Gail glanced at Anthony, reading nothing in his expression.
Fernandez asked her, "Ms. Connor, you hired Mr. Castillo to do some work for the opera, is that correct?"
"Yes. He was Mr. Nolan's bodyguard," she said.
From his chair Anthony said, "Thomas Nolan came by earlier. He mentioned that he might have seen a van like Felix Castillo's in the parking lot before the explosion. Is that the information you're going on?"
The older detective, Delgado, said, "Are you Castillo's lawyer?"
"If he asks me to be." A smile passed over his lips. "Look. If you think that Felix was involved in this, forget it. He's not political. He's not with any group. I know him well enough to be sure of that."
"We don't believe that an exile group did it. We get strong denials from all of them."
"Does this surprise you?" Anthony said. "Give me your opinion, Lieutenant. Who do you think is responsible?"
"What do I think? This might be payback for the hotels bombed in Havana last summer."
Anthony couldn't hold back a smile. "And you're looking for Felix?"
"Interesting fact we picked up about your friend Castillo. He came over in the Mariel boatlift. Before that, he was with Cuban State Security." Delgado waited for a response. When there was none, he said, "I know about G-2. Me pusieron en la cárcel de Boniato en una celda tapida. Me torturaban. Todavía tengo cicatrices." Gail could understand enough of it. Boniato was a prison. Delgado had been there, had been tortured, and he still had the scars.
Anthony said quietly, "Felix Castillo quit in 'seventy-nine, and they threw him in prison."
"What a shame."
With a small exhalation, Anthony planted his hands on the arms of the chair and stood up. "I think that's all, Lieutenant. Ms. Connor needs to rest."
The detectives passed a look between them. Fernandez said, "Mr. Quintana, let's go outside." He tilted his head toward the door.
"I want him to stay," Gail said.
"No, we're finished with you for now, Ms. Connor."
Delgado said, "Let's go." He opened the door.
Anthony stayed where he was. "What is this about?"
"We want to ask you about Felix Castillo."
"I told you, I don't know where he is."
"Then we'll just talk. Come on."
"You want to talk to me, make an appointment at my office." His attention was drawn by a movement at the door, and surprise flickered over his face.
The detectives turned around. They blocked Gail's view for a moment, then moved aside as an elegant white-haired woman came in carrying flowers.
Digna Pedrosa. She noticed Gail and smiled broadly. "We found you!" Outside, Ernesto Pedrosa sat in a wheelchair. With help from Alicia, he stood up and came into the room, leaning on her arm, steadying himself with a cane. He was too proud to sit in his chair.
His gaze fixed on the detectives, a look that both recognized who they were and dismissed them from further business here.
Delgado said to Anthony, "We'll be in touch."
When they had gone, Anthony closed the door. He watched, but said nothing to the three who had just come in, clustered now at Gail's bedside. From the women there were expressions of horror, inquiries about her wounds. Light kisses on her cheeks. Exclamations at the state of her hair, her eyelashes. Gail said she was in some pain and still a little dizzy, but that was passing. She thanked them for the flowers. Anthony stood just beyond the end of the bed with his hands in his trouser pockets, feigning disinterest.
During this, Ernesto Pedrosa gazed down at Gail through his thick glasses.
Alicia reached past her grandmother to touch Gail's hand. "We were frantic, calling the hospital, and they wouldn't tell us anything! I'm so sorry, Gail."
"If that's an apology," Anthony said, "it should be coming from your husband."
Gail gave him a warning look.
It was as though Ernesto Pedrosa had not heard this remark. He took Gail's hand. His trembled slightly, and the skin was papery dry. His voice had more strength in it, and the accent and cadence belonged to a man accustomed to power.
"Pobrecita. My heart aches, Gail. I would take your place if God let me. The death of your friend is a terrible thing. And the singer, Thomas Nolan—I think he was wrong to sing for the regime, but I am sorry, believe me, that he was hurt. When I heard about this bomb, I wanted to know, Who could have done this? Last night I talked with many people. Ooof! Hours on the telephone. Some people came to my house. And you know, usually there is talk. Usually someone has heard something. But with this bombing? Nothing, nothing, nothing. But this tells us who was not responsible."
