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  Recent Titles by Hilary Norman

  The Sam Becket Mysteries

  MIND GAMES

  LAST RUN *

  SHIMMER *

  CAGED *

  BLIND FEAR

  CHATEAU ELLA

  COMPULSION

  DEADLY GAMES

  FASCINATION

  GUILT

  IN LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP

  LAURA

  NO ESCAPE

  THE PACT

  RALPH’S CHILDREN *

  SHATTERED STARS

  SPELLBOUND

  SUSANNA

  TOO CLOSE

  TWISTED MINDS

  IF I SHOULD DIE (written as Alexandra Henry)

  * available from Severn House

  CAGED

  Hilary Norman

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First world edition published 2010

  in Great Britain and in the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  Copyright © 2010 by Hilary Norman.

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Norman, Hilary.

  Caged. – (Sam Becket mysteries)

  1. Becket, Sam (Fictitious character) – Fiction.

  2. Police – Florida – Miami – Fiction. 3. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title II. Series

  823.9'14-dc22

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-101-9 (epub)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6900-5 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-246-8 (trade paper)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  For Helen and Neal

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My grateful thanks to the following: Howard Barmad; Jennifer Bloch; Batya Brykman; Isaac and Evelyne Hasson; Jonathan Kern (for everything, as always); Christian LeVan, BVM&S, MRCVS; massive thanks again to Special Agent Paul Marcus and to Julie Marcus (couldn’t do it without the ‘real’ Sam and Grace); Wolfgang Neuhaus; James Nightingale; Helmut Pesch; Sebastian Ritscher; Helen Rose; Rainer Schumacher; Jeanne Skipper; Amanda Stewart; Dr Jonathan Tarlow; Euan Thorneycroft; Ruth Wilson.

  They lay on the ground, limbs entwined, joined together.

  Like a couple in the midst of sex.

  Pale, though. Not quite alabaster, yet almost sculpted looking.

  A work of beauty only a little spoiled

  By terror.

  And by violent death.

  They lay together much as they used to.

  Before.

  ONE

  February 6

  The keeper was down on the floor just outside the plastic walled cage.

  Best place to be, spending quiet time with them.

  Isabella the Seventh was out of the cage, nestling on the keeper’s stomach.

  All rats had their own characteristics, but this Isabella liked snuggling close, had grown to enjoy human touch and skin.

  Soon, the keeper knew, the doe would be in oestrus, and then, like her female predecessors, she would become quite wonderful to watch, all squeaking, urgent vibration. And then, at the slightest touch by Romeo the Fifth, her ardent buck, Isabella’s tail would lift and her whole furry little backside would rise, exposing that secret, tiny part of her as it changed colour, turned sweet violet, and opened to him.

  Her keeper found this beautiful.

  Her buck liked it too. Though Romeo, like any number of healthy, horny males, would probably willingly have mounted a whole row of females if they’d displayed their little primed fannies to him.

  There being nothing else of significance to report today, the keeper picked up Isabella, grasped her firmly around her small body, took her temperature, measured her heart rate and, finding all fine and dandy, made basic notations on the observation chart and put her back down.

  The doe nestled back down on the warm human flesh, and the keeper stroked her head.

  Rats were nice creatures, misunderstood by many. The keeper had studied and cared for them for a while now, liked them, was both touched and impressed by them because they were as individual as dogs and cats. And humans.

  They liked to eat, play, fight and fuck.

  And some liked to kill.

  They had their limitations, mind, needed careful control. And after a while, when there was nothing new left to observe about them, the keeper grew bored and replaced them. One Isabella giving way to another, ditto Romeo.

  Not a long life, even by rat standards, but a comfortable, perhaps even a happy one in a home complete with cedar shavings, cans for hiding, boxes for nesting and good, nutritious food.

  A cut-price miniature, in fact, of Rat Park, the Eden built in the 1970s by a Canadian shrink named Alexander, who’d conducted drug-addiction experiments on rats and found that the creatures didn’t like being high, preferred plain water to morphine and sugar-laced stuff.

  Rats weren’t dumb.

  No way.

  Isabella the Seventh stirred and began to tread a path south.

  ‘Not today,’ the keeper told her, lifting her gently again and stroking her cute little nose.

  This Isabella had always been special.

  When her time came, the keeper would end her life kindly.

  Not yet, though.

  Romeo hadn’t finished with her yet.

  TWO

  Life was good in the Becket household.

  Everyone safe, healthy and content in the small white Bay Harbor Island house that Grace Lucca Becket had lived in for some years before she’d met and married her husband, Sam.

  It was the kind of ease that made Grace just a little nervous.

  She hadn’t been superstitious in the past, but over time it had crept up on her, and sometimes she even knocked on wood, surreptitiously, so no one else would notice, except Sam, of course, who noticed everything.

  That’s what you got, being married to a police detective.

  You got a lot of other things, too, when the detective was Sam Becket. Like all kinds of love and caring and kindness, and not just directed at you and your baby son and grown-up daughter, but also at the other people who mattered in your world.

