"Thank you."
He reached for her hand. She pulled her left one away and he took the other. He raised it briefly to his lips, then held it on her thigh. He must have come from home, she thought. He was dressed for home— soft khaki pants and an old cashmere sweater without a shirt underneath. Slip-on shoes but no socks. Not the sort of thing he would ever wear in public.
A few blocks away from the area, he looked in the mirror again before pulling into a well-lighted lot in front of a supermarket. He cut the engine and took her in his arms. He murmured words in Spanish that she didn't understand, then pulled back far enough to look at her closely, to kiss her, to touch her face again, and the bandage on her injured hand.
At the scene he had been calm. Now the relief took over. "You're all right. You're certain?"
Gail nodded. "I'm so glad you're here. Anthony, how did you know?"
"You left a message with Felix and he called me at home as soon "as he could. He was on a job and couldn't get to his phone right away. He said you were on your way to the radio station, trying to stop Seth Greer from going on the air. I asked him to see about it, but he was too far away, so I came as fast as I could. Then I saw the police lights. Oh, my God, what I thought." He kissed her again, three hard kisses, holding onto her face. The day's stubble around his mouth scratched her skin.
She pushed away a little. "I need to call Karen. She's probably at Molly's house wondering why in the world I haven't shown up."
Anthony dialed the number on his car phone, and Gail explained to Molly's mother that she'd been involved in an accident, but she was all right. They would pick up Karen on the way home.
When she hung up, Anthony turned to face her. "They said he got away, whoever it was. They don't have any witnesses. They found some cartridge casings beside the building next door."
"How many? I remember hearing pops. I don't know how many shots there were. They asked me and I couldn't tell them." Her laugh came out as a sigh. "Before you get into a situation like this, you think you'll be a good witness, but right now I can hardly remember anything."
"There were five shots fired. Five. The police think someone was waiting for him."
"Waiting?"
"That's what they told me." Anthony stared at her disbelievingly. "Why did you go after him? It didn't occur to you that he could be a target?"
"No. He hadn't been on the air yet. I was going to talk him out of it."
"But he had been announced. People knew he was coming to the station. Seth Greer from the Miami Opera is going to appear to debate Octavio Reyes. Maybe he wasn't the only target. You're the lawyer for the opera." Anthony's voice was rising. "Maybe one of those bullets was for you, Gail."
She closed her eyes, feeling suddenly sick.
"You remember what we were talking about? That you never think first?"
Her eyes burned. She sobbed and the pain already in her throat made it worse.
"Ay, Diós mio." Anthony reached for her, stroked her head. "Sweetheart, don't cry. I'm sorry. I was so afraid for you."
When Karen had gone to bed, Anthony taped a plastic bag around Gail's injured hand so she could take a shower. He helped her undress, and Gail got a look at herself in the bathroom mirror. Her face was all right, but bruises darkened her skin in odd places, as if she had rolled down a rocky hillside. Anthony pointed them out. Embarrassed, she told him to please leave her alone. Go fix her a double brandy and find the pain reliever in the kitchen, if he wanted to be helpful.
She came out in a robe and found Anthony sitting on a stool at the counter. She rested her head on his for a moment, a mute apology. He slid a brandy glass and a couple of pills toward her and patted her back.
"I should call Rebecca. It's almost eleven o'clock. Maybe she knows already, but if not, I don't want her to hear about it on the news." Gail downed half the brandy, then coughed slightly and pressed her fingers to the notch in her collarbone, breathing out through an open mouth.
"Rebecca was at Seth's house tonight. I went by there around six o'clock to pick up some legal papers—which he didn't have ready for me—and she was there. Barefoot and drunk. I didn't mention this to the police. I'd rather not. She consulted me about a divorce."
"They were having an affair," Anthony concluded.
"That's a reasonable assumption." Gail stopped the brandy on its way to her lips. "Oh, no. Rebecca left her car in Seth's driveway. He told me she took a cab home."
"Then the police will find her car where she left it," Anthony said. "What they think about it—or what her husband thinks—is another matter. You don't have any control over that."