Still holding her hand to his chest, Ernesto Pedrosa slowly patted it, emphasizing his words. "It was not one of us."
"Never one of us," Anthony muttered from the end of the bed. As if the room were pressing in on him, he turned to the window and held back the curtain far enough to look out. He squinted in the sudden light, which sharpened the lines at his eyes and mouth and made a white blaze of his shirt. "The radio hosts, the politicians, the writers of those cheap newspapers on every street corner and in every grocery store, breeding hatred, but when someone acts on that hatred, well, it was a Castro agent, a provocateur."
Without turning his head, Pedrosa lifted his ragged gray brows. "One must fight tyranny. Maybe, to some people, that is hatred. What should we do? Be quiet? Let conditions remain the same and hope they will change? No, speak out. A man must believe in something, and fight for it."
The light dimmed when Anthony let the curtain go. "And Rebecca Dixon was blown to bits. If we give a provocateur a reason to do it in our name, are we less guilty?"
"¡Silencio!” shouted Pedrosa, the warrior again. "I know this!" His wife closed her eyes. Alicia glared darkly at her brother. Turning back to Gail, Pedrosa said, "I have asked my friends with the radio stations what they think. They all agree. Forget about Thomas Nolan. He's probably a communist, but it doesn't matter."
Anthony leaned against the wall, wearily shaking his head.
Pedrosa's face softened. "Are they treating you well here?"
"Yes, but I'll be happy to leave," Gail said.
Digna patted her arm. "Do you have some help with your house?"
"My mother—"
"No, no. Your mother will take care of you. Let us send someone."
"You mustn't bother, really—"
With a finger in front of her pursed lips, Digna said, "Shh. We want to help."
The old man leaned closer. He smelled lovely, and his cheeks had been freshly shaved. His suit was immaculate. "I don't like hospitals," he whispered.
"I don't either." She returned his smile.
He gently kissed her cheek, then said to Alicia, "La silla, por favor." He glanced past Anthony without seeing him. Alicia said goodbye to Gail, nodded to her brother, then went to turn down the footrests on the wheelchair. Digna stood for a long moment looking up at her grandson. Whatever she murmured in Spanish, Gail missed it. Anthony embraced her.
As soon as the three of them had gone out of sight, Gail felt her nose sting. Her eyes filled with tears, and she hiccuped a sob.
Anthony hurried to her. "What happened? What is it?"
"I don't know. I'm so tired. First Seth. Now Rebecca—Everything is so horrible."
He made quick shushing noises and stroked her hair. "Sweetheart. Don't cry. I'll get the nurse. Something for the pain. Giving you Tylenol is ridiculous."
She pushed his hand away. "Go after them. Go speak to your grandfather before he leaves. You didn't even say goodbye to him."
"Gail, please—"
"It isn't his fault that I'm here. Go, before it's too late."
"It's been too late for a long time."
"He's old and sick, and he's going to die soon. My sister died and we were on such awful terms with each other, and it wasn't until she was gone that I knew how much I loved her." Gail wept into the sheet, unable to stop.
"No. I won't leave
you here like this. All right, I'll call him tonight. Stop crying."
"Anthony, for God's sake, how can you be so stupid? You don't know why your grandfather came, do you?"
He frowned, puzzled. "To see you. To explain. What do you mean?"
"He was talking to you, Anthony. God, it's so obvious. He needs you. You're his hope, don't you know that? Please don't walk away. You did that . . . with me, and ... I wanted to die." She sucked in a breath and let it out in a long wail.
He stared at her for another moment, then got up and looked into the hall. "They're gone." He hit the door frame with his open palm. "What would I say to him? I'm sorry? Sorry for what?" He looked back at Gail, then let out a breath. "I'll be back."
His footsteps faded in the corridor.
Utterly spent, Gail closed her eyes, and her arms flopped to the mattress.
What would happen downstairs? His family would have reached the elevator already. She imagined Anthony running for it, seeing the silver wheels of his grandfather's chair roll inside, then the doors closing. Anthony backing up to see where the other two elevators were. What floors, how long a wait?
