Eclipse Read online

  Excess sleep was the greatest waste known to man.

  His walls were covered with diplomas and certificates attesting to his achievements and qualifications, and his shelves were filled with books. He had the facility to speed-read, but preferred to take his time.

  Words and images reaching his brain courtesy of rods and cones in the outermost layer of neurons in his retinas, sending their signals to the middle layer of bipolar neurons, relaying their signals in turn to the optic nerve fibers in the third layer – and this was what he was reading about right now, the myriad miracles of vision.

  Eyes, presently his area of fascination.

  He was a proud man. No strutting peacock, but proud of what he had achieved. Of what he could do for others. Prouder of two letters after his name than of anything else.

  MD.

  He was a medical man.

  A doctor.

  That sang in his brain.

  The most important thing a person could aspire to being.

  A doctor.

  ‘Someone leaked Black Hole.’

  Alejandro Martinez, Sam’s partner and close friend of many years, a stocky, middle-aged Cuban-American with dark, sharp, expressive eyes, was already at his desk when Sam arrived in the Violent Crimes office.

  They’d spoken last night, Sam bringing Martinez up to speed on his evening. Now Martinez held up the Herald for Sam to see.

  ‘Black Hole Killer Strikes in Fort Lauderdale

  Florida Victim # 4!’

  Sam took the newspaper, scanned the piece and shook his head.

  ‘Getting too close, man,’ Martinez said.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Sam said.

  ‘Grace arrive safe?’

  Sam smiled. ‘Sure did. She called soon as they landed. Sounded a little tired, but fine.’

  ‘She has the day to rest, right?’

  ‘And take a look around.’

  ‘Meantime, we’re due at the range,’ Martinez said.

  Sam grimaced, always a little antsy about the yearly State Qual.

  Shooting not his favorite pastime.

  Especially when the targets were human.

  At the seven-bay range on the fifth floor of the Miami Beach Police Department headquarters building, waiting with Detectives Mary Cutter and Joe Sheldon for the range master to give his first order, Sam’s mind returned to the odor he’d smelled in the victim’s bedroom last evening.

  ‘I still can’t nail it, and it’s bugging me.’

  ‘The FLPD and Duval got noses too,’ Martinez said. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Sam said. ‘Not our problem.’

  ‘Let’s hope it stays that way.’

  ‘You’d better believe it,’ Sam said, putting on his headset.

  ‘Make your weapons ready, and holster.’ The range master’s voice came through loud and clear.

  Sam, Martinez and the other detectives loaded up their magazines, moved to their respective bays, made ready and holstered their firearms. Unloaded again, reloaded, holstered.

  Sam was tense now, his mind clear, knowing the routine – holster, fire, holster; good with his weapon, fast and effective, but never complacent.

  ‘When the target turns, you have two seconds to draw and fire two rounds from the hip position, cover your target, then holster,’ the range master instructed them. ‘Ready on the line. Gun.’

  The target turned.

  Sam fired.

  ‘I think you might need glasses,’ David Becket told his wife, Mildred, as they sat in their backyard on yet another gorgeous morning, reading and drinking coffee.

  Both in their mid-sixties, they had only married a year before. A second marriage for David, Sam’s adoptive father and a retired pediatrician; a first for Mildred, whose life up until a couple of years ago had been far from easy.

  They were very happy together.

  ‘I do not need glasses, old man,’ she said. ‘I can read as well as I ever could, maybe even better.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ David said.

  ‘What does that mean?’ Mildred set her book on her lap.

  ‘Just that you’ve been peering at things lately. And frowning too.’ He paused. ‘Look down there.’

  ‘What am I looking at?’

  ‘That bird to the right of the pond.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Describe it to me.’

  Mildred’s mouth tightened. ‘I’m not a child.’

  ‘You can’t see it, can you?’

  ‘Of course I can see it,’ she said. ‘It’s a bird. It has wings. Now lay off.’

  ‘It’s a white-winged parakeet,’ David said.

  ‘Whoop de doo,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve never been nearsighted before,’ he said.

  ‘I can see the damned bird,’ Mildred said.