The telephone hung on the wall by the counter. Gail looked at it. "I don't know what to say to her." She finished her brandy, poured herself some more, and sipped it while finding Rebecca's number in her address book. She dialed. Waited. The voice on the other end of the line startled her. Gail had expected Rebecca or at least the housekeeper. It was Lloyd Dixon.
When he boomed out hello for the second time, Gail looked at Anthony, then said, "Lloyd, this is Gail Connor. I'm sorry to be calling so late. I have some bad news. Seth Greer was killed tonight, shot outside the studios of WRCL. Is Rebecca in? ... They don't know who did it. ... I really don't have many details, Lloyd. Could I talk to Rebecca? ... I see. Will you tell her? ... Good night."
Gail hung up. "Rebecca was asleep. Lloyd was there."
"Where else would he be?"
"In Cuba. Rebecca told me that he was in Cuba."
"Why?"
"I don't know." Gail took another sip of brandy and found that her hand was shaking. She laughed and her voice shook, too. "Seth and Rebecca and I had some pretty interesting conversations tonight."
"What about?"
She shook her head. "I don't want to talk about it now." She stared at the telephone. "I should call my mother. If I don't, she'll never speak to me again. Then I want to go to sleep. Can you wait for me in my room?"
She found Anthony watching the news. He was fully dressed on top of the comforter, legs crossed at the ankles. His shoes were by the bed. When Gail came in, he aimed the remote and the TV went dark.
"Did they mention me?" she asked.
"No." He swung his feet to the floor and sat with his hands loosely clasped, looking up at her. His eyes were dark and shadowed. "Do you want me to stay?"
Gail set her refilled brandy glass on the nightstand. It caught the edge of the clock radio and nearly overturned. "Of course I want you to stay." She dropped her robe on the floor and got into bed in her nightgown. Careful not to jostle her left hand, she moved over to make room for him on her right. She lay flat and closed her eyes.
"My mother wanted to know every last damned detail. She cried. She was going to come over, but I told her you were here. Yes, Mother, I'm fine. Anthony, hand me my drink, would you?"
"No, you've had enough."
She looked up at him, but he was opening her door. "I'll be right back." Then she heard Karen's door close softly down the hall. When he returned, he closed her door and turned the lock, then turned off the reading lamp on the nightstand. Dots of color swam in the darkness, then faded.
Moonlight shone faintly through the curtains. Anthony pulled his sweater over his head. Then there was the sound of a zipper, the shifting of cloth. He laid his clothes on the armchair.
Cool air when he lifted the blankets, then the heat of his body. She turned on her side away from him. He curled around her back, only her thin cotton nightgown between them. His hand slid down her stomach, pressed for a moment between her legs, then went under her gown.
"Anthony, I can't."
He turned her over.
"I can't. I'm so numb."
His warm breath in her ear was so soft she barely heard him. His lips moved on her skin. Speaking Spanish. The words he said to her sometimes. She had never asked—had never wanted—to know what they meant.
She wept soundlessly. He kissed the corners of her eyes—gently, not to scratch her skin. When he kissed
her mouth she tasted salt on his tongue.
He knew how to touch her, taking his time. As if from the depths of a lake she rose slowly to the surface into a burst of heat and light that swept away everything else. She knew that this was what she needed from him—what he was now. Here and now. Whatever had happened before didn't matter.
Several times through the night she heard the sound of gunfire. Saw Seth hanging on, trying to stay upright, blood exploding from his throat, the clatter of his glasses hitting the pavement, Then the deeper thud of his body—
Whenever her eyes flew open and she woke up trembling, Anthony's arms tightened around her.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Eleven a.m. found Gail at her desk. Her body ached, but staying home would have been worse. She had sent Karen off on the school bus with a hug, then had let Anthony drive her to a car rental agency. At some point her Buick would be towed to a body shop for repair—or possibly sold. Gail did not think she could bear to see it again.
Her first task was to phone the city manager's office to postpone the meeting until tomorrow. Before she dared to argue the unlikelihood of protesters on opening night of Don Giovanni, Gail wanted to know who might have murdered Seth Greer. The police would show up in the early afternoon to talk to her. She would ask them for an opinion. Had this been an act of political terrorism? Or were they following some other lead?
