She said, "I'd have to call Carlos and let him know."
Anthony nodded his assent.
Gail put her briefcase on the table and clicked it open, sitting down to put her copies of the signed and dated Darden papers inside. "Thank heaven this case is over. If I have any problems setting a closing date, may I call you?"
"Of course," Anthony said, not returning her smile. When Gail reached for her purse, he said, "Wait. There is something else."
He sat down in the chair opposite, looking at her intently.
After a second or two, Gail said, "What?"
"A homicide detective from Metro-Dade spoke with me this morning."
"Really. The intrepid Sergeant Britton, no doubt." She let her purse strap slide off her shoulder. "What did he ask you?"
"Routine things. What I knew of Renee, what she was like, who her friends or enemies were. I see you are aware of this."
Gail laughed softly. "Too aware."
"May I ask you what evidence he has? Do you know?"
"He says the razor blade wasn't found close enough to her body and there were no hesitation marks." Gail paused. "That means—"
He nodded. "I know what hesitation marks are. What else?"
She relaxed a little into the chair, remembering she was talking to a man who was fluent in the language of criminal procedure. ''Nothing. No hard evidence. Just the supposition that she wasn't the sort of person who would do this to herself."
"Does he have a theory who did?"
She shook her head. "If he does, he hasn't told me." Anthony didn't need to know about the cards Dave had sent Renee, which Britton had found so fascinating. Or the inheritance. Or even Renee's trip back from the Bahamas with a drug smuggler. None of which meant murder. She said, "How well did you know my sister?"
The dark brown eyes fixed on her face, unblinking, then he shrugged a little. "We were friends."
"Not as close as Carlos."
There might have been a smile. "No. They knew each other better. Are you asking my opinion on the likelihood of suicide? I told Frank Britton that I didn't know."
"What would you tell me?"
"Ah." Anthony considered for a moment. "I would say to you that I agree with him." He watched her reaction. "Renee had ... How can I put this? She was curious about everything. She would talk to complete strangers and they would answer willingly. She had few inhibitions and no pretensions. I think she found life too interesting to leave it. No, I do not believe she killed herself. The next question is obvious. As to that, I truly do not know."
"But she was so unhappy. She—"
Leaning forward, Gail rested her arms on her knees. "This is confusing. Everyone has an opinion of Renee and none of them match. I thought I knew her."
Anthony was still looking at Gail, the light from the open windows cutting across his face. "I remember the photograph of the two of you on the swing."
"Yes. My mother has it in her bedroom now."
He said, "When I lived in Cuba I had a best friend, Juanito. I left when I was a boy and didn't see him for over twenty-five years. He finally came to the U.S. and he walked into my office, right through that door. I knew him immediately. He is bald now, and fat, but I knew him."
Gail smiled. "A nice story."
His hand lifted from his lap, fell back. "Only that. It may not apply."
He walked with her to the door. "Sixteen forty-two Malagueña," he said. "That's my grandfather's address. I can give you directions."
"You don't have to. I know the street." Of the dozens of Spanish-named streets in Coral Gables—Alhambra, Granada, Cordova—this one had a reputation for being hard to find and harder to afford. "Very fancy," she said. "I think the city fathers let me drive down it once on my way to have our Rolls-Royce serviced."
For the first time, he laughed, his mood changing. "You will find that my grandfather is a simple man."
"A simple man with a bullet-riddled flag over his desk. Will we be in his study? I have to see whether you were making that up, about his desk facing Havana."
"No, it's true. Ask him."
"I might do that. See you about seven-thirty. I have some family arrangements to make, but I should be there by then." She shifted her briefcase and held out her hand.
His grip was strong, the fingers warm around hers. Not the sort of hand to swing a hammer or a tennis racquet, she thought. More the type to twist the cork out of a champagne bottle.
She pulled away, waiting for him to open the door.
He didn't. "I'm sorry your clients took you away from lunch today," he said. "I had looked forward to it."
"Yes, so had I." Gail smiled. "Oh, well. What can you do? These emergencies happen."
