"You were in Renee's house." It wasn't a question but a blank statement of surprise.
"Sure." He began cutting the slashed strings out of the tennis racquet. "Was I supposed to ask permission?" The cutters made a steady clipping sound.
Gail stared at him, remembering how Renee had fallen into his lap at Irene's party; how he had kissed her, laughing. How he had wept at her funeral.
"Were you sleeping with my sister?"
Dave looked up from the racquet.
"Were you?" Gail's voice was rising.
His mouth worked into a little smile. He went back to the strings. "I knew you were jealous, but really, sweetheart. This is ridiculous."
She snatched the tennis racquet out of his hands. "Tell me the truth."
"Give me that, dammit."
"I want the truth."
"I should have fucked her. I don't get much from you."
Gail slung the racquet across the garage. It skidded on the hood of her car, then ricocheted off the wall with a sharp snap.
"Goddamn you!" Dave spun her around, grabbed her upper arms, and pushed her into the stringing machine. She cried out as the hard edge of it dug into her back. They stood motionless, breathing hard. Then the fury on his face dissolved.
"Oh, Gail. I'm sorry." He dropped his forehead to her shoulder. "Christ, I'm sorry."
She put her arms around his waist, felt the hard muscle in his back. "I didn't sleep with her," he said. "I wouldn't do that." His ragged breath came through the fabric of her shirt. He said, "I'm sorry about the money, but she needed it. I was family. Who else was she going to go to?"
"You could have told me."
"No. You would have flipped out," he said. "For nothing, like you just did. I never cheated on you. Not once. And Renee—I liked Renee. When is it a crime to like somebody? I felt sorry for her."
"She used you, Dave. Can't you see that?"
He pulled back. "Okay. She made mistakes. You've never made a wrong step in your life, have you? I didn't sleep with her. We had lunch a few times. That's all."
"Lunch?" This was like opening a familiar door and seeing a room she had never known existed. "Where?"
"Restaurants. Where do you think, a hotel? It wasn't like that. We had lunch. Usually on Monday, unless one of us was busy. Nothing fancy, no roses and violins. I went to her house a couple times, maybe with some deli sandwiches. Sometimes we'd just sit at a table at Peacock Park. It wasn't a date, for God's sake."
"When was the first time?"
"I don't know. We ran into each other at the boat show at Dinner Key Marina, when I had that customized Excalibur on display."
"Almost two years ago."
Dave didn't speak for a while. Finally he said, "Yeah. She was a mess back then. On cocaine, drinking pretty heavy. I talked to her about it. Came down really hard. Maybe it did some good. I don't know anymore, with what happened."
"What did you talk about?"
"Nothing in particular. I'd tell her about the business. What I wanted to do, that kind of thing. We'd kid around, tell each other jokes we'd picked up lately. I sent her a birthday card once. And I said if she needed anything, ask."
"Did she tell you she was pregnant?" "Oh, no." He shook his head. "Was she? I didn't know."
Gail heard a car in the neighbor's driveway, heard doors slam, a teenager's laughter.
Dave said, "It wasn't mine, if that's what you're thinking. We had this agreement. No sex. I mean it. I suppose that sounds weird to you, but that's how it was. Sex would have ruined it."
Gail stood silently, then let out her breath, a long sigh that ended in a weary laugh. She folded her arms across her chest, studied the concrete floor.
"What?" he asked. "Don't you believe me?"
"Yes. I think I do."
"So what's the matter?" He reached out to touch her shoulder and she shrugged off his hand. "Gail?" "Leave me alone. Please."
"What are you going to do, stay out here all night?" She turned away, watched the box fan whirring at the window. After a while she heard the kitchen door close.
Fourteen years ago Gail had brought Dave home for spring break. She was nineteen, a sophomore. He was about to graduate, thinking of going on for his M.B.A., not putting much faith in the market for tennis jocks. Irene didn't mind having him as a houseguest—she knew his parents—but of course he and Gail would have separate bedrooms. Gail was just as glad. She wasn't sure if she wanted to marry Dave or not. He hadn't asked her yet, but she knew he was going to.
