head.

That can blow out your brains, too."

"I don't see powder on the shirt," noted a cop positioned near what
remained of Charlie Sullivan's head.

"The shooter was at a distance shooting into the chest.  He pops him,
then puts another one in the brain to make sure.

Was this person in the drug trade?"

"He was a fashion model."

"No shit."

"Yeah, I seen him around.  I work off-duty, I seen him at the clubs."

"If I had a body like that my wife would go wild."

"This guy, now when he says, 'Gimme some head,' he means it literally."

Laughter.

"Oh, Jesus.  That's sick."

"A model?  Come on.  He's a faggot.  A jealous lover did him in."

"Maybe he was out here with another guy."

"A quickie on the beach, why not?  I see it all the time."

"Yeah, but his pants are still up."

"Hey, you going to go down on a guy then shoot him?"

"I ain't going' down on a guy period, my friend."

"You're wrong.  I can't see the jealous lover scenario.  If it was a
jealous lover, he would've got stabbed in the nuts, something vicious
like that.  I say drugs."

Someone told a story about three dealers taken out last week over in
Miami.  Hands tied, popped in the back of the head.

Ryabin lit a cigarette, cupping his hand around his lighter.  He snapped
it shut and inhaled deeply.  Gesturing with the cigarette, he told Sam
that Sullivan had lived on the other side of the park in Portofino
Towers.

There were several high-rise buildings to the west, most of them luxury
condominiums.  Ryabin said, "There's a doorman.  He could have seen him
leave with someone.

We'll talk to the neighbors as well."

Sam said, "It's not a drug-related killing."

"I would agree with that," Ryabin said.

"But not done on the spur of the moment, either," Sam said.  "The
shooter knew where he lived.  May have known him well enough to entice
him out here in the dark."

Corso was taking more photographs.  All the medical examiners had their
own camera equipment, rather than rely on the police.  When Corso
finished, he gave the camera to one of the uniformed cops to hold.  He
put on a fresh pair of gloves and unbuttoned Sullivan's shirt to make
sure the hole in the fabric lined up with the hole in his chest.

The skin was mottled purple where the blood had settled, sinking to the
lowest point.  Now that the body had been turned over, the dark side was
on top.  He'd been in full rigor mortis two hours ago when a squad car
had responded to the scene.  Dade County M.E."s didn't take core body
temperature to determine time of death; it was notoriously unreliable.
Sam assumed that Charlie Sullivan had died sometime last night, a
brilliant deduction, and not much more could be added with certainty. An
autopsy would show the angle at which the first shot had entered the
chest.  This would help determine the height of the shooter and the
distance.

Using a scalpel, Corso slit the pants open far enough to decide that
there had been no other injuries.  He checked the dead man's hands,
looked at the fingernails, then removed his watch and jewelry.  He put
these into a plastic bag, which he handed to one of the detectives, who
sealed it.  The on-scene examination was over.

.  Now the police photographer was panning slowly, taking pictures of
the crowd with a telephoto lens.  A shooter who denied he was in town
could sometimes be located in a crime scene photo.  In the background a
couple of highschool age kids were tossing a Frisbee.

Sam's eyes swept across the faces, then backtracked.

There was a man in shorts and a faded yellow T-shirt sitting on the end
of a wooden beach lounger.  He looked familiar.  Slender, late twenties.
He had short dark hair, red-framed glasses, and high-topped canvas
sneakers.

Sam studied him for a minute trying to decide where he had seen him
before and finally remembered.  He was the hair and makeup designer
Caitlin used for most of her fashion shoots.  Sam had met him a couple
of times at her apartment.  Rafael ...  The last name wouldn't click.
The way he sat, with his hands clasped between his knees, and his eyes
fixed on the sand, told Sam he had not come here out of mere curiosity.

Soto.  Rafael Soto.

Stripping off his gloves, Corso tossed them into a brown leather bag and
put his camera in after.  He took out a green tag and checked off
instructions to the technicians at the morgue who would prepare the body
for autopsy.

Corso leaned over to slip the tag around Sullivan's wrist.

His work here was finished.  Now the police photographer closed in to
take his own views of the body.  The van would arrive shortly to pick up
the remains.

Sam told Ryabin about Rafael Soto.

Ryabin's pale, pouchy eyes fixed on the young man, who was now standing
with his hands tucked under his armpits as if he were cold.  Ryabin
asked, "He and Charlie Sullivan were an item?"

Sam didn't know.

"We should ask him."

"You go," Sam said.

As Ryabin trudged through the sand, the wind ruffled his white hair and
flipped his tie over his shoulder.

"Mr.  Hagen!" He scanned the crowd and saw a pale, skinny arm waving at
him, a girl jumping up and down.

Ali Duncan.  She lifted the crime tape and scurried across the sand,
followed by a young man in an unbuttoned plaid shirt with the sleeves
cut out.  He had long black hair and a bandanna around his head.  A
uniformed cop yelled at them to stop, but Sam motioned that it was all
right, let them come.

Ali Duncan's china-blue eyes were wide as she peered around him toward
the body of Charlie Sullivan.  From where they stood not much could be
seen.  The cops' legs blocked the view.

"He's dead, right?" Her lips drew back in a grimace.

"Who did it?"

"They don't know.  How did you hear about this?"

She couldn't drag her attention off the scene.  "Oh, my God.  He was
going to testify for me.  Maybe George shot him.  Or Klaus's bodyguard."
She pulled in a deep breath.

"What am I supposed to do now?"

Sam took her shoulders and turned her around.  "Don't panic.  This
probably has nothing to do with your case.

We've got too many other witnesses." He heard the assurance in his voice
and wondered if she believed it.  "I want you to talk to Detective
Ryabin when he has a minute."

The young man put his hand on her shoulder.  I can stay." He was a tall,
well-built kid with Asian features.

"That would be nice," she said, then realized introductions were due.
"Mr.  Hagen, this is Tommy Chang.  He's a friend of mine."

Just then Sam spotted a woman in a khaki baseball hat running down the
beach, making a wide circle around the crime scene.  Her sneakers
splashed through the edge of an incoming wave, and her long legs carried
her quickly up the slope into the looser sand.  Frank Tolin was
following behind, trying to keep up.  Caitlin was a good thirty yards
ahead of him.  She stopped beside Ali Duncan.

She looked at Sam through her sunglasses, then said to Ali, "I got here
as soon as I could finish.  Where's Rafael?"

Ali pointed.  "He's talking to Detective Ryabin."

"Why?"

When she started up the slope, Sam gripped her arm.

"Caitlin, don't interfere."

"Why are the police talking to him?" She was frowning behind the dark
tint of the glasses.

Frank finally caught up, winded.  He nodded at Sam.

"Hey, buddy.  What's going on?"

"Homicide.  A model by the name of Charlie Sullivan, shot sometime last
night, early this morning.  No witnesses so far."

Eugene Ryabin was giving Rafael Soto his card.  Soto uncrossed his arms
long enough to take it, then made a pattern in the sand with the toe of
one sneaker.

Caidin said, "Go tell him not to talk to the police, Frank."

"Sweetheart, I'm not his attorney."

Abruptly she sprinted away, ducking under the crime tape.  She put a
protective arm around Rafael Soto's waist.

Sam couldn't make out the words, but he could hear her voice at an angry
pitch.  Soto shook his head.  Eugene Ryabin nodded to Caitlin Dorn,
almost making a bow, then moved- away.  He glanced toward Sam, then went
back to where the other detectives were still gathered around the body.

Ali Duncan made a disbelieving laugh.  "Get real!

Rafael could never hurt anybody." She walked over to see what was going
on.  Her Asian friend followed.

Frank Tolin glanced around at Sam.  "Caitlin has a real soft spot for
the fuckups of this world.  The woman has no sense whatsoever."

Frank was dressed in jeans and cowboy boots and a hundred-dollar
button-down shirt.

"Let's talk," Sam said.

He led Frank Tolin toward the water's edge.  The sand was firmer there,
and a few yards farther out the waves were clawing at the beach,
churning the broken shells.  A sheet of water edged by frothy bubbles
surged up the slope, then fell back.  Seagulls screamed overhead,
beating against the onshore wind.

"This is about Matthew's wrongful death case," Sam said.  "You asked
Dina for two thousand dollars as a cost deposit, which she delivered on
Friday.  Don't do that again, Frank.  I'm on the point of wanting it
back.  Don't ever go around me like that."

Frank seemed surprised.  "Buddy.  Come on."

"I'm not your buddy, Frank."

"Take it easy." The wind played with Frank's hair, which was still
black, hardly any gray.  He had a thin mouth with deep creases on either
side, and a high, jutting nose.  Sam wondered how much force would be
needed to break it.

Sam said, "My wife trusts you to do a decent job for her.  That's all
we've got here."

"I told Dina to discuss it with you.  She said she would."

"No.  You should have talked to me.  You know she isn't well."

Frank lifted his arms helplessly, then let them drop against his thighs.
"I'm sorry."

Sam exhaled heavily and looked out to sea.  "What have you found so
far?"

When a wave slid toward him, Frank backed up a little, an d wet sand
clung to the heels of his cowboy boots.  He said, "The club is still
there, same owner.  It's doing good business, so I assume there are
assets."

After a minute Sam made a short, soundless laugh.

"There was a case," he said, "when I was in your office that year.  A
teenager, a girl, had been hit by a car while she was riding her
bicycle.  She was still alive, but her brain had turned to oatmeal.  One
of the defenses, when it came time for the jury to consider an award for
damages, was that the girl had been a slacker.  Bad grades, bad
attitude.  Smoked pot, skipped school, ran away from home.  The point
being, of course, that on a monetary scale, she rated pretty low.  I
will not put Dina through that.  She thinks the sun and stars went out
when Matthew died, and the last thing she needs is a bunch of lawyers
arguing over how much her son was worth to her."

For a few seconds Sam watched a cruise ship that was just sliding over
the horizon.  He said quietly, "Whatever you have to do, avoid a trial."

"What I hope for is a settlement," Frank said.  "If there's some
liability insurance, I'll make a demand.

They'll pay something.  Dina will have made her point.

That's all she wants." Then he added, "This has got to be tough for you.
I sincerely regret any misunderstanding."

"Take care of Dina.  Let's leave it at that."

Sam turned around and walked back up the slope.  Sand had sifted through
his socks and it gritted on his skin with each step.  He didn't let
himself look in Caidin Dorn's direction.

Sam had parked his car, with its front end pointing toward the ocean, on
the one-block street just south of Penrod's Beach Club.  Sunday mornings
there wasn't much activity, just a few kids on surfboards, making the
best of the lethargic waves. Sam unlocked the door and reached in to
take the OFFICIAL BUSINESS, STATE ATTORNEY'S OFFICE sign off the
dashboard.  He was halfway out of his jacket when he heard the squeal of
tires.

A candy-apple-red Cadillac convertible, vintage about 1948, had come to
a bouncing stop at the intersection behind him.  Sam could see a massive
grille, a bulbous hood, and long, rounded fenders with skirts.  The car
remained motionless for only a second before it shot around the corner,
white sidewall tires cutting a hard left to turn up the narrow street.
The sun reflected in two bright pulses off a split windshield.  The
headlamps were cat's-eyes, covered halfway down in chrome.

The man at the wheel wore a Hawaiian shirt and a white panama hat.
Another man sat in the passenger's seat, and there were three young
women in the back.  When the driver slammed on the brakes, the women
pitched forward, then fell back against the seat, giggling.

"Jesus," Sam muttered.  Then he recognized the driver.

He had last seen him making bond at the county jail.

Klaus Ruffini grinned up at him.  "Samuel Hagen!  I thought it was you."

Sam finished taking off his jacket.

"You ever see a car like this one?"

"Not lately."

"The man who sold it to me said it belonged to Jayne Mansfield, the
movie star with the bleached hair and the big tits.  You believe that? I
don't either, but I don't care.  It's a great car." He patted the seat,
which was upholstered in white leather.  "Completely restored, like
new."

"Yeah?  Well, moon-disk hubcaps didn't come in till the late fifties.
You ought to get your money back." Sam still held his jacket.  If he
opened his door to reach the wooden hanger in the backseat, the edge
would hit the Cadillac's fender.  "How about moving the car back?"

Ruffini's boyish face became serious.  "May I ask a question?  You came
to see Charlie Sullivan, the place where he died, am I right?"

"Your lawyer would tell you not to talk to me."

"Like on TV!  Anything you say can be used against you in a court of
law!" Ruffini laughed and turned around to his companions.  The girls
giggled again.  The male passenger only stared through a pair of orange,
reflecting sunglasses.  He had heavy shoulders that connected to his
head without benefit of a neck.  His T-shirt had a PLANET HOLLYWOOD logo
on it.

Ruffini draped an arm over the wooden steering wheel.

"Do you carry a gun?"

"No.  I'm not a cop-"

"You look like a cop.  A plain-clothes detective."

"What do you want, Mr.  Ruffini?"

"Nothing.  To be friendly.  Someday when this is all over, let's go out
to dinner.  I'll tell You all about my life.

It's not easy.  You might think so, but I have my troubles.

You know what?" Ruffini reached across the space between the two cars
and gripped Sam's wrist.  "You should send your wife and daughter to
Moda Ruffini.  They can have a dress, whatever they want.  Later, after
the trial.

Now would look bad, but later."

Sam pulled his arm away.  "Is this a joke with you?"

Ruffini was still talking.  "Someone told me you have a wife and
daughter.  And once you had a son.  May I express my sympathy for your
great loss?  I have a son, Francesco, who is eleven, but he's in Milan
with his mother.  He isn't Tereza's son, you see, so we don't talk about
him so much in front of Tereza.  But not what you think!  I was married
to his mother, who was a relation to Louis Malle.  You like French
cinema, Mr.  Hagen?  I don't.  Made so cheap, and very depressing."

"Move the car," Sam said.  "I need to open my door."

"One of my troubles," said Ruffini, "is the girls who come after me.
Like this red-haired girl, saying I did things.  It's a lie.  You know
what she wants.  Money.

They all do.  She'll come after me for blackmail.  Will you arrest her
when I prove this to you, maybe on a videotape?"

Sam flung open his door.  It caught the Cadillac on the front fender and
left a silver crease in the shiny red paint.

"Hey!" Ruffini leaned out, looking at the fender, then at Sam.  "What
did you do?"

"I told you to move the fucking car."

I could sue you."

"Go for it." Sam slid through the narrow opening, started his engine,
and shot Klaus Ruffini a black look as he pulled out of the parking
space.

CHAPTER Sixteen

When Rafael Soto showed up at the police station at one o'clock, Gene
Ryabin took him into the interW view room, a small beige cubicle with a
table and two chairs.  They spent the first fifteen minutes bullshitting
about New York.  Soto had grown up there in a Puerto Rican neighborhood
in East Harlem.  Ryabin said his wife had been born in San Juan, and
he'd lived off upper Broadway after emigrating from Prague.

Sam and a Miami Beach detective watched from behind a two-way mirror.
Rafael Soto sat on one side of the narrow table in a chair with a molded
blue plastic seat.

Ryabin had a chair with wheels, and gradually he had rolled around to
the same side of the table.  Both men were facing the mirror.  There
were some gauzy curtains over it.

Ryabin had left his pistol and holster in his desk drawer.  His jacket
was off and his tie was loosened.  He asked Soto if he wanted anything.
A cigarette, coffee, a soda?  Soto said he didn't, thanks anyway.

"Oh, I almost forgot.  Anytime we bring someone in here, for any reason,
we have to ask if they want a lawyer present." He shrugged.
"Bureaucracy.  What can you do?"

"I don't think that's necessary," Soto said.

"Good.  But if at any time you want a lawyer, let me know, okay?"

"Okay.

Ryabin slid a pen and a legal pad across the table and asked Soto to
write his full name, address, Social Security number, and so on.  For
the file.  And to make a list of his friends and coworkers.  And the
same for the decedent.

Five minutes later, Soto had his head bent over the pa per when Ryabin
asked, "The doorman at Charlie Sullivan's building says you came by a
few nights ago."

Without looking up, Soto said, "Yes, to get some things of mine."

"What things?"

"A few CDs.  Some clothes."

"He says you were arguing in the lobby."

"No, that isn't true."

Ryabin'took the paper and pen away and slid them to the other end of the
table.  "When was the last time you saw Charlie Sullivan alive?"

"That night, I guess."

"You guess."

"It was that night."

"What day of the week?"

"Umm." He looked upward, and the fluorescent fixtures made bars of light
in his red-framed glasses.

"Wednesday."

"How long did you know Charlie?"

"Everybody called him Sullivan."

"Okay.  How long?"

"We knew each other for a few years, you know, to say hello to.  We met
in New York.  Last year he bought a condo on the Beach and spent more
time here."

"You were boyfriends?"

Soto ran a finger along a scratch in the Formica table top.  "That
sounds so .  .  .  trivial."

"I apologize," Ryabin said.  "When did the relationship get to be more
than, 'Hello, how are youT

"Last fall.  November, I think."

"When did you split up?"

"March.  More or less.  I mean, it didn't just stop.  We saw each other
for a while, although it wasn't the same."

Soto wiped a knuckle under his nose.

"Did he find someone else?  Was that the reason?"

Sam recalled that Rafael Soto had given his age as twenty-seven.  He was
a graceful, slender man, and behind the silly glasses were a pair of
melting brown eyes.  Luis IL

Balmaseda, who had murdered his lover's child, had possessed the same
delicate male beauty.

"There was always someone else, Detective.  That's how he was.  I knew
that before we got involved."

"You were in love with him?"

He nodded.

"And you say you didn't care that he was promiscuous.

Is that the way it is with you guys, Rafael?"

There was a silence as Rafael Soto stared at him.  Then he said, "How it
is, Detective, is the way it is with any human being.  We're all the
same.  You people are the ones who don't get it."

A chuckle rumbled out of Ryabin's squat chest, and the gap in his front
teeth showed.  "I know if I'm finding my wife doing another guy, I would
care."

"No, I did care, but-"

"You didn't like it, did you?"

"I might not have liked it, but I didn't shoot him, if that's what
you're implying."

"But he deserved it."

"To die like that?  Sullivan was outrageous in many ways, and I suppose
he made some people angry, but he didn't deserve that.  He grew up in
Southwark-that's the bleakest part of London.  He almost didn't survive
it.  Yes, he was promiscuous and often cruel, but he could also be kind
and generous.  He had many friends.  You don't know.  It's so easy to
make judgments from where you are, in a police station, but really.  You
don't know." Soto wiped his cheek.  "I'm sorry.  Do you have a tissue?"

Ryabin gave him a handkerchief and watched while Soto blew his nose.

"How do you become involved with a man like that, knowing in advance
what he is?"

"We don't always choose whom we fall in love with, Detective."

Ryabin waved for Soto to keep the handkerchief, then leaned back in his
chair and knitted his fingers across his belly.  "If I went with ou to
your apartment, would you y have a problem with showing me around?"

"Why?"

"Why not?  You don't have something you want to hide, do you?"

Soto said, "Is this proper procedure?"

"Of course.  If you show me around your apartment voluntarily, I don't
have to get a search warrant."

The brown eyes widened.  "A search warrant?"

"Not if you help us out."

Soto glanced at the glass ashtray at the end of the table against the
wall.  "Could I have a cigarette after all?"

"Sure." With some eagerness Ryabin pulled his pack out of his shirt
pocket and lit one for Rafael Soto, then himself.  Soto inhaled deeply.
His hands were shaking.

Ryabin slid an ashtray down from the end of the table.

Settling back in his chair, Ryabin propped a foot on the edge of the
table.  "Rafael, are you HIV positive?"

Soto frowned.  "No."

"You're sure?  Maybe a present from your late friend?"

"I said no.  Sullivan was always careful.  So am L"

Ryabin said, "Tell me about the others.  Who was he involved with?"

"Several people."

"Several who?  The names."

"I don't know names.  Arnold somebody, the head bartender at the
Clevelander.  A dozen models, mostly men, but some girls too.  One of
Madonna's personal fitness trainers whose name is something like Igor or
Boris.  A gay cop-would you like his name?  There was a novelist with a
wife and two kids." Soto tapped his cigarette on the rim of the ashtray.
"Claudia Otero, the designer.  She was his steady girlfriend, I guess
you could say.  Uta Cassie was a more recent acquisition, a plaything,
really.  Her looks aren't up to his usual standards, but she's very
inventive.

And there would be others he'd pick up and drop."

"He wasn't particular."

"Oh, you're wrong.  He was very particular."

"This Uta Cassie.  She's the wife of Martin Cassie?"

"Sullivan didn't mind."

"Maybe her husband did."

"To say the least.  Uta told me they got into a fight about Sullivan."

Behind the mirror, Sam Hagen wrote quickly, trying to catch it all.  The
lights were dim, and he had left his glasses in the car.  He couldn't
read his own writing.

Ryabin asked, "Have you ever met Martin Cassie?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Around.  South Beach is a very small town.  Caitlin and I-Caitlin
Dorn-we were working on a project for him.

Well, it's really Klaus Ruffini's project, the Grand Caribe Resort,
which is going absolutely nowhere, now that Klaus is in trouble.  Not
that I care.  The Grand Caribe was obscenely tasteless.  It would have
ruined the Beach."

Soto exhaled impatiently.  "Isn't it obvious who wanted Sullivan out of
the way?"

"Tell me," Ryabin said.  "Maybe not so obvious.  I don't have the
benefit of your inside knowledge, Rafael."

"Any one of those men who assaulted Ali Duncan.

Klaus Ruffini more than the rest."

"Why is that?" Smoke drifted around Ryabin's head.

"Because his wife, Tereza, hated Sullivan for being such good friends
with Claudia Otero."

"The designer."

"Yes.  Claudia gave Sullivan his first real boost into international
modeling.  He was faithful to her, in his way.

But Claudia and Tereza are constantly at each other's throats.  One
season Tereza somehow stole Claudia's best designs before they were
shown, and she put on her own show with knock-off copies.  Claudia has
never forgiven her for that."

"Did Sullivan ever sleep with Tereza?"

"God, no.  He thought she was the lowest of the low."

"How is it that Charlie Sullivan and Klaus Ruffini can be at the same
time in the same room at the Apocalypse?"

"Well, that's South Beach.  Hypocrisy refined to an art form."

Ryabin moved in closer.  "What were you doing around midnight last
night?"

"I told you.  I was at home watching TV.  Then I went to bed after the
news because I had to get up early.  Excuse me, but do I need a lawyer?"

"I don't know.  Do you?" Ryabin shrugged.  "Right now we're only asking
some questions.  Would you say you need a lawyer?"

Soto hesitated, then shook his head.  "No, it's okay."

"What time did you meet Miss Dorn this morning?"

"About six o'clock.  I left my car on the street outside the Century
Hotel and rode in the production van, and she followed."

"Do you own a gun, Rafael?"

"Me?  I've never fired a gun in my life."

"I didn't ask you that.  I asked if you owned one."

"No."

"The doorman at Sullivan's building says you and he were screaming at
each other on Thursday.  Not Wednesday.  Thursday.  Three days ago."

"All right.  Thursday.  But we weren't screaming at each other."

"The doorman is lying?"

"We might have raised our voices."

"What were you arguing about?"

Soto gave a nervous laugh.  "Nothing important."

"Rafael.  Don't get an attitude.  You want to wait in the holding cell
with three or four teenage gang members from Liberty City who I have in
there at the moment, then okay."

He drew in his shoulders.  "You can't do that to people."

"In here, I can do anything I want to.  Don't make me prove it.  Now, an
answer, please." Ryabin's forehead creased into deep horizontal lines.
"What were you and Charlie Sullivan fighting about?"

Soto twisted his cigarette into the ashtray.  "I'd like to leave now."
When he started to get out of his chair Ryabin gave it a sharp kick.
Soto stumbled and sat down hard.  He crossed his arms tightly over his
chest.

"I asked you a question." Ryabin's hand came down on the table with a
sharp crack.  The ashtray bounced.

Soto's voice trembled.  "He ...  he wouldn't give back my Etta James
CD."

Ryabin raised an eyebrow.

"She's a blues singer."

"What did you watch on TV last night?"

"A movie.  On my VCR." When Ryabin continued to look at him, Soto added,
"I believe it was Hitchcock.  The Thirty-nine Steps."

"Yes, I've seen that.  It's very good.  What is your video club?"

"It's ...  Blockbuster.  No, I borrowed this one from a friend."

"What did you do after the movie, Rafael?"

"I went to bed."

"Five minutes ago you told me you watched the news.

So now you're watching Hitchcock?"

"No.  Both.  I don't remember." He was trembling.  "Are you going to
arrest me?"

"Is there a reason we should arrest you, Rafael?"

"I didn't kill him!"

"All we want now is your help." Ryabin patted his arm.

"That's all.  Tell me.  Didn't you and Sullivan live together at one
time?  Then he told you to get out?"

Rafael Soto lifted his eyes and seemed to look through the curtains,
past the glass, and into the small, dark room where Sam Hagen and
Ryabin's partner on the case were listening to this.  "When can I go
home?"

"Soon.  We're almost finished."

Sam got up.  He knew that Gene Ryabin had only begun.  He would ask the
same questions again in a different form, add new ones, and pick the
answers apart.  Then start over.

The detective was leaning back in the chair, with a foot propped on the
edge of the desk.  He took his pencil out from between his teeth and
said, "What a fuckin'

weeme."

Sam lifted his jacket off the back of his chair.

"You coming' back for the rest of the show?"

"No, I've got to pick up my wife at the airport." Sam put his notes into
his coat pocket.  "Tell Gene I think he's spinning his wheels with
Soto."

The benches in the lobby downstairs were made of concrete and supported
by glass blocks, fitting the neo-deco style of the police station.
Caitlin Dom sat on one of them, staring through the big windows at
Washington Avenue.  Her hat lay beside her on top of a canvas bag.

Sam walked across the terrazzo floor, his heels echoing.

When he sat on the other end of the bench she barely glanced up.

"You're the one who told the police who he was," she said.  "Aren't
you?"

Sam said, "What do you expect?  To have certain people excluded because
they happen to be your friends?"

"Rafael couldn't kill anyone."

"They have to ask."

Her green eyes were on him now, cool and disapproving.  "What evidence
do you have against him?"

"I can't discuss that." Sam leaned his elbows on his knees.

"What are they doing to him, Sam?"

"Talking.  Don't worry.  Nobody's going to hurt him."

"Promise me."

"I promise."

Sam remembered he hadn't shaved this morning.  He wondered if he looked
as worn out as he felt.

Closing her eyes, Caitlin let her head fall back.  Her throat was
exposed, a long, pale line.  "Love could never turn to hate for him,
Sam.  He isn't made that way."

He said, "Why don't you stick around?  Rafael might like to see a
friendly face when he comes downstairs."

"I will.  I told him I'd wait." She opened her eyes, then focused them
on the ceiling.  She blinked.  "What is that supposed to be?"

He looked up at the sculpture hanging over their heads.

"nose colored glass disks are the souls of officers killed in the line
of duty.  The crumbled-up wire represents crime."

"You're making that up."

He smiled, then glanced around the lobby.  "Where's Frank?"

"He had an appointment," she said.  "It's all right if you talk to me."

There was more humor than defiance in her voice.  For a moment their
gaze held.  Her smile faded.

"Caitlin-" Sam frowned through the windows, past the neatly trimmed
grass to the silently moving traffic on the street.  He spoke quietly.
"I have to discuss you with my wife.  She knows I was involved with
someone, but she never knew who it was.  You're going to be a more
central witness now for Ali Duncan.  Our past might not come up, but it
could.  I'd rather Dina hear about it from me."

He turned to look at Caitlin, unable to tell what she was thinking.  "I
wanted you to know.  Dina doesn't plan to mention it to Frank.  We
should have found some other lawyer to handle the wrongful death case,
but she wanted Frank to do it, and I'm reluctant to overrule her.  Maybe
you should talk to him-unless you already have."

"Are you serious?  Of course I haven't." Caitlin made a husky laugh.
"What are you trying to do, ease your guilty conscience?"

"I don't feel guilty, Caitlin."

"Yes, you do.  You're sorry as hell.  It makes me sick, how sorry you
are."

Sam stood up.  I have things to do.  Rafael should be down in a couple
of hours."

"See you around."

He was halfway across the lobby when he heard her call his name.  He let
out a breath, then turned.

Caitlin was reclining back on her hands, swinging one crossed leg.  Her
body was long and curved, her bra so silky he could see the outline of
nipple under the T-shirt.

"I'm not sorry," she said quietly.  "It was very good.  You have to
admit."

The officer at the reception desk was talking to a couple who needed
directions to the convention center.

Sam looked back at Caitlin.  "I never denied that."

With a flicker of a smile and a langorous motion of her body, she sat
up, resettled her chin in her palm, and resumed looking through the
window.  "Good-bye, Sam."

CHAPTER Seventeen

In the kitchen, Melanie couldn't hear what they were saying upstairs in
their bedroom, just some muffled words Inow and then. It was raining,
and water drummed in the downspout and whispered on the terrace roof.

She stared into the microwave and watched the numbers counting down from
thirty seconds to zero.  There was a piece of frozen chocolate cake in
there.  She had made it herself from a mix last week.  Then her mother
stuck it in a plastic bag and put it in the freezer, and now there were
fold marks on the frosting.

The house had been quiet all day, with her dad gone to a murder scene,
then not getting home till he went by the airport first to pick up her
mom.  Now it was almost dark outside, and the two of them were having a
talk.  Why don't you go downstairs and watch TV, Melanie, your mother
and I have to talk.  She wondered if they were talking about a divorce.
Probably not, because they had been much nicer to each other ever since
Matthew died.  Maybe they were in bed.  Welcome home, darling.  I've
missed you.  That wasn't likely either.  They hadn't been getting along
that well.

The microwave made three beeps.

The frosting was too hot and dripped down the sides.

Melanie took a bite anyway.  She finished the cake quickly, then put
another piece in the microwave.  When that one was ready, she looked at
it.  "You're disgusting," she said aloud.  "Don't eat that." She grabbed
the salt shaker and sprinkled salt all over the frosting so she wouldn't
be tempted, then dumped it into the garbage.

School would be out in two weeks, and she still had not lost one pound.
This weekend had been a total black hole.

She was supposed to be studying for her finals, but hadn't done anything
but play her CDs with the headphones on and her door locked.

It was totally quiet upstairs.  Thunder grumbled in the distance.  The
rainy season would be here soon.

Melanie put the cake back into the freezer, then left the kitchen.  She
climbed the carpeted stairs, her bare feet making no sound.  She slowed
going past her parents' door.  There were voices coming from inside.

He was talking about someone called Finley.  Making trouble.  He wasn't
going to let t at son-o a- itc: ea t e shots.  And she said that was the
real reason he had told her all this, because he couldn't stand not
being in control, Then he said no, the only reason was that he didn't
want her to be hurt.  She laughed and said he should have thought about
that three years ago.

Melanie moved a little closer to the door.

Her mother said something about irony.  How ironic that they would meet
again this way.  "A witness in a rape case.  What was she doing there?
Does Frank know she goes to places like that?"

"She was taking photos.  She's a freelance photographer, Dina."

"You believe that, don't you?" Then a laugh.  "I've got to say I'm
surprised at your choice.  I thought she would be one of the lawyers in
your office, someone actually worth worrying myself sick over.  But
this.  It's almost funny.  A middle-aged man failing for a blond model.

How ...  cliche."

"Okay, fine.  We've discussed this enough-"

"I mean, when I met her at Frank's office I thought she looked trashy."

"That's enough!"

For a while there was silence, then her mother said calmly, "Are you
still in love with her?"

"No.  Drop it."

Melanie closed her eyes and stepped back from the door, but she could
still hear them.  Her father saying he didn't want to discuss it any
more.  She leaned against the opposite wall, her heart sinking.

Then he said the word lawyer and Melanie stiffened.

Hiring a lawyer.  They must be talking about a divorce.

Biting her lip, she put her cheek to the door.

"I won't do it, Sam.  I'm perfectly satisfied with Frank.

I trust him....  Of course I don't intend to tell him.  If she wants to,
that's between them."

Melanie could hear a drawer opening, then closing.

Then the closet door.  Her mother might be unpacking from her trip.

There was the rumble of her father's voice.  Then she answered, "He did
know about it....  Because I told him." A drawer slammed.  "Why? Because
I was wretchedly, miserably alone and unhappy, and he begged me to tell
him what was wrong.  I wanted him to understand.  He was old enough."

"Was this your way to get back at me?  To take my son?

Turn him against me?"

"Don't you dare blame me.  You brought this on yourself, Sam.  The only
way you ever approached Matthew was with anger and intimidation."

"That is absolutely not true.  I can't believe this.  What utter,
monumental selfishness!"

"Selfish!  You who went out and screwed another woman-"

"Dina, shut up.  Melanie's downstairs."

"What are you afraid of?  Let her hear.  It might do her good to know
what her father is.  Matthew knew the truth.

I think we should all discuss it together, don't you?

Melanie!"

The word turned to a cry, then a thud.  There was silence for a while.

His voice sounded like he was trying not to cry.  "What have we done?
Oh, God.  Dina, what have we done?"

Then a tired laugh from her mother.  "Go get me my pills and a glass of
water.  Sam, please.  I would have preferred not to know about this, but
now that you've told me-" She laughed.  "I don't care anymore.  I really
don't."

Then his voice, and then hers.  She said, "Take the damn bottle with
you, then.  Give me two of them.  I don't want to dream tonight....  I
want to sleep and not wake up, and if I don't wake up for a year, it
will be too soon."

One bare foot in front of another, heel and toe, Melanie moved silently
down the hall toward her room.  She didn't want to think about this
anymore.  Maybe she'd try to study her French.  She was behind in all
her subjects.  She would study her French, then math, each for an hour,
then listen to one CD, then go to bed.

The door to Matthew's room was open an inch or two.

She stopped.  With one finger she pushed the door inward.

In the faint light coming through the window she could see the shoeboxes
full of pictures on his bed and a stack of papers beside them.  Her
mother had been going through everything to take to the lawyer.

She sat on the floor with her arms around her knees and cried for a
while, wiping her face on her T-shirt.

A little later she heard the door to her parents' room open and close,
then her dad going downstairs.  Then nothing, then a clanking noise.  He
was working out on the back porch on his weight machine.  Melanie closed
her eyes, trying to decide how she felt.  Whether she should hate his
guts or not.

She got up and went over to the window.  It was still raining and the
yard was dark now.  Her mother hadn't been out there in a couple of
weeks, and everything was getting overgrown, looking wild.

Matthew had never mentioned their father's affair.  He did say that all
parents screamed at each other.  He'd heard his friends' parents do a
lot worse than theirs, so she shouldn't worry about it, he'd told her.

She sat on the end of the bed and put her elbow on the windowsill.

One night, Matthew woke her up by tossing pebbles on her window.  He
wanted to take her riding on his motorcycle.  He had a dark red
Harley-Davidson 1300-cc low rider.  It had black fringe on the seat and
on the handlebars.  She sneaked out of the house and met him down the
block.

He was six feet tall and really handsome, in a funny way.  He had
straight, thick eyebrows that almost met, a sharp nose, and lips as full
and red as a girl's.  His wavy, dark brown hair came to his shoulders,
and he would tie it back when he rode.  That night he gave her his extra
helmet to put on. He wore jeans and boots and a T-shirt with no sleeves.
He had wide shoulders and ripply muscles in his stomach.

The street lights on the MacArthur Causeway slid across the chrome, and
the palm trees whipped by in a blur.  Then a blue police light flashed
from behind them.

She saw Matthew turn his head, saw him smile.  He yelled Hang on!  She
tightened her arms around his waist and screamed as they shot forward.
They went in and out of cars, around a corner, and got away.

He parked in front of a restaurant on Ocean Drive.

People at the sidewalk tables watched him when he took off his helmet
and shook his hair free.  Some girls he knew came over and kissed his
cheek and called him Stavros, his middle name, which he used for
modeling.  He put his arm around Melanie's shoulders and introduced her.
He didn't say, This is my little sister.  He said, This is Melanie.  My
sister.  It was perfect.

Coming back they went the long way, over the Julia Tuttle bridge, black
water below them on either side, the tires singing on the metal grid.
Behind them the bottoms of the clouds were getting pink, but they made
it home before the sun came up.

She couldn't believe it when they told her he was dead.

He died crashing his motorcycle, and at his funeral she wished, for one
crazy minute, that it could have happened on that night when he took her
riding.

CHAPTER Eighteen

Thursday morning, Sam Hagen delivered the final argument in the
manslaughter prosecution of a plastic surgeon.  The victim was an aging
actor on a Mexican soap opera who had come to the defendant's clinic in
Little Havana for liposuction of his jowls and belly.

As a surprise for his wife, he asked for penile augmentation surgery as
well.  The doctor failed to note that the patient was on blood thinners
for a recent heart attack.  In recovery, he died of massive internal
bleeding while the doctor, whose license had been suspended the month
before, debated whether to call for an ambulance.

The defense attorneys argued that the victim misled the doctor about his
heart problem.  And even if the doctor was wrong in not running tests,
his negligence didn't sink to the level of a crime.  The widow had a
cause of action for malpractice, but how fair was it to put the doctor
in jail?  Very fair, the jury decided.  They came back in twenty minutes
with a verdict of guilty.  Sam Hagen was kissed by the grateful widow,
made a short statement to the media, then left the courthouse trailed by
two new assistant state attorneys, young men in their twenties, who
carried the files and in high spirits made numerous jokes and puns about
the type of surgery the doctor had performed.  His mind on gloomier
matters, Sam paid them little attention.

They walked the short distance to the state attorney's office, going
around the metal detectors at the rear entrance.  At the elevators Sam
leaned a shoulder against the wall and waited for the doors to open.

He noticed a stocky Hispanic man hurrying across the tiled lobby and
recognized him a second later.  delfonso Garcia, the uncle of the dead
Ramos boy.  He wore a cheaply made brown suit and a plain shirt open at
the collar.

Sam nodded in greeting.  "Mr.  Garcia."

"Mr.  Hagen, how are you?  I been calling for two days, and your
secretary told me you have no time to call me back, so I said to myself,
well, I think I'll go see him face to face."

The messages Garcia had left said he wanted to discuss the murder case
against his sister Adela's former boyfriend.  Again.  Sam had already
returned two of Garcfa's calls last week, and now he was making more of
them.  Sam had explained to him why the jury had acquitted Luis
Balmaseda.  He had talked about evidence and reasonable doubt.  He had
instructed Garcia and Adela Ramos to make a police report if Balmaseda
was harassing her.  He had called the Miami Beach Police to make sure it
was a priority.  He didn't know what else to tell him.

"Sorry I couldn't get back to you.  I've been in trial."

He introduced the two young lawyers, and delfonso Garcia mumbled a
hello, then said, "They work with you?" When Sam nodded, Garcia said,
"Luis has been calling Adela again.  He says to her how much he loves
her and wants her back.  The man is crazy.  He killed her son, and now
he wants her back."

Sam said, "I advised you to call the police, Mr.  Garcia.

Have you?"

"They don't do nothing." Garcia's voice was soft, but anger lay like
coiled steel beneath the words.  "Luis is scaring her.  He follows her
and he cries.  He says he loves her so much.  He is sorry for killing
Carlito."

The two young men glanced at each other.

The elevator doors opened and Sam gestured for Garcia to get on.  "Come
upstairs."

Garcia said, I told Adela, 'Let Luis come close to you.

Let him talk.  And put this in your purse."

" From his coat pocket, Garcia withdrew a microcassette recorder.  He
held it up in his big, work-roughened hand.  When he hit the play button
a tinny, hollow male voice sobbed from the speaker.

"Adelita, discidpame, no Intent que Carlito se muriera, te juro.  Que
Di4s me condene si miento.  Yo estaba fuera de mi mente por celos de
ti."

Sam knew one of the young lawyers was bilingual.

"What does he say?"

"He says he didn't mean for Carlito to die, may God send him to hell if
he's lying.  He wants Adelita to forgive him.  He was jealous.  That's
why he did it."

The elevator doors opened.  No one moved.  One of the young men quickly
stuck a foot across the tracks as the door began to close again.  They
all got out.

Garcia's expression was triumphant.  "You take this to the judge.  Tell
him to get the jury back.  Make a new trial.

This time the filthy son of a bitch, he's going to die for what he did."

The three or four people in the hall were staring at Garcfa.  Sam
hesitated, then said quietly to the young lawyers, "Gentlemen, why don't
you come into the conference room with us.  And on the way I'd like you
to decide what our legal options are."

E changing I glances with each other, they followed Sam and Garcia down
the hall.  The conference room was furnished with a few steel tables and
some folding chairs.

Windows gave a view west toward the justice building and the county jail
behind it.

When they had all sat down, Sam looked from one of the young men to the
other, waiting.

The bilingual lawyer glanced at Garcia, then said, "Well, I think we've
got a double jeopardy problem here, Mr.  Hagen."

Sam asked the other man his opinion.

I regret to say it's the same.  The defendant can't be brought to trial
twice for the same offense."

"What does this mean?" demanded Garcia.

Sam said, "It's our system of criminal procedure, Mr. Garcia.  Once the
jury has spoken, we can't ask them to reconsider, no matter what new
evidence we find.  We have only one chance to put a man on trial."

He was outraged.  "This makes no sense!  Luis Bal maseda is guilty."

"We know that, but there's nothing we can do about it now except
prosecute him for stalking Adela.  This is a different offense.  I'm
sorry."

"But I have proof!" Garcia looked around the table.

"He murdered Carlito.  He said this."

"Tell Adela to come see me," Sam said.  "I'll talk to her.

And meanwhile, don't you do anything we're all going to regret.  Do you
understand what I'm saying?"

Garcia's face darkened.  "You don't care to do nothing.  What kind of
place is this?  You let murderers go free."

"It isn't us, Mr.  Garcia.  I wish I could do what you ask, but I can't.
It's the law."

As if the words he wanted to say were bile in his throat, delfonso
Garcia swallowed several times.  Abruptly he picked up the tape recorder
from the table and walked out of the room.

For a long moment no one spoke.

Finally, Sam stood up and gave the two younger lawyers a weary smile.
"There it is, gentlemen.  We can get a conviction for a botched penile
enlargement and we let murderers go.  What do you think about that?"

The two young assistants rose silently and gathered the manslaughter
files they had laid down on the way in.

Sam arranged to meet Eugene Ryabin at the downtown campus of Miami-Dade
Community College.  Ryabin had located Tommy Chang, who had agreed to
talk to him.  In four days the police had no real leads in the murder of
Charlie Sullivan, only a list of people who might have wanted him dead.
One of them was George Fonseca.  A restaurant manager on Ocean Drive had
contacted the police to report that two weeks ago Fonseca had to be
restrained from attacking Sullivan.  He didn't know what the dispute was
about, but did recall that a young Asian man had been sitting at the
table.  The manager described him, and Ryabin thought it might be Tommy
Chang, whom he had met at the murder scene on Sunday.

Tommy Chang might give Ryabin something to work IL

with this afternoon, when George Fonseca would appear at police
headquarters.  Fonseca's attorney had agreed to routine questioning-in a
spirit of cooperation, he had said.  This would be touchy, as the murder
victim had been a witness against Fonseca in another crime.  The
attorney would call foul if questions veered too close to the sexual
battery case.  Sam had cautioned Ryabin that inquiries would have to
relate only to the murder of Charlie Sullivan.

Sam arrived at the college just as classes changed, and the wide plaza
outside the main building teemed with students.  They dressed in the
ubiquitous uniform of the young: shorts, jeans, T-shirts, sneakers.
Their voices were loud and cheerful, their faces a variety of ethnic
types.

He stood in the plaza in his dark suit, and the students flowed around
him as if he were a rock in a babbling stream.  He thought of Matthew,
who had promised, finally, to enroll for a semester.  Sam was going to
pay his books and tuition, even his rent.  Whatever he needed.  But
Matthew let the deadline for registration pass, and Sam told him he
could earn his own damned tuition if he wanted to go to college.

Among the bobbing heads, Sam noticed a white one.

Gene Ryabin was coming through the atrium, smiling as if buoyed by so
much vitality and youth.  He spotted Sam and pointed toward the
fountain.  Water poured down a low, slanting wall of roughly made
concrete bricks, then filled a shallow, nearly flat basin, lapping at
the opposite end.  They met under the shade of a tree growing from a
circle of ironwork.

Ryabin reported on his progress in questioning Martin Cassie, whose wife
had been one of Charlie Sullivan's conquests.

"None, I'm afraid.  Mr.  Cassie is avoiding me." Ryabin sighed.  "I'll
have to find something to arrest him for.

Maybe traffic tickets, does that sound good?" He touched Sam's arm.
"Here's Tommy coming."

Sam recognized him, the boy with Chinese eyes.  His long black hair was
tied back in a cord, and he had a book bag slung over one shoulder.

Ryabin introduced himself, then said, "This is Sam Hagen from the state
attorney's office, the prosecutor on Miss Duncan's case."   "Yeah, we
met.  Hi, Tommy Chang extended a hand.

how're you doing'T'

They found seats at a red-painted metal umbrella table.

The rush of students had let up.  Ryabin asked Tommy about himself, his
classes, his interest in photography, and his work with Caitlin Dorn.
Then Ryabin asked how he had happened to meet Charlie Sullivan.  On a
photo shoot with Caitlin, Tommy replied.

"You went with Sullivan to a restaurant on Ocean Drive," Ryabin said.

"Right.  He said he'd tell me about fashion photography and modeling. I
mean, that was the only reason I went.  He tried to come on to me, but I
told him I was straight, so he left me alone.  We talked for a while,
but then he, like, flipped out and told me to leave.  It was weird."

"The manager says George Fonseca caused some trouble?"

Tommy nodded.  "He was driving by and saw Sullivan, and he jumped out of
his car and started screaming at him because Sullivan was going to be a
witness for Ali.  Then they got into an argument about Claudia Otero.
She's a fashion designer from New York, and Sullivan was, like, I guess
her boyfriend."

Sam remembered the name Claudia Otero.  Rafael Soto had mentioned her,
one of Charlie Sullivan's many sexual partners.  He said, "Why did they
argue about Claudia Otero?"

Tommy said, "George said the reason Sullivan was going to testify was
because Claudia Otero put him up to it.  She supposedly hates Tereza
Ruffini, Klaus Ruffini's wife.  Tereza's a designer too.  George thought
that Sullivan was trying to help her.  I guess his theory was that if
Klaus is convicted of rape, it would hurt Tereza's business."

Ryabin asked, "What did Sullivan say about Klaus Ruffini?"

"Nothing much.  He didn't like him, I know that."

:'He didn't give the reason?"

'No.  He just got into it with George.  George said he IL

would bust him in the teeth.  Then Sullivan told George he'd kick his
ass.  They weren't just talking.  They were going to fight.  Then the
manager came out and told George to leave."

"What happened after that?" Ryabin asked.

"We talked some more.  Sullivan invited me to a party his agency was
giving, then he became very insulting and told me to get lost."

"Why did he do that?"

"I have no idea."

"Is there anything else you can remember about the conversation?" Ryabin
asked.

Tommy didn't say anything for a while.  He brushed a leaf into one of
the holes in the red wire mesh the tabletop was made of.  "Yeah." He
looked over at Sam.  "George also accused Sullivan of trying to get back
at him because of your son."

"My son?  Matthew?" Sam exchanged a glance with Ryabin, whose brows had
risen a fraction of an inch.

"They didn't, like, mention you.  They said Stavros.  Ali says that's
your son, right?  He was a model?"

"Yes.  Stavros was his middle name.  What did they say?"

"Well, George said Sullivan was still pissed off about Stavros, that's
why he was going to testify against him.  And Sullivan said no, that
wasn't it, but I asked him after George left.  He told me that Stavros
died in a motorcycle accident, and the way he talked, it sounded like he
blamed George for it." Tommy shrugged, then said, "According to
Sullivan, George got Stavros hooked on drugs.

Heroin."

The sounds of the plaza seemed to recede into nothing.

Sam stared at Tommy.

"I guess you didn't know."

"What else did he say?" Sam asked.

"That Stavros was doing coke and meth also.  This was in the context of
Sullivan warning me to stay away from drugs, which I don't do.  Sullivan
didn't either.  He was angry at George for getting your son into it.  He
said to talk to Caitlin Dorn.  I asked her.  She said the same thing.
That he-your son-was doing heroin."

When Sam said nothing more, Tommy looked back at Ryabin.  "That's all I
can remember."

Ryabin thanked him, gave him his card, and instructed him to call if he
thought of anything else.  Tommy Chang shook their hands, then walked
away, going through the wide opening that led to the inner courtyard of
the main building.

Sam turned around and stared at the traffic that passed without letup
between the plaza and the old tile-roofed post office across the street.
Matthew had lied to him, lied to Dina. Had promised her that he didn't
do this, had never, would never.

Charlie Sullivan had spent nearly two hours in Sam's office tellina, him
about the attack on Ali Duncan.  In an r'

offhand way he had mentioned Matthew.  But he had said nothing about
heroin.  Sam had known about the heavy drinking.  He assumed grass and
cocaine, the drugs of choice on South Beach.  He had not suspected
needles and searching for veins.

Maybe it wasn't true.  There had been no signs of this.  Nothing.  Not
this.  Or maybe Matthew had tried it a couple of times, and Tommy Chang
had assumed too much.

"Sam-" Ryabin patted his coat pocket for his cigarettes, but didn't take
them out.  He said, "Forgive me if I'm asking you a difficult question.
What do you think was going on between Matthew and Charlie Sullivan?"

