Suspicion of Deceit

by Barbara Parker

  On the field the children ran past in a huffing mass of arms and legs. Karen played halfback, and she was poised, shifting foot to foot, arms out for balance. When the ball got within range she rushed at it, and Gail heard the thump of a shoe hitting a shin guard and high-pitched yells to kick it here, kick it here.

  As she kept an eye on the action—trying to—she heard piano music in the back of her mind. Mozart, played by the accompanist from Tom Nolan's master class. Nolan had walked slowly around the young soprano, who blushed as he held out his hand and sang in that incredibly rich voice. But it wasn't Nolan she was seeing. It was Anthony.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Sometimes after a game, team parents let themselves be talked into going by the Pizza Hut near the soccer field. Gail often said no for any of several good reasons: it's a school night, you have homework, I have a trial to prepare for—But tonight she gave in. Biscayne had won. But more than that, Gail needed the babble and laughter of a room full of fifth-graders. Anthony had accepted without question her flimsy excuse for not seeing him tonight, and his understanding had made her feel even worse.

  On the way to the car Karen skipped, still buoyant from victory. She wanted to know if Gail had seen her make the assist on the winning goal. The coach had said he would put her in the starting lineup for the next game. They followed the other cars out of the parking lot, and Karen scooted down in the seat with her leg in the air to pull off cleats and shin pads, then lace up her sneakers.

  Karen had made it known that wherever they moved to, it had better be close to their present neighborhood so she wouldn't lose her friends. Anthony had talked about looking at more houses this weekend with that in mind.

  Pacing up and down the sidelines at the soccer field, Gail had felt sick with the realization that there was no point in looking at houses this weekend; their marriage was sure to fail if Anthony was the kind of man Seth had portrayed. Then her thoughts whirled in the other direction: Seth had lied. Holding a grudge for twenty years, Seth wanted revenge.

  Or maybe not. Maybe the facts were right, but Seth's conclusions had been wrong.

  Maybe Anthony had slept with Rebecca, and he had made bets on seducing American girls—but so what? He had been so young, living in another era, as Seth had said. The late seventies. Gail had come of age in the eighties, with its own way of looking at things.

  Facts and conclusions. In her law practice Gail had heard different witnesses interpret the same set of facts and reach wildly diverging conclusions. Each had sworn to tell the truth, and each appeared to be sincere. According to Seth, Anthony had taken Emily Davis along for sex. She'd been a sweet, dumb kid. Anthony had said Emily wanted to go along, then when she got there, she turned into a complainer.

  Gail's blinker ticked as she waited for a light to turn green. She thought of her mother's bridge games, the endless stories about the people they knew, how the truth went round and round. What was true? And who was Anthony? Why had he gone to Nicaragua? For justice? To prove his manhood? Or to recover what he had lost—his idyllic life in Camaguey? Whether it had actually been so idyllic didn't matter. The image mattered. For whatever reason he had gone to Nicaragua, he had come back injured in his soul. Seth had said his and Rebecca's love had died with Emily Davis. Something in Anthony had died as well: his certainty. There were no good guys anymore. No good, no bad. Everyone equally lost.

  Turning into the lot at the Pizza Hut, she heard a muffled jangle and at the same time, Karen's voice. "Mom! Mom, aren't you going to answer it?"

  Gail glanced at her purse. She hesitated, then flipped open the phone. "Hello."

  "Hey, counselor!" It was Seth Greer, sounding strangely upbeat. "I tried your house, then I remembered you had a game to go to. Are you in your car? Turn on your radio to AM eight-seventy."

  "WRCL? What's up?" Gail punched the preset button and heard an orchestra with a Latin beat, probably pre-revolution. "What am I supposed to be listening to?"

  "They'll announce it any minute now. Seth Greer live at nine o'clock. I'm going to do it, Gail. I'm getting into the ring with el rey del comentario, the King of Crap."

  "Oh, my God." Gail quickly found a parking space. A nasal-voiced ballad singer crooned along in Spanish with the orchestra.

  "Mom, what's that stuff?"

  Gail waved her quiet. "Seth? What the hell are you telling me?"

