"Probably from looking into my case," she said. "He talked to a lot of people."
Anthony said, "It's strange. I have never been in this position. Frank apologized for having to question me."
"Here's some advice given to me by an excellent criminal attorney," Gail said. "Don't talk to the police. They'll hang you with your words."
She heard the chuckle. "Ah, but I have nothing to hide," he said. Then another sigh. "Gail, I wish I could leave here and go back to sleep with you. We didn't sleep much last night."
Gail closed her eyes, desire surprising her, flowing through her like a sudden throb of pain, and this for a man who could have tied his cousin's hands and shot him through the head.
She said, "I'm tired, too. Trying to get some work done, but the gears are slipping."
"You're seeing Ray Hammell this afternoon?"
"At four."
"I might call him before that and tell him what's going on," Anthony said.
"If you even know," Gail said. "This is so complicated. But what did you tell me once? Murder is a simple act of passion?"
"An intimate act with a simple motive based on passion," Anthony said. "Not always true, but more often than not. And the answer isn't always easy to find. But when we do see it, we say, ah yes, of course. I should have known."
Gail swiveled her chair around to face the window. The sky was still gray, the clouds unmoving. "What if the right answer is the simplest of all?" she said. "What if Renee really did commit suicide? And one of Carlos's questionable friends got rid of him, just like you read all the time in the Herald? And we're all going crazy trying to see motives and meanings where there aren't any."
"Ah, Gail." Anthony sounded exhausted.
"I'm sorry," she said. "You called me for some solace and I haven't helped a bit."
"I don't need solace," he said. "I need two or three drinks and a pillow. And you."
Anthony's pillow. He had put it under her hips last night. Lifted her up to him, open. She blinked to clear the image.
He said, "Unfortunately, I will be here for the next two or three nights, until the funeral. Have you been to a Cuban funeral? We stay up all night with the casket before the graveside services, drinking café to stay awake. I'll call you when it's over."
"All right."
The sound of a soft kiss came over the line. ''Cuídate, mi amor. '' Take care, my love.
"You, too." Gail closed her eyes and heard the click of a disconnect.
Her thoughts were on a silver Mercedes with its trunk open, dripping stagnant water. A gurney and a black body bag.
Anthony had to be innocent. A weird correlation occurred to her: His innocence was linked to Carlos's. If Anthony was fair enough to have read Carlos right, then how could he have been vicious enough to kill him? Anthony had never said Carlos was guilty. He had said it was a plausible theory, useful to her acquittal. At his house last week he had said Carlos might be capable of petty violence, but not murder.
Gail had wanted Carlos Pedrosa to be guilty. Now he was dead, and that awful event made him seem helpless to her, worthy of pity. His death wasn't what she had wanted.
But if Carlos had not killed Renee, who had? Someone close. Close enough to know she had tried to commit suicide with a razor blade.
Loan sharks could have killed Carlos. A business rival. Drug dealers. Maybe a jealous boyfriend. Anyone.
Frank Britton had looked at Gail, standing there in the drizzling rain behind the yellow police tape. She had seen the speculation in his eyes. What is the connection here?
Now Gail felt as though her mind were a computer screen, lines of data flashing past. Combinations, recombinations. Constructing theories out of air, out of scraps, looking for patterns. No conclusions, only the steady flow of bits of information.
Gail jumped a little and turned her chair around when she heard a thud on her desk.
Miriam had come in with a banker's box full of deposition transcripts and a folder crammed with photocopies. She made a little panting noise, her tongue sticking out like a tired dog.
Gail managed a smile.
There was a handwritten letter on top of one box and Miriam handed it to Gail. "This came in the mail a couple days ago from Harold Irving, the client you did the condominium class action thing for last year."
Gail glanced at it. "Well, give it to Bob Wilcox."
"I did already." Miriam began unpacking the depositions. "And then Mr. Irving called a little while ago and wanted to speak to you. He said he didn't want anybody else to handle his cases and he didn't care if you had shot the president, he wouldn't believe it anyway."
