It was somewhere near dawn. A pale gray light was coming through the curtains. She had awakened to the sound of ringing. A telephone.
Anthony was speaking softly, not to wake her, propped up on one elbow. Gail closed her eyes, burrowed deeper into the blankets, felt the warmth of his bare hip and thigh.
Gradually she became aware that the tone of his voice was wrong. She pulled the blanket away from her face, blinked.
"Who else did you call? . . . No, I'll do it, as soon as—" He ran his fingers into his hair. "Okay. Thank you." He quietly replaced the phone but didn't lie down again.
She sat up and touched his back. "Anthony?"
He turned his head to look at her. "Carlos is dead."
Twenty-Three
The rain had slackened to a light mist by the time Anthony turned his Cadillac onto the Loop Road. The Loop ran south off the Tamiami Trail, making a meandering U shape before cutting back north.
Gail sat in the passenger seat. It was just past eight in the morning. She had told him he might as well take her along, because she would follow in her own car if he didn't.
Anthony turned the windshield wipers to intermittent. He hadn't said much during the trip from Key Biscayne. His hands were tight on the wheel, his body hunched forward a little. He kept the speed up, trees and tangled bushes blurring past, tires rattling over the potholes. He had told her what he knew. Late yesterday afternoon a cane fisherman had noticed the back end of a car about four feet under the water in a weedy pond. The fisherman flagged down a state trooper when he got back on the Trail. It was raining hard by then and getting dark. They waited until first light to call a tow truck. The shift commander knew Ernesto Pedrosa but didn't want to notify the old man right away. He had called Anthony instead.
They saw the flashing lights a couple miles in, police vehicles blocking the left side of the narrow road—Metro squad cars, a couple of vans, a black-and-tan Florida Highway Patrol cruiser. Yellow tape had been strung from tree to tree. Police Line Do Not Cross. A few onlookers had gathered, early-morning fishermen most likely, their pickup trucks and rusty sedans parked on down the road. An ambulance waited to one side, lights off. No hurry.
The back bumper of the silver Mercedes had been unhooked from the wrecker. The trunk was open. Police leaned in, looking.
Anthony drove slowly past, found a place to park. He turned off the engine. "Wait in the car."
"Why?"
He looked at her. "Stay out of the way, then. I don't want anybody to ask what Gail Connor is doing here."
They got out, mist turning to drizzle. Gail stayed on her side of the yellow tape. Anthony ducked under it, then spoke to the cop who came to see what he wanted. They went over to the Mercedes, behind the open trunk lid. Gail noticed the headlamps. One of the little gold wipers was twisted back, the light smashed. Dirt and leaves stuck to the heavy chrome grill. The windows were foggy with grit.
She glanced toward the road. A dark blue sedan with a small rooftop antenna had just come to a stop. Frank Britton got out, closed the door. Gail ducked behind a heavy man in boots and overalls.
A couple of men rolled a gurney over to the Mercedes. The cops moved back. She could see Anthony now, his face grim. He came toward her. She went under the tape, met him halfway, took his arm. They stood next to a green-and-white, the chatter of a police radio coming through the half-open window.
Raindrops silvered Anthony's hair. He said, "It's Carlos. He was shot. Twice. Once in the back of the neck, once in the temple. His hands were tied."
"My God," Gail breathed. "Are you okay?"
Anthony nodded. His color wasn't good. He hadn't shaved and he looked tired.
They waited. The men with the gurney rolled it to the back door of the ambulance. There was a black body bag on the gurney. When it was loaded the attendant slammed the door, got in. The lights went on, but not the siren. The ambulance pulled up on the road, crunching gravel, heading to wherever they would take Carlos Pedrosa's body. Gail didn't know how she felt about this.
Frank Britton ended his conversation with a state trooper in a yellow rain slicker. He lifted his hand, then turned and walked toward Gail and Anthony.
Anthony said, "Frank."
"Hell of a thing, buddy. Sorry as can be." Britton looked at Gail, sizing up the situation. "Ms. Connor, it's kind of a surprise to see you out here. Did you know Mr. Pedrosa?"