He goes for the stairwell, down four flights of stairs, then into the lobby, people rushing in every direction. Which of the many exits did they take?
His grandfather is waiting with Digna under the portico while Alicia goes to get the car. Anthony sees them through the glass doors. He slows down, catches his breath. How many years' worth of pain can be erased in a few minutes? None. But a start can be made.
They are looking up at him, waiting for him to speak.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
A week later a memorial service was held for Rebecca Dixon, whose funeral had been private. Her husband had scattered the ashes over the Atlantic from ten thousand feet. The memorial ended at two o'clock, and Gail came straight home. She dumped bath salts into her tub and turned on the water full force to make a froth of bubbles.
Dropping her robe to the mat, she looked over her shoulder in the mirror. She had lost weight, and her ribs showed. On her pale skin, the bruises had faded a bit, now more yellow than purple. "Oh, you are so gorgeous." She hit the rheostat on the light switch, and the row of bulbs over the mirror dimmed to a soft glow. Steam was already obscuring her image. Gail tested the water with a toe, then carefully lowered herself into the tub. Her body still ached. The water was hot but not painful. She leaned back on the inflatable pillow. The bubbles reached to her chin. She inhaled a long, slow breath and floated, then reached for her wine.
Anthony had called her at work to say he couldn't go with her, one of his trials taking longer than expected. He wanted to come by later for dinner. Of course he would expect to spend the night. And she would say yes, although she wasn't sure she wanted him to. Their fight, the bombing, her injuries—all were making her feel disconnected and subdued.
Over a thousand people had attended the service, held in the theater. The set for Don Giovanni had been rolled aside to make room for the orchestra on stage. The Philharmonic chorus had sung portions of Mozart's Requiem. There had been remembrances by Rebecca's friends. Lloyd had made a tribute to his wife, and his voice had trembled in places. Then the speeches by politicians. News cameras had filmed everything. Gail knew before she arrived and was ushered to the reserved seating down front that this event was never really about Rebecca Dixon.
Reporters in the lobby swooped like carrion birds. Gail had been able to avoid most of them until today. She endured several interviews. She shook hands with Alberto Estrada, the city manager. The city had dropped its demand for extra security for the run of the opera. No lawsuit would be filed.
For the exile community, the memorial had been a celebration of sorts, a sigh of relief. The bomber had been identified, and he was not, as Ernesto Pedrosa had said, one of us.
Based on Thomas Nolan's observation of what he thought was Felix Castillo's van in the opera parking lot the night of the bombing, police had obtained a search warrant for Castillo's house. Bingo.
His clothes were strewn about as if he had packed in a hurry. His personal papers were gone. His girlfriend, Daisy, was missing. There was nothing moving in the house but a cage full of hungry lovebirds. In the garage police had found wire, a soldering iron, and traces of black powder. Among ammunition left behind they found a box of .223 Remington center-fire cartridges, the same lot number as those picked up at the scene of Seth Greer's murder.
The day after the bombing, the Spanish edition of the Miami Herald and several of the Cuban radio stations had received in the mail a typed communique from a group calling itself F.L.C.—Frente para la Liberación de Cuba—announcing that the opera bombing would be the first strike against communists in the city of Miami. Unused sheets of the same paper had been found in the trash behind Castillo's house.
The City of Miami police chief stated in a press conference that Felix Castillo, former agent with Cuban State Security, was wanted for the murders of Seth Greer and Rebecca Dixon.
Obtained from his investigator's license, Castillo's photo appeared on television screens and on the front page of newspapers—an unsmiling, balding man with a gray Fu Manchu mustache. The flat lighting, narrowed eyes, and thick neck made him look like a thug. Sightings were reported from Key West to Atlanta. Rumors said he had gone back to Cuba. Others said he was still in the Miami area, planning his next attack.
Anthony had not wanted to talk about it, other than to tersely say, "Something is wrong. I think he was set up." Reluctantly Gail told him that on the night of Seth Greer's murder, she had left a message on Castillo's beeper that Seth was heading for WRCL. No one else knew but Rebecca and Lloyd Dixon, but they were too far away. Felix lived within a mile of the station. Plenty of time to get there. Hearing that, Anthony had become even more depressed, wondering how he could have misjudged Felix Castillo so completely.