The subtle lifting of his brows, before he turned the doorknob, said he didn't believe her for an instant.
Charlene Marks's office was on the seventh floor of Dadeland Towers, on the southern urban fringe of Miami. This afternoon she and Gail had taken the elevator down to O'Herlihy's Pub on the first floor of the building. They found a booth in the back. O'Herlihy's had fifty kinds of four-dollar imported beer and bartenders in striped aprons who could spin cocktail shakers like batons. At four-thirty it was just beginning to fill up with the happy-hour crowd of suits.
Charlene was tapping two Tylenols out of a purse-size box of them. "Look, it's not that bad. You'll get past this, I swear."
Gail downed them with the rest of her zinfandel. "I didn't think he'd be so greedy."
“I wouldn't blame Dave. It's Joe Erwin, the scum-sucking bastard. He always starts off asking for the moon. Don't worry. There's no way I'm going to let him screw you on this."
Gail knew that. Charlene was tough.
They said she carried a .22 on her thigh, that she had shot a client with it when he complained about her fees. "Ridiculous," she would say, but in a way that left you wondering. But it was absolutely true, Gail had been assured, that when Charlene Marks was a prosecutor, she would wear a low-cut dress to final arguments, and lean over the jury box with a necklace on that spelled out G-U-I-L-T-Y in tiny gold letters. Rumor had it that she and the current governor had been lovers.
Shortly before Gail arrived for her appointment, Charlene had talked to Dave's attorney. Erwin had made Dave out to be nearly penniless, and referred to Gail as an heiress. He demanded the business and half the house. As for Karen, he expected shared custody, the father to have said daughter on alternate weekends, holidays, and birthdays, plus a month in the summer.
Gail wasn't too worried about Joe Erwin. By some of the men Charlene Marks had smilingly sliced to ribbons, she had been called pushy, a bitch, and a dyke. She had never been called a loser.
Now Charlene was filling her legal pad with notes. She turned to a new page. "At least we don't have to ask for your maiden name back. Smart of you to keep it. I've been married four times. If I'd taken their names I'd be known as Charlene Marks Steinfeld Brown Lidsky DeMarco."
Charlene's smile vanished when Gail leaned her head against the back of the booth. Charlene tapped the empty wineglass with her pen. "I think you need a refill."
"God, no, I'd be on my ass. I have six files to look at tonight."
"Don't you get it yet? The partners over there work you schmucks like slaves. Especially the women. Shit yes, weed 'em out."
"Well, Charlene. Some of us schmucks plan to have our own slaves someday."
"If you don't drop dead first." She tilted back her glass, then looked for a long moment at Gail. "What's the problem with you and Dave? Really. You haven't told me squat."
Gail thought for a while. "Nothing I can isolate. You just go along, the way people do, assuming everything is all right. Then one day it isn't. Except you don't even realize it. Maybe Renee dying made Dave suddenly feel mortal, I don't know."
Charlene pulled the olive off her cocktail spear with her front teeth. "I know he's only been gone two days, but are you okay?"
"Fine. I should be miserable, but I'm not. Maybe I knew all a
long this was going to happen, but didn't want to admit it." She laughed. "My ego has been bruised more than anything."
"Don't feel weird. Half the women in America would throw their husbands out if they could. I should know."
Gail checked her watch. "I have to leave. Karen will be home soon."
Charlene snatched up the check before Gail could reach it. "No, no. When you get this princely inheritance Erwin was talking about you can treat me to a drink." She left a twenty on the table.
They went single file past the bar with its noisy crowd of mostly men. One or two of them recognized Charlene and she waved and smiled, avoiding conversations.
She spoke into Gail's ear. "Men have their uses, marriage not necessarily among them. You want my advice? Go have an affair. Buy a box of condoms and a couple bottles of wine and rent a hotel room on South Beach."
Gail laughed.
"I mean it. It clears out your mind wonderfully."
As Gail flipped through the mail, she watched Karen getting herself a snack. Open and close the cookie jar, two Oreos neatly placed on a napkin. Pour a glass of milk, wipe up a little spill.
