Hell by Hilary Norman Page A

promenade along which the self-styled ‘Joy Boy’ had been swaggering when Mildred had first laid eyes on him two years back.
    David had called this morning from Boston, had tried Sam on his cellphone because the machine had picked up at the house, and Sam and Grace had agreed that the honeymooners did not need to know what was going on until their return.
    â€˜Everything OK, son?’ David had asked.
    â€˜Everything’s peachy, Dad,’ Sam had said.
    â€˜You sure?’
    Always hard to fool, Sam’s father.
    â€˜Has the bride had enough of you yet?’ Sam had tried steering the conversation away.
    â€˜The bride said I looked splendid last night, as a matter of fact.’
    â€˜Give her our love,’ Sam had told him.
    â€˜Is Grace with you?’ David had asked.
    â€˜Of course not, Dad,’ Sam had said. ‘I’m at work, and Grace and Joshua are spending the day at Claudia’s.’
    Which had finally appeased David Becket.
    Leaving Sam free to organize the rest of the day, during which the team were going to be paying low-key visits to as many of Miami’s marinas and moorings as humanly possible.
    The Baby , Cooper’s old cruiser – blown up by him before his disappearance – in their thoughts.
    The kill-site during his last known rampage.
    All the way through to matricide.
    Though with the incalculable number of boats and vessels of all shapes and sizes docked and traveling through Miami’s waterways, Biscayne Bay and the ocean beyond, the chances of finding the bastard and some new boat without any kind of hard intelligence or a tip-off were almost nil.
    All the more reason for Sam to be grateful for Névé.
    Safe haven.

SIXTEEN
    May 3
    S am and Martinez had worked through the weekend, keeping their own trawl through the marinas downbeat, aware of the risks of Cooper upping anchor and disappearing again.
    A master of that, Cal the Hater.
    And no new leads to point the detectives in any other direction.
    Open minds needed, eyes and ears – their own, the rest of the squad’s, and their regular street informants’ – trained on anything that might lead them to the ‘Heart Killer’, as the media had tagged the perp.
    Magda had come better than good, had welcomed Grace on Sunday afternoon with open arms, a spare bedroom already transformed into a consulting room, even a waiting room ready for her patients’ use.
    â€˜But it’s your dining room,’ Grace had protested.
    â€˜I don’t give dinner parties,’ Magda had said. ‘This will be the first time the room has been used since I moved in.’
    â€˜It’s such an imposition,’ Grace had said.
    â€˜You’re paying rent.’
    â€˜Not enough.’
    â€˜Take it or leave it,’ Magda had said.
    They had agreed little more than a token payment, just enough to keep things on a professional footing, because Magda refused to countenance profiting from their troubles.
    â€˜It makes me wonder,’ the older woman said now on Monday morning, regarding the setup again, ‘why we’ve never thought of joining forces before.’
    â€˜You were in California,’ Grace pointed out. ‘And then Joshua came along.’
    â€˜And one of these days he’ll be at real school and have a bunch of friends he’ll want to have visit or sleep over, and maybe you and Sam will enjoy the idea of having one more room at home.’ Magda’s smile was touched with regret. ‘It’s different for me – my empty spaces feel like a reproach.’
    She had divorced her unfaithful orthopedic surgeon husband almost a decade ago and their only son, a plastic surgeon, lived in DC with a family she rarely got to see.
    â€˜Sharing’s a tempting thought in some ways,’ Grace said. ‘Though my home office has always suited us.’
    â€˜I know,’ Magda said, easily. ‘Just something to mull