Suspicion of Innocence

by Barbara Parker

  Gail hugged the heavy file to her chest.

  Britton turned the knob with one hand, pressing a button underneath with the other. Then he glanced back at the table. "I almost forgot. There's a letter you ought to have." He went back to pull it out of the folder, then held it so she could see it.

  "This is a copy of the letter Barnett Bank sent you on your thirtieth birthday. Says here they enclosed a check for $200,000 and a copy of the trust papers." Britton folded the letter into thirds, lifted the flap on the file she held, slid the letter inside. He said quietly, "Gail, you said you didn't know about the money. You've known for over three years. But I'd rather believe this happened because you argued with her and got mad. Tell me that's how it was."

  Britton was standing closer now and she could feel the warmth in his hand when he laid it on her shoulder. "Gail, tell me this wasn't premeditated. I wouldn't want to see you up for first-degree murder. Come on, talk to me. Help me out."

  Gail was shaking so violently the flap on the file wobbled up "and down. "My attorney's name is Anthony Quintana. If you wish to discuss the case, call him. Now open this door."

  Half a mile down the street, Gail found a telephone outside an Exxon station. She dropped the quarter to the pavement twice before she got it into the slot. She pressed the buttons. Her fingers were colder than the metal.

  ''Esta es la oficina de Ferrer y Quintana. Deje su mensaje al sonido—" She hung up, found another quarter, turned the card over.

  It rang six times before he answered.

  "Anthony? This is Gail." She waited until a diesel truck roared away from the pumps. She cleared her throat. "Would it be convenient for me to bring my notes by your house instead of your office? I need to talk to you as soon as possible."

  He sounded far away. "Is there a problem?"

  She watched the traffic on the road. "Yes. You could say that."

  Seventeen

  Anthony Quintana's townhouse on Key Biscayne was one in a U-shaped arrangement of them, half-hidden behind banyan trees, the driveway stopping at a seawall. Gail drove slowly, looking for the right number, squinting into the sun. The Miami skyline stretched out on the other side of the bay.

  She parked in front of his garage, then got out, juggling a large manila envelope and the heavy accordion file with Renee's papers in it. Now she wished she had accepted his offer to come pick her up, to hell with being stoic. Her hands ached from clenching the steering wheel. She took a deep breath and locked her car.

  The front door was set back in a tiled entranceway, an ironwork security door barring access. It was cracked open. She slipped through. Involuntarily looking around to see if she had been followed, Gail hurried to the front door and pressed the buzzer. Bahama shutters covered the windows.

  After a few seconds, Anthony opened the door and pulled her inside. "What have you done, Gail?"

  If her arms had been empty, she might have thrown them around his neck in relief. She laughed instead. "Don't tell me that you told me so. I know you told me, and I talked to him anyway. Just tell me I haven't screwed up too badly."

  He led her through the small foyer.

  "Britton was good," she said. "I should be so good cross-examining opposing witnesses. He made me want to confess everything I ever did, including the time I stole a tube of Maybelline lipstick from the drugstore when I was eight years old." She handed him the mailing envelope. "Here. The notes you asked for."

  He frowned, looked inside, pulled them out. "Ah. Yes."

  "And Renee's papers are in this file. I'll need them back."

  Gail set the accordion file and her purse on a long table behind the sofa. A dark green leather sofa, pouffy pillows. Her eyes traveled around the room: thick rugs on a polished tile floor; shelves crammed with books. French doors led to a terrace. Beyond the terrace, a narrow inlet, its surface bright with sunlight, boats on the other side.

  Gail glanced back at Anthony. "I thought you'd live in a penthouse with black lacquered furniture and a wet bar."

  He was watching her. "What did you tell Britton?"

  "Nothing directly."

  "What indirectly, then?"

  "I confirmed that I went to Renee's house the night she died."

  "Dios mío,” he muttered. "Even I did not know that. What were you doing at Renee's house?"

  ''Nothing. I was going to go in and apologize for yelling at her. I sat in my car for a while, then left." Gail studied Anthony's tightly set expression. "There's something else. My fingerprints."

  "What about them?"