Renee was fifteen, Renee with her blonde hair pinned up on one side of her head in a pink butterfly clip, her faded jeans so soft and tight they showed her crotch. Renee said Dave was a riot, and laughed at his jokes, and told him she wanted to learn how to play tennis. She made sly remarks about balls and holding the handle of a racquet. Over dinner in the formal dining room on Sunday, Gail saw how his eyes kept going to Renee.
That night Gail sneaked into his room and by morning they were engaged.
Six
Renee had lived in Coconut Grove on a narrow street canopied with banyan trees. Gail didn't much like the Grove anymore, except as a place to take out-of-town visitors, who always asked to see it. It had become trendy and self-conscious, a singles street party with too many rich drunks and too many sports cars with the top down, everybody trolling for instant thrills. The tops went up if the cars wandered into the black Grove, with its rundown beer parlors, laundromats with wire mesh over the windows, and swaybacked wooden houses.
On a Friday afternoon shortly past five o'clock Gail zoomed down Bayshore Drive, then north at the Grand Bay Hotel. A few more turns this way and that, and she braked hard at Cocobay Condominium. It was easy to miss behind the bougainvillaea-draped wall. Before she could pull into the driveway, two skaters glided past on the edge of the street, a young man and woman, both in lime-green skates and kneepads, moving at the same pace on long, tanned legs. A flock of parrots whirred overhead, screeching.
Renee's townhouse was in a Mediterranean-style building with decorative awnings. At the end of the parking lot Gail saw a white and green van: Metro-Dade Crime Scene Investigation. A sedan with a blue light on the dash was in Renee's space. Gail parked beside it and got out.
On the front patio Frank Britton and two other men— one black with a mustache, the other ruddy and blond— watched her come up the walkway. Britton was in a brown jacket. The others wore open-collared sport shirts and badges clipped to their belts.
"I'm a little late," she said, glancing at her watch.
"That's okay. Friday traffic's a bear." Britton gestured toward the other men. "Officers Thomas and Wooten with the investigation unit."
"How do you do." Gail smiled automatically, then put down her briefcase so she could reach inside her purse. She withdrew Renee's key ring: five keys and a gold "R."
"Hang on a second," Britton said. "Let me show you something." He pointed to a strip of red tape about eight inches long and two inches wide running diagonally at eye level from the door to the jamb. It was ripped at the crack.
He said, "I put this here the day your sister was found. Somebody's been inside."
Gail walked closer to the tape. There was a date on it —March 8—and what could have been a case number, then the initials FJB scrawled in pen. She remembered. "Yes, I came by a couple days before the funeral to get a dress for her to wear. I'm sure it's all right. The keys haven't been out of my possession since then."
"Ms. Connor, you should have called us." Britton's tone was gently chastising. "The tape is right there on the door. It says, 'Evidence. Do Not Open.' "
Gail looked at him. "Well, I didn't see it. I came at night and frankly all I wanted to do was go in and out as quickly as possible. I went straight upstairs. I doubt if I spent more than five minutes."
"You haven't been in here since then?"
"No."
"And you only took a dress."
"Yes, Sergeant. A dress. Pale blue linen, to be precise. And shoes
to match."
"Okay." He nodded toward the door. "Go ahead and open it up."
There were two locks on the door, one in the brass doorknob, the other on a deadbolt. Gail pushed the door open and stood back. Thomas and Wooten entered first, each carrying a satchel. Britton gestured for her to go in.
One of the technicians flipped a switch, and light from recessed fixtures fell in pools in the dim entrance hall. Mexican tile led straight ahead to a living area, kitchen through a door to the right, two bedrooms upstairs. A stagnant odor came from somewhere. The air was heavy and still. Gail shivered, even in the heat.
The blond officer—Wooten—said, "Let's get that AC going." He went to find the thermostat. The other man glanced up the stairs. He was chewing a piece of gum between his front teeth, the muscle in his jaw moving.
Britton said, "Why don't you guys take the kitchen first?"
