Suspicion of Malice

  Suspicion Of Malice

  Barbara Parker

  For Laura,

  who deserves that

  first-class cabin on the QE2

  Chapter 1

  It was the dog that awakened her, the strange noises he made. A yelping whine, then a bark. Then nothing, and she drifted back to sleep with the soft whirr of the air conditioner. Rain tapped on the roof of the cottage, and dim light came through the window. Then the barking started up again.

  Diane thought Jack might come down from the house and see about it, because after all, Buddy was his damned dog. She remembered that Jack had thrown a party last night, and he'd been happily drunk when she'd gotten home at midnight. It had been three in the morning before the music and laughter had quieted down.

  Roof-roof-roof. Roof-roof Hyeeeeeeee—

  Diane shoved the pillow off her head and squinted at her clock. 6:45. "Oh, great." In plaid boxers and a camisole, she stumbled out onto the small wooden porch. Nothing stirred in the yard. All she could see of Jack's house was some white clapboard and the steps to the screened porch. In the other direction, past the mildewing seawall, lower Biscayne Bay gleamed as dully as an old nickel.

  No dog anywhere in sight. "Stupid mutt."

  A walkway ran across the yard, vanishing under a cedar trellis and into a thick stand of palm trees. He was in there. Roof-roof. Roof.

  "Buddy! Come!" What was he doing? Diane thought of bufo toads—huge, slimy creatures with poisonous skin. Buddy would taste anything. She ran down the steps and across the yard, then under the trellis. Vines decades old kept out the rain, and the light dimmed. Dead leaves stuck to her bare feet. There was a fountain farther on, and Diane could hear it. The path turned, then opened up to a semicircle of teak benches, beds of bromeliads, and hanging baskets of orchids.

  Jack's black Lab stood right in the middle of the path. He turned his head and looked at her, and his tail wagged. Diane came closer, then stopped. There was something just past him. The low, overcast sun barely penetrated the shade, and the thing—whatever it was—lay halfway under some bushes. Gradually the details became clear. A man's legs in tan slacks, feet pointing upward. An arm.

  Barking, the dog loped toward her. Diane stumbled, caught herself, and raced back the way she had come, along the path, under the trellis, and across the wet grass to Jack's house, then up the steps. Her hair fell from its knot and into her eyes. Buddy danced in circles around her. She flung open the screen door, leaving him in the yard.

  A spare key was hidden in a conch shell. She retrieved it in trembling fingers and jammed it into the lock. The back door opened into the kitchen. "Jack! Jack!" She ran through the hall, slipping as she rounded the corner. Dim light came from a globe held aloft by a bronze nude.

  "Jack!" Her feet thudded up the stairs. "Jack, get up!"

  His door swung open and Jack came out in old hiking shorts. "I'm up! What in the name of God's little angels is going on?" He was pulling a faded green T-shirt down over his belly. His eyes were puffy, and his big sandy mustache was turned up on one end, down on the other.

  "There's a man by the fountain. On the path—oh, my God, Jack—he's dead. I heard Buddy barking, and I went to see—" Diane steadied herself on Jack's shoulder. "And there was a man lying on the ground. I think he's dead."

  "What do you mean, dead?"

  "I mean not breathing, Jack! Not moving."

  "Maybe he's sleeping."

  "No! Buddy's been barking forever."

  "Well, who is it?"

  "I don't know! I was afraid to look!"

  "Calm down." Jack rubbed his face. "My. How inconsiderate, right in my backyard. He's probably asleep. Wait for me downstairs. I'm going to get some shoes on."

  "Do you want me to call the police?"

  "No. If you want to be helpful, ma petite, go make some coffee."

  The door closed. Diane heard a woman's voice. Then Jack's low murmur. A few seconds later he came out in his old leather boat shoes. The door closed, but not soon enough to cut off a view of tangled red hair and a sheet clutched to somebody's breasts.

  Jack's stern glance admonished Diane for not being downstairs already. At the landing she whispered, "That was Nikki."

  "Shhh. You saw nothing, child." He nudged her along.

  Jack looked out the kitchen window as if the wild landscaping would part and reveal whatever was there, lie held aside the curtain with one hand and with the other twirled the ends of his big mustache into points.