How self-sufficient she was. Gail had so seldom been at home at five o'clock to notice.
The red light on the answering machine was blinking. She pushed a button. The tape clicked, then spun out a message. "This is Blockbuster Video. You've got a couple tapes still out. ..."
Gail let the machine spin. Last Sunday Dave hadn't come to pick up Karen for dinner after all, explaining he needed to get settled. Gail knew what he was doing: lying low until Karen had settled.
Karen had taken it well enough, Gail thought. "Are you and Daddy getting a divorce?" She knew the word. Several of her friends' parents were divorced, remarried, or living in all sorts of combinations.
The next message was from Dave.
"Call me at the marina. It's important."
Gail waited until Karen had taken her cookies into the family room and turned on the television.
"It's Gail," she said when Dave answered. "I just got home. I had an appointment with my attorney this afternoon."
There was a momentary silence. "Gail, I'm sorry about all this."
"Joe Erwin doesn't seem to think so."
She heard him exhale softly. "We’ll work it out. Look, I called for something else. The cop was by to see me today. Britton. He came on Saturday, then again this morning. I finally told him to get lost. Listen, what did you say to him about me taking Renee home the night of Irene's party?"
Gail pulled a stool over and sat down. "Just that you drove her car and then came home later in a taxi."
"What time did you say I got home?"
"I couldn't remember."
"All right." There was a silence on the line. Then Dave said, "I told him it was after midnight. I could be wrong about that."
"I have no idea. I was barely awake."
"That was the second time. The first time, I walked around the Grove for a while, then came home about ten-thirty. Your car was gone. So I went out again. To be honest, I didn't feel much like being home, the mood you were in."
"Wait a minute. I'm not sure I understand this."
"I came home twice, Gail. The first time was around ten-thirty but you weren't there. Where'd you go?"
Gail stood up, stretching the phone cord to make sure Karen was still in front of the television. "Renee's. I just drove by to see if she was up. I wanted to talk to her, but I chickened out. I sat in the driveway for a few minutes, then came home."
"Jesus. Why didn't you tell me this before?"
"I didn't think of it. And nothing happened. I didn't even get out of the car."
"Do you know how that looks? Don't mention it to Britton, I'm telling you." There was a silence over the phone. Then Dave said, "If anybody asks, I came home about eleven. We went to bed."
Gail heard the noise of cartoons on the television, Karen's laughter.
"Gail, are you still there?" "Yes."
"It'll be okay. Listen, is Karen around?" Gail called her to the phone.
While Karen talked to her father—she seemed a little formal with him—Gail stood at the open door of the refrigerator staring vacantly at the contents.
Close to eleven, Renee had been home. Her car was in her parking spot. A kitchen light was on. Who was with her then? What were they doing? If Gail had stayed there a few minutes more—
She turned around when she heard the click of the telephone. Karen had hung it up.
"Did you have a nice talk with your dad?"
"Okay."
"How about McDonald's tonight?" Karen shrugged.
Gail crossed the kitchen for her car keys. "Come on. We’ll go out." She bent to kiss the top of Karen's head. "You don't have any homework, do you?"
"Well ..." Karen smiled.
"So do I. We’ll do it later."
Gail left her stack of files on the counter.
Twelve
Number 1642 spread out over two lots at the end of Malagueña Avenue, a narrow street of overhanging trees and long driveways. As she passed Ernesto Pedrosa's open ironwork gates, Gail saw a sprawling two-story stucco house, a red tile roof, a heavy door under a vine-covered portico. Cars jammed the driveway and parked along the sidewalks in both directions. She had to drive a block and a half before finding an empty plot of grass not in someone's manicured yard.
At the front door Gail pushed the buzzer, waited awhile. Salsa music was coming from somewhere. Crickets chirped in the tangle of bushes under the front windows. She heard laughter, voices speaking Spanish. The tap of heels on tile. Then the door swung open.
The pretty, dark-haired woman standing there smiled. "Buenas" she said slowly, quizzically, taking in Gail's business suit and briefcase. The music was louder now.