  David looked at her sideways. ‘Mildred, are you having problems with your eyes?’

  She sighed. ‘You want me to have an eye test.’

  ‘I don’t think it would hurt,’ he said. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘I may possibly need glasses’ – Mildred was scathing – ‘but I am far from helpless.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it, but I’d still like to come.’

  ‘You didn’t come with me the last time.’

  ‘You said you preferred to be independent, as I recall.’

  ‘As I still do,’ Mildred said.

  ‘Who was it you went to?’

  ‘I don’t recall offhand.’

  David smiled. ‘That’s OK. We can go to my optometrist.’

  ‘I’d prefer to go to my own,’ Mildred said.

  ‘What’s going on, Mildred?’

  ‘Nothing is going on, except that you’re starting to get me mad.’

  ‘Why?’ he persisted. ‘I’ve expressed the mildest concern that you might not be seeing as well as you used to.’

  ‘You’re bullying me,’ she said.

  ‘Nonsense,’ David said.

  The parakeet flew away.

  ‘The bird left,’ Mildred said.

  ‘You had to screw up your eyes to see that,’ David said gently.

  She sighed. ‘I guess I did.’

  ‘And is the glare bothering you?’ He smiled. ‘I only ask because you’ve been wearing sunglasses more than you used to.’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘Mildred, why are you reacting this way?’ he persevered.

  She took another moment. ‘Because I’m scared.’

  ‘Of what?’ David was surprised and concerned.

  ‘If you really insist on knowing,’ she said stiffly, ‘I’m squeamish about my eyes. I’m afraid of going to the eye doctor.’

  ‘But you’ve been before.’

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ Mildred said quietly. ‘I just told you that I went.’

  ‘You said your vision was perfect.’ Now he was astonished.

  ‘I don’t believe I used that word.’

  ‘You led me to believe it.’

  Mildred’s cheeks were warm. ‘I’m not proud of this.’

  ‘So when did you last have an eye test?’

  ‘When I was a teenager. In New York City.’ She paused. ‘I hated it so much that I ran out and vomited.’

  ‘How horrible for you,’ he said. ‘Do you know what upset you so much?’

  ‘The whole thing.’ Mildred had grown pale. ‘The doctor sat very close, and . . .’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t even like talking about it. I know it’s idiotic, but I can’t help it.’

  ‘It’s not idiotic,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ she said. ‘It’s foolish and irrational and cowardly.’

  ‘You’re no coward,’ David said. ‘You’re a remarkable, brave woman with a tiny weakness, which we can deal with together.’

  ‘I can deal with it,’ Mildred said, ‘by staying away from eye doctors.’

  ‘No,’ David said. ‘That has to stop.’

  She leaned back in her chair, and then, after
a few moments, sighed.

  ‘So what do you think is wrong with my eyes, Doctor?’

  ‘I think it’s possible that you might have the start of cataracts.’

  ‘Will I go blind?’ she asked bluntly.

  ‘Only if you ignore them for long enough.’ He paused. ‘Will you let me help you with this?’

  ‘I don’t want to go blind,’ she said.

  ‘Is that a yes?’ David asked.

  ‘I guess it is,’ Mildred said.

  In the room of dead things, the one who made them, who took them, living or inanimate, and turned them into little corpses, was working again.

  Another doll, this one wearing turquoise cotton slacks and a white T-shirt.

  The T-shirt was stained with dark red splatters.

  Like blood.

  The doll had short blonde hair.

  And one blue eye.

  The other eye having already been removed.

  Cut out, neatly and precisely, to leave a small black hole.

  The work was exacting, the air in the room hot and fetid, and the doll maker, the corpse maker, was perspiring as the short, sharp blade of the tiny scalpel blade began its next circular incision; the blade attached to a pencil grip handle, worked with the tips of the thumb, index and middle fingers, the handle resting between the index finger and thumb.

  Over to one side, waiting on another table until the work was complete lay a pair of doll-sized sunglasses and a roll of gauze.

  The corpse maker found this part of the job the most fulfilling.

  It felt like an ending, almost like closure.

