Suspicion of Malice Page 3

  "Nate, your integrity is commendable." Anthony mimed a telephone at his ear. " 'Hello, detective, this is Jack Pascoe. You know—this is so crazy!—it completely slipped my mind that Judge Nathan Harris was at my party last night!' "

  Nate chuckled, then laughed. "We'll hear it on the news. 'Federal nomination withdrawn. Noted criminal court judge and transvestite samba dancer attend wild orgy the night before heir to yacht fortune is found shot to death.'" His laughter trailed off. "Roger Cresswell dead, his mother and father in pieces, and all I can think of is how to save my own ass."

  "Don't beat yourself up," Anthony said. "It's a normal reaction."

  "I've never been afraid of anything, but I'm afraid people will think I told Jack to lie. I didn't, but they'll think so. I want to be on the federal bench. I deserve it. God help me, I do, but if this gets out, I'm finished."

  "We'll try not to let that happen."

  "Do you have any suggestions? Are there any?"

  "We'll talk about it," Anthony said. "Let's get out of here. You're buying me lunch."

  Chapter 3

  For a pickup performance, midweek, and with most of the principal dancers still away for the summer, the theater was unusually full. One of the women made that observation as the lights dimmed.

  Gail Connor glanced to her right. Her mother was leaning around Betty to hear what Verna was saying.

  "It's because of the murder. They're all here to see Diane Cresswell." "We bought our tickets a week ago," Irene corrected. Betty whispered, "She found the body, you know. Her own cousin! Imagine dancing the night of the funeral." "Are Roger's parents here?" "Oh, I shouldn't think so. Claire was just devastated." "I heard they didn't get along with Roger's wife." "It's no surprise to me. Have you met her?"

  "Shhhhh." The command hissed from the row behind them, and the women quickly faced forward.

  Canned tango music swelled from the speakers, and red velvet curtains parted on a barroom in 1930s Argentina. The men were in white shirts and black pants, the women in low-cut chiffon dresses, their hair held back in tight buns. When the blond ballerina in sequinned red twirled toward the men, Irene tapped Gail's wrist. Gail took this to mean that the dancer was Diane Cresswell. She tilted her head to see around the person in front of her.

  The Cresswell name had been in the news since Sunday. Occupied with work, Gail had not paid much attention, but each morning her mother, dressed in a parrot-green robe and slippers, would read aloud from the newspaper, pausing to stir the eggs or butter the toast. The heir to a yacht-building fortune found in his cousin's backyard with seven bullet holes in his body. No suspects, few clues. Wallet and Rolex missing. The widow away for the weekend. A wild party the night of the murder. But who in attendance had wanted to kill Roger Cresswell? Or had it been a random robbery? The police wouldn't speculate. A frightened neighborhood had hired armed patrols.

  Gail would sit there at the table, not to hurt her mother's feelings, but more often than not she would only pick at her food. That's fresh-squeezed juice, don't you like it? You have to eat. I'll make you a boiled egg, then. Or milk toast with cinnamon. You'll make yourself sick on just tea.

  Strange, living at home again at thirty-four. Home. That concept had been rather fuzzy lately. The house she'd lived in with her fiancé—former fiancé—was empty and on the market. Before that, she'd been married, living with her husband and their daughter. Dave now managed a marina in the Virgin Islands, and Karen was visiting him for the summer. When she came back, where would home be? Gail wanted to find a house in a good neighborhood, but it would have to wait until her savings account recovered.

  Sweat tickled the back of Gail's neck. The air was too heavy, too warm. She fanned herself slowly with the program, wondering if she could last till intermission.

  At last the music ended, and applause swept through the audience. The dancers came forward, each man leading his partner by the hand, each woman making a low, graceful bow, costume glittering. Someone in the front rushed forward with five cellophaned bouquets of roses and tossed them awkwardly onstage. In the center, Diane Cresswell picked hers up, blew a kiss, and curtsied.

  Gail stopped applauding, afraid to jostle the bubble that threatened to burst into nausea. If she were very still and breathed slowly it might go away. The curtains closed. The house lights came up slightly, and Irene held the program in front of her mouth. "Gail. Five rows ahead. The couple on the aisle. She's chairman of the Heart Fund. At intermission I might go speak to them. Want to come along?"