Sam looked at him, then made a short laugh.  "Going on?  Nothing.  They
knew each other.  They were in the same business.  Maybe they were
friends, but that's the extent of it.  I have no doubts about my son in
that way, Gene."

Ryabin shrugged.  His attention seemed to be on a group of girls in
shorts walking by, laughing and talking in 9panish.  Their dark hair
gleamed in the bright sunlight.  Ryabin watched them, the morose
expression on his face not changing.  He said, "Tommy Chang said
Sullivan blamed George for Matthew's death.  Why would there be blame
unless he cared for him in some way?"

"All right, maybe Sullivan was interested.  Matthew was a handsome kid,
but he wouldn't have responded, any more than Tommy did. He would have
seen what Charlie Sullivan was like."

"Even so," Ryabin said, "Sullivan hated George Fonseca.  And so I ask,
why?  If it was a mutual hatred, we might have something.  A motive. Not
only that, but now that Sullivan's dead, he can't testify against
Fonseca.  So.

Two motives."

"I think there's more in this connection to Claudia Otero," Sam said.
"We know Sullivan was involved with her.  Rafael Soto confirmed it.  And
that angle leads us to Klaus Ruffini."

"True." Ryabin gave in and tapped a cigarette out of his pack.  "We'll
pursue it with George Fonseca this afternoon, if his lawyer allows us."
He clicked his gold lighter.

His fingers were stained brown with nicotine.  "And as for Matthew, I'll
have to bring that up as well." With an eye on Sam, Ryabin slid the
lighter back into his pants pocket.

"You understand," he said.

"Sure .

"You're the lead prosecutor, but may I suggest that you not be in the
same room?" Ryabin said.  "If Fonseca knows who Matthew was, we might
not get straight answers."

"So I'll sit behind the mirror again."

Sometime during the year before Matthew died, Sam had come to the
apartment he rented with two of his friends, half of a duplex south of
Fifth Street in a shabby neighborhood.  The grass in the yard was dead,
and there were rusting security bars on the windows.

Eleven o'clock in the morning, Matthew came to the door barefoot,
squinting and unshaven.  Sam wanted to take him to lunch.  To talk.  To
find out what was going on with him, since it had been weeks since they
had seen each other.  The apartment, predictably, was a shambles.  Beer
cans on every horizontal surface.

Open pizza boxes.  A girl asleep on the sofa in her underwear.

Matthew came along reluctantly.  They went to the News Cafd and sat
indoors, where it wasn't as crowded.

Matthew refused to take off his sunglasses.  He crossed his arms over
his lean stomach and barely touched his food.  He said they'd had a
party last night, the apartment wasn't usually so messy. Yes, he had
work.  He was a waiter in between bookings.  Yes, he was paying his
bills.  No, he wasn't on coke.  Yes, he was using condoms. Jesus, Dad,
get off it.  When Sam said he'd arranged a job for him as assistant
manager of a music store downtown, Matthew was insulted.  No, he said.
He liked modeling.  He was doing what he wanted for the first time in
his life.  Sam filled the ensuing silence by talking about his own work.
But they couldn't connect.  Eventually they argued.  Sam told him he was
a disappointment to him and to his mother.  That as soon as he got
himself straightened out, they would have something to talk about, but
until then, they had nothing to say to each other.

Matthew looked across the table through his sunglasses, then smiled.
You're such a hypocrite, telling me how tucked up my life is.  Why don't
you take a good look at your own, you phony?

It was three months before they spoke to each other again.  Matthew
would come home occasionally, but at times when Sam was likely not to be
there.  Dina held Sam responsible for the rift and begged him to relent.
Finally he told Matthew he was sorry they had argued, he'd been out of
line.  Both of them came close to tears.  Sam embraced him.  But
gradually the old resentments rose again to the surface, and relations
between them remained cool.

He was aware now, too late, that Matthew had known the truth about him,
had seen clearly his failings, his infidelity.  Sam would never know if
Matthew had forgiven him for that or had ever seen him as more than a
pompous, judgmental fake.

It seemed now to Sam that Matthew's death might not have been an
accident but a choice.  From his boyhood he had tended toward gloomy
introspection.  Dina had once found a book of poetry on his desk, a
bookmark at a page and a certain passage underlined.  I am half in love
wiT@ easeful death....

Matthew had not found joy in family, in school, in work, in love, or
even in what George Fonseca had EL

r offered: the hazy oblivion of narcotics.  He had been looking for
meaning on South Beach, with its shoddy values and pitiless judgments.
Blue sky and sunshine, then the long, dark night.  One more drink.
Another half-turn of the accelerator on the handlebar.  Easier that way,
Thinking of this brought Sam to the point of utter despair and sent a
wave of black depression washing over him, threatening to pull him
under.  If Matthew had lived, would he have been happy?  He might have
suspected sooner or later in his adulthood, as Sam did now, that he had
been wise at nineteen to send his motorcycle hurtling into the darkness.

The lawyer was a heavy, obnoxious man named Don Gessing.  Sam had seen
him around the courthouse on drug cases.  He seemed to have a steady
South American clientele.

Joe McGee, assigned to the prosecution team on the Duncan sexual battery
case, sat opposite Gessing at the interview table.  McGee had a pen and
a legal pad with notes on what to ask about.  It had been decided that
he would go first, then Detective Ryabin would follow up.

Ryabin sat at the end of the table, opposite George Fonseca.

Gessing, facing McGee, knitted his fingers in front of him.  He had a
ring on each hand and a diamond Rolex on his wrist.  "My client is here
voluntarily in the spirit of cooperation to help you with a murder
investigation.  No inquiries on any other matter.  Mr.  Fonseca will
answer about fifteen minutes' worth of questions, then we're done."

McGee got right to it.  "Mr.  Fonseca, where were you between about
eight P.m.  and three A.M.  last Saturday night, Sunday morning?"

in his tight T-shirt, George Fonseca looked like he had overpumped at
the gym.  His thick forearms were covered with dark hair.  He said, "I
was out with friends.  We Went to dinner at Lario's, then to the clubs.
Chili Pepper, Club One, Amnesia."

"Could you give me the names of your friends?" There was a tape recorder
on the table.

Fonseca gave the names and addresses of three people.

"And they were with you the entire times"

"That's correct."

"we have a report from the manager of the Seahorse Grill that you and
Charlie Sullivan got into an altercation a couple of weeks ago."

"A discussion.  I wouldn't call it an altercation."

"The young man with Sullivan called it a fight."

"Call it what you want," Fonseca said.

"Do you know Tommy Chang?"

I 11

'No.

"He was the young man at the table," McGee said.

"Had you ever seen him before?"

"No."

"You know a woman named Claudia Otero?"

"I heard of her."

:'Who is she?"

,:A fashion designer from New York."

Have you met her personally?"

"I might have.  Probably."

"She was intimate with Charlie Sullivan9"

"Correct."

"Did you ever see them together?"

:'Yeah, I probably did, at the clubs and whatnot."

'And in the conversation with Sullivan at the Seahorse Grill you
mentioned her as a rival to Tereza Ruffini.  Tell me about that, Mr.
Fonseca."

The lawyer put a hand on George's arm.  "No.  You don't mention the name
Ruffini to my client, Mr. McGee."

Joe McGee said, "This isn't about the sexual battery charges, Mr.
Gessing.  It's to elicit what Mr.  Fonseca might know about a rivalry
between Tereza Ruffini and Claudia Otero, as a possible source of
information about Klaus Ruffini and Charlie Sullivan."

Gessing said, "You don't hear?  I said no questions on that topic."

McGee lifted a sheet on his legal pad to see what was written
underneath, then said, "What is your personal relation to Claudia
Otero?"

"I don't have one.  I know her.  That's it."

"What do you think of hers Do you like hers Dislike her?"

"I don't have any feelings one way or the other."

"Did you and Charlie Sullivan ever discuss Ms.  Otero or his
relationship to her?"

"Nope."

"Mr.  Fonseca, have you ever been arrested for or charged with
possession of any form of controlled substance?"

He glanced at his lawyer, who nodded slightly.  The roll of fat around
his neck rested on his collar.

"Possession of cocaine.  That was like two years ago, and the charges
were dropped." He looked at Gene Ryabin.  "The Miami Beach Police
Department planted it in my car, and I had a witness see them do it."

The lawyer glanced at his watch.

Ryabin said, "Mr.  Fonseca, you also mentioned in your conversation with
Charlie Sullivan a young man named Stavros.  Who is he?"

"A model.  One of his boys."

"Meaning ...  T' "One of his boys.  You know.  His boyfriends.  Sullivan
swung both ways.  Stavros died last year.  Not AIDS.  It was a traffic
accident."

Ryabin sat without speaking for a few seconds, then asked, "How well did
you know this young man?"

"I saw him around the clubs.  I didn't know him."

"Do you know his last name?"

"All I heard was Stavros.  That's all I know."

"Did you provide him with cocaine or heroin?"

The lawyer said, "Don't answer that, George.  What's the point of this,
Detective?"

Ryabin asked, "Mr.  Fonseca, do you know if Stavros was shooting
heroin?"

Don Gessing shifted his weight.  "Okay.  You can answer that one."

Fonseca said, "Yeah.  He was doing it.  A lot of the mod els are into
smack.  It's a fad.  Recreational use, you know?

You see it around a lot."

:'Where do they get it?"

'Not from me."

7from where, if you know."

'Used to be they'd have to drive over to the black section." Fonseca
glanced at Joe McGee, then shrugged.  "Liberty City, like that.  It was
dangerous.  Not now.  Now you can get high-quality dope all over the
place.  But I don't know where they get it.  Not from me .

Ryabin said, "Sullivan accused you of causing Stavros's death.  Is this
why he was going to testify against you?"

"He never told me that."

:'Tommy Chang heard you say it."

'No, I never said that.  Stavros didn't O.D., he ran his motorcycle off
the causeway and broke his neck.  He was a loser from the word go, man.
I had nothing to do with it."

The lawyer pushed himself out of his chair.  "Okay, folks.  That's it.
George, we're done here."

While Gessing held the door for George Fonseca, then lumbered out after
him, Sam Hagen leaned heavily against a wall in the adjoining room.  He
savagely pulled at the knot in his tie.  The two MBPD detectives who had
been taking notes looked around.

One of them asked if he was okay.

"Yeah.  I'm all right." Sam wiped at his forehead with the heel of his
hand.

"You sure?  You don't look so good."

The other cop said.  "No, you don't.  You got some pain?

I had chest pains last year.  Doctor put me on nitro.  Don't fuck around
with that, Hagen."

"No, I'm okay.  I need some air.  Tell Gene I'll be right back." Leaving
his suit coat on the back of his chair, Sam left the room and walked
quickly down a narrow white hallway to the outside door.  It clanged
open on the parking garage, third level.  The wind blew through the open
sides, stirring the fumes.

An unmarked car made a turn down the ramp, tires squealing.

EL

Sam's shirt was wet with perspiration, sticking to his back.  Hands
braced on the low concrete wall, he stood staring north, seeing nothing
but the red, shimmering veil of his own rage.

If he had taken another exit to the ground floor.  If he had come face
to face with George Fonseca on the street Sam gripped the edge of the
wall so hard his fingers ached.  He wanted Fonseca.  Wanted to slam his
head into the sidewalk.  Make him bleed.

Fonseca's attorney would call.  Within a week, probably.  He would want
to talk, not necessarily about possible murder charges against his
client, but about the sexual battery case.  He would be sniffing around
for a deal.  The state was obligated to make some kind of offer.  Not a
plea-bargain but a good-faith offer so that trial could be avoided.  I
offer your asshole client a fair trial.  I offer the maximum of
twenty-five years.

Sam knew he ought to get off this case.  So said the rules.  Not kosher
for the prosecutor to have it in for the defendant.

He exhaled, then again, as though he'd been running up stairs.  It took
him a while to realize that Gene Ryabin was standing a few feet away.

Ryabin's pouched eyes were directed at the few cars moving slowly past
on the narrow street below.  "I'm going to go talk to George Fonseca's
alibi witnesses.  Do you want to come along?"

"No, I've got things to do.  Call if you find anything worthwhile."

Elbows resting on the wall, Ryabin flicked his cigarette past the edge.
The wind swirled the loose ashes.  "People such as Fonseca, they don't
last too long.  Something always happens.  They make bad decisions.  It
all balances out in the end."

"You think so."

"I prefer to think so," Ryabin said.

Sam laughed.  "Jesus.  Too late for some things, though.

Some things never balance.  Unless Fonseca was the one who shot Charlie
Sullivan.  That has a nice symmetry to it." Pushing away from the wall,
Sam said, "But it puts me in a quandary.  Do I send him to the chair or
give him a fucking medal?"

Ryabin's mournful eyes turned on Sam.  "I don't know."

"I don't know either, Gene.  And I'm losing the ability to pretend I
do."

CHAPTER Nineteen

Munday morning had come to be almost sacred to Frank Tolin.  He liked to
sit on his eighth-floor terrace Soverlooking the marina at Coconut
Grove, read the paper, have another cup of coffee, and think of anything
but his law practice, his investments, or the various other baying dogs
that snapped at him the rest of the week.

Caitlin was sitting cross-legged in the living room, just inside the
open sliding glass door, going over some photographs for her show next
week at the DeMarco Gallery.  He could hear her humming to herself.  She
still hadn't given an answer about living with him, and that annoyed
him.  Other than that, they'd had a good weekend so far.

From this height, Frank could see the skyline of Miami a few miles
north, and the misty green expanse of Key Biscayne to the east.
Sailboats, sport fishers, and motor yachts crisscrossed the bay.  Sea
grasses alternated with sand, making bands of green, bright blue, and
turquoise.

Occasionally he would spot the dorsal fins of dolphins.

The last thing Frank wanted was to have his Sunday invaded by Marty
Cassie.

Marty rang up from the lobby and said he had a signed offer on the
apartments.  It wouldn't take fifteen minutes.

While Frank went to change out of his bathrobe, Caitlin let Marty in.
When Frank came back out, Marty was on the terrace.  He'd taken over the
lounge chair in the shade.

There was a trellis overhead that filtered out the sun.

Frank's mood was improved slightly by knowing that as soon as the
apartment building was sold his association with Marty Cassie would be
over.  He pulled up a chair and sat down.

"You've got a great place here, Frank.  What a view.

This condo must 1@e worth half a million now." The trellis reflected in
Marty's sunglasses, white grid and yellow flowers.  "You wouldn't have
some coke around?  Share with a friend?"

Frank said, "Caitlin and I are going out to lunch.  How about showing me
the offer?"

Marty said, "I live in a one-bedroom condo that I paid fifty grand for,
six blocks off the water, and you've got all this.  Why is it that some
people have the luck, Frank?"

He smiled.  "Too bad you didn't get Klaus Ruffini's signature.  Maybe
you should've offered to blow him." The grin under the sunglasses
vanished.  "That incident about you kissing his ass is making the
rounds, but don't worry.

Most people don't believe it."

"Hey, Frank." Marty raised his middle finger.

Frank gestured toward the leather portfolio that Marty had dropped on
the patio table.  "The contract."

Just then Caitlin came out with a glass of iced orange juice for Marty,
who had his grin back on, telling her she looked like a million.  The
ponytail stuck out from the back of his head like the letter S.  Frank
wanted to rip it off.

His mistake-Frank knew this now-had been to take a partner.  Marty
Cassie, being in real estate, had the contacts, but Frank had put up the
money; Marty was all mouth.

Frank should have known better.  His father had been in the oil business
in West Texas.  Never made much, but he had done all right, till he let
some other men invest with him.  He died of a heart attack a few months
after losing it all.  He had told Frank to join the army and get some GI
benefits, since there was nothing he could pass on to him.

Except one piece of advice: Assume people are going to screw you,
because they will if you let them.

Frank had found this to be true.  His partners in the law office were
always fighting among themselves.  He would go over the books at night,
keeping them honest.  The secretaries would run up personal phone calls,
steal the office supplies, and take two hours for lunch if they could
get away with it. Frank's first wife had cheated on him when he'd been
away in the army. The second stayed married to him till he made some
money, then hired a son-of-a-bitch divorce lawyer to take it away. Later
she had the nerve to come after him for an increase in alimony.  He had
her followed, caught some interesting photographs of her with a married
man.  She dropped her claim.  Frank's kids were another disappointment.
None of them wrote or called except as a prelude to asking for money. He
generally ignored them.

Frank said, "Sweetheart, Marty and I have business to discuss.  You want
to close the door, please?" He tossed the portfolio into Marty's lap.

Caitlin gave him a look and slid the door shut harder than she needed
to.

Marty took out what looked like several copies of a standard form
contract.  He leaned over and handed the paper ' s to Frank.
"Four-seventy-five, all cash above the mortgage, which nets us about two
hundred thousand."

Frank tossed the contract back at him.  "You've got to be kidding."

"We won't get better in this market.  Sign it," Marty said.  "I'm not
asking, I'm telling.  And we're going to work out our shares.  I want
fifty percent, Frank.  That's one hundred thousand.  And I want it net."

Frank gave a slow smile, not believing this.  "Marty, I don't know
whether to laugh or to toss you over the side."

"Yeah, Frank.  Laugh.  You've screwed me too long.

Four years.  We were supposed to be partners, fifty-fifty.

We signed our partnership agreement, if you recall, giving you ninety
percent on paper because I was having problems with the IRS.  Four
years, you've taken ninety percent of the rent.  The building has
doubled in value and now you want ninety percent of the profit.  No
way."

"And I paid ninety percent of the operating expenses," Frank said.

"No.  Not true.  I put in my time.  Now I want my share.

Sign the contract."

"Fuck the contract," Frank said.  "And fuck you.  I don't need to sell
the property.  You want out, I'll give you twenty grand, right now."

"One hundred.  Cash.  You've got two weeks.  After that, I'm going to
the police."

Frank stared at him.

Marty sipped his orange juice.

The buzzing behind Frank's eyes got worse.  He said, "You're out of your
mind.  That was four years ago."

"Is there a statute of limitations on murder?"

"It was an accident."

"Tell that to Detective Eugene Ryabin.  It was his sisterin-law that
burned."

Frank came out of his chair so fast Marty spilled his juice down his
silk jacket.  The insulated plastic glass hit the terrace with a
clatter.

"You're in this too, Marty."

Marty slid out of the lounge chair and around the table.

"I didn't pay the guy.  You did.  He knows who you are.

And I know where he is.  I saw his name in the paper.  He's been
arrested for armed robbery on South Beach.  You think he won't turn you
over to save himself some time in prison?  The police would love to get
your ass, big attorney like you.  This is no bullshit, Frank.  You screw
me, I'm taking you down."

Marty's shit-eating smile had turned into the rictus of a man who wasn't
sure if he had the other guy by the balls or if he would get his hand
chewed off.

They were eight floors up.  Frank thought of seizing Marty Cassie by his
neck, pitching him over.  Watch him get smaller and smaller, bounce on
the landscaped lawn below, then lie still.

"I want what's mine," Marty was saying.  He sounded strangled.  "Do
that, I'll never contact you again.  Okay?

Fifty thousand in two weeks, the rest within a month.  No arguments." He
sidled around to the glass door.  "I'll give you twenty-four hours to
decide." He slid the door open, went through it, then quickly shoved it
closed.

Dizzy with rage, Frank went over to the railing and looked down.  After
a while he saw Marty Cassie's foreshortened figure walk quickly across
the parking lot and then out toward the street.  The tops of the trees
seemed to tremble in the wind.  His thoughts were murderous.  The blood
gurgled and boiled in his head.

It took him a minute to realize someone was saying his name.  He looked
around.

It was Caitlin, frowning.  Standing there in her white shorts and
pullover, hair shining, looking cool, as if this were any other day and
he'd only been having a nightmare.

"Frank, you're pale as a ghost.  What's wrong?"

He wanted to bury his face between her breasts.  He dropped into a
chair, breathing hard.  "Come here." He pulled her down to sit on his
lap.

"What on earth is the matter with you?"

He clung to her, his head on her shoulder, then told her he was in
trouble.  Marty Cassie was trying to extort a hundred grand.

Four years ago, Marty had come to him with a deal on an apartment
building on South Beach.  The Englander, where Caitlin lived now.  A
rundown place in a borderline area, but the Beach was hot, and prices
were going up fast.  The owner couldn't make up her mind.

"Marty wanted to burn the place because the land was worth more than the
building.  Not destroy it, just do enough to make the owner want to
sell.  I told him it was a crazy idea," Frank said.  "He did it anyway,
paid an illiterate Marielito to start a fire in the trash area, make it
look like kids or crack addicts had done it.  The man was drunk, who
knows, and the fire got out of hand.  The owner died.

A woman."

Caitlin said, "She died?"

"It was an accident.  The trash area was outside her apartment.  She was
asleep, and the smoke got her before anyone knew she was still in
there." Frank rolled his forehead back and forth on Caitlin's shoulder
as if he could rub the pain out.  "Marty's asking for money.  The son of
a bitch is trying to blackmail me for something I didn't do!"

Caitlin's arms fell away.  "My God.  Rivka.  Wasn't that her name?  Some
of the old tenants still talk about her, How she died in the fire."

"It was an accident," Frank said.  "It wasn't supposed to happen."

Caitlin got off Frank's lap and went over to stand at the railing of the
terrace, leaning her elbows on it, eyes closed.  Her mouth moved.  Oh my
God.  Oh my God.

Frank stood beside her.  "When I found out, I wanted to call the police.
Someone had to arrest this guy.  But Marty said I'd be charged as an
accessory to murder.  He had me boxed in."

"Frank, you have to go to the police."

"I can't do that."

"You weren't there.  You didn't know!" She took his shoulders.  "What
can Marty do to you?  He can't prove you were involved."

"I wasn't involved." Frustration was clawing at his throat.

"If you let him do this, it's like admitting guilt, Frank."

"No.  It'll be okay.  I'll pay him.  I have to, then it will be okay."
Frank threw his arms around her.  "Oh, Catie.  I'm so glad you're here."

She drew away.  "What happened four years ago?  Did the police question
you?  I mean, they knew you wanted to buy the building, didn't they?"

"No.  Marty never told the owner I was interested.  He had a listing on
the property.  After the fire, the relatives inherited the building, and
they decided to sell.  I made an offer.  That's all anyone knows."

"Why did you do it?  Why did you buy the building?"

He looked at her blankly.

Caitlin said, "Why, Frank?  After someone died."

After a second, he said, "It was terrible, what happened, Catie, but
there was nothing I could do."

"I guess it was still a good deal," she said.  The breeze came up and
lifted her hair.  The shadows from the trellis played on her face.

He reached out a hand and touched her arm.  "Catie.

Come on.  This wasn't my doing.  It was Marty.  He pulled me into this,
and now I've got to pay for it."

She glanced around at the plates and glasses on the table, then started
picking them up.  "Tell me it's true, Frank.  Tell me that's how it
was." She leaned down to pick up the glass Marty had knocked to the
terrace.

"It is, I swear to you." He took the juice glasses out of her hand and
put them on the table.  He slid his arms around her waist and breathed
in the scent of her hair.

"Oh, Catie.  How can you even ask?  After what I went through, living
with this, sick about it."

She seemed to be watching the sailboats out on the water.  Finally she
said, "Let's not talk about it now."

He followed her into the house.  "I wouldn't lie to you.

Is that what you think?  That I'm lying?"

"No.  I don't know." She held up her hands as if warding him off.
"Please, Frank."

His living room was a wide expanse of ivory carpet and modern furniture.
Her photographs lay in rows on the carpet.  Enlargements.  Color,
black-and-white.  Fifty or more.

She had laid them out in the order she wanted them to be hung in the
gallery.  Now she started picking them up.

"What are you doing?"

"I should go," she said.  "I have a lot to do for my show next week."

Frank felt like somebody had rammed a fist in his gut.

"Damn it, I wouldn't lie to you.  What's the matter?  Why don't you
believe me?"

She spun around.  "All right.  You didn't know what Marty was doing.
That's not it.  You bought the building.  I remember what you said at
the time.  You told me what a good deal you were getting.  You were
happy."

"I wasn't happy she died."

"No, it didn't affect you at all, did it?"

"We're not going to argue.  Not now." He took the photos and dropped
them back on the floor.  "Catie, let's forget this for a while." He
pulled her close, tried to kiss her.

"Please, sweetheart."

She knocked his arms away.  "Don't." She started picking up her pictures
again.  There were eight-by-tens on the floor, and bigger prints, many
of them mounted.  She had told him it had cost her nearly a thousand
dollars for the processing.  She expected him to pay for it, which he
had done without protest, wanting her to be happy.

He laughed.  "I ask for some understanding, and you turn into an ice
cube.  You wouldn't be having a gallery show if it weren't for me."

"I know that." She bent to her photos, lifting them carefully, placing
them in a pile.  "Frank, I mean it.  If we talk about this now, we're
both going to be sorry."

He lifted his hands.  "Okay.  Off limits.  Gotta find another topic.
Can't talk about that one."

On the floor were photos of a skinny black woman taking a bath with a
green garden hose.  More of Caidin's candid camera shit.  A damned
high-priced hobby, he thought to himself.  Models and people on the
street.  And a black-and-white series.  Old men and women. Kids.  And
nudes, some of Matthew Hagen, " A pretty boy.  He looks like Dina,"
Frank said.  "Her eyes and mouth." He walked along as Caidin stacked the
photos.  "I've seen too much of Matthew Hagen lately.  His mother
brought me two boxes full of memorabilia.  She made me sit through every
photo, report card, and crayon drawing he ever made.  I've heard things
I didn't want to know."

"You shouldn't have taken that case," Caitlin said.

Frank smiled.  "Dina used to go into his room when he was asleep and sit
by his bed and watch him.  I'm serious.

She likes to talk about how her perfect little boy was destroyed by the
forces of evil.  It's very Freudian, if you ask me."

He was her child," Caitlin said.  "She loved him."

'Oh, Catie." Her back was turned.  He closed his eyes and put his arms
around her waist, his forehead on her shoulder.  "Marry me.  Don't just
move in.  Let's get married.  We can adopt a baby.  Is that what you
want?"

'Don't, Frank." She put the photos on the coffee table.

would, for you," he said.  "Marry me.  I'm going crazy without you.
Wouldn't that be nice?  To have a child of our own?"

She smoothed her hair down, then knelt to stack the last of the
photographs.

Two more of Matthew.  Sam Hagen's kid in the buff, leaning on his hands,
looking out a window.  Back view, tight ass, every muscle defined.  A
perfect, nineteen-year-old body.

Frank said, I need an answer."

She frowned.  "It wouldn't work.  Leave me alone, Frank.  I want to go
home."

He grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet.  "You'll go to New York
and stay with your fairy friend, won't you?  But you won't live with me.
I'm only good for what you can get out of me."

The photographs had slipped out of her hands.  She cried out, dropping
to the floor, touching them as if they'd broken. "Shut up, will you?
Just leave me alone."

He went over to the coffee table and picked up the photographs she had
put there.  "I should have a few of these for my place.  I've paid for
them already, haven't IT' She rushed toward him, and he held them over
his head.

"Come on, Ms.  Dom.  Fair's fair.  I bet I've paid the equivalent of a
thousand bucks apiece for these, if you count rent, equipment, and every
other God-damned expenditure I've made on your behalf." He looked at the
photo of the black woman playing in the garden hose.

"This is what you call fine-art photography?  You're dreaming." Caitlin
reached for them and he swiveled away.  "Now this one of Matthew ought
to go over big with the gay crowd on South Beach." He sent it spinning
to the floor.

"Stop it!"

He glanced at a photo of Matthew lying on rumpled sheets, light coming
over one shoulder.  "What am I seeing?  This is your apartment."

She pulled the picture away.  "You're crazy.  I took this at a studio."

"Uh-uh.  No.  These are your sheets.  I ought to know your sheets.  What
was Matthew Hagen doing in your bed?"

"I took the sheets to the studio!" She reached for the photograph. "Give
me that."

He pulled it away.  "What a terrible liar you are, baby.  I know how the
light comes in your room.  Just like that in the morning.  Right? Right?
Would you look at the sleepy smile on this kid.  I bet you wore him
out."

Her eyes glittered with tears.  "Please, Frank.  Give me the damned
photo."

Frank was struck by the hilarity of it.  "You told me Sullivan was doing
him.  Did you have a threesome?"

"Oh, God.  No." She bent over as if he'd hit her in the stomach.

"How was it?  He was a kid.  Let's see ...  Fifteen years younger than
you.  Those young guys can go all night, can't they?  Oh, that's
naughty.  Does Sam know?  What did you do, Ms.  Dorn?  Get Matthew into
bed because you couldn't have his daddy?"

Her mouth was open, and finally the words came out.  "I despise you.
I've never really seen that till right now.

What have I been doing?  Staying with you, all these years, like I was
your fucking whore!"

He ripped the photograph down the middle.

Her fist came toward him faster than he could react.

Stunned for a moment, Frank touched his inner lip with his tongue,
tasting salt and heat.  She ran, but he grabbed her arm.  Then he
slapped her.  He kept slapping her while she yelled at him.  Her hands
were up and her hair was flying around her face.  She was screaming
profanities.

He screamed back.  "I know about you and Sam Hagen.

You didn't think I knew, did you?  Cunt." He shook her.

"Lying bitch.  You fucked him.  Didn't you?  Answer me!"

"Yes!  Yes, I did and I loved it!  You're nothing next to him!  He
should have left your sorry ass in Vietnam!"

They spun to the floor, crashing into the end table.  A lamp went over.
She groped for it, raised it above his head.  He deflected the lamp,
then pushed her to the carpet, hit her again.

Caitlin's nose was bleeding, a smear of red on her cheek.  Frank dragged
her across the living room, opened the door, and shoved her through it.
He came back with her purse and an armful of clothes.  She was on her
knees in the hallway, crying.  He slammed the door and locked it.

Finally, silence.

Frank sat on the sofa and wept.

CHAPTER Twenty

clothes, Ali rummaged through a box for a top to wear.

In the bedroom where her roommate let her keep her She had a job today,
handing out announcements on Ocean Drive for a party at one of the
clubs.

Big smile.  Hi!  Party at the Gear Box on Thursday.  It's gonna befiun!
And the manager had told her not to give them out to obvious tourists or
anybody younger than twenty-one; it was a waste of paper.

.  Ali was trying to ignore her mother, who was in the living room
folding Ali's sheet and blanket from the convertible sofa, acting
motherly.

Her mother's voice came through the half-open door.

"He talked to me for the longest time.  He was so nice, not like a
lawyer at all.  I know y'all would take to each other."

She worked in a bank.  She'd taken the morning off to drive all the way
to South Beach.  Ali had noticed her mother's breath smelled like mints,
meaning she'd probably had a drink already.  "Honey?  Can you hear me in
there?"

"I sure can."

"Well?"

"I don't want to sue them right now.  Mr.  Hagen says wait till the
trial is over."

"Wait?  Why on earth would he say that, sugar?"

Shugah.  Peggy Duncan hadn't lived in Charleston for twenty years, but
every time she got that sticky South Carolina drawl in her voice, Ali
knew she wanted something.

Ali said, "If I sue them now, their defense attorneys would bring it up
at the trial.  I'd look mercenary.  That's what Mr.  Hagen says."

"Oh, Mr.  Hagen.  All he cares about is winnin' another case.  He
doesn't care about you.  What if he loses?  Then how are you gonna
convince a civil court jury to pay you?

That's what Mr.  Barnett told me.  Bring that girl in here right now.
Let's get a settlement out of those boys while we still can."

Pushing aside the nighties hooked on the back of her roommate's door,
Ali studied herself in the mirror.  She had put on a pink top that
showed her midriff.  Nice with the white shorts, but her shoulders would
freckle.  She pulled it off, put on a white T-shirt, and tied that in a
knot under her bust.  Then changed into a pair of green shorts.

Then wiggled into her knee pads.

Her mother was still talking.

".  - - three or four hundred thousand dollars.  A million.

Those men have money.  Klaus Ruffini has more money than God.  Excuse me
for saying this, sugar, but if you don't watch out, they're gonna have
their way with you again, right in the courtroom."

Ali tried on hats and finally went with the tropical print billed cap,
good with red hair.  She pulled her ponytail out the back of it.

"Are you gonna be poor the rest of your life?  Live like this?"

:'No.  I'm going to be a famous model."

'Oh, baby."

As if her mother had never heard anything so pitiful.

Ali dumped her house key, wallet, lip gloss, and sunscreen into a fanny
pack and clipped it around her waist.

Before leaving, she would take a bottle of water out of the fridge, too,
so she wouldn't have to spend money when she got thirsty.  But she knew
a couple of the waiters at the Booking Table CaM.  They would probably
slip her a soda.  She took her in-line skates and a pair of socks into
the living room to put them on.

Now her mother was in the kitchen wiping off the stove with a dishcloth.
She wore her uniform for the bank, a blue skirt and a white blouse with
a bow, but it made her look too heavy.  Her hair was dyed red, the same
shade as Ali's.  She hung the dishcloth over the spigot on the sink.

"Honey, you're such a pretty girl.  You're as pretty as the girls in the
magazines.  But the Ruffinis know everybody.  What work are you gonna
get round here now?"

"I have a booking next week." Ali dusted off the bottoms of her feet and
put on her socks.  "A back-to-school catalog for Macy's, so I guess my
career has some life in it after all."

"Oh, baby.  A catalog?  And it's June.  The season is over.  What are
you gonna do this summer?" Summah.

Ali shrugged.  "I don't know.  Hand out party announcements?"

The front door opened, and her other roommate came in: a blond model
named Helga from Frankfurt, wearing a short, flowered dress and carrying
a backpack.  She had a tattoo around one ankle.  Ali told her she had
some mail.

"Hi.  I'm Ali's mother, Peggy Duncan." She was smiling so big her gums
showed.  "My goodness, you're tall."

Helga looked at her.  She glanced at Ali and then went into her own
room, shuffling through some letters.

Ali glared at her mother as she finished putting on her skates.  They
were shiny black with hot pink closures like ski boots.  "I have to go."
She skated to the refrigerator for her bottle of water, zipped it into
her bag, then glided back to pick up the party announcements-five
hundred of them about the size of postcards, printed on bright yellow
paper.

Her mother put on her jacket and smoothed it over her hips.  "Tell me
something'.  How much do you get paid for this?" She put her purse strap
over her shoulder.

"Ten dollars an hour." They went into the hall and Ali locked the door.

"Ten dollars.  I swear, I don't understand you one bit."

Ali held on to the balustrade one-handed, carefully picking her way down
the steps, which were surfaced in scraps of tile, pink and turquoise and
white.

Her mother was right behind her.  "This is what I was thinking.  You
could write a book.  Look at the people that made money off of 0.  J.
Simpson.  Get a ghostwriter.

Everybody does it.  People would love to read about Marquis Lamont.  It
could be a bestseller."

"Ma, nobody cares about him."

"Well, maybe he isn't real famous, but if you did a book, Marquis might
even help you.  He'd get lots of publicity."

At the sidewalk Ali spun around.  "I am not going to write about what
they did to me!  I don't even want to talk about it!"

"You don't have to scream at me." She sounded hurt.

When Ali started off on her skates, her mother trotted behind in her
pumps, holding her purse against her side so it wouldn't bounce.  "Now
what am I supposed to tell Mr. Barnett?  He says you have a claim for
damages.  You ought to make them pay.  What good will it do if they just
end up in jail?  You can use the money to do something for yourself. You
could go to college."

Ali curved around a man walking his dog.  "Ma, please.

Stop following me."

"I spent two hours of my time consulting with an attorney about you.
Trying to help.  I drove all the way down here-"

"I don't care!" Ali skated faster.  "Leave me alone!"

At the corner she looked back and saw her mother leaning against a light
pole, her chest rising and falling.  Then her mother cupped her hands at
her mouth.  "You'd better think about it, Miss Priss!  Nobody's gonna do
a thing for you but yourself in this world!"

Ali waited for a car to pass, then skated off the curb and across the
intersection.

On the terrace of the News CaM, his usual place for lunch, George
Fonseca drank a beer and watched Ali Duncan handing out pieces of yellow
paper to people on the sidewalk.  He knew what it was for, a party at
the Gear Box, which he had been hired to plan.  But Ali wouldn't know
that.

She hadn't spotted him among the tourists and regulars who filled the
restaurant and spilled out onto the sidewalk at closely packed umbrella
tables.  He sat at a small table on the terrace just behind four women
with English accents.  The skin on their arms and thighs looked like raw
beef.

He watched Ali spin around on her skates.  If he went over to talk to
her, just to say hi, how's it going?, he would be thrown in jail.  At
the bond hearing the prosecutor, Samuel Hagen, had looked at him as if
he were garbage, then said to the judge, Would the court instruct Mr.
Fonseca that any attempt to contact the victim will result in immediate
revocation of his bond.

Even on the terrace, with a ceiling fan whirling overhead, George was
sweating.  This was only the first of June, and the temperature was
already over ninety degrees.  He pushed away the remains of his grilled
tuna sandwich, which tasted like a piece of wet cardboard.  He had no
appetite.  Alberto had called him last night, wanting to know if he was
going to get paid back for putting up the bond, or what.  Had Ruffini
come through?  Where was the ten grand?  George had told him not to
worry; he'd have it next week.

Ten grand plus another thousand in interest so far.

George had considered, but only for a minute, getting out of Miami.  He
didn't think he could get far enough.

When it was all over, then he would leave.  Maybe go to California,
start over.  He had heard someone say, You go to L.A.  if you want to be
somebody, to New York if you are somebody, and you're in Miami if you
used to be somebody.

He leaned to one side to see around the sunburned Englishwomen.  Ali
Duncan was down the street fifty yards now, still handing out party
announcements.  And talking to another skater, a guy with a red bandanna
around his head.  No shirt.  Dark tan, long black hair.  He looked
Japanese.  But he was too tall to be Japanese.  Ali was smiling at him.
George finished his beer, remembering where he'd seen the guy: having
lunch at the Seahorse Grill with Charlie Sullivan, now deceased.  George
wondered if Ali's new buddy was gay.

They skated across the street, weaving between the cars, then hopped up
on the wide sidewalk that curved through Lummus Park.  They zipped past
the swings, where little kids were being pushed by their mothers, then
around some sea grape trees.  They sat on the coral rock wall bordering
the beach for a minute; then the guy started showing off. Somebody had
left a plywood ramp, and he was skating backward off it, doing a turn in
the air.

He stood about six, six-two in the skates.  He wouldn't be as strong as
George, but he'd be quick.  George thought he could probably take him
down.

George unfolded his portable phone, pulled up the antenna, and got the
number of the state attorney's office from information.

"Let me talk to Samuel Hagen.  He's one of your prosecutors."

He waited.  Another female voice said, "Major Crimes."

"Is this Samuel Hagen's office?  ...  Is he in?  Let me talk to him....
Never mind my name.  Tell him it's regarding Ali Duncan's case ...
Duncan ...  No, I'm not a reporter....  A possible witness, okay?  Tell
him that."

The waiter came by and cleared the table.  George ordered another beer.
Then in the phone he heard a man say he was Sam Hagen, and who was this?

George cupped his hand around the mouthpiece to keep out the noise.
"This is somebody interested in the Duncan matter.  I have a
hypothetical question for you....  It doesn't matter who I am.  Here's
the question.  In a criminal case, and you've got more than one
defendant, what if you decide you want to get one of them to testify for
the state?  What do you do?  Offer to drop the charges?"

There was silence on the other end.  Then Hagen asked if this was George
Fonseca.

He remembered now that Hagen had heard his voice at the bond hearing.
"Yeah ...  I haven't made up my mind, but I've definitely been thinking
about it, if we could work something out.  What about dropping the
charges?  ...

Wait, hang on a second."

He stuck a finger in his ear.  Three Harleys had pulled up to the curb.
The engines went off and the guys dismounted in their boots, black
helmets, and black T-shirts that said DAYTONA BIKE WEEK.  They were
probably dentists from Iowa, down on vacation.

George said, "Okay, I'm back....  Look, I'm trying to work things out,
that's all.  What's your problem?  ...  No, I don't want to go through
my attorney; the guy's a bloodsucker....  Listen, okay?  ...  Why not? I
won't say we had this conversation....  It's only a hypothetical
question at this point, all right?  ...  No, listen-"

With the click of a disconnect in his ear, George wanted to throw the
phone across Ocean Drive.  Unethical to talk to you.  Hagen had also
said he was going to call George's lawyer and let him know about this.
And if anything was going to be worked out, the lawyers would do it.
Fuck.

For a while he watched a blond woman in a thong bikini skating down the
middle of the street between the cars.  She got to where Eighth Street
plugged into Ocean Drive, turned her back toward the intersection, and
stood there on her skates making her butt cheeks jump.  Drivers tooted
their horns and people stared.  She was a little fat, George decided.
Good legs, but a fat butt.

Pulling a small address book out of his wallet, George flipped it open.
He dialed Klaus Ruffini's number.  One of his lackeys answered the
phone.  George told her who he was.  Klaus wasn't there.  George asked
the number for his car or his portable.  The woman asked for George's
number.  Maybe she could find Klaus.  Maybe Klaus would call him back.

"Maybe you can kiss my ass," George said.  "Tell him to call me."

The waiter brought another beer.  George talked to the women at the next
table.  Turned out they were from Australia.  Schoolteachers.  Finally
the phone made a soft brrrp.

It was Klaus Ruffini.  George said, "Yeah.  I've got a problem.  No.  We
have a problem." He turned his chair so the women couldn't hear him.

"I'm getting pressured in relation to this bond....  You know what bond.
Plus my lawyer is costing a fucking fortune.  The point is, I could use
your assistance....  Twenty thousand....  Look.  I am not going to jail,
all right?  ...

Well, fuck you very much....  Then I don't have anything to lose by
pleading guilty at the arraignment next week, do IT'

Over the phone came a long sentence in Italian.  It didn't sound
friendly.  George said, "Listen to me, Klaus.

My lawyer has been in contact with the state attorney....

No, not Mora.  The other guy.  Hagen.  They might offer something on the
charges.  Maybe even drop them in exchange for my testimony....  Because
I'm getting' pushed to the fuckin' wall here."

Klaus told him to hold on.  Judging from the noises in the background,
Klaus was probably having lunch at a sidewalk cafe.  Maybe he was in the
next block.  He heard people yelling at each other in Italian.  A
woman's voice.

Then Klaus.  Then the woman again.

Then Klaus came back.  He said he would have somebody contact George in
the next day or two.

George pushed in the antenna, folded the telephone, and picked -up his
beer.  He took several deep swallows.

His heart was about to jump through his ribs.

Through the crowd on the sidewalk, and past the cars, he could see the
park.  Kids skating.  An old Jew in a black coat and hat, reading the
paper in the shade.  Some tourists walking toward the beach with
swimsuits on.  He watched for a while, but Ali Duncan was gone.

CHAPTER Twenty-One

aitfin's photographs remained inside Frank Tolin's apartment after he
locked his door.  Caitlin called that night about them, but he hung up
on her.  With no alternative, she reprinted the black-and-white
negatives in her studio on Lincoln Road.  The color work she took to the
lab, which charged extra for a rush job.  To pay for it, she sold the
diamond pendant Frank had given her.

On Wednesday afternoon when she returned to her studio, her equipment
was gone.  The enlarger, the developing tanks, the lenses and filters,
telephoto and tripod, two camera bodies, film and developing
paper-everything but her boxes of negatives and prints.

There was an envelope on the work bench with a letter typed on Frank
Tolin's law office letterhead: The photographic equipment on the
premises, purchased by the undersigned, has been seized to repay monies
owed by you to same....

Caitlin screamed aloud what Frank could do with his letter.

That same afternoon she found an eviction notice on her apartment door
giving her thirty days to vacate.  She ripped the paper into pieces and
threw it into the garbage.

She still had her old Nikon.  She would wear rags if she had to, but she
wouldn't go back to him if he begged on his knees.

Frank had done that before.  Begged her.  Sobbed.  Wept with his arms
around her knees.  Oh, God, baby, I'm sorry.

Please don't leave me.  I need you, Catie.  Hours of this.

Phone calls.  A soft knock on the door late at night.  Or dozens of
flowers and pages-long letters of apology.  Until she gave in.  And for
a while, months sometimes, they were good together.  Caitlin could
usually tell when it was about to get bad.  She would say so, and Frank
would understand, and they would give each other some room.

This time she had waited too long, till breaking away turned ugly.

She had gone back to him before, when the breakup had been uglier than
this.  Believing him had been easier than arguing.  But not this time.
There would be no going back.

it was over.  Over.  Since Sunday she had repeated that to herself like
a mantra to make sure that it came true.

Now Caitlin and the gallery owner, a woman named Paula DeMarco, stood by
a table in the rear of the gallery going through mounted photographs for
the show on Friday night.  They arranged and rearranged, deciding what
to put where.  Paula was in her late fifties, overweight, and plain. Her
arms, bare in a sleeveless black shirt, danced with muscle.  She herself
was a sculptor, married to an art dealer.  In another week she would
join her husband for the summer on Long Island.

Caitlin, nibbling on a thumbnail, nodded toward a street scene.  "Maybe
it should go there, with the night shot of Collins.  Or maybe not."

Paula took a long look at her.  "What is this?  Nerves?

Come on.  You've had shows before."

"These photos are so simple.  I'm not sure how well they'll go over."

"Simple?  They're more real.  They don't try to be clever, if that's
what you mean." Paula allowed one further compliment.  "These are okay,
kid."

"Do you think so?"

"Jesus.  What a question.  Would I show them if they weren't?" Putting
on her bifocals, she made an arrangement of four shots of models halfway
through their makeup.  "There.  How's that?"

The gallery, on Lincoln Road a few blocks west of Caitlin's studio, was
a narrow rectangle with big windows, polished wood floors, and stark
white walls.  On them had been hung three huge red abstract canvases, a
collage or two, and some fabric pieces.  In the middle of the room was a
piece of art that resembled a stack of weathered boards.  There was some
sculpture, but not by Paula, who sold her pieces in New York.  It was
all very avant-garde and frighteningly expensive.

Caitlin felt her beeper buzzing at her waist, and glanced at the display
screen.  A 547 exchange.  She frowned, then remembered what that was.
The state attorney's office.

"Use my phone," Paula said, waving her toward the office.

Sam Hagen answered on the second ring.  He wanted to see her regarding
Ali Duncan's case as soon as possible, preferably this afternoon.
Caitlin told him there was no way she could drive to Miami; she was
working on her show.  He said he would come to the Beach.  When she told
him it wasn't convenient, he told her to name a time.

She let out her breath and told him after five, at the gallery.

She didn't want to see Sam Hagen.  Didn't want to see anybody.

In the tiny bathroom in the office she checked her face.

The harsh light over the mirror made her look washed out and tired.The
swelling in her upper lip was gone.  She pushed back her hair.  The
purple mark on her cheekbone was hidden under makeup.  A long-sleeved
linen shirt covered the bruises on her arms.  She closed her eyes for a
minute.

If he noticed, he would ask.  And she would lie.  Sam Hagen wasn't the
kind of man to let it go.  He might call Frank.  And then?  Frank would
tell Sam about her and Matthew.  But Frank wouldn't know what he was
talking about.  He would twist it, get it wrong.  Sam wouldn't
understand any more than Frank had.  It would be worse with Sam.  He
wouldn't become violent.  But it would be worse, Caitlin leaned on her
hands on the sink, her hair falling around her face, thinking of the
deceptions that people had to practice on each other.  And Paula had
just said her photographs were becoming more real. She had to laugh.

While Paula attended to customers, Caitlin finished the display.
Forty-two photographs, many showing ordinary scenes of South Beach, but
more of the fashion industry.

Models talking, smoking, being made up and dressed and told where to sit
or stand.  There was one of Matthew Hagen at a marina, his dark hair at
jaw level.  Loose white slacks and shirt slashed, pinned, and clipped.
Tourists in the background staring.  He was making faces, laughing at
himself, a mixture of innocence and sensuality.  The final shot
appearing in a German magazine had been in color.

Stavros with his sultry glare pasted on, slouching at the railing of a
motor yacht.  Slick and impersonal, worthy of being tossed into a trash
can after the magazine had been read. There would be one nude of Matthew
in a section devoted to portraits.  Caitlin had done a study in
black-and white of his back and hips.  His face was turned into the pale
arm that circled his head.  His hair was longer, flowing in waves to his
shoulders.  The photo had been taken two weeks before his death.  She
had not reprinted the photograph of Matthew in her bedroom.

Caitlin wrote notes, made measurements, and walked along the white wall
and two movable partitions where on Friday morning she would place the
pictures.  Then she and Paula discussed prices and double-checked the
text in the gallery guide.  Finally, Caitlin placed all the photos
between sheets of paper in the wide, shallow drawers of a cabinet in the
office.

When she came out it was just after five o'clock, and Sam Hagen was in
the gallery looking at one of the big canvasses, ten feet by ten feet.
His back was to the room.

He had turned up his shirtsleeves.  White shirt and dark slacks against
a background of vivid red.  Wide shoulders like the pediment of a
building, supported by columns of muscle resting on solid hips and legs.
He turned around as she approached.  He had loosened his tie, an
exquisite silk one with an abstract pattern of leaves.  He had told her
once he never wanted for ties: the parents of a girl whose murderer he
had sent to Death Row kept him well supplied.


For a long moment neither of them spoke.  He had a way of looking at
people: unblinking, intense.  The first time she'd met him it had
unsettled her.  She had laughed and told him he had to be scary as hell
in a courtroom.