Their motions were smooth and precise, not wasting any time. Gail imagined they wanted to finish up and go have a beer. She followed Britton further inside.
A glass-topped table and six chairs marked the dining area. At the other end of the room a white L-shaped sofa faced an entertainment center, its oak shelves crammed with electronic equipment and a color TV. A pink neon telephone glowed on an end table. Renee had tacked up unframed travel posters—the Rockies, Paris, Jamaica.
Gail lifted the hair off the back of her neck. A breeze was blowing from the vent. She set her briefcase on the dining table. "How long do you think this will take?"
"Not too long." Britton hung his jacket over the back of a chair. Gail had expected to see a gun in a holster, but there was only a tan striped shirt and brown belt. He pulled out a chair for her. "Have a seat. You can tell me about your sister while you're waiting."
Gail pulled a pen and legal pad out of her briefcase and began to jot down a list of the contents of the room, as Ben had instructed her to do. She said to Britton, "I don't know how much help I can be to you. Renee and I hadn't seen each other regularly for years."
Britton crossed to the entertainment center and began opening drawers. "How come? You and Renee didn't get along, or what?"
"I suppose you could say that." When he glanced at her, she gave a little shrug. "It happens."
He pulled out the drawer under the television. Compact discs, tossed carelessly inside. Videotapes. Gail could read the tides of a few of them. Foreign erotica. Oddly, she felt embarrassed, as if Britton were poking through Renee's lingerie.
Britton closed the drawer and opened another one. "Do you know any of her friends?"
"No, I'm sorry, I don't. She worked at a title company. Vista, I think it was called, in Coral Gables. Someone there might help you."
As she scanned the room, Gail looked for the deer mask Jimmy Panther had described. It wasn't in here. Under the coffee table she noticed a pair of shoes that lay where they had been kicked off, turquoise leather flats with bows. Renee's feet had been small, white, and high-arched. Gail remembered Renee sitting in the backyard by the seawall in her bikini, painting her toenails, cotton balls holding her toes apart.
Britton was walking slowly from one end of the shelves to the other, tilting his head to read the titles of a few popular novels. The light filtering through the vertical blinds reflected off his glasses.
"Your mother said she didn't think Renee was particularly depressed." Britton glanced at Gail.
"My mother has a hard time accepting what happened, Sergeant. That's why she asked you to do this." Gail put her pen into her jacket pocket and sat down, crossing her legs.
Britton moved aside a parched fern, then slid it back into place. Gail made a note to herself to put the plants out on the patio before she left so they could get the rain.
He said, "I can understand how she feels. Losing a child in that way. She's a fine woman, your mother. I'm sorry either of you had to go through this."
"Thank you," Gail said, wondering how he maintained such innocent blue eyes in his line of work. She smiled at him.
Britton lifted an open, upside-down issue of Cosmopolitan on the coffee table. "I spoke to her this morning, as a matter of fact. She called me, said never mind going through Renee's place, sorry for the bother. She says you asked her to call."
"Well, not directly, but I did suggest it."
"How come?"
"Because all this is so useless." "Well, let me worry about that." He smiled back at her.
Gail said, "I don't mean to sound unappreciative. I know you have to do your job."
From the kitchen she heard the low rumble of male voices. A laugh. A scrap of conversation about the NBA playoffs. Drawers opened and closed.
She stood up. "Sergeant Britton. As long as I'm here, I need to make a list of Renee's possessions and pick up her financial records."
Britton looked around.
She said, "I'm the personal representative of her estate."
"I thought you said your mom was the PR."
"Did I? Well, we thought it would be better if I handled it." Gail picked up her briefcase from the table. "I'll just be upstairs."
"I'd rather you stay down here, if you don't mind."
"Actually, I do mind." Gail checked her watch. "I have a daughter waiting for me at home."
"Ms. Connor." Something in his tone made her turn around. He said, "Stay here. Please."
"I certainly won't take anything without giving you an opportunity to review it first."
He nodded. "Yes, ma'am. I intend to do that."
After a few seconds, she put her briefcase back on the table.