  "I don't know them."

  "I do. They're good contacts for you to have. I could introduce you."

  "Not tonight."

  The lights dimmed, and bright, lively music lilted from the speakers. A moment later the curtains opened on a painted olive tree and a hanging bit of tile roof. Two dancers came out dressed as Italian peasants, the girl in a short striped tutu, the man in a loose white shirt and black tights to the knee. Ribbons decorated their tambourines. They smiled at each other coyly, like lovers. Their feet were blurs.

  Elbow on the arm rest, Gail leaned her forehead onto her fist.

  The young man leaped into the wings, leaving the girl to her solo. Her striped tutu bobbed and dipped, and she pirouetted around and around. The ribbons on her lacy white hat swung out behind her. A minute later the man soared back into view. A series of spinning leaps took him across the stage.

  The music pounded straight into Gail's head. Her skin was cold and damp, and her stomach had climbed to the back of her throat. Fumbling for her purse, she whispered, "Mom, let me out." She stumbled over Betty's foot and nearly fell on Verna. Glares and huffed exhalations came from people farther along the row. "Sorry," she murmured. "Excuse me." She hurried up the aisle, through a black velvet curtain, past the disapproving frown of the usher, then across the lobby and into the ladies' room. She threw up in the nearest stall.

  A minute later heels tapped across the tiles. Gail guessed who it was before seeing a confirming flash of red hair through the space in the door. She flushed the toilet, patted her mouth with a tissue, and unwrapped a breath mint.

  "Gail? Honey?"

  When she came out, her mother was standing there. "Were you sick?"

  "I had to go to the bathroom." She washed her hands. "Go on back. I'm fine."

  "No, it's a short dance, and the second intermission is coming." Her mother watched her in the mirror, worried.

  Gail uncapped her lipstick. "I know, I look like hell."

  "A little pale, that's all." Irene drew a yellow silk scarf through her fingers. "Do you want to leave, darling? I could take a cab home with you. They won't mind."

  "I'm sure they'd understand." Gail tossed her lipstick into her purse. "They know all about it, don't they? You gossip about everything. Were they shocked?"

  "Shame on you for such an attitude. I didn't have to tell them. They aren't blind. They care very much for you."

  Gail leaned on her hands, bowing her head. "I know. I'm sorry."

  The door creaked on its big metal springs, and an elderly lady thumped in on a walker, accompanied by a younger .woman carrying her bag. Applause from the theater faded as the door swung shut. It opened again, and more women came in, filling the room with their chatter.

  Irene picked up her purse. "Well. I'm going to find Betty and Verna. Coming?"

  "In a minute." Brush in hand, Gail watched her mother march out, quick little steps in her patent leather pumps. Gail wanted to scream, to get out of here, to walk on Lincoln Road until the performance was over. Of course they knew. What a juicy piece of information. They were just too polite to bring it up in front of her. They were talking about her right now.

  If they weren't blind, what did they see? Moving around the other women at the mirror, Gail turned sideways and studied her body. The sleeveless black dress still skimmed over her tall, thin frame. She smoothed her dark blond hair back from her ears. Nothing had changed.

  In the small lobby she stood in line for a so
da. The small theater was restored Art Deco, all curves and red carpet, brushed steel, and frosted glass. Her gaze swept over a group of girls, then backtracked. One of them was looking at her with wide brown eyes. Angela Quintana. In that moment of recognition, Gail caught her breath. It was too late to turn around, too late to slip back to her seat.

  The girl hurried across the lobby, dodging around people in her way. She was all legs in a short black skirt and chunky sandals. Angela put a polite kiss on Gail's cheek, then smiled again and hugged her, an unhesitating gesture of affection that took Gail by surprise.

  "Hi, Gail. How are you?"

  "Great." Unsure what else to do, she continued to smile. "Well. What's up? Have you started college yet?" Angela had been living with her mother in New Jersey since her parents' divorce, but she would attend the University of Miami. Gail remembered hearing Angela's father say she needed to be close to her Cuban heritage, and where else but Miami? Exiled parents often said such things, Gail had noticed.

  "School doesn't start for a couple of weeks," Angela said. "I've been taking classes with the ballet."

