Outside, she stopped walking, squinting in the sunlight that poured into the plaza. Gail could feel the heat radiating off the red clay tiles. People sat at the umbrella tables eating lunch and talking. The wind snapped the flags outside the library.
Edith clipped round sunglasses over her regular frames and put them back on. "Apparently it wasn't enough to worry over, because after a cursory search the Spanish turned their ships around and went back to Havana. But stories of buried treasure are so compelling, aren't they? The gold—assuming the Tequestas even took it—never turned up, so people naturally assume they buried it. Every so often we get reports of destruction of Indian mounds. Idiots. They think there's something in them besides old bones and broken artifacts."
"Maybe Jimmy Panther thought so, too."
Edith started walking backward, eager to be on her way. "No, dear, don't you believe it. He's not stupid. The only thing he found was the Tequesta mask, and I'd give half my remaining teeth to know where from."
Gail held up the plastic bags with the papers inside. "Then what's all this for? And those books he checked out of the library on lost treasure?"
The only reply was a dismissive wave. Then Edith hurried across the plaza, a gangly, wispy-haired woman in clunky sandals and men's khaki trousers.
Gail pushed off from the edge of Irene's pool, arms extended, angling deeper. Dark, silent water. She drifted, eyes closed, feeling her body rising slowly, breaking the surface, cool air on her skin. She rolled face up. After burning off the day with twenty laps, she was coasting, catching her breath. Through the screen on the back porch, the sky was a deep, luminous blue, rosy purple toward the west. Crickets set up a steady chirr in the hibiscus.
She heard Irene drag a chair closer to the edge of the pool. She wore plaid shorts and a sleeveless top, her red hair fluffed out from her head.
"Come in with me," Gail said.
"With my baggy knees?" Irene sat down, backlit from the kitchen, the gray cat curling up by her feet.
"Mother, you're silly. You and Renee and I went skinny-dipping in this pool a few years ago."
"Did we?" Irene laughed. "Yes. I think we were tipsy on margaritas. Remember how we giggled? I loved watching you girls. My daughters. Two sleek creatures risen from the sea. So lovely."
Gail crossed her arms on the edge of the pool, her toes grazing the bottom. "Before all this happened, I never thought about the good times we had."
"There were some." Irene's smile was unsteady. She put her cigarette to her lips, then exhaled a blue cloud. "I just got off the phone with my dear cousin. The traitor's putting his tackle box and two of his old pals in his Winnebago, and they're all leaving for Arcadia Saturday at dawn. Good-bye to civilization for a whole ten days."
"So it's you and me for Easter dinner. Dave won't be back with Karen until Sunday night."
"I don't feel like cooking," Irene said. "Why don't we go out somewhere fancy and spend some money?"
"Okay, but you'll have to let me pay for it." Gail waded to the curved steps in the corner, leaning forward against the water.
Irene got up to bring her a towel. "Ben says he's going to find five acres and a house next week. He's serious. I told him I'd visit, but that's it. You need me to help with Karen and I couldn't possibly leave Miami."
Water streamed off Gail's body. She took the towel and dried her face and arms.
Irene said, "Anthony Quintana called when I was talking to Ben."
Gail bent to do her legs. "What did he have to say?"
"Nothing. I told him I was on the phone, could he hold on, but he said no, you have his number at home, please call."
Gail made a noncommittal shrug.
"What's the matter? He seems like a nice man."
"Frank Britton seemed like a nice man." She wrapped the towel around herself and went inside.
She was dressed and sitting at the desk in the den with a stack of books, copies, and notes before she decided she might as well see what he wanted.
She dialed his number and he answered on the second ring.
"This is Gail," she said.
"Ah. I was about to think you were avoiding me." She hesitated, then said, "What did you want to talk to me about?"
A glass clinked in his kitchen. Water ran briefly. Anthony said, "I wouldn't have called you at home, but something came up late this afternoon. Ray Hammell asked me about a certain boat owned by Nelson Restrepo. He didn't say how he knew Restrepo was once a client of mine, but I assume you told him. Yes?"