  "First I told Britton I'd never gone anywhere in her apartment but upstairs for a dress, then later I remembered I'd been in the kitchen, too. They found my fingerprints. She kept razor blades in one of the drawers, and— God, this sounds so awful. Now he thinks I was lying."

  Still holding Gail's notes, Anthony folded his arms across his chest. "What else did you say?"

  "That I didn't know about the money in the trust until after Renee died. But he had a letter from the bank, showing they had mailed me a copy of the papers."

  "The two hundred thousand dollars you told me about?"

  "Yes. Maybe the bank did send me a copy, but I swear to you I didn't notice the survivorship provision. At the time I was more interested in the check." Gail pushed her curls off her forehead. Her hands were shaking. "What do you think, counselor? Have I shot myself in the foot?"

  Anthony held up the envelope. "What you will do is write down everything you remember about your conversation with Frank Britton, while I read this."

  She nodded. "I'll need some paper. Anthony, do you have any aspirin? My head feels like someone is clomping around inside in golf shoes."

  "Have you eaten?"

  "No."

  "I was about to make dinner when you called. There's enough for both of us. Come." He walked through a small dining area toward his kitchen, separated by a wide counter. Gail followed, aware that this was the first time she had seen him out of a suit. He wore a loosely fitting silk shirt the color of plums and pale linen slacks, smooth across the hips, pleated in front. She inhaled a subtle, woodsy fragrance. Scented soap, perhaps. His hair looked freshly washed, darker than its usual brown, comb marks still in it.

  He sat her down on a high chair at the end of the counter. She sank gratefully into the soft upholstery. He tapped two capsules out of a plastic bottle into his hand, his gold bracelet glittering against the hair on his forearm. No rings. His fingers opened over her outstretched palm.

  She said, "Britton left a message at my office, come pick up your sister's papers. Sounded innocent enough. I said, well, if he asks me anything, just smile and mention your name. Easy, right? But you don't know what it*s like. He's so friendly. You start to think he's your pal. And then— Snap!"

  "I told you so."

  "Thanks a lot." Anthony filled a glass with bottled water from the refrigerator. She said, "Britton never read me my rights. Whatever I said can't be used against me, can it?"

  "You weren't under arrest. If you are not in custody they can use anything you say." "Can they lie to me?"

  He set the glass on the counter next to her. "Was he wearing a Boy Scout uniform?"

  "Damn it." Gail tossed the capsules into her mouth. She followed them with a deep gulp of water. "You should have seen him. Sitting there so smugly." She gave her voice an accent. "You did it, Miz Connor, I know you did it. Now, did you plan to do it in advance or did Renee make you mad? Because if you only lost your temper, then maybe we can keep you out of the electric chair—" Gail leaned her head on her palms. "Oh, God."

  She felt Anthony's hand close around her forearm, then pat it lightly. "No te preocupes. You'll be all right." He poured her a glass of red wine.

  She laughed. "Do I look that strung out?"

  He unwrapped a plate of cheese and handed her a knife and a box of crackers. He leaned on the counter opposite her. He may have showered, but he hadn't shaved, and stubble darkened his jaw and upper lip.

 
; "I will tell you about a case Frank Britton was investigating. Three or four years ago a cruise ship executive was found dead in his hot tub. Four bullets in his chest. The wife said burglars had come in and stolen their jewelry, attacked her, and killed her husband. She had the bruises on her face to prove it. Britton believed her. A good woman, two kids, a member of a church. But Brit-ton's lieutenant brought her in a second time. She confessed. Her husband had beaten her once too often and she shot him."

  "Good for her." Gail laid a slice of cheddar across a cracker, gave it to Anthony, and made another for herself. "So now Britton is leaning on me."

  "Tomorrow morning I'll call him and find out what he intends to do. He and I are on good terms." Anthony chewed the cracker. "But we'll talk about Britton after dinner."

  "He paid you a compliment today," she said. "He wondered why, if I were innocent, I had to hire such high-powered legal talent."

  Anthony smiled, lifting the lid on a copper pot. Steam rose and an aroma of something rich and meaty filled the kitchen.

  Her nose quivered. "I'm going to swoon. What is that?"

