Suspicion of Guilt
Barbara Parker
For Laura
Acknowledgments
This book was not created whole from my own imagination but woven from the suggestions, insights, and stories that many people have generously shared.
I am indebted to Lance R. Stelzer (criminal law), Karen H. Curtis (civil trial practice), and Eugene W. Sulzberger (probate), who filled in what I have forgotten (or never knew) about practicing law.
Many thanks to Detective Gary F. Schiaffo, Miami Beach Police Department, for the gritty details and some great lines.
And what would I have done without Helen M. Z. Cevern, World Gallery, Miami Beach, for her artful take on the Lincoln Road scene; Harry J. Coleman, Associated Forensic Services, Miami, for showing me how to detect a forgery; Oscar Delgado, for some great lines in Spanish; Trudi Gilbert, Everglades Marina, and Dan Leahy, the New Moon at the Bahia Mar, both in Fort Lauderdale, who taught me bow from stern; Liz Pittenger, Renaissance woman, for the highbrow stuff; freelance writer Rosalind Resnick for sharing her style and her persona; and, as ever, Warren Lee.
Prologue
The night she was murdered, Althea Tillett had hosted a party for her best girlfriends. The four of them usually played bridge on Wednesdays, but tonight was special, the last bridge game before Althie would fly off to Europe for a month. Ignoring the cards after the first round, they went through three bottles of wine and ended up singing old show tunes around the grand piano.
Jessica's driver showed up promptly at ten o'clock, as instructed, waiting patiently in the foyer while the women all shrieked with laughter, trying to aim their feet into the right shoes.
As soon as the taillights disappeared past the bougainvillaea at the gate, Althie came back in and locked up. The house seemed quiet now, strangely empty. Through the high windows she could see the black waters of Biscayne Bay and in the distance a line of streetlights twinkling through the trees on the Miami side. She glanced at the mess they had made—napkins, plates, glasses, an empty bottle on the carpet. The grandfather clock chimed the quarter hour.
Humming to herself, Althea unsteadily climbed the stairs, coming back down in her kimono and wooden Japanese sandals. She put Madama Butterfly on the CD player, the scene where Pinkerton marries Cho-Cho San. Hands folded geisha-style at her breast, Althie sang with them in Italian. Bowing, she bumped into a plaster replica of Winged Victory, then grabbed its rocking pedestal just in time, laughing at her reflection in the windows. A post-middle-age broad in a red silk robe. She untied the belt and flashed the darkness. The best thing about this house, Althie noticed when her late husband, Rudolph W. Tillett, moved her into it, was the privacy. When the kids were gone, she and R.W. used to walk stark naked through the place, and turn up the stereo so loud the chandelier would rattle.
They had met at the opera. She had bought a seat for herself and by chance his was adjacent. During La Boheme she saw the tears on his cheeks and pressed her handkerchief into his hand. A year later, just after his invalid wife passed away, they married. His black-haired twins—a boy and a girl—were perfect little brats about it, but she didn't give a damn. Her friends warned her about R.W., said he was a selfish bastard, but she told them sweetly to shut up. He loved her. What else did she need to know?
R.W. had indulged her. He let her redecorate the house, whatever she wanted. She got rid of the French Empire furniture and the dusty velvet curtains and brought in a mix of Art Deco, modern Italian, Persian rugs, carved Chinese panels, and mementoes from their trips abroad. The landscapes were banished to the attic and replaced with abstract impressionists. In the living room Althie hung a convincing copy of a Gauguin Tahitian nude, and in the master bedroom a Picasso drawing—a real one—of a devil with dark, heavy genitals.
She hadn't expected such passion from this man. When the mood struck, he would put on his tuxedo and sit in an armchair, sending puffs of cigar smoke over his shoulder, his deep-set gray eyes fixed on Althie. With the Mozart buzzing on the windows, or the Bizet, or Verdi, she would slide out of the Pappagena bird outfit or flamenco dress or Egyptian wig, or whatever it was she had on. If he ever noticed that she dimmed the lights a little more as the years passed, he had the tact not to say so. Barefoot, Althie would dance over to him, loosen his bow tie, take the studs out of his pleated shirt ...
For their fifteenth anniversary they went to a spa in Switzerland. He got a penile implant and she, a face-lift. Afterward, they spent a week in Paris. A small hotel. It had rained. Delicious, whispery rain.
Memories. They always made her eyes sting. Althie went over to the bridge table, began to stack plates, then sighed. Let Rosa tidy up in the morning. Althie unlatched the sliding door and walked out onto the terrace on the swelling crescendo of the Metropolitan Opera Chorus. The bay was dead calm, the air thick and heavy. She flapped the sides of her robe, making a little breeze. Summer goes on forever in Miami, she thought.
