Gail hit the remote and the screen went dark. What Thomas Nolan was sorry about was having to do this at all.
She went into her closet for a sweater and had to step around the box that Anthony had sent.
In a sudden rush of anger, she kicked it, then flipped it upside down, shoving her clothes into a corner. Into the empty box she pitched Anthony's shoes, a shiny pair of tasseled loafers. Took some shirts off hangers, his luxurious monogrammed shirts with four initials, ALQP. Two pairs of slacks. A jacket. She wanted them out of her sight.
A Florida Marlins baseball cap. Three silk ties. A heavy robe that slithered off the padded hanger.
She resented the impersonality of receiving a box at her office. He had used a delivery man. No phone call first, nothing. It was rude. Petty.
Into the bathroom. Pulling things off a shelf in the cabinet, tossing them into a shoebox—cologne, razors, aftershave, whitening toothpaste, his toothbrush. Then to the drawer in her dresser where he kept underwear.
What could have been in the note? She imagined the words, I'm sorry. I still love you. She laughed aloud. No, he had probably written, This is to request that you return my possessions forthwith.
"Fine. Take them."
Gail went back into the closet, dumped everything into the box, then leaned on it, interweaving the flaps to keep them closed. There was a roll of wide packing tape in the garage. Passing Karen's door, she called out automatically, "Hurry up, sweetie. We have to leave in fifteen minutes, turn off the TV, get dressed."
In the garage, heading back from the kitchen, tape in hand, Gail noticed the old packing boxes on the metal shelves past the washer and dryer. One of them contained memorabilia from her high school days, including, she was certain, her yearbooks. She hesitated, then pulled the box down and set it on the dryer.
The yearbook for 1979 had a cloth cover, a silhouette of trees. The school was on a shady waterfront campus in Coconut Grove. The seniors had pages to themselves. The younger students were posed in groups, sitting or standing by the water, or on the steps of the library, or under a tree. She flipped to the tenth grade class photos and found herself in a minidress. Long straight hair, like most of the other girls. The boys' haircuts were shaggy, and their pant-legs were flared.
She turned pages till she found the photos of the junior class. Turned another page, looking for Thomas Nolan. He stood with a dozen others on the porch of the old wooden building constructed at the turn of the century, when Ransom School for Boys had taught sailing to the sons of the northeastern elite. Tommy Nolan in the back row in a plain shirt, his blond hair combed to one side, the forced smile of a loner.
Then Gail remembered. "Oh, my God."
There had been at Ransom-Everglades a small wood-frame cottage, painted green, overgrown with vines, and used at that time to store band instruments. Late one spring afternoon in 1979, when most of the other students had gone home, Tommy Nolan had been found unconscious in the bandmaster's cottage, one end of a rope tied to a beam, and the other around his neck.
Gail looked down at the small face in the photograph. For a while there had been speculation. Why had he done it? He didn't have a girlfriend who had just broken up with him. Everybody agreed he wasn't a queer—what they called it then. His grades weren't bad enough that he would get kicked out. They quickly lost interest. He hadn't come back after that, and anyway, he hadn't been one of the popular kids.
Why had he done it? Gail sat on the step to the kitchen, piecing a story together. His father had died when he was eleven years old. Then his mother had decided, when Tom was sixteen, to move back to Virginia. How inconsiderate, even cruel, to take her son out of school his junior year, and worse, to do it a few short weeks before the end of the term—after he'd been told he didn't have enough talent for the piano, but before he really believed in himself as a singer. He must have been devastated.
He had tried to kill himself. Except for a custodian's fortuitous intervention, he would have succeeded. With his life ripped from its moorings, the words of one teacher were all he had to sustain him: You should sing. And he had done it, had given himself to music. He had no wife, no children, only this one consuming passion.
Closing the yearbook, she thought of Anthony again. No wife, his children far away. In the space of one hour last Thursday night he had walked away from his family and ended his engagement. She wondered what he had done all weekend. Gotten drunk? Gone home with the first latina he could lay his hands on? Would he one day drive to Key West, sit alone in his car gazing toward Cuba, and put his pistol to his temple? Better to have stayed there and married Yolanda, his first girlfriend. In his memory she, like his childhood, remained virginal, innocent, and lost.