  "Beef stroganoff," he said, stirring with a fork. "I can't take the credit. It's from a deli."

  "Who cares? My refrigerator's full of cold pizza and leftovers from my mother's house."

  He put the lid back on the skillet, turned off the heat, then emptied a bag of fresh pasta noodles into a pot of boiling water. "Five minutes, then we eat. Do you like salad?"

  "I'll eat whatever you put on the plate." Gail dabbed at her lips with a napkin, the taste of sharp cheese still singing on her tongue. "May I use your phone?"

  He nodded toward the end of the counter. Gail stopped halfway. An unzipped black leather pouch lay next to his car keys. With her forefinger she lifted the open edge far enough to see inside. Dark gray metal, cross-hatched wooden grip. "Your trusty forty-four?"

  "No, a pistol. Nine-millimeter, semiautomatic. I keep it in my glove compartment. Or on the seat in certain parts of town."

  "I may be one of the last unarmed motorists in Miami," she said, picking up the phone.

  Anthony put the gun in a drawer.

  She grinned at him. "Afraid I'll use it when you tell me what your legal fees are?"

  She dialed the number at her house, then watched Anthony set out plates and napkins while she told Irene she would be late. Pottery plates, green linen napkins. More wine. Irene told her not to worry, dinner was on the stove for Karen. Gail asked to speak to Karen, reminded her to do her homework. Love you, sweetie. Mind Grandma.

  When she hung up Anthony was looking at her.

  Gail eased the frown she knew was on her forehead. "I haven't yet decided what to tell my daughter."

  "The truth." Anthony nodded toward the patio. "Open the doors. It's cool enough this evening, we'll eat outside."

  Taking her wine with her, Gail crossed the room to unlock the French doors. A ceiling fan hung under a blue striped awning that ran the width of the townhouse, privacy walls on either end, baskets of white and pink impatiens at the roofline. Sisal mats lay on the tile floor. A screen door opened onto steps, then a grassy lawn, then a concrete dock. The sun had nearly set, light slanting into the little harbor, the colors vivid, saturated with orange.

  She walked to the railing and studied the stem of a sailboat moored on the other side of the inlet. Snookums —Providence, R.I. A barechested man on board was throwing a line to a woman on the dock. In the waning breeze the rigging made soft bell-like dings against the aluminum mast. Gail took a deep swallow of wine, its warmth finally thawing the chill of Britton's gray interrogation room.

  When she came back inside, standing for a moment in the doorway, Anthony said, "Look around if you wish. Master bedroom upstairs, my study down the hall. Not a large house, but room enough for my children when they visit."

  Gail had already noticed their eight-by-ten color photos on the bookcase. Luis and Angela, both of them with Anthony's dark hair and eyes. A smiling boy about twelve, a teenage girl in a white off-the-shoulder gown. Gail picked up her picture. The girl looked more like a woman.

  She heard Anthony's voice from the kitchen. "That's her quinceañera portrait, taken in December when I flew her down for the party."

  Gail knew that daughters of traditional Cuban families celebrated their fifteenth birthday as a special coming-of-age event. Rich or poor, every girl would have a party.

  "You gave her a quince?"

  "Is that surprising?"

  "Well—" Gail put it back. "I thought you were more . . . modern."

  "Y menos cubano." Less Cuban.

  She heard him laugh. She took off her jacket and laid it over the arm of the sofa, noticing the magazines on the square coffee table. Time. The New Republic. Miami Mensual. A novel—Gabriel García Márquez, El Amor en Los Tiempos del Cólera, a bookmark stuck in the middle. A stack of office files. Also on the table were several fat little birds carved from dark wood. She picked one up, put it down. She lifted the lid of a cigar box. The smell of tobacco mingled with the leather from the couch, distinctly masculine. She read the label. ''Naughty boy. Havana cigars. Does your grandfather know?"

  Anthony smiled through the cloud of steam rising from the noodles. "A present from a client. He smuggled them in on his boat from the Caymans."

  She glanced toward the inlet. "What did he do, tie up to your dock?' '

  "Yes, to tell the truth, he did."