"What a guy." Gail remembered him. Bald, plaid pants, cane, running shoes, an expression like someone had just stolen his baby blue 1973 Chrysler Imperial.
"He said if you didn't do his case he'd go somewhere else, and screw Hartwell Black."
"Miriam."
"He said that, te juro. I swear he did."
Gail blew a breath through pursed lips and scanned the lousy handwriting. Harold wanted her to write an option to purchase an ape on Mi Beach? An ape?
Miriam said, "Why don't you open your own office?"
Gail didn't look up. "What?"
"I mean it. I'd go with you. You wouldn't even have to pay me that much to start. I bet you could get lots of clients."
Apartment, Gail realized. Apt on Miami Beach. He wasn't sure he liked the building with all the guys— gays?—around but maybe an option would be O.K. so he wouldn't have to rash—rush—making a decision.
Miriam said, "I know you can't leave right now, with the trial and everything, but maybe afterward."
Gail slowly lifted her eyes.
"Ms. Connor?"
"Option."
"What?"
"Shh, be quiet a minute." Gail stood up, paced to the window. "Option. Carlos wanted an option."
"What—" Miriam cut herself off, but crossed the room to stand next to Gail, looking intently at her.
Gail continued to stare through the window. "Carlos wanted an option on Ben's property. Ben changed his mind and the deal was off. Now Jimmy Panther wants to rent the property. Or so he says." Gail turned to Miriam, who looked worried.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
"I don't know. Yes." Gail took a deep breath. "My God. This is crazy. But I think there's something here. I think there is."
Miriam's eyes widened. "You're scaring me."
Gail grasped her hands. "No, everything's fine. Really. I want you to call Ray Hammell's office for me and cancel my appointment. Tell them— Just say I had to leave the office on a personal emergency. Then get Edith Newell at the historical museum."
Gail picked up her phone and dialed Ben's office. She had the clear, cold sense that she was getting down to solid truth.
Twenty-Five
Ben was waiting on the cabin steps when Gail turned off her engine. His three dogs ran back and forth growling. Flicking his cigarette away, he told them to shut up. The look on his face said he had better things to do than go hiking in the woods at three o'clock in the afternoon, temperature pushing ninety, sky threatening rain.
"Hi, Ben." Gail watched the dogs warily as she got out of the car. One of them sniffed at her blue jeans.
"Barney, cut it out," Ben said. The dog wandered into the sparse grass beside the cabin and flopped down in the shade, tongue pink against black fur. The others went to the water dish. Ben said, "Okay. Tell me about this Indian mound." Gail unfolded an aerial photo on the edge of the porch, two legal-size photocopies taped together. They bent over it. Edith Newell had it waiting for her when Gail had dashed into the museum.
"I can't recognize a damn thing." Ben leaned closer. "What's that line, Krome Avenue?" He traced it with his forefinger.
"Yes. The yellow is the parcel Carlos wanted. The circles inside it are where Edith said we should start looking."
She explained what Edith had told her. Look for a patch of trees higher than the others; the ground und
er them will be slightly elevated. Edith had cross-checked the map with the 1878 geological survey. She had begged to come along. Gail had dissuaded her. There were only a few hours of daylight left.
Ben turned the pages around the other way. "This dark strip here is probably the slough that runs along the old pasture. I guess we could drive out, save some steps." He folded the map and handed it to Gail.
"Is there a road?" she asked.
"More or less." He finally smiled. "We'll take your car." He went over and opened the trunk of his Lincoln, took out a canteen, a box of shells, and his shotgun.
Gail grinned at it. "Oh, good. Your snake repellent." She unlocked her trunk and he stowed them inside.
The dogs followed them for a while, barking at the tires.
She guided the Buick between potholes and rocks. "Thank you, Ben." "For what?"
"For meeting me here. I had to do it today. You're leaving tomorrow and I'm too nervous to wait until you get back."
"You going to tell me what this is about?" He was looking at her, expecting more than he had gotten over the telephone.
She had kept the details sketchy. Carlos Pedrosa and Jimmy Panther working together. An Indian mound on Ben's land. The Tequesta mask.