  "I had hoped, on this drizzly Sunday, to spend the day in the sack. No hope of that now." He dropped the curtain. "If my guest ventures downstairs, tell her to stay in the house. I'll go have a look-see."

  "What about the coffee?"

  "Of course. Start the coffee—not that I need it after this jolt."

  Jack pushed open the back door. The dog rose from the mat, and its swaying tail tipped over a beer bottle. More of them littered the porch. The ashtrays were full, and a roach clip lay on a side table. Dead? Dead drunk was more like it. Guests had occasionally been found in the yard, sleeping it off, but not, he had to admit, this time of year, not with mosquitos chewing on exposed flesh and humidity so high one could work up a sweat breathing.

  The drizzle was turning to rain. Jack touched his .38 snub-nose through his pocket. The neighborhood was generally safe, and he didn't expect to see any strangers, conscious or otherwise, but one never knew. Buddy trotted along beside him.

  The main walkway from the house, paved with old keystone, arrowed to the seawall and a boat-house, where Jack kept his fishing boat raised on davits. Stepping-stones curved left toward the cottage, and another path meandered through a collection of rare plants and palm trees to the grotto. That had been his cousin Maggie's mad creation. She had piled up coral rocks and studded them with tacky Florida souvenirs, then set a bronze manatee on its tail. The sea cow's hippo-like mouth spurted water into a pond where fat carp wove among purple swamp lilies.

  Jack could hear the splash of water as he took the path under the trellis. It blocked the rain, and intermittent drops spattered onto the keystone. Jack swept a spider web off his face. Then he saw it—a man's legs and feet. White canvas deck shoes with leather laces. Khaki pants, soiled with dirt and bits of rotten leaves. The rest of the man lay just beyond a clump of elephant-ear philodendron.

  “Hey!” Jack knew already, but called out, "Wake up!"

  Drops of water fell from the trellis onto a philodendron leaf, which moved slightly, as if shuddering. Buddy whined through his nose. Jack pointed toward the house. "Go home!" The dog circled, panting and wagging his tail.

  Walking closer, Jack felt a sharp crunch under his shoe—a snail, smashed like a tiny brown porcelain cup. Slime trails crisscrossed the path. Standing alongside the man's thighs, Jack slowly peered around the huge leaves of the philodendron, holding the edge of one to pull it aside. He saw the other arm—muscled, golden-haired—and at the end of it a hand covered in blood. The shattered bones of the wrist gleamed purplish through the skin.

  Without his volition, Jack's eyes traveled upward, quickly taking in details that mounted in horrific impact. A torso in a white knit shirt, neat little red holes in it. And so much blood. Not on the shirt. On the face. The left half was bathed in red, and streaks of it ran into the man's ear and matted his hair. One blue eye gazed upward. The other was a pulpy mass of glimmering black. It seemed to be moving. Then Jack saw the ants. Swarms of them.

  "Oh, sweet Jesus," he moaned, letting go of the leaf, which gaily bobbed and dipped. Hands on knees, he waited for the dizziness to pass, then stood up. "Buddy, come!" His voice cracked.

  Walking slowly through the rain, he gathered his thoughts. Water dripped off his eyebrows and chin, an
d his T-shirt clung to his back. Diane was on the porch. She pulled open the screen door, and her eyes took him in, finding the answer. She whispered, "He's dead, isn't he?"

  Jack went inside, shaking his head when she asked who it was. He grabbed a dishtowel and ran it over his face and neck. The smell of coffee filled the kitchen, but he had no taste for it.

  Nikki sat at the table, green eyes open wide. Jack absently smoothed his mustache and stared across the kitchen.

  Diane spoke again. "Jack? Who is it?"

  He beckoned to Nikki. "Come with me into the study for a sec. Diane, be a good girl and tidy up the back porch, will you? Don't go anywhere. I won't be long."

  He took Nikki down the hall, their footsteps reduced to soft thuds on an ancient oriental carpet gone to threads at the edges. The house was too cold. He had turned the air conditioner down to sixty-something before Nikki had slid into bed, giggling. In the study, gray light filtered through wooden blinds.

  "What is going on, Jack? Say something. What happened out there? Somebody died?" Her glossy pink mouth was open.