Britton walked to the kitchen door and leaned in, holding on to the frame. "Y'all about done in there?"
Gail could see the black officer hold up a plastic bag with a short glass inside. "We're going to print a few of these at the lab. We dusted the counter and appliances. Nothing in the garbage."
"All right."
The two technicians came out with their satchels, then moved quickly up the stairs. Gail followed Britton into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator.
"Sergeant, if we could go over the records now, then I could leave. You can keep the keys and lock the door when you finish."
He turned around. "I know you're a busy lady, but you're going to have to bear with us." He gestured toward a small table under the window.
Gail sat down. A cup half full of soup, now obscured by mold, had been left on a plate with a few scraps of potato chips. She pushed it aside. Footsteps thumped overhead, muffled voices. Britton pulled open one drawer after another, the utensils inside rattling. The cabinets were light gray Formica, smudged around the handles. Gail wondered at the traces of black powder, then realized they marked where Thomas and Wooten had lifted fingerprints.
She wrote down on her legal pad: kitchen table, four chairs, various appliances, a clock radio, pots and pans, etc.
When Britton opened the refrigerator, Gail could see inside it. The usual bottles and jars of condiments in the door. On the shelves, Chinese food cartons, several bottles of opened wine, leftovers in plastic bags, a box of granola. He picked up a clear-wrapped package with two thick steaks inside and tilted it toward the light.
"You could have them, but they're probably spoiled," Gail said.
Britton laughed. "No, I was checking the expiration date." He showed her the sticker. "The tenth. Figure back a few days, she could have bought them the seventh."
"Is that important?"
"Not really." He tossed the package back inside and shut the door.
Gail said, "I suppose you want to know why Renee would spend over twelve dollars for filet mignons the same day she decided to kill herself." When Britton glanced around, she continued, "Renee was impetuous. She rarely thought ahead."
Britton regarded Gail closely, then said, "She bought two. Filets don't keep and she was no bigger than a minute. Do you know who the other one was for?"
Why yes, Gail thought, perhaps she was planning to have my husband in for lunch on Monday. She said,
"I have no idea."
"You don't know who her boyfriend was? According to the autopsy, she was at least a couple months pregnant."
Britton's delivery was so flat Gail thought he might be probing to see whether this was news to her.
"So I heard," she said. "I really don't know who she was dating."
"Was Renee the type to keep a diary?"
"She never did as a teenager."
Britton didn't say anything for a moment, just continued to lean against the kitchen counter, arms spread out on either side of him, the light making miniature windows in his glasses.
There was an odd pattern in the grease spattered above the stove, and Gail realized she had seen it before. She had, after all, come into this kitchen on her way to get a dress for Renee, her curiosity roused by the stale odor of garbage and the sound of rap music coming softly from the radio on the counter. She had glanced around, finding a perverse satisfaction in the mess, then had turned off the radio.
Gail stood up. "May I look under the cabinets? There's a piece of Indian pottery I have to find while I'm here. A friend of hers lent it to her and he'd like to have it back."
"Sure, go ahead." Britton moved aside while Gail opened the doors. "I thought you didn't know any of her friends."
"This one contacted me." Gail bent to look under the sink. "His name is Jimmy Panther. A Miccosukee Indian." She checked the other cabinets. Nothing remotely resembling a deer mask.
"How well did he know her?" Britton asked.
"You'd have to ask him that. In fact, you probably have his name in your reports somewhere. He's the one who found her body."
"Is that right?" Britton gestured toward the kitchen door. "You want to take a look for those records now?"
She preceded him up the stairs. Nearing the top she heard voices coming from Renee's bedroom. Her steps slowed. She felt like a trespasser. She walked further down the hall and stood at the open door.
Gail had come at night the last—the only—time before, not seeing much but her way to the walk-in closet. Fleeting impressions, unwillingly registered. A lace bra and panties on the floor. A satin teddy thrown over a chair. Mirrors. Unmade bed, too many pillows. Pink and black. The smell of perfume. Irises in a tall, cut-glass vase.
Suspicion of Innocence Page 9