  "Oh, yes, that's right. How's it going?"

  "Wonderful. Really hard, but I love it."

  "And your brother? How's Luis?"

  "Okay, except for having to attend summer school, so he didn't get to go to Spain with Dad. I couldn't go either because of ballet. Dad just got back with this dark tan and about ten rolls of pictures—the whole tourist thing. I had to stay with Nena because, well, you know, he wouldn't let me stay by myself."

  "Your great-grandparents are well?" Gail maintained her smile. At some point they would run out of conversation.

  "Oh, sure. Getting old, but they're so sweet." Angela wore a blue top with little cap sleeves, and her waist seemed as narrow as a flower stem. A tiny gold crucifix hung just below the notch in her collarbones. As she looked at Gail, her brows slanted downward. "My dad told me you guys split up. I didn't believe him at first. Gail, I'm so sorry."

  For an instant Gail wondered just how he had explained it. He must have been fairly vague, may even have pretended a certain regret, or Angela would never have crossed the lobby to say hello. Her dark eyes shone with curiosity.

  Gail made a dismissive wave. "Well, you know. Really, we're both fine with it." The line moved toward the concession stand. "Oh, can I get you something to drink? A soda?"

  The girl shook her head and came closer. "Gail, there's something really important I have to ask you. It's a favor—not for me, but for a friend of mine. He's one of the dancers—Robert Gonzalez. He's the one who did Tarantella?"

  The Italian dance that Gail had walked out on, halfway through. "Oh, yes. He's very good." Gail told the attendant to give her a club soda, no ice. She laid two dollars on the counter, then turned back to Angela. "I'm sorry. This friend of yours—"

  "Bobby Gonzalez. He wants to talk to a lawyer, and I saw you in line, and I'm like, wow, it's Gail. Could you see him after the show? He needs some advice."

  "I can't stay afterward, I'm afraid." Gail picked up her soda and threaded her way toward the windows through the crowd. "What's this about?"

  Angela glanced around before saying in a low voice, "You know the man that was killed? Roger Cresswell? Bobby was at that same party. The police are talking to everybody, and they came around to Bobby's apartment, and he told them he doesn't know anything, and now they want to ask him more questions."

  "He was there when Roger Cresswell was murdered?"

  "He didn't see it. Nobody did. He doesn't know anything about it."

  Gail angled her straw into her soda. "Then why— if I might ask—is he reluctant to talk to the police?"

  "Bobby says they don't have any suspects, so they're after him because they know where he came from. He grew up on the streets in East Harlem. Well, not on the streets, but in a tough neighborhood, mostly Puerto Rican, you know? I promised I'd help him, and then I saw you right there. It's fate."

  "Angie, this is a criminal investigation. You know who to ask."

  "Mv dad? Well . . . he's busy."

  "Not too busy for you. He can't be."

  "Okay. The thing is, he doesn't like Bobby. I went out with him once, and Dad totally freaked. He's like, no, you're not going out with him again ever, he's nobody. Wait till you're in college, find some nice guy from a good family." She rolled her eyes. "He doesn't approve of anyone."

  "So . . . you don't want him to know you're still seeing Bobby."

  "We see each other at the studio. We're friends."

  Gail knew that lie when she heard it. "How old is he? Just curious."

  "Twenty-one." Angela gazed up at Gail. Two gold barrettes held her center-parted hair back from her face. "Can you help him? It wouldn't take much time. And he'd pay you. I know he has some money saved." Delicate brows drew together, making a small crease in smooth skin. Seventeen years old. Gail could see Anthony in the straight nose and full lips. His eyes were darker, hers a soft velvet brown with long lashes.

  "Please? You could talk to him, couldn't you? On the phone, even. I won't tell my dad I spoke to you. You don't have to see me again."

  "Oh, Angie, it isn't that. I've done a few criminal cases, but when it comes to a murder investigation, well. . . Bobby should find someone who specializes. The ballet has lawyers, surely, who could recommend someone?"

  "He doesn't want to tell them about this." Such desperation on that face. In a small voice she said, "Do you know anybody else?"