Gail had called him a coward. How brave am I? she wondered. How loving and wise? Her mother had been right. He was who he was because of his history, not his culture. Because of what he had loved that was lost forever.
Her fault. She had not loved him enough.
She put her forehead on her knees and sobbed.
The telephone in the kitchen rang. She ignored it. It stopped.
Then Karen's voice. "Mom! Mom, where are you? Phone!"
Wiping her eyes, Gail cleared her throat. "I'm out here. Coming." She tossed the yearbook back in the box and came inside.
It was Rebecca Dixon.
She had some things to give Gail, very important. Could she drop by the opera?
CHAPTER TWENY-FIVE
The business offices of the Miami Opera were around the corner from the auditorium itself, whose grand windows faced Biscayne Boulevard. Gail came in the side entrance and found the staff parking lot full. This meant that the orchestra was rehearsing tonight. The musicians had taken every space.
In a hurry, she squeezed her rental car between the sidewalk and a tree. Rebecca had said there would be an executive board meeting at eight o'clock, so please arrive as soon as possible. Gail had begged help from Marilyn Perlmutter down the street, whose daughter played on Karen's team. Karen could hitch a ride to the game, and Gail would buy them pizza afterward. It had been the only way to uncross Karen's arms and get the scowl off her face.
The glass doors to the reception area were dark, but lights shone in the windows of the boardroom. Farther along the side of the building, a guard sat by the rear entrance, his chair holding open the metal door. He looked up from the sports pages. Gail explained who she was, and that Mrs. Dixon was expecting her in the office.
Entering the wide corridor, she heard the orchestra and assumed Don Giovanni Bright violins punctuated by darker chords from cellos and basses followed her toward the offices, gradually fading. She had purchased a tape of the opera and had listened to some of it in the rental car on the way home. The music had seemed too cheerful for the terrible acts of lust and betrayal that Thomas Nolan had described.
She turned a corner and opened the door to the carpeted administrative area. Surprised, she found Nolan himself in the boardroom. He and Rebecca Dixon sat talking in one corner, each in a modular upholstered chair. Nolan sat back with his legs casually crossed. Rebecca perched forward, making notes.
Facing the door, Tom Nolan noticed Gail first and broke off in the middle of a sentence. His pale brows rose a fraction. Rebecca smiled at her. "Hi, Gail. Come in. Tom's giving me some ideas for a fundrais-ing party before opening night—a lecture about the opera, the story behind it. He's an angel, donating his time like this."
Nolan waved away the compliment. He remained seated, his eyes shifting upward as Gail crossed the room. "Are you here for the board meeting?"
Gail glanced at Rebecca. "No, I came to pick up some papers."
"Tom, I need to talk to Gail for a minute."
"Not to be rude," he said, "but how long will this take? We need to finish so you can present this to the board in half an hour—"
"I can't stay," Gail said, "My daughter's expecting me at her soccer game."
Rebecca reached over to pat his arm. "Sit right here. We'll
go out to the lobby."
"Please, don't bother." Nolan pushed himself out of the chair, his long, lanky frame seeming tó rise in stages. "I've got to speak to the conductor about something. We're rehearsing with the orchestra tomorrow." At the door he said to Gail, "What did you think of the press conference?"
"You were great."
"Now what do we do?"
She turned her hands palms up. "I'm filing the lawsuit tomorrow at ten. If I hear from the city before that, hooray, but I'm not holding my breath."
Rebecca waited for him to go, then closed the door. She was Madame President tonight in a navy pinstripe jacket and white turtleneck. Her shoes were two-tone lace-up oxfords that Gail had seen at Nieman-Marcus for three hundred bucks and promptly put back on the display table.
"How did it go after I left last night?" Gail asked. "Tom told me that Octavio Reyes walked out. Did Lloyd get a chance to talk to him first?"
"Yes. We'll see if it does any good." Distracted by other things on her mind, Rebecca strode toward the conference table, where a big Louis Vuitton tote bag lay on its side. She rummaged through it, pulling out some membership brochures, a notebook, and file folders that pertained to the opera. "I wrote down the names of our guests last night, as you asked me to."