"Yes," Gail said. "You should have told him yourself."
"What have you created in your mind? Have you turned me into a drug dealer as well as a seducer of your sister?"
Gail studied the pigeonholes in the desk, wooden squares and slots with a 1989 "TV Guide," rusty paper clips, curling photos, old letters, cards. "I'm sure Ray can fill me in on what happened with the boat. We have an appointment tomorrow."
"No. I'm going to tell you myself. Leave now, you can be here in twenty minutes."
She laughed, surprised. "I'm not going over there. Ray Hammell would smack my hand with a ruler if he found out, and he'd be right."
"Then you name a place," Anthony said. "I'll meet you."
"I'd love to, but I have an appellate brief due by Monday, and I'm already on thin ice."
He exhaled. "Gail. Listen to me. It isn't Nelson Restrepo I want to talk about—although you ought to know the truth. It's Renee. You want to know about her, I'll tell you. You won't hear it from Ray Hammell."
They agreed to meet under the flags at Bayside, a few miles down Biscayne Boulevard from Irene's house in Belle Mar. Gail came around the corner from the parking garage and spotted him. Pacing slowly toward the row of green metal benches bordering the walkway, then back again, people going by him in both directions. No tie. Jacket pushed back, hands in his pockets, narrow hips.
Gail watched him as she came closer. The curve of his throat as he glanced toward the black sky. How he moved. Looking toward the street, turning back. His gaze falling to the herringboned bricks, then toward the marina. Leaning down to peer at tropical fish in the window of a store, then drifting back toward the street. Finally seeing her. Not moving now. Waiting.
When she reached him, Anthony said, "Would you like to have a drink?" He tilted his head toward the Argentinian restaurant. "Tapas isn't crowded."
"No," she said. "Let's walk."
On a Thursday just past eight-thirty the crowds were still fairly thick, all the boutiques and stores and pushcarts doing a good business. Cruise ship passengers. Kids on spring break.
Gail was wearing slacks and a light sweater, sleeves pushed up, the thin strap of her purse across her chest, in case someone tried to grab it. They went past the intersection of two wide corridors, shops in both directions. The walkway opened onto a wide area of fountains, tables, chairs. The daiquiri stand was decorated with huge cartoons of fruit. A crowd had gathered around a mime juggling stuffed parrots.
Anthony said, "This is ridiculous, meeting here."
"It's convenient," she said.
"It's safe."
She gave him a noncommittal look, then stepped back to let a woman with a stroller pass. "Should I tell Ray Hammell we talked?"
"It's up to you. If he does not approve, tell him it wasn't your idea."
They walked toward the water. A striped-shirted gondolier was poling a middle-aged black couple past the docks. An anniversary, perhaps. The woman wore a corsage.
"Anthony." When he looked at her she said, "Did you tell Ray about you and Renee?"
"Of course. I told him it was why I had to withdraw as your attorney. Not entirely true, but he was satisfied with the explanation."
Gail kept her eyes on Anthony for a moment, wondering if he were lying. Wondering what difference it could make to her either way. They went up a few steps then along a sidewalk, marina on their left, jazz coming from speakers overhead.
He said, "I suggested you come to my house because
it would be private, not because I wanted anything else."
"Really?"
He shrugged.
She said, "Look, we ought to get something cleared up right now. Things got a little out of hand over there last week."
"Out of hand?"
She slowed down. A group of teenage girls had stopped just ahead. "I'm not blaming you." When the girls veered into a swimsuit store Gail began to walk again. She said, "It was dangerous and foolish. For both of us. I want you to know how I feel about it."
Anthony inclined his head, a reluctant assent.
They came to the end of the shops. A combo at the open-air Brazilian nightclub was playing samba music. Waiters rushed around with trays full of drinks—pineapples and coconuts and tall, fruity-colored glasses.
She turned to Anthony. "So tell me about Nelson Restrepo."
Someone bumped him from behind and his mouth tightened. "Not here," he said.