She knew what was being said in the media. She had turned on the television at home while getting dressed. The story had been briefly mentioned on NBC as "possibly related to Cuban exile violence, which has tapered off in recent years." Local stations covered it more extensively. Gail saw her own car, then nipped the channel before they zoomed in on the pool of blood and the tarp covering the body. She scanned the newspaper over coffee and toast. OPERA SPOKESMAN KILLED OUTSIDE EXILE RADIO STAION. Subhead: CUBAN COMMUNITY DISMAYED: In the body of the article, a quote: WRCL commentator Octavio Reyes said, "This act of barbarity was not perpetrated by any of us. We should look to Havana for answers. "
Her name had been mentioned. Miami Opera attorney Gail A. Connor, 34, was talking to Greer outside the station when the shooting took place. According to police, Connor was attempting to dissuade Greer from appearing on the air. A related story detailed other incidents in the past few years having to do with exile protests against musicians who had appeared in Cuba before coming to perform in Miami.
Anthony had barely glanced at the newspaper. He had held his coffee mug and stared grimly out the kitchen window, his face a mask of fatigue and frustration. The assumptions had already been made: The exiles had done this. Whether an organized group or one lunatic inspired by twisted notions of patriotism, the Miami Cubans were at it again.
Other motives would be proposed. The talk stations, both English and Spanish, would crackle with rumors: As a CPA, Seth Greer had been laundering money for the mob. He'd been killed by drug dealers, loan sharks, a jealous husband, a gay lover, a client. But always the talk would come back to the exiles.
When Gail arrived at her office, Miriam handed her a stack of new messages from the media, none of which Gail planned to return, and another stack from friends, which she might get to later. There were a few others from clients or fellow lawyers—ordinary matters related to their cases, which Gail gratefully set about dealing with. "If anyone outside of my mother, Karen, Anthony, or God Almighty asks for me," she had told Miriam, "I am not here."
Sometimes between phone calls, Seth Greer's face would appear in her mind—the curly gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses, and the eyes that had suddenly lit up with such fire. She tried to keep that image. That, and not the other—the bloody horror of his death.
Gail looked up from a file when Miriam came in with a cardboard banker's box, her thin arms extended by the weight. Swinging it back for a good start, she heaved it onto the desk. Her corkscrew hair bounced on her shoulders.
"My God, what's that? More phone messages?"
"You don't remember? You wanted me to research exile terrorism. There's also stuff on Cuba—history, politics, involvement in other revolutions—"
"So much?" Gail came around to peer into the box.
Miriam lifted out a dozen library books and a foot-high stack of photocopies from magazines and newspapers. "Well, a lot of it is redundant," she explained. "You know, like, two or three articles on the same topic? Oh, Gail." Miriam's eyes glimmered with tears. "Why do people do this? You were almost killed. My mother was crying on the phone this morning. She said Papi is so angry, and she feels so . . . ashamed. Whoever did this, I pray to God he was American. Is that a horrible thing to wish for?"
Gail put an arm around her. "Yes, but I understand." Miriam, who had been born here, had never before talked about us and them. Gail was at a loss, not knowing what to say.
The phone rang in the outer office; Gail had turned off her ringer. Miriam snatched up the extension on her desk. In one quick breath—she must have said it fifty times this morning—Miriam said, "Law offices of Gail Connor, may I help you? .. . I'm sorry, she's not in . . . Well, she still isn't in—" Miriam glared at the receiver, then hung up. "That was rude. Rebecca Dixon said she knows you're here, and she wants to talk to you. She's on her way."
Hidden behind her gold-trimmed tortoiseshell sunglasses, Rebecca walked slowly alongside Gail toward her office at the end of the hall. Her voice was low and calm, not a tremor. "The funeral will be on Thursday. All of us from the opera will be there. The other major cultural organizations will be represented, too. You'll come, won't you?"
"Of course I will." Gail closed the door. "How are you, Rebecca? I called last night. Lloyd said you were asleep."