  "Does that mean you disapprove? Well, Gail, that's too bad. Sorry if that sounds uppity. They've already announced my appearance. In fact, they've already broadcast some of the comments I made when I called up the station and said I was going to take Reyes on."

  As Seth talked, the song ended and a Toyota ad began.

  "Mom!" Karen was on her knees looking through the back window. "They're going in!"

  Glancing around, Gail said, "Go ahead, honey. I'll be there in a minute. Seth, the executive committee will have a fit if they hear about this—and they will. You could get kicked off the board."

  "Not to worry. How many of them listen to Cuban radio?"

  Karen's door slammed.

  "Seth, don't do this. You have not been authorized by the opera—"

  "I'm not going as a representative of the opera. Quiet, it's coming on. Listen!"

  A man's voice, an announcer. Gail heard Thomas Nolan's name, then the words el regimen de Castro. He had sung for the regime—Then the voice of a man speaking Spanish with an American accent.

  "Seth, what did you say? I didn't understand—"

  "Let's see. How would I translate that? It's like . . . the battle is over, folks. Fidel won. Deal with it."

  She yelled into the phone, "Are you crazy?"

  "Listen, Gail, I have to get ready to go. They want me there by eight-forty-five."

  "Stop. Are we working together or not? You're not helping if you run off and do stupid things like this."

  "Well, I haven't been much help so far, have I?"

  "Wait. There's something you have to know."

  A moment of silence. Then he said, "What is it?"

  Her mind spun, grabbing for anything plausible. If she could talk to him for five minutes—Grab his arm. Beg him.

  "Gail?"

  Her engine was still idling. She said, "It's too sensitive to discuss on a cell phone. I'll come by your house."

  "There's no time. It's eight-fifteen. Meet me outside the station, Coral Way and Twentieth. In fact, you should join me in the studio."

  "Wait for me," she said. "Promise you won't go on the air till we talk."

  "Well, you'd better hurry."

  Gail tossed the phone to the passenger seat. "Dammit!" She put the car in reverse, accelerated, then hit the brakes, went forward, and parked again. She rushed inside the restaurant and found Karen at a table with her best friend, Molly Perlmutter. Gail smiled at the girls, then went around to speak to Molly's mother. They lived down the street.

  So sorry. An emergency with a client. An hour or so, not more than that. She would pick Karen up at Molly's house. She gave Karen ten dollars, kissed her, and was out the door. It would take fifteen minutes to get there. Gail gunned the car up U.S. 1. The station would be just east of Coral Gables.

  With the interior light on, she flipped through her address book for Felix Castillo's pager, the only way to contact him. "Felix, this is Gail Connor. We have a loose cannon from the opera on his way to WRCL— Seth Greer. I'm going to try to persuade him not to go on the air, but just in case, would you please be available for Tom Nolan? He might need you later on tonight or tomorrow. I'm going to tell him to contact you. Thanks."

  Next she punched in Tom Nolan's number in Miami Beach. Five rings, then his voice mail. Gail took a breath to sound completely relaxed. "Hi, Tom. This is Gail Connor. Don't worry, it's probably fine, but Octavio Reyes is on the warpath again tonight. I've left a message with Felix Castillo to expect your call, so go ahead and beep him."

  She stopped herself before mentioning Seth Greer. Instead she signed off with Castillo's pager number an
d a cheerful "Talk to you soon. Bye."

  Coral Way was an old street, two lanes divided by banyan trees, with small shops on either side. Traffic was not heavy at this time of night. Through the trees, then more clearly, she saw a blue backlit outline of Cuba, then across that at an angle the letters WRCL in white neon.

  The building rested on concrete pillars and a small cube that contained a lobby, a guard's desk, and elevators. Gail got a glimpse inside as she turned into the parking lot. A tile walkway between low hedges led to the street. Gail parked in one of the visitors' spaces at the side. The antique shop next door was closed, as were the other small businesses in the strip. Beauty shop, pet store—

  Seth's BMW was nowhere in sight. A chain-link fence and electronic gate protected the parking lot behind the building, but he wouldn't have the gate opener to get in there. Apparently she had arrived first.