  He set his hands firmly on her shoulders. "I want you to be very calm. Can you do that?" Nikki nodded. "It's Roger. He's been shot."

  She stared, then blinked. "Roger? Roger is ... dead?" She dropped onto the sofa. "Oh, my God"

  He sat beside her. "This is a mess, baby."

  Chapter 2

  Rain hissed under the tires, and the windshield wipers swept back and forth and back. A drizzle here, a downpour farther on. Ragged clouds tumbled across the sky. This had to stop soon. Or it might not. One couldn't be certain of anything this time of year.

  Anthony Quintana set his elbow on the window frame, arched his hand across his forehead, and squeezed. Long fingers moved upward on his temples as if testing the bones for cracks. He would rather have been in bed. Asleep or simply horizontal, it didn't matter. Unless he had a trial scheduled the next day, he didn't like to waste his Sundays working. The Cresswells weren't even clients—yet. They could have come to his office during normal business hours. He could not remember why he had agreed to do this.

  Ah, yes. Nate Harris had asked him to.

  The deejay on the doo-wop show spun another one. Oooo-wah-wah, bop-bop-aaaahhhh. Nate's lips moved, and he tapped the beat on the steering wheel. He watched the road through round tortoiseshell glasses.

  Cono cara'o. Ten-forty-five in the morning, listening to that idiot music, sailing along in Nate's white Ford Taurus sedan toward the far northeast corner of the county—an area Anthony detested for its glutted roads, endless malls, and pretentious condominiums elbowing each other for a view of the Atlantic.

  Porter and Claire Cresswell lived in one of them. Porter's company built boats, and he had money. Boatloads of it, Anthony assumed. Porter had been in and out of the hospital, and he'd put his son, Roger, in charge. A close call with cancer had rattled Porter's brain, or so Nate had explained to Anthony. Porter was sure that his son was embezzling money or secretly selling off assets or—God only knew— plotting to turn the company over to a multinational that would start making lawnmowers. Porter feared the IRS would freeze his bank accounts. He feared FBI agents at his door. Porter had begged Nate to find him a good criminal lawyer.

  Anthony knew little about Porter and Claire, except that Nate had remained close to his in-laws since his wife had died three years ago. He was especially fond of Claire, Maggie's mother. Nate was a judge on the criminal bench. A good man, a scholar, a rare light in the courtrooms of this county. He liked to hand out special projects to the lawyers who practiced before him. Programs for community awareness, for immigrants, for battered women. It had always been hard to say no to Nathan Harris.

  Nate turned down the radio. "What's the matter? You have a headache?"

  Blinking, Anthony dropped his elbow from the armrest. "What? No." He unbuttoned his collar and loosened his tie. "I don't need this, do I?"

  "I don't know, Porter and Claire are pretty formal. Where are your gloves?"

  "No me jodas. Do I take off the tie or not?"

  "You see me wearing one?" Nate asked. "What does that phrase mean, exactly?"

  "It means . . . 'Don't play games.'" Anthony folded his tie.

  "No, the precise meaning."

  " 'Don't fuck around with me.’ You know what it means."

  "You ought to write a book," Nate said. " 'How to Cuss in Spanish.' I want an unexpurgated edition. I'd like to know for sure what the defendants are saying about me at sentencing hearings."

  "I hope you told Porter Cresswell, when you volunteered me to handle this, that if it becomes drawn out, he may have to find another lawyer."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "I might not stay in the area. I mentioned that, no?"

  "In passing. Don't tell me you were serious about New York."

  "Why not? I was a federal public defender there for several years, and I still have contacts. My son is in New Jersey with his mother. I could easily move to New York."

  "And your daughter just moved here to start college." Nate's round glasses made him look like a gray-haired owl. "What is this? Nobody moves from Florida to New York, it's unnatural. You're leaving because of Gail."

  "Who?"

  "No me jodas," Nate said.

  "It has nothing to do with her."

  "You and she break up, then you disappear to Spain. Now you're thinking of relocating to New York. And it has nothing to do with Gail."

  "No."

  After a moment Nate returned his gaze to the road. He sighed. "Let it go, my friend. God knows, it hurts and you grieve, but this too shall pass."

  Anthony might have laughed but for Nate's doleful expression. "Nate ... no one died. I got my ring handed back to me. Que lastima. Too bad. I was saved from my own stupidity, marrying that woman. Believe me, I am not crying about it."