Anthony said, "Frank. She's not talking to the police."
Britton's glasses had drops of water on them. He was wearing a tan windbreaker, shirt and tie underneath. The rain was beading up on the shoulders. He said, "Is there something I should know about?"
Gail said, "Sergeant, I have nothing to say to you."
His eyes lingered on her, then shifted to Anthony. "You know if Carlos carried a gun?"
"I believe a thirty-eight," Anthony said. "Was it in the car?"
Britton shook his head. "Where are the car keys?"
"Didn't find them either. We've got Recovery coming out, we'll see what's in the water. So what do you think? Any ideas?"
"Not immediately," Anthony said. "Carlos had some financial problems. He owed money. Looks like a professional hit."
"Looks that way," Britton said.
"How long was he down there?" Anthony asked.
"Day and a half? Two?"
Gail glanced around at the half a dozen people standing behind the yellow tape. Britton read her thoughts. He said, "Tell you about this road. Not too many people out here after dark. And if you happen to pass by, and you see a car like this one parked, with its lights off, you don't stop and ask if the guy needs a ride."
Gail asked, "Did it happen here?"
"Don't know yet." Britton spoke to Anthony. "How about if we talk for a few minutes?"
Anthony said, "Ms. Connor and I need to get back to Miami."
"I’ll want to speak to you at some point," Britton said. "Preferably today."
Anthony gave a formal nod of his head. "I'll be with my family. You can reach me at Ernesto Pedrosa's home, Coral Gables."
He led Gail back to his Cadillac, held the door for her, then went around and got in. He closed his eyes for a few seconds. The interior of the car was silent, only the light rain ticking on the roof.
"How's your grandfather going to take this?" she said.
"Not well." Anthony put the key in the ignition, turned it. "I wish I didn't have to be the one to tell him."
"Is there anything I can do?"
He smiled at her. "No."
Anthony turned on the lights and windshield wipers and made a U-turn back toward Miami, gravel kicking up against the underside of the car until they hit the pavement.
She said, "I wouldn't tell him Carlos was stealing his money. There's no point, is there?"
He shook his head. ''But for your case, Ray Hammell will need to use that information."
Gail sat silently for a while, knowing how hollow any attempt at sympathy would sound. She noticed his car phone. "It's nearly nine," she said. "Let me call my office. I'll be late."
He punched the buttons one-handed, steering with the other. Gail told Gwen at Hartwell Black she had some personal matters to attend to. Then Gail asked Anthony to dial her mother's house. "I have to let her know you haven't kidnapped me," she said.
"Not yet."
When they came out on the Trail again, Anthony glanced to his left for traffic, then turned east, picked up speed. He hung up the phone when she gave it back to him.
Gail said, "If Carlos is gone, how does that affect my trial?"
Anthony thought for a minute. "It depends on how Ray handles it. Carlos won't be around to refute the allegations. However, it might look too convenient to blame a dead man. And the jury will wonder about the connection. Why did Carlos die just now? You heard Britton. It was in his mind already."
"What, did I kill Carlos, too?"
"Not you." Anthony adjusted the digital control on the AC. "He thinks I might have done it. When I see him
today, that's probably what he'll try to find out."
"Are you serious?" Gail gave a little laugh. "Well, Mr. Quintana. And where were you on the night in question?"
Anthony smiled at her. ''If it was last night, you know where I was."
Gail let her eyes go to the road. The windshield wipers moved silently on the glass. She wanted to ask him. The question was sitting in her mouth, pressing on her teeth. Did you do it? Or did you hire someone? You would know the people to contact. Did you do it?
She crossed her arms, the knuckles of her left hand against her lips, wondering where the hell she had gotten that idea. Lack of sleep, maybe. General paranoia. But she wanted to hear him say no and make her believe it.
Anthony took her hand, kissed her fingers, then tucked it into his lap with his own hand tightly curled around hers. Gail smiled at him, then looked back at the road.
Twenty-Four
Gail stood at the bathroom mirror in the skirt to her blue suit and a camisole, putting on her makeup. Irene came in. Gail supposed she wanted to hear about Carlos again. "More coffee?" Irene asked.