Caitlin held her tote bag in both hands, bouncing it lightly against her
bare shins.  "Did I keep you waiting?"

"A few minutes.  Where are your photos?"

"They go up next week."

"Maybe I'll come see your show."

"Should I expect you?"

He said, "Probably not." He tilted his head toward the street.  "Can I
buy you some cappuccino?"

"Make it a cold beer, I'll say yes."

"I'd prefer that myself," he said.

Outside, Caitlin put on her sunglasses.  All ten blocks of Lincoln Road
had been closed to auto traffic some years ago.  Trees had been planted,
fountains and benches put in.  The mall was quiet now, but by sundown
the dinner crowd would be out in force.

After a bit of discussion they walked east toward Lyon Fr6res, the
French deli where one could sit at small tables inside or out.  Better
inside this time of day, with the sun still blazing and the temperature
stuck at ninety.  Caitlin had dressed for the heat in sandals and a
short cotton skirt.  Her blouse had long sleeves, but linen let the air
through.

"How's Rafael doing?" Sam asked.

"Still shaking.  He lost Sullivan, then you guys smacked him around. How
do you think he's doing?"

:'They don't believe he did it," Sam said.

'You should tell Rafael, not me." She added, "At least he isn't going to
agonize over Sullivan anymore.  I'm not happy Sullivan's dead, but it
sets Rafael free, at least that."

"I understand he's going to New York," Sam said.

"We both are.  He has a job doing hair and makeup for a studio
photographer.  He'll be staying with his sister in the Village, and they
said I could take the couch." She tilted her head up toward Sam.  "I'll
give you my number so you can get in touch about coming back for
depositions and the trial.  Would the state pay for an airline ticket?
I'm a little short of funds these days."

"We could work something out." He walked for a while, then said, "Sounds
like you and Frank have split up again."

"The way you put that, Sam.  As if it's just another in a long, boring
series."

"It isn't?"

"No.  C'estfini.  Kaput.  Dead, buried, and uninourned."

Sam didn't reply to that.  He said, "And what are you going to do in New
York?  Fashion photography?"

"Whatever strikes my fancy."

"You don't have a job?"

"Not yet."

"Kind of risky.  If you're so short of funds these days."

Caitlin smiled.  "Risky?  A few years ago, Sam, I went to a conference
at NYU on women in photography.  By mistake I stumbled into a lecture by
someone who had been in rural Pakistan.  She'd been attacked for taking
photographs of the way women live over there, and she was planning to go
back.  That's risk.  She was risking her life.

And I?  I was taking pictures of pretty people in pretty clothes.  Do
you understand what I mean?"

Sam was looking at her.  "Yes, I think so."

"Well, after the lecture was over, people gathered around to speak to
her.  I couldn't move out of my chair, I was so stunned.  That isn't too
strong a word for what I felt.  Stunned.  I knew that my life would
change.  But it didn't.  And it hasn't.  And here I am, thirty-five
years old, still taking pictures that have no past and no future, and
therefore, as far as I'm concerned, not much of a present."

With a hand on her elbow he guided her out of the way of two teenage
boys on skates, their open shirts flapping behind them.  The surface of
the road was smooth, painted in wide, diagonal stripes of black and
white.  The paint had begun to fade.

Sam said, "New York.  Well, you've got enough talent.

I wish you the best, Caitlin."

The words were right, but she had no idea what Sam Hagen really thought.
He could have been sorry to see her go.  Or relieved.  Or he didn't give
a damn.  She let out a breath.  "What do you want to talk to me about? I
don't have much time."

"Ali Duncan's case," he said.

"You mean what happens now, after Sullivan?"

Sam nodded.  "I want to know why he died.  If the other witnesses think
he was killed to keep him quiet, they'll start losing their memories of
what happened at the Apocalypse, and then I have no case."

She raised her hands, then let them fall.  "I have no idea who shot
Sullivan."

"But you know the people involved with him.  Martin Cassie's wife, Uta
Ernst.  She was one of Sullivan's sexual partners.  Cassie refuses to be
questioned about the night of the murder.  What do you think?  A viable
suspect?"

Caitlin took a while to frame an answer.  She knew Marty Cassie was a
blackmailer.  He had arranged an arson accidentally resulting in the
death of Rivka Levitsky,,the sister-in-law of a Miami Beach homicide
detective.  Say so, and Marty would implicate Frank.  And Frank had his
own stories to tell.

Finally, Caidin said, "Marty Cassie is basically a whiner.

He might want Sullivan dead, but I don't think he's got the nerve to
shoot anybody." That much was true.

They walked, passing under the shade of a live oak growing in a patch of
grass edged by a low pink wall.

Sam said, "When you came to my office two weeks ago, you said something
that stuck in my mind.  Cassie told you the Miami Beach city manager was
going to ask the state attorney not to prosecute.  Do you recall that?"

She hesitated.  "It wasn't Marty Cassie who told me.  It was Frank, who
got it from Marty.  Frank said Marty told him the Beach didn't want the
case prosecuted because it would create a bad image.  The state attorney
would investigate for the sake of appearances, then drop it."

Sam's expression was impenetrable.

Caitlin went on, "Of course you wouldn't prosecute.

Nobody would believe a girl like Ali Duncan.  In fact, everyone wanted
her to be quiet and go away.  Like Dale Finley from your office.  The
creepy man with the scar across his chin.  After he got through with
Ali, she wanted to run out of there.  But how is this connected to
Sullivan's death?"

"I don't know," Sam said.  "Maybe it isn't."

And if there were a connection, Caitlin thought, Sam wouldn't tell her.
She glanced at him as they walked.  His face was shadowed with fatigue,
as if he hadn't slept in days.  The lines in his brow had deepened.

She stopped.  "We passed Lyon Fr6res half a block ago."

Sam's gray eyes were fixed on her.  He said, "Sullivan was sleeping with
a rival of Klaus Ruffini in the fashion industry, Claudia Otero.  What
do you know about that?"

"It's true.  Sullivan and Claudia were lovers for a long time.  She's
been married twice that I know of, and never gave up her affair with
Sullivan.  But do you think Klaus would have Sullivan killed because his
wife and Claudia hated each other?  That's a stretch."

"Last Sunday," Sam said, "on my way from the crime scene, I ran into
Ruffini.  He stopped his car and spoke to me.  There were four people
with him.  Three girls and a muscled, black-haired guy who looked like a
bouncer."

Caitlin said, "Franco.  His bodyguard."

"Ruffini seemed ...  unconcerned that he might go to prison."

"Cocky?"

"That's a mild word for it."

"Obnoxious?  Flaming asshole?"

"Close," Sam said.  "He acted as if he couldn't be touched."

"Well, that's Klaus."

The water in the fountain nearby sprayed upward from a circle of copper
and splashed merrily into a shallow basin painted the turquoise of a
swimming pool.  Caitlin waited for Sam to speak.

"What can you tell me about Claudia Otero?" he said.

Caidin thought for a while, then said, "She's damned good at what she
does.  Very tough businesswoman, too.

She's in her forties, but you'd never guess." Caidin held her hand level
with her forehead.  "About this tall, fivefive or so.  Black hair, brown
eyes, skin like milk.  I've taken her picture a few times, freelancing
for local magazines.  She wouldn't remember me."

"Is she Spanish?"

"Originally Cuban, I think.  She has friends in Miami, but most of the
time she's either in New York or traveling in Europe.  She runs with a
very fast crowd.  Lots of money and influence in the fashion industry.
Everyone knows her." ,,I: d never heard of her," Sam said.

"That's because you're not in the fashion industry.  It's another world,
Sam.  Very insular and self-referential.

People amusing themselves with dressing well and eating well and
gossiping about the celebrities they know.

You've never heard of Claudia Otero, and I'd be willing to bet she can't
name the vice president or tell you how much a gallon of milk costs, or
even gives a damn."

Stepping around Sam to see up the street, Caidin said, "Her store is on
the next block.  You want to take a look?"

They crossed the mall and headed west again, staying under the awnings
and flat roof extensions that shaded the storefronts.  The sun wouldn't
set till around eight o'clock.

The boutique was called Otero, decorated in black and gold.  The
mannequins in the window had dark, chopped hair and impossibly long,
slender legs.  They wore capes and micro shorts, or four-inch heels and
dresses that clung and shimmered.

"She likes to use Spanish themes in her designs," Caidin said.  "That
silver outfit with the matador cape is eighteen hundred dollars."

"Jesus.  No thanks." There was a list of cities in a corner of the
window.  Sam was reading it.  "Is this a chain store?"

She laughed.  "Not at these prices, but essentially, yes.

Claudia has them scattered throughout the U.S.  and Europe.  One just
opened in Tokyo.  Most of her business is in a less expensive line for
department stores.  Bloomingdale's, Saks, Lord & Taylor."

Caitlin could see Sam's reflection in the store window, hers next to it,
half a foot shorter, a thin blonde in big sunglasses and a skirt to
mid-thigh, a canvas bag on her shoulder.  He had his arms crossed over
his chest, one hand at his chin.  He wore a watch with a brown leather
strap and a plain wedding band.  She let herself look at him.  The
height and size and angles.  The curve of bicep under his sleeve.  He
could lift her easily.  He had done that.  Had swept her up and over his
shoulder, carried her into her bedroom, and tossed her on the bed.  She
bounced, giggling, then watched while he unbuttoned his shirt, undid the
cuffs, and unbuckled his belt.  Starting with the arches of her feet and
ending when he smoothed back her hair and kissed her forehead, Sam had
touched her till she was dizzy from desire, and words spilled from her
lips.

Please please Sam now oh God yes do it please.  He had entered her
slowly, an agony, his solid weight pressing her into the mattress as if
keeping her from flying into space, His breath on her face, mouth poised
over hers.  She had tightened around him and cried out.  If a hurricane
had brought the ceiling down, she wouldn't have known it.

Caitlin realized Sam was looking at her, and she was glad for the
sunglasses.  A few seconds went by before he asked, "Where is Claudia
Otero at present?"

"Gone.  She had a show this week, but she didn't attend.

I think she went to London for Sullivan's funeral.  I don't know when
she'll be in Miami again.  They say she's heartbroken."

Caitlin moved from under the awning.  "I don't have time for a beer,
Sam.  I really have to go."

Sam stayed where he was.  He asked, "Who are her friends in Miami?"

"Friends?"

"Claudia Otero's.  You said she had friends here."

"I don't know who they are.  Every Cuban alive must have friends in
Miami." Caitlin came back a few steps.

"There was a lot of Spanish spoken at her grand opening party."

"For this store?"

"Yes, by invitation only.  The area was marked off with potted plants
and barricades.  There was a Cuban salsa band.  Models and agents and
celebrities all over the place.

Gloria Estefan showed up, but she didn't sing.  My God, there must have
been three hundred people here."

"When was this?"

"I don't remember.  It's been a few years.  I was here taking pictures
for Beach Life magazine."

"Could I see them?"

"What does this have to do with Ali's case?"

"I don't know yet," he said.  "How about it?  Your studio's just down
the street.  I remember you keep copies of photos you take."

"Well, the studio is closed.  I moved everything to my apartment, and
it's a total jumble.  Besides, I don't keep prints that old."

"What about the negatives?  Contact sheets?  Or that issue of the
magazine?"

"I doubt I still have them."

Sam continued to look at her, his eyes giving nothing away.  Finally he
said.  "That's all I want, Caitlin.  To see the photographs."

Smiling a little, she put a hand on her hip and walked back to him, then
turned her head, gazing along the sidewalk through her sunglasses.  "I
don't really believe that," she said, "but it's all you're going to
get."

He laughed.  "Three years and you'd still like to slap my face, wouldn't
you?"

"Well, Sam, it was rather shallow, what you did, but then, affairs with
married men are usually shallow and pointless, so I shouldn't complain."
As she pivoted she said over her shoulder, "You can wait for me
downstairs on the porch."

CHAPTER Twenty-Two

Caitlin Dorn lived off Meridian a few blocks south of Lincoln Road, in a
pale yellow art-deco building with C a blue stripe at the top.  Over the
door a semicircle of has-relief letters read ENGLANDER APTS.  Shade
trees grew in the yard, and a low white wall ran around the property.
Beyond the wall was a sidewalk, a narrow street with cars parked at the
curbs, and more apartments on the other side.

Sam sat in a folding aluminum chair on the porch watching the street.  A
car would go by.  Then a bicycle.

Less often somebody would walk along the sidewalk.  One of the tenants
of the building would come through the gate occasionally, home from
work.  There was a line of about a dozen chairs, all of them facing
outward so people could do what Sam was doing, sit in the shade and look
at this small patch of the world.  He stretched out his legs and the
chair creaked a little.  He thought about finding a deli on Alton Road
for a beer, then decided he was too tired to move.

The old man three chairs down was throwing bits of bread into the yard
for the birds.  Nobody else was on the porch, just the two of them.
Occasionally the muffled clang of a pan or rush of water in a sink would
come through the open windows of the corner apartment.  Somebody was
cooking dinner.

Caitlin had gone upstairs about fifteen minutes ago to look through
boxes of photos and negatives.  She'd said it would take her a while.
Sam was trying to get clear what exactly he hoped she would find.
Photographs of a party three or four years ago at an overpriced dress
shop owned by a cubana fashion designer who used to sleep with a man
whose brains had spilled out through his handsome face last Saturday
night.  Charlie Sullivan, the main witness on a rape case that Eddie
Mora, the cubano state attorney, had wanted to ignore.  Other facts
shifted through Sam's mind.  Beekie Duran, Eddie's deputy chief of
administration, hadn't wanted Sam involved.  Dale Finley, ex-CIA spook,
had threatened to expose Sam's affair with Caitlin Dorn if Sam made
trouble for Eddie.  None of these facts hung together, but Sam continued
to play with them as he sat looking out at the street.

A flutter of wings and a piercing squawk made him glance to his right. A
mockingbird was hopping around near the old man's bony feet.  He wore
frayed corduroy slippers.  Death not too far off, the old man frail as a
bird himself Sam looked back at the street.  In the gaps between the
overhanging trees, the sky was still bright blue.  He shifted in the
flimsy chair. There was a legal pad in Sam's briefcase on the front seat
of his car. He thought about getting up.  He could make some notes, see
the details on paper.

He had saved some cases by picking at details.  Going after faint
threads of possibility.  Answers wouldn't come easily or fast, but they
would come.

"Arthritis?"

Sam glanced around.

The old man gestured toward Sam's hand, which now Sam realized he had
been massaging.  "I said have you got arthritis?"

"No.  The joints ache sometimes, that's all."

"My wife has it in her hip.  The doctor says she needs a replacement,
but she won't do it.  My knees are bad, but I don't have it in my hands,
thank God.  I'm a scribe at Temple Bet Aviv."

Making a noncommittal response, Sam shifted again in the chair.  His
backside was getting numb.  He wondered how these people could sit here
like this all day, doing nothing.  The old man had a plastic bag on his
lap with slices of bread in it.  He reached in, pinched off some bread,
deftly rolled it into a ball, and flicked it into the yard.  A bluejay
screamed and went for it.  The mockingbirds rose up in a flurry of
wings.

Forcing his thoughts back on track, Sam went over the manner of Charlie
Sullivan's death.  The shooter had known what he was doing.  He'd been
methodical, exact.

Maybe a paid hit.  Or maybe Sullivan had known the shooter well enough
to walk onto a deserted beach at midnight with him, expecting some fast
sex.  Didn't want to bring the guy up to his apartment for some reason.

The M.E., had retrieved fragments of a .45 hollow-point from Sullivan's
chest.  Sullivan had been dead, or dying, when he hit the ground.  Then
the shooter had fired into the base of the skull.  Charlie Sullivan's
casket in some London funeral chapel would be closed.  Nobody would see
that face again.  It wasn't there anymore.

Metal scraped on concrete.  The old man was moving his chair to get
farther into the shade of the roof overhang.

His cane slipped off the arm of the chair and clattered to the porch.

Sam went over and picked it up.

The old guy tilted his head up to see Sam through a pair of thick,
black-framed glasses, and his mouth was open.

Cords stretched down his mottled throat like the neck of a featherless
chicken.  "Thanks."

Nodding, Sam walked back to his own chair.  He didn't want to get into a
conversation.  These old people could chatter on forever about their
aches and pains, the lousy government, the Spanish moving into the
neighborhood.

"I've seen you." The thin voice pursued him.  "You used to come visit
Caitlin.  What's your name?"

He turned.  The old man was still looking at him through the glasses.
"Sam Hagen."

"I'm Harold Perlstein.  I live here." He jerked a thumb at the open
jalousie windows behind him.

"Nice to meet you." Sam sat down.  Stared into the street.  Wondered how
many other people in this building knew she'd had her married lover
here.  Wondered if any of them had told Frank Tolin about it.  Not that
it mattered, now that Caitlin had broken it off.  Again.  Sam assumed
she'd go back to Frank eventually.  Thinking about it irritated him, so
he didn't think about it.

Sam rubbed his forehead, trying to remember if he'd brought all the
files he needed from his office, or if he'd have to go back in tomorrow
or Sunda .  There was a trial on Monday.  Armed robbery, a ca y reer
criminal prosecution.  Sam had used the phone in his car to call home.
Melanie had answered.  Dina was still at work.

He'd said to expect him about seven, seven-thirty.

A thought careened out of nowhere.  Please, God, don't let it be that
Matthew knew who Caitlin was.  Then Sam realized Matthew couldn't have
known.  He'd never have come near Caitlin.  Matthew had been judgmental
about that sort of thing, in a curiously old-fashioned way for a kid. He
would have despised her, and he would have skewered Sam with it.  Hey,
Dad.  Guess who I saw at a club last night?

Harold Perlstein's chuckle broke into his thoughts.  The old man's bony
arm was extended toward the walkway.  A glossy black bird with an
iridescent purple sheen to its feathers was pecking at the edge of the
concrete.  Ugly bird.  Big shoulders and a sharp beak.  It didn't hop;
it stalked.

"That grackle.  He's the one.  He sits outside our window every morning.
He shakes his wings and yells, 'Up, up, you lazy bums."

"

The old man's chest was sunken, and his head seemed too big for his
shoulders.  Age spots dotted his face.  The glasses sat on a curving
nose.  Behind them the eyes were faded blue.  Still laughing, he held
out the plastic bag and asked Sam if he wanted a piece of bread for the
birds.

Sam replied that he didn't, thanks.  He checked his watch.

She had been up there almost half an hour.  He thought about going to
ask what the problem was.

Caitlin had the southwest corner on the second floor.

Apartment 12.  The two brass digits would be beside the door, which last
time Sam had been there had been painted pink.  All the doors were
various shades of pastel.

The breeze had stopped and the trees were still.  Nothing moved.  Sam
was hot, tired.  He leaned on his open palm, sleep dragging at his
eyelids.

A telephone rang shrilly inside Perlstein's apartment.

Then a woman's voice.  Loud, as the voices of the hardof-hearing are
loud.  She said hello, then must have recognized the person on the other
end.  Ahhh, ja.  Vus machts du, Shayna?  Yiddish.  Askin her friend how
she was doing.  Then she switched to English with a New York edge to it.
Brooklyn, maybe.

The voice reminded him of his great-aunt Sheila.  Married to Hyman,
who'd come straight out of somewhere in eastern Poland.  Hyman was dead
by the time Sam was in elementary school.  Never spoke much English, but
he made good money in the wholesale button business.

Enough to buy the brownstone in Borough Park.  Vus machts du, Shmuel?
Hyman would ask him that when he came home from school.

The house had been dark and quiet.  Thick curtains at the windows shut
out the street noise.  Dark wood floors, heavy furniture, a tall, gilt
mirror in the entrance.  All the mirrors had been covered after his
mother died.  Aunt Sheila made him wear his suit, which he had outgrown.

His wrists went past the sleeves.  She put a yarmulke on his head and
gave him slippers for his feet.  The visitors washed their hands on the
front porch with water from a pitcher.  The women loaded the kitchen
table with food, then came over to hug him.  Their bosoms were soft and
wide, smelling of roses.  The men squeezed his shoulders.

Earlier in the temple the rabbi had chanted the mourner's prayer.
Yisgadal Vyiskadash sh'may rabo-The only part Sam could recall, and he
didn't know what it meant.

Birds fluttered closer to the porch, squawking.  They pecked at the
ground where the old man had thrown pellets of bread.  Sam turned away
and pulled in a breath.  He was dizzy with heat and fatigue.

He didn't know what the hell he was doing here.  He would look at the
damned, pictures if Caidin could find them, then go home and work on his
case.  Cross examination of defense witnesses.  Now he remembered.

He had left the deposition transcripts on his desk.  For a while Sam
weighed whether to go by his office on the way home.

He remembered Charlie Sullivan in his office, sitting in one of the
battered chairs facing the desk.  Blond hair combed back just so.
Chiseled features, full lips.  And the smooth British accent.  I knew
your son, Mr.  Hagen.  A terrific guy.  I was so shocked to hear of his
death.

Sam had been afraid of this; he knew it now.  When Matthew had said he
wanted to go into modeling and live on South Beach, Sam had made some
jokes.  Lame ones.  Matthew hadn't laughed.  He'd called him
narrowminded.  Probably right.  But Matthew had never given him a chance
to prove otherwise.  He had taken that last ride, sailing beyond the
reach of understanding or forgiveness for either of them.

Sam decided to leave the transcripts on his desk till tomorrow.  It
didn't matter.  He had tried hundreds of cases.

After a while they all ran together, but the moves were the same.  A
long line of criminal defendants'.  like a carnival shooting gallery.
Knock them down, they come back around.  Whatever Sam Hagen did, the
cases would come and go, and the inhabitants of Dade County, Florida,
would continue to murder, rape, and rob each other.  For a while, Sam
sat and wondered what he could do with himself if he lost the election.
Victoria Duran would not make life pleasant at the office.  He could
keep his head down and his mouth shut.  Or leave.  To go where?  And do
what?

Open his own office?  Defend the same bastards he'd been trying to
convict for eighteen years?

Slowly Sam became aware of a sweet, yeasty smell drifting through the
open windows.  The smell had been working its way into his consciousness
for a while, he realized.  Bread baking in the oven.  And another smell
besides the bread.  Roasting chicken.  Sam's stomach was an empty pit.

"Smells like Shabbat in there," he said half to himself.

Perlstein looked around, a bread ball still balanced on his thumb.  He
considered Sam through his glasses, tilting his head.  "You're Jewish?"

"No.  I used to be."

"Used to be.  How does a person used to be Jewish?"

"My mother.  We lived in Brooklyn with her aunt and uncle.  She died
when I was ten.  God, the way they cooked.  As if we'd never eat again."

"So what are you now?"

"I'm not religious."

"That can be fixed.  A bar mitzvah, even at your age."

Sam smiled and shook his head.  "I don't think so."

Perlstein aimed the bread so the smaller birds could reach it.  His
fingers were remarkably deft, with quick, sure movements.

He saw Sam looking at his right hand, then looked at it himself, turning
it palm up.  The dark stains on the thumb and first two fingers had
worked their way under the nails.

"Ink," he announced.

Sam nodded.  "Right.  You said you were a scribe."

"Good memory.  I thought you weren't paying attention.

Temple Bet Aviv, Third Avenue, not the oldest congregation on Miami
Beach, but close.  The rebbe is pushing eighty.  These days we're lucky
we get a minyan.  You know that word?"

"A quorum, isn't it?"

"We're going to have to start counting the ladies, God forbid."

"A scribe," Sam repeated.  "What do you write?"

"Write?" The old man studied Sam as though he couldn't decide if he were
serious.  "The Torah.  I write the Torah.  I copy it.  I make new
scrolls."

"By hand?"

"What should I use, a copy machine?  A typewriter?

Please.  Not even a ballpoint pen could I use.  No, no.  You have a new
congregation, you need new scrolls.  I use ink made the way it was since
the beginning.  And not paper.

Parchment, from the skin of a kosher animal.  The scrolls will last a
long time.  Hundreds of years, who knows?  This may be the last one I
do.  The eyes are going.  The hands are all right, but I don't see as
good as I used to.  God takes us piece by piece, if we live long
enough."

The branches shifted and cast spots of light and shade on the yard.  The
colors had changed, turning more golden as the sun moved farther down in
the sky.

Bracing both hands on the arms of his chair, Harold Perlstein stood up.
He shuffled to the edge of the porch, upended the bread wrapper, and
shook the last crumbs into his palm.  He flung the crumbs into the yard.
Birds descended on them.  Chuckling, Perlstein dusted his palm on the
front of his shirt.

It had been almost three years since Sam had climbed the stairs to
Caitlin's apartment.  He went to the correct door and knocked.  The door
was no longer pink but white.

Even so, the same apartment.  Second floor, southwest corner.

Her voice said to come in, it wasn't locked.

Sam came in.  Caitlin knelt among half a dozen cardboard boxes at the
far end of the room.  There were more boxes stacked along the wall and
on the table.  The living room doubled as a dining area, with an opening
leading to a tiny kitchen.  She turned to look at him, and pushed her
hair back from her face.

He said, "It's hot out there, and Harold Perlstein was driving me
crazy."

"Close the door, don't let the cat out." Caitlin stood up.

"I'm sorry.  I should have brought you something to drink.

I didn't realize this would take so long."

The apartment was cool and quiet.  An air-conditioning unit hummed.
Green plants hung at the windows, and the late afternoon sun came
through and made a patch of light on the opposite wall.  There were
framed photos and prints Sam hadn't seen before.  She had a different
sofa.  The same tabby cat watched him from the end of it.

Sam asked, "You find anything?"

She said, "Negatives and contact sheets and two magazines that ran some
of the photos." She stepped over a box.  "I have some beer.  Or sodas.
Whatever." Her earrings rotated slowly.  Silver ovals.  She crossed her
arms, trying to be casual about his being here.

"A beer would be great," he said.

"Sit down, why don't you?" She went into the kitchen.

He heard the refrigerator open, then a cabinet.  She called out, "On the
table.  See those two magazines on top of the boxes?"

"Yes.

"I've marked the places.  They both have stories about Claudia Otero."

Sam took his glasses out of his shirt pocket and sat down in the
armchair by the window.  The chair had a back that came up just behind
his head, and a roomy seat.

He shifted to pull a small batik pillow from under his hip and toss it
to the couch.  The cat stopped licking its paw and looked at him, then
resumed, closing its eyes.

The first magazine was an issue of Vanity Fair, which contained an
article about the South Beach scene, with Claudia Otero's grand opening
included as an example of how hip the Beach was getting. A new boom in
fashion and modeling.  People coming from all over.  The article began
with a typical candy-colored photo of Ocean Drive.

Palm trees, blue sky, hotels like iced pastries.  Then on the next page
a photo of a woman on the back end of a turquoise '58 Caddy, holding on
to one of the outlandish tail fins.  Claudia Otero was, as Caitlin had
described, a black-haired beauty.  Next page: pictures of nightlife, the
clubs.  Claudia's boutique, her standing out front in tight pants and a
short sequined jacket with padded shoulders, hair pulled back like a
Spanish dancer.  In the text, names were mentioned, the usual run of
celebrities.  A couple of minor actors.  A rock singer.  A writer.  Sam
turned another page.  More shots of South Beach as a destination for the
young, tanned, and prosperous.  He went back to the photo of Claudia
Otero.  She looked familiar.  He'd never met her, but he had the feeling
that if she walked through the door, he'd know her.

Caitlin came out with two beers in mugs frosted with ice.  She kept them
in the freezer, he recalled.  "Thanks."

He drank deeply, then wiped a knuckle across his upper lip.  The cold
liquid seemed to seep into his body like water on dry sand.  She put a
couple of coasters from Club Deuce on the end table, and he put his mug
on one of them.  She slipped out of her sandals and sat on the end of
the couch, one leg under herself, the other swinging.

Sam settled back.  The next magazine was Beach Life.

Same topic.  Caitlin's name in small type credited her for the photos.
Sam spotted Charlie Sullivan in the background of one of them.  Linen
suit, open collar, teeth and hair shining.  In another photo George
Fonseca had his arm around Claudia Otero's waist, grinning at the
camera.

Curly black hair, black leather vest.

"George Fonseca is a friend of hers?"

"Not particularly.  He planned her party.  Her PR person probably hired
him."

"Did he bring his goodies?"

"Everyone brought their goodies." Caitlin laughed and rolled her eyes.
"You could breathe hard and get high off the dust in the air."

There were five other photographs in the article, and the captions
contained quite a few Spanish surnames.  Sam didn't recognize any of
them, but he asked Caitlin if he could borrow the magazines.

She told him he could, then said, "You probably ought to see the contact
sheets, too." Leaving her beer on the end table next to his, she crossed
the room and sat on her heels beside the boxes.  Her narrow skirt rose
up her thigh, and her bare toes spread out on the carpet.  "Where the
hell did I put it?  Ah.  Here." She found what she was looking for, then
went over to her desk to rummage in a drawer for a rectangular
magnifying glass.

The contact sheets consisted of two sheets of developing paper with tiny
photos shot directly from strips of black-and-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 black-and 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 six-pack 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 black-and-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.

CHAPTER Twenty-Three

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.

For a minute Sam stood with his hands in his pockets watching the
activity around the red Mustang.  A routine patrol from the north
district had spotted the car in the parking lot about five o'clock, then
noticed it again an hour later.  The man behind the wheel seemed to be
asleep.  The officer drove over to check it out.  The driver was dead,
shot once in the thigh, once in the stomach.

They ran the tag.  The car was owned by George Fonseca.

The crime-scene techs gathered what evidence they could find, which
didn't amount to much: a tiny vial of brown powder in the glove
compartment, a cellular phone in the front seat, and several beer
bottles on the floor.

These items would be dusted for prints.  The pitted asphalt parking lot
held no fresh tire tracks or footprints.  Several officers had started
canvassing the immediate area for possible witnesses, so far without
result.  No one had heard gunshots.

Ryabin had given him this information by phone, and now Sam walked over
to take a look.  A head of dark curly hair rested on the edge of the
open window.  The windshield was spattered with blood, and the police
lights coming through the glass cast a weird, dappled pattern inside the
car and on George Fonseca's face.  The dark brown eyes were half open.
His mouth and nose were smeared reddish brown.  There was blood and what
appeared to be vomit down his shirt.  He had a lapful of blood and a
chunk missing out of his right thigh, just above the knee.

Pulling back from the window, Sam continued to stare at the body, trying
to sort out his thoughts.  As if he'd willed this murder into being,
here was the corpse.  Half an hour ago he had imagined such an end for
George Fonseca, not precisely this scene, but something similar,
proceeding from a desire as sharp and compelling as sex, a need to
inflict pain. Not by gunfire, that would be too quick.  Sam had wanted
to use his hands.  But this had happened without him.  He felt
distinctly ambivalent: both responsible and cheated.

Flashes of light came from the other side of the car.  The medical
examiner was taking photos through the passenger's door, which the
police had opened.  Then he let someone hold the camera while he put on
his gloves and walked around to the driver's side.  He spoke to one of
the techs.  "You guys finished over here?"

"For now.  You want to open the door, doc, go ahead."

"You do it.  He might fall out."

The fingerprint technician was a big man with a trimmed blond beard. The
door came open, a screech of rusty metal, and George Fonseca's body
began to tilt sideways.  While the tech leaned on the door, the officers
took a quick vote and the losers put on latex gloves.  Grunting and
cursing, they maneuvered the body out of the bucket seat, past the
steering wheel, and onto the asphalt.  Fonseca was slightly curled up,
neck twisted to one side, more or less his position in the Mustang.

Sam forced himself into a dispassionate consideration of the evidence.
There were no powder burns on the pant leg.  The shooter must have been
several feet away, aiming either through the open window or open
passenger's door, which he had the presence of mind to close before
leaving.  But if he'd wanted to kill Fonseca, why not one neat shot into
his head?  These shots-one in the thigh, one grazing the gut-seemed
rushed, even unplanned.

Corso aimed his camera.  Light flashed for an instant on the long gouge
across Fonseca's abdomen.  Again at another angle.  Right thigh: flesh
missing, bone exposed.

More shots, side and top.  Fonseca's face, the smears of blood and
vomit.

One of the plain-clothes detectives stopped popping his gum long enough
to ask, "What'd he do, hurl his lunch?"

Corso sat on his heels beside the body.  "Did you guys find any drugs in
the car?"

"Yeah.  Little bottle of smack in the glove compartment, inside a
flashlight.  Looks like smack, anyhow.  No works, though."

A young patrolman said, "You mean he O.D.  I ed?"

The fingerprint tech laughed.  "He was fuckin' shot, man.  He might've
O.D."ed, but it ain't what did him in."

Corso returned his attention to the body, lifting the eyelids, going
through the routine.  Petechial hemorrhages could indicate
strangulation, though that didn't seem to apply here.  He levered down
Fonseca's arms, which resisted.  "No obvious needle marks."

"Maybe he snorted it," someone said.

Another cop agreed.  "It don't take more than a piece of tinfoil and a
lighter."

Someone laughed.  "You can't overdose that way."

"So the guy that killed him had a syringe."

A young officer with a blond crewcut asked, "Hey doc why'd the shooter
blow him away if he was overdosing?"

Corso looked up.  "Well, that's for you to find out, isn't it?"

Holding a magnifying glass, Corso got closer to Fonseca's nose and
mouth.  "I can't tell if we've got a nosebleed or a brachial hemorrhage.
Bullet might've nicked a lung." He pressed on the jaw to open the mouth
and flashed his penlight inside.  "Not much blood in here.

Looks like it's coming out the nose.  That's odd."

Sam asked, "Why is it odd?"

"Because a heroin overdose doesn't give you a nosebleed." Corso pushed
his rimless glasses up a little farther with his wrist; his gloves were
bloody.  "It makes you go to sleep.  You might twitch a little, but
that's it."

"What about coke?"

"No, not with coke either.  Or any opiate or morphinebased drug, or any
synthetic that I know of-meth, PCP.

You want a list?"

"What else could have caused this?"

Corso glanced up at Sam.  "You don't usually ask me for opinions at the
scene, Hagen."

"Yeah, I know, but how about it?"

"I don't like to give opinions at the scene," Corso muttered.  His hands
dangled between his knees as he sat silently on his haunches.  "I think
he was sick, but I don't know from what, and I don't know at this point
if it made a difference.  These gunshots weren't necessarily fatal.  He
might have survived if he'd made it to a hospital, but I'd say the man
bled to death.  Wait for the toxicology report, will you?"

Sam said, "That's going to be five or six weeks.  Can you push it?"

"For you, I'll ask the toxicologist pretty please."

"How soon can I get an autopsy report?"

"Call me tomorrow.  He's scheduled for the morning.

I'll have him done by noon." Corso raised his hand.  "It won't be
written, okay?  Come on.  I've got a life."

He took off Fonseca's jewelry: a heavy gold watch, an ID bracelet, a
gold chain.

The blond cop said, "Damn, look at that watch."

"It's a fake," Corso said.

Sam asked if the wallet was still in the back pocket.

Corso took it out, held it up, then bagged it.  With a short, curved
pair of scissors he started slicing through Fonseca's clothes, matching
holes in the garments to bullet holes in the body.  As the clothes fell
away, a stench of body wastes hung in the unmoving air.  Corso gestured
with the scissors.  "The victim urinated and defecated all over himself.
Consistent with a toxic reaction to something, okay?  But don't ask me
what." He stood up and took some photographs.  Grit and pine needles
stuck to Fonseca's back when they rolled him over.  His genitals and
buttocks were mottled red-purple from livor mortis, and smeared with
feces.

Sam looked around for Gene Ryabin, and saw him watching the crime-scene
technicians examine the interior of the Mustang.  The backseat and
floors were buried under yellowed newspapers, food containers, and
crushed beer cans.  After a cursory examination the techs would roll up
the windows and take the car to the police garage, where they could go
over everything with tweezers and a magnifying glass.

Ryabin noticed Sam and told him to come look at what they'd found.  He
held up a bag sealed with red evidence tape.  There were some misshapen
pieces of lead inside.

"We found these on the floor.  Whatever is in the side door we'll dig
out at the garage, and there's a bullet hole in the seat.  So.  At least
three shots, and the shooter had terrible aim."

Moving out of his own shadow cast by the spotlights, Sam put on his
glasses.  He felt the fragments through the thin plastic.  "What's your
guess?  Forty-five's?"

Ryabin made a gap-toothed smile.  "As with Charlie Sullivan?  Maybe
ballistics can make a match-although you are aware, Sam, how many
forty-five-caliber handguns there are in Dade County, and how many of
those shoot hollow-points." He gave the bag to one of the uniformed men.

"What now I am wondering is why, if the same person did both these
gentlemen, he chooses first a witness, and then a defendant on the same
rape case.  Is this logical?"

Sam said, "Fonseca called me yesterday."

"Did he?" Ryabin's bushy eyebrows rose.

"He offered to testify against Klaus Ruffini if I made a deal.  I think
he was looking for his own deal."

"Money from Ruffini not to testify," Ryabin concluded.

"Did you offer him a plea?"

"Sure, to put him away for the maximum.  He didn't like my attitude,"
Sam said.  "I told him to have his attorney call me.  I didn't hear
back.  You might want to talk to Ruffini's bodyguard.  I think his name
is Franco."

"We've met." Arms crossed just above the curve of his belly, Ryabin
said, "Here's another possibility for a shooter.  Asking around, I'm
finding out Fonseca had no money for bond."

"Who put it up for him?  Not Ruffini."

"No.  Alberto Gusman is the name I've been given.  A midlevel trafficker
who was, I believe, Fonseca's source.

He and Fonseca share the same attorney, Don Gessing."

Sam said, "And you think Fonseca could have leaned on Alberto Gusman,
and Gusman pushed back."

"It's a theory," Ryabin said.

"But what motive did Gusman have to kill Charlie Sullivan?  Sullivan had
nothing to do with drugs," Sam said.

"You believe the same person killed them both."

"Don't you?"

"So many complications." Ryabin sighed.  His heavy beard had broken into
stubble this late in the day.  "Better not to assume anything yet,
although I think what you do, Sam, that the bullets came from the same
forty-fivecaliber semiautomatic pistol."

"How soon can we get an answer?"

"A few days."

They watched a couple of officers unfold a tarp and spread it over the
naked body lying on the asphalt parking lot.  A carcass now.

"Gene, I wanted to prosecute the son of a bitch," Sam said.  "I was
looking forward to it."

"What now?" Ryabin asked.

"The caseis still on.  I'm not too fond of Klaus Ruffini, either, and
I'd be particularly annoyed if somebody shoots him."

Sam told Ryabin to come over to his car for a minute.

They sat in the front with doors open and the dome light on, looking at
the contact sheets he'd borrowed from Caitlin Dom.  Ryabin lit a
cigarette and blew smoke into the darkness.

Pointing at one of the frames, Sam said, "This woman with Claudia Otero
is her sister, Amalia Otero Mora.  Eddie Mora's wife."

"Give me your glasses.  I'm going blind." Ryabin held them a few inches
over the page, squinting through one of the lenses.  "Lovely women. Both
of them.  I like women with dark eyes.  Did Eddie ever mention to you
that Charlie Sullivan, now deceased, was sleeping with Amalia's sister?"

"It must have slipped his mind," Sam said.

Still studying the tiny photographs, Ryabin said, "How wonderful to be
so rich and to know so many people."

"Fabulous."

"Yes.  Fabulous people, a fabulous party." Ryabin moved the contact
sheet, following the lines of negatives printed on it.  "George Fonseca
is here."

"He planned the party," Sam said.

"And look.  Hal Delucca, our city manager." Ryabin added, "Before he
became our city manager.  That's how you get elected on Miami Beach,
Sam.  You go to parties given by rich foreigners." Ryabin went to the
next contact sheet.  "Here's Marty Cassie."

"Show me.  I met him a couple of times at Frank Tolin's office, but that
was a few years back." Sam put on his glasses.  Cassie was a short man
with a big smile, his arm around a former mayor of Miami Beach who had
eventually gone to prison for tax evasion.  "Yeah, this is Marty.  I
remember the ponytail."

Ryabin gazed for another moment at the small, grinning face in the
photograph, then tossed the contact sheet aside.

Sam remembered that Marty Cassie had handled the sale of the Englander
Apartments, where Ryabin's sisterin-law had burned after telling him
she'd never sell the building.  The fire department had called it arson.
Ryabin had never accused Marty Cassie, but neither had he forgotten.

They got out of the car just as an unmarked Dodge van turned slowly into
the parking lot, its headlights sweeping over the people watching from
the sidewalk, then illuminating the trees at the property line.  Two men
got out and rolled a gurney over to George Fonseca's covered body.

They slid the body onto a board, lifted the board to the gurney, then
loaded the van and slammed the door.  Onlookers parted to let the van
through, and it turned south on Collins, heading for the morgue.

It was late when Sam got home.  He'd bought a beer along the way. Coming
in through the garage, he threw the empty bottle into a trash can, let
the automatic door down, and went into the house through the kitchen. He
flipped on the light.

Melanie, in a pink nightshirt, was standing at the refrigerator, pouring
herself a diet soda.  She looked at him, not speaking.

He reached out and ruffled her hair.  "Hey, how's the kid?"

"Stop it, Dad." She jerked away.

"Jesus." He reached past her for a beer out of the sixpack on the bottom
shelf.  "Am I still on your shit list for unnamed crimes, or is this a
phase of adolescence9"

Dina's voice came from around the corner in the dining room "Melanie,
are you still up?  I told you to o to bed an hour ago."     9 "I'm
thirsty, do you mind?"

Sam said, "Hey.  Watch your mouth."

Melanie dropped two ice cubes into her glass.  "Wow, Dad.  You just used
the word shit, plus you took the Lord's name in vain.  Can I do that?"

"No." He twisted the top off the beer and flipped it into the trash. "Do
what your mother told you.  Get upstairs."

He watched her go, then turned off the light.  A dim rectangle of yellow
fell across the kitchen floor from the dining room.

Dina sat at one end of the long, polished wood table, which was stacked
with files and tax manuals.  The dark windows looking out on the
backyard were behind her.

The chandelier was off.  She had put a lamp on the table, and her
fingers were flying over the number pad of her ten-key.  The paper spit
out of the machine in a steady rhythm.  Click-click-click, ca-thunk.
Click-click, ca-thunk.

Beer in hand, Sam leaned against the side of the entrance way from the
kitchen.  "Did you get my message?"

She didn't look up.  "The one that said you'd be home two hours ago?"

"It took longer than I thought."

Dina was still in the clothes she had worn to work, a black skirt and
red silk blouse.  Her gold bracelet glittered as her arm moved, and her
earrings swung.  She'd been to a salon last week, had her hair cut and
colored.  It was parted in the middle and stood out from her head in
dark, heavy waves.  She was wearing makeup again.  No more pills.  Up
early, working late.

He took a long swallow of beer.  "What's going on with Melanie?  Is she
failing her classes?  Has she got a crush on some boy who won't look at
her?"

"God knows.  She refuses to discuss it.  I told her, fine, stay in your
room and brood.  Come out when you can behave properly."

Sam asked, "What is that you're working on?"

"It's for the lawsuit."

Which could only mean Hagen vs.  Harley-Davidson, et al., still unfiled
and unlikely ever to be filed.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the windows, the darkness beyond
making a mirror of them.  He looked like shit.  He pulled off his
loosened tie and walked back to the kitchen to throw away the empty
bottle.

Her voice followed him.  "Who died, Sam?  What was it?  A robbery?  A
fight of some kind?"

"George Fonseca," he said.

"I know that name."

"A defendant in the Duncan sexual battery case." Sam came back with
another beer and sat down in one of the upholstered side chairs.  The
lamp reflected in the tall cabinet that held the china they never used
anymore.  He could see Dina's profile in the glass.

"Fonseca.  Yes, the ex-boyfriend.  How did he die?"

"He was shot.  Twice." Sam took a swallow of beer.

"Not neat, but effective.  He bled out pretty fast.  I think he was
twenty-six years old."

She laid down her pencil.  "Charlie Sullivan was shot twice."

"Correct.  With a forty-five-caliber handgun.  It could be the same
shooter."

"Who?"

"No idea."

The corners of Dina's mouth turned up.  "Does Ali Duncan know yet about
George Fonseca?  She'll be ecstatic."

"Ecstatic?"

"One down, two to go.  Only Ruffini and Lamont left now."

"I don't think she expected any of them to get the death penalty."

Dina made an impatient noise with her tongue.  "Nothing would have
happened to him.  He wouldn't have been found guilty."

Eyes closed, Sam rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand.  "You
know, Dina, I'm damn good at my job.  I would not have lost this one.  I
promise you that."

She looked at him another moment, then turned back to her papers.  She
ran her finger down a column of numbers.

"What is that?"

"I have an appointment with Frank tomorrow morning." Dina clipped a
stack of papers together and set them aside.  Other little stacks were
spaced evenly on the table.

"Christ.  What the hell is this?  What is he making you do now?"

"He isn't making me do anything.  This is my idea." She lifted another
stack of papers out of a file.  The adding machine started up again.
Click-ca-thunk, click-click.

"I'm reconciling Matthew's checking account, which he never attended to.
He received almost twenty thousand dollars when he turned eighteen by
cashing in the savings bonds we purchased for him.  When he died he had
less than three hundred dollars.  Where did it go?"

"He spent it."

"On what?  He bought his motorcycle with his earnings from modeling."
She shook her head.  "Someone stole it."

"Stole it?" Sam paused with the beer halfway to his mouth.

"Yes.  If not outright theft, then a fraud of some kind.

You remember, Sam.  He was talking about investing in a business.
Someone must have taken his money in a spurious deal.  They robbed him."

Sam lowered the bottle to rest on his thigh.  $20,000.

Not so much money for a kid in a fast crowd on South Beach.  Matthew
could have run through that amount in weeks.  He could have spent it on
clothes, clubs, parties.

He could have snorted it, drunk it, even shot it into his arms.  "Dina,
it doesn't matter anymore."

She wet her thumb and flipped through a stack of cancelled checks.  "I'm
going to trace every one of these.

Someone as good as held a gun to his head and emptied out his bank
account.  Frank says we can sue whoever did this."

"Oh, Jesus," Sam muttered softly.

Her eyes lifted to pin him with a dark stare.  "I'm not asking you to
get involved.  You've made your position clear.  I'll take care of it.
Frank may require your signature on a document, but otherwise, you
needn't bother."

Sam finished his beer, then put it on the table.  He picked it up again,
wiping off the circle of condensation.

He said, "I've been thinking about Matthew lately.  It may surprise you,
but I do think about him, Dina.  I don't dwell on it, but sometimes .  .
.  he comes to mind." Sam took a breath to ease the tightness in his
chest.  "There was a lot about him I didn't know.  But I wasn't aware of
it at the time.  Not knowing, I mean."

She wrote down some figures with her mechanical pencil.  Dina had neat
handwriting, very precise.  She'd had her nails done.  Lengthened,
painted.  Whatever women did to their nails.

He set his bottle on the carpet beside his chair.  "Did Matthew ever
talk to you about Charlie Sullivan?" Dina looked up.  "Did he ever
mention the name?"

Twin lines appeared between her dark brows as if she'd drawn them there.
"Not that I recall.  He knew that man?

How?"

There was no point to this, Sam thought.  No reason to tell her.  He
said, "Around South Beach.  Matthew knew him from modeling.  One of the
witnesses on Ali Duncan's case told me they had met."

"So?  I don't see the importance."

He shook his head.  "It isn't important."

She sighed.  "Sam, you're drunk.  Why don't you go to bed?"

He laid his arm out on the table and clenched and unclenched his fist,
easing the stiffness.  "Today I was thinking about the time I took Matt
fishing up at Crystal River.  Don't know why I thought of it.  How old
was he, fourteen?"

"Fifteen.  It was his birthday.  June twenty-first."

"That's right.  It was.  We used your brother Nick's camper.  A long
weekend, just Matt and me.  It was great.

Shit, I don't think we caught anything, but we had a good time.  Did he
ever tell you about it?"

"Yes, Sam."

"We used to be buddies.  He said that.  'Hey, Dad, we're buddies." So
what happened?  I swear to you I don't know.

One day we're okay; then there's a wall between us, and he grew up on
the other side of it.  He was always closer to you.  What was he like,
Dina?  What ...  was my son like?"

Dina smiled.  "You're really asking that.  He was perfect.  He was-life.
Everything." The lamp made a circle of light on her files, the machine,
and her arm, sleeved in red silk, lying across the papers.  "Matthew
would have been twenty years old this month.  Twenty." She was silent
for a while, then said, "I can't talk about him now."

Sam dropped his hand over hers.  "Never mind." He stood up, steadying
himself on the back of the chair.

"Let's go to bed.  How the hell long has it been since you and I have
gotten into bed at the same time?  How long has it been since we made
love?  I'll bet you have that tallied up somewhere.  Do you?" He
laughed.  "You'd better hurry, or we'll be in the debit column again."

There might have been an exhalation of breath.  "Go on.

I have to finish this," she said.  "I'll be there soon."

Somewhere in the night he saw Dina sitting at the dining room table with
a .45-caliber pistol.  Loading it, metal clicking on metal.  Her fingers
moving quickly, precisely.

Pressing bullets into the clip.  Hollow-points.  Click.  Click.

What are .  you doing, honey?

I have to balance the accounts.

No, no.  Let me do it.

Sam saw himself looking down the barrel at a beautiful blond man, felt
the weight of the gun.  Then an elongated boom, slow motion.  Then
aiming at George Fonseca.

Pulling the trigger again, feeling the heavy steel shuddering in his
hand.

Heart slamming against his ribs, Sam sat up, disoriented.