  Gail glanced away, a hand on her hip. So. Anthony Quintana would toss this kid overboard, not a second thought. A poor Puerto Rican, not good enough for his daughter. Ballet dancer? Even worse. Gail set her cup on the windowsill and opened her bag. "All right. This is my card. Give it to Bobby and tell him to call me tomorrow morning. I'll be in the office till noon."

  "How much do you think it will cost? He'll want to know."

  Gail smiled and shook her head. "Nothing. It's on me. He does a great Tarantella."

  "Oh, thank you! He'll be so relieved." Angela pressed the card to her small bosom. She kissed Gail's cheek again before running back through the lobby to her girlfriends. Her dark hair swung on her shoulders, and she moved as lightly as a bird.

  Before the fiery crash of their engagement, Gail and Anthony had bought a house in Coconut Grove. Now that it was on the market, both sets of keys had been given to Anthony's law partner, who was handling the details so the owners wouldn't have to speak to each other. Gail would get nothing from the sale because, by her reckoning, what she owed to Anthony exceeded her share of the equity. He hadn't asked for repayment, but she—in a gesture of pride that she had almost come to regret—told his partner that she didn't want Mr. Quintana's money, and if he didn't either, he should stack it up and strike a match.

  Until she was able to buy her own place, she and Karen would live in her mother's house near downtown Miami. The rear of the property faced Biscayne Bay, and the gated, walled neighborhood was shaded and quiet. For Karen's room, Irene had bought new curtains and a matching comforter and had arranged on the bookcase all the books, Beanie Babies, art supplies, rocks from her travels, and other junk an eleven-year-old girl could accumulate.

  In ten days Karen would be home from her summer with Dave. He lived in a small apartment on the island of St. John with a balcony overlooking the town of Cruz Bay. There were banana trees and goats along the winding dirt road that led up to it, and green hills in the background. Karen had sent pictures. Dave made enough to live on, but not enough to pay for Karen's private school in Miami, or her clothes, or the braces she soon would need.

  In hindsight—achingly clear—Gail could see how wrong she'd been to turn down a partnership at one of Miami's most prestigious law firms. She had been too sure of herself, too eager to set her own hours, to choose her own direction. She'd wanted more time with Karen and Anthony. She'd wanted a life. So she had rented an office near a major shopping mall and burned up her savings on furniture, books, equipment lease
s, salaries, and simply staying afloat until the business took off.

  It hadn't—not yet. Bills were getting paid, but without much left over. If she failed, it meant starting over, finding a salaried position. This would not be easy in a town where the old firms were hiring more Hispanics, and civil practice lawyers like Gail were in plentiful supply. She might be forced to take a job farther north, perhaps Tampa or Orlando, where an Anglo last name was no liability.

  If she could just hang on, just a little while longer, it would be all right.

  In pajamas Gail knocked at the open door of her mother's room. Irene was sitting cross-legged on her bed writing letters, using a book as a desk. She looked over the top of her glasses.

  "I should go online. Everybody else is. Nobody sends letters anymore, do they?"

  "You can use my computer," Gail said. "I'll show you how."

  "Okay, but let's do it before Karen gets back. I want to show her how smart her grandma is. She thinks I'm over the hill. Well, I guess I thought my grandmother was decrepit when she was fifty-nine. That isn't old. Is it?"

  "You're a kid." Gail sat on the side of the bed. "Mom, I am so sorry for speaking to you the way I did at the ballet. I can't explain it, except that ... it seems that all I have in my head these days are thorns and scorpions and spiders. So ugly. And sometimes they get out. Forgive me?"

  "Always." Irene squeezed her hand.

  "Hey, I got a client tonight. It's a freebie, but great PR. He's one of the dancers. His name's Bobby. He was at the party where Roger Cresswell was killed, and the police want to talk to all the guests, of course. Bobby is reluctant to get involved, and he wants some legal advice."

  "He was there?"

  "Yes, but he didn't see anything. The police are talking to everyone. I think they'll just draw a line through his name and move on. You'll never guess how I got this one. Angela Quintana is his girlfriend. She saw me in the lobby and we talked about it. I don't do criminal law, but this is only a quick phone consultation. I thought I'd run upstairs and see Charlene Marks before Bobby calls. She's a former prosecutor. Five minutes' worth of advice from Charlene, and I'm ready."