"He woke me up to tell me. I couldn't believe it. Poor, poor Seth. Poor, brave, foolish man."
"Please. Sit down." Gail gestured toward the loveseat.
Rebecca seemed to float across the room. She turned and sat in one smooth motion, tucking the hem of her short black shirt under her thighs, a rustle of fabric, a whisper of sheer black hose as one leg slid over the other. Her jewelry was simple today, only a circle of gold at her neck, matching gold earrings, a lizard-strap Cartier tank watch, and her wedding band, but not the flashy diamond that went with it. She pressed a tissue to the outer corners of her eyes without removing her sunglasses.
Gail sat beside her. "I'm so sorry, Rebecca. You've lost a wonderful friend."
"I know. He called me last night to see if I'd made it home okay. He told me what he wanted to do. Just before he hung up he said, 'Becky, I love you.' He'd never said it like that before. I couldn't say anything. Lloyd was home. I just said . . . 'Bye, Seth.' And he'll never know ... that I loved him, too."
"Lloyd was home? You told me he was in Cuba."
"He was. He came home."
"Does he know about you and Seth?"
She lifted one hand and dropped it on Gail's arm. "You know, the oddest thing happened this morning. Juanita brought me my breakfast, and opened the curtains, and the sunlight just poured into the room. My bedroom is white and yellow, so the light was intense. I put on my robe and walked out on the patio with my juice, and the colors were so amazing, with the sun just coming up, and pink clouds way out over the ocean. I saw a seagull flying past—just one—and I knew, all of a sudden, that Seth was free. Not only Seth, both of us. We were so trapped in the past. He was a very sad man, Gail. You don't know. But then, to leave the world when he did, in a moment of hope. When he called me he sounded ... so happy."
Her mouth trembled, and she pressed the handkerchief to her eyes again.
Gail stared at her, trying to decide how she felt. Sympathetic, bewildered, or horrified? As for Rebecca— the woman was undeniably, without a doubt, medicated.
"Oh!" Rebecca lightly touched Gail's left wrist. "You're injured. Is it from last night?"
"It's nothing—a cut and a slightly sprained wrist."
"That's awful. You were there. Oh, Gail. I hope they catch this person and give him the electric chair." Rebecca finall
y took off her sunglasses and folded them in slow motion. "Have you talked to the police yet?"
"Just a brief statement at the scene. They're coming this afternoon."
"They were at my door at nine-thirty this morning. Security didn't even alert me. Lloyd had just left, thank heaven. They said they found my car at Seth's."
"What did you tell Lloyd?"
"That it wouldn't start," Rebecca said. "That's what I told the police, too. And I told them that I was at Seth's house for a meeting about opera business, and that you were there."
Gail said, "That's . . . not entirely accurate."
"Well, it isn't a lie. We had a meeting. Seth and I discussed the opera. And you came by for some papers. All true." Rebecca's eyes drifted up to Gail's. "I don't want people to think we were having an affair."
"Weren't you?"
"No. Not . . . whoopee and good times. We hardly ever had sex. We were friends. Basically, that's what we had. I went to Seth for companionship and comfort."
"Hhhmmmm," was the only response Gail trusted herself to make. She doubted that Seth Greer had understood the nature of his relationship with Rebecca. Smoothing the elastic bandage on her wrist, Gail asked, "Did you tell Lloyd that Seth was going on WRCL?"
"Yes. I told him. He wanted to know why Seth had called." "What time did Seth call?"
"I'd just walked in the door. The police asked me that. It was about seven-thirty."
"And what time did you go to bed?"
The only irritation allowed by whatever chemical might be floating through her bloodstream was the appearance of two small creases between Rebecca's artfully penciled brows. "I know what you're thinking. Lloyd never left the house. Seth was murdered by a Cuban exile."
"You're sure about that."
"Yes. Who else? You don't want to believe it because you're engaged to Anthony Quintana. Yes, yes, yes," Rebecca said when Gail began to object. "You want to believe it's anybody but a Cuban. But they did it." She clasped her hands under her chin as if in prayer. "You know, I just thought of something. Seth died for us. He was a martyr. That's so like Seth."
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