Dina was a shape under the blanket.  He stared at her for a while.  She
breathed peacefully, a hand curled at her cheek.  He remembered his
dream, and his body trembled.

A sudden, horrific thought had shaken him to the bone.

Making no noise, he pushed back the blanket and got out of bed.

Tying his robe, Sam went downstairs to his study, a small room off the
living room.  Dina's antique mantel clock ticked softly as he passed by.
Three thirty-five A.M.

He closed the door and turned on the desk lamp.  The key to his gun
cabinet lay on top of the bookshelf across the room, out of sight.  The
cabinet, six feet tall, was paneled in oak.  He opened the decorative
door and inserted the key.

Past the inner walls, made of steel, were his single-shot .22 from
boyhood, a double-barreled twelve-gauge, a restored Mauser, a .357
Winchester hunting rifle with a scope, a .3 8 Smith & Wesson
chrome-plated revolver in a leather zipper bag, and his Colt pistol,
military issue.  The pistol was in a wood box.  Also in the cabinet were
bluing, machine oil, rags, brushes, and boxes of ammunition to fit the
various firearms.  Sam pulled the .45 rounds off the shelf.  Neat rows
of bullets.  One box of steel-jacketed rounds, two of hollow-points,
plus another half full.  He couldn't remember how many rounds were in
there, last time he looked.

He opened the box that held his .45.  The pistol was there along with
three clips, all loaded, nine rounds each.

He took out the gun.  Not so heavy now, but it would weigh close to two
pounds fully loaded.  He checked the chamber.  Empty.  Checked the
action, pulled back the slide, fired it dry, then did it again.  The
clicks were loud in the quiet room.  He shoved in a clip with the heel
of his hand, sighted down the barrel.  Then unloaded, rechecking the
chamber.  He smelled the barrel and ran his hands over the crosshatched
wood grip and the smooth, gray metal, looking at his fingertips
afterward.

Nothing.  It was clean, only the faint scent of oil.  Sam sat heavily in
his lounge chair.  "You're crazy, that's what."

If Dina walked in here right now, asking what he was doing up at this
hour, playing with his guns, he wouldn't know what to tell her.  He
would feel ridiculous as hell.

This pistol had been smuggled out of Vietnam by way of a friend in
transportation.  Sam had carried it in combat.

Had used it.  Maybe he had stolen it because he'd thought it was lucky.
It had saved his life a couple of times.

Now he looked down at the Colt, which he still held by the grip.  He got
up, put the pistol back into its box, returned the box to the cabinet,
and locked the door.

CHAPTER Twenty-Four

or an art exhibit on Miami Beach in the month of June, Ion after the
season was over, Caitlin's show wasn't Fdoing too badly. She allowed
herself another glass of champagne.  Her photographs looked splendid,
mounted on the high, white walls.  Five or six had already been sold.

Paula DeMarco, the gallery owner, had planned the usual wine and cheese
and crackers.  Caitlin had run her charge card to the limit having the
show catered with champagne.  She was wearing loose slacks and a
handpainted vest, looking properly artsy.  On South Beach, image was
everything.

Now she was in the middle of an interview with a freelance writer for
Ocean Drive magazine.  He wanted to know how a fashion model could make
the leap to art photography.  Then he asked what other top models she'd
worked with.  And wasn't it great that the Beach was acquiring some of
the cultural ambiance of New York?

Caitlin said yes, she'd heard about a new restaurant opening up on
Collins where the waiters were all transvestites.

Very East Village, didn't he think?  Then he asked if she had any shows
this summer.  She said there would be an exhibit in Soho, a gallery on
Mulberry Street.  A lie, and he probably knew it but wrote it down
anyway.  Surely, before the summer was out, she would have a show
somewhere.  The reporter had a camera and asked to take her picture.

Sipping her champagne, Caitlin glanced past him toward the door.  A
young couple going out, a trio of men coming in.  Catching herself, she
muttered idiot under her breath.  She knew what she was doing, for the
hundredth time tonight: looking for Sam Hagen.  The more rational part
of her brain told her this was the last place he'd show up.

"Caitlin, I adore your photographs!" A model agent she'd known for years
gave her a fumbling hug.  The woman was high or drunk, possibly both.
"But I knew you had talent.  Didn't I say that?  Didn't IT'

"Thanks," Caidin said.  "They're for sale." For less than you paidfor
those ugly shoes, she added to herself.

The woman grabbed the reporter's shoulder.  "Brian!

My God, somebody told me you'd gone to L.A."

Caitlin slipped away, nearly bumping into Rafael Soto around the other
side of a divider.  He was speaking Spanish to a good-looking man about
thirty.  Caitlin took the cigarette out of Rafael's hand and filled her
lungs.

Exhaling smoke, she said, "Thank you so much."

He took it back.  "That's all you get.  Caitlin, this is Julio.  Julio,
esta loca es mi amiga preciosa, Caitlin."

"Hi," said Julio.  He had eyes as dark as Rafael's, and perfect teeth.

"Hello.  Did you come willingly tonight, or did Rafael twist your armT'

"Please?"

Rafael did a fast translation, then said, "Julio just moved here from
Paraguay.  He speaks no English, so I'm showing him around."

"He's gorgeous.  Should I say congratulations?"

"Not yet, but stay tuned." Behind the red-framed glasses, Rafael's eyes
shifted across the gallery.  "Oh, God.  Your ex just walked through the
door."

Caitlin glanced around.  Frank Tolin was looking at her.

He smiled.  Then picked up a gallery guide and walked toward the first
grouping of photos as if he had actually come here to see them.

"Have him thrown out," Rafael suggested.

She turned her back.  "He'll leave if I don't speak to him."

Rafael chattered on, but Caitlin didn't hear him.

Frank's presence in the room intruded like speakers turned up to high
volume.  In the past ten days, Frank had left so many pleading messages
on her voice mail she'd lost count at fifty.  He had sent flowers.  She
refused delivery, but they kept coming.  Two days ago she'd found all
the equipment Frank had taken from her studio stacked up neatly outside
her door.  She sold it all to pay some bills.

She was packing up, finishing leftover jobs, and calling old contacts in
New York.  In two weeks she would be gone.

"Caitlin, Hiii-ii-in!"

A tall, black-haired girl in a short white dress was coming toward her,
arms extended.  If Caitlin hadn't noticed Tommy Chang next to her, she
wouldn't have known who it was.  Ali Duncan.

Caitlin gave her a quick hug.  "What are you doing here?"

The day after George Fonseca's murder, Ali had gone back to live with
her mother.  She'd told Caitlin that Sam Hagen had practically forced
her to.  "Tommy drove all the way up to Broward County to get me
tonight." She patted his chest.  "Isn't he sweet?"

Tommy blushed.  His long black hair was tied back with a beaded strip of
leather.  This was the first time Caitlin had seen him in long pants and
a new shirt.

Ali smiled at Caitlin through the dark glasses.  "I'm not afraid to be
on South Beach.  All these people around?

Nothing's going to happen.  I had to see your show, Caitlin.  It's so
genius!" The black, wedge-shaped wig was short in back, longer in front,
with heavy bangs across her forehead.  Her sleeveless white minidress
skimmed her perky little butt and high breasts.  Waving toward the
linen-draped table at the rear of the gallery, she pouted prettily with
a mouth made scarlet by glossy lipstick.  "Go get me some champagne,
Tommy.  Please?" When he was gone, she said quietly, "He is really nice,
but so protective you would not believe."

How easily she ordered him around, Caitlin thought.

How readily he complied.  One of them would eventually suffer when this
romance ended, and it wasn't likely to be Ali Duncan.

Caitlin scanned the gallery.  Frank Tolin had wandered to the candid
photos of models on a runway, pretending to study them. Acting casual.
Hands in his pockets.  Wearing the Armani double-breasted suit she'd
picked out for him last year in New York. His eyes shifted to meet hers,
piercing.

Quickly she turned back to Ali.  "Are you working?"

"Yeah.  I'm doing okay.  I got a booking in Fort Lauderdale.  It's like,
nobody heard of me up there, so it's cool.

My mother is driving me crazy, though." Ali took her cigarettes out of
her tiny purse, then fished around for a lighter.  "I am still in total
shock about George."

"That's a strange reaction," Caitlin said.

Ali lit her cigarette, and for a second her blue eyes flashed over the
top of her sunglasses, making sure Tommy wasn't on his way back.  "I
didn't want George to die.  I was trying to tell Mr.  Hagen it wasn't
George who was the worst, but he won't listen.  He's so, like, Be quiet,
Miss Duncan, what do you know?"

Her elbow on a hipbone, she took a long drag on her cigarette.  "God, I
can't stand living like this.  Caitlin, why am I putting myself through
hell for a bunch of cops and state attorneys who only want to use me?
Like, to chase Klaus Ruffini out of South Beach.  And Mr.  Hagen was on
a TV interview show on Sunday, did you see him?  I'm his most visible
case.  The reporter said that.  And he goes, 'Mr.  Hagen, are you going
to run for state attorneyT Ha.

Is Mickey a mouse?"

"Ali, they won't let you drop it."

"I know.  I said I was sick of this, and he gives me this really mean
look and says it doesn't matter.  It's not my case anymore, it belongs
to the state of Florida." She made a muffled scream through clamped
teeth.  "I wanted to show George, and now I can't.  Oh, damn.  Damn.
Why'd he have to get shot?  It isn't fair." Her lips trembled.  "I
didn't want him dead."

Frank had moved closer, no longer pretending to look at the pictures. He
stood silently and stared.

Caitlin took Ali's arm and walked her slowly around a group of
chattering social types, all of them munching on hors d'oeuvres.  She
found a place along the windows that faced the side street.

"Ali, you did the right thing.  You were so brave."

"Brave.  Yeah.  Try stupid.  I should've gone to see Tereza Ruffini when
she asked me to." Ali laughed.  "Now she's out of the country and it's
too late, and I'm modeling for Kmart."

Tommy came back with her champagne and another glass for Caitlin, who
held it without drinking.  Her hands were trembling slightly.  As if her
vision could extend at all angles, she saw Frank behind her, watching.
Waiting till she was alone.  It was nearly nine o'clock now, and the
crowd in the gallery was thinning out.

When a male friend of hers, a graphic artist, started a conversation,
Tommy and Ali drifted away, hand in hand, to look at the pictures.  The
graphic artist owned a production company in the design district in
Miami.  They got into a friendly argument about digital cameras and
manipulation of imagery.  Caitlin stupidly had to ask him to repeat what
he had said.  She couldn't concentrate.

Then Frank was standing beside her.  He'd bought something, which was
now tucked into a large, maroon plastic bag with the name of the gallery
in gold.  "Forgive me for interrupting," he said.  "I wanted to tell Ms.
Dorn how much I admire her work.  I just purchased the series of night
views of Lincoln Road."

Lips compressed, Caitlin stared at the floor for a moment, then swung
her hair off her face and looked directly at him.  She didn't want Frank
buying her photographs.

Didn't want them hanging in his living room.

"Thank you," she said, forcing a smile.  "Now excuse us?  We're in a
discussion here."

He touched her shoulder and she barely kept herself from recoiling. "May
I have a moment to speak to Ms.

Dorn privately?"

"Sure." The artist gave a confused smile and backed up a step.

She grabbed his arm, holding on to him.  "No.  People can't just come up
and intrude like this."

"Really, it's okay, I don't mind-"

"You have to excuse Caitlin," said Frank with a wan smile.  "We've been
involved for eight years.  Last week we had an argument-"

Caitlin spun toward Frank.  "How could you come here?"

"You know why.  I had to see you.  You won't return my calls, you won't
talk to me." Then he said to the other man, "I'm sorry.  I'm going to
pieces over this woman."

"Hey, it's okay."

Her voice hissed between her teeth.  "Leave me the fuck alone.  Okay?
Can I possibly make that plainer?"

Frank pulled back as if she'd spit at him.

Confused, the artist said, "Caitlin, take it easy."

"You stay out of this.  You have no idea."

He and Frank exchanged a glance.  Sympathy, man to man.  The artist blew
a little puff of air through pursed lips and walked away.

Frank grasped her arm above the elbow.  "What do you want from me?  Tell
me what to do, I'll do it.  Words may mean nothing to you, but right now
they're all I have.  To the depths of my soul I love you.  Catie, I
can't sleep.  I can't eat.  I try to work and the only thing on my mind
is you.  Please.  The lesson has been learned.  I haven't had a drink
since you left.  No drugs, nothing.  I'm clean, I swear.  Don't you
believe in redemption?  People change.

Now that we've learned so much, why throw it all away?"

"Bullshit.  You're such a manipulator." She laughed.

"Clients.  Witnesses.  The jury.  Me.  Not anymore.  Now you talk and
all I see is your mouth moving."

"Oh, look at you, baby.  You sell a few photos, get your name in the
paper, you forget what it was like on your own.  You'll come back." His
fingers tightened.  "You always have."

His head swiveled to look at Tommy Chang, who had come up beside them,
uncertain of what was going on.

"Caitlin, are you okay?"

"No."

Frank released her arm, making a production out of it, opening his hand
wide, stepping back a little, smiling, lines in his face like slashes,
deep and sharp.  "I apologize once again." He buttoned his jacket as if
for something to do.  Then he smiled at Tommy.  "I'll give you some
advice, young man.  Be careful with Caitlin.  The last one your age
didn't make it out alive."

Turning abruptly, Frank left the gallery, clutching the bag of
photographs under one arm.  He zigzagged through the dwindling crowd.

Tommy asked, "That thing he said.  What was that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing.  He's an asshole."

I came over to see if you want to go out with Ali and me.  We've got a
group together.  Rafael's coming."

Tommy patted her back.  "It's your night.  Celebrate.  And forget him,
okay?"

Tommy's face was guileless and open.

She smiled.  "Sure.  I'd like to come along."

On legs that still trembled, she went to thank the gallery owner for the
show.  She knew now that beneath her rage had yawned the queasy depths
of panic.  Maybe she was wrong.  It could be different betweeen them.
She had changed for the better, why couldn't he?  But she'd just sent
him away.  The man who had saved her from selfdestruction then put up
with her for eight years.  This show had been a joke.  A dozen photos
sold, and six of those to Frank.

Caitlin glanced toward the door.  She could see his dim figure through
the glass, walking away on Lincoln Road.

Detective Eugene Ryabin, arm in arm with his wife, slowed as they passed
the DeMarco Gallery on the other side of the street.

Anna asked, "Is this where they're showing Miss Dom's photographs?"

He moved to see around a street vendor selling African jewelry.  "I
believe so.  Yes."

"We'll go in if you want," Anna said.

"No.  Let's keep wailing." Ryabin's stomach was full from a dinner at an
Italian restaurant three blocks west, and his head pleasantly fuzzy from
the excellent chianti he and his wife had shared.  He put his hand over
hers, which rested lightly on his arm.  "A perfect evening for walking,
Anna.  Another two or three blocks.  But we'll go back if you're tired."

"Not at all." She patted his arm.  "Don't fuss so, Zhenya."

Anna was fifty-three, with not such a perfect heart, and he feared that
he would outlive her.

Melodies curled and ebbed on the faint breeze.  Musicians were spaced
along the mall.  He and Anna were now IL

passing a Spanish guitarist on a stool outside a natural foods
restaurant, and at the end of the block a woman violinist in black
concert attire played Beethoven.  Still farther along, steel drums
serenaded diners at candlelit outdoor tables.

Ryabin breathed deeply the humid, salt-scented air.

What a- wonderful place.  He had seen Miami Beach change from depressed
and shabby to sparkling and alive in the span of time they'd lived here,
eons from Odessa.

This was a shallow, emotional place, to be sure, but it was young, and
one had to forgive much in the young.

One had also to be prepared against criminals and opportunists, who
lurked everywhere, even on this pleasant street.  Ryabin wore his pistol
under his jacket.  He would no more leave it at home than go without his
trousers.

This pistol, a 17-shot Glock, lightweight and deadly, had been a
birthday present from Anna several years ago.  So you can have many more
of them, she had said, and kissed him.  There was only a husband to dote
on now.  Their two sons had moved away--one to Israel, the other to
California.  Grandchildren were far away.  Her own mother and sister
were dead.  After her mother's murder, Anna had asked no questions of
the police.  Having been a Jew in the Soviet Union, she had expected
nothing.  When the killer was found dead, she had only nodded.  The
death of her sister, Rivka, still weighed on her mind, but she assumed
that this, too, would someday be made right.  Ryabin wasn't certain
anymore.  He had wanted to bring in the drunks and vagrants who could
have set the fire, but his lieutenant warned him about due process.

It had always mystified Ryabin, the reluctance of the Americans to take
decisive action against criminals.  Such a naive and optimistic people,
believing that human nature was basically good.  Consequently, they were
always surprised when one of their number exhibited cruelty.

What is this world coming to?  they would ask, bewildered at the news of
another bombing, multiple murder, or looting.  As if the world had ever
been otherwise.  That reasonable, intelligent people could so allow
themselves to be tied in knots by rules and procedure staggered him.
Trials that went on for months.  The law turned inside out by sophistry
and guile.  The guilty set free by confused and divided juries.  He and
Sam Hagen had argued about this many times. They had never come to an
agreement.  Sam was much too quick to believe in institutions, as if
they had an intelligence beyond that of the fallible men and women who
ran them.  Ryabin had countered with an appeal to common sense.  Are we
more civilized for all the rules of law?  No. Less so.  With each new
rule we become weaker.

"Ah." Ryabin stopped walking.

"What is it, Zhenya?"

He led Anna toward a storefront under a black canvas awning.  "We've
never been in this one, have we?  Let's take a look."

Puzzled, she read the name written in jagged gold letters on the glass.
"Otero?  I don't think it's my style."

Anna had a neat, plump figure, like a dove.  In the window, stick-thin
mannequins in leather glared arrogantly back at her.  She began to
laugh.  "Oh, definitely not my style."

He said, "Anna, I have to speak with the manager.

She's usually here on Friday evenings."

"Zhenya, are you on duty?"

With a guilty smile, he said, "For a few minutes.  You don't mind, do
you?"

Anna rolled her eyes.  He held the door and they went inside.

It was nearly two in the morning when Tommy Chang dropped Caitlin
outside her building.  She got out of the Jeep, then leaned back through
the open window to grasp both his and Ali's hands.  She was clumsy from
too much wine and the lateness of the hour.

"You babies be careful," she said.  But they weren't going far.  Tommy
knew a friend with enough room in his apartment for two extra people.

Tommy said for her to go inside; they'd wait till she had unlocked the
downstairs entry door.  The engine throbbed softly on the quiet street,
and the headlights pressed into the darkness.  It had rained earlier,
and the humidity was so thick any exertion would raise a sweat.

Caitlin stumbled into one of the aluminum porch chairs, righted it, then
unlocked the door.  She waved good-bye as she opened it, and the Jeep
turned the corner.

A row of overhead lights, each in a frosted tulip shade, extended down
the hallway, which was painted pale yellow and floored in terrazzo.
There was a staircase at each end, and through the jalousie windows on
the landings, left open for the cross breeze, came the faint rush of
traffic on Washington Avenue, two blocks away.

She closed the front door quietly.  It would automatically lock.  Harold
Perlstein slept at odd hours.  If he were awake he would open his
apartment door a crack to see who was coming in at this time of the
night.  In the momentary silence she heard a noise from upstairs.  A
shifting, a footfall.  But not in one of the apartments.  Caitlin looked
up at the ceiling.  There was a staircase to her right.

Nothing had ever happened in this building, she reminded herself.  A few
thefts, but only among people who knew each other or had a key.  There
had been no muggings, rapes, or murders.  But her nerves were as tense
as electric wires, her ears alert to the slightest sounds.

She slipped out of her shoes and moved noiselessly along the hall to the
back door, intending to go out that way.  Before she could reach it, she
heard footsteps on the front stairs.  She hurried up the rear staircase
and stopped on the landing.  Pressing close to the wall, she peered
along the upper hall at floor level.  Frank Tolin was rounding the
landing on the other stairs, going down.  She pulled her head back, her
heart jumping wildly in her chest.  She went up two more steps to stay
out of his line of vision.  He knew she was here.  He must have seen
Tommy dropping her off.  He had a key to the building, but not to her
apartment; she had changed it.

She forced her breathing to slow down.  There were people here.  If she
screamed someone would come out to see what was the matter.

Bending to look into the lower hallway, she saw a pair of cowboy boots
coming down the stairs on the other side.

She went farther up the back stairs.  The upper hall was empty.  If he
came back up, he would see her clearly, exposed in the line of upstairs
lights.  She heard footsteps, then the front door opening.  Closing.
Then nothing.  She waited for several minutes.  Finally she fled toward
her apartment at the front of the building, fumbling in her purse for
her keys.

The key was turning in the deadbolt before she noticed what lay on her
door mat.  A pile of paper, tiny bits.  It took her a few seconds to see
what it was.  Her photographs.  Over four hundred dollars' worth of
paper, ripped into confetti.

When she opened the door her tabby cat poked his face through.  She
scooted him back inside and locked the door.  "Hello, you sweet old
thing.  Are you glad to see me?" Suddenly in tears, Caitlin dropped her
purse and shoes, picked up the cat, and hugged him till he squirmed out
of her arms.

The phone rang on her desk.  The voice mail would pick up after the
second ring, but Caitlin grabbed the receiver.

"You think it's funny, what you did?"

"Are you alone?" Frank was probably sitting in his car, watching her
windows.

"No.  I have four Miami Beach cops with me.  Listen to me, Frank.  Stop
calling.  I'm not going to talk to you.  It's over.  For God's sake, let
it go with a little dignity.  You're being ridiculous."

"I saw you come home with that Chinese boy.  You left the gallery at
eight forty-five.  What have you been doing for over five hoursT'

"None of your goddamn business.  Okay?  Don't call me again.  Don't come
by, don't write, don't-"

"Did you fuck the Chinese boy tonight, Catie?"

"Don't speak to me again.  If I get phone calls or see your face or see
any evidence that you were near my apartment, I'm going to the police
for a restraining order.

I'll mail a copy to your partners, the Florida Bar, every business in
your building and every client of yours whose name I can possibly
remember!"

For a second or two the phone was silent, then came Frank's soft voice.
"Be advised, Ms.  Dom.  Find other accommodations.  Monday at eight
A.M., a crew will arrive to clean and paint that apartment.  Anything
left on the premises will be disposed of."

"Oh, go to hell.  That's not even legal!"

"Sue me." He laughed.  "You're hot shit now.  Sell a few photos to some
faggots on South Beach, you don't need Sugar Daddy anymore do you,
bitch?"

She slammed down the receiver.

Shaking, she unhooked the telephone, then went into the kitchen and did
the same with the extension even as it started to ring.

It was dawn before she fell asleep, fully dressed and curled up on the
sofa with the cat.  Heavy boxes were stacked in front of the locked
door, with a pan of silverware balanced to fall crashing, at the
slightest jostle.

CHAPTER Twenty-Five

The arraignment of Klaus Ruffini and Marquis Lamont was set for Tuesday
at 8:30 A.M.  in courtroom 4-3, half Tan hour before Sam Hagen was due
to begin jury selection in a murder trial in another division.  Sam had
told his co-counsel to stall till he could get there. The owner of a
small auto repair shop in Hialeah had been killed and a worker
critically wounded by a gunman who had already taken the cash. Shot as
an afterthought, like turning off the lights when he left the room.

The media, however, were more interested in a celebrity rape case.  The
unsolved murders of a drugdealing defendant and a male-model witness had
fueled the hype.  A TV camera was set up on the front row to feed three
local and two network stations, and reporters clogged the spectator
seats, waiting for the judge to enter the courtroom.

Sam could have come through the back, but he took the main corridor.  As
he'd expected, he was immediately surrounded by reporters.  He made a
statement, something about the state not being intimidated by defense
references to selective prosecution.  It's ludicrous to imply an
anti-immigrant, anti-minority plot.  These men committed a crime, and
they'll be tried like anyone else.  There was a question about the
murders: Was either of the remaining defendants a suspect?  We're not
ruling anybody out.  Was it true that Fonseca had requested immunity to
testify for the tate?  I'm not going to comment on that.

Now Sam stood waiting for court to begin, talking to Juan Casares,
deputy chief of the felony division.  Casares was Cuban, but no fan of
Eddie Mora.  Sam had invited him to be present, get his face on the
national news.  The members of the prosecution team were already at the
state's counsel table: Lydia Hernandez and Joe McGee.  A female presence
was wanted to stand in for the victim, and McGee would counterbalance
the African-American defendant.

Directly across the courtroom, Norman Singletary and Gerald Fine were
conferring with their respective clients.

Marquis Lamont and Klaus Ruffini were here for show, not because their
presence was required.  Lamont stared down at his clasped hands or
exchanged looks with his wife, seated in the first row.  Klaus Ruffini
leaned back in the wooden armchair with one foot propped on his knee,
whispering into Fine's ear.  Someone had persuaded Ruffini to wear a
conservative blue suit.  Both lawyers had co-counsel, who sat behind
them.  As there were no more seats at the table, the assistant public
defenders had taken chairs near the court clerk's table.  The dozen
private lawyers whose cases were also scheduled for the 8:30 arraignment
calendar stood along the walls.  The jury box was filled with defendants
who hadn't made bond, an assembly of mostly young, mostly black or
Hispanic men, some wearing shapeless blue shirts supplied by the county
jail.  One man kept waving at the camera, which as yet had not been
turned on.

The bailiff was telling the spectators to leave if they didn't have a
seat.  An argument broke out in the last row.

Sam pulled back his cuff.  8:40.  The judge was late.  Generally the
arraignment calendar was called in numerical order, but State vs.
Ruffini and Lamont would be called first.

Juan Casares turned his back on the reporters to speak -to Sam in a low
voice.  "Did you read the local section this morning?"

Sam nodded.

"What are you going to do?"

"Not a damn thing.  What can I do?"

Victoria Duran, deputy chief of administration, had been asked for a
reaction to news that Eddie Mora would resign to run for national
office.  After the usual brownnosing reference to his accomplishments as
Dade state attorney, she had expressed hope that Mora's successor,
whoever it might be, would put more importance on fighting street crime
than turning trials into media events.  The allusion to the head of
Major Crimes was obvious.  Speaking to Juan Casares, Sam had kept his
reaction neutral.  An hour ago, reading the article in his office, Sam
had hurled the paper into his trash can.  He would return Beekie's dig,
but in his own time.

"All ris@." Everyone stood while the judge entered.  The videocamera
panned across the courtroom.

The judge read the charges.  Ruffini, then Lamont, entered a plea of not
guilty.  Their lawyers asked for a reduction in bond, which was denied.
Gerald Fine made a pitch for getting Klaus Ruffini's passport back,
which was also denied.  Singletary complained that the state was
refusing access to evidence held at the Metro-Dade police lab.  The
judge granted the state's motion to supervise defense examination of
evidence taken at the scene.  The clerk announced the trial date:
Monday, August 6, at 9:00 A.M.

The arraignment was over, ten minutes after it had begun.

As the clerk called the next case, Ruffini and Lamont, surrounded by
lawyers and reporters, pushed toward the exit.  Sam talked to the other
prosecutors for a moment, then went out the back way.  He had already
said what he wanted to say.  He was expected upstairs 'or a mu r trial.

The case upstairs pled out.  As soon as Sam came into the courtroom, the
public defender asked for a conference.

The prospective jurors were sent back downstairs.  The judge took care
of other business while the defendant slouched sullenly in his chair and
the jailer sat by the door reading a newspaper.  This courtroom was a
small one, with a low ceiling and two short rows of spectators' seats.

Sam and the P.D.  went outside to talk.  He was in his early thirties, a
frazzled man, a month overdue for a haircut.

The defendant would take life, he said.  Minimum twenty-five years.

Arms crossed, Sam leaned a shoulder against the wall.

"Not enough.  I want two consecutive life sentences, no parole."

"He's nineteen fucking years old!  You read the psychological report on
this kid.  Sexual abuse.  Beatings.  He's got an IQ of eighty."

"This kid, your scurnball client, also has a rap sheet six pages long.
He shot a sixteen-year-old in the back last year and got sixty days on a
piss-ass weapons violation because the victim wouldn't testify.  Now
we've got one man dead and one who barely survived.  Like I said.  Two
life sentences.  No parole."

"You'd never get the death penalty in this case."

"Then let's go to trial."

Neither of them moved.  Finally the P.D.  said, "I know why you're
bustin' his chops, man.  You're running for state attorney.  It's
politics.  All politics."

Sam gave him a long look.  "Have we got a deal or don't we?  I'm ready
to pick a jury."

The P.D.  nodded wearily.

If Sam Hagen had been introducing himself to a panel of prospective
jurors in the small courtroom on the fifth floor of the justice
building, he would not have seen Dale Finley, the state attorney's
investigator, following delfonso Garcfa into an elevator.  Sam had gone
back across the street toward his office.  Walking through the metal
detectors, then around the corner to the elevators in the lobby, Sam
first noticed Finley's white crew cut, then Garcfa, with his sunburned,
campesino face.  Finley hesitated a split second, registering Sam's
presence just as the doors slid shut.

"What in hell?" Sam looked at the numbers.  The elevator stopped at two,
three, four, then finally five.  People getting on and off.  Or Dale
Finley not wanting Sam to know where he was taking Adela Ramos's
brother.  Sam waited a minute to see who might come down, then took
another elevator to the fourth floor.

The deputy chief of administration had an office not far from Edward
Mora's.  The state attorney himself had flown to Michigan for a meeting
with Senator Kirkland's people.  Sam had seen the picture in the Miami
Herald this morning.  Eddie and his wife, Arnalia, smiling at the
presidential hopeful on the porch of his country house.

Sam stood at the desk belonging to Beekie's secretary.

The young woman's hands paused on her keyboard.  A second later, she
looked up.

He said, "Would you like to tell Ms.  Duran I'm out here, or should I
just go in?"

She paled a little, which told him he'd found Dale Finley.

Not precisely.  Finley had escorted Garcfa to Vicky Duran's offite, then
had left him in a chair facing her desk.

"How are you, Mr.  Garcfa?" Sam beckoned.  "Ms.  Duran.  May I see you
outside?"

She was just hanging up the telephone.  Her secretary must have made the
call.  delfonso Garcfa, whose thick hands rested on his knees, nodded at
Sam.  No guilt on that face.  It hadn't been his idea.

Bookie said, "Oh.  Mr.  Hagen.  I was told you were unavailable in
trial."

"Ms.  Duran?  Outside, please."

She apparently thought better of arguing in her office.

In a conference room two doors down, she let go.  "This is outrageous!
What do you think you are doing?" Her heavy auburn hair seemed to
bristle.

Sam closed in on her.  "The uncle of a murder victim on one of my cases
is in your office, and I want to know why.

"He came to see you, and you were in court, so I agreed to speak to
him."

"That's a lie.  You had Dale Finley bring him here."

Beekie pivoted away, spreading her hands in a shrug.  "I was concerned
about the relatives of the Ramos boy.  The man who killed him was
acquitted, and if this office was responsible in some way for that
outcome, then I wanted to make sure-"

She flinched when Sam slammed his fist on the conference table.  "What
did you tell him?  That you're personally going to retry Luis Balmaseda?
Make sure you get him this time, Bookie, fuck double jeopardy."

"I didn't brush them off, Sam, as you did.  I didn't em-   I I barrass
Mr.  Garcfa by using him as an object lesson for two new lawyers." Her
brown eyes had dilated to black.

"You know that Luis Balmaseda has been threatening Adela Ramos."

"What the hell can we do about it that we haven't done?

Have him arrested?  I told them to go to the police.  Have they?"

"Yes.  And nothing has happened."

"Then lot's get some rope and string him up!"

"I won't take your shit." She spun toward the door.

"Jesus Christ." Sam leaned on his hands.  "Vicky, let me say this.  You
are out of line.  So far out of line it staggers comprehension.  And I
thought when you shot off your mouth to the Miami Herald it was bad."

Pushing himself from the table, Sam said, "We're going back to your
office.  We will speak to delfonso Garcfa together.  I don't care what
words you choose, but you will be sympathetic.  Tell him to make a
police report.  Tell him we'll prosecute."

"I have told him!  I know the law!" Her body stiffened.

"You don't give me orders."

Sam put a hand flat on the door when she went toward it.  "You're afraid
Eddie won't take you with him if he makes it to Washington, aren't you?
His wife would raise a stink about it.  So you want his job.  And you
want to make sure I look bad before the governor names an interim state
attorney."

"Get out of my way." Her voice was a low growl.  He was so close he
could see the pockmarks under the makeup and smell her heavy perfume.

"We've got a quandary here, Bookie.  I don't want to pick up the paper
and read your opinions about Luis Balmaseda's acquittal.  It would be
embarrassing for Eddie, allowing the chief of administration to get into
areas that are none of her business, and he'd have to fire your ass.  Or
send you to prosecute traffic cases in Liberty City.  But I don't plan
to bring this up with Eddie unless I have to."

Her mouth twitched.  "What bothers you the most, Sam?

That I'm telling the truth about Balmaseda?  It was mishandled.  You
fucked up.  Now the sexual battery case is falling apart.  The main
witness is dead, and the others are getting scared." She smiled.  "Will
you sacrifice yourself to put Miss Dom on the stand?  I doubt that your
precious integrity would go that far.  You're going to lose, and I think
you know this already."

With great effort Sam kept himself from shoving Beekie Duran into the
wall.  He took a slow breath.  His shirt collar was cutting into his
neck.

She gestured toward the door.  "Open it.  Mr.  Garcfa is waiting."

Her appointments with Frank Tolin had become as necessary to Dina as
breath, or prayer.  His office was so peaceful: the faraway buzz of a
telephone, voices fading in the corridor, muffled traffic on the street
ten floors below.

Sunlight poured in like a benediction on the clean white walls.  It
gleamed on polished wood and rows of law books with their titles in
gold.  Sometimes Dina sat on one end of the sofa, Frank on the other,
their cups of coffee in their hands.  More often they took their
traditional places across his desk: attorney and client.  Dina would sit
in an English club chair with wings, a buttoned back, ball-andclaw feet,
and bright lines of upholsterer's tacks, not a hairsbreadth between any
of them; she had looked.  The leather itself was slightly mottled, its
imperfection a reminder that once it had been alive.

The windows in the office faced east, toward the Atlantic.  Listening
while Dina talked, Frank would watch out the windows as if from a train
moving steadily, steadily north.  His chair was black leather.  He would
lean on one elbow, stroking his thin face with his fingers.  Or he would
lean farther back with his feet crossed on a corner of the desk.  She
had pointed out the mark his heels made on the wood, but he had said she
shouldn't worry.

Polishing would take it out.  He had many pairs of boots.

She had counted seven.

Dina always called before coming.  Sometimes she stayed ten minutes;
sometimes hours.  They had established a protocol.  Upon entering the
office, she would inquire about progress in the wrongful death action.
Samuel J.  Hagen and Constandina P.  Hagen vs.  Uncle Andy's, Inc., et
al.  Her question: How is the lawsuit coming along?  Frank's response:
We're still in the process of investigation.  Then he would invite her
to sit down; he would buzz his secretary to bring tea or coffee.  Dina
had worried about fees, the original retainer long gone.  Frank said it
didn't matter.  When they recovered in the lawsuit, they would settle
up.

Thus freed, she had talked and he had listened.  As if a plug had been
stuck in her throat for months, the words came tentatively at first,
then in a rush, a frothing swirl, a flood.  She was swept in the
current, sucked under, then thrown clear, then racing on a thundering
tide of words.

She had talked about Matthew.  His life.  His wrongful death.  Matthew.
A long drop, a cataract!  Her tongue and lips moving, words filling the
room till she thought the windows might crack from the pressure.
Everything she had wanted to say to Sam, who hadn't wanted to listen.
Scenes thought of, dreamed and raged about and wept for..  Sickening
spins of anger, betrayal, and despair.

Frank listened to her talk about loss and death, love and betrayal,
matters philosophical and mundane.  They discussed justice, violence,
decay, and the soullessness of cities.  They had talked about their own
lives.  Dina's work, which meant nothing to her now.  Frank understood;
he could hardly bring himself to the office anymore.

Somehow, yes, she had let go of the words about Sam's affair, but Frank
said he already knew, not to worry.  It doesn't matter anymore to me
either, she had said.  They talked about the burden of knowledge and the
pain of truth.

Sam had been discussed in those many hours of conversation.  His
ambition, which had consumed him from inside.  He was disintegrating.
She could see cracks, as if he were a block a granite on unstable
ground.  They had talked about Melanie, about Frank's two boys, about
the sweet ignorance of children.  Dina had told Frank how Matthew
rescued the cross on Epiphany Day, and how Sevasti Pondakos had killed a
Turkish soldier with an ax when she was only sixteen.  How she herself,
Constandina Pondakos, would go back to Tarpon Springs before she died.
And if she died tomorrow, she wouldn't be afraid.

She would be with Matthew again, who was at peace.  She told Frank, what
matters is not how or when we die but what we do in those final hours,
when our lives are brought to account.  How dimly we see, when we are
young.  The closer to ultimate darkness, the brighter the light.

Such talks we have had, Frank.

The joy of it, the pleasure of moving lips and tongue and hands.  An
unburdening, a letting go, a nakedness, a primitive unawareness.  Eden.
If such a word as happy had a meaning anymore, she knew what it was.

Then she saw Frank staring at her.

She touched her hair.  Asked why he was looking at her that way.

He took so long to answer that she thought he'd been struck dumb,
paralyzed, or even had died with his eyes still open.  Finally he said,
"Sorry.  I'm just now beginning to understand you, Dina."

Then she noticed the windows.  How dark they were.  The sky had turned a
strange, sickly green.  Dina walked over to see.  From the west a huge
mass of black, a summer storm, was moving quickly across the sky,
pulling with it a dark curtain of rain.  Lightning flashed inside
towering clouds, making them glow and flicker.  Her father had told her
this meant quarrels among the gods and goddesses, who were hurling
thunderbolts at each other.  Dina wondered what it would be like inside
the dark clouds, being carried up in a long spiral, arms outstretched,
her cloak swirling behind her.

Turning back to the room she told Frank she'd taken too much of his
time.  There was no reason, was there, for continuing the lawsuit?  Or
even for these visits?  She should go home before it started to rain.

"Is it going to rain?" He came to the window, frowning.

"The sky's clear, Dina."

She pressed her fingers to the glass, felt the trembling of thunder, and
told him of course it was going to rain, couldn't he see the lightning?

He looked at her for a long time, then took both her hands and brought
them to his lips.  His mustache prickled against her skin.  She tugged,
but he held her fast.

"Don't leave, Dina.  I need to talk to someone I trust.  I need that so
much.  Can't you stay a little longer?"

W

Finally she said she would.  He led her to the wing chair and had his
secretary bring them tea.

They talked while the storm rolled over the city.  The lights flickered
and went out, then came back on, and -kin poured down the windows.

CHAPTER Twenty-Six

On Wednesday morning, Sam drove to Miami Beach police headquarters to
see Gene Ryabin.  He found him at Ohis desk, talking on the telephone to
someone who'd had her chain ripped off her neck while she dozed by the
hotel pool.  As Ryabin talked, he poked at a slice of chocolate cake
with a plastic fork.

When Sam rolled a chair over, Ryabin slid some papers toward him-initial
forensics reports on George Fonseca.

Sam sat down and put on his glasses.  The ballistics report was on top.

Fragments of two .45-caliber hollow-point bullets had been removed from
Fonseca's abdomen and thigh, and other fragments had been found in the
driver's side door and on the floor of his car.  A third bullet, nearly
intact, had been recovered from the seat.  They matched the fragments
taken from Charlie Sullivan's chest and head.  No cartridge casings had
been found at either scene, but the bullets were identified as 185-grain
Remington hollow-points.  As they'd been designed to do, these heavy,
lumbering bullets had mushroomed, then had broken up as they tumbled
through the victims' bodies.

Sam flipped to a narrative written by the crime-scene a technicians.
After hauling the Mustang to the police garage, they had sifted through
the trash, bottles, and beer cans, finding scraps of polyester fluff and
heavy, woven vinyl of the type used for luggage and gym bags.  Some of
the vinyl bits were partially melted.

Last Friday Sam had spoken to Dr.  David Corso at the medical examiner's
office.  Corso said he had pulled a few fragments of black plastic and
polyester fluff from the hole in Fonseca's thigh.  It seemed likely to
Sam that the shooter had fired through a bag.  The blow-out had carried
the melted vinyl into the wound, along with scraps of whatever the
shooter had used to muffle the noise, probably a small pillow stuffed
with polyester fill.  Wrapping the barrel tightly in a loose fabric,
such as a towel, might have jammed the slide.  The bag also explained
the absence of cartridge casings at the scene.  Normally the casings
would have been ejected from the chamber as the slide moved back.

The autopsy had been inconclusive on the subject of the shooter's
height.  The trajectory of the first shot had been slightly upward, but
Sullivan had been six feet tall.

Now Ryabin was telling the robbery victim on the other end of the line
to come in, make a police report, look at some photos.  He'd take care
of it personally.  Then he grinned into the phone, saying thank you,
he'd been told that many times about his accent.  No, not France.

Ukraine.  On the Black Sea.  Yes, very romantic.

His cork bulletin board was thick with notices, schedules, cop cartoons,
Polaroids of suspects, snapshots of grandchildren, and postcards from
Odessa.  A drawing of an electric chair bore the caption: "Justice Done
Well Is Justice Well Done." Across the room a detective was tapping a
report into the computer, and Ryabin's partner, Nestor Lopez, was on the
phone speaking Spanish.

Beyond the open door a uniformed sergeant sat on the desk near the
holding cells.  His feet swung slowly.  Sam couldn't see who he was
talking to.  "You can't keep doing' this shit.  You won't be sixteen
forever.  Wait'll you get to Raiford.  They got guys up there that would
love to get hold of you.  You going' up the state, Mario?  ...  You sure
about that?"

Ryabin finally hung up.  He looked down at the little plate of chocolate
cake.  "It's getting stale.  Someone left it in the refrigerator last
week.  At home I'm eating only grapefruit and toast for breakfast." His
smile lifted the hound-dog pouches under his eyes.  "Anna has put both
of us on diets.  This is what happens when you take your wife browsing
in expensive boutiques."

Sam said, "Pretty cheap of you, Gene, not to buy her a dress."

Ryabin nodded, swallowing another bite.  "If this were better, I
wouldn't feel so guilty about eating it." He stuck the fork in the
remaining cake and tossed it into his trash can.  He flicked a brown
crumb off the front of his immaculate shirt.

Sam gestured toward the police reports.  "Looks like whoever killed
Fonseca used a pillow as a silencer."

"Probably.  The lab will do an analysis.  Maybe they can tell us what
kind of pillow.  An airline pillow stolen off an Alitalia flight from
Milan!  Maybe we'll get lucky."

Nestor Lopez came over and leaned on the desk.

"You can use anything for a silencer.  Newspaper, oil filter.
Grapefruit.  I seen grapefruits on the floor next to a body.  Said, man,
what'd they do to this fruit?  It's all squashed, juice all over.  Then
I observed the gunpowder."

Ryabin patted his pocket for his cigarettes-a habit; smoking was banned
in the building.

Sam asked, "What about the beach where Sullivan was shot?  I know that
Corso found those bits of green cloth around the back of his head.  Did
you find any vinyl on the sand?"

Lopez shook his head.  "We weren't looking for that, and now, Christ,
people have been walking all over the sand for two weeks.  The shooter
might have shot through a bag, but we don't know."

Standing up, Ryabin said, "Sam, go with me outside.  I need a smoke."

It wasn't a cigarette he wanted, but privacy.  They climbed the stairs
to the third floor and found a vacant office.

Last Friday night, Ryabin began, he had taken Anna out to dinner on
Lincoln Road.  Her birthday, of course, but also to visit the boutique
owned by Claudia Otero.

Anna, bewildered that her husband would take her to such an expensive
store, went inside when he explained the purpose.  They spoke Russian
and pretended to admire the fashions while the manager, a young woman
with short-cropped hair, snorted cocaine in the back with her friends.
When Ryabin politely called her aside and asked if she would answer a
few questions, she not-so-politely refused, because wasn't it obvious
that these dumpy, middle-aged people were only looking, taking up her
time?  Then Ryabin smiled, pulled out his badge, and told her she was
under arrest for possession of a controlled substance.  She became more
cooperative at the station.

Ryabin said, "I don't speak Spanish well, but Lopez does.  You might not
believe me, Sam, but Lopez is a talented man.  At six o'clock Monday
morning we're calling Spain.  Then France.  I'm running all over the
building, finding officers to speak French and German.

The telephone bills are going to be outrageous.  In any event, Otero,
the company, has the main offices in Madrid.  I'm making a report in
writing, which later you can read.  Now I'll give you the gist.  Claudia
Otero's family left Cuba in 1961 and went to Spain.  In 1968 they
relocated to New York and became American citizens, but Claudia stayed
in Europe.  She studied art.  She was a fashion model briefly, then
married one rich man, then another, and became involved in designing.
Ten years ago in Paris she opened a clothing store, then another in
Madrid, then one in Nice, and so on.  Now she has forty-six of them.
Europe, North and South America, most of them resort areas.  In Japan
she has three.  And a new one-but the opening has been postponed-in
Cuba."

"Cuba." Sam locked his fingers on top of his head and leaned back in his
chair.  "Why was it postponed?"

"They say red tape with the Cuban government."

Ryabin made a wry smile.

"Lots of tourists in Havana?  With money?"

"Oh, yes.  Many Europeans, many from Eastern European countries.  Many
English and Canadians.  But not Americans, of course, because our State
Department won't allow us to travel to Cuba.  Some get in, family
members, journalists, and so on, but Anna and I had to go through
Jamaica."

"What were you and Anna doing in Cuba?"

"Enjoying the beach and the nightclubs.  We went because the State
Department forbids it." His face was round, smiling.  "I'm an American
now, Sam, but if I wanted restrictions on my travel, I would never have
left the Soviet Union."

"You didn't see Amalia Mora dancing at the Tropicana?"

Ryabin laughed.  "No.  But she met Claudia Otero last October at a
nearby resort town that caters to rich Spaniards and where, by
coincidence, Claudia's store will be located-when it opens."

"The Cuban exile community wouldn't be pleased with Amalia Mora, if they
knew."

"The American government wouldn't like Amalia Mora helping her sister
open a business in Cuba." He added regretfully, "I believe this, but I
don't have proof"

Sam had to get out of his chair and walk around the office awhile.  He
thought of what Caitlin Dom had told him about the fashion industry. How
insular and selfreferential.  He said, "Klaus Ruffini may have known
about Claudia and Amalia, being in the same business.

His wife, Tereza, is a designer."

Ryabin nodded.  "That occurred to me, too."

"But why hasn't this made the news?  Ruffini was arraigned this morning.
He would have said something already."

"Maybe it's too late.  You decided to prosecute.  Eddie couldn't stop
you.  It was out of his control.  If Ruffini talks now, Eddie might make
it worse for him, if not in the criminal courts, then with his political
friends.  Ruffini could be deported.  So.  A standoff."

"Only until there isn't a case anymore," Sam said, "then Ruffini walks.
Sullivan is dead.  George is dead.  My witnesses are scared, and I don't
blame them."

Ryabin sat with his fingers knitted over his belly.  He looked at Sam.
"When the state attorney comes back, I think you should talk to him.
Tell him that the Miami Beach police want to question him in connection
with the deaths of Charlie Sullivan and George Fonseca, both of whom
were prepared to testify on a case that he didn't want to prosecute. Ask
about Dale Finley, his chief investigator, who once was a spy for the
CIA in Cuba and who attempted to persuade Ali Duncan not to talk to you.
And ask him about his wife's visits to Cuba and about her financial
interests in Otero.  Ask him if Amalia persuaded her sister, Claudia,
not to open the boutique near Havana because she knew that it could ruin
Eddie Mora's political future."

Sam laughed.  "You looking for an early retirement, Gene?" .

"No.  I have two unsolved murders."

"Just doing your job.  Does Chief Mazik know about this?"

"Not yet.  No one knows except you and me.  When you say to talk to
Mazik, then I'll talk to him."

As he continued to look at Ryabin, Sam could see what he was doing.  He
was letting Sam decide if Chief Mazik should be told at all.  He was
handing over this information about Eddie Mora's wife to use or not, in
whatever way Sam chose to do it.  Push the state attorney up against a
wall, or let him go.

When Eddie Mora had been put in charge, Sam's career-his life-had been
stolen.  He'd played the good soldier, getting right into line.  And on
the Duncan case, he'd been used.  When Eddie Mora had needed someone to
keep the shit off him, he'd come to Sam Hagen.  Sam, snared by his own
ambition.

On the porch of the En lander Apartments, the old man sat in a chair in
the shade.  Perlstein.  He of the inky hand.

The scribe.  Not feeding the birds today, just watching the street.  He
watched Sam come through the iron gate and walk toward the building.

h "Hello.  It's my used-to-be-Jewish friend.  Caitlin isn't ere.  She
moved out."

Sam stopped, looking up at her window.  The tan le of green plants was
gone.  The panes were empty, reflecting only trees and sky.  "Where did
she go?"

"She left.  She went to New York."

"Already?"

"Saturday morning she's packing.  Sunday there's a pickup truck and her
friends to take her things away.  My wife and I might have to move, too.
This building is going to be turned into condominiums.  They're going to
raise our rent.  Jordanians bought it, what do you think of that?

Arabs.  On Miami Beach, Arabs."