Gail said, "Okay. A lot of this is theory, but let's see how it hangs together. Jimmy Panther and Renee meet at the historical museum. Not by accident. He knows her reputation and knows she is related to you. What he really wants is access to this property because of what is buried on it. What I think is buried on it."
The dirt road narrowed, curving through melaleuca trees and tangled pepper bushes with glossy red berries.
"Jimmy has the Tequesta mask. He either knows his family found it here, years ago, or he found it himself, trespassing to look for artifacts. Where there's one, he figures there must be others. And this one is worth ten to fifteen thousand dollars. Jimmy couldn't take his time exploring because you showed up too often. And the dogs were a problem. It takes months to excavate a mound properly. Jimmy knew this from working on other sites with the Dade County archaeologist."
The car bounced into a deep rut, weeds scraping the underside. Gail felt the tires spin on wet ground, then grab. The tracks twisted into a clearing.
She said, "Then Renee becomes romantically involved with Carlos Pedrosa, a land developer. Renee introduces him to you. Carlos wants an option on this property. Not a coincidence. I believe it was Jimmy Panther's idea. Edith saw them all in the museum together. Renee, Jimmy, and Carlos." Gail glanced over at Ben. "Okay so far?"
"Go on," he said.
Gail swerved to avoid a broken soda bottle. "How does Jimmy persuade Carlos to risk ten thousand dollars of his grandfather's money? He shows him the Tequesta mask, but that wouldn't have done it. Jimmy tells Carlos a story—which happens to be true, by the way. In 1732 a Spanish ship coming from Havana docked at the mouth of the Miami River to take the Tequestas to Cuba, those that wanted to go. They were under attack by some other tribe. But they stole the gold on board and supposedly hid out in the Everglades with it. Edith Newell showed me government documents referring to this, dated around 1835. The maps take in this part of the county. Think of what Jimmy must have told Carlos. The last descendant of the Tequestas. Buried treasure. The connection with Cuba."
Ben laughed. "Was Carlos that feeble-minded?"
"Remember, he was desperate to cover up his embezzlement from Pedrosa Development. And you have to admit, Jimmy Panther has a way about him."
"I told you he was a con man."
"Yes," Gail admitted. "Anyway, Carlos takes the risk and if it turns out there's no gold, well—There are artifacts in the Indian mound to sell. Masks, pots, whatever. Not a bad return on ten thousand dollars. But Jimmy might have gotten away with most of them while Carlos was still grubbing in the dirt for pieces of eight."
Ben pointed through the windshield. "Head toward those trees."
"Then the deal goes sour," Gail said. "You change your mind about giving Carlos the option. Now Jimmy has no use for him anymore. In fact, Carlos is a distinct liability. And something else. When I spoke to Jimmy, I pointed the finger at Carlos for Renee's murder. Renee and Jimmy were close, I'm sure of it. Very close. He was her . .. spiritual father, you might say. This morning Carlos was found dead in the trunk of his Mercedes, dumped in a canal off the Loop Road."
Ben was squinting at her, waiting for her to say it.
"I think Jimmy Panther shot him with his own gun. Got him alone on some pretext and killed him for what he did to Renee."
After a few seconds, Ben said, "Possibly. So tell me. What are we doing out here, running around in the woods instead of going to the cops?"
"Because I haven't got any proof. Not yet." That wasn't the only reason. The rest of it was, she wanted to find evidence that Anthony had nothing to do with Carlos's death. Gail kept her eyes on the narrow, rutted road ahead of them.
She said, "This morning Mother told me Jimmy called her. He wants her to talk to you about renting some property to him."
"Renting property? Why?"
"A camp for emotionally disturbed children. So he says. Get them away from modem urban society, let them play in the fresh air."
"Christ almighty." Ben shook his head. "Irene bought that?"
"It's obvious what he's doing, once you see the relationships involved. He's trying to get onto your property so he can look for artifacts. If we find an Indian mound where I think it might be, I can tie him to Carlos."
"And tie Carlos to Renee."
"Yes."