They went down the sloping sidewalk, the music fading a bit. Ahead of them was the black water of Biscayne Bay, the lights of the Port of Miami, dark shapes of islands beyond.
He turned right, kept walking, going past Bayside into the park, buildings ahead of them, streetlamps along the seawall. The wind was blowing off the bay, chilly for this late in April. Gail could hear the water slapping against the huge rocks dumped as tide breaks. There weren't so many people here. Anthony kept between her and the park. She wondered if he had his pistol with him. She pulled the sleeves of her sweater to her wrists, crossed her arms.
Anthony said, "Nelson Restrepo owned the Sirena. After the acquittal in his drug case, we went fishing in the Keys to celebrate. We took one other trip together, Bim-ini. About a year later, Nelson was arrested on conspiracy to commit bank fraud. He put up the bail and went back to Panama. He called and said he would send a check for my attorneys fees—he never did—but meanwhile I could use his boat. My partner Raul and I took it out a few times. Then I met Renee. She and I went with another couple to Nassau."
"There was a quick-release port in the hull."
"Yes. Nelson had bought the boat used, not knowing it was there. He thought it was funny. Ironic." Anthony glanced at Gail. "That's the boat in the photograph I gave your mother."
Renee in the straw hat. Renee in the pink top, no bra. Gail said, "You took the picture?"
"Yes. That was the last time I saw the boat. Renee knew about the release port, by the way. I showed her. When she was arrested, she didn't tell me it was on board the Sirena. I assume now that Carlos was looking for a boat such as that one, or that he knew people who were, and that she suggested it to him. As to how he acquired it, or who else was involved, we'll never know, unless Carlos tells us. I explained all this to Ray this afternoon."
Anthony stopped walking, watching Gail intently, as if her thoughts might write themselves on her face. Gail hardly knew what they were. They whirled, changed shape and meaning. The explanations seemed obvious, then too easy.
His hands moved outward, palms up. "What else do you want to know about it?"
"When did you learn the Sirena had been seized?"
"This afternoon. Ray told me."
"Nelson Restrepo never called to ask about his boat?"
"No. It was never in my care. And as I told you, Nelson may be dead. He had enemies." Anthony waited, then said, "I am telling you the truth. I want you to believe that."
"Is Ray going to question Carlos?"
"Yes. I doubt he will be truthful."
Gail saw Carlos's sunglasses, the beard, his white teeth showing in a smile. The wind flipped the edge of Anthony's jacket. He was still watching her.
"What's Ray Hammell's opinion of Carlos?" she said.
"That he makes a better defendant than you do."
"Well. Do you think he killed my sister?"
Anthony took several seconds. "I don't know. Your jury might buy it. Particularly if his alibi is shot down."
"Have you talked to him?"
"I haven't been able to reach him."
"Does he know you suspect him of embezzlement?"
"No. Ray Hammell told me to hold off on any confrontation. But I told Raul about it and we're looking through the books. And we're checking the real estate closings George Sanchez handled."
Gail doubted George Sanchez would have a job much longer. Carlos either. Excommunication by his grandfather was the lesser of his worries. He could face a murder indictment. So much the better for Anthony.
She walked to the edge of the seawall, the wind blowing her hair back. She felt a prickling sensation in her spine, Anthony standing behind her. What did she know about him? That his father was a blind ex-revolutionary; that his rich grandfather had once been a terrorist; that Anthony wanted it all, but in his own way. They were alone, she and this man who had made love to her sister. Who might have done more than that.
Overhead the clouds raced westward, pale gray shapes illuminated from beneath by the lights of the city.
"What about Renee?" she said, not looking at him.
"Renee. Yes." He moved to stand beside her, his face in shadow. "I want to tell you how we met, what happened to us, and why."
Gail said, ' 'I thought you might tell me . . . about her. That's what I expected."
Anthony stood motionless, squinting slightly into the wind. His slight Spanish accent made him seem more remote to her.