"Did she give you her forwarding address?  A phone liumber."

Perlstein shook his head.

"She must have told you where she was going," Sam said.  "It's important
that I locate her." He came up the Steps.

A woman's face appeared at the window behind Perlstein, peering through
the glass slats.  Her eyes were fixed on Sam.  She said, "Harry.  Your
lunch is ready.  Come eat." She leaned over a plump armchair.  A cat lay
across the back of it washing a paw.

Perlstein picked up his cane.  "I have to go in.  Excuse me."

Sam moved closer to the window.  "nat's Caitlin's cat."

"No," Mrs.  Perlstein said, "it's ours." She shoved the cat off the
armchair.

He took a step toward Perlstein.  "You know where she is."

"Harry!" The wife's voice quavered.  "Come in.  Your lunch will get
cold."

Sam saw he was frightening the woman; he was a maniac, a jackbooted thug
here to break down doors and threaten the helpless.  He took a card out
of his wallet and held it to the screen.  "Mrs.  Perlstein, it's all
right.  My name is Sam Hagen.  I'm a prosecutor with the state
attorney's office.  Caitlin Dom is a witness on a case of mine, and I
need to speak to her about that."

"Another man from your office came by yesterday, and we told him the
same thing.  We don't know where she is."

"What man?"

"I don't know.  Not so young.  He wasn't dressed in a suit, like you."

"White hair?  A limp?  What was his name?"

"I don't know his name, but the limp I remember.  We told him, we don't
know where she is.  Harry, come inside!"

"A minute!  Dvorah, in a minute." He waved a hand at the screen.  "Go
on.  I'm talking to Mr.  Hagen." He pushed himself unsteadily out of his
chair and went to the other end of the porch.  A mockingbird fluttered
away to perch on a red hibiscus bush.

.  The hand that wrapped around Sam's wrist was surprisingly strong.
Perlstein said in a low voice, I think she left because of the
boyfriend.  He came around, making trouble for her."

"What do you mean?"

"Trouble.  He bothered her.  Phone calls, letters.  Coming around,
watching.  I saw him parked up the block there.  Last week he comes.  He
asks me where she goes, who she is with.  Don't worry, I didn't tell him
you were here.  I never liked that man.  I told her, This guy is no good
for you, but-women!  I hope she doesn't go back with him."

Sam felt his jaw clenching.  He looked down into Perlstein's face.
"Where did she go?"

"I'm sorry." He patted Sam's shoulder.  "Caitlin made us promise not to
say.  This is what I'll do.  I'll call her, and she can contact you. All
right?"

"She's still in town, isn't she?"

He shrugged.

"I'm a friend, Mr.  Perlstein."

From the window his wife shouted, "Harry!"

Rafael Soto lived on the third floor of a building on Pine Tree Drive.
He opened the door far enough to talk.  Behind him Sam could see cheap
furniture and colorful pillows and lamps.  Music was playing: a swing
band from the forties.

He held out his card.  "I'm Sam Hagen."

Soto didn't take it.  "I know who you are."

The smell of pork and garlic came out into the hall.  A Hispanic guy
about Soto's age stuck his head around the corner from the kitchen.
"Rafael!  i Quign es?"

"Nada.  Un abogado delfiscal.

"I'm here to see Caitlin Dom."

"Caidin isn't here."

"Where is she, Mr.  Soto?"

"Enroute to New York.  She'll call when she arrives to give me her
address.  I assume she'll contact your office as well."

"Look.  I know she's in town.  I have to speak to her about Ali Duncan's
case.  It's urgent."

"Well, if she's still around, it's news to me."

"You talk to me or to the police," Sam said.  "Your choice."

"Pardon me, but we're in the middle of lunch."

The door began to close.  Sam shoved a shoulder into it.  Soto nearly
fell, bumped backward into the living room.  Sam raised his palms,
moving away a step.

He outweighed either of these guys by fifty pounds.  "I'm not going to
hurt anybody, but I have to know where she is."

Rafael Soto took off his glasses and tossed them onto the sofa.  His
eyes glittered darkly.  He wouldn't be pushed around this time.  His
friend came back out of the kitchen with a long cooking fork, still
greasy from the pan.  Soto said, "Julio, llama a la policia."

"She ran from Frank Tolin, didn't she?" Sam watched Julio, who held the
cooking fork out like a pitchfork to a wild animal as he sidled across
the room and picked up the telephone.  "Soto, if anything happens to
that woman, you want to take responsibility?"

After a second, Soto spoke over his shoulder.

iCuelga!" Julio hung up the phone.  Soto said, "He beat her up."

"Jesus.  When?"

"A couple of weeks ago.  So she broke up with him, and now she's worried
what he'll do.  He called her so much she had to disconnect her phone,
and he's sent th most obscene letters.  Unsigned, but is there any
doubt?

He told her to get out of the apartment and he slashed the tires on her
car." Rafael Soto went over to the sofa for his glasses.  He put them
on, then looked directly at Sam.

"Maybe as Frank Tolin's friend, maybe you can persuade him to leave her
alone.  I'm really afraid he might do something."

"Rafael, tell me where she is."

"Not here," Soto said.  "She was, but she thought he'd figure it out.
Till we go to New York, she's staying with Paula DeMarco, who has a
house on Flamingo Drive.  She owns the gallery where Caidin had her
show.  There's a vicious Doberman, so she's quite safe.  Oh, God." He

7 pressed a hand to his forehead.  "She's going to kill me.  I swore on
my mother's grave."

Sam opened the door, "Thanks."

"Wait!  If you're going over there, you won't find her.

She has a shoot outside Nick's at the marina.  She's taking photos of
jet skis."

"Jet skis?"

He made a rueful smile.  "Yeah, I know.  But it pays."

Sam left his jacket in the car and sat on a concrete bench near thedocks
at the Miami Beach Marina, which was located toward the southern tip of
the island.  Nick's, a high-priced restaurant Sam had never been to,
took up the top floor-, with shops on the bottom, everything under a
turquoise roof, lush landscaping all around.

Down the docks a bit, a store made to resemble a palm-thatched chickee
hut rented catamarans, sixteenfoot outboards, and jet skis.  They'd
lined up three of the vile-colored machines outside in the grass.  Each
was at present being straddled by a model in a bikini.  The girls were
standing up, leaning over the handlebars.

Cheesy.  A couple of old guys on the docks getting the rearview,
grinning.  Sam would bet Caitlin hadn't posed this one.

Shifting on the concrete bench, Sam took out his handkerchief and wiped
the sweat off his neck.  Even in the shade of some Palm trees he was too
warm, wearing his suit pants and dress shirt and brown leather shoes.
out of place, everybody else in loose, light-colored clothing, and not
much of it.

Sam had sat where he could keep an eye on her, waiting till she
finished.  He felt like a damned bodygu , hulkinj and and edgy.  She
knew he was there.  Thirty yards away, he'd seen the bill of her khaki
hat turn in his direction.  Sunglasses hid her eyes.  Sam went to the
snack bar, bought a beer, and came back out to drink it.

Caitlin's arms showed in her yellow tank top.  He didn't see any
bruises.  He hadn't seen any last week at her apartment.  But she'd been
wearing a long-sleeved blouse, he recalled.  And heavy makeup.  Sam
thought about why she hadn't told him and decided it meant she was
afraid he'd go have a few words with Frank about it.  Get all three of
them into a situation there was no easy way out of.

Finally Caitlin slung her camera bag over her shoulder.

She spoke to a man with a beer logo on his T-shirt.  He had his car keys
out.  She held up a hand, telling him to wait.  Her hat turned toward
Sam.  She came to see what he wanted.  He stood up.

Her nose was pink from the sun.  Shoulders brown, a sheen of
perspiration on her chest above the neckline of her bright yellow shirt.
"How'd you know I was here?"

"I was just passing by and saw you."

"Sure."

"Don't blame Rafael.  I held a gun to his head."

"And here you are." She shifted her weight to her other foot.  The guy
was still waiting for her, twirling his car keys.

Sam hadn't decided in advance what to say.  Then suddenly, from nowhere,
he knew what he wanted.  He said, "Did you keep those photos of
Matthew?"

She looked at him awhile, then said, "They're in Storage."

"I've changed my mind.  I'd like to have them."

They got in his car and drove north on Alton Road after Caitlin told the
owner of the jet ski concession that she didn't need a ride.  She pulled
a bottle of Evian out of her bag and a cellophane pack of Cuban
crackers, thick round wafers, curved from the baking.

"Bread and water," he noticed.  "Can I buy you some lunch?"

"I'm not hungry." She nibbled on a cracker.  "This is enough."

"What's going on with you and Frank?"

She looked at him through her dark glasses.  "Nothing.

We split up." Then she laughed.  Her mouth was wide and full, and she
wore no lipstick.  "You lawyers ask such loaded questions.  What do you
really want to know?  Caitlin, are you seeing Frank again?  Caitlin,
have you slid back into your old ways-again?" She unscrewed the cap on
her bottle.  "No, Mr.  Hagen.  I have not."

7 Sam braked at a traffic light.  "Rafael said Frank beat you UP."

"I knew it.  Soon as you said I you talked to Rafael.  He gets so
dramatic." She took a long drink of water.

"Caitlin, if I promise not to go over to Frank's office and kick the
living shit out of him, would you please answer the question?"

She exhaled.  "He didn't hit me.  Satisfied?" She bit into another
cracker.

"Didn't slash your tires?" Sam could hear his voice rising.  "Send you
filthy letters?  Didn't force you out of your apartment?"

"Not really." She concentrated on the cracker.  "We had a fight when I
left him.  He pushed me.  I pushed him.  We screamed at each other.
We've done it before, but I finally got fed up and walked out.  And he
wants me back.  He's persistent, what can I tell you?"

::So he cuts your tires and sends you obscene letters."

I don't know who did the tires.  I park on the street, all right?" She
pulled off her sunglasses and shook back her hair.  "Do I look beat up
to you?  Do IT'

Her skin was smooth and unbroken.  He said, "I was worried."

"Well, thank you." She put her glasses back on.  "The letters weren't
obscene, they're pathetic.  I was going to move out anyway.  I didn't
f6el safe living alone after Sullivan died, and then George.  You just
never know.  Oh, lord, I've got crumbs all over." She brushed the crumbs
dotting her bare thighs into her palm, then wet her forefinger and
dabbed at the tiny pieces.  Her legs were shaved smooth, with fine,
golden hairs closer to the hem of her shorts.  "Your car's so clean, I'm
afraid to ride in it." She pressed the automatic window button and
dusted her hands off.

Sam let out a breath and rubbed his forehead.  His elbow leaned on the
door.

She looked at him.  "You sound exhausted."

"I'm fine." He slowed at Sixteenth to cut behind Lincoln Road, which was
closed to auto traffic.  Caitlin had told him to go to the DeMarco
Gallery.  Her friend Paula had let her siore some things in a back room.

Caitlin's face was turned toward the window now.

"Sam, I'm sorry about last week.  I shouldn't have kicked you out."

"Forget it." He saw a parking place along the curb, then put an arm over
the seat to back up.  "Ruffini and Lamont were arraigned this morning."

"Yes, I know - Ali told me."

"Their attorneys want to take your statement as soon as possible.  You
going to be around?  I can accept a subpoena for deposition on your
behalf." The engine was still on.  Cold air blew through the vents.

Caitlin smiled archly.  "What o you want?  The pictures?  Or are you
making sure you still have a witness left on Ali's case?"

"Do IT' He took the keys out of the ignition.

Her lips were set into a thin line.  She said, "Ali went through hell
that night.  I won't run away to New York and forget it ever happened."

"You- didn't"-tell me you'd moved out of your apartment.  What was
suppoied to think?"

"I would have called you." She got out and slammed the door.

They walked along the narrow street, then onto Lincoln Road to the
DeMarco allery, which was deserted except for a clerk reading a
magazine.  Caidin told him she had to get something out of the back
room.

ice then opened a paint She led Sam past the off   ead bulb spattered
door and turned on a light, an overh that contributed little to
illumination.  The left side of the narrow room was taken up with metal
cabinets and vertical wooden slots for paintings and prints- Not much
was left; the season was over.  Caitlin's things were stacked to the
right, a disorderly pile of cardboard boxes in varying sizes and shapes,
picked up at a supermarket.  They had once held cans, bottles, cereal,
paper goods.  Now the contents were noted in black tuff.  Sheets and
towels.  Clothes.  Film marker.  Kitchen s and paper.

When Caitlin closed the door a tremor danced through floated in Sam's
muscles and settled in his gut.  Dust beams of light coming through a
small, barred window near the ceiling.  No sound intruded.  He looked at
the stack of boxes, the deep shadows they made.  There was no oxygen in
the room.  He pulled in a breath.

"I won't ask you to search through all this.  When you get to New York
and unpack, just put the photos in the mail,"

Caitlin set her camera bag on the floor, then laid her hat and
sunglasses on a cabinet.  "No, it's all right.  I remember where they
are.  Help me move some of these, will you?  They're heavy.  You never
think you have that much, till you try to pack it all into boxes."

"Where's the furniture9"

"I gave some away.  Most of it I left behind.  It was secondhand,
anyway.  Let Frank worry about it."

Sam shifted boxes of books as Caitlin directed.  She picked up a former
pasta box marked winter clothes, leaning back to balance the weight.

"Do you ever wish you could reduce your life to the barest possible?
Maybe to fit inside one suitcase.  Or a bag to throw over your shoulder.
Then you could go wherever you wanted, whenever.  Just float away as the
mood strikes." Laughing a little, she dropped the box beside
audio-video.  Then she studied the pile still left.  She pointed.
"There.  That one."

The box was thick cardboard, about one foot by two.

Zephyrhills Natural Spring Water.  6 gal.  Now marked in heavy black,
Prints and Portraits.  It was against the wall, but away from the window
and off the floor, protected.  Sam looked around as if someone had come
through the door.  He gripped his right wrist and flexed his fingers.

Caitlin said, "Sam?  Can you get that?"

"Sure." He braced a foot and reached over the boxes spread out on the
floor.  Unlike most of the others, this one was sealed with packing
tape.  Caitlin sat on her heels and worked a thumbnail under a corner.

Sam leaned against the cabinet.

The tape came off and she folded back the flaps.  Inside, under a layer
of newspaper, were dozens of folders and envelopes.  Her fingers moved
quickly along the top edges, then stopped and tugged on a white
envelope.

Matthew Stavros Hagen.

Caitlin stood up and turned around.  She said Sam's name and it took him
a second to hear her.

He raised his eyes.

She said, "You don't have to take them."

"Why notT'

"You might not like them.  They aren't glamorous."

He smiled, held out his hand.  "I'm sure they're very nice.  Dina will
be pleased.  I said we had photos, and we do, mostly from when he was a
kid.  We took loads of snapshots on vacation, both the kids, actually,
but I don't think we have any portraits.  Dina's got his book from his
modeling days, you know, and she complains the pictures in there don't
look like him."

Caitlin stared at him.  She still held the envelope against her chest.
"Maybe you should see these before you take them home."

"All right." He felt his pocket, pulled out his glasses.

Caitlin gave him the envelope, and Sam moved closer to the light coming
in through the window.

There were a dozen photographs, big enlargements, all black-and-white,
eleven by fifteen.

Interesting lighting.  High contrast.  Good balance, use of negative
space.  Caitlin had told him about photography.  What to look for.  They
were all taken the same day, apparently.  In her studio, a drape of
white in the background.  But no attempt to hide what was behind that:
the concrete walls of the studio, the lights, the bare floor.

Matthew in a pair of worn-out jeans hanging off his hips.  His hair
needing a wash, coming just to his shoulders.  A young man's stomach,
every muscle defined.

Some hair on his chest, which Sam recalled he had waxed off for a
swimsuit ad.  The vanity of these kids.

The pant legs were too long, hems frayed.  Big, higharched feet.
Standing there with his thumbs hooked in his pockets.

Next photo.  Matthew off the ground, legs tucked under, hair flying,
covering his face, blurred by the movement.

Arms stretched out, hands wide open, reaching.  A tattoo just above his
left nipple.  Sam peered closer.  A half moon.  When the hell had he
gotten that?  It must have been covered with makeup for his bookings.

Then Matthew standing still, arms crossed over his chest.  Heavy biceps.
He'd put on some muscle that sum EL

mer.  He was staring into the lens.  Angular face, sharp nose.  Not the
pretty boy in the ads.  Age already tracing faint lines into his wide
forehead.

What was he thinking of ?  So serious.  Not a kid you could scare
easily.  But he wasn't a kid anymore.  A man.

But not that, either.  He was somewhere between.  But where?  .

Sam took a breath.  The floor seemed to tilt.

More photos.  Matthew laughing, God only knew at what.  Smile gone, then
back again, a soft expression in his eyes.  Gentle.  Then a profile,
hair thick and wavy on a pale cheek.  Then again looking into the lens.
Sam touched Matthew's face and was surprised to feel only smooth paper
under his fingertips.

Lights making bright dots in Matthew's eyes.  White space around him
getting less and less.  Sam falling into the photograph.

The camera had focused so closely.  Each hair in his dark, straight
eyebrows, each eyelash.  A chip in one tooth, a blemish on his cheek.
Full lips, a glint of saliva.

Stubble on his chin.  Not a heavy beard, not yet.

Sam realized, after a time, that he was sitting on one of Caitlin's
boxes.  He felt her lightly bump his shoulder, reaching to take the
portraits.  They vanished upward.  He heard the paper whispering against
the envelope.

Then her hand was on his hair.  He turned and reached for her, pressed
his face into her stomach and cried.  She wrapped her arms around his
head.

"I loved him." Sam took a heavy breath, then another.

"Whatever Matthew did or was or would have become, I loved him.  And I
never told him."

"He knew," she whispered.

Sam shook his head.

"Yes.  Believe me, Sam.  Please." She lay her cheek on his head.
"Matthew told me.  He said that's how you are.

He even laughed about it, said one day you'd get off his case.  But he
respected you so much, as a father.  As a man."

Sam felt something shift and crumble in his chest.  He ached from the
pain of it.  Caitlin knelt to take his face in her hands and say his
name.  She put her arms around him and kissed his eyes, his mouth.  He
groaned aloud, tasting salt and heat.

He shifted on the box to pull her between his thighs, and she pressed
into him.  He let her go long enough to look behind them, to find the
box of towels, brace himself, and stretch out an arm.  He flipped the
box over and the folded towels inside spilled out, disarrayed.

He couldn't hold her closely enough, get into her far enough.  She cried
out, muffling the noise against his shoulder.  Blood roared in his ears,
shutting out everything but the feel, the sound, the smell of her.  The
tightness giving way.  Sparks behind his eyelids, then a long, sweet,
breathless fall.

When Sam finally opened his eyes, his left leg was under a box that had
tumbled down.  Caitlin looked as if she'd been knocked unconscious, her
hair in her face.

He was still inside her.  Everything wet.  He thrust slowly, felt her
tighten in echoes of the spasms that he'd felt before.

Her breath was raspy.  She still had her yellow shirt on, pushed up now
above one breast.  He kissed its peak, then straightened her shirt and
pushed her hair off her face.

She locked her arms around his waist.  "No.  Don't get up yet."

"Caidin.  My pants are around my knees.  What if that guy walks in
here?"

She made a low chuckle.  "I think that would be as funny as hell."

"For who?"

"Give me a towel," she said, opening one eye.

They dressed.  Then Sam lifted the boxes into place again while Caitlin
brushed her hair.

She'd had them arranged in no discernible order before, but now he
worked at getting the heavier ones on the bottom and the entire stack
closer to the wall, out of the way.

He watched her as he worked.

"I should never have left you, Caitlin."

She paused, arms raised, hairbrush behind her head.

She pulled it through her hair.

He said, "I thought it was the right thing to do."

"It was," she said.  "You had a family.  We wouldn't have been happy."

"Neither of us is happy now.  Nobody is.  What if I'd had the guts to
take what I wanted?  Matthew called me a hypocrite.  He was right. Maybe
he wouldn't have been so angry.  Maybe he wouldn't have selfdestructed."

"Don't, Sam.  You'll make yourself crazy, talking like that."

When she turned to put the brush away, he kissed her neck.  "I want to
start over with you."

She smiled, shaking her head.  "As if nothing had ever happened?"

"We have to talk about it."

"All right.  But not now."

"I know.  When?"

"In a day or two.  Call me.  I'll give you the number."

She glanced at the white envelope on the cabinet.  "What about the
pictures of Matthew?"

Sam looked at the envelope, frowning.

Caidin laughed.  "I guess it would be hard to explain to your wife where
you got them." She bit her lips.

"Oh, God.  didn't mean that." She picked up her camera bag, then put it
down again.  "I don't know what to do, Sam."

"It's more my problem than yours." He grabbed her wrist.  "I don't want
you to worry.  I love you."

She stared at him.  "Don't say that."

"I love you, Caitlin.  You want to hear it again?"

Her face was pale.  "What's going to happen?"

He said, "I don't know yet, but it's going to work out."

He pulled her close.  "When can I see you?"

"Not right away.  We both need some time to think."

He tightened his grip on her arms.  "Don't go back to Frank Tolin.  I'll
kill him before I let him touch you ."

again.

"Sam!" She was horrified and pleased.

"If he comes near you, I want to know about it.  You hear me?  Caitlin?"

She nodded.

Sam went over to pick up the portraits of Matthew.

He held the envelope, turned it one way, then the other.

Finally he said, "You're right.  I don't know what to tell Dina.  I'll
have to think about that, do it the best way for everybody." He extended
the envelope to Caitlin.

"Keep them for me awhile.  I promise you, it won't be for long."

CHAPTER Twenty-Seven

nunning at dawn, Sam pressed his forehead into his upper arm to wipe the
sweat out of his eyes.  The humidity 11was so thick he could chew it.
His clothes were soaked and clinging to his skin.

It had been a day and a half since he'd made love to Caitlin Dorn forty
hours, and there hadn't been one of them when he hadn't thought of her.
Asleep, he had dreamed of her.  He couldn't look at a telephone without
wanting to pick it up and hear her voice.  He had called her close to
eleven o'clock last night from a convenience store, keeping it brief.
Hello, how's it going?  This was so fresh he didn't want to jinx it.
Before he made love to her again-and it wouldn't be on the floor in a
storage room-he'd have to straighten things out with Dina.

Things would be done the right way.  Or as close to right as he could
get.  Tuesday afternoon he'd come home just before Dina arrived, his
emotions slamming between exhilaration and dread.  He'd thrown his
underwear and shirt into the washer, showered and dressed, then took his
slacks out to the car to drop off at the cleaners.  Neither Dina nor
Caitlin deserved to be lied to; he wouldn't do it anymore.  There had to
be some honesty.  Some consideration.

The lawns of the houses he passed were dewy, and the cars dripped as if
it had rained last night.  Silvery drops of condensation hung suspended
at the point of every leaf and pine needle.  Closer to his own house,
Sam could see how overgrown the yard was getting.  The grass was mowed,
because the yardman came every week, but he hadn't trimmed the flowers
and hedges. Dina reserved that job for herself Lately, though, she
hadn't shown much interest.  Her obsession with gardening was gone, and
she'd been putting in more hours at the office, the way she used to. Sam
considered this an indicator.  He had spent a considerable amount of
time trying to predict how Dina would react when he told her he wanted
out.  She would be angry, but she wouldn't dive into another depression.
Since their raging argument about Caitlin Dorn three weeks ago, Dina had
turned her back on him in bed.

He hadn't touched her, and she hadn't seemed to care.

The wrongful death lawsuit hadn't come to anything, and wouldn't, but it
had at least given Dina a way to get over her grief.  Now Sam could
insist on ending their relationship with Frank Tolin.  He didn't know
exactly what he would say to Frank, but he had promised Caitlin not to
mention her name.  Frank, it looks like this case is at a dead end-you
come near Caitlin again, I'll kill you-so let's just call it off.

Aware of his own calculations, Sam had thought about elections in
November.  Not smart, leaving a wife of twenty-two years for a former
model, a prime witness in a highly visible prosecution.  Better to
wait-but till when?

Till he was divorced?  Till he was sworn in as state attorney?  To wait
would be a gross hypocrisy, but he didn't want to rush into a decision
without thinking it through.

At forty-six, a man had to be a little more careful.

As he jogged slowly up the driveway, cooling off, a minivan stopped in
front of the house.  He waved.  The carpool mother inside, whose name he
didn't know, waved back.  Melanie hurried out the front door with her
book bag, pretending he wasn't there.  She finally gave him a grudging
smile as she got inside the minivan, embarrassed that her father was out
in the front yard dripping sweat into his socks.

He didn't know what to do about Melanie.  Maybe she was at the age when
kids had to be angry at the parents, he'd heard that somewhere recently.
She didn't get alon@ too well with her mother, and if she wanted to live
with him, that would be fine.

7 There would be some adjustments to make, and maybe Melanie and Caitlin
wouldn't like each other at first, but with some reason on all sides, it
would work out.  Caitlin couldn't have children herself, so she might
become fond of his child.  As for marriage-Sam couldn't think that far
ahead, but sooner or later the subject would have to come up.  He
couldn't live with her unmarried.  Not with Melanie to consider.  Or his
career.  It couldn't be done.

It worried him that Dina would be vindictive.  She had a tendency that
way.  He had thought of divorce lawyers, property agreements, alimony.
He would give the house to Dina, along with money to run it.  Before
Matthew died, she had been earning good money as a CPA.  He'd have to
pay alimony, but it wouldn't last forever, once she was back on track.
Sam would find an apartment with a goodsized room for Melanie, near here
so she wouldn't have to change schools.  He would damn well have to be
elected state attorney to afford it all.

In the last day and a half, Sam had tried to apply some logic to the
process, difficult because his own emotions were so shifting and
tangled.  But there had to be a solution, a way to balance duty, love,
and common sense.  If not a perfect solution, then at least an honorable
one.

Sam trotted upstairs with an old towel around his neck.

In the bedroom, Dina glanced at him from where she stood by her dresser,
naked except for her panty hose.  She picked a bra out of a drawer.  At
forty-four, her hips and breasts had softened, and a C-section scar
marked the pale skin of her belly.  Sam had seen his wife's body
thousands of times, but now he felt embarrassed.

"I'm going to take a shower," he said, and mopped his face with the
towel.  Walking past the bed he noticed her suitcase on the end of it.

She said, "I'm going to drive to Tarpon Springs right after work.  You
don't mind, do you?  I've already told Melanie.  I'll be back Sunday."

Three days unexpectedly free.  But three more days in limbo.  He said,
"Why do you have to go this weekend?  I was hoping we could talk."

She looked at him a moment more, then took a white silk blouse off a
hanger and put it on.  "Tell me now, Sam." She buttoned the blouse and
waited for him to speak.  Somehow she knew.  She had guessed.  I know
what's in your heart, she had once said.  She had known before he had.
"Is it the same woman or someone else this time?"

Letting out his breath, Sam hung on to the towel around his neck. "Dina,
I didn't expect this.  I never wanted--2' "Let's skip the part about how
much you regret hurting me." She went into her closet and came back out
with a deep green suit.

He said, "All right.  Above anything, I want us to be honest with each
other.  We haven't been happy.  It started before we lost Matthew.
Before I got involved the first time.  You told me he knew about it.
Maybe if I'd said something three years ago, if we'd worked it out then,
things would have been different.  So now what?  Do we die along with
him?  Grow old with our backs to each other?  Dina, we've got a
daughter, and she has to know that love means more than that."

A smile was playing at the corners of her mouth.  "Only a lawyer could
invent such a creative excuse for adultery."

He felt a prickling of anger.  "What do you want me to do?"

"Do?  I think that's your decision."

"No, it's ours.  Do you want me to move out?"

"I want you to die of a heart attack." She zipped her skirt.

"Great." He raised his hands and moved toward the bathroom.  "You think
about it over the weekend.  We'll talk when you get back."

"I have thought about it," she said.  Her voice was trembling.  "That's
why I'm going to Tarpon Springs, to see if we could live there again. Is
there work for me?  A good school for Melanie?  We have to get out of
here.  Sam, come with me."

"I can't do that."

"Does being the next state attorney mean more to you than your family?"

He said, "Dina, going to another place won't fix what's wrong with us."

She looked at him for a moment longer, then turned her back to fasten
her earrings and necklace at the mirror.

Gold glittered against her skin.  "Do what you like.  I despise this
city.  Human beings weren't meant to live here.

It's only rock dredged up out of the swamps, with a thin layer of sod so
we'll forget what's underneath.  There's going to be another hurricane
sooner or later.  It's all going to go."

She turned away and her hands fell to rest on the edge of the dresser.
"No loss.  Let it go.  We could have had a good life together.  But we
wanted too much.  Such pride.

We've been undone."

"I am sorry," he said.

"Yes, I suppose you are." Dina put her feet into her high heels,
standing regally now.  She picked up her jacket.  "I honestly don't know
what to tell Melanie."

Dina's eyes met his again, burning with dark intensity.

"What you've done is sinful.  Nobody uses that word anymore, do they?
Sin.  Wickedness.  There's no eternity anymore and no punishment, and
therefore everything is permitted."

"That isn't how I feel," Sam said.  "I've got responsibilities and I
won't walk out on you or Melanie.  Hire a lawyer if you want to.  I
won't argue."

"Oh, yes." She laughed.  "You'd better hire one of your own, because I'm
going to make you pay for this."

The anger was building, but Sam held it back.  "There's one thing I
insist on.  We need to let Frank Tolin go.  The lawsuit isn't getting
anywhere."

"Is that the reason?  Call him, then.  I'd love to hear what you say."
She took the suitcase off the bad.  "You're such a romantic.  It's your
power she's attracted to, darling.

Women like that always are.  Why, Sam Hagen is the deputy chief of Major
Crimes.  And soon to be state attorney.  But do you really think you'll
be elected, with her around your neck?  And then what will you have?"
Dina's smile faded.  "I'm sorry, too, Sam.  Sorry for us all."

The girl in the pink plaid dress looked lovely in the viewfinder,
Caitlin thought.  The light filtering through the pine trees gave her
smooth skin a lustrous glow and put some nice highlights in her brown
hair.  She pressed the shutter, advanced the film, then took a few more
shots.  The telephoto and tripod were borrowed.  The old Nikon was the
only camera Caitlin had left, but it was still good enough to take
photos of a beginning model.

She was about twenty years old, tall and big-framed.

She'd be doing the plus sizes, if she could get some bookings.  She
would pay Caidin a hundred dollars and costs for some color pictures to
show the agencies.

in a small park near the bay side of Miami Beach, Caitlin had found the
perfect spot for some candid photos.

There was a rundown mansion across the street, which would look good out
of focus in the background.  They weren't so far from Paula DeMarco's
house.  Caitlin felt safe.  So far, Frank Tolin hadn't found where she
was living, or else he had grown tired of harassing her.

"What a mooooo," Ali Duncan said under her breath.    1@ "Shhhh," said
Caitlin, looking through the viewfinder again.  Ali had asked if she
could come watch the shoot.

Caitlin had said yes, but only if Ali helped out.  Caitlin was short one
assistant, with Tommy Chang taking final exams, and no money to pay him
anyway.

She stepped away from the camera and called out, "Jennifer!  Your bra
strap is showing, honey." Jennifer's mother, who had come along to do
hair and makeup, rushed forward with some pins.

"Caitlin?" Ali was winding a pine needle around her forefinger.  Her
hair was stuffed inside a ball cap, and she had her sunglasses on, still
incognito.

:'What?"

'I think I'm going to France."

Caitlin was aware of her mouth falling open.

"I mean, I want to go to France, but I have to explain it to Mr. Hagen?"
The statement curled up into a question.

"And I don't know what to tell him and everything.  How about like if my
dad in California got sick.  Or I died.

Could you talk to him?  You're friends and everything."

"Wait.  What are you saying?  France?"

"Well, I sort of ...  got a job.  It's for Marie Claire magazine.  For
August, I think."

"That's wonderful!  Of course you have to go.  Just give Sam a way to
contact you for trial."

"No, I don't think I can come back, not for like a year or something,
because I'll be totally busy."

Caitlin stared at her.  "Who arranged this, Ali?"

Ali kicked at a rock.  Her shoes were neon-green plastic.

She said, "Tereza Ruffini."

"Oh, no.

"I have to, Caitlin.  It's my chance."

"My God!  You believe them?  They'll take you over there and dump you.
You're being used.  Don't you see that?" Her anger was out of
proportion, and not only for Ali.

"I can handle it!  You couldn't when you were young, but I can!  What
have I got here?  Nothing.  Nobody will hire me on South Beach, I can't
stand living with my mom, I don't have any money-" She made a little
scream of exasperation, then said, "Caitlin, please.  Can you talk to
him?  Tell him I had to leave."

A voice came from under the trees.  "Yoo-hoo!  I fixed her bra."
Jennifer's mother was waving.  "I think we ought to take some pictures
sitting down.  What do you think?"

Caitlin muttered, then called back, "Sure.  Give her the chair." While
Jennifer arranged herself on a folding chair, Caitlin stared at the
rocky ground, carpeted thickly with pine needles.  "I can't lie for you,
Ali."

"It's not like it matters.  I'm the one this happened to, and it ought
to be my choice what to do about it, okay?"

"Okay.  Then you explain it to Sam Hagen."

"He said he'd have me arrested for perjury if I changed my mind!"

"He ought to, after what you've put everyone through.

Ali, would you please think?  Tereza Ruffini does not want to help you.
Two people are dead.  Does that register at all?"

"They didn't kill Sullivan, or George either!  Caitlin, she was really
nice to me.  She apologized for Klaus and everything.  She said he was
drunk and he didn't mean to, and they're so sorry-"

"What the hell else is she going to say?"

"God!" Ali spun around, then came back again, speaking quietly.  "Are
you going to tell Mr.  Hagen about this?"

Jennifer's mother called, "Yoo-hoo!  Miss Dom?"

Caitlin tiredly shook her head.  "No.  It's your decision."

She framed the next shot through the viewfinder, motioning with one hand
which way the girl should move.

"Here's some advice.  Ask for more than you'll settle for, get it up
front, get it in cash, and don't blow it.  If I'd done that, I wouldn't
be thirty-five years old living on the charity of my friends." She
glanced at Ali.

Ali nodded.  "Okay."

Looking through the lens, Caitlin said, "Be careful, baby."

When the session was over, Ali hugged her, then rode away on a borrowed
bicycle.

Jennifer's mother took out her checkbook.  Caitlin reminded her they'd
agreed on cash, and the woman gave her fifty dollars as a deposit.
Caitlin said the pictures would be ready by tomorrow.  They would meet
at the lab and choose the ones they wanted.  And please bring the rest
of her fee, plus ten dollars for each enlargement.

Caitlin tucked the money into a pocket and began to pack her things
away.  When had it happened, she wondered, that she had become so
distrustful?  She couldn't remember any particular event.  More likely
she had formed her cynicism as an oyster forms a pearl, one layer at a
time.

It was almost funny now, the agony she'd gone through, finding the guts
to stand up for Ali Duncan as a witness to a rape.  Sticking around to
testify, even though her first instinct had been to forget she'd ever
been at the Apocalypse that night.  In the end, it hadn't mattered.  Ali
would be flying off to Paris while Caidin Dom headed for a third-floor
walkup in Greenwich Village.

Ali hadn't mentioned Tommy Chang in her plans.  Poor Tommy, who was nuts
about her.  Meaning every word, Ali would probably tell him she'd write,
she'd call.  That she'd be back.  But she wouldn't.  Tommy would mourn
for a while; then he'd find another girl.  One truer than Ali, if he was
lucky.  But he didn't need luck.  He was young.

Maybe Ali Duncan had planned this from the start, waiting till Klaus
Ruffini was arraigned on felony charges before she said yes to a deal.
Or maybe it had occurred to her somewhere along the way.  Caitlin had
learned that people lived from moment to moment and that the most
sincerely spoken promises would be put aside when something more
pressing came along.

Maybe people like Ali Duncan were the ones who survived.  Caitlin had
never quite learned how.

Walking across the park with her bag and tripod, Caitlin thought that
her grumpy mood might be an aftershock from Tuesday.  Making love with
Sam.  Thinking about it now, she felt her insides clench.  She didn't
want to think about it.  She was trying not to be stupid about this.

She'd left her Toyota in the small lot near a children's play area.
Coming closer, she noticed the paper under the windshield wiper.  An
envelope.  No name on it.

Tensing, she looked around.  There were only children and their mothers
in view, the nearest boy riding a horse on a spring.  A lithe male
jogger ran along the bike path.  A car went by.  Farther along the
street were a traffic light and shops on the other side.

Caitlin sat in the front seat with the doors locked and read the note,
which was written with black ink on heavy white paper.

My darling, darling love, sweetest Catie.  I would give up everything I
own to have you back in my arms.  Please give me one more chance to show
you As if it were toxic she thrust the paper away from her.

"Damn it, leave me alone!" Her fists hit the steering wheel.

She grabbed the.  note and envelope off the passenger's seat, got out of
her car, and ran to the children's play yard.

There was a trash can chained to a pine tree.  Caidin held the note over
the trash, ripped it into pieces, and threw the envelope after.  She
looked down the street.  She couldn't see him, but she knew he was
there.

CHAPTER Twenty-Eight

By three o'clock on Fridays, the courts and the offices around them
would begin to clear out, anticipating Bthe weekend. The phones would
stop ringing, and the horrible crush of work would become at least
bearable.

Sam Hagen was finishing an extradition request that had to be taken to
the federal courthouse by four-thirty today, without exception, when Joe
McGee dropped by to talk about State vs.  Ruffini and Lamont.  Joe had
been sweet-talking Norman Singletary, Marquis Lamont's lawyer, offering
probation for Lamont in exchange for his testimony, but so far, no deal.

Juan Casares, the felony division chief, saw McGee standing in the
doorway and came just inside to sit on the arm of the battered sofa,
which was stacked with files.

Sam listened with one ear while he dictated directions to his secretary
for the extradition.

Sam's telephone buzzed, and he reached to answer it.

His secretary said, "Caitlin Dom's calling.  I know you're busy, but she
says she has information on the Ruffini case."

He let his chair come back up.  "Sure.  Put her on." He swiveled toward
the windows, wanting to throw his visitors out and close the door.

She had called to say hello.  "Sorry for the little fib."

"No, it's all right.  What's up?"

"Nothing.  Just thinking about you."

IS

"Really." He smiled.  "I've been doing that all day."

"Liar, liar, pants on fire.  You were supposed to call me."

"It's been beyond belief around here.  Listen, I've got some people with
me at the moment.  Can I call back, say in half an hour?"

"Promise?"

"Sure.

'No, promise.  And tell me what you want to do to me."

"Hey.  You're a troublemaker, you know that?  Talk to you later, okay?"

She told him to wait.  There was a silence, then she said, "I love you,
Sam."

"You sure about that?"

She laughed softly.  "I think so."

"Okay.  Good.  I'll call you in a little while.  Take care."

He hung up thinking that he'd royally fucked up that conversation..  He
stared out the window for a minute, then swiveled back around to finish
dictating notes to Gloria, his secretary.

Over by the door, Lydia Hernandez had come in.  Joe McGee was explaining
the significance of George Fonseca's cellular phone.

"It was right there on the seat beside him, but he never called 91 1.
Dr.  Corso said the wounds weren't instantly fatal, so he had some time.
Fonseca's hands were covered in blood.  So why wasn't there blood on the
phone?"

The Miami Beach police had checked phone company records.  There had
been no phone calls from Fonseca's telephone after four in the
afternoon.  The last had been to a video store to argue about an overdue
rental.  The police were interviewing everyone else Fonseca had called
that day, but they had come up with nothing.

Juan Casares shrugged.  "I'd say he was grabbing his thigh.  Maybe the
killer held the gun on Fonseca and waited for him to bleed out."

"No way.  You going to wait around in broad daylight after you fire
three rounds from a forty-five?  Not even if the gun was silenced.  All
that blood on the windshield?

No, Fonseca was unconscious.  Or poisoned."

Lydia Hernandez laughed.  "Poisoned and shot?"

"Corso said it looked like he was having a toxic reaction.  Say the
killer gives him adulterated coke or smack.  Okay?  Then Fonseca feels
nauseated.  He starts vomiting.  He has to get medical attention, so he
tries to drive away.  Or he tries to get to the phone to call 91 1.

What does the killer do then?"

"Shoots him," Casares concluded.

The telephone buzzed again.  Exhaling tiredly, Sam swung around in his
chair to answer it.

"Gloria, I have work to do."

"I know, but you won't believe who's calling," she said.  "Klaus
Ruffini."

"I can't.  talk to a defendant."

"I told him that.  This is his third call in five minutes."

"Christ." He exhaled, then said, "All right, I'll tell him myself." He
told Gloria to put Ruffini on hold.  "Heads up, everybody, you're going
to be my witnesses on this."

The three other lawyers stopped talking.

Sam punched a button on the desk set and replaced the receiver.  "This
is Sam Hagen."

The voice boomed through the speaker.  "Hello.  This is Klaus.  I'm
speaking to you in my car.  I want to meet with you in person as soon as
possible."

"Not going to happen," Sam said.  "Where's your attorney?"

"In the restaurant finishing his drink.  You know my car?  The Cadillac?
I decide I won't sue you for the damage.  I told Jerry to do it, but now
I change my mind."

Joe McGee was grinning, shaking his head.  Juan Casares quietly closed
the door.

Sam said, "I want you to listen carefully.  I'm turning on a tape
recorder, so I advise you to hang up." He hit another button.  "This is
Samuel Hagen.  It is three-seventeen P.m., June tenth.  Mr.  Ruffini,
your call is being taped.  If you wish to communicate with the
prosecution, tell your attorney--2'

"No!  I need my passport, for a small trip only, for business.  Tereza
went to Paris, and Miami is no good in the summer.  I can't believe you
would make such a big deal from this.  I know why.  You think I killed
George Fonseca and the other guy, the model, because George wanted
money.  Did he call you?  He said he called you.  He said to me, 'Pay me
or I'll testify against you." Blackmail.  You think I hired somebody to
kill him, don't you?"

IL

"Whatever you say can be used against you in court," Sam said.

"I didn't do anything!" Ruffini was screaming into the telephone.  "Two
men are murdered and now I have Franco with me, my bodyguard, to go even
to the bathroom.  Am I the next?  They tell me before I came to Miami
this is a dangerous place, like the Wild West cowboy days, but I said
no, forget it, but it's true.  You're going to make me stay in Miami,
for what?  To get killed?"

"Mr.  Ruffini, I'm hanging up now." Sam reached toward the desk set.

"Wait!  This is a mistake.  You aren't supposed to do this!  Talk to
Edward Mora.  Does he know what you're doing behind his back?"

Sam froze.

"He's going to Washington, I hear on television, and now you want to
take over his job.  My attorney tells me this."

Sam said quietly, "The tape is running, Mr.  Ruffini."

"I don't care.  Tape what I say, I don't care.  You are all liars, all
of you.  I want my passport.  I want to get out of here.  This is a
terrible city, no culture, the worst.  You don't appreciate anything.
Maybe I change my mind, I sue you for the car and when the jury sees
that I'm innocent, I sue you for false arrest---"

Then Sam heard a man's agitated voice in the background asking Klaus who
he was talking to.  Klaus saying never mind, go have another drink.  The
man yelling now, Franco, who the hell is he talking to?  ...  For the
love of God, hang up the fucking phone.

The line went dead.

Juan Casares stared at the telephone, then said softly, "Christ
Almighty."

"He's digging his grave with his mouth," Lydia said.

"Hey, I heard something really outrageous about Klaus Ruffini," McGee
said.  "He made Marty Cassie kiss his behind.  I'm not lying.  He pulled
down his pants and Marty Cassie kissed his butt."

"Why?" Lydia laughed.

"Cassie wanted him to buy some property, is what I heard."

"I didn't know the market was that bad."

Sam pulled the tape out of the recorder on his credenza.

He looked at McGee.  "Where'd you hear about it?"

"Reporter from the New Times told me." Hands in his pockets, Joe McGee
leaned against the door frame.  "They're working on an investigation of
the politicos in Miami Beach, Hal Delucca in particular.

Ruffini's name came up.  They wanted to ask us some questions."

Sam shook his head.  "Not yet." He unlocked a drawer in his desk and
dropped the tape inside.

"That's what I told him.  Delucca's saying he hardly knows Ruffini."

"Oh, really?  Two months ago he would've puckered up for him."

Also locked in Sam's desk were prints of the photographs Caitlin Dorn
had taken four years ago at the opening of Claudia Otero's boutique. Hal
Delucca had been present, smiling into the camera alongside Marty
Cassie.

Cassie, the man who knew--or claimed to know- everything happening on
South Beach.  Detective Gene Ryabin wanted to question him, see what he
could shake loose about the state attorney and Klaus Ruffini.

And then Sam would decide what, if anything, to say to Eddie Mora.

He had just picked up his papers again when the phone buzzed.  Gloria
Potter's voice came on the line.  "Sam?  I'm so sorry to break in again,
but we've got a situation in the hall.  delfonso Garcia is asking to see
you."

"What in hell?" The others looked at him.  Sam put a hand over the phone
and said, "Adela Ramos's brother is outside."

"Who's that?" Lydia asked.

Joe McGee started to explain it.  The Luis Balmaseda case, the little
boy thrown from the window.

"The receptionist is about to call security." Gloria was agitated.

"Look.  Tell Garcia to go up to the fourth floor and ask for Victoria
Duran.  She seems to have taken a personal interest."

"Sam, no!  He says he's done something terrible, and he wants to talk to
you before they take him to jail."

They did take him to jail.  Two uniformed Metro-Dade officers arrived to
place delfonso Garcia under arrest for first-degree murder.  They took
him away in handcuffs, and Sam walked with them across the street.

Garcia had nodded deferentially when Sam came to the small waiting area
outside Major Crimes.  He rose from the chrome-legged chair and said,
"Now you can make another trial, Mr.  Hagen, with me.  I just killed
Luis Balmaseda."

After the meaning of this hit him, Sam glanced over his shoulder and
told someone to call security.  People had gathered, staring, "Mr.
Garcia, come with me." He beckoned to Juan Casares.  "Keep us company,
Juan."

They went into the conference room to wait.  Sam told Garcia to extend
his arms.  He patted him down for weapons, found nothing, then told him
to have a seat at the table.  Garcia sat.  He was trembling slightly,
and kept clearing his throat.  He said, " 'Ojo por ojo, diente por
diente.  'Do you know what that is?"

The lawyers stood on either side of him.  Casares said, "It means 'an
eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth."

"Mr.  Hagen, I want to tell you what I did."

"No.  I'm not your attorney," Sam said.  "I can't help you.

"But I came to talk to you, to explain."

Casares said quietly, "Advise him of his rights, Sam."

"Mr.  Garcia, listen to me.  You will be taken into custody.  You don't
have to talk to us, you don't have to talk to the police, and if you-"

"I have to explain." Garcia turned in his chair.

Sam held up a hand.  "If you do say anything, whatever you say could be
used against you as evidence.  If you want an attorney, one will be
provided.  These are your rights.  Do you understand them?"

"Yes." He laughed.  "I have a lot of rights.  That's good."

Sam exchanged a look with Juan Casares.  The man could be out of his
mind.  He could be telling the truth.  Or Balmaseda might be injured but
still alive.

Casares asked, "What happened, Mr.  Garcia?"

He had thrown Luis Balmaseda out an eighth-floor window.  Two floors
higher than Carlito Ramos had dropped, but Garcia said it was the only
place he could find for his purposes. He had tied Balmaseda's hands and
forced him up the stairs at knifepoint. Didn't want to kill him.  Didn't
want to knock him out.  Wanted him to know what was coming for him, and
why.

"It's not your fault, Mr.  Hagen, that the jury let him go.

I was so angry because nothing, nothing happened to Luis, but it wasn't
your fault.  They couldn't hear the confession, I understand this.  And
I understand the rule about only one trial.  You told me about the law,
but I said to myself, where's the law for Adela?  For Carlito?"

delfonso Garcia held up his hands, the skin leathery and dark.  He had
held Balmaseda over the window edge and told'him, just before he let him
go, to pray to God for mercy.

Looking down on the twisted body in the alley, Garcia thought for a
while about throwing himself over, too, but that was cowardly.  Besides,
he didn't want his blood mixed with the blood of a murderer.  He knew
that sooner or later the police would come for him.  And so here he was,
to give himself up.  To explain.  And to absolve Samuel Hagen, for
truly, Luis Balmaseda had brought this on himself.

It was past six o'clock when Sam remembered Caitlin.

Cursing under his breath, he pulled into his driveway and hit the button
for the garage door.  As it rolled up, he dialed her number on his car
phone.  No answer.

He fixed himself a drink and went upstairs to change clothes.  Passing
Melanie's door he heard the thud of music.  He knocked.

When her face appeared at the crack, he said, "You want some dinner? How
about we order some pizza?"

"I already ate." Her hair was uncombed, falling into her eyes, and her
body was lost in a pair of overalls and a baggy shirt.

He said, "Can I come in for a minute?"

After a second or two, she nodded.  He had to step over a pile of
clothes to get to the chair.  A small room, made more so by things
strewn, dropped, stacked, or pinned to walls.  One wall was painted
pungent green.  He didn't know when that had happened.  A month ago, or
less, her room had been reasonably neat.

"You mind turning the music down?"

Melanie lowered the volume, then stood in the middle of her room with
her arms crossed.  Sam felt like he was about to be interrogated.  He
moved some magazines and set his drink on a corner of her desk.  "This
was your last week of school.  How'd the exams go?"