"What do you think?" Gail asked.
"I think you're crazy, but I'm nobody's judge of sanity. By the way, I had the appointment with Char-lene Marks today. Thanks for recommending her. She's a bitch, just what I need." Finally a stack of three or four small mailing envelopes came out of the tote bag, and Rebecca straightened the prongs that held the first one shut. "I told Charlene everything— I hope you don't mind. It will take me a few days, but by the weekend, I'll be staying with some friends in Ft. Lauderdale. This morning I went into Lloyd's study. He keeps it locked, but a long time ago I found the key and made a copy. It pays to know your husband's assets. Don't forget that after you're married. I made copies for the attorney, and thought, well, let's just see if there's anything Gail could use. Anything related to our favorite radio host, Octavio Reyes."
Rebecca was speaking quickly, and from time to time she would glance toward the door. She spread out the papers on the conference table. One page contained a list of names written in her slanted script— the men who had attended Lloyd's dinner party last night. She opened two other envelopes and explained what else she had found.
"These pages are from his appointment book, wherever I saw the initials 'O.R.' Some have the phone number. You can check it out. I went back to last summer and forward a month. These pages are the ferry records. You'll see Octavio's name three times. These are from a corporation called DSA—that's Lloyd and two other men—Santangelo and Atkins. They're into hotels. Octavio Reyes is one of the shareholders. Let's see. Here are some letters and notes to or from Reyes. A memo of understanding regarding future investment . . . Dixon Air to provide all air shipment—"
Gail touched the pages as if they weren't quite real. She scanned a letter in which Octavio Reyes stated his intention of providing up to ten million dollars in capital. He didn't have that kind of money. But Ernesto Pedrosa did. She wondered if Reyes planned to wait until the old man was dead or loot his businesses while he was still breathing.
"Rebecca, this is incredible. I could hang Octavio up by the cojones."
"Have at it," she said, "but it won't do any good. The exiles in general are so angry at Tom that Octavio could retract everything he ever said, and it wouldn't make any difference. Gail, you'd better not read all this now. We don't have time."
"Of course." They gathered the papers and folded them into the envelopes. Gail said, "I promise you, Rebecca, this will not be made public. I refuse to put you in jeopardy."
"Thanks, but I don't worry too much about Lloyd finding out. That man always lands on his feet." She put a hand on Gail's arm. "How did the photos come out? Did you get them developed?"
"Mine are useless, and yours, I am sorry to say, are gone. I saw Felix Castillo last night on the island. I put the film in my bag after you threw it to me. Then Felix appeared and dragged me into some bushes claiming a security guard was coming. Later on, I couldn't find the film. I know he took it, the bastard. I didn't see any security guard."
Twirling her gold chain around one finger, Rebecca said, "Why was he there?"
"Anthony hired him to follow Octavio. That tells me where the film is."
She twisted the chain the other way. "He used to be a Cuban agent. What if he still is?"
"No," Gail said. "Anthony would know if he were, believe me."
"I used to think that a lunatic exile murdered Seth, but whoever shot him was ice cold. The police don't have any leads. The man got away so cleanly. What kind of person could do that?" Rebecca looked at Gail. "I'm going as crazy as you, aren't I? You got me started with all this talk of spies."
Before last night, Gail would have dismissed this suggestion at once. Anthony trusted Felix Castillo, and therefore so did she. She did not know why Anthony had maintained a friendship with Castillo, but the fact remained, this was a man who had shot a young woman in cold blood.
"Maybe it isn't so crazy," she said. "Felix Castillo is capable of murder. Last night he admitted what he did to Emily Davis."
Rebecca stopped twisting her gold chain. She seemed to freeze into position staring at Gail.
"I'm sorry," Gail said. "I didn't mean to bring it up."
"Felix said ... he did it?"
"Yes. I wouldn't have asked him, but you told me last week that the rebel leader didn't do it. Anthony said Felix did. I wanted to be sure, so I asked Felix." Gail's words became slower. "And ... he admitted it. Why are you looking at me like that?"