"Soy Gail Connor. Umm. ¿Señor Antonio Quintana está aquí?"
The woman smiled as if she should have known. "Ah, sí, entre. Perdóneme. Señora Connor." She drew Gail inside, closed the door. More Spanish.
''¿ Usted habla inglés ?"
The woman laughed gaily. "Sure. Sorry about that. I'm Anthony's cousin Elena. He said you were coming. We'll find him. Mami, ahora vengo." She told the older woman sitting on the sofa with three others that she would be back. "Come on, I saw him a minute ago."
She led Gail through the large room with its heavy furniture and high ceilings, then down a hallway, people coming and going. A little girl with a pacifier on a ribbon watched Gail hurry along beside Elena.
"Do you live here?" Gail asked.
Elena glanced at her. "Me? No, I used to. I got married ages ago."
The music switched smoothly from instrumental to vocal. It had to be a live band, Gail realized. They passed a huge kitchen, racks of pots overhead, women clattering dishes, the sweet aroma of roast pork and garlic. Finally the hall opened out to a screened patio that might have held a hundred people—laughing, talking, filling plates at a table heaped with food. And dancing. The other end of the patio had been turned into a dance floor.
The band was on a small platform. Four men in tuxes —keyboard, guitar, conga drums, a horn—backed a singer whose hips and feet moved as if on ball bearings. He wore a wide-shouldered white suit and lime green shirt. His black hair was tied into a little ponytail.
"Ms. Connor?"
Gail wasn't aware she had stopped walking. Elena pointed. "Anthony's over that way."
They made their way through the crowd, the peplum on Elena's yellow silk dress bouncing as she clicked along in her high heels. Nearly all the women here wore clingy, ruffled things that emphasized their bodies. Elena stopped to greet someone. "Gisela, ¿qué tal?" They pressed their right cheeks together, a kiss in the air. Gail's eyes went back to the band.
Renee had dated a Hispanic boy in junior high. They had danced the merengue in Irene's kitchen, radio turned way up. A Wilfrido Vargas tune, Gail remembered that too. Renee and the boy, both of them small and graceful. Shoulders level, backs straight. His hand on Renee'
s waist, her fingers on his shoulder. Turning back and around, then a spin, carried by the steady rhythm. He tried to show Gail, six inches taller. She turned the wrong way and stepped on his foot. Laughing, Renee held out her hands. Feel it, you goose. Don't think. Just move with it.
On Ernesto Pedrosa's patio the singer in the white suit pulled the microphone closer to his mouth, words pouring out like liquid. Morena, que no me trates así. Ay, marni, ¿porqué me duelas a mí?
Elena took Gail's elbow again. "He's here. I saw him a minute ago. Yes, over there."
Gail had expected—had almost hoped—to find him dancing. But he was standing in a group of other men along the side of the patio with a drink in his hand, his jacket off and his collar open. He saw her and smiled. His eyes moved quickly over the people behind her, then back to her face. Ignoring her extended hand, he lightly kissed her cheek.
She knew, with a sudden, giddy rush of pleasure, that he had been looking for Dave and that he was glad she had come alone. He took her arm and pulled her out of the way of a teenage couple dancing by.
"This is a marvelous party," she said, laughing a little. "What's the occasion?"
He leaned closer so she could hear him. "My aunt's seventieth birthday."
"Do you always celebrate like this?"
"No, her son-in-law's parents just arrived from Havana, so it's for them, too. And also for one of the municipios en el exilio."
Gail had heard of these groups of exiles from towns in Cuba. They were combination social clubs and planning committees, having picnics while deciding such things as who would run for mayor and what public bus system to have when they finally went home again.
Anthony introduced her to the other men. One she recognized as a Miami City Commissioner. She supposed her briefcase and the announcement that she was a lawyer with Hartwell Black and Robineau put her firmly in the category of business associate, not female friend.
Finally he took her arm. "I would suggest you have something to eat, but my grandfather said to bring you in as soon as you arrived. I think he wants to go to sleep."
"Are you sure this is convenient?"
Suspicion of Innocence Page 18