She shrugged.  "I passed everything."

"That's good." Leaning his forearms on his thighs, he looked around the
room.  "What are your plans for this summer?" he asked.

"Hang out.  I don't know."

"Maybe you'd like to go somewhere.  A vacation.  The two of us."

"Where?"

"Well ...  we could go fishing."

She stared at him.

"How about Disney World?"

"You're kidding, right?"

"No." He took a sip of his drink.  "What would you like to do?"

"I don't know." Tossing her hair back, she sat on the edge of her
waterbed and bobbed up and down before settling.  They looked at each
other a minute.

Sam said, "We haven't seen much of each other lately.

I'm sorry about that." He put his glass on the desk.  He turned back to
her and said, "Melanie, I love you.  If I haven't told you that in a
while, I should have."

She looked at him steadily.  "Are you and mom getting a divorce?"

He took a while to answer.  "Probably."

Her expression told him this news came as no surprise.

"Because you had an affair?"

"Did she tell you that?"

"No.  I heard you and her fighting about it."

After a moment, he said, "I don't know what's going to happen.  Your
mother and I will figure it out.  I don't want you to worry, okay?  You
won't have to leave your school, anything like that."

"She talked about moving to Tarpon Springs.  I don't want to."

"You don't have to," he said.  "Whatever you want, I promise."

Melanie started to cry.

Sam got up and stood beside her and awkwardly patted her back, then bent
to kiss her cheek.  She leaned against him and sobbed.  He kissed her
again, then said, "Come on, now.  Where's my big girl?"

"Why is Mom the only one who gets to cry?" she wailed.

"Oh, honey.  You can, too." He sat down on the edge of the waterbed and
hugged her tightly.

She wiped her eyes on a corner of the sheet and said she was okay. Music
was still playing on the stereo, something else now.  Sam asked, "Since
when do you like Led Zeppelin?"

Her voice was thick.  "It's the Rolling Stones."

"Uh-uh.  That's definitely Led Zeppelin.  'You Shook Me." I used to know
every cut on this album."

She got up to check.  "You're right.  This was Matthew's CD.  I borrow
them when Mom's not here.  She doesn't like me to touch his stuff."

"Want me to talk to her?"

"She'll just say no."

"Buy your own, then," he said.

"I don't have any money."

"What do they cost?"

Melanie gave him a disbelieving look.  "You don't even know?  About
fifteen dollars."

He leaned back a little to reach his wallet.  He found three twenties in
it.  "Here.  If you go to the mall this weekend you can buy four of
them."

Melanie put her arm over his shoulder.  "Dad.  It's okay."

He nodded, then put the money back.  "All right.  So.  No pizza, huh?"

"I'm on a diet," she said.

"Well, maybe I won't have any, either," he said.

She sat beside him again.  "We could get a movie."

He looked at her.  "You want a movie?"

"Sure."

"All right.  We could do that."

Sam tried to call Caitlin again about ten-thirty, but her friend, the
gallery owner, said she was out.  He had to stop himself from asking
where.  He might have gone to find her.

Downstairs in the silent kitchen he fixed another drink, took a couple
of aspirins, then topped off his glass with more bourbon.  If he went to
bed now, he wouldn't sleep.

In the family room he watched the last of a police drama on television.
Music was coming faintly from upstairs.

Melanie working her way through her brother's CD collection.

A wrong thing to do, giving a kid money out of the blue.  Sam didn't
know what Melanie needed.  If his ability as a lawyer were measured by
his parenting skills, he would have been disbarred a long time ago.  But
he loved her.  She had to know that.  He'd just told her, and he'd tell
her every damned day if that's what it took to keep her safe.  To make
her care if she lived or died.

Sipping his drink on the sofa, where he lay prone, Sam didn't know what
he'd tell her if she asked him.  What's the point?  Would somebody
please just tell me what the fucking point is?  Matthew's question. He'd
asked it as if he'd just figured out the entire world was crazy.  Sam
remembered giving him some inane response.  Well, when you grow up,
you'll find out the fucking point is not to ride around with your
friends till three in the morning Sam wondered what he would do if
someone murdered Melanie, and then a jackass prosecutor made a bad call
and the guy was out walking the street.  He might use his own hands to
even up the score, as delfonso Garcfa had done.  If Garcfa didn't wind
up in the state hospital, he might get twenty years, be out in ten to
twelve.  Maybe he had saved Adela's life.  Listening to Garcfa talk, Sam
had wanted to pat the man on the back, not send him up to Raiford.  What
Garcfa should have done was push Balmaseda over the edge, but keep his
mouth shut.  Better still, choose some other method.  Giving Balmaseda
what he'd given Carlito was too obvious.  Shoot the son of a bitch with
a silenced .45.  That had done the job with Charlie Sullivan.

In fact, Sullivan's death had been as fitting as Luis Balmaseda's.  One
bullet in his heart, another to take his pretty face off.  Payback for
what he'd done to Matthew.

For putting his hands on him.  For using him.

Sam was holding his drink on his stomach.  He relaxed his grip on the
glass, then took another sip.

Fitting that George Fonseca had thrown up blood and shit his pants
before he died.  Maybe he'd been the one to show Matthew how to cook
smack in a spoon before injecting it.  No big deal.  Just a fad, all the
models are into it.

Laughing a little, Sam lifted his glass.  "Here's to you, Detective. You
were right, by God.  Everything balances.

George earned what he got.  So did Charlie Sullivan.  The accounts are
always balanced in the end."

Sam finished his drink, then suddenly clutched at the sofa as the room
began to swing around.  "Oh, Jesus." He sat up, staring blankly ahead of
him.

Then he groaned aloud and thrust his glass toward the end table.  It hit
the edge and overturned.  Taking several deep breaths, Sam walked into
the kitchen and picked up the telephone, dialed a number.  Hit the wrong
button.

Tried again.

Nicholas Pondakos answered on the sixth ring.

"Nick, it's Sam.  I thought you might still be up."

"I am now.  What do you want?"

From the icy tone, Sam knew that Dina had already told her family what
he had done.  He said, "I assume Dina's staying at her father's house?"

"Yeah.  She always stays over there."

Sam closed his eyes and straight-armed the wall by the telephone. "Nick,
I want to ask you something."

"No, don't get me involved between the two of you.

I'm going to hang up before I say something rude."

"Wait.  She's your sister, but I've got no quarrel with you, Nick.  All
right?" He could imagine Nick Pondakos, big arms and beer gut, trying to
decide whether to slam the phone down or tell Sam Hagen to go screw
himself.

"All right, but make it fast.  I have to get up in the morning."

"Last time Dina flew up there-you remember?  The third weekend of May.
She caught a flight back from Tampa to Miami.  What day was that?" For a
minute Sam thought the connection had been broken.  "Nick?"

"What day?  Sunday.  Right?"

Sam nodded, breathing again.  "Did you take her to the airport on
Sunday?"

"Yeah.  After church we had lunch someplace, then I drove her to Tampa.
What are you asking me this for?"

"It's-just something I was wondering about."

"You checking up on her?  Let me tell you something, pal.  She's not the
one that needs checking up on."

"Okay.  Good night, Nick."

"You guys have been married a long time.  I can understand a little ...
you know, now and then, but that doesn't mean it's over.  I like you a
lot, Sam, but if you walk out on my sister, you can rot in hell, as far
as I'm concerned."

There was a sharp click in his ear.  Sam hung up the telephone, then let
himself down carefully onto a stool at the kitchen counter, sucking in
breath till his heart went back to a normal speed.

He felt as if he himself had been acquitted.  But not innocent.  And not
falsely accused.

CHAPTER Twenty-Nine

It was the smell that tenants of the Delancy Apartments first noticed,
the vaguely sweet, heavy smell that by Sunday morning, when they went
into the hall to pick up their newspapers, could not be dismissed as
someone's garbage or a dead mouse in the fuse box.

Detective Gene Ryabin, roused from a pleasant sleep with his wife, had
gone to bed expecting French toast and freshly ground Jamaican coffee.
Instead, he drank from a Dunkin' Donuts carryout cup while Miami Beach
officers roped off the crime scene with yellow tape, and the technicians
began the gruesome task of collecting evidence and photographing Martin
Cassie's bloated body.  The air conditioning was on, which had slowed
decomposition a little; Ryabin's partner, arriving first, had turned the
fan to exhaust.

Now, Lopez had his fingers clamped on his nose.  "Forget about replacing
the carpet.  They're gonna have to replace the fuckin' floor.  He's
soakin' into the wood."

While officers searched the three-room apartment, Gene Ryabin walked
around, then stood quietly looking at the body.  The medical examiner
had been called; he would arrive shortly.

The paramedics, who had known when they entered the building that it was
much too late, had found the door unlocked.  Martin Cassie lay sprawled
fully dressed on his back beside the dining table.

The table apparently doubled as a desk, and there were two glasses on
it, one containing a dark liquid, lighter and more diluted at the top.
Ryabin guessed Coca-Cola, as there was an opened half-empty liter in the
refrigerator.

The other glass had tipped over, wetting papers and splashing onto the
typewriter.  Cassie had probably sipped it as he referred to a list of
apartment buildings on a computer printout, which now lay askew on the
table.  A calculator was upside down on the carpet near Cassie's left
leg, and the chair was overturned.

Looking at all this, Ryabin thought that perhaps the visitor had been a
potential buyer or seller of real estate, or an existing client of
Cassie's.  He remembered the business card taped to the front door:
Martin Cassie, Tropic Realty and Investments.  He and his visitor had
sat at the table discussing investments and drinking a Coke, but the
visitor hadn't touched his glass.  Then Marty Cassie had died.

Across the room talk radio played at low volume-a preacher talking about
secular humanism, which leads inevitably to crime, abortions, and
homosexuality.  Ryabin went over to the cheap, wood-finish wall unit to
look at the channel.  This wasn't a religious station, except for
Sunday, eleven to noon.  But then, Marty Cassie never struck Ryabin as a
religious man.  With the cap of his pen, Ryabin pushed the button to
turn off the stereo.

He returned to the body.  With a slight tremor of disgust, Ryabin took a
deep breath before squatting down for a closer look.  The flesh of
Cassie's right hand was split and oozing.  The hand lay palm up, and
there appeared to be a cut on the thumb and another wound dead center,
though it was difficult to tell, with the hand so grotesquely swollen
Some blood, not much, had flowed out onto the beige carpet.  The hand
and arm had turned dark, putrefaction having set in.  Cassie's blue silk
shirt was already soaked, mostly toward the back, which pressed against
the floor.  His neck, cheeks, and facial features had also turned dark.

Nestor Lopez stood by the table.  "That looks like a stab wound to me."

A uniformed officer said, "You ask me, it's a bullet hole."

"No, it's not round enough.  It's a cut.  A defensive wound.  I say he
was stabbed to death."

"Where?"

"The back.  It has to be in his back."

"Well, if that's a defensive wound, where's the wounds on his left hand?
You don't defend yourself with just one hand."

.  "What it shows is, the assailant was left-handed, attacking from
Cassie's right side."

Four other officers had gathered around.  Ryabin took his pen from his
shirt pocket.  Technically, the body wasn't supposed to be touched until
the medical examiner arrived, hut Ryabin pressed the pen into the
carpet, then eased it under the back of Cassie's right hand.  He raised
it an inch, then another.  Rigor mortis had abated, and the limb was
flaccid.  Finally Ryabin made a murmur of discovery.  As he had thought,
the hole went completely through.  The thumb dangled.  It had been
almost completely severed.  Ryabin carefully lowered the hand.

Lopez said, "I told you so."

"Give me a paper towel," Ryabin said.  Someone did so, and he wrapped
the pen to throw away.  A cheap pen; he would not have sacrificed his
Waterman.

One of the officers wondered if Cassie had bled to death.

Another said, "From his hand?  No way.  There's not that much blood
under there."

"I'm telling you, he was stabbed in the back.  Look.

He's got blood coming out."

"No, he had to be shot.  Look at the carpet.  There's blood spatter. You
don't get spatter from a knife."

'You can."

'I still say he was shot."

"The neighbors I talked to didn't hear a gun."

"Maybe he got shot, then stabbed."

"That don't make sense.  Who carries a knife and a gun around?"

"A lot of people.  I arrested a guy yesterday had two butterfly knives,
a Bowie strapped to his leg, and a twenty-two in his pocket."

Leaving them to speculate, Ryabin went into Cassie's bedroom and put on
a pair of cotton gloves.  He planned to go through Cassie's personal
papers until the medical examiner arrived.  He had considered calling
Sam Hagen, another man, the assistant state attorney on duty for
homicides today, whoever that might be, had already been notified.  And
so far, despite the intriguing connection between Marty Cassie and Klaus
Ruffini, this death seemed to have no connection to any of Sam Hagen's
current prosecutions.

Ten minutes later, as the assistant M.E.  was taking his initial
photographs of the scene, Gene Ryabin was working his way through four
legal-size file drawers and a brown accordion folder in Cassie's
bedroom.  He had opened the window and turned on the ceiling fan to
reduce the odor, although the bedroom had its own aroma of stale sheets
and unwashed clothing.  The accordion folder, which had been kept on a
nightstand, held a collection of full-color erotic photographs,
alphabetized and crossindexed by subject matter: Anal Sex;
Autoeroticism; Bears; Bondage; Breasts-Ryabin lingered a bit over the
folder, then turned his attention to the file cabinet in the corner. The
contents, largely financial, confirmed what he already suspected about
Martin Cassie: a man whose net worth existed at some receding point in
the future.  Recent letters to creditors, neatly typed, alternately
pleading and indignant, made assurances of payment.  Soon.  Within the
month.  I am in anticipation of a sum of money within the month that
will liquidate this debt.

Returning the letters to their folders, Ryabin ventured deeper into
Marty Cassie's files.  The second drawer contained other personal
matters: medical, dental, a pending divorce from Uta Ernst.  Ryabin
recalled that Cassie's wife had been one of Charlie Sullivan's toys.  It
was indeed odd, he thought, that the contents of the folders were in
such disarray, when the erotica in the accordion file had been a model
of organization.  Some of the folders were even in the wrong order: Car
Insurance followed a folder marked Education.

The third drawer was labeled Grand Caribe, and inside were brochures,
floor plans, correspondence and assorted papers.  Ryabin closed the
drawer after taking a cursory mental inventory.  The bottom drawer,
titled Real Estate, Personal contained copies of legal documents related
to property in which Cassie had held an interest.  Ryabin noted that
Cassie's residence was not a rental apartment, but a unit in a
condominium.  There were deeds to property which Cassie had purchased,
then sold, all listed alphabetically. Misfiled between Morton Towers and
Oceanside was a familiar name, the Englander Apartments.  Ryabin pulled
out the folder.  His own sister-in-law, Rivka Levitsky, had once owned
that building, the first property she had purchased as a new American
citizen.  At her death in the fire, it had gone to Anna, who hadn't
wanted to keep it-a sad memory.  She had listed the property with Marty
Cassie, and Frank Tolin had eventually bought it.

Puzzled, Ryabin wondered why this folder had been filed with properties
Cassie had owned, if Cassie had been involved in the Englander only as
the real estate agent.

He was sitting on the end of the double bed reading the documents when
Nestor Lopez opened the door.  "Come on out, Gene, you're gonna love
this."

Dave Corso, the M.E., had turned over the corpse.  A few of the police
officers had dispersed, wandering into the hall, or to the grassy
backyard, which had a pleasant fountain to gaze at and flowers to smell.

Ryabin took a moment to recover, then asked Corso, "What did you find?"

Corso was sitting on his heels by the body.  He looked up at Ryabin
through his rimless glasses.  "He was shot, Detective.  It wasn't easy
to see at first, with the decomposition, but a very big bullet chewed a
hole right between his seventh and eighth vertebrae."

"It didn't go through him," Ryabin noted.

Nestor Lopez, who had his fingers pressed to his nostrils, said, "Take a
look at what's stuck to his shirt."

As he moved closer, Ryabin saw the bits of shredded fabric, now dark
with blood and putrefaction, which surrounded the hole between Cassie's
shoulder blades.

Stretching luxuriantly, arching her back, Caitlin kept an eye on Sam.
He'd gone into the bathroom to comb his hair.  Her head hung over the
edge of the bed, and she could see him upside down.  Nice, strong
profile.  Graying above the ears.  The bank-executive type, if she had
to put him in a magazine ad.  But not in that sport shirt, with the W
tails still hanging out of his pants.  As he combed his hair, @w she
could see the muscles moving in his forearms and T

wished he hadn't put his clothes back on, so she could see the rest of
him.

He glanced into the bedroom.  "What are you smiling about, woman?"

"What do you think?" Caitlin said huskily.

He turned off the bathroom light, but the sunlight was coming around the
edges of the heavy curtains.  Votive candles still burned on the
dresser.  The ceiling fan rotated slowly overhead.  He kissed her, and
his mouth was velvety.

She reached up to hold his face.  "Do you feel bad, coming to a hotel?"

'No.  Not at all."

'It isn't tawdry and cheap, is it, Sam?  I'd hate it if you felt that
way."

"Caitlin, no.  I'm glad you did this." He sat beside her to put on his
socks and shoes.  "I just wish we'd had more time."

"Next Sunday, too." She laughed.  "Our Sunday services.  And Wednesday
prayer meeting.  But it's going to cost a fortune.  Oh, darling, we've
got to stop meeting like this."

This had been her idea.  She had called him to say, I can't stand not
seeing you.  I've done something silly.  I have a room at the Ritz.  The
hotel was on the beach, flamboyantly art deco, but big enough to be
anonymous.  She'd spent the night here by herself, waiting for him to
arrive in the morning.  He couldn't leave his daughter alone at night;
Caitlin understood.

She had decorated the room with flowers and candles and brought
champagne and orange juice to make mimosas.  At 7:00 A.M.  she woke up
and bathed in a scented tub.  After room service left, she dressed in a
negligee and sat with a cup of coffee, waiting, leaving the bed turned
down and candles glowing in their holders.

Finished tying his shoes, Sam leaned over and kissed her.  "It was
wonderful."

"But you can't do it again," she said.

"Not right away.  But soon."

"Do you think so, Sam?"

"Count on it." He glanced down, then took his beeper out of his pants
pocket.

"I was hoping you hadn't brought that," she said.  "Is there a problem
with Melanie?"

"No, it's Detective Ryabin's portable phone."

"He calls you on Sundays?"

"Not usually."

On her knees in bed, Caitlin nuzzled his ear.  "Don't call him back."

Sam dropped the beeper on the nightstand, turned around, and dragged her
across the mattress so he could stretch out on top of her.  The
delicious, solid weight of him.  She parted her legs and pulled the tail
of his shirt out of his waistband and moved her hands on his back.  She
wanted him to lose control, to take her, to say poetic things, romantic
things, about never loving anyone else, ever.  Oh, my sweet love.  I
would die for you.

He kissed her, then propped himself on his elbows.

"Caitlin?"

"I know.  You have to go."

"I'll call you tomorrow," he said.

His wife would be back tonight.  Caitlin said, "You'd better call.  And
don't forget, like you did on Friday." She quickly kissed his lips.

I didn't forget," he said, his face growing serious.  "I told you what
happened."

"Uh-huh.  So busy saving Miami from crime you can't take time out for
one little phone call." She let him go.

He went over to the dresser for his car keys.  He seemed to be thinking
of what to say.  "I'm going to talk to Frank sometime this week."

Caitlin sat up.  "Just call him.  You don't have to go to his office to
fire him off a case, do you?"

"No, but I prefer to do it in person."

"You won't mention me, will you?"

"Of course not."

Standing now, Caitlin wrapped the sheet around herself.  "Is this some
kind of mate territorial thing?"

"What?" He laughed.  "No.  Don't worry about it.  Your name won't come
up."

"But I don't understand why you have to talk to him at all.  Mail him a
letter.  'Frank, you're fired."

" Sam looked at her.  "Why are you reacting like this?"

She'd nearly forgotten.  Samuel J.  Hagen hadn't gotten where he was by
being thick headed.  She climbed off the bed, sheet dragging across the
carpet.  "Because, sweetheart, Frank isn't happy with me at the moment.
If he thinks you and I are together, he'll be vile.  He'll tell all
kinds of lies.  He could make it difficult for us."

"Don't worry about him.  I told you that already."

:,I know.  I know." She let out a breath.

'It's going to work out this time.  Just be patient."

"I will."

"Caitlin." He held her face.  "You have to believe in me a little.  In
all this time, and all that's happened to both of us, I never stopped
loving you."

"Oh, Sam.  I could cry."

He kissed her forehead.  I should see what Gene Ryabin wants." He sat on
the bed to make the call.

Listening to his side of the conversation, Caidin couldn't make out what
had happened, but his expression was grim.  He hung up.  "Somebody shot
Marty Cassie in the back."

"Oh, my God."

"In his apartment.  It happened three or four days ago.

Nobody saw anything.  One of the neighbors called the police when the
body started to smell."

Caitlin closed her eyes.  She knew who had a reason to kill him.  Knees
going weak, she sat down on the bed.  Sam was still talking, pacing now,
the knuckles of one hand tapping across the surface of the dresser.

He said, "Marty Cassie was killed by the same person who murdered
Charlie Sullivan and George Fonseca.

That's only a guess, but the evidence points that way."

Blinking, Caitlin looked at Sam.  She could think of no reason, none,
why Frank Tolin would have wanted to kill Sullivan or George.  Clearly,
then, he hadn't done this.

No, it hadn't been Frank.  She let out a breath.  She'd come close to
telling Sam about the arson, the blackmail.  And then having to explain
why she hadn't told him before.

Dear God.  Leave it alone.  He would never understand.

Sam came over to her, and she reached up and hugged him around the
waist.  "Call me?" she said.

I promise." He bent to kiss her.  "I'll see you as soon as I can. Okay?"

"Okay At the door he looked back at her.  "I love you," he said.

"And this is so you won't forget it." Standing up, Caidin dropped the
sheet.  Naked, she did a model's walk across the bedroom, then looked
over her shoulder.

Sam glanced into the hall, then whispered, "Don't ever stop doing that."
Smiling, he closed the door.

The telephone rang five minutes later.

Caitlin clambered across the bed to pick it up.  She hugged the
receiver, laughing.  "That was fast."

There was a second of silence, before a voice said, "My, my.  Fucking
the future state attorney in the middle of the day."

Every muscle in her body froze, an instant of reeling incomprehension.

She heard Frank Tolin's low laughter.  "What do you think he's going to
do, Catie, if he finds out what you did to his son?  I'm still willing
to take you back, but my patience is about to run dry."

Shaking violently, Caitlin slammed down the phone.

CHAPTER Thirty

uring the week following Dina's return from Tarpon Springs, she barely
spoke to Sam.  Her anger had lifted, Dso far as he could tell, replaced
with cool indifference.

Sam had been sleeping in his study, on a cot that had been stored in the
garage.  He had thought, before she came back, that he would find an
apartment, but Dina told him not to bother.  She herself intended to
leave Miami as soon as possible.  She had already given notice at her
accounting firm.  The speed and finality of this decision surprised Sam.
Maybe she should think about it a little more?  No, she had made up her
mind.

Sam suggested they put the house up for sale; Dina could take the
proceeds.  He asked how much she needed in alimony.  Did she want him to
pay off her car?  She listened politely for a minute, then said it
didn't matter, to do what he wanted.  Her plans for the future seemed
hazy.

No, she hadn't found a job in Tarpon Springs.  She might stay wit h her
father.  Perhaps with Nick, it didn't matter.

On the subject of Melanie, she simply said, I can'tforce her to go.

She didn't appear depressed.  She seemed simply not to care, as if she
had resigned herself to what had to come.

This was a relief to Sam, who was supervising two major jury trials this
week, and therefore less time than usual for his own concerns.  He
averaged five hours of sleep a night and on Tuesday stayed over at the
office.  At first he expected Dina to sink into weeping and lethargy, as
she had after Matthew's death, but she continued in her unruffled mood.
He asked friends for the names of divorce attorneys, but had no time to
call any of them.

He hadn't seen Caidin since Sunday morning, but her face or touch, or
the smell or sound of her, had come into his mind, most often when he
lay on the narrow cot in his study.  They had spoken twice; she said she
understood how busy he was, not to worry.  She would be driving up to
New York in two weeks with her friend Rafael, where she would spend the
summer.  Sam promised that somehow, before she left, they would have at
least one day together.

The lunch'crowd in the cafeteria on the ground floor of the Justice
Building tended to empty out by two o'clock.

Coming down during a break in a trial on Wednesday, Sam had no trouble
spotting Dale Finley in the back corner behind a copy of El Nuevo
Herald.  The state attorney's chief investigator had stretched his legs
out under the table, and one ankle had a holster wrapped around it.

Brown socks, tan polyester pants.

Finley's eyes shifted when Sam sat in the chair across from him, and his
white eyebrows lifted, making deep ridges in his forehead.

Sam said, "Got a question for you."

"What's that?"

"One of my witnesses on Ruffini and Lamont says you were looking for her
at her apartment last week.  Caitlin Dorn.  Why?"

Finley folded the paper.  "Just keeping track of everybody.  I am under
the assumption, correct me if I'm wrong, that the state likes to know
where its witnesses are."

You're not assigned to this case.  So who told you to go looking for
Caitlin Dom?"

Leaning across the table, Finley smiled, and the scar on his chin
whitened.  "I'll be candid with you, counselor.  I think it's highly
probable that the witnesses, along with the victim, are going to flip on
us.  We're going to be left with our thumb up our ass.  Now, the
aforesaid Ms.

Dom, being the remaining prime witness, is of particular interest."

Sam laughed.  "You wanted this case dropped, Finley.

You tried to scare Ali Duncan off."

"Well, we don't always get what we want, in the parlance of the old
song.  My major concern at this juncture is to see that when State vs.
Ruffini crashes, it doesn't fall the wrong way."

"On Eddie Mora."

"Being candid?  Yes."

Leaning back in his chair, Sam watched a couple of private defense
lawyers kid around with one of the county judges, down to grab some
coffee before the afternoon session started.  The judge had started out
as a public defender, and one of the defense lawyers had been a
prosecutor in the felony division.  Sam had often wondered what it was
like, jumping across the fence like that.

Finley said, "I told Eddie it would be wise to ask the governor to
appoint you as the interim state attorney.

They have to make a decision by next week, in case you were curious."

Sam looked back at him.

"My motives toward you aren't necessarily hostile," Finley said.

"You don't want a political enemy running for the office that Eddie left
vacant," Sam suggested.  "It would embarrass the people who want Eddie
on Senator Kirkland's ticket.  And you want out of Miami, don't you,
Dale?"

"Pragmatism is my byword, I guess you'd say."

"What did Eddie have to say about your suggestion?"

Sam asked.

"He was noncommittal.  That's Eddie."

A cafeteria worker in a brown and orange uniform came by to clear the
adjacent table.  She put the trays on a cart and wheeled it away.

Sam asked, "What do you know about Marty Cassie?"

"Marty Cassie got himself shot," Finley said.  "Too bad.

Looks like somebody's cleaning house over on South Beach."

"Who do you think did it?"

"Don't ask me." Finley picked up his ca# con leche.

took a sip, then said, "Miami Beach police are looking a reason to tie
him to the other two, the model and nseca, but I don't see the
connection."

"The connection is, they were all shot with the same gun," Sam said.
Late yesterday Gene Ryabin had called him with the ballistics report on
Marty Cassie.

Finley smiled.  "True, but the model and Fonseca were involved in that
rape case.  As for Marty Cassie, well, he was just an annoying little
shit."

Sam said, "He asked the city manager of Miami Beach to persuade the
state attorney not to file the sexual battery case.  Did you find that
annoying, Dale?"

A laugh scraped out of Finley's throat.  "Indeed.  But I didn't shoot
him.  No, a man like Marty Cassie, he annoyed a lot of people."

"Klaus Ruffini?"

"In spades, but Klaus wouldn't swat him down for that reason.  The first
two, maybe.  But not Cassie, unless Cassie threatened him in some way. I
can't figure out what it was."

"I heard Klaus Ruffini forced Marty Cassie to literally kiss his butt
before he made a real estate purchase," Sam said.  "You don't happen to
know the story on that."

"Ruffini didn't take the deal," Finley said.  "And Marty Cassie didn't
actually have to press his lips to Ruffini's derriere.  But the
property.  I do know about that.  Marty Cassie owned a small share, your
ex-partner Frank Tolin the majority.  The Englander Apartments.  From
which, in fact, a certain Ms.  Dorn recently departed.  I have an idea
you might know where she went to."

When Sam only looked back at him across the table, Finley sighed and
finished his coffee.  "Well, on that note of mutual cooperation-" He
took his folded newspaper and stood up, his weight on his good leg.  He
spoke softly.

"As I said, counselor, my intentions are not hostile-at this point in
time.  Here's a suggestion.  You should start worrying about Vicky
Duran."

"Meaning what?"

"She had lunch Monday with Klaus Ruffini's lawyer, Gerald Fine.  Not at
the Oak Room downtown, you understand.  I think it was a couple of
burgers in the front seat of Mr.  Fine's BMW, parked in a lot by the
Orange Bowl.

Much as I respect Ms.  Duran as a person and an administrator, I don't
think she's right for the job of state attor they.  You might want to
point that out to Eddie before she persuades him otherwise."

"What does she have on him?"

"About what you do," Finley said.  "Guesses.  Inferences.  But she
doesn't have photos of herself and Mr. Fine in conference."

Sam turned the salt shaker around and around, then pushed it aside.
"What do you want?"

Finley said, "It crossed my mind that Eddie might not make it to
Washington.  Politics is unpredictable.  Senator Kirkland could change
his mind.  The party might nominate somebody else.  Who knows?  I hope
you'll remember me if you get into office.  I might be out of a job
someday.

A little future consideration of that nature seems like a fair exchange.
What do you think, counselor?"

"No deal."

"Well, the offer stays open for a while." Finley tapped Sam's arm with
his newspaper.  "Don't wait too long."

Riding the escalator upstairs, Sam braced his hands on the black rubber
rails, thinking.  He didn't need a photograph or even a transcript of
the conversation between Victoria Duran, deputy chief of administration
of the Dade County state attorney's office, and Gerald D.  Fine,
Esquire, to see what it was.  Beekie knew about the city manager's call
to Eddie, Hal Delucca's request that the state attorney ignore a sexual
battery to save Miami Beach the embarrassment.  She knew that Eddie
would have told Hal Delucca to go screw himself, but there had been
something there.  Eddie had pretended to Sam to be concerned about
image: How would it look if the state attorney's office failed to file a
sexual battery case against a movie star?  That had been bullshit, and
Beekie must have known it.  One of the defendants had Eddie by the
shorts.

Ruffini was the obvious choice.  Marquis Lamont was in town for a movie;
he had no other connection to Miami.

The state attorney would have been insane to do any favors for George
Fonseca.  In any event, Fonseca was now dead.  It had to be Ruffini.

Apparently what Beekie wanted from Jerry Fine was information.  She
wanted to know how his client, Klaus Ruffini, had pushed Eddie Mora, in
exchange for which she would do the pushing.  As payback, Beekie would
dismiss the case against Ruffini when she had Eddie's @oh- The governor
would be likely to go along with whomevefEddie named, and then with
positive public exposure in the job for five months, she could be
elected on her own.

The woman was delusional.  Jerry Fine may have had his own people taking
photos; he may have taped the conversation.  He'd be a fool not to.  A
little something for a rainy day, in case the voters of Dade County ever
put Victoria Duran in office.

Sam wdsn't about to take surveillance photos from Dale Finley.  The
price was way too high.  But the conversation had told him that he had
to decide quickly whether to make his own move on Eddie Mora.  Ask him
how he'd like to have the local TV stations broadcast a story about his
wife's trips to Havana, and Eddie's attempt to dump a criminal case
against the man who knew about it.

The long, tiled corridor on the fifth floor echoed with voices.  People
surrounded the entrance to courtroom 5-3, waiting to go back inside to
hear Sam finish dissecting a defense witness.  Sam spoke to a crime
reporter from the Miami Herald for a minute, then went over to talk to a
couple of the city of Hialeah detectives on the case.

Standing in the corridor, which had no windows and seemed to vanish into
darkness at either end, and feeling his heart race in irregular
patterns, Sam thought suddenly of Caidin Dom.  Of lying in bed with her
on a rainy afternoon, watching the curtains bell softly inward.

Frank Tolin was over by his bookcase pouring himself a scotch, neat. The
sun was nearly down, slanting across the buildings, turning the clouds
pink over the Atlantic.

Sam had called a while ago, told him he'd be coming around to pick up
what was left of the cost deposit on the wrongful death case, if there
was anything left.  Frank had seemed edgy over the phone.  He'd told Sam
he would mail the check.  Sam said no, he'd come on around.

"Sit down, Sam.  My goodness, you look like you're just about to fly out
of here.  Have a drink.  Scotch.  Bourbon.  Name something." The bones
in Frank's face protruded.  He'd always been thin, but now he looked
gaunt.

This is what losing Caidin had done to him, Sam thought.

"I can't stay," he said.  "Mind if I ask what you think I'm going to do?
You left the door open, and a minute ago I saw one of your partners
looking at me as if I was going to pull out a gun and shoot somebody."

With a soft clank, the stopper went back into the scotch decanter. Frank
said, "You've been seeing Caitlin."

"Where'd you hear that?"

"She told me."

Sam sat down in the red leather club chair and put his ankle on the
opposite knee.  He said, "Dina and I are getting a divorce."

"No.  I don't know what to say.  You and Dina?  She didn't tell me you
had problems." Frank sat behind his desk.

"And I'm in love with Caitlin.  I don't know if you're aware of that,
but that's how it is."

Frank took a sip of his scotch and laughed.  "I'll be damned."

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't contact her again."

"What's she told you?"

"That you sent her some letters.  You called her till she had to take
her phone out.  You evicted her from her apartment." Sam spoke in an
even voice, keeping it under control.

Frank looked at him awhile.  "Well, when you're with a woman that
long--eight years, Sam-and she walks out, it hurts.  Deeply."

"Did you hit her, Frank?"

He laughed.  "Yes.  I hit her.  My God, she was coming after me with a
lamp.  In my own living room.  What would you have done?"

Sam could feel the pressure building in his neck.  He smiled slightly.
"I came to pick up a check, then I'll be on my way." It wasn't about the
check, he knew now.  Caidin had been right: He wanted to look in Frank
Tolin's eyes when he told him he had Caitlin Dom.

Frank said, "Sure.  I made it out after you called." He opened a drawer.
"Two thousand dollars.  Payable to Mr. and Mrs.  Samuel J.  Hagen." He
extended it across the desk.  "There you go."

"I didn't want all of it back.  You must have spent something."

"My pleasure to help.  By the way, I'll miss seeing Dina.  How is she
taking this?"

Sam folded the check and put it in his shirt pocket.

"Ironic, isn't it?" Frank said.  "We've been talking to each other's
women."

Halfway to the door, Sam said, "Don't push it, Frank."

"Wait a second.  You need to hear this.  We aren't friends-according to
you-but still, I owe you something for saving my neck when we were
kids." Frank had one of his fancy cowboy boots on the edge of the desk.
"I know Caitlin Dorn better than you do, and there's something you need
to hear."

Sam laughed.  "She said you'd do this."

"Maybe she told you herself, but I doubt it.  She lies.

She lies constantly.  I knew she was having an affair with you three
years ago.  She denied it.  I know about her drug use, and an arrest in
New York for grand theft, but she'll deny that, too.  You ask her, but
she'll deny it."

"Frank, shut the fuck up." Sam headed toward the door.

"Ask her about Matthew."

He looked back.

"Ask her."

Sam kept looking at him.  Frank's eyes were sharp and hard as knife
points.

"Ask her if she slept with Matthew.  Ask her if she didn't take nude
photographs of him in her bedroom.  I've seen them.  Ask her if she
wasn't fucking your son up to the day he crashed his motorcycle.  You
ask her.  Don't take my word for it."

In two seconds Sam was around the desk, hauling Frank Tolin out of his
big leather chair, Frank kicking, everything hitting the floor.  Sam
dragged him into the room and rammed a fist into his stomach.  When
Frank doubled over, Sam jerked him back up and hit him twice in the
face.  Frank spun into the red leather chair.  It crashed over, Frank
with it.  Sam went after him.

He heard men yelling, then felt himself being pulled backward.  Two of
Frank's partners had come in.  Sam wrenched himself away, stumbled into
a table by the sofa, and ended up on the floor.

The two men stood over him.  Everybody was breathing EL

hard.  The table leaned crazily on a broken leg.  Frank was wiping blood
off his mouth.

Sam sat up, holding his right hand.

One of the men said, "I'm going to call the cops."

Frank staggered across the room.  "You want her?  Take her." He laughed.
His lips were swollen, and one eye was closing.  "Find out what hell is
like."

CHAPTER Thirty-One

Waiting for Caitlin Dorn to arrive at the station, Detective Ryabin
stood outside with a cigarette and Watched the late afternoon traffic on
Washington Avenue.  He had obtained Ms.  Dorn's address and phone number
this morning from Sam Hagen, who had apologized for his bad mood: not
enough goddamn hours in the day.

Ryabin didn't worry about the time it took to solve an unwitnessed
murder.  It was more often a matter of pure luck.  A friend or lover of
the killer would have a fight with him, then come to the police.  Or the
killer would confess.  Freely.  People wanted to talk, to explain, to
justify.  People liked to clear their consciences.  More often than not,
the killer was sorry.  His temper had flared at a bad moment.  A weapon
had been available: a gun or knife, an iron, a skillet, a baseball bat,
his fists.

Many killers were simply careless.  They left fingerprints.  They left
their wallet on the nightstand in their dead lover's bedroom.  They left
a message on the answering machine announcing their purpose before
arriving with a shotgun.  The man who had beaten and robbed Anna's
mother, for example.  He had been stupid.  He had traded her watch for
crack cocaine.  The police failed to catch him because they had not
looked in the right crack house in the derelict apartments south of
Fifth Street.  If the man had been intelligent, he would have gotten
away with it.  But then, if he had been intelligent, he would have been
in some other line of work, not committing robberies to support a drug
habit.

The murders of Sullivan, Fonseca, and Cassie, on the other hand, were
not so easy.  The killer was smart and without remorse.  He-or perhaps
she, not to leave anyone out-had planned well, picking the right time
and leaving few clues.  No fingerprints, no footprints, no witnesses.

No advance warning or public threats.  No blood except that of the
victim.  The crime scene technicians had vacuumed Fonseca's car and
Cassie's living room for hairs, but there were many different lengths
and colors and no way to tell when they had been shed.

Ryabin took a final pull on his cigarette and flicked it into the
bushes.  In the afternoon, the entrance to the Miami Beach Police
Department was in the shade, but the heat was still intense, over ninety
and humid.  He went inside the lobby, watching through the high,
turquoisetinted windows for Miss Dom to arrive.

The toxicologist in the medical examiner's lab, as part of his routine
blood work on George Fonseca, had done a cholinesterase determination.
He had found traces of an organophosphate toxin, probably Parathion, a
readily available insecticide.  It would have worked even faster if
mixed with Malathion.  The poison had broken down the acetylcholine in
Fonseca's blood.

Ryabin had inquired what that might mean.  Well, you need acetylcholine
for your muscles to function.  As the toxicologist explained the
symptoms of cholinergic poisoning, Ryabin had imagined Fonseca's death.
He had begun to sweat heavily and to salivate.  His muscles twitched. He
felt nauseated.  Severe abdominal cramping followed.  His pupils
contracted to pinpoints.  The blood vessels in his nose ruptured,
causing heavy nosebleed.  His bladder and bowels let go and he went into
convulsions.

This may have occurred within five minutes.  Shortly thereafter he was
paralyzed.  His breathing stopped.  His heart stopped.  The bleeding
from the gunshot wounds had speeded the process.

The same poison had been found inside one of the beer bottles on the
floor of the car.  The bottle had spilled perhaps half its contents. The
stuff had an odor, but such a small amount was required, a teaspoon, or
so, it would hardly be noticeable in strong beer.  Death could occur
within minutes, or could take an hour, depending on the quantity
ingested.  Fonseca had died relatively quickly.

The killer had probably introduced the toxin into the beer in advance
and had given Fonseca the appropriate bottle.  Perhaps Fonseca had
tasted it, refused to drink any more, and the shot into the thigh had
been a way of encouraging him to finish.  There was no way to tell.

Cassie's murder had probably occurred during the day, as most of the
neighbors came in or out in the morning or late in the afternoon and had
seen nothing.  The medical examiner had not been too helpful on this
point.  Cassie had died sometime between noon on Thursday and midnight
on Friday During that time, then, and probably during daylight hours,
Cassie had let the killer in.  They had discussed real estate, perhaps
one of the properties on the computer printout.  Unfortunately, no one
at Tropic Realty had been able to tell the police when the list had been
printed, or for whom.

Being a good host, Cassie had poured soft drinks.  At some point, the
killer got up with the bag which contained the gun.  He stood behind
Marty Cassie, who sat at the table.

He fired once.  Cassie's body slammed forward-the M.E.

had found a horizontal bruise-then back, knocking over the chair.  As
Cassie lay on the floor, the killer stabbed his right hand.  One blow
nicked the second and third fingers near the palm.  One nearly severed
the thumb, A third pierced the palm, and the last sliced completely
through the hand, the carpet, and the padding, and had grazed the wood
floor underneath.  A postmortem wound: the blood had oozed out, not
pumped.  The heart had already stopped.

Because of decomposition, Dr.  Corso could not be certain of the width
or thickness of the knife.  However, it had been very sharp, or the
killer had been very powerful.

Why had he committed this final act of violence?  It had been as
gratuitous as the coup de grAce given to Charlie Sullivan as he lay
facedown on the beach.

Ryabin had not discussed any of this with reporters from the Miami
Herald and the TV stations.  They had come around asking for details of
the three latest homicides in a season plagued by them, but Ryabin had
only shrugged and said the cases were still under investigation, and so
far, there was no proof that they were linked.

Since Marty Cassie's death, Ryabin had interviewed more than twenty
people; Nestor Lopez, his partner, a like number.  Many were the same
ones they had spoken to regarding the deaths of Charlie Sullivan and
George Fonseca.

Lopez had gone back to the condominium at different times of day.  There
were twelve units in the two-story Delancy, six up, six down.  He talked
to all the neighbors who had been in town during the time in question.
As the murder had occurred several days previously, their memories had
faded.  Contradictory statements were made, and a man even reported
having seen Cassie on Saturday.  One woman said she had heard a fight on
Friday morning, but her husband reminded her it had occurred in some
other apartment.  Many of the people in the building didn't know who
Marty Cassie was.  The most useful piece of information came from an
elderly woman across the street who had come out of her apartment to get
the newspaper.  She had seen a man with black hair going into the
Delancy at about eight o'clock on Saturday morning.  Not so young, but
not old.  She remembered because he had been wearing cowboy boots, and
wasn't that stupid, this time of year?

Yesterday morning, Eugene Ryabin had driven downtown to visit Frank
Tolin.

Tolin's spacious office was tastefully decorated with antiques.  Ryabin
had admired them for a moment, then sat in a red leather chair with a
high back.  He remarked that he and Tolin had last seen each other at
Pier Park, the scene of Charlie Sullivan's death.

"Did you know him?" Ryabin asked.

Frank Tolin said, "No, I just came along with Caitlin.

She was following her friend Rafael, who was a boyfriend of Sullivan's.
Or ex-boyfriend." Tolin spoke slowly, perhaps because his lower lip was
split.  A large purpling bruise darkened the left side of his face, and
a bandage angled upward at the corner of his eye.

"Sullivan was also sleeping with Marty Cassie's wife, Uta Ernst," Ryabin
commented.

"Yeah.  Sullivan went both ways." The mustache over the injured mouth
moved in what might have been a smile.  "It's hard to keep up with that
crowd.  They all fuck each other, Detective.  Pardon my French."

"Pardon the question, but are you including Miss Dorn?"

"I don't know what the hell Miss Dorn did.  Or does.

We're not together anymore."

Ryabin knew that, because Sam Hagen had told him.

He said, "Is that so?"

Frank Tolin said, "I've got some clients coming at ten o'clock.  You
said you wanted to ask me about Marty Cassie?"

In response to Ryabin's questions, Tolin explained that he had met Marty
Cassie through mutual friends, and that they had done some deals
together, but there was only one property left, the Englander
Apartments.  There was a buyer for the place, some Middle Easterners,
but now the sale might be delayed because Cassie's share, ten percent,
would have to go through probate.  Too bad about Marty, but it had been
an inconvenient time for him to get himself killed.

As he talked Tolin played with a stainless steel letter opener, bouncing
the point of it on the desk, making a musical dinging noise.  He
admitted having gone to see Cassie on Saturday morning.  He had knocked,
but there hadn't been any answer, and he didn't go in.

"Why did you want to talk to him?" Ryabin asked.

"It was about the property.  I hadn't heard anything in a few days, and
I wanted to see how the sale was going."

Tolin set the letter opener aside.

"Were you on good terms with him?"

"Sure.  We had a pretty good working relationship.  We didn't socialize,
but we got along."

"Why did Cassie have only ten percent of the Englander Apartments?"

"Where'd you hear about that?"

"I saw it in documents I took from his file cabinet," Ryabin explained.

"Well, he had ten because it was my money that went into it, but he
managed the building.  I didn't want to pay him a fee every month, so I
said, here, take ten percent, you can have the headaches, not me." Tolin
gestured toward his office. "I've got a law practice to run."

Ryabin asked, "Did you know that my wife sold you the building?"

"No kidding.  I thought a woman named Rivka owned it.  No, wait.  She
passed away.  Then what?  Your wife bought it from her?"

"No.  Rivka was my sister-in-law."

"My condolences, Detective."

Ryabin leaned forward in the chair, frowning.  "Excuse me, but what
happened to your face?"

One of Frank Tolin's hands went automatically to his cheekbone.  "A
disagreement with a client.  It's dangerous being a lawyer these days."

"Did you know Charlie Sullivan, the model?" Ryabin waited for an answer.

Tolin shook his head, frowning slightly at the change of direction. "Not
personally.  Why?"

"And George Fonseca?  Someone mentioned that you knew him." This was
pure conjecture, but Ryabin wanted to see what Tolin would say.

"Someone?  The policeman's best friend.  Someone is full of shit,
Detective.  I never met George Fonseca.  Nor can I help you figure out
why he and Charlie Sullivan were shot to death.  And in case you planned
to ask if I own a gun, the answer's yes.  A thirty-eight revolver.  Not
what you're looking for.  Sorry about that." His black eyebrows arched."
'Someone' must have told me."

"Where do you live, Mr.  Tolin?  Not on Miami Beach."

"No.  Coconut Grove.  I've got a condo."

Ryabin nodded.  "Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm
Marty Cassie?"

"Not really.  You sure it wasn't a robbery?"

"We don't think so," Ryabin said.  "Could you explain to me why Marty
Cassie's personal files were out of order?

As if someone had been looking through them in a hurry?"

Tolin said, "No, I can't."

"You said you were at his apartment on Saturday morning."

"And I said I didn't go in."

"But we have a statement from a person across the street who says you
did."

"Good try, Detective." Tolin made another of his painful smiles.  Ryabin
reminded himself that Frank Tolin was a trial attorney, skilled in
tactics used on witnesses.

Ryabin said, "Eight o'clock on Saturday morning.  On South Beach
everyone is asleep.  But you drove all the way from Coconut Grove to see
him.  If you didn't know Marty Cassie so well, why did you think he
would be up?"

"I took a chance."

"You didn't call him first?"

"No, I figured he'd be there.  And he was, wasn't he?

But in no shape to answer the door." Tolin stood up.

"Sorry to cut this short, but I've got people coming in.  Maybe we can
get back together sometime next week."

From the chair Ryabin asked, "What was your schedule last Thursday and
Friday?"

"Give me a break." Chuckling, Tolin walked around his desk.  "I was in
court."

A black leather desk diary occupied a spot next to the telephone. Ryabin
went over and picked it up.

"What the hell are you doing?"

He flipped backward a week.  Thursday afternoon, clients from two to
four o'clock.  Friday morning, a trial starting at nine.  Friday
afternoon Tolin snatched the book away and slammed it back on his desk.
"Why don't you leave before I file a complaint with Chief Mazik, whom I
happen to know personally."

Tolin crossed the room.  He tilted slightly to the left, as though
protecting cracked ribs.

At the door to his office he said, "Good luck, Detective.

I hope you find the guy.  You can take this as gospel: It wasn't me."

Now, standing in the lobby at police headquarters, Gene Ryabin glanced
at the big clock over the elevators.

6:20 P.m.  Miss Dorn was nearly half an hour late.

Yesterday afternoon-for the fifth time-he had gone by Klaus Ruffini's
house on the bay side of the island, and for the fifth time Ruffini
wouldn't let him through the gate.  This morning his lawyer, Gerald
Fine, had complained to the chief about harassment.

At noon today Nestor Lopez had noticed the bodyEL

guard, Franco, filling up Ruffini's red Cadillac convertible at a gas
station on Fifth Street.  He blocked the car with his unmarked sedan and
threatened him with arrest for obstruction of justice if he refused to
cooperate with a murder investigation.  Where had Franco been at 10:00
A.M.  on Friday, the precise time of Marty Cassie's death?  Having
breakfast with Klaus and a few of his friends, including a producer for
Miramax Films.  Call him up and ask him.  What about later in the day?
Or the preceding afternoon?  Franco had no answer for that.

Now Ryabin would ask questions of Caitlin Dorn.  Often the girlfriend
knew things.  No longer a girlfriend.