  She closed the lid of the cigar box, aware that everything in this room intrigued her. Each piece of furniture or item of decoration had a texture or smell to it. She wanted to touch each one, feel its weight, close her eyes and sniff.

  His snakeskin briefcase lay across the seat of a soft upholstered armchair. She sat on the matching ottoman, pulled it onto her lap. "You don't know what kind of snake this is?"

  "The client or the briefcase?"

  She looked around at him. "Oh, one of those? I've had a few myself, the ones you'd like to send slithering back to the jungle."

  Anthony filled two glasses with ice. "In this case, he did just that."

  She remembered. "The bail jumper. What was he charged with, anyway?"

  He poured water into both glasses before answering. "You know the name Nelson Restrepo? A friend of Manuel Noriega. And the CIA. If Nelson is still alive, I would be surprised to hear it. He was one of ten defendants in a massive drug case a few years ago involving the Medellin cartel."

  "Isn't that when they had the federal building roped off? I bet I saw you on the six o'clock news with this guy."

  "Probably. He was the one with his coat pulled up around his head. He was found not guilty. The feds screwed up what little evidence they had against him." Anthony pulled a tray off the top of the refrigerator. "I keep the briefcase as a reminder of why I don't do big drug cases anymore."

  She put it back on the chair. "Well. I'm glad you've turned to murder. So to speak."

  When the food was ready she helped him carry it all outside. "What's the procedure with criminal attorneys?" she asked, rolling out place mats on the table. "Am I supposed to sign a contract? How much do you charge an hour, anyway?"

  Anthony put down the plates. "I don't charge on an hourly basis for this type of case. It's usually a flat fee."

  "Well, what's usual in Miami?"

  "Generally for a first-degree murder defense the minimum is one hundred thousand dollars. Plus costs."

  "Oh."

  "If I decide to represent you."

  "Well. Why wouldn't you?" She laughed. "I'll just write you a check. And another one to the bail bondsman."

  He pulled a chain on the ceiling fan. Its white blades began to turn. "No. Don't expect bail. There is no automatic right to bail in first-degree murder. I—or whoever represents you—would have to convince the judge that you should be released. And I will be honest with you. It rarely happens. Twice that I have heard of."

  He held her chair and Gail sat down—calmly, because there was nothing else to do. "I'd be in j
ail until the trial was over."

  "Yes." Anthony sat opposite, his eyes not leaving her face, as if weighing how well she was taking this. "Eat your dinner."

  She picked up her fork. "How long would I be in jail? I mean, if there's a trial?"

  "Six months to a year." He passed her a basket of rolls. "Let me tell you the procedure. If the police decide that there is probable cause to arrest—"

  "What do they do, send uniformed officers to take me away?"

  "Shh. Listen, I'll tell you. Britton might seek a grand jury indictment first, but if he believes he has probable cause, he can arrest you without one. Then the indictment would follow. In either case, I would say to him, Frank, allow me the courtesy of surrendering Gail Connor to you. She is not going to flee. Her family is here; she has strong ties to the community. Let me bring her in. And I think he would allow it."

  Gail nodded. Her stomach felt queasy, but she forced herself to eat. "And then what?"

  "You appear before a magistrate within twenty-four hours. He would say, Counselor, this is a nonbondable offense, file the appropriate pleadings before the judge assigned to the case. I would do so, but it is highly unlikely, as I have told you, that bail would be granted."

  "Unlikely. But possible?" She noticed Anthony had not touched his food.

  ''Remotely possible. ' '

  "And if it happened, how much is bail? Assuming." "Probably a million dollars."

  She put down her fork and looked past the railing on the porch to the sailboat across the inlet. The sun had set now, the colors fading to gray. "How ironic. Renee died and left me all that money and I have to use it to prove I didn't kill her." Gail glanced back at Anthony. "Of course I can't collect if I'm not found innocent, can I? And that's really all I've got. My family would help. I think I could manage your fee."

  "And costs. Say twenty for that. I would want to put an investigator on the case immediately."

  She nodded.

  "You should talk to other attorneys."

  "Shop around for the best quote, you mean?" Gail went back to her salad. "No. If Frank Britton thinks you're hot stuff, I trust his opinion."