"We met at a bar in Coconut Grove. Typical, no? I was alone, she started a conversation, and . . . what you might expect to happen, happened. The details don't matter. After my divorce that had become common for me, meeting women in that way. I must have been trying to make up for fourteen years of unrewarded fidelity. Renee was what I wanted then. She was younger, attractive, uninhibited. She made me laugh and I needed that too. We were together—intensely—for several weeks before I realized what I should have seen at once. She couldn't. . . achieve sexual satisfaction. She said it didn't bother her."
The collar on his shirt lifted, then settled. "It bothered me. I might have ignored this if not for the rest. There was a part of her completely sealed off. I pushed her to tell me and she became hysterical. I never asked again. She often acted like a child. I am not referring to childish behavior. I mean literally a child. She called me Daddy when we made love. She talked like a little girl. When I told her to stop, she wouldn't, not until I lost my temper. Once she threw something at me. A glass. In my own house. When I told her to get out, she cried. And then wanted me to punish her."
When Gail turned away Anthony grasped her arm. "You think I could do that? No. Nor could I end it. Not then. I knew she had once tried to kill herself. We endured another week or two. I was exhausted from the strain of it, not sleeping, making mistakes in my work. Then she said she loved me. Whatever it took, whatever I wanted, she would do it. But I knew it was over. I worried for days how to tell her, afraid of what she might do. But finally I did tell her. And she laughed and said it was good while it lasted. I will admit to you, I was relieved. She had only a part-time job at the historical museum, so I arranged a position at Vista Title. That's where she met Carlos. Soon she forgot about me."
"Did she?" Gail was shivering, her jaw tight, her arms across her chest. It wasn't the wind.
Anthony's eyes were searching her. "Renee became better. Happier with herself. You should know that about her, too. We spoke a few times afterward, and that was my impression."
Gail could barely get the words out. "Why did you tell me these things?"
He took some time to answer. "Because you have the wrong idea of what I am. I would never have told you this if you had not found out about Renee and me. Never. I knew she would come between us. She's in your mind too much. When you were with me last week you told me what she was like. You described her. On the terrace, as you fainted, you said you saw her."
"I said that?"
"Yes. You called her name."
Gail turned her back on the wind and held her hair with one hand.
Anthony was closer no
w. She could feel the heat of his body. "When you came to—when I was holding you— Renee was still there. You did what you thought Renee might have done. You said that, too. But it wasn't Renee I made love to. It was you. Do you think that I touch you and think of Renee? Gail, you're nothing like her. Believe me, I would know."
She laughed. "Oh, God. Stop. What did you expect would happen? Two adults, unattached. I come running to you to save me from Frank Britton. My hero. Plus you're tall, dark, and macho. Add a couple hours of intense conversation. ¡Salsa!"
He leaned around her. "And that's what you think? An impulse? I have wanted you since the day we walked on Flagler Street. The moment you told me to go screw myself with that letter from Nancy Darden to Carlos, or words to that effect."
She looked back toward Bayside. "Anthony. You're a dangerous man. I don't need this. I really don't."
"And what did you call me? Latino macho—?"
She knew he saw her smile. "More or less." She could feel the heat pulsing through her body. Stupid, stupid, she thought.
He said, "For you—tell me if I'm wrong—it wasn't an impulse either."
"I don't know you," she said. "I don't know what I want with you."
"No?"
"No," she said.
"We should find out," he said.
"Oh, you think so."
"Yes. We should."
"Tell me something." She turned her head. "Do you always make love in Spanish?"
A smile started at the corners of his mouth, moved to his eyes. She could have fallen into them. He said, "Come home with me. I'll show you."
She nodded, feeling the desire. She could hardly breathe. He kissed her and she turned to him, slipped her arms under his coat. Warm, solid. The delicious scent of him. Whatever he had done, she didn't care.
His tongue went into her mouth, along her teeth, going deeper. She pushed her hips against him. He was ready. She wished she had a skirt on. Wished no one else was there, she would pull it up herself. She slid her hand between them, heard him groan.
He tightened his fingers in her hair and tilted back her head. His mouth went to her ear. She shuddered, sagged against him. In clear English he told her what he would do to her.
Suspicion of Innocence Page 32