Ryabin assumed that Sam Hagen's reappearance had ended that
relationship, And now Sam and his wife had separated.  What a drama this
had become.

Dina, who had lost both son and husband, would seek peace in her
childhood home.  And Sam and Caidin ...

Ryabin worried about them.  Such love affairs often turned into
tragedies.  No one could help them now.  Ryabin could only watch with
the detachment of a man in the autumn of his life, safely beyond
reckless passion.  His hand went to his shirt pocket, absently caressing
his pack of cigarettes.

There were five remaining.  He decided to have one after his interview
with Miss Dorn.

He paced for a while in the lobby, then looked again at the clock. 6:33.
Caitlin Dorn wasn't going to show up.

CHAPTER Thirty-Two

When Sam let her in, Caitlin slid her hands up the lapels of his jacket
and locked her arms around his W neck.  She stood on tiptoes to whisper
in his ear.  "You don't know how much I want you right now.  Only four
days and it seems like a month." She knew he could smell the perfume she
had touched to her skin in the elevator.

Her dress was pale green and gauzy, with a low neckline and a woven
belt.

Sam's kiss was brief, but then he held her tightly.  She could feel the
strength in his arms, holding her as though it really had been a month
since they'd seen each other.

Or as though it would be a year till the next time.  Over his shoulder
she noticed the room: terribly anonymous, s e thought.  But he had said
to come to the Holiday Inn downtown, so she hadn't expected a suite with
a marble bathroom.

When he let her go, Caitlin walked to the dresser to put down her bag.
She withdrew a box of crackers, some cheese, a bottle of red wine.  "I
thought this would be good.  It's nearly dinnertime.  And look.  More
candles." They filled her hands, six colored-glass holders.

He stood at the end of the double bed, the bed still tightly made up,
and Sam in his dark suit.  She put the candles back on the dresser.
"What's wrong?"

"We need to talk, Caitlin.  Sorry it has to be here." His tone was so
neutral she couldn't read the emotion under neath.  "Not much of a room,
is it?  I couldn't think of anything else.  Neither one of us has our
own place to go to."

"No, it's all right." Then she noticed his right hand.

He was wearing a wrist brace and a bandage over his knuckles.  "Sam!
What have you done to yourself?" She went to see.

He turned his hand over, looking at it, the thick palm and fingers.  "I
got this at Frank Tolin's office.  It hurts like hell." He made a short
laugh.  "I'm too old to be brawling."

"Why did you hit him?" She touched his injured hand.

"What did Frank say to you?  Something horrible, no doubt.  I told you
he would."

Sam took so long in answering that she knew what he was going to say
before the words came out of his mouth.  At the core of her body she
felt a sudden coldness.  The light filtering through the curtains seemed
to fade.

"You said he would lie to me.  I told myself that's what it was.  A lie.
A bomb he threw at me to even up the score, so why not just ignore it?"
Sam exhaled.  "I tried to, Caitlin."

There were two chairs at the small table by the windows.  He sat in one
of them and motioned for her to have a seat, but she remained standing.
He casually crossed his legs.

"Frank said you slept with Matthew."

When Caitlin didn't reply, Sam said, "I've been a trial lawyer for
almost twenty years.  I thought I was better at picking up on things.
You told me he wasn't gay.

How were you so sure about that?  You said you'd taken nude pictures,
and it went fight over my head.

In those portraits you showed me, he was wearing nothing but a pair of
jeans.  I didn't pay any special attention at the time.  But the way he
looked into the lens-at you-"

Caitlin grabbed the votive candles off the dresser and threw them back
into her bag, heard the crack of breaking glass.  Pieces flew out onto
the dresser.  "I'm not a defendant in one of your damned trials.  I'm
not on the stand.

How could you do this?  To ask me to come here.  Not telling me it was
for this."

She was reaching for the doorknob when he caught up and swung her
around.  She gasped and raised an arm over her face.

"Caidin, stop.  I'm not going to hit you." His left hand tightened on
her elbow.  "You're going to tell me what happened."

"Oh, God, Sam.  Could it possibly make a difference?"

He put her on the end of the double bed, standing over her.  "I wish I'd
done what you told me to.  Stay the hell away from Frank.  Remain
blissfully ignorant.  But I didn't.  I'm trying to be fair, to
understand."

"No.  Frank has poisoned us." She looked up at Sam.

"He knows you so well, and he knew what would hurt you most."

"And what were you thinking of, Caitlin, when you slept with my son? Did
you realize that he knew about us?

He did.  His mother told him.  Did you and Matthew talk about it?"

She shook her head.  "He didn't tell me he knew about us."

"So what was it?" Sam leaned against the dresser.

"He was good looking.  Young.  But you're still young, aren't y .  A
beautifu woman.  When I was a kid, I had a thing going with a woman who
lived down the road.  I used to take care of the orange trees in her
backyard.  She started coming outside in her swimsuit, getting a suntan,
and one day she asked if I'd like to come in for a cold drink." He
laughed.  "But she hadn't been sleeping with my father."

"For God's sake." Caidin turned away.

"When you were with Matthew, was it me you wanted?

Or maybe you were still so angry at me for ending our affair that you
wanted to get even."

"How simple.  Yes, maybe that's it."

"Tell me what it was, Caitlin." A piece of blue glass from one of the
broken votive candles lay on the dresser.  Sam picked it up.  "Was it
Matthew's idea?  At his age, I was a spec five in the army.  I'd worked
in my groves since I was twelve years old.  I had to earn every dollar I
spent.  Matthew had everything he wanted, and he couldn't care less
about it.  The fact that you and I had been together wouldn't have meant
a damn thing."

7 Sam tossed the glass into her canvas bag.  "No.  Maybe it did.  What
better way to make a point than to screw the woman I used to sleep
with."

"Stop it!" She stood up from the end of the bed and pushed past him.
"What did you tell me, Sam?  'I love you, Caidin.  Be patient.  It will
all work out this time, Caitlin.  I promise."

"

"I didn't know about this!" he said.  "You deliberately withheld the
truth."

She laughed.  "And you would have been so understanding, wouldn't you?"

He closed on her, furious.  "My son-the only son I will ever have-is
dead.  He drank.  He took drugs.  He got on his motorcycle-after he'd
had six or eight shooters at a bar-and he might as well have blown his
brains out.  So when I ask you-you, Caidin, who were sleeping with him
and presumably knew his state of mind-when I ask you what the hell he
was doing, then I expect to get an answer."

Sam gripped the back of a chair, then winced and pulled his right hand
away.  He held it gingerly with the left and cursed under his breath.

The room fell silent, only the air conditioner buzzing under the window.
Caitlin said, "You think he wanted to die."

"I don't know what he wanted," Sam said.

"It was an accident."

"That's what I used to tell his mother.  Nothing caused it, Dina.  Just
accept it and buck up, honey.  Nothing you can do.  It's not your
fault."

a Caidin sat down in the other chair, still trembling little.  "You know
something?  You're not what I thought, either.  Well.  I guess we all
see what we want to see."

"I guess we do."

Sam sat on the corner of the bed with his forearms on his knees.  His
suit coat pulled on his shoulders.  His shoes were heavy wing tips with
worn-down heels.

She smiled slightly and looked away.  She had mended her bra strap with
the wrong color thread in the rush to get here.  They might as well be
sitting naked with the curtains pulled open all the way.  Candlelight
had been prettier.

She looked back at Sam.  "I met Matthew about a year and a half ago.  I
don't remember the first time we met because he probably didn't impress
me as being different from any other young male model.  He was handsome,
but so many of them are.  He called himself Stavros.  Just that.

Stavros.  I didn't know who he was.  Then he asked me to do his
composite.  He said he'd heard about my work, and that his real name was
Matthew Hagen.  He said he was from Miami, and his father was a big deal
at the state attorney's office.  I almost told him I was too busy, find
somebody else to take his pictures.  And besides that, he was as
arrogant as hell.  But I needed the money, so I did it.  And I guess I
was curious about him, too.  Sam Hagen's son.

"We saw each other in the business.  He was on a few shoots I did.  Or
I'd see him by accident on the street.

That sort of thing.  We got to know each other.  I didn't think of him
sexually.  I'd seen so many beautiful young men, after a while they all
run together.  Anyway, he was too young.  And he was your son.  That put
him off limits.

"What surprised me at the time-but now I understand it-he was interested
in me.  Nothing heavy, just flirtation.  He'd kid around, and that was
it.  We'd talk about whatever would come up.  I'd been in the fashion
industry for a long time, and I gave him some advice.  I lent him money.
He usually paid me back.  I knew he was into cocaine, but I wouldn't let
him have it around my place.

Later on I found out how bad it was and that he was shooting up, too. He
said he didn't do it a lot.  He could control it.

"What I always sensed about Matthew was his anger.

Sometimes I'd feel it was directed at me.  Now I can see that it
probably was.  One night he came to my apartment, drunk, and so angry he
was shaking.  He wouldn't say much.  Then he kissed me.  I pushed him
away.  He was very strong, and he held me down on the sofa and it wasn't
gentle, but I didn't want to scream and have everyone come running.  And
for a minute I was thinking about you, and it was so awful.  I said,
'Matthew, please.

Please don't." He stopped.  Just like that.  He got up and left.  A
couple of days later he came back to apologize. Now I understand.  He'd
known about you and me all along.  He hated me.  Hated and desired me.
And, yes, it was crazy.  It was all tied up with you and his mother and
me and what he thought was the wrong I had done to all of you.

"Even with that, we became friends.  It wasn't sex.  Or maybe it was, in
some way, and maybe we both knew it, but there was a line there, and we
didn't cross it.

"Matthew had a hard time making it as a model.  He was undisciplined and
impatient.  I tried to help.  I made him a new composite for free, and
he looked terrific.  He got some work, but it was so hard, finding his
way in a business where, really, nobody looks beyond the surface.  He
was on and off drugs, he was drinking.  He got a few good jobs.  That
was when he bought his motorcycle.  He was beginning to be known. People
were starting to ask for Stavros.  Then I didn't see him for a while.
Someone told me he was involved with Sullivan.  I was surprised, and yet
I wasn't.  You might want to blame Sullivan for what happened to
Matthew, but you can't, not completely.  We all share complicity in what
happens to us.  Oh, yes, Sullivan had his despicable moments, but he did
care for Matthew, as much as Sullivan could have cared for anyone.

"I don't know how it happened.  I never asked.  As I told you, it was
brief.  I heard through someone else that they'd argued.  Then Matthew
came to my apartment to pick up some prints I'd made for him.  He was
having trouble again.  He had no money left.  I fixed him a sandwich
because he hadn't eaten all day and he was hungry.  We had some wine and
we talked.

He said he wanted to give up.  He didn't know what to do.  Sullivan had
told him he'd never make it.  'Stavros, you're a pathetic little faggot,
an irresponsible child." That's what he said.  Matthew couldn't shrug it
off because there was enough truth to cut deeply.  He was so ashamed. He
started to cry.  My God, like everything in him had been smashed and it
would never be put right again.

"Yes, I slept with him, I did it because he needed me, and he was yours,
and I loved him because he was part of you, and because of who he was,
himself.

Matthew.  I told him to stay with me awhile.  He did, for nearly two
weeks.  That's when I took the photographs.

Just before he died.

"I've never met a man who was so sweet, so innocent, even with
everything that had happened to him.  He said he'd marry me when he grew
up.  Isn't that funny?  We both laughed.  Then he said no, maybe he'd
just be my devoted friend forever, We talked about you.  He wanted so
much to please you.  To have your respect, and for you to know how much
he loved you.  But he never mentioned you and me, Sam.  That would have
been cruel, and he wasn't that way.

"You want me to tell you he was a slacker and a failure, that he would
have died no matter what.  That you didn't lose much.  Is that what you
want?  You said he was lost years ago.  No.  He was right there all the
time.  You're the one who was lost.

"He didn't choose to die.  He didn't die because of me or Sullivan or
you or his mother or because he had failed you or himself.  He died
because he was going too fast on his motorcycle.  He was happy, Sam.  He
would have been all right.  That's what you saw in the portraits. That's
what I wanted you to know, and why I showed them to you.  He was happy."

Caitlin sat for a while, pulling at the strings tied in a decorative
knot at the end of her belt.  She listened to traffic noises on the
street, Sam had gotten up as she spoke, and now he was leaning against
the wall with his arms crossed.

Finally he looked at her.  His eyes seemed hollow, as though he might
fall through them and disappear.

She said, "I'll be leaving in a week or so.  Rafael's going to help me
drive."

"What will you do?" Sam asked.

"Something will turn up." Caitlin crossed the room for her bag.  "You
know, it's odd.  I have nothing left except one old camera and a car
with a hundred thousand miles on it, but for the first time in years, I
know I'm going to be okay."

"That's good." He nodded.

"What about you, Sam?"

He hadn't moved from where he leaned against the wall.

"Me?" He smiled.  "I'll be okay, too."

CHAPTER Thirty-Three

ddie Mora wasn't looking at the photos anymore.  He was gazing the
length of his office and tapping his Etented fingers on his chin.  His
hands jerked as though brain and muscles had disconnected.

There was a line of fifteen photographs on Eddie's desk, clearly showing
the state attorney's deputy chief of administration parked outside the
Orange Bowl in the middle of the day with a criminal lawyer who was
currently representing a defendant in a highly public sexual battery
prosecution.  Each picture had the date and time in the lower
ri-lit-hand corner.

Sam had explained the situation.

Eddie finally spoke.  "Well.  That's it then." He glanced down as if a
dog had chosen his desk for a place to squat.

"Are these duplicates?"

"Keep them," Sam said.  "I have my own set." Dale Finley had given him
doubles but had kept the negatives.

Eddie had asked where the hell the photos had come from, but Sam had
declined to say.  One day there would be a reckoning for this.  One day,
when Sam was sitting behind the state attorney's sleek walnut desk, he
would pick up the phone and it would be Date Finley.

Eddie scooped the photos into a pile, opened a drawer, and dropped them
inside.

Sam said, "I resent being used, Eddie.  So call it even, if it makes you
feel better."

An artery beat in Eddie's temple.  "Nobody expected IL

the girl to go through with it.  This case was going to wash out."

"But it didn't," Sam said.  "You sent Dale Finley to scare her off."

He made a short laugh.  "No, that was his idea."

"An investigator doing his own thing can be a liability," Sam said. "Are
you going to take him to Washington?

Assuming you make it to Washington."

"No, he's all yours now.  You tell yourself you won't use him, but you
will.  Finley can be a useful guy to have around.  Just don't turn your
back on him."

"What about Vicky Duran?"

Eddie's hands moved outward in an expansive shrug.

"Yes, what about Vicky?  You decide, Sam.  Soon as I talk to the
governor, this will be your job, and Vicky will be your problem."

Sam said, "She just wrote her own resignation letter, etting into bed
with Jerry Fine."

9 "

Here's some advice.  Try to arrange a job for her first.

Something with the county, say.  A decent salary." Eddie suddenly
grabbed a heavy coffee mug, the closest object, and hurled it across his
office.  The handle broke on the edge of a bookcase and the mug bounced
to the carpet and rolled unevenly to a stop.

Sam looked back at Eddie, who was straightening his cuffs.

Eddie's smile was more of a twitch.  "You know, I didn't mind coming
down here to live, but Amalia never liked Miami.  The muggy weather, the
lack of culture, the insane political landscape.  You might not believe
this, but what I did was for her.  She begged me to find a job somewhere
else."

"No, Eddie.  I don't believe it, but it sounds very noble of you." Sam
added, "I'm curious about something.  Ruffini never told the press about
Amalia's trips to Cuba, even after you allowed the case to proceed
against him.  Why?"

Eddie weighed whether to answer, then said, "Because it was too late.  I
didn't file the case-you did.  I couldn't very well dismiss it.  So what
would he gain by opening his mouth about my wife?  He's here on a damn
tourist visa.  He knew that once I got to Washington, I could have his
ass on a plate.  So the prosecution had to roll onunless he could help
Victoria Duran take over as state attorney.  She would have repaid him
by scuttling the case somehow.  He and his lawyer were counting on
that."

Sam said, "If the police link Ruffini to any of these murders, I'll have
to bring your name up.  Don't even think about asking me to keep you out
of it."

"Ruffini wouldn't have had them killed," Eddie said, looking miffed.
"Granted, he's better off with Sullivan and Fonseca ' dead, but it's
easier to deal with Miss Duncan.  And I don't mean shoot her.  I mean
bribe her.  Give her what she wants.  Klaus Ruffini would rather pay her
than go through a trial." Eddie made a sly smile.  "He's afraid of you,
Sam.  He doesn't want to face you in court."

Suddenly eager to get out of there, Sam stood up.

"You've got some balls, Eddie.  How long did you think you could keep
the media from finding out what Klaus Ruffini already knew?"

"Long enough for Senator Kirkland to decide whether it mattered," Eddie
said.  "We discussed it last week, when Amalia and I flew up to Michigan
to see him.  His advisors said not to worry.  The average voter doesn't
care about Cuba.  He doesn't care that the vice presidential candidate's
sister-in-law is investing in Cuba.  Claudia's a citizen of Spain; she
can do what she wants to.  It's good politics, in fact, to stand up to
the Miami exile community.  The embargo should have been lifted years
ago.  Fidel Castro would have been gone as soon as the first McDonald's
opened its doors in Havana."

Sam said, "Sorry to point this out, Eddie, but Amalia broke U.S.  law
going there."

"You prove she went.  Then we'll talk."

At the door Sam turned around, laughing softly.  "Jesus.

A small thing.  That's what you told me.  Such a small thing.  It hardly
seemed worth the trouble to hide it."

"You'll see, Sam, how much you have to hide when you're in this office.
People are absolutely irrational, what they think is important and what
isn't."

"Doesn't it bother you?"

"Not really.  You get used to it."

Sam took another look around the office.  "I'd appreciate your calling
the governor as soon as possible.  This afternoon.  There are some
changes I want to get started on."

Eddie's round face seemed to puff with rage.  "Get the fuck out."

Almost a year had gone by since Sam Hagen had been inside the Club Deuce
with Gene Ryabin, but it was just as dim, with a carefully maintained
ambiance of dusty ceiling fans and neon beer signs.  It had the same
cracked linoleum squares on the floor and probably the same drink
coasters under the short leg of the pool table.

Still no locks on the bathroom doors.  The staff wanted everybody to
know they might look in and see who was doing what.

Gene Ryabin came in about six-thirty, and Sam motioned to him.  The
crowd was thin on Mondays.

Ryabin brought his beer to the wall-mounted varnishedplywood bar under
the front window.  He was grinning, showing the gap in his teeth.  "For
you, my friend, a token.

What is a title?  Pah.  They respect more a visible sign of your power."
He pulled from his coat pocket a miniature guillotine, which he set on
the bar.

Sam smiled around the lip of the beer bottle at his mouth.

Ryabin stuck a cigarette in a hole under the blade, then neatly chopped
off the filter.  It rolled to the floor.  "Now.

Give me your finger."

"What good is a state attorney with a missing digit?"

"Trust me." Ryabin spread a hand on his chest.  "A magic guillotine. Not
one drop of blood if you are truly worthy."

"That's what I'm afraid of." Laughing, Sam extended his left hand as
Ryabin raised the tiny blade in its tracks.

"If this wasn't my third beer already, I'd never let you do this, Gene."
The blade swept downward, clicked, and seemed to pass through Sam's
index finger.  "Not bad."

Ryabin was pleased.  He showed Sam how the blade pivoted into the frame.
"I like to show this in the men's room at the station." He slid the toy
across the bar, then raised his beer bottle, a salute.  "Nastrovye."

"Maybe I'll use it on Beekie Duran," Sam said.  "But her dick might not
fit through this little hole here."

Ryabin felt inside his coat.  "I have also the initial toxicology report
on George Fonseca, along with the latest narratives of our
investigation." He handed the folded pages to Sam.

Sam turned directly to the report from the MetroDade toxicologist.  Not
a full report; that would take a few more weeks.  Already, however, the
lab had found a cholinesterase inhibitor in Fonseca's blood.  Common
name, Parathion.  Traces of it had been found in a beer bottle on the
floor of the Mustang.  A nasty way to die, Sam thought, remembering the
vomit and excrement on Fonseca's body.

"Nastrovye, " he said and lifted his bottle of Heineken.

Ryabin grinned down at Sam's right hand.  "A strange coincidence I'm
seeing here.  Wednesday I went to interview Frank Tolin at his office,
and his lip is split and his face is bruised."

"Too bad," Sam said.

Ryabin asked, "What was it about?"

Sam took another swallow of beer before answering.

"Caidin Dorn.  I went to close the wrongful death case; then we had a
discussion about Caitlin."

When Sam didn't elaborate, Ryabin nodded toward the papers on the bar.
"My notes from the interview are in there, too.  Tolin says he was
friendly with Marty Cassie, but I don't think so.  When you were working
with Tolin, what was your impression?"

"I didn't see a problem," Sam said, "but that was four years ago." He
sat and read the police reports while Ryabin went to get another beer
and watch a white-haired woman shoot pool with a leather boy, beating
him handily.

Ryabin pulled out his stool and sat back down.  He was short and had to
step on the bottom rung to do it gracefully.  "What would Miss Dom have
to say about Frank Tolin and Marty Cassie, if I asked her?"

"I have no idea."

"She was supposed to come to the station last week, but she didn't show
up.  I left messages, but she doesn't call."

At the pool table, the balls rolled and clicked and dropped neatly into
the correct pockets.  The white-haired woman's next opponent was a
tourist from Scotland who couldn't stop laughing.  Probably high on
something, Sam thought.

He looked back at Ryabin, I haven't seen Caitlin since last Thursday."

"She doesn't return your calls, either?"

"I haven't called."

Ryabin was playing with a cigarette, but he didn't light it.  "Does this
mean that I can't ask you to find out from her about Frank Tolin and
Marty Cassie?"

"I'll let you do it." Sam finished his beer.  "When you talk to her,
Gene, ask where Ali Duncan is.  I think we may have a problem.  Her
mother says she doesn't know where Ali went, but I have my doubts.  I
don't know if she's dead or in hiding, or if Klaus came up with the
right numbers."

:'Did you tell Eddie Mora?" Ryabin asked.

'Not till after the announcement hits the paper tomorrow about my
appointment.  Maybe I can bring her back, maybe not.  Eddie was right,
Gene.  The case is a loser.

The son of a bitch was right."

CHAPTER Thirty-Four

"I'm sorry for not getting back in touch with you." Caidin Dorn escorted
Ryabin into the foyer.  "I've been so busy getting ready to leave."

He followed her long strides and swirling cotton skirt down a narrow,
tiled hallway, through a living room reminiscent of an Italian country
villa, then to a patio overlooking the Intracoastal.  Across the narrow
stretch of water, luxury hotels lined the northern end of Miami Beach.

The house, she explained, belonged to a friend of hers, Paula DeMarco,
who owned a gallery on Lincoln Road.

Ms.  DeMarco had already gone back to New York, but her relatives
resided here year-round, none of them home at present.

There was a conversation area in the shade.  A fountain gurgled into a
fern-draped swimming pool, and marble sculptures of headless torsos
guarded the access to the dock, where a mildewed sailboat was tied.
While Caitlin Dom poured them glasses of peach-flavored iced tea, Ryabin
looked around for a place to hang his jacket, finally folding it over
the arm of his chair, a monstrous painted wood thing resembling a
child's crayon drawing of a chair.  The entire house, he had noticed on
the way through it, was jammed with such oddities.  Beside the steps,
tiled in pieces of broken dishes, a black Doberman lifted its lip at
Ryabin and a low growl rumbled in its throat.  Caidin told the dog to be
quiet. --When do you go to New York?" Ryabin asked.  He smiled at her
over his glass.

"This weekend, I hope." She sat in a matching chair and crossed her
legs.  Such long, slender legs.  "I have some jobs to finish."

"Taking more pictures of beautiful young people.  Such bother."

She laughed.  "No, tonight I'm shooting a birthday party.  A
twenty-year-old boy.  It's not what I like to do, but- well, Mom and Dad
are loaded.  She told me they've hired a live rock band."

"For my son's birthday I sent a card." Ryabin noticed that between the
chairs was a red metal ashtra that looked like an open mouth.  He
reached for his pack of cigarettes, then returned them to his pocket. He
had promised to smoke ten a day, no more, then the next month, eight.
Already he was regretting this, but he had never broken a promise to
Anna.

"Miss Dom, do you know where Ali Duncan is?  Sam Hagen says he can't
find her."

Caitlin Dorn's mouth fell open a little.  "My God.  I haven't heard from
her either.  So that's it.  She's gone.

About a week ago she told me that Tereza Ruffini had offered her a job
modeling for a French magazine.  I think she must have taken it."

Ryabin put his glass of tea on the flat yellow arm of the chair.  "I am
guessing from what you tell me that Ali Duncan won't be back to testify
against Tereza's husband."

"Oh, Ali." Caitlin Dom pulled up a knee and rested her elbow on it. Then
she laughed.  "She made them pay her.  I "wonder how much?  No, she
won't be back, not till her money runs out, and if she's smart, that
won't be for a long time.  Poor Sam.  All that effort for nothing." She
reached for her glass, took a sip, then said, "I heard on the news last
night that he's been appointed interim state attorney.  So I guess he
isn't 'poor Sam' after all.  Next time you see him, say I sent my
congratulations."

For a few seconds her green eyes seemed to gaze vacantly at the patio,
then she fixed them on Ryabin.  "You said you had some questions about
Marty Cassie."

He inquired what she knew about him, and she repeated essentially the
same facts he himself had already uncovered in his investigation several
weeks ago for Sam Hagen.  Then he asked her if she knew Klaus Ruffini.

"Not well.  I've met him a few times."

"People say that he and Marty Cassie had recently a disagreement, a
falling out."

"Over the Grand Caribe Resort," she said.  "Marty wanted more control,
and Klaus thought he was incompetent, which, well, he was.  The Grand
Caribe was in financial trouble after Klaus was arrested.  The city
didn't grant the zoning.permits.  Marty threatened to go to the backers
and persuade them to pull out entirely unless Klaus paid him off.
Everyone thinks the Grand Caribe was Klaus's, but it wasn't.  He used
his name, and he has a lot of rich friends.  He pulled them together.
That's his talent.  The Ruffini money is really his wife's, Tereza's.
She has the say-so."

:'How do you know this?"

'Well, I pick up a lot, just being around." She combed her hair back
from her face with her fingers.  A beautiful woman, such shiny blond
hair.

Ryabin took a cigarette out of the pack.  "Miss Dornmay I call you
Caitlin?"

"Of course."

"Forgive such a personal question, but, did you ever have a sexual
relationship with Charlie Sullivan?"

She laughed.  "Are you serious?"

:'He slept with women, too.  He never suggested ...  T' 'All right, he
suggested.  I told him no."

"Your boyfriend at the time-Frank Tolin?-he didn't mind?"

"Yes, but he got over it." She shook her head, smiling as if the man
beside her could be shocked by such things.

"Look, Detective.  I was a model.  I'm used to men coming on to me.  It
doesn't mean anything.  Why on earth did you ask me about Sullivan?"

Ryabin made a noncommittal noise and drew his cigarette back and forth
between his fingers.

"Are you going to smoke that?"

"I promised my wife I would cut down."

"I'll help you," she said.  She took the cigarette then let him light it
for her.  "I've quit, too." She inhaled deeply.

Ryabin took another and lit it for himself.  "Now I won't be able to
have one after lunch."

"Yes, you will.  Smoke the one you've scheduled for after dinner. That's
what I used to do," she said.  "But then I'd advance the one from after
breakfast the next day.  I think I got something like a thousand
cigarettes ahead of myself."

She tapped her cigarette into the red-lipped ashtray.

"Caidin, you're not with Frank Tolin anymore.  Correct?" Her expression
said she knew that he already had the answer to that.  Ryabin said,
"Does he have a cocaine habit?  Was that a problem between you?"

She exhaled smoke.  "You're awfully interested in my relationships."

"It's a professional interest." Ryabin smiled.  He had been told that
women found the space between his front teeth endearing.  "I heard from
I don't remember who that George Fonseca sold him drugs."

"Sometimes," she said slowly, perhaps wondering if this police detective
was going to accuse her of a narcotics violation.  Then she made a short
laugh.  "More than sometimes."

"Maybe you can help me." Ryabin sat forward in the bizarre wooden chair.
"Last week I talked to Frank Tolin.

I asked him to tell me about Marty Cassie.  What kind of man was he, and
so on.  Tolin said Cassie couldn't be trusted.  They'd had problems.  I
asked him what he meant, but then, suddenly, he didn't want to talk
about it."

Her eyes told him he had hit a vein of truth.

Ryabin furrowed his brow.  "He mentioned some property they owned
together."

"You don't think Frank shot Marty Cassie."

"Why not?" She stared at him, and Ryabin decided to embroider the truth.
"What if I told you that Frank has no alibi for the time of Martin
Cassie's death?" He paused, then added, "And that we have a witness who
saw a man in cowboy boots go into his apartment." Ryabin watched for a
reaction.  "What would you say?"

She seemed frozen into the chair.  Then she took a breath.  "Marty was
trying to extort money from Frank.

You're right, it was about the apartment building I used to live in, the
Englander.  Four years ago Frank wanted to buy it.  The owner didn't
want to sell at the right price, so Marty arranged for a fire.  It was
supposed to be a small one, but something went wrong, and the owner
died.  I understand she was your wife's sister."

"Rivka Levitsky."

"Yes.  I didn't know till Frank told me.  I'm so sorry."

"And Frank's part in it?"

"Nothing, except being involved with Marty.  After the sale went
through, Marty told him what had happened.

Then about three weeks ago Marty came to Frank's condo and demanded
money.  He said he'd tell everyone that Frank had planned it, unless
Frank gave him a hundred thousand dollars."

"Did Frank ever pay him?"

"I doubt that he would, but I can't say.  That was the only time we
talked about it."

Ryabin watched a plastic penguin rotate across the pool, driven by a
gust of air.  "Frank told you all of this?"

"Yes, after Marty left." She sat silently for a while.

"No, I didn't hear the conversation.  So Frank could have lied to me.
With Frank, I believed what I wanted to believe.  I spent eight years
making excuses for him.  And for myself, for not having the guts to
leave him."

"What do you think, Caitlin?  You know him better than anybody.  Is he
capable of pulling a trigger?  Shooting someone in the back?"

She took a long time to answer.  "I think he's basically a coward.  He
used to hit me.  Well, I hit him too.  We had some pretty bad moments.
When I left him he became hostile.  The awful letters, the phone calls.
He made threats.  I was afraid, but he didn't come after me.  I haven't
heard from him in over a week.  Some men love too much.  They become so
jealous and angry they kill what they supposedly love.  But Frank?  No,
he's too much in love with his money to go to jail, not for me or for
Marty Cassie." She shrugged.  "Anyway, that's my opinion."

Sitting in the bright red-and-yellow chair on the patio of this mansion,
Gene Ryabin thought fleetingly, sorrowfully, of Adela Ramos and her son
Carlito, the boy who had been murdered because someone had loved too
much.

EL

Sam finally told his secretary to hold his calls.  There had been so
many calls of congratulations on Monday, and people dropping by to chat,
that today Sam had fled to the third floor to talk to Juan Casares, head
of the felony division.  The two men talked about changes to be made
when Sam officially took charge next week.  Sam had already noticed that
people had begun to speak to him differently.  More deferentially.  He
thought he could get used to it.

Joe McGee knocked on the door, then stuck his head in.

"Sam?  News flash.  Ali Duncan's on her way to Paris, courtesy of Moda
Ruffini."

"What?" Sam stared at him across the room.

McGee said, "Detective Ryabin called.  I thought you'd like to know."

Before the door closed again, Sam said, "Joe?" McGee came back in. "Find
out what happened.  Track down Ali Duncan if you have to and get a
statement.  Tell her she won't be prosecuted when she comes back to Dade
County.  I want that son of a bitch Ruffini charged with witness
tampering.  Then we'll bring in Immigration and tell them to deport his
ass."

"You got it."

Sam looked across the office at Casares, who seemed amused.  Sai.,
shrugged.  "Yes, Juan, I know Immigration has better things to do."

Casares said, "Is Ruffini trying to help you get elected in November?"

"If I run into him again," Sam said, "I'll have to say thanks."

Dina Hagen sat on the deep leather sofa in Frank Tolin's office with her
coffee on her lap.  The coffee cup was French porcelain, with little
feet and gold leaf around the rim.  The handle was of the precise
thickness and angle to accommodate a woman's thumb and first two
fingers.

Yellow roses decorated the cup itself, and more of them formed a wreath
on the saucer, which had also been touched with gold.  Ordinarily a male
lawyer would not have provided such a thing for his clients but now that
Dina had come to know Frank Tolin better, she understood how it revealed
his nature.

Frank was sitting on the other end of the sofa, weeping softly.  His
elbow was on the arm of the sofa and his hand was over his eyes.

The first time he had wept, she had been embarrassed, but he'd said he
needed for her to listen, and so she had.

Now he expressed his emotions as freely as a woman, and had told her
many times that if not for her, he would have killed himself.  He wanted
to die like Matthew had died, Oh, forgive me, Dina, but I would buy a
motorcycle, run it off the causeway, and drown myself.  Not linger in
pain, but end it quickly.

Dina took another sip of coffee.  There was no rush to get back to work
because she had no work to go to.  The managing partner at Jacobs Ross &
Rendell had called her to his office over a week ago and asked if she
needed more time off.  She had told him she would be leaving soon,
please send her final check.  But she still got up early, as usual, and
dressed and drove into Miami.  She walked.  She sat in the library.  She
hired a service to do her r6sum6, which she mailed to accounting firms
around Tarpon Springs.  She went to the Cathedral of St.  Sophia's every
afternoon on the way home.  And she had been at Frank's office every
day.

A long sigh came from the other end of the sofa.  He cleared his throat.
"Dina?  Could you hand me another Kleenex?  I'm sorry to get like this."

"Well, of course, it must have been so awful for you."

His cheekbone was still bruised, and she touched it lightly.

"Dina, please.  Don't patronize me.  I feel bad enough already.  I've
never been struck by a woman before, not one I loved so much." Frank
fell back against the sofa and closed his eyes.  "It's like she took a
knife to my privates.

I apologize for being graphic, and I know, I know I ought to forget the
whole thing, but I can't.  I thought the stars were in that woman's
eyes," he said.  "She's so beautiful."

"A spider." Dina sipped her coffee.  "Don't blame yourself."

"No, I don't.  But I worry what else she'll do." Frank moved closer on
the sofa.  "I could tell you-" He stopped speaking.

She put the cup into its saucer.  "What, Frank?"

LL

"Tommy Chang.  I've seen them together.  Do you know who I mean?" Frank
took her hand.  "He's a young man, about Matthew's age."

"Yes, I know who you mean," Dina said.

"She was kissing him on the mouth.  I saw them, Dina.

She took him into her house."

"Are you going to get upset again?"

"No." He fixed his eyes on hers for a long, long moment.  Brown eyes,
almost as dark as Matthew's had been.

"I worship you, Dina."

"Oh, Frank.  Don't be dramatic."

"You're an angel.  A goddess." He slid down to the carpeted floor beside
her.

"Stop that." She laughed.

He put his forehead on her knees.  After a minute she stroked his head.
He had such thick, dark hair.

CHAPTER Thirty-Five

am found Melanie watching MTV in the family room.

She was stretched out on the floor with her head on a Ssmall sofa
pillow.  He leaned over and ruffled her hair.

"Hey, honey.  Where's your mother?"

"She went to the grocery store." Melanie had a plastic bag of carrots
and offered him one.  He declined.  "I saw you on the news," she said.
"You're going to make a great state attorney, Dad."

He smiled at her and sat down on the sofa.  There was a staff meeting in
the morning to prepare for, but Sam had no energy.  He knew he ought to
be either working or celebrating, but he couldn't bring himself to do
either.

"Are you all right, Dad?"

"I'm feeling old and gray."

"You're not old and gray." She twisted her neck around to see him.  "I
thought you looked really nice on TV."

"Thanks, but you're supposed to think that."

There had been a few moments in the last week or so when he wondered
just how in the hell he was going to do this, raise a daughter.  It
would be just the two of them.

Melanie was still a kid, really.  There were still plenty of chances to
commit a major screw-up.

On the television, a bare chested man with a guitar was playing in the
desert without benefit of electricity, and a young woman wound herself
around his legs like a snake.

"You doing okay, Mel?"

She glanced at him.  Must have caught something in his voice.  "Sure,
Dad." She smiled.  She rolled over and hugged the small pillow under her
chest.  "You want to hear something weird?  I was thinking that one day
I'll be older than Matthew."

"How's that, honey?"

"This is his birthday, but he's still nineteen and I'm getting older.
I'm almost fifteen now.  And one day I'll be older than he was when he
died."

Sam had to think.  "This is his birthday?"

"Yes.  June twenty-first."

"Jesus," he said softly, then looked back at her.  "He was a good kid,
Melanie.  Don't ever forget that.  He loved you a lot."

She smiled at him.  "I know, Dad."

Sam went into the kitchen to make some coffee and drank it looking out
into the backyard, which was turning into a jungle.  Somebody had
forgotten to pay the yardman, so the yardman had forgotten to come by
and mow the yard.

They would have to sell this house.  Soon as Dina came back from the
store they'd have to talk about it.  Nearly a week had gone by since he
and Dina had engaged in any sort of conversation about their future.  It
was time.  The subject hung over them like a toxic fog.

"Jesus," Sam repeated.  "Twenty years old." It made him feet strange. He
wouldn't have been the father of a teenage boy anymore.  Ever since last
week, when he'd spoken to Caitlin, he'd felt strange.  Dislocated. She'd
given him a word: lost.

A dull ache twisted in his chest.  He had almost wanted Caitlin to lie
to him, and to do it so expertly that each word would fit to the next as
tightly as the pages in a bible on the judge's bench.  But she hadn't
tied.  She could have, but she hadn't.

He finished the coffee in his study.  He set the mug on his desk and
picked up the telephone.  He looked up her number, which he'd written on
a card in his wallet, and punched the buttons.  A woman answered and he
told her who he was, and asked to speak to Caitlin Dom.  He sat on the
edge of the cot to wait.  The blankets and sheets were disarrayed.  He
tossed the pillow to the proper end of the bed.

There was some delay.  Then the sounds of voices, then heels on a tile
floor.

"Sam?  I can't talk, I was just on my way out." Then she said, "What is
it?"

"A huge apology.  I'd like to start there."

He heard the silence.  Then a sigh.  "You don't need to do that."

He said, "When can I see you?"

"I'm leaving in a few days, and I'm just swamped with work to finish."

"Tomorrow.  Give me an hour." He rested his elbows on his knees.  "I
have so much to tell you, Caitlin.  I'm not sure right now if this
sounds coherent, but I've thought so much about everything you said."

"Sam, please.  I'm really happy for you, making state attorney, and I'm
sure you'll be the best-"

"It doesn't matter, Caitlin, what happened between you and Matthew."

"I'm not going to talk about this any more."

"That's what I'm trying to say." He stood up.  "It's over.  Let's go
from here."

She laughed a little.  "No.  Things like that are never over.  They will
always haunt you.  Always.  I know you, Sam."

"No, you don't," he said.  "But I want you to."

He listened, the receiver pressed to his ear, and there was the sound of
a breath.

"Caitlin, go to New York.  I know it's important.  Go wherever you have
to go.  But listen to me, please, when I say this.  I love you.  I know
that as clearly as I've known anything in my life.  Maybe I destroyed
what you felt for me.  I hope not, but it doesn't change what's in my
heart for you.  Will you remember that?"

After a while, she said, "I'll remember."

"Okay," he said.  "That's all I wanted.  Go on, I don't want to make you
late."

He heard nothing, then a click.  He replaced the phone.

Through the window of his study, which looked into the backyard, he
could see shadows stretching across the lawn.  Thick grass had sprouted
between the herringbone bricks in the walkway.  The hedge leading to the
gazebo was heavy with red blossoms.  Vines wrapped themselves around the
fence, and pods on the tamarind tree were bursting open. Everything in
the yard was growing wild, pushing out roots and tendrils and leaves.

Laughing a little, Sam let the curtain fall back into place.  Caitlin
wouldn't be gone forever.  Gene Ryabin had come by the state attorney's
office at noon today.  If Ryabin's theory was correct, Sam could wind up
prosecuting Frank Tolin for the murder of Martin Cassie.  And he would
have to call Caitlin Dorn as a witness.  Fly her to Miami from wherever
she was.  Bring her back.

She would testify to motive.  The elderly woman across the street would
say Frank had entered the building a day or so after Cassie's death.
Forensics had already found his prints on the files in the bedroom. He'd
been rifling through them, looking for notes, anything, proving Frank's
role in the arson.  The police didn't have enough yet for an arrest.
They hadn't tied him to the other homicides-yet-but he was clearly tied
to this one.

Sam flexed the fingers in his right hand.  It still hurt, but not as
much.  It had been worth every bruised knuckle and cracked bone.  Funny
that Frank hadn't made a police report.  And even odder, why had he
hacked at Marty Cassie's hand?

Frank could have been out of his mind, completely unhinged.  After he
had shot Marty Cassie in the back he had stretched Cassie's arm out on
the floor, had turned his right hand palm up, and had savagely stabbed
it four times, one blow going all the way through flesh and muscle,
between the bones, and through the carpet.  As if he were making a
statement, delfonso Garcfa had made a statement by throwing Luis
Balmaseda out a window, as Balmaseda had done with his sister's boy,
Carlito Ramos. This is what he deserved.  Cassie had tried to reach out
and take Frank Tolin's money.  A hundred thousand dollars of it.  He
deserved to have his hand slashed.

If, as Ryabin suspected, Frank Tolin had been jealous of Charlie
Sullivan, what better statement than to shoot him in the heart, then
take off his pretty face?  It all fit.  It fit with George Fonseca, who
had supplied drugs to Frank.  But why would Frank poison his drug dealer
with Parathion?  Had Fonseca threatened to turn him in?

For a moment, then another, and another, as if he were dreaming and at
the same time knowing he was dreaming, Sam saw himself standing by the
window, a man holding his broken right hand.  A tall, broad-shouldered
man in suit pants and shirt and loosened tie, home from the office.  Now
looking out the window again, into the deepening shadows, at the shed in
a corner of the backyard.

Unlatching the patio door, going along the walkway, then across ' the
thick grass.  Sundown, nearly dark.  A few birds making a racket in the
neighbor's tree.  A woman's voice over the fence.  Calling the kids to
dinner.

The shed was small, about six by ten, made of heavygauge aluminum.  The
door opened smoothly on strap hinges, and the rich, warm smell of
fertilizer rolled out.

Sam ducked his head to avoid a pot hanging from the gently sloped roof.
They had never run current out here, but light came through the door and
a single window, and Sam could see well enough.  Dina kept it
well-organized.

An old electric mower and some yard furniture were stored to one side.
Pots were stacked according to size under the workbench, and over it
hung a neat row of small gardening tools on metal hooks.  Shelves took
up the wall to the right.

It was still hot and stifling in here, and sweat broke out on Sam's
neck.  He peered closely at the boxes, cans, bags, and bottles on the
shelves.  Miracle-Gro.  Fire-ant spray.  Raid.  Black Flag.  Rose dust.
He cursed for not having his glasses.  Toxadust.  Aphid pellets.  Brown
glass bottles with ingredients in print so small he couldn't make the
words out.  He took three bottles to the door of the shed, balanced
along his left arm, holding them carefully with his right forearm,
unable to use the hand.  Malathion spray.  Parathion.

One bottle crashed on the concrete step.  Sam slowly put the others on
the workbench and took a breath.  The acrid, greasy stench of poison
filled his nose.  He told himself to wait, wait.  Wait.

They had all been killed by the same person.  Good.

Because Dina didn't even know George Fonseca.  And when Charlie Sullivan
died, she was out of town.  And Marty Cassie?  She didn't know him
either.  Every backyard gardening shed in Miami, every one, had
insecticides.

And Sam wasn't going to make another insane telephone call to Tarpon
Springs.

In a neat silvery row over the workbench hung her gardening tools. Green
wood handles, worn from use.  A small rake with clawlike tines.  A
narrow, pointed trowel.

A tiny shovel with a razor edge.  And the clippers Dina had been using
when she accidentally slashed her hand.

Blood had dripped onto the red bricks of the walkway.

Sam ran a thumb over their points.

He closed the door of the shed carefully and walked across the yard.  As
he went through the kitchen Melanie asked what was that awful smell? Was
he all right?  Dad?

He told her he had to make some phone calls, never mind dinner.

Upstairs in the bedroom with the door shut he dialed the number.

"Nick9 It's me.  Sam.  Listen ...  No, goddammit, listen, it's about
Dina ...  No, she isn't all right....  Nick, please.  You've got to tell
me.  When did she leave Tarpon Springs that weekend in May9 Saturday or
Sunday ...  I know you told me.  Tell me again....  I am not, I promise
you, going crazy....  She might be in trouble.  If you love your sister,
for God's sake-"

"She thought you were cheating on her, Sam.  She flew back a day early
to find out."

"Oh, Jesus."

"She made us all swear, that if you called-"

"All right." He took a breath.

"What the hell's going on?"

"Nick, it's okay.  Can I call you tomorrow?  I'll take care of it. Don't
worry." He hung up.

When she came back from the grocery storeshe should have been back
already, but when she got back-they would talk.  He would find out.  He
would ask her.

Shaking, Sam went into the bathroom and turned the water on and splashed
his face with his left hand.  He would have to be calm about this.  Sit
her down in the chair in their bedroom.  Dina, tell me.  It's going to
be all right.  I promise.  I'll take care of you.

He would hire the best attorney.  They would enter a plea.  Not guilty.
Not guilty by reason of insanity.

Sam lowered his head to his arm, which lay across the sink.

Nothing would happen to her.  He wouldn't let anything happen to her. He
would find a place.  The best doctors.

He had always taken care of her.

Slowly he stood up.  In the mirror a madman looked back at him.  Maybe
he was going crazy.  This was his own delusion, a product of rage and
desire.  He hated the men who had destroyed Matthew, hated them enough
to want them dead.  I would have shot the bastard rnyse@f for what he
did to Matthew.  His desire for Caitlin Dorn had led him to suspect his
own wife of murder.  He wanted to be free of her.  He would place on
Dina the burden of his own guilt.  Yes, Nick, I did commit adultery with
a blond model eleven years younger than myse@f so your sister had every
right to see what was going on behind her back.

He dried his face on a hand towel.  But Dina hadn't known Fonseca.  She
didn't know that George Fonseca had given Matthew heroin.  Ruffini had a
better reason to kill Fonseca.  He had tried to blackmail Ruffini.  And
Ruffini hated Charlie Sullivan in the long feud over Claudia Otero.  And
Ruffini had known Marty Cassie.  Sam laughed.  Shit, maybe Eddie Mora
had sent Dale Finley to pull the damn trigger.  Or Beekie Duran.  Now
there was a theory and a half.

He looked at his pants.  They stank of insecticide.  He changed quickly
into sneakers and old slacks and a T-shirt, and went downstairs.  He
dumped his ruined pants into a plastic bag.

Melanie was taking a dinner out of the microwave.  One of her
low-calorie entr6es.

"Did your mother say when she'd be back?"

"No, she just had to go to the store for something."

"All right.  When she comes home, tell her I'm in my study." Sam threw
the plastic bag into the trash.

Caitlin Dom had been waiting in the parking lot behind the performing
arts center for ten minutes or so.  The woman she'd spoken to about the
party tonight lived on one of the private islands.  She had said that
directions to her house were simply impossible at night, so just wait
there for her.

The party would be outdoors, she explained, so wear something cool. But,
please, try to look like one of the guests, not like a photographer.  So
Caitlin had worn her gauzy green dress, the one she'd worn to meet Sam
Hagen at the hotel.  That had turned into a total disaster.

While she waited she'd been thinking about his telephone call.  Trying
to decide how she felt about it.  Burdened.  In a few days she would be
driving to New York, she and Rafael Soto.  She hadn't wanted to take
anything along, not even Sam's wish that she go because it was important
to her.  Sam had problems of his own.  Right now she wanted to be quiet.
Mend.  Take care of herself for a change.

She looked at her watch.  It would be nice if Mrs.  Costas would show
up.  It would be hard for them to spot each other now, anyway, with cars
beginning to fill the lot.  There was something going on at the theater
tonight, a concert of some kind.  If she hadn't already been paid an
exorbitant deposit of $500, Caitlin would have left.  Then she saw the
headlights.  The car parked next to her, a Volvo a few years old, which
surprised Caitlin a little.  She had been expecting something more
expensive.

A woman in black slacks and a red knit top got out.

A handsome woman in her mid-forties, with dark curly hair.

"Hi, I'm Sevasti." She had a firm handshake and a nice smile.  "I am so
sorry for running late, but the caterers had half the food wrong, and
the band was stepping all over my flowers-" She laughed.  "Well, you
don't want to hear all that."

Caidin was almost sure she had seen her somewhere, and said so.

Mrs.  Costas smiled.  "Well, probably you have.  I've lived on the Beach
for years." She walked back to her car and put her keys under the seat.
"Listen, my daughter is playing violin in the orchestra tonight, and I
told her I'd leave my car for her.  I'll just ride with you, all right?"
She put her bag over her shoulder, then went around the Toyota and
smiled through the window while Caitlin unlocked the passenger's door
from inside.