Rebecca laughed and put a hand on her forehead. "I'm sorry. Oh, Gail."
The room seemed to tilt. Gail put both hands on the table. Better to turn around now and walk out. A person didn't have to know everything. Some things, Anthony had said, cause more hurt than illumination.
Rebecca leaned against her shoulder and put an arm lightly around Gail's waist. "Listen to me. You can't hate him for it. I did, for a long time. It was horrible and ruthless, what he did, but I'm alive because of it. When Pablo came to interrogate Emily, he thought we were protecting her. Pablo said we had to prove we weren't working for the CIA. If one of us executed the spy, he would let us go. His men were armed with rifles. He tied her hands with electrical wire and made her kneel, and he held onto her hair. She was crying. Pablo took his gun out of his holster and told one of us to take it. Oh, Gail, this is so hard."
She pressed her cheek to Gail's and closed her eyes. "I didn't want to tell you. Anthony knew what would happen. They would have tortured her before they killed her, and they would have done the same to us. We were such fools. Such children. I've been hiding all my life, you know that? Seth is gone now. I miss him, but oh God, he was such a reminder of everything I wanted to forget. Charlene Marks told me today, Get out, start a new life. I'm going to do it." She hugged Gail, laughing softly. "Expect a postcard from Hong Kong."
They remained still for a few seconds. Someone was knocking on the door. As if waking, Rebecca looked around. "Tom."
Gail nodded. "I have to go." She picked up the envelopes from the stack of folders on the table.
When Rebecca opened the door, Tom Nolan stood there with a sour expression. "Excuse me for interrupting, but we don't have much time."
"I'm sorry, Tom." Gail looked over her shoulder. "Good night, Rebecca."
"Call me," Rebecca said.
"Gail!" Tom Nolan came a few steps after her. "Felix Castillo never showed up. That guard down there is going to escort me home. I wouldn't bother you with this, but you hired Felix. I think we should find someone else."
"Fine. I'll see about it tomorrow morning, before I go to the courthouse."
He gave her a guilty smile. "I'm sorry for adding to your problems. Go home, get some rest."
"Good night," she said.
The music of Mozart flooded t
he corridor when Gail pushed open the door. A harpsichord, then strings. The brass came in. Tympani. Such divine precision, every note exactly where it should be. Human affairs were never so perfect. Anthony had seduced Emily— if it had been seduction—after an affair with Rebecca. But whose fault was that? Rebecca had wanted him. Seth had forgiven. Or perhaps he hadn't. In Los Pozos they had all stumbled into a swamp of arrogance and jealousy. A power struggle between the men. The project stalled for lack of funds. The women hating each other. Then Emily hating Anthony for not begging money from his grandfather to buy her a plane ticket home. And all culminating in tragedy, with a burden of guilt for every one of them to carry back. Every one but Emily. Anthony had put a bullet in her brain. Or maybe not. Maybe Rebecca had been lying. Somebody was, that much was perfectly clear.
In her car, Gail stuffed the envelopes into her purse and counted only three of them. There had been four, she was certain. She turned on the interior lights, looked inside them. The copies of pages from Lloyd Dixon's appointment book were missing.
Grabbing her purse, she locked the car, then sprinted across the parking lot. She told the guard, "I was just here. I left something in the boardroom."
"Yeah, okay. Go ahead." He waved her ahead and went back to his newspaper.
The music faded out again as Gail hurried along the corridor and pushed through the door to the offices. She wanted to retrieve the envelope before one of the board members due to arrive at eight o'clock picked it up and looked inside, wondering what it was. The consequences of that made her shudder.
She heard Thomas Nolan's voice, but it seemed to come from farther along the hall. Lights were on in the lobby. She could see the reception desk, a chair, a vase of flowers. Tom Nolan and Rebecca had to be just out of sight around the corner.
Nolan laughed at something. Then he said to Rebecca, "You take care. I've got to be going now."
Gail went inside the boardroom. The envelope was there on the table. She had missed it before among Rebecca's other papers. She folded it and stuck it into her purse with the others.
Suspicion of Deceit Page 26