"No, thanks, I'm late as it is." Gail rummaged through her makeup bag. After a week at Irene's, she had still not unpacked it. She found the right eye shadow, clicked open the box, leaned closer to the mirror.
Irene set her own mug of coffee on the vanity. "By the way. Jimmy Panther called me last night. I forgot to mention it, with all this about Carlos Pedrosa. Jimmy says Edith Newell has been after him to donate that Tequesta deer mask to the museum. He says he's thinking about it, but he can't just give it away."
Gail glanced at Irene over her mascara wand, then back at the mirror. "So why did he call you?"
"He knows me. He trusts my opinion," Irene said.
"I don't suppose he suggested you buy it." Gail did the other eye. "You know, pay him five or ten thousand, give it to the museum, then take the tax deduction?"
Irene looked annoyed. "Yes, that did come up, but it was my idea."
"Was it?" Gail tossed the mascara back into the bag.
"You can be so suspicious at times," Irene said.
On her way out of the bathroom Gail bent to kiss her on the cheek. "And you're a nice lady. Do whatever you want to, Mother. There, that's my opinion. Just make sure you get a couple of appraisals first."
Irene followed her down the hall, then into the guest room. The convertible sofa was still folded in, pillows untouched. Irene hadn't complained about Gail's absence last night. She seemed too stunned about Carlos Pedrosa to make a fuss.
Irene said, "I think I can persuade him to donate the mask."
"Great. I doubt Jimmy Panther would have a sudden attack of generosity, but you never know." Gail pulled her black pumps out from under the sewing machine cabinet.
"Yes, I do know," Irene said. "He's looking for some land where they can have a retreat for emotionally disturbed boys. A camp. They could go there and live like the Indians did before the white man. Jimmy says he wants a place that's not poisoned by modem civilization."
"Is he making an exception for mosquito repellent?" Gail put on her shoes.
Irene gave her a look. "For some reason or other they can't use tribal land. Jimmy says it's federal red tape, you know how that goes. Anyway, if he could find some property to rent cheaply, he could save a lot of money, and if he saved money there, he could afford to give the Tequesta mask to the museum."
Gail took an ivory linen blouse off its hanger, hung the hanger back in the closet.
Irene said, "We got to talking about what kind of land he needed, the right location and so forth, and I thought of Ben's property. He said it might do, but he wasn't sure."
"Ben? Renting his property to the Indians?"
"He might, if he were approached the right way," Irene said.
"So fine. Tell Jimmy to talk to Ben about it."
"I did." Irene took a sip from her coffee mug. "But Ben won't be back from his fishing trip for ten days, so I said maybe I'd call Ben myself before he leaves."
"Lucky man, ten days vacation with his best buddies." Gail tucked the blouse into her skirt. At the dresser she put on her earrings, studying her reflection. Neat little suit, conservative jewelry. Her hair looked a bit flat this morning, but she'd had no time to wash it. Makeup hid the circles under her eyes.
She fastened the other earring. "Maybe Ben has the right idea, leaving Miami. A country law practice with a fishing lake out the back door. Walk downtown. Have lunch at the drugstore. Leave your windows open at night."
Irene said, "Do me a favor. Call Ben. Ask him what he thinks of Jimmy's idea. I told Jimmy I'd let him know."
Grabbing her purse, Gail headed for the den, where she had left her files and briefcase last night. "I can't, I'm frantically busy today."
"Five minutes," Irene said. "You know how to put things in legalese."
Gail stacked her files on the desk, tucking papers back inside. "I'd rather not. The last time Ben and I were together, leaving Ray Hammell's office, we practically yelled at each other. I think he's still mad at me."
"What ever for?"
Gail dropped her files into her briefcase and closed the lid. "It's not worth talking about. Same old thing. He has the answers and wants to make sure I know it."
"He's done a great deal for you," Irene said.