CHAPTER Thirty-Six

am fixed himself a drink, sat in the kitchen with it till he could
breathe again, then walked to the door of the family room.

"Mel?" His daughter, still on the floor, was aiming the remote control
at the television.  The big screen popped and flashed through the
channels.  "Melanie."

"Oh.  Sorry." She turned off the volume, then craned her head around on
the little sofa pillow.

"I'm in my study," he said.  "I've got some work to finish."

"And when Mom gets home, tell her to go see you."

"No.  It's all right.  It's getting late." The clock on the VCR said 8:
10.  "What time did she get home from work?"

"She didn't go today." Melanie sighed.  "I wasn't supposed to tell you.
She took the day off."

"Never mind." He said, "Hey, is that one of your mother's good sofa
pillows from the living room?"

"I can't find the one I like to use." Melanie sat up and smoothed the
wrinkles out.  "It's gone.  I think she threw it out.  She said it was
dirty."

Sam had closed the door to his study and was unsnapping his briefcase
before he heard what she had said.

Gone.  The little green pillow that Melanie liked to use was gone.

He went back to the family room.  She was on the sofa.

"Mel?  When was the last time you saw your pillow?"

She shrugged.  "A couple of weeks ago, I guess.  Why?"

"No reason."

He returned to his study.  As soon as his vision cleared, he reached on
top of the bookcase and found the key to his gun cabinet.  He unlocked
the door.  His Colt pistol and one clip full of hollow-points were gone.

He stared at the empty box.

The pistol wasn't there.  He grabbed at an explanation.

Somebody had broken into their house.  Dina couldn't have committed
murder.  Not Dina.  She didn't know the victims.  Didn't know they'd
been involved with Matthew.

Sam wondered if he had mumbled their names in his sleep.

Then he thought of Frank Tolin.  Frank had known Marty Cassie.  He had
known Sullivan and Fonseca through Caitlin.  Or from hearing things said
in conversation.  Gossip.  Then Frank had inadvertently passed this
knowledge to Dina?  Incredible.

But the facts themselves thudded into Sam's consciousness like perfectly
hewn blocks to form a logical, irrefutable structure.  The pistol was
gone.  And so was the pillow.  Dina had taken the pillow.  She had used
it to muffle the noise when she had shot Charlie Sullivan in the chest.
One in the chest, then one through the back of the head.  The blow-out
had imbedded bits of green cloth and pillow stuffing in his scalp. She'd
carried the gun in a bag.  Natural for a woman to carry a bag.  Why had
he gone with her?  What reason had she given?

There would have been another reason for George Fonseca.  A party to
plan?  Drugs to buy?  Then the poison in his beer.  Appropriate.  He
must have felt it working, and she had to kill him to get away.  And
Marty Cassie.  But why?  Why Marty Cassie?

Sam remembered Dina at the dining room table, balancing accounts.
Looking for the money, twenty thousand dollars, that Matthew had spent.
Money stolen, she had said.  And Marty Cassie had taken it?

His head reeled, and Sam's laugh came out as a groan.

Matthew had blown every last dime, had wasted it all, but Dina couldn't
believe that.  Dina believed that Marty Cassie had stolen it, sending
her son a little farther toward the rocky shallows of Biscayne Bay.  So
Dina had shot him in the back, then had tried to hack off his thieving
hand.

Maybe she had used her clippers.  Or the trowel.  Or whatever gleamed
most brightly across the dim shed when she opened the door.

Dina had killed them all, each one guilty of destroying her son.  Then
she had come home and cleaned the pistol@ She knew how.  Sam had showed
her at the gun range how to clean it.  How to fire it.  As if the gun
might reappear, Sam stared once more into the empty box.

She had his pistol.  She was somewhere on Miami Beach with a Colt pistol
fully loaded with .45-caliber hollow-points.

Sam staggered to his feet.  "Caitlin!"

Mrs.  Costas said to keep going straight on Alton Road.

"I thought you lived on one of the islands," Caitlin said.

"We're picking up my son's girlfriend first.  I told you.

No, I guess I didn't.  Sorry, it's been so hectic today." Her voice was
melodious and self-assured.  "Take the next left."

Caitlin drove into a quiet residential area north of Forty-first Street.
The street led past some two-story houses, then onto a narrow road
marked No OUTLET.

Through the trees Caitlin could see the Miami skyline a mile or so west,
broken by the outlines of the small, uninhabited islands in Biscayne
Bay.  Slightly south, the lights of the causeway extended across the
dark water.

"Park there." Mrs.  Costas pointed to the turnaround at the end of the
street.

The headlamps picked up the mottled trunks of the pine trees, a tangle
of underbrush, and a glint of broken glass.

In the rearview mirror the nearest house was at the other end of the
block.  Caitlin put on the brakes.  "Wait a minute.  Nobody lives down
here."

Her hands still on the wheel and the motor idling, Caitlin turned to
look at Mrs.  Costas.  Pale face, framed by heavy waves of hair.  Full
lips, hollow cheeks.  And her hand around the grip of a gun whose
barrel, like a single eye, looked directly back at Caitlin.

The woman's mouth moved.  She said something.

Caitlin's hands would not loosen from the steering wheel.  She stared
into the barrel of the gun.  It was a heavy, squarish gun with a silvery
sight rising up from the half-inch circle of black pointed at her face.
The raised barrel sloped down and down to the curve of a hammer.

The gun gleamed dully in the light from the dash.

A thumb moved onto the hammer and pulled it back, a hideously smooth
clicking of metal.

"Caitlin.  I said, take the keys out of the ignition and give them to
me." When Caitlin didn't move, Mrs. Costas's hand turned the keys, then
withdrew them, jingling softly in the now-quiet car. She dropped them
into her bag.

Caidin began to tremble.

" I'm going to get out now.  You come across the seat this way.  We're
going to take a walk, not far.  We'll talk for a while; then you can go
home."

The tires on Sam's Honda slid, then grabbed, screaming, around the
corner to the Palmetto Expressway, and a car behind him blew its horn.
He shot up the entrance ramp and scattered gravel swerving around a
truck.  Taillights seemed to hurtle toward him, then flash past to the
left or right.

He would go east across town, then over the MacArthur Causeway to Miami
Beach.  And then-and then where?

Hitting a clearer stretch of road, Sam grabbed the car phone with his
injured hand and nearly dropped it.  Wedging it between his knees, he
punched in Gene Ryabin's number.  He would be home having dinner with
his wife.

Had to be.

No answer.  Sam hit the numbers for a call-back.

He dialed the number at the DeMarco house, where Caitlin had been
staying.  He had called her an hour ago, or less, and he still
remembered it.

A young voice answered.  A girl.

Sam forced himself to speak slowly.  Where was Caitlin Dorn?  This was
an emergency.

She didn't know.  A birthday party.  Taking pictures.

Yes, for a woman.  No, I don't know her name.  No, no, she didn't say
where she was going.

The girl was on the point of hysteria when Sam hung up.

Over the high-pitched noise of the Honda's four IL

7 cylinder engine, he could hear himself shouting aloud, unwilling to
accept this, even now.  Dina had gone out to the firing range.  Or she
had thrown the gun away, fearful of having it in the house.

Impossible that he could live with her and not know.

Who would believe that?  When she went to trial-if she was declared
competent to stand trial-he would also be judged.  His career was over.
He would have to resign.  It would take everything they had to keep her
out of the electric chair.  Better to have her declared insane.  Save
her life.

Sam slammed his right fist onto the console between the seats, wanting
the pain, but barely feeling it.  Where was she?

if he found them in time-please, God, let me find her-he could save
Caidin.  He could see himself holding out his hands.  Dina.  Give me the
gun.  He would plead with her, tell her to think of Melanie.  Everything
would be all right.  Caitlin would go to New York.  Forget this
happened.  Then he would take care of Dina.  They would move to Tarpon
Springs together.  No one would know.

He laughed out loud.  It would never happen that way.

He didn't know where in hell she was.  It would be a deserted place.
Dina would take Caidin there, reach into her bag as if for a cigarette,
slide her hand around the pistol, and pull the trigger.  Then she would
drive home.  She would ask Melanie, Where's yourfather?  And Sam would
arrive soon afterward.  And then what?  Whatever his decision, their
lives would be over.  But Caitlin might survive.

Again and again he muttered a prayer: Please, don't let her die.

The toll plaza on the Dolphin Expressway was directly ahead when his car
phone rang.  Toll booths stretched across the highway, a row of green
and red lights.  Sam aimed his car for an unmanned lane in the middle
and took out the wooden arm as he went through.  The spot lighted
buildings of downtown Miami moved toward him in the windshield.

He picked up the phone.  It was Gene Ryabin.

The shore on the west side of Miami Beach, unlike the gentle, sandy
incline on the east, was a rocky shelf of hki@

shallow water, warm as a bath this time of year.  It smelled of salt and
algae and seaweed.  Except in rare patches, there was no beach, only
dark and pitted coral rock and crushed shells.  It was these that
Caitlin walked on now in her canvas sandals, a few yards out from the
shore, in water to her knees.  The hem of her green dress dragged behind
her.  Mrs.  Costas walked just along the edge of the land.  She had her
bag over her shoulder and the gun at her side.

She motioned with it toward the south.  "Keep going."

Ahead of them a hundred yards, the land took a sharp turn to the right.
A seawall held back a grassy slope planted with trees-royal palms among
flowering oleanders with their long, pointed leaves.  Lights blinked in
and out among the foliage.

Keeping her eyes on the gun, Caitlin stumbled when a rock shifted under
her foot.  She caught herself on her hands, feeling the sting of salt.
"What do you want?"

"Listen to me carefully.  Before we reach the road, I want you to
understand why you're here."

"I've never seen you before in my life," Caitlin said.

"Why are you doing this?"

The woman glanced at the ground, stepped over a piece of rotted,
barnacled lumber, then said, "You really don't know who I am, do you?"
Amusement played through the rich voice, In the shadow of the trees the
woman's face was indistinct, but even so, the knowledge flared in
Caitlin's mind.

She stood still for a few moments, looking at her.  "You're Sam's wife."

"Yes.  Dina Hagen.  We met a few times.  Where?  Do you remember?"

Caitlin's mouth was dry and her voice shook.  "I saw you-at Frank's
office.  It's been a long time."

The barrel of the gun motioned Caitlin on.  "But you do recall.  I
wonder.  When you shook my hand, had you already touched my husband?"

Her left shoe, which had come untied, now slipped off entirely.  Rocks
scraped at the sole of her foot.  "We're not having an affair!  I swear
to you.  I'm leaving Miami." Her legs swirled through the water.  "If
you're getting a divorce, it isn't my fault."

"He told you we're getting a divorce?"

"I swear to Christ, I'll never see him again."

"Be quiet, Caidin.  I want to tell you something."

"Look.  If you do anything to me, you'll go to prison.

Sam will probably lose his job.  Is that what you want?

What about your daughter?"

Dina Hagen raised the gun and cocked it.  Caitlin gasped and backed up.

"Stop there!  I'm ready to pull this trigger.  Do what I tell you.  Keep
walking.  We will have our talk.  Then you can flag down a car.  Do
whatever you like.  But for now, listen to me." The barrel of the gun,
with its staring eye, gestured toward the road.

Caitlin walked, limping.

Dina Hagen pushed a branch aside, then looked back at Caitlin.  "We're
not here because of Sam.  It's someone else.  Let's see how smart you
are.  Can you guess who it might be?"

"No!  Who?  Frank?"

"Not even close.  Someone considerably younger."

Her legs buckling under her, Caitlin fell on her knee, grinding the skin
against crushed shell and rock.

"You know who I mean, don't you?  Get up."

"No.  I can't." She sat in the water, leaning on her hands, weeping now.

"I told you.  We're walking to the causeway.  Then you can go.  I'm
sorry about the gun, but you wouldn't have come with me otherwise.  Now.
Stand up.  And when we get there-before I let you go-I want your apology
for what you did to him.  So think about how you're going to phrase it.
I want to hear you tell me-the mother of this young man, this boy, whom
you ruined-how sorry you are."

Ryabin begged Sam to slow down; he could hear the engine roaring over
the car phone.  Did he want to kill himself?  Sam hit the brakes coming
off the MacArthur Causeway Bridge, keeping just ahead of the flow of
traffic.

"Gene, can you call in a bulletin for her car?  It's a Toyota, a blue
one.  Damn, I don't know the model.

Dina's, then.  It's a 1992 white Volvo sedan.  Four-door."

He was quickly approaching South Beach.  The line of bright streetlights
would lead past the private islands on the left, then past the Coast
Guard station and the marina.

The road would dead end on Ocean Drive.  He would have to turn before
that to avoid the traffic outside the restaurants and clubs.  Dina could
be anywhere from the park at South Pointed to the big hotels five miles
north.

Ryabin's voice was low and measured.  "Are you certain this is all
correct?  I was so sure about Frank Tolin."

"No, I'm not certain.  I may be going crazy." With the P hone pressed to
his ear, Sam said, "What did Caitlin tell you this morning?  Where was
she supposed to go?"

"Wait.  Let me remember." There was a pause.  Then some words muttered
in Russian.  "A birthday party, which you know about.  A live rock band.
His twentieth birthday.  I'm sorry, that's all she said."

The narrow, curving flyover to Alton Road was approaching on the left.
From the far right lane, Sam hit his brakes and cut across the street.
Two other cars swerved and nearly collided.

Coming down off the ramp, heading north, he said into the phone, "Gene,
I think I know where they are."

Dina Hagen was walking directly behind Caitlin now, both of them
splashing at the water's edge.  Dina wore thick-soled black sneakers.
Caitlin was limping.  Her hope that anyone would see them vanished as
they came closer to the causeway.  To her left were trees; ahead she
could hear the traffic but couldn't see it past the thickly planted
oleander.  To her right was the bay, its surface moving, glinting with
lights.

"Stop here.  Don't move."

Caitlin stopped.  There came rustling noises from behind her.  Then
Dina's fingers were winding through her hair, holding tightly. Something
firm pressed into her back.

"Please.  Don't.  Don't do this." The muscles in her neck strained.

"My son died here," Dina said.  "He wanted to die.  He drank until he
could hardly stand up.  Then he got on his motorcycle and he killed
himself.  Maybe it was better that he did die.  After you and the others
were finished with him, he had nothing left, not even his dignity."

"Please.  I didn't do anything.  I tried to help-" Caitlin cried out
from pain when the hand pulled backward on her hair and the thing that
Dina held against her spine dug in deeper.

"Matthew was traveling over sixty miles an hour on that road, trying to
go around a truck.  He lost control and went into the water.  It was
very shallow, and they could reach him easily.  He was still alive, just
a little.  He was so badly hurt.  He asked for me.  Then he died.  Right
there."

Caitlin's words were a ceaseless babble.  "No.  No, Please don't.  I
didn't mean it, I swear.  Dina, please."

She could feel Dina's warm breath on her cheek.  "Have you heard of the
Furies?"

Caitlin was sobbing.

"It's an old Greek myth.  The Furies are the goddesses of vengeance.
They bring punishment.  They act purely, freely, without regard to
mercy.  I suppose that sounds overly dramatic to you, but I think it
fits." Dina jerked downward, and Caidin tried to pry back the fingers
that wound through her hair.  The hand tightened.  "Now.

Kneel down.  I'll make this very fast."

Shoving a shoulder into Dina's chest, spinning around, Caitlin heard the
gun go off, a loud pop.  Dina's right hand was hidden inside her black
shoulder bag.  Flames glowed from a hole in it for an instant, and bits
of fire hissed, then vanished on the wobbling surface of the water. Dina
pulled her hand free, and the long barrel of the pistol rose out of the
bag.  The gun fixed on Caidin's face.

Then wavered.  Dina had glanced toward shore, puzzled, her brows
knitting together.

Putting all her strength into a single movement, Caidin lunged to one
side.  The fingers closed around her hair again, but not soon enough.
She felt her hair tearing from the roots.  Then there was a tremendous
explosion of noise, a blaze of light, and a great weight that spun her
around.  She fell, dragged herself to her feet, then ran limping through
the shallow water toward shore.  Warmth gushed from her waist, and she
knew it was her own blood.

Stumbling toward the shadows under a dense sea grape tree, she collided
with something in the darkness.  Someone had caught her.  She began to
collapse, but Frank Tolin held her up.

"Frank!  Oh, God.  You're here!" Caitlin clutched at him.  "It's Sam's
wife.  She's trying to kill me!"

His fingers bit into her upper arms, and the faint light from the
causeway deepened the hollows in his sharply boned face.  A bandage
shone white at the corner of one eye.  He shook her.  "I never wanted
this, Catie, believe me.  I loved you."

"Frank, help me, please!"

Whipping her around by one arm, Frank pulled her toward the water.  He
was yelling, "Dina!  I've got her."

Dina Hagen's face was pale, the eyes enormous.  Water to her knees, she
stood motionless, the gun by her side.

"Frank?"

He half-dragged, half-carried Caitlin.  "I followed you, Dina.  I had to
make sure she didn't hurt you.  Look what she did to me.  She did worse
to Matthew.  She told did, sleeping me about it, Dina.  She admitted
what she with your boy.  Doing dirty things to him.  She laughed about
it."

"Dina, no!" Caitlin struck out at Frank and gasped from the pain.  She
touched her side and felt bone coming through the fabric of her dress.
"He's lying!  I never slept with Matthew.  He wants to kill me because
he hates me!  I wouldn't go back to him.  He lied! Dina, he lied to you.

Matthew was a boy.  I'd never have touched him!"

Frank slapped her and she staggered.  "Dina, please!

Matthew never mentioned Marty Cassie, did he?  They never knew each
other.  Frank lied to you.  He wanted Marty dead, because Marty was
blackmailing him.  He used you like he uses everyone!  He made you
believe-"

His fist slammed into her face.  Caitlin fell, and the water covered her
head.  When she came up, coughing and gagging, Dina was staring at
Frank.

"You told me.  You said Marty Cassie stole everything from Matthew.  You
told me that."

Ryabin could see it happening as he swerved and dodged through the
oleanders.  He could hear them.  Caitlin and Tolin yelling.  Dina
closing on them, the pistol in her hand.

Then Dina's long scream, her face tilted to the sky.

Sam hurtled past Ryabin, leaping over the retaining wall, his T-shirt a
moving spot in the darkness.  Ryabin reached into his holster for his
pistol and slipped on the damp grass planted on the slope of the
causeway.

He saw the heavy gun fall to Dina's side.  A half second later Caitlin
twisted away from Tolin.  Sam was shouting, closing the distance fast.
Tolin saw him and leaped toward Dina for the gun.  But Caitlin got there
first.

Sam yelled for her to drop it, don't shoot.

Caitlin lifted the gun with both hands and swung it toward Tolin. Inches
from his face, the barrel flamed.

Tolin's head jerked backward and bits of it kept going.

Water splashed around his body when he fell.

Nearly there now, Ryabin saw Sam take the pistol out of Caitlin's hands.
A dark stain was covering her dress.

She collapsed near Tolin's feet.

Gasping for air, hand on his chest, Ryabin reached them, gun drawn.

For a minute they all seemed frozen into position, except for Dina, who
was rocking back and forth, keeping.

Her eyes were closed.

Ryabin reholstered his pistol.  Frank Tolin's body floated in a foot of
water.  The toes of his cowboy boots pointed upward.  The bullet had
entered just under his right eye and had taken the back of his head off.
Caitlin was bleeding but alive, moaning, supporting herself on one arm.
Sam stared at his wife, Sloshing through ankle-deep water, Ryabin went
over and looked down at the pistol Sam was holding on his lap.

"This is yours?"

As if waking up, Sam nodded, then looked around, blinking.

Ryabin said, "Is it licensed in your name?"

"What?"

"Licensed!  Do you have a license for this pistol?"

"No.  I brought it back from Vietnam."

Ryabin thought for a moment, then said, "I think Tolin brought it back."
Wiping off the gun with his handkerchief, he walked over to the body
shifting and bobbing in the water.  He picked up the right hand, pressed
it around the pistol, then let hand and pistol drop.

"What are you doing?" Sam struggled to his feet.

"I think that Frank Tolin just used this gun to commit suicide," Ryabin
said.  He was still breathing hard, but not so much from physical
exertion anymore.  Now his mind was running, madly racing to fit a
hundred details together before it was too late.

He gripped the fabric of Sam's T-shirt in his fist.  "Tolin shot
Caitlin, then himself.  She was going to reveal that he had murdered
Sullivan, Fonseca, and Marty Cassie.  He had to kill her.  But he
missed.  Believing she was dead, he shot himself."

Sam stared at him.  "Are you out of your mind?"

"Do you prefer to see your wife arrested for three murders?"

:'I'll tell them I did it."

'Don't be stupid.  They won't believe you.  But if you go, right now,
Sam- No one is looking for her.  They won't look for you."

"We can't run away, Gene.  For God's sake-"

"Who's guiltier here?  Dina killed Charlie Sullivan and George Fonseca
out of madness and grief Tolin realized this.  She went to him to file a
lawsuit, and maybe she told him what she had done or maybe he guessed.
Tolin worked on her mind.  He convinced her that Cassie defrauded your
son and took his money.  And what about Caitlin?  She left him, and
Frank made Dina believe-forgive me, Sam-that Caitlin slept with your
son.  I heard them arguing about it as I approached.  Frank Tolin
pointed Dina like a gun at Marty Cassie, then at Caitlin Dorn.  Dina
pulled the trigger, but it was his hand that guided her.  Can you prove
it?  Never.  In the eyes of the law, Frank Tolin was an innocent man."

Ryabin put a hand on Sam Hagen's chest and shoved.

"Take Dina and get out of here!  Let them see a murderer obsessed by
Caitlin Dorn.  He brought her to this place.  He shot her.  Then he
turned the gun on himself.  This man who has killed already three
people."

"I'm supposed to be sworn in as the state attorney next week!" Sam spun
toward Caitlin Dorn.  He dropped down and put an arm around her.  He
touched her side and his hand came away bloody.  "My God.  Oh, my God."

Ryabin said, "I'm sorry.  Of course, this is your decision." He crouched
beside him.  "My friend.  Listen to me.

Whatever you decide, I'll back you up.  But you must decide quickly.
Someone must have heard the gunshots."

"This won't work, Gene." Sam shook his head.  "We'd go to jail for the
rest of our lives."

"You think so?" Ryabin smiled.  "Who would want to believe that the wife
of our new state attorney should be arrested for murder.  Trust me."

Stumbling slightly, Sam slowly stood up.  "All right.  I pray to God you
can tell a good story." fie held out his hand.  "Give me Dina's bag."
Ryabin threw it to him.  "I'll call 911 from my car.  I'll say I was
passing here ten minutes ago.  I saw a man taking a woman to the water.
She was struggling."

"Don't give your name," Ryabin said.

Sam leaned over to take Caidin's face in his palm.  "Oh, God.  Look at
you."

"Go on!" Ryabin pulled on his arm.  "I'll take care of her.  Get out of
here, you and Dina.  I'll call an ambulance on my radio."

For a moment Sam's eyes fixed wildly on Ryabin, unwilling to believe
this, even now.  Then he went back to Dina.  She was a statue with
staring eyes.  He lifted her across his arms and carried her quickly out
of the water and up the slope toward the road.

Ryabin bent to look at Caitlin's wound.  Another inch farther in, and it
would have torn her to pieces.  He put a hand on her shoulder.  "Do you
understand what's going on?"

"No!" She was sobbing, trying not to collapse into the water.

"Come with me.  I'll explain.  You can lie on the grass and listen." He
put an arm around her and helped her stand.  She moaned.  He said, "Can
you hear me?  Pay attention.  If you don't follow my instructions
exactly, you'll be arrested for murder."

He spoke quickly as they walked across the rocky shore.  On the grass he
rolled his coat to cushion her head, then lit a cigarette, his last
allotted for the day.  His nerves more settled, he made the call from
his unmarked car.

She would do what she was told, being a sensible woman.  She had herself
to protect, of course, but Ryabin was certain that she would protect Sam
Hagen as well.  He sat down beside her and smoked his cigarette.  His
hands trembled a little but gradually grew steady.  He thought of what
he would say to his lieutenant.

Frank Tolin tried to kill her.  Then he shot himself.

Luckily, she-had spoken to me earlier today, saying she was afraid of
him.  She can show you his letters.  She said she had a job tonight, so
I drove by to make sure she was all right.  Through some miracle offate,
I saw his car, and she was in it with him.  I.followed.  I arrived here
just in time.

Tolin held the gun to her head.  I had my own pistol aimed at him.  He
confessed everything.  How his love for this woman overwhelmed him.  He
was insanely jealous.

He found out she had slept with Charlie Sullivan, the model-she will
admit this to you.  So Tolin murdered Sullivan in a fit of passion.

He also killed George Fonseca, his supplier of'drugs.

Fonseca wanted to avoid jail for sexual battery on Ali Duncan, so he
called Sam Hagen, the prosecutor-surely Hagen has a record of the call.
Fonseca offered to turn against Frank Tolin, a prominent lawyer who had
become one of his best customers.  And Marty Cassie?  Cassie was
blackmailing him.  Ask Caitlin Dorn.  She was present at Tolin's
apartment and heard their conversation.  We already have his
fingerprints on Cassie's files, and it was he, Frank Tolin, whom the old
woman saw returning to the apartment two days after the murder.  How did
he get in?

Well, presumably he left the door unlocked after the murder in his hurry
to get away.  He must have thought of the files later.  And why did he
stab the right hand of Marty Cassie?  Well ...  I neglected to ask.  He
told me all this in the presence of Caitlin Dorn, who will attest to it.
He shot her, then himself.  Luckily her wound was notfatal.

Look at the crime-scene photographs of Frank Tolin.

You can see the gunpowder and stippling on his nice.  The water washed
the gunpowder from his hand, but his fingerprints were on the gun.

Ryabin knew he would be believed.  This explanation made more sense than
the truth.  He knew also that Sam Hagen would suffer, whatever the
outcome.  If Sam wavered, Ryabin would remind him that he had a duty not
only to his conscience but to the reputation of the state attorney's
office as well.  And a duty to his wife, his daughter, and even to his
son.  And also to Caitlin Dorn, who had said-as she lay bleeding on the
ground He paused to light another cigarette.  He inhaled deeply, then
blew smoke toward the stars, considering what Sam Hagen would like to
have heard her say.  Caitlin had murmured, If I die, please tell Sam
that I loved him.  Tell him never toforget me.  Yes, perfect.

The wail of a siren grew closer.

Standing up, Ryabin could see the lights.  He took a puff of his
cigarette, then snatched it from his mouth and stared at it.  It was
nearly half gone.  His eleventh.  Anna would ask him when he got home.
How could he explain?

He flicked the cigarette toward the dark water.  It made a brief orange
arc, then disappeared.

CHAPTER Thirty-Seven

Tarpon Springs August 17 Dear Sam, How's everything in Tampa?  We're
allfine here.  I got your check, as usual, though it's more than we
needfor now, so I put the rest in the savings account.

Dad got out of the hospitalfor his kidney trouble yesterday, and he's
better, but we don't think he will be with us much longer.  We haven't
told Dina, but she senses it.  She and Costas sit on the back porch
together in the evenings.  He rocks in his chair and she watches the
river.  It's a comfort to him, having her home again.

Her new thing on Saturday is cleaning the sanctuary at the cathedral.
It's hardfor me to see my sister scrubbing the floor, knowing what she
used to be, but she says it makes herfeel closer to God, the more she's
down there on her knees.  Aunt Betty says i she wants to do it, let her.
Dina still has no memory of certain things, and that is a blessing.  I
won't say she's happy, but she's not unhappy.

I hope you're liking your new job.  I guess it's a change, but we know
you'll do fine, like you always have.  (Now, ole buddy, the next thing
is to turn you into a fan of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers.  Ha.)

The girls send their love to Melanie, and did she get the pictures they
sent?  Dottie just told me to tell you hello and take care of yourself.
Maybe we can all get together over the Labor Day weekend.

Best regards, Nick

822 W I th St. New York, NY

September 22 Dear Sam, Thank you so much for the lovely letter, which I
just this minute read. After a week in Canada, it was nice to be
welcomed home by thatfamiliar scrawl.

To answer your question: Yes, of course!  I'd love to see you for
Christmas.  (Only you, Sam, would plan things so far in advance.)  And
yes, I'll send you subway maps and bus schedules and lists of touristy
things to do, or (my humble suggestion) you couldjust forget about all
thatfor once and let me show you around.  I'm a terrific tour guide.

Naturally you'll want to have a long visit with your cousins in Brooklyn
(how did you find them after thirty-five years?!), but why not let
Melanie spend a day or two with me?  I wasn't much older thanfifteen
when I first saw Greenwich Village.  My new place is a shoebox, but
there's room for two girls in it.  I should know: Ali Duncan came
through town after a shoot in London, and she stayed with me for nearly
a week.

(Here's some gossip: Moda Ruffini U.S.A.  filedfor bankruptcy, and the
store in Miami has closed.  Even better: Tereza Ruffini kicked Klaus out
of their villa in Milan when she caught him with herfitting model.  Ali
couldn't stop laughing when she told me about it.)

I'll be in Miami at the end of the month.  It's just a weekend, to take
some shots of the new trade center.  I know Tampa isn't across the
street, but if you could pull yourself awayfrom your clientsfor only a
day ...

I realized, Sam--dearest Sam-as I read your letter, that next week is
the first anniversary of Matthew's death.  I hope you don't mind my
mentioning it, but I have thought of him lately-and not with sadness. He
just comes into my mind; then he goes out, like paying me a visit. It's
good to think (if him without dwelling on all the other stuff.  If there
is a heaven, I'm sure he's up there.  That's all.  I just wanted you to
know.

Since our last phone call, I've been doing some thinking, as you asked
me to.  Really, I can't tell what I want to do in the long term.  It's
much too soon to say.

I know you don't want to put any pressure on me, and I feel the same.
However ...  it's good to know that after all the hell they've been
through, two people can still care about each other.  I mean really
care, not just say the right words.  But your words are right.  No
pretty phrases, just the facts.  Oh, well.  I don't try to figure
anything out these days.  I just look in the lens and click the shutter.

Write soon, Love, Caitlin The noises of South Beach faded and the late
summer glare dimmed when Harold Perlstein closed the heavy door.  Sam
looked around, his eyes adjusting.  The place belonged to another
country.  Another century. Dark wood.  The curtains, the candies, the
carved pews.  Then he noticed the deep turquoise carpet.  Not so far
from Miami Beach after all.

He put on the yarmulke that Perlstein handed him, patting it down onto
his hair.

"You'll have to excuse me for not remembering much.  I haven't been in a
synagogue since I was a kid.  I'm just in Miami for the day, anyway."

"I know.  You told me.  You're not religious.  That's all right."
Perlstein led him through a side door.  "Come on, I'll show you around."
They went down a short hallway tiled in cracked squares of green and tan
linoleum, then through another door.  "This is where I work."

The room was brightly lit, painted white, with sunlight streaming in
along one side.  An air conditioner dripped into a bucket.  Perlstein's
desk was heavy oak, scratched from years of use.  The veneer was peeling
up.

Perlstein wore a blue knit shirt with a horizontal white stripe, and
pale yellow pants.  "How did he die, your son?

You didn't say." He dropped a bib apron over his head, then tied it in
the back.

"In a motorcycle accident," Sam said.

"Ohhh.  Too bad.  Kids.  They go so fast on those things." He handed Sam
some folded pages.  A pamphlet.

"This I got for you from the rabbi.  Look.  This part here.

Yiz-kor Elohim nish-mas b'nee haw-ahoov-"

"What does it mean?"

Perlstein took it back, read it over, then said, " 'O heavenly Father,
remember ...  the soul of my beloved son, who I recall with love in this
...  solemn hour.  His memory is in my heart.  May his soul ...  live in
eternal life." Something like that.  'Amen." Nice, right?"

"Very nice," Sam said.

"Yes." Perlstein patted his arm.  "Okay, sit here."

He clicked on a metal lamp that held a long fluorescent bulb.  On a
wooden shelf above the desk there was a mug from Cypress Gardens with
several big feathers in it.  Perlstein pulled one out, a heavy
brownish-gray with white flecks.  "This is a goose-quill pen.  I make
them myself.

The parchment is calfskin, but I don't know how they do it.  And the ink
is made special.  The rabbi blesses it, and so on."

From the table to his right he lifted a sheet of brown wrapping paper
and pulled from under it a page of parchment.  The sheet was pearly
white and already bore several sections of squarish black letters.

"This Torah, when I finish, will last for hundreds of years, longer than
you or 1.  When we're dust, this will still be here.  What do you think
about that?"

Sam nodded and put on his glasses.  Harold Perlstein settled down with
his quill and ink.  His hand was big, with knobby knuckles, but it moved
quickly, leaving a trail of tiny, precise letters.  Ink had worked under
his cuticles and into the ridges and crevices of his skin.

"There's a prayer for each letter," Perlstein said, dipping the quill
into the ink, shaking off a drop.  "I think that's so we keep it slow
and don't make mistakes.  But I'm pretty fast." He scratched more
letters, writing right to left, lifting his hand to make sure he didn't
smear the ink, blowing on it from time to time.  As he worked, Sam could
hear the minor-key notes and see his lips move.

From time to time the old man would glance up at a printed page stuck to
a corkboard with a thumbtack, but generally he kept his face bent to the
parchment.

Finally Perlstein straightened up and leaned back in the chair.  "Okay.
You see how it goes.  I've stopped so the next letter is mem.  Like an
M.  For Matthew, your son.

Now, you Out your hand on mine.  Not so heavy.  Lighter.

Yes, like that.  We'll put him here, on this line."

Perlstein's skin was like parchment itself, sinking between the tendons.
He sang the chant for M; then his hand moved, and Sam's moved with it,
and the black ink flowed onto the page.

BARBARA PARKER, the new master of the legal thriller Barbara Parker's
first legal thriller, Suspicion of Innocence, was a finalist for the
prestigious Edgar Allan Poe Award for Best First Novel by an American
Author.  Her second, Suspicion of Guilt, gained even wider critical
acclaim and legions of new readers.  The triumphant Blood Relations
confirmed Barbara Parker's place among the very best lawyer-writers. Now
she's back with Criminal Justice, the explosive story of a burned-out
prosecutor who gets a nasty surprise when his girlfriend is found
murdered ...

and he is the prime suspect.  A female lawyer on the case believes he is
innocent, but she walks a dangerous line when she begins a passionate
affair with him.  Criminal Justice sizzles with its hot Miami setting, a
tangled web of crime and justice, and the gripping drama of human beings
trying to hold on to their battered ideals.

Turn the page for an exciting preview of Criminal Justice by Barbara
Parker.

A Dutton Hardcover on sale in January 1997 As soon as the bubbles
cleared, Dan Galindo looked up through his dive mask.  The boat's
pointed shape bobbed on the surface, and a line of yellow polyester rope
angled toward the bottom, ending at a grapnel hook sixty feet down,
caught on a pitted white ridge in the reef.

He inverted, kicking slowly with his fins.  A school of chub eyed him,
then shot away, their sides glinting silver as they turned in unison.
Dan moved along at a shallow depth, ten feet or so, till he ran out of
air.  At the surface, he blew seawater out of his snorkel, took a few
deep breaths, then went under again, deeper.  A few seconds with his
ears above water had been enough.  The girl he'd come with had turned
the radio to a rock station.  Dan had glimpsed only dark hair under a
baseball cap, and her shoulders huddled in a sweatshirt.  She was
probably wishing she had stayed in bed.

Two hours before dawn he had come fully awake, a bitch of a hangover
finally catching up like an icepick through his eye sockets.  The moon
was a ghostly white globe in a corner of the window.  He had carefully
lifted Kathy's arm off his chest, but she woke up and asked where he was
going.  He told her the truth before he could stop himself-out on the
boat to see the sun come up.

His apartment was only a block from the marina near the causeway at
Seventy-ninth Street and the bay.  Dan carried the bag with his dive
gear.  Kathy followed, stumbling sleepily, holding a mug of coffee.  She
wore a swim Excerpt from Criminal Justice 441 suit under jeans and a
sweatshirt, but she didn't want to go in.  She didn't like the water,
which Dan thought bizarre for someone who had moved to Miami from Ohio
or Iowa-he couldn't remember which.

It was still dark when he turned his twenty-five foot outboard south on
Biscayne Bay.  In moonlight, Dan passed under the causeways connecting
the mainland to Miami Beach, then picked up speed once beyond the bridge
to Key Biscayne, Streetlights began to wink off as the sky turned from
gray to pale blue.  Not many boats were in the water at this hour on a
Monday morning-an old shrimp boat coming in and some million-dollar
sportfishers churning at high speed for deep water.  A stain of pink
appeared on the horizon.  A few miles farther along, with the mainland
reduced to a line of misty green in the west, he guided the boat through
the narrow channel at Sands Cut, just north of Elliot Key, then headed
for Triumph Reef.  The sun had risen ahead of them, a fiery ball of
orange.

The depth finder held steady at thirty then went to forty, fifty.  Dan
slowed.  At sixty he cut the engine.  Their wake caught up to them and
the boat rose and fell.  Another quarter mile out, the bottom would drop
quickly to a depth of hundreds of feet.

For a while they drifted, hearing only the gurgle of water on the hull.
Then Kathy started telling him about the gig coming up next weekend, and
the demo record her band was going to do, and the no-talent little bitch
who was trying to take over the vocals, and can you fucking believe we
are up this early?  It was when she started fiddling with the dial on
the radio that Dan tossed the anchor overboard.  He cleated off the bow
line, clipped the dive flag to a pole, then suited up.

He told Kathy he'd be back in a while, don't go away.

He lowered his mask, bit down on the snorkel, and jumped in.  The sea
closed in over his head in a froth of bubbles, and he sank into perfect
silence.

Dan kicked slowly, moving along, watching a queen parrot fish with its
beaklike mouth dart and turn below him.  The fish was bright turquoise
now, but bring it to the surface, the color would fade as life ebbed
away.  Visibility was good all the way down, where patches of sand
Excerpt from Criminal Justice appeared bone white among the grayish
rocks of the reef The uneven terrain dropped into rocky holes between
out croppings of coral, where purple fan grass waved in the slight
current.  The reef was alive with fish.  Dan spotted a longnose
butterfly, blue tang, and a gray angel.  Rolling over, he took the
snorkel out of his mouth and blew out air.  The bubbles floated upward,
rocking side to side, then were lost against the bright surface of the
water.  He wanted to follow them, to climb back into the boat, sit in
the sun till his headache went away.  But Kathy was up there waiting for
him.  Coming along to be a good sport, but wanting to go in now, let's
get   breakfast.  Or worse, she would take off her clothes and  expect
him to finish what he hadn't been able to do last night.  It was enough
to make him consider sucking in a double lungful of seawater.

A curse bubbled from between his lips.  His watch showed eight-fifteen.
There was a client coming at ten o'clock.  A competent secretary, if he
had one, might help him out.  Why, Mr.  Galindo just called from court.
His appointment with the judge (or trial or emergency bond hearing) is
running longer than expected....  But Alva, who belonged to the old
lawyer Dan rented space from, might look up from slamming the keys on
her ancient electric typewriter long enough to take her cigarette out of
her mouth and say, No, he's not here.  I don't know where the hell he
is.

Coming up again, Dan pushed his mask to his forehead and looked toward
the boat.  Kathy was asleep on the bow with the radio blaring.  Her
forearm was over her eyes, and one foot moved to the beat of drums and a
screeching guitar.

Her swimsuit top was off, and the rosy nipples pointed sky ward.  There
was a dagger tattooed on the underside of her breast.

Dan spit into his mask and sloshed it with seawater.  He began to
breathe deeply.  In, out.  Slower.  Pulling air into expanded lungs,
then pushing it all out, purging the car bon dioxide. He was going to
the bottom.  He counted fifteen long breaths, took a look at his watch,
then did a one-eighty.

His weight belt, eleven pounds of lead, would allow buoyancy to fifteen
feet.  Any deeper, he would sink.

IL

Excerpt from Criminal Justice   443 When he felt the subtle shift, he
stopped kicking.  He glided down, eyes closed, ears popping.  it would
take about twenty seconds to reach bottom.  He felt water flowing past,
colder now.  The mask pressed into his face and a few bubbles squeaked
out of his wet suit.  He tongued the snorkel out and pressed his lips
together.

His father had told him to close his eyes-the brain consumes less oxygen
that way.  Dan didn't know how it worked, but it did.  On land Raul
Galindo had been as ungainly as a wading bird.  Underwater, his body
achieved a sort of grace, his long fins curling, uncurling, flowing
behind him like the tail of a fish.

The light through Dan's eyelids dimmed, and he sensed the bottom.  He
flicked his eyes open once, then again.  His watch showed twenty-five
seconds elapsed.  With thirty to get back up, being careful, he would
have thirty-five more to lie here.  He settled on his stomach in a patch
of sand, gloved fingers hooked on a rock to keep from drifting.

The only sound was a slight buzzing in his ears.  The headache was gone.

It had been a month since he had been in the water, and not since last
summer had he dived with any regularity.

To stay under a minute and a half would be difficult, but possible.  As
a kid, he had nearly grown gills, catching tropicals for spending money
in high school, or going spearfishing on long weekends in the Keys.
There were more good fish then.  Big, meaty snapper, grouper, and
yellowtail.  Gradually, though, overfishing and fertilizer runoff had
reduced their numbers.  Dan remembered, or thought he did, that the
waters from Miami to Key West had been full of marine life when he was a
kid, but his dad had complained how it had diminished.  And now the new
residents were saying what a paradise they had found.

Dan clamped his teeth together and tightened his throat.

Already he needed air.  He opened one eye.  The second hand on his watch
gave him twenty-two seconds.  Twenty-one, twenty.

of going back up drifted morbidly The thought of n through his mind.  In
two weeks he would turn thirty-five.

The number was somehow portentous.  The halfway point of a man's
allotted three-score-and-ten.

Between hangovers and periods of generalized funk, Excerpt from Criminal
Justice when he had dared to reflect on the tattered state of his
psyche, Dan slammed up against the horrifying vision that he would never
get beyond the ratty office where he worked now, with its cheap,
cigarette-burned carpet and wheezing air conditioners.  That one day he
would be popping Prozacs and swilling bourbon like the lawyer who owned
the place.  If he drowned, who would give a shit?

His ex-wife had insurance on him.  His son, Josh, would get a college
education out of it, and the mortgage would be paid.  Lisa had the
house, a red-tiled, cutesy piece of stucco- in one of the gated areas of
a snotty subdivision called Westlake Village.  Dan and Lisa had bought
it when he was making eighty grand a year at the U.S.  attorney's
office.  Things had been pretty rosy then.  Before he got fired.  More
accurately, before he was transferred to handle VA claims and civil
forfeitures, which amounted to the same thing.  So he quit.  The career
went, then the marriage.  Dan moved back to Miami to find a job.  A
woman he'd worked with at the U.S.  attorney's office got in touch to
say she knew a lawyer who needed someone with expertise in criminal
cases.  Dear Elaine.  The charity of friends.

Dan's chest involuntarily heaved, and his lungs were burning.  He had
heard that drowning was a pleasant sensation.  What if he hooked himself
to the anchor with his dive belt?  Kathy would haul on the rope, and
there he would be, limp as a gaffed squid.  Dan checked his watch.

He tried to focus, to remember where on the dial it would reach thirty
seconds.  He decided to count down from fifteen, A black grouper came
closer, checking him out.  Its undershot jaw opened and shut, and when
Dan made a slight motion, the fish turned abruptly and vanished into the
coral.

Thirteen seconds left.  Twelve.  Eleven.

Dan and his father had been spearfishing off Marathon when a bull shark
saw them, an eight-footer.  Sharks usually swam on by.  This one didn't.
Raul Galindo extended his speargun at arm's length, pivoting, motioning
for Dan to stay behind him.  The shark glided closer and he nudged it in
the head-easy, not wanting to make it mad.  With a flip of its tail, it
scooted away.  And then came back.  Fast.

His father fired, hitting it just above the eye.  The shark NIL, Excerpt
from Criminal Justice   445 was a thrashing, twisting piece of meat,
leaking red.  Back in the boat, Raul started the engines and said they
should leave the area because of the blood, but as soon as they anchored
somewhere else, they would go back in.  At twelve years old, Dan
screamed "No, Dad, no," but his father threw him in anyway.  Don't be
afraid, I'm here.  Raul Galindo died driving home from Key Largo when a
drunk crossed the center line.

Dan could see little sparkly lights behind his eyelids.

He was sixty feet underwater.  The height of a six-story building.  If
he passed out, he would stay down here, weighted down by his belt, until
his body bloated and the currents lifted him away.

Six.  Seven.

At the marina this morning he had seen a notice about a tournament in
Cat Cay.  Spearfishing.  Six weeks away.  He had the equipment.  Not a
boat good enough to make it to the Bahamas, however.  Not nearly.

His watch had stopped.  Dan looked closer.  No, another second ticked
by.  Eight.  Why not go to the Bahamas?

Rent a damn boat.  Take Josh with him.  Lisa couldn't say no. Father-son
bonding and all that.  He could see Josh now, in fact.  Josh was seven,
a quiet boy with brown hair and eyes.  Like mine, Dan thought.  Why not
join up with some other boats, make a flotilla?  Feel the sun and wind
on their faces.  The boat skimming over the water like a pelican with
outstretched wings.

His vision dimmed.  He opened his eyes, panicked.

Heart slamming in his chest, he pushed off and began kicking
frantically.  The surface seemed dark now, impossibly far away, the boat
tiny as a matchstick.  He rose, feeling the pressure subside.  No.  He
wasn't going to make it.  It was too far.  How sad.  Unutterably sad. He
was too heavy, too tired.  He would black out before he reached the
surface and fall back to the bottom.

Dan thought of Joshua and his chest lurched, almost a sob.  Air burst
from his lungs and he gagged on water.  Too late, too late.  His hands,
clumsy in the gloves, fumbled for his weight belt.  With his teeth he
tore one off.  He grabbed for the plastic clip.  Then the thing dropped
away and Dan kicked, no strength left now, but the light getting nearer.

Excerpt from Criminal Justice There was a splash as he broke through. He
dragged in a breath.  The rush of oxygen made him drunk, almost
euphoric.  He rolled over, wheezing, barely keeping his face above the
surface.  The sun blasted his eyes.  He kicked steadily for the boat,
reached for it, then a wave lifted it away.  When the boat fell back,
Dan curled his extended fingers over the gunwale and hung on.

"Kath-!" He tried to yell her name over the music and went into a spasm
of coughing.  "Kathy, for God's sake, would you wake the hell up!" He
pounded the hull.

She -sat up squinting, looking around, not seeing him.

"Dan?"

"How stupid can you be?" he screamed.  "I was diving, goddammit!  You
have to pay attention when someone's diving!"

"What happened?" She looked over the side and finally saw him bobbing in
the water near the rear of the boat.

"Oh my God, did a fish bite you?  Are you hurt?"

"I almost fucking drowned!"

"I'm sorry!  Dan, I didn't know!" wearing only her bikini bottoms, she
clambered through the gap in the windscreen.  "You didn't tell me."

Dan spit saltwater.  His aching sinuses were full of it.

When he was fairly sure he had enough strength, he told her to move, he
was coming in.  He handed her his flippers and mask, then took hold of
the dive ladder and shakily hauled himself up past the outboard engine
and over the transom, scraping his shin.  He flopped to the bottom of
the boat like a heavy fish, his sides heaving.

She crouched beside him, pushing her hair behind her ear.  "Dan?  I'm
sorry, okay?  What can I do?"

He retched.  After a while, he sat up, leaning against the rear bench
seat.  In over twenty-five years of diving, he had never dropped a
weight belt.  He had never come that close.  He took off his remaining
glove and his booties.

"Get me a towel, would you?  And turn off the damn radio."

He dried his face and hair, and when he had stopped shaking, peeled off
his wet suit and put his windbreaker back on.  Dressed now, Kathy
hustled around repacking everything in his dive bag, not saying much.
Dan took her hand.  "I'm sorry for screaming at you.  I was scared."

Excerpt from Criminal Justice   447 "It's all right." She hugged him
around the waist.

"Come on, let's go get some breakfast."

Engine roaring, Dan turned the boat north.  He stood up behind the wheel
and let the wind rush into his lungs.

The sky was incredibly, intensely blue, the water a sheet of silver. The
boat danced over it.  A gull dipped, then swung away.  He laughed out
loud.  He was thinking of Cat Cay again.

Get a $3.00 rebate on Barbara Parker's new hardcover, **** CRIMINAL
JUSTICE!  *4*t Coming from DuUon in January 1997 To get your $3.00
rebate, maft. + Your original sales receipt for CRIMINAL JUSTICE with
price circled

+ This rebate certificate (original or photocopy)

+ Write in book UPC number Place/store where purchased To: CRIMINAL
JUSTICE REBATE

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Void where prohibited, taxed, or restricted.  One rebate per household.
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funds.  Offer good only in U.S., its territories, and Canada.  Offer
expires March 31, 1997.  Mail received until April 15, 1997.

Signet Dutton PliKed M Lh, USA

Jim co z

0 a.

BARBARA PARKER worked as a prosecutor in the Dade County State
Attorney's office and in private practice before completing a master's
degree in creative writing.  She has written two national bestsellers,
Suspicion of Innocence and Suspicion of Guilt (both available in Signet
paperback editions), and was a finalist for the Edgar Allan Poe Award
for Best First Novel by an American Author She has a daughter in law
school and a teenage son.  She lives in Fort Lauderdale, Florida.