  "Listen to that. You can't even say her name."

  "Gail. All right?"

  "A little snappy this morning, aren't we? Out partying last night?"

  "Yes, with a box of files from my office."

  "Was it fun?"

  "No."

  Rain streaked the passenger window. Through it Anthony gazed out at U.S. 1, which had been widened and prettified with palm trees and flowers. Welcome to Aventura. The cars were expensive, the faces were white, and the conversations would all be in English. The Taurus turned at a massive shopping mall and headed east toward the water.

  "Listen," Nate said. "If I get the appointment to federal court, there's going to be a vacancy in the circuit court. You should run for judge."

  "I don't have the patience to put up with that shit."

  "Sure you do. Don't underestimate yourself. You'd have no problem getting elected. Good connections in the Cuban community, an excellent reputation in the bar. You know the law. On the bench you have a chance to do some good. The job doesn't pay what you're used to, but I suspect you've accumulated enough not to worry about it."

  "I have accumulated enough not to worry about anything." Anthony leaned against the headrest and closed his eyes. "When I was in Spain, I considered not coming back. It's different there, Nate. Not so rushed, so nervous. They don't have a federal regulation for every damned problem, and you can smoke your cigar in a restaurant or compliment a woman without being accused of harassment. It's a beautiful country. The people are polite. They have pride in themselves, in their history, not like Miami. Hot as hell this time of year, but I'm used to that.”

  ''You're kidding."

  "Am I?" Anthony gazed out at the low hills of a golf course, which once had been mangrove swamp. "Sixteen years as a lawyer. Maybe it's enough. I'll be forty-three next month. Incredible. Even so, it's not too late to start over. I could do anything. Go anywhere."

  "Sure, but Spain—"

  "Why not? I speak the language. Where do you think Cubans came from? Look at this." He pushed his coat sleeve up his forearm. "Three weeks on the Costa del Sol, I look like a gypsy. I could buy a house
on a cliff and lie in the sun. Come over and visit me. The women are gorgeous. You live like a monk, that's your problem."

  Nate put on his turn signal and waited for traffic to clear. "I could use a little debauchery. Sign me up."

  They were nearing the ocean, marked by a line of condominiums that completely obscured the view. Beyond them, patches of blue showed through white-topped clouds.

  "Tell me about Cresswell Yachts. What they do. Who runs it. I want to pretend I know something."

  The Cresswells' condo had a view from twenty-six floors up of the winding intracoastal, the curve of the Atlantic, and the skyscrapers of downtown Miami. The housekeeper led Anthony and Nate Harris over antique oriental rugs on tile floors, past silk-upholstered chairs and gilded tables on which sat orchids in porcelain pots. Finally they were taken into a wickered and rattaned sitting area that opened onto a glassed-in terrace. Ceiling fans twirled, and green plants cast tropical shade.

  A slender blond woman in casual slacks and a pastel blue blouse hurried toward them. Smiling, she pressed her cheek to Nate's. "Hello, you sweet thing. I haven't seen you in weeks!" Her bright smile swept around. Anthony knew her age—sixty-one—but she dazzled. Her hair was cut youthfully, feathering on her cheeks. If there were tucks at her ears and jaw-line, they were too discreet to be noticed.

  "Mr. Quintana, I'm so pleased you're with us. I'm Claire." She took his hands.

  He smiled down at her. "No, no, call me Anthony. Will you?"

  Her cheeks went pink. "All right—Anthony. My goodness. Porter? Come meet our guest."

  Her husband studied the newcomer with gray eyes set in a square, sunburned face. A cleft divided his chin.

  Driving the last half-mile, Anthony had learned that Porter Cresswell owned the company with his brother, Duncan, whom everyone called Dub. Porter was president, and Dub was in charge of sales. Dub's wife, Elizabeth, who had risen from within the company, oversaw scheduling and production. The three of them had maintained a fairly good balance until Porter's illness. Porter persuaded his son, who ran a related yacht leasing business, to sit in the president's chair for a while. He had made him a ten-percent owner. This new arrangement had not pleased Dub and Liz, but Porter was used to having his way. Now Porter was well again, but Roger refused to step down.