"Mother, I'm extremely grateful for Ben's help, I promise you. And yours." Grateful to Ben, but not comfortable about it. She felt a need to keep her distance for a while. Maybe her reaction was irrational, but she didn't care. It was what it was. In the driveway Gail's car crunched over acorns from the oak tree, then whirled through leaves on Seagrape Lane. Gail had explained once to a friend visiting from Boston, in South Florida the leaves fall off the trees in springtime. How upside down it is here, the friend had said.
Gail turned left on Biscayne Boulevard as though her car were on automatic pilot.
Again this morning she had looked at the photo of herself and Renee. She remembered now: Their father hadn't taken it after all. He had been on the porch frying hamburgers, the yard teeming with kids and adults. Ben was the one with the camera, taking pictures of everyone. He told Renee to sit in the swing. Smile real big, honey. Click. Gail knew now why she had pushed her way onto the swing. Not to have fun with Renee but because she had been seething with jealousy. She had pumped the swing higher and higher to frighten Renee, secretly hoping she would fall out.
Renee must not have realized it. Or she had forgotten, too. She had kept the photo on her desk in a gold frame. Me and my sis, happy times.
The idea was stunning—Gail's emotions had raged, even as a child. Ben had been an innocent magnet realigning the field between herself and Renee. But Renee had died before Gail could tell her any of this. Before Gail could ask to be forgiven. And how much of that rage was still alive, poisoning her thoughts about Anthony, who had slept with both of them?
She made it to the parking garage in fifteen minutes flat. It was nearly eleven o'clock and the only empty spaces left were on the roof, sixth level. It hadn't rained downtown last night but the sky was mottled gray, the air heavy and hot. Her back was moist with sweat by the time she entered the air-conditioned lobby of the Hartwell Building.
In her office, the telephone rang. Gail dropped her briefcase on the desk. It was Ben.
He had heard about Carlos. His secretary had been listening to the radio in the coffee shop. Prominent Latin developer shot to death, body found in the trunk of his car. Execution-style slaying, no suspects.
"I don't know what to think of it," Gail said.
Ben said, "Son of a bitch finally got what he deserved, is what I think. No, better to bring him to trial for Renee, than shoot him. That would've been better. Did you call Ray Hammell yet?"
"I will, but he probably knows already. We have another appointment at four this afternoon. I'm sure we'll talk about it."
"Lord. I hope this doesn't mess up your defense," Ben said. "Maybe I ought to call him myself."
/> Gail heard the question: Did she want him to? She said, "No, Ben, it's okay. Thanks, though. Really."
"All right," he said.
"Have a good time fishing," she said.
"I wonder if I should go."
"Go," she said. "Call me this weekend, I'll let you know what Ray says about Carlos."
After Ben's good-bye, she realized she had forgotten to pass on Irene's message about Jimmy Panther. She thought of calling him back. "The hell with it," she muttered, and dialed Ray Hammell's office.
Alisha came on the line. "We know! I was just about to call you." Her voice was breathy with suppressed excitement. "Ray had to go to court or he'd talk to you himself. He wants me to get the details from the police."
Gail decided not to say, just then, that she had driven to the scene with Anthony Quintana. That she had seen Carlos's body taken away. It would require more explanation than she wanted to give over the telephone. She confirmed her appointment with Hammell and hung up.
Miriam brought her a sandwich and they worked through lunch.
Anthony called shortly after one o'clock.
"I wanted to hear your voice," he said.
"Where are you?"
"At my grandfather's house. The place is un manicomio. A madhouse. There must be fifty people here." "How did he take it?"
"Not well. He's sedated now. The doctor is guarding against another stroke. In fact, I called the doctor before I broke the news." Gail could hear only silence in the background and supposed Anthony was in Emesto Pedrosa's study with the heavy door closed, sitting at the big desk that was angled toward Havana.
"And how are you?" she said.
"Frank Britton just left," he said. "He didn't stay long. He wants me to come to headquarters Monday."
Gail forced herself to ask the question. ''Does he think you had something to do with Carlos's death?"
"He asked me where I was for the last two days. He said he had heard relations between me and Carlos were bad. He asked me about my grandfather's properties. He even asked me if it was true Renee had left me to start an affair with Carlos. Where did he get that idea?"
Suspicion of Innocence Page 33