Gail balanced her wine on her chest and inhaled. Her breasts appeared through the bubbles. Small rosy breasts. Anthony had said he liked them. Un buchito. A mouthful. She exhaled and sank.
After the memorial was over, she had noticed Lloyd Dixon among a group of opera friends in the lobby, one older woman sympathetically patting his arm. He stood with feet squarely planted, a big, ruddy-faced, white-haired man in a somber gray suit. He had not seemed overcome with grief, but then, he wasn't the type.
Yesterday Anthony had told her she'd been wrong about Dixon's dinner guests. He had given Rebecca's list to a private investigator, who had found nothing, not a hint, that any of them was other than what Rebecca had said they were—wealthy men with offshore business interests.
Today in the lobby Gail had asked Lloyd Dixon if she could speak to him privately for a moment. They went back into the theater and stood in the center aisle. Stagehands were clearing music stands and risers from the stage.
"Please forgive me, I know this isn't a good time," Gail said, "but I have reasons for wanting to know. You and Octavio Reyes were planning to make investments in Cuba at some point in the future. Are you still working with him on that?"
He gave her a long, appraising look before apparently concluding that it didn't matter if he told her. "I've withdrawn my participation in the group. Don't have the interest right now. As for Octavio, well, that's up to him. Why?"
After a moment, Gail shrugged and told the truth. "I like to keep up with what Octavio Reyes is doing. It affects me because it affects Anthony. I'm not sure I trust him."
A smile started on one side of Dixon's face and stayed there. "Reyes is all right, if you keep an eye on him."
Then Gail asked, "What's really going on with Felix Castillo? Do you know anything that the police aren't telling the rest of us?"
"Strange question."
She spoke quietly. "People have been used before as political scapegoats. How convenient to charge a man who used to be a Cuban spy. How solid is the case against him? Rebecca told me that you have friends who . . . How can I say this? You know people in agencies of the governme
nt that deal with foreign affairs. People who would be interested in Felix Castillo. I thought—because of Rebecca—that you might have asked about him. Maybe you know things concerning the investigation."
Dixon crossed his arms over his big chest and thrust out his chin. "Of course he's being used, but that doesn't mean he didn't do it. The police have no reason to frame Castillo."
Maybe Dixon needed Felix Castillo's guilt as much as everyone else seemed to. It tied up his wife's murder in a neat little package.
Onstage, men were throwing folding chairs onto a dolly. "Who's asking? You or Anthony Quintana?"
"I am, but Anthony has known Felix a long time. He is absolutely stunned that Felix Castillo is under suspicion."
"Stunned." The half-smile reappeared. "Twenty years ago, when Rebecca and Seth Greer and Anthony Quintana were in Nicaragua, Castillo was there, too, working for the Cubans. He and your fiancé were buddies."
"I know."
"According to my wife, Anthony Quintana could quote Karl Marx and Che Guevara. He was in Central America to fight Yankee imperialism, and he talked about giving up his U.S. citizenship and going back to Cuba. Things didn't work out down there for our happy little band of college radicals, but now your fiance goes to Cuba a few times a year—"
"Wait a minute," Gail said.
"—where he visits his father—which we can understand—and his sister, who is a top official in the Ministry of Trade, and who—I am so stunned—happens to be married to a major in the Cuban army, intelligence division. Then Felix Castillo shows up as Tom Nolan's bodyguard. Two weeks later, the opera is bombed."
Gail made an exhalation of disbelief. "Felix spent time in a Cuban prison."
"That's what they all say, to get into this country." Dixon paused to see if any of this was sinking in. Gail only stared back at him. "Well, it's just something to consider." He started to go.
She grabbed his coat sleeve. "Lloyd, wait. Rebecca told me you saw a copy of the CIA report on what happened in Los Pozos. Was there anything about Emily Davis's death? Who killed her?"
Suspicion of Deceit Page 28