  This was not a dangerous area, she reminded herself. A couple strolled along the sidewalk. Gail got out of her car. There was an all-night restaurant across the street with plenty of people inside. She glanced over her shoulder at the studios of WRCL. On the second floor, light came weakly through tinted glass and closed miniblinds. Octavio Reyes was up there preparing to eviscerate Seth Greer.

  With a shiver that came more from nerves than the chilly night air, Gail got back inside her car and hit the locks. A minute later a BMW turned off the street and parked next to the sidewalk. Its headlights went off. With a little sigh of relief, Gail watched Seth Greer get out, buttoning his suit jacket over his tie, smoothing his hair. Dressed for battle. He walked around the rear of Gail's car. She pressed the button to lower her window.

  "My fan club is here," he said, reaching through to pinch her cheek.

  "Is Rebecca still at your house?" Gail asked.

  "No, she left a couple of hours ago, not long after you did. She took a cab. I'll get her car back to her tomorrow."

  "God, Seth. Does she know what you're doing?"

  "Sure. I called her." Seth laughed. "She told me to have a good time. Come on, lady. Smile." He had just shaved and put on cologne. His face glowed.

  "Get in," she said. "I need to talk to you."

  Seth planted his hands on the open window. "I have to go upstairs."

  "You promised you'd talk to me first," she said.

  He checked his watch, looked over at the building, then back at Gail. "Okay, give me the short version."

  "Listen, Seth. You say you're not representing the opera, but Reyes won't see it that way. I heard your remarks on the radio. People will assume you're a spokesman, even if you deny it."

  "I'll make it clear to him—"

  "Nobody will believe you. Whatever you say—and what I heard was pretty damned inflammatory—will reflect on the Miami Opera and everyone connected to it."

  "All right, it was a little strong." He shrugged. "You watch. I'll be a model of reasoned debate."

  "Reyes will goad you into losing your temper."

  "Not a chance." Grinning, he said, "I plan to be on the air long enough to point out that his company does business with a big fan of Thomas Nolan."

  "It's not exactly a secret."

  "Oh, but it's so sweet. I want to hear him explain why he's involved with Lloyd Dixon." When Seth backed away from the window, Gail quickly got out of the car.

  "Would you listen?'' Gail slammed her door. "It doesn't matter what you say to Octavio Reyes, he'll twist it around. Tomorrow morning I have to try to persuade the city manager that we don't have a problem. If you go on the air, I guarantee another concrete block through the door. Or worse. What might happen to Tom Nolan? Or the other cast members, or the employees? Or to you?"

  His eyes were closed. "Gail—Gail, please. Somebody has to take a stand. Reyes is using mob tactics to control who can and can't perform or speak out in this city. It's wrong. It's not democratic. They're doing what they say they're against."

  "But you're going to make it worse."

  "Everybody is afraid to stand up for what's right. That's the problem—"

  "Who are you doing this for, Seth?" Gail was his height, looking straight into his eyes. "It's for Rebecca, isn't it? You want to prove something to Rebecca. This isn't the way to do it! Not by putting her and everyone in the opera in danger."

  He looked around at the building. "I have to go. They're expecting me."

  She grabbed at his coat and got hold of his cuff. "Screw Reyes. If you don't go on, he'll be embarrassed. He can call you a coward, but you're not. Seth, you're not."

  He was wavering.

  "Come with me to the city manager's office tomorrow. Say what you have to there, where it might do some good."

  As she spoke, Gail noticed an odd flash of light on the dark lapel of his jacket, a small red dot. It moved sideways, brightening for an instant on his white shirt. Seth looked past her toward the parking lot next door. He frowned in puzzlement.

  There was a muffled pop. Gail felt the fabric of Seth's sleeve pull from her grasp, and at the same moment the breath whooshed out of his mouth as if he'd been punched. An instant later a star appeared in the windshield. More pops. Seth stumbled and hung onto the side mirror.

  The ground shifted and Gail put her hands out to stop her fall. Seth's shirt was turning red. Then his throat seemed to explode, and blood sprayed in the air like mist. His glasses clattered onto the pavement.