  You also got tension.

  Every time he stepped out of the door to head for work.

  Because even in a jurisdiction as civilized as Miami Beach, a Violent Crimes detective all too often had to deal with madness and evil, so you just never knew.

  But for now, right now, life was good, the dark times behind them.

  Knock on wood.

  Joshua was seventeen months old, a walking, clambering, blessedly easy-going, endlessly inquisitive little boy who was finding potty-training entertaining and had more than twenty clearly comprehensible words in his vocabulary. Grace had begun seeing patients again in her role as a child and adolescent psychologist; and Cathy, their twenty-two-year-old adopted daughter, had come home in time for Christmas after nine months away in California, so the whole family had been together for once for t
he holidays – even Grace’s sister Claudia, with husband Daniel and their boys, who’d seemed good too, healing from their shaky spell.

  And then no sooner had Cathy come home, than she’d packed up all her belongings and moved out again, this time perhaps for keeps. And neither Grace nor Sam had ever imagined feeling happy about that, but Cathy’s return had coincided with Sam’s younger brother Saul finding his own apartment in Sunny Isles Beach, and asking Cathy if she’d like to share. And Saul was doing well enough with his furniture-making to be able to afford the rent, and the legacies that Judy Becket had left him and Sam three years ago – startling them both – had given him a solid base, and the deal had been that as soon as Cathy had a job she’d contribute, but until then, Saul was content with the status quo.

  Uncle and niece on paper, but with only a year between them, he and Cathy were more like brother and sister or, better yet, best friends. When Dr David Becket and his late wife Judy had adopted Sam, an orphaned eight-year-old African-American, they could never have imagined what a fine family custom they were initiating. All those different heritages stitched together like the best kind of American quilt, Cathy as integral a part of that as Joshua.

  The question, after her time away, was what Cathy was going to do.

  Not go back to university to resume her social work studies.

  ‘It’s not just the bad memories,’ she’d told them right after her return. ‘I think I’d feel like I was going backward.’

  ‘So are you going to focus on athletics?’ Sam had asked, because running had always been Cathy’s great passion, and she’d written them about how much she’d loved her time as a track coach’s aide in Sacramento.

  ‘I’m not good enough to compete,’ Cathy said. ‘And teaching would mean going back to college, too.’

  She’d suggested soon after New Year’s that she might come and work for her mother, and for a moment Grace’s heart had leapt, but she’d suppressed that, because even if she hadn’t already had a fine helper in her office, Grace felt that Cathy, having established her freedom, might find it restrictive, even smothering.

  ‘I doubt that,’ Cathy had said. ‘But anyway, if you ever need more help . . .’

  ‘I’d ask you in a heartbeat,’ Grace had told her.

  And then she’d asked if Cathy had anything else in mind, any ambitions, even just a stirring of something.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ Cathy had said, slowly, ‘there is something. Though you guys might think it’s a little out of left field.’

  ‘We won’t think anything,’ Grace had said, ‘unless you tell us.’

  THREE

  February 7

  Just after eight fifteen on Saturday morning, Detectives Sam Becket and Alejandro Martinez and a team of Crime Scene technicians were standing in a large backyard behind Collins Avenue.

  Not so much a backyard, really, as a rather once-handsome garden, its lawn a little overgrown, its topiary bushes looking in need of a barber’s care and its jardinières empty.

  The three-storey mansion to which it belonged had formerly been an art gallery. The plaque on the wall beside the entrance still declared it to be the Oates Gallery of Fine Arts, but the old grey stone house was locked up, shutters covering the windows, no signs of life or light from within, the mailbox on the sidewalk sealed.

  It might have looked peaceful but for the police presence and the ribbons of crime scene tape cordoning off the house, the land to the side and rear and the sidewalk out front.

  There were no signs of a break-in, though on both sides of a tall iron gate to the east side of the mansion, the paved pathway and lawn appeared to have been recently disturbed, a double row of narrow wheel tracks visible as indentations on the grass and intermittent rubbings along the paving stones – every inch of disturbance already marked out.

  The mansion stood on Collins opposite the North Shore Open Space Park near 81st Street. Not far, as the gulls flew, from where a murdered man had been found on the beach about eighteen months back, sparking a horrific case for Becket and Martinez.

  No link to this crime, for sure, the perpetrator of that killing long dead.

  Besides which, this was very different.

  It might yet turn out not to be unique, for all they knew, but neither of the Miami Beach Police Department Violent Crimes detectives had ever seen anything like it.

  ‘It’s not the ugliest,’ Elliot Sanders, the on-call ME, already on the scene, said to Sam, ‘but it’s certainly damned nasty, not to mention downright weird.’

  There were two naked bodies, one male, one female. Both Caucasian, perhaps mid-twenties, the male dark-haired, the female blonde, her hair long and tousled, a tiny tattoo of a willow tree near the base of her spine.

  From a distance, they might have appeared to have died in the act of intercourse, still united, faces contorted. But closing in, the detectives saw the edges of two gashing, bloodless wounds across both their necks.

