your roof.’
‘That’s a beach lounger, not a couch,’ Sam said. ‘Anyway, I aim to fall asleep up there.’ He paused. ‘Maybe she wasn’t alone on the couch.’
‘Possible,’ Sanders agreed. ‘Snuggled up close to someone with a scalpel in their pocket.’
‘If they were dressed,’ Martinez said.
‘She was dressed,’ Sam said.
‘Coulda hidden the scalpel under a cushion,’ Martinez suggested.
‘You’re sure it was a scalpel?’ Sam looked at Sanders.
‘So far as I can tell right now. Certainly a scalpel-like instrument, same as on Pine Tree.’
‘So maybe the same instrument,’ Martinez said. ‘The one that belonged to the Robbins girl.’
By three p.m. activity inside the house had begun to dwindle and Sam knew that Sergeant Rodriguez, his Miami PD counterpart, was unlikely to want him or Martinez around much
longer. The technicians had finished dusting, every conceivable photograph had been taken, the body had been thoroughly checked for crucial trace evidence that might have vanished en route to the
morgue, and then it had been taken away. The Miami Police team were engaged in examining the psychotherapist’s client files and calling at other houses along the Coconut Grove street –
though everyone knew it was unlikely anyone would have heard or seen anything useful at four in the morning. Anyway, the hour aside, with no gunshots and no apparent fight to play with there was
less than no hope of finding a witness – after all, a scalpel sliding comparatively smoothly into a possibly sleeping woman’s temple didn’t make a whole lot of noise, and the
sound of a computer being smashed wasn’t likely to rouse anyone outside the house.
Martinez found Sam in Flager’s bedroom just after three-thirty. ‘They think the air-con was broken deliberately.’
‘So she’d have to keep her windows open.’ Sam shook his head.
‘Should’ve known better than to open the fuckin’ door,’ Martinez said.
‘Any prints on the air-con unit?’ Sam asked.
‘Not even a smudge.’ Martinez looked at Sam. ‘So what’s the link between the Robbinses and Flager?’
‘We don’t know yet that it’s the same weapon,’ Sam reminded him.
‘Two scalpels in a week?’ Martinez was sceptical.
‘Yeah, I know.’ Sam didn’t believe in coincidences either.
They left Sergeant Rodriguez and his squad sifting through the remnants of Beatrice Flager’s life and death, and drove over to Coral Gables to check on Frances
Dean’s and her niece’s whereabouts the previous night.
Mrs Dean’s answer was predictable.
‘We were here, at home – where else would we have been?’
They were standing in her living room. Frances Dean had not offered either of the detectives a seat, and Sam thought he well understood her desire to have them gone as swiftly as possible.
‘Are you sure that Cathy was here all night, ma’am?’ Martinez asked.
‘Of course I’m sure.’ Frances Dean looked baffled.
‘Were you sleepin’ in the same room as your niece, Mrs Dean?’
‘No,’ she answered, ‘but then again, I wasn’t sleeping at all, which is why I’m certain that Cathy was in her bedroom all night.’
‘You were awake all night, ma’am?’
Sam was letting Martinez run with it. Personally, he saw no good cause to doubt her word. Frances Dean looked like hell.
‘I don’t think I’ve slept more than a handful of hours since my sister and her husband were murdered, detective,’ she told Martinez. ‘My doctor gave me some pills,
but I don’t like the way they make me feel.’
‘So you would have known if Cathy had left her bedroom, or maybe the house?’
‘Yes, I would.’ Frances Dean looked up at Sam. ‘What is this about?’
‘Just routine,’ Sam said. ‘Would you mind if we ask your niece a few questions now?’
‘I would mind very much,’ Frances said heatedly, then lowered her voice to a distressed hiss. ‘Are you people
trying
to push that poor child right over the
‘That’s a beach lounger, not a couch,’ Sam said. ‘Anyway, I aim to fall asleep up there.’ He paused. ‘Maybe she wasn’t alone on the couch.’
‘Possible,’ Sanders agreed. ‘Snuggled up close to someone with a scalpel in their pocket.’
‘If they were dressed,’ Martinez said.
‘She was dressed,’ Sam said.
‘Coulda hidden the scalpel under a cushion,’ Martinez suggested.
‘You’re sure it was a scalpel?’ Sam looked at Sanders.
‘So far as I can tell right now. Certainly a scalpel-like instrument, same as on Pine Tree.’
‘So maybe the same instrument,’ Martinez said. ‘The one that belonged to the Robbins girl.’
By three p.m. activity inside the house had begun to dwindle and Sam knew that Sergeant Rodriguez, his Miami PD counterpart, was unlikely to want him or Martinez around much
longer. The technicians had finished dusting, every conceivable photograph had been taken, the body had been thoroughly checked for crucial trace evidence that might have vanished en route to the
morgue, and then it had been taken away. The Miami Police team were engaged in examining the psychotherapist’s client files and calling at other houses along the Coconut Grove street –
though everyone knew it was unlikely anyone would have heard or seen anything useful at four in the morning. Anyway, the hour aside, with no gunshots and no apparent fight to play with there was
less than no hope of finding a witness – after all, a scalpel sliding comparatively smoothly into a possibly sleeping woman’s temple didn’t make a whole lot of noise, and the
sound of a computer being smashed wasn’t likely to rouse anyone outside the house.
Martinez found Sam in Flager’s bedroom just after three-thirty. ‘They think the air-con was broken deliberately.’
‘So she’d have to keep her windows open.’ Sam shook his head.
‘Should’ve known better than to open the fuckin’ door,’ Martinez said.
‘Any prints on the air-con unit?’ Sam asked.
‘Not even a smudge.’ Martinez looked at Sam. ‘So what’s the link between the Robbinses and Flager?’
‘We don’t know yet that it’s the same weapon,’ Sam reminded him.
‘Two scalpels in a week?’ Martinez was sceptical.
‘Yeah, I know.’ Sam didn’t believe in coincidences either.
They left Sergeant Rodriguez and his squad sifting through the remnants of Beatrice Flager’s life and death, and drove over to Coral Gables to check on Frances
Dean’s and her niece’s whereabouts the previous night.
Mrs Dean’s answer was predictable.
‘We were here, at home – where else would we have been?’
They were standing in her living room. Frances Dean had not offered either of the detectives a seat, and Sam thought he well understood her desire to have them gone as swiftly as possible.
‘Are you sure that Cathy was here all night, ma’am?’ Martinez asked.
‘Of course I’m sure.’ Frances Dean looked baffled.
‘Were you sleepin’ in the same room as your niece, Mrs Dean?’
‘No,’ she answered, ‘but then again, I wasn’t sleeping at all, which is why I’m certain that Cathy was in her bedroom all night.’
‘You were awake all night, ma’am?’
Sam was letting Martinez run with it. Personally, he saw no good cause to doubt her word. Frances Dean looked like hell.
‘I don’t think I’ve slept more than a handful of hours since my sister and her husband were murdered, detective,’ she told Martinez. ‘My doctor gave me some pills,
but I don’t like the way they make me feel.’
‘So you would have known if Cathy had left her bedroom, or maybe the house?’
‘Yes, I would.’ Frances Dean looked up at Sam. ‘What is this about?’
‘Just routine,’ Sam said. ‘Would you mind if we ask your niece a few questions now?’
‘I would mind very much,’ Frances said heatedly, then lowered her voice to a distressed hiss. ‘Are you people
trying
to push that poor child right over the
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