  But it never was.

  Grace’s hotel, the Dolder Waldhaus, stood on a hill high above Zurich, surrounded by forest and prime real estate, most of it old and solid. Her room had a balcony with a fine overview of the city, its lake and the Alps way over on the horizon.

  On arrival, she’d showered, eaten a light, excellent lunch and dozed off in an armchair. Waking upset with herself for having wasted time, she’d revived downstairs with a delicious cup of coffee and a swift but glorious walk in the forest just across the street, before catching a little red cogwheel train down to Römerhof, then a tram to the town center – and now, finally, she was in the heart of Zurich.

  For a city renowned for banks, it was astonishingly pretty. A large Swiss national flag presided over a big bustling square where a host of tramlines intersected. Smooth modern cobbles underfoot, linden trees lining the street, attractive, expensive-looking stores and boutiques, people everywhere, hurrying or strolling, a church bell tolling someplace nearby – and Grace was debating whether she should begin with the lake or the Bahnhofstrasse when she saw, over to her left, one of the places she remembered Magda telling her about.

  ‘If you have no time for anything else,’ she had said, ‘go to Sprüngli, sit upstairs, drink coffee, eat cake and watch people.’

  A priority then, clearly.

  The confiserie downstairs smelled like heaven, and Grace made a mental note to go home laden with foodie gifts. But for now, she climbed the staircase to a spacious old-fashioned restaurant where well-heeled locals and tourists waited for tables, and spied, by luck, a small, free window spot.

  She ordered, then relaxed back in her seat to await her chocolate ice cream – which came in a misted silver flute with whipped cream, and was extraordinarily fine.

  If she lived in Zurich, Grace reflected, she would grow fat.

  She pictured her family sitting here, several tables pushed together. Cathy, their adopted daughter, studying at Johnson & Wales University’s College of Culinary Arts, would relish choosing from the delectable-looking goodies behind the counter where customers were patiently queuing . . .

  ‘Are you OK?’

  It took a moment for Grace to realize that the man at the next table was speaking to her.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ she said.

  ‘You’re from the States, right?’ he asked.

  He was no more than thirty, with wavy brown hair and blue eyes behind fashionable rimless glasses. His smile was friendly and natural, his accent French.

  ‘I am,’ Grace answered him.

  ‘You were looking very pensive,’ he said. ‘I wanted to make sure you were all right. I didn’t mean to intrude.’

  She smiled. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’ She looked at the remains of her ice cream. ‘The food here seems as good as I was told.’

  ‘Swiss food is excellent, and Zurich is filled with fine restaurants.’

  Their waitress brought him a small glass of white wine.

  ‘Are you here with your husband?’ the young man asked.

  Grace hesitated only briefly.

  There was something in his eyes, she thought, something possibly flirtatious.

  ‘I’m here to attend a conference.’ She felt unsure why she’d told him that, why she hadn’t simply lied, said that yes, her husband was with her.

  The check was on her table. She picked it up, looked around.

  ‘You pay over at the desk,’ the young man told her.

  ‘Thank you.’ Grace stood up. ‘It was kind of you to be concerned.’

  ‘It was not so much concern,’ he said.

  He stood up too, and momentarily she thought he might want to leave with her, that she might have to be less pleasant. But instead, he extended his right hand, and she gave him her own, found his grip cool, firm.

  ‘I wish you a good stay in Zurich,’ he said.

  And sat down again.

  Probably waiting for his girlfriend, Grace thought, standing in a short line at the cash desk. Not remotely interested in a woman at least a decade older – absurd of her even to think that.

  She paid, walked back down to the first floor and bought herself some dark chocolate truffles.

  Perfect to nibble on later, while she rehearsed her conference speech.

  Gorgeous sounds.

  Filling his ears, his head, his mind and soul.

  My, but it felt good to be back.

  Sam Becket doing one of the things he loved best.

  Way, way down his list of loves, of course.

  Grace and Joshua still tied at Number One.

  It had, of course, been Gracie who’d steered him gently back to S-BOP. Amateur operatics, for sure, but hot amateur, and a great bunch of people, some of whom he’d known for years, some new and none the worse for that.