The tracks ended and Gail stopped the car. They got out. The land was flat and scrubby, open to the left, with tangled woods further on to the right. The rain last night had left sheets of standing water that reflected clouds and treetops. A flock of white egrets flapped overhead, long necks tucked close to their bodies.
She opened the trunk, took out two pointed shovels and an old book bag of Karen's. Inside the bag were a spray can of Off, two tightly folded plastic rain ponchos, a trowel and garden gloves from her garage, a plastic grocery sack in case they found something, newspaper to wrap it in, two liters of Evian, and a bag of trail mix.
Ben swung his canteen across his chest and the shotgun over his shoulder on its leather strap, then stepped away from the car and did a slow three-sixty. "We’ll use this as a base point and branch out from here. Say a couple hundred yards in each direction. I hope to hell you know what you're looking for."
“So do I." Gail folded the map into eighths and tucked it into her back pocket. "All right. We're not that far from Krome. I can hear the traffic."
"A little Sunday stroll," he muttered, easing the strap on his shoulder.
They set out north, each of them carrying a shovel. Insects buzzed in the hot, unmoving air.
"As long as we're speculating," Ben said, "what if someone besides Carlos killed Renee?"
Gail jumped over a rut filled with greenish water and the bag bounced on her back. "Such as who?"
"Panther."
"Why would he do that? They were friends."
"Let's say she found out the gold was a hoax and threatened to tell. Or maybe she and Carlos decided to cut Jimmy out. Say he made Renee's death look like suicide because if it was murder, Carlos would have suspected him." Ben scanned the line of trees. "Renee could have driven out to see him after Irene's birthday party. If they were friends. If they were doing a con on Carlos together. Did Panther have an alibi for that night?"
Gail had slowed her pace and Ben turned around to look at her. "Well?"
"No. I asked him."
"If they were friends," Ben said, "he would have known how she liked to go out to that park. And how she tried to commit suicide before. He was the one who called the police, wasn't he? A nice touch. He even had witnesses with him when he found her body." Ben shrugged. "It's a theory. Talk it over with Ray Hammell next time. He could use it at your trial."
"I don't know. I'm afraid if we start confusing the jury with too ma
ny alternatives, they might wind up pointing their fingers right back at me."
"Well, you let Ray handle it. I didn't pay him all that money for nothing."
She had nothing to say to that, only fell into step behind him, weeds slapping against her pant legs.
Two hours later, Ben leaned back against a palmetto palm, hands resting on his shovel, shirt soaked with sweat. He lifted his canteen. Letting her own shovel clang to the ground, Gail took off her garden gloves. Cotton, with little yellow daisies. Filthy now. Her hands stiff and burning from abrasion, she unscrewed the cap on a bottle of water and drank.
Ben laughed, pointed at Gail. "Little girl, your face is about as dirty as mine feels."
Gail wiped her cheeks on the neck of her T-shirt.
They had made almost a complete circle around the area outlined on the map, digging in eleven likely places, most of them in the woods or scrub, occasionally pulling up broken glass, cans, animal bones, brass cartridges, rotting wood.
Grunting a little, Ben let himself down on a fallen tree trunk and pulled a cigarette out of the pack in his shirt pocket. He took off his gloves.
Gail asked, "What time is it?"
He checked his watch. "Six-twenty."
"How much daylight do we have, an hour?"
"Less." He cupped his hands around his cigarette to light it.
Gunfire crackled from the south, as it had occasionally during the afternoon. Target shooters, aiming at bottles and cans. Gail remembered the last family picnic at the ranch. They had sat around the table and heard bursts of automatic weapons fire. Good citizens, bearing arms. Or middle-aged Cubans, dreaming of going home again.
"I'm beginning to feel sorry I made you do this," Gail said.
Ben blew out a stream of smoke. His white hair was stringy, sticking to his forehead.
She said, "It all seemed to fit together at the time."
Cigarette between his teeth, he put his gloves back on. "Okay. Let's finish here. Then we'll do that area by the slough, and that's it."
Suspicion of Innocence Page 34