  Gail heard screams—her own. She rolled underneath the rear of her car. Time seemed to drag out, and she observed her body reacting as if it were a separate being, calculating what had happened and how to get away, dragging her along, no thought to it, only motion and instinct. On hands and knees, crawling into the space between her car and Seth's. Rolling through the hedge, then scrambling to the sidewalk, tripping on the curb. The pavement rushing up to meet her.

  Lights in her face. The scream of tires. A door opening.

  People running toward her.

  "Please help," she gasped. "Someone's been shot."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The paramedics let Gail sit on the back bumper of their truck to tape her left hand and wrist. She leaned numbly against the open door. The knee of her jeans had been ripped on a rebar sticking out of a parking bumper, luckily missing the flesh underneath. Blue and red lights flashed everywhere, moving in regular pulses across the building. A crowd stared from the sidewalk, kept back by crime scene tape and uniformed officers. People had come downstairs from the radio station as well.

  A Miami police sergeant had taken Gail's statement, then told her to wait there for the lead homicide detective. From where she sat, Gail could not see past the walkway that divided the parking lot in half. Seth still lay on the other side, next to her car. He had been hit three times. One of the bullets, perhaps the one that had gone through his hand, had angled through the open driver's-side window and hit the windshield.

  The security guard at the desk inside the lobby had a view of only the walkway. A passerby across the Street had seen Seth fall. The bullets had come from the tree-shaded darkness of the parking lot next door. No one had seen the shooter.

  The paramedic, a young woman in a gray uniform, smoothed some tape over the gauze to hold it. "You can get this cut looked at tomorrow. The wrist is sprained, but I'm pretty sure it's not broken." She smiled at Gail gently, then started putting the equipment away.

  "Thank you. Could I have some water?" Gail took the paper cup and swallowed painfully. Her screams had made her voice husky. "What time is it?"

  The woman checked her watch. "Nine-forty."

  "I have to call home."

  She saw out of the corner of her eye a man's gray suit coat and turned her head. Octavio Reyes had separated himself from the knot of people standing in the lobby. She had noticed him over there a while ago and had pretended not to see him.

  He bent down a little to look more closely at her. "Ms. Connor—Gail—Are you all right?"

  "Bruises and a sprained wrist. Otherwise, yes."

  "This is terribl
e. A terrible thing. I don't know who could have done this."

  "Oh, you don't."

  Blue and red lights flashed in his glasses. "I assure you, it wasn't an exile act. It couldn't have been."

  "Who, then?" she demanded. "A provocateur from Havana?"

  He made no answer to that, only turned and signaled to one of the people behind him. A woman hurried over. Reyes asked Gail if she wanted anything. Coffee, a soda? Maybe she would like to clean up in the ladies' room, to have help to wash her face and hands—

  "I need to call home ... my daughter." She coughed and swallowed. Her phone was still in her car, along with her purse and keys.

  Octavio Reyes was in the middle of telling the woman to bring a telephone when he stopped and focused on someone sprinting toward them.

  "Gail!"

  Anthony was there. His eyes were wide, his face pale. His hands slowly went out, touching her face, then taking her upper arms. Gail stood up and leaned against him, felt him shaking.

  "I'm okay," she said. "I wasn't hurt."

  With one arm around Gail, Anthony turned his back on his brother-in-law. "I spoke to the police, and they let me through. Did you make a statement? Can you leave?" Despite the tension in his body, his voice was calm and steady.

  "I spoke to a sergeant. He said to wait for the homicide detective."

  Anthony looked around. "Let me see what I can do."

  It took him five minutes. He knew the lead detective and arranged for Gail to speak to them tomorrow. He retrieved her purse and her house keys. The police would return her car keys later, as the technicians had not finished with the crime scene.

  Anthony told her to wait with the police until she saw his car come to the curb. Two minutes later he was there, flashers on. He opened the passenger door, put her inside, then went around. Gail noticed his pistol on the seat between them, out of its holster. He checked the rearview mirror, then accelerated. Gail felt herself being pressed back into soft leather. She let her head fall against the headrest.