  ‘It’s exactly what you need,’ she’d begun telling him soon after New Year’s, after their prolonged period of high stress, and she was right, he had needed something more, something therapeutic.

  Singing again, releasing his deep voice, working at it, doing his vocal exercises, learning the libretto, listening to the others. Some of them way superior to him, some not as good, but all of them sharing that shine that got right inside them, that soaring sensation; and sharing the down moments, too, when they screwed up, forgot the words, hit the wrong notes, ruined the timing.

  Letting down the geniuses who’d given them their music.

  Georges Bizet in this instance, and Sam had been cast as Escamillo, the matador – a ton of swagger and the Toreador song and his very own fight sequence – what more could an amateur baritone homicide cop wish for?

  ‘How’s the diet going?’ Toni Petit was S-BOP’s long-time, dedicated and tireless costumier and dresser; a diminutive woman in her thirties with short dark hair and black cherry eyes, now regarding Sam critically, as the rest of the company assembled in the backyard of Tyler Allen’s house on Lime Court in Coconut Grove.

  Tyler Allen, a forty-something choreographer. His yard and good-sized converted garage their rehearsal venue till they could get into their theater. A great spot for rehearsing, if the neighbors didn’t object.

  They were grouped on benches around Tyler’s long trellis table, set with large pitchers of water and paper cups – regular tea, coffee, cola and alcohol banned for the rehearsal’s duration – the fragrance of night sage growing in the flower beds powerful, almost int
oxicating.

  It was Linda Morrison, directing Carmen (known as ‘La Morrison’ by the company), who’d first suggested to Sam, right after she’d cast him, that he might want to drop a few pounds.

  Linda was the proprietor of a clothing store near Lincoln Avenue, an old pal, a cast member from way back: statuesque, red-haired and a talented mezzo-soprano.

  ‘Grace’s cooking.’ Sam had taken no offence at Linda’s remark about his weight. ‘What can I tell you?’

  ‘Bullfighters don’t have paunches,’ Toni pointed out this evening.

  ‘Now I’m a little hurt,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t be,’ she told him. ‘Just remember you’re a big guy who’s going to cut a dash with your dagger.’ She smiled. ‘So to speak.’

  An interesting and eclectic cast had been assembled. Billie Smith – the daughter, Sam had learned, of an old school pal, aged twenty-three and gorgeous, with a mezzo-soprano from heaven – singing the lead. Gossip had it that she’d been asked to leave UM’s School of Music – reason unknown – but was now taking classes at the Lincoln Park Music School near the New World Center.

  Jack Holden, tenor, a handsome, fair-haired, blue-eyed Scottish-born lawyer, singing Don José. Carla Gonzales as Micaëla, the village maiden – the role a little tame for the ambitious, thirty-two-year-old Cuban-American – and if her vocal range had been just a little lower down the scale, Sam thought there might have been a real battle for Carmen.

  Tyler Allen, a specialist in stage combat, had relocated from upstate New York four years ago, out of work for some time due to sickness, but now raring to go. Whippet-thin with fearsome energy levels and, according to Linda, not always the kindest of men, Sam felt sure that Tyler was the one most likely to challenge the hell out of him.

  Too many years of sitting, in the car, at his desk and in interview rooms, and though the occasional pursuit got the detectives up and running, and Sam had thrown a few punches over the years, a prolonged stage fight while singing . . .

  Oh, man.

  The rehearsal over, Sam felt tired, but content. His voice had held up quite well, and the choreographer had been less harsh with him than some of the others. Allen had openly humiliated Carla by referring to her ‘big backside’, had said Jack Holden was graceless, had referred to Toni Petit as ‘the little seamstress’, twice snapping his fingers to get her attention, rewarded both times with a chilly stare. Petit could clearly handle him, and Holden’s ego was in need of a little downsizing, but Carla Gonzales was not, Sam felt, nearly as confident as she liked to make out. Linda had said that Tyler Allen could be unkind, but there was, Sam decided, something of the bully about him.