  ‘Cause of death probably asphyxiation or haemorrhage or both,’ Sanders said.

  ‘But not here,’ Sam said.

  Looking again at the arrangement of the bodies, he thought first of sculpture, a grotesque parody, perhaps, of a Rodin pair – though then again they might almost, his mind swam on, be a pair of cruelly conjoined twins, attached at the loins.

  Yet that was not the strangest thing about the scene.

  They were lying in the middle of the lawn beneath a large plastic dome-shaped cover measuring approximately eight feet in diameter and less than five feet high at the centre.

  ‘The doc’s right,’ Martinez said. ‘It’s a weird one, man.’

  ‘They look like exhibits,’ Sam said, pulling out his notebook and starting a sketch of the crime scene. ‘Maybe specimens.’

  It was customary for Crime Scene, where possible, to complete the preliminaries before the ME’s arrival, but though the technicians had been here a while, they were still working, measuring the location and collecting and zipping into plastic bags anything that might hint of evidence: a piece of tissue, maybe, a thread or cigarette butt, or – nothing so providential here – the murder weapon itself. Their photographer still taking her pictures of every aspect, anything to help record it all before the dome was raised to allow access and before wind or rain or other elements might alter the scene forever.

  Sam looked back toward the mansion, including it in his sketch.

  Whatever might or might not have gone on in there would have to wait for a search warrant, unless the owner could be located first. Though even if consent was given, they’d probably choose to wait. Time-wasting as the procedure was – Sam and Martinez had known it to take anything from two to ten hours – that was still nowhere near as frustrating as seeing potential hard evidence rendered inadmissible in court.

  They did not, at least, need a warrant to look at the tracks in the grass. Wheel marks, no more than two inches wide, leading from the gate – closed, but not locked – to the centre of the lawn.

  ‘Some kind of dolly, maybe,’ Sam mused, while Martinez went across to speak to the patrol officers who’d been first on the scene. ‘Maybe a gurney.’ He made some notes. ‘What else do you have, Doc?’

  ‘Nothing yet that isn’t plain as day.’

  On the other side of the garden, Martinez was using his cell phone.

  ‘The gardener who found them had himself a heart attack,’ Sanders went on. ‘The paramedics were still working on him when I got here, had him pretty much stabilized.’

  Martinez, still on the phone, was already on his way back, moving carefully around the garden perimeter, eyes on the ground as he walked and ended his call.

  ‘Doc tell you about the gardener?’ he said.

  ‘Poor guy,’ Sam said.

  ‘Mr Joseph Mulhoon,’ Martinez said. ‘Comes here once a month, he told the EMT treating him.’ He made a note. ‘We’ll check him out.’

  The Becket-Martinez partnership was informal but well established in the unit, the men
taking their turn, same as the other Violent Crime detectives, as to who got appointed lead investigator on each case by Mike Alvarez, their sergeant. This one had gone to Sam, meaning he’d be the guy working the extra hours keeping up with the report-writing and the load of paperwork that came with any investigation. Other than that, he and Martinez divided the labours, pooled thought processes and tasks. Bottom line, though Sam had pulled through more than one bout of disciplinary problems created by his tendency to act on instinct rather than by the rulebook, and though Alejandro Martinez had been criticized for a lack of ambition, together they made a fine investigative team, and Sergeant Alvarez and Tom Kennedy, their captain, recognized that.

  ‘Mr Mulhoon is seventy-one years old,’ Sanders said now, ‘and I’d be surprised as hell if he knew a damned thing about this before he happened on it.’

  ‘Do we know who pays him?’ Sam asked Martinez.

  ‘Company called Beatty Management in North Beach takes care of the property. Their office is closed, but a woman picked up as I was leaving a message, and I told her we’d appreciate having the owner’s consent to search, and I don’t know how much luck we’re gonna have with that, but she said she’ll see to it that we get the keys soon as.’ He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘If we’re real lucky, the warrant might get here first.’

  The go-ahead having been given for the domed plastic cover to be raised, the ME blew into a new pair of latex gloves, put them on, then donned coveralls, shoe covers and a mask. One investigator at a time being the general rule in order to minimize damage to the scene, Sanders approached the bodies alone.

  Sam, watching the doc crouch to begin his examination, was in no hurry to don his own booties and move in.

  The dead, newly slain, had always been difficult for him, his stomach still having an aversion to ugly death, not to mention his soul.

  As it should be, he supposed.

  He thought, now and then, about transferring to another unit or even of leaving the police department altogether, but he knew he’d probably never do that, at least not out of choice. The victims and those left behind needed all the help they could get, and though Sam knew there were plenty of detectives waiting to take his place, many of them smarter or sharper, certainly younger and fresher than him, he also knew that there was no greater asset in the job than experience. Every single victim of violence he’d dealt with over the years was logged someplace in his mind, as were the significant steps of each investigation, the changing methods over time, the eureka moments that soared suddenly out of the grind, the more solid leads that came from doggedness, and the interrogation breakthroughs. Most depressing of all, the cases that had eluded them, the victims they’d let down.