Three and a half years ago, in winter, the sky shimmering with stars, she and R.W. had put on a new Wagner CD, dropped their bathrobes on a chaise, and took their steins of pilsner into the hot tub. He found the ledge to sit on and held out his big hand. Laughing like a witless teenager, Althie pushed through the bubbles to settle down across his thighs. A little later, those whimpering noises he made— She could barely hear them over the Gotterdammerung pouring through the open doors. Clinging to his shoulders, she thought he was having a ferocious climax. But no. His implant still stiff as a piling, the rest of him went limp, and he slid off the ledge and under the steaming water.
On Monday she would fly to the Aegean one last time. Surely R.W., wherever he was, would forgive these little flings of hers. But soon she would look silly dancing in a tavern with a man half her age. One more trip to Mykonos, then come home to sink into a respectable dotage. She would never remarry. Oh, R.W., my man, my love, my only love ...
Kimono fluttering, Althie abruptly crossed the dark terrace and slid the glass door shut, twisting the lock. The orchestra was leading up to "Un Bel Di Vedremo." She turned down the volume, then clopped through the arched entranceway to the kitchen in her wooden sandals. The silvery soprano followed.
"... Vedi ? E venuto! Io non gli scendo in contro ..." Do you see? He is coming.
Thirsty, Althie held a glass under the tap on the refrigerator, watched the water swirl closer to the rim.
"... Che dira? Che dirH? Chiamera 'Butterfly' dalla lontana ..." He calls "Butterfly" from far away.
Althie sang softly to herself. And then her voice leaped into a cry of confusion and panic.
Something had grabbed her hair, violently pulling backward. The glass dropped, hit the floor. Icy water splashed her ankles. Now an arm was across her throat.
Someone had come into her house. A man who didn't belong there. This could not be. The alarm system—
She tried to cry out, could only choke. The arm tightened. She clutched at the wrist and her hands slid on leather. He lifted her off the floor and she kicked madly, connecting once with the wooden sandal. He cursed and swung her around, and for an instant Althie saw her own face, eyes gaping, in the window.
He slammed her into the counter, pinning her. His body was solid, his breath hot on her temple. Her throat was caught in the crook of his elbow. Now his other hand moved to grip the back of her head. She wheezed, gagged. Her head was forced around and back. Out of the corner of one eye she saw things on the counter—a bowl of peaches, a coffee cup, a novel she had begun. With a pang of regret, she realized she would never know how it ended.
The soprano was still singing in a voice pure as sunlight.
Chapter One
Late on a Monday afternoon, Gail Connor sat in Larry Black's office waiting for hi
m to finish a phone call. She should have packed up her briefcase and gone home to her daughter an hour ago, but she needed a favor.
One of the firm's biggest clients, a bank, was going to sue a major brokerage house. Two years ago Gail had won a federal trial for the bank, and wanted them to give her this new case. The decision wasn't up to Larry, but he would know what her chances were. He could put in a good word.
Gail had brought along another file, a case set for trial next week at the Dade County Courthouse. She and the other side had worked out a tentative settlement. Larry's approval wasn't necessary—Gail had full authority to settle—but it gave her a reason to talk to him. A way of getting to what she really wanted. The banking case would be massive, requiring her to fly out of state for meetings, organize a staff of junior associates, hire extra paralegals, supervise the drafting of dozens of lengthy documents. It would be the sort of ball-busting exercise required of those who deserved a partnership. Win a case like this, get your battle ribbons, no question.
She smiled to herself, aware of her own nervousness and of how ridiculous it was to be nervous at all with Larry. As if she needed a pat on the back before asking for a simple favor. With thumb and forefinger she curled up the frayed corner of the file.
Gail was a serious woman of thirty-three, slender, and as tall as most of her male colleagues, with dark blond hair that brushed the collar of her tailored suits. She'd had no trouble getting hired straight out of law school, due in part to top grades but more to connections. Her family went back four generations, rare in this town. There had been a street named after them, before it was buried under 1-95.
The little gold clock on Larry's credenza gave one soft ding. Six-thirty. The person on the other end of the conversation, she gathered, was the CEO for a shipping company that the firm was after. Apparently Larry had him on the hook and halfway in the boat. He chuckled, rocking back in his chair. Just shy of forty, balding at the crown, and dressed like a British banker, Larry Black created an aura of absolute trust. Unlike other attorneys she could name, it wasn't an act. His grandfather had founded the firm; Larry's position was solid as bedrock.
Leaving the file on a small table by the divan, Gail got up to wander around. Larry raised a hand to tell her he would be finished soon, don't go away. She nodded. At the windows she leaned on the sill, feeling the heat through the tinted glass.
Most big Miami law firms were like the clouds that formed over South Florida this time of year, late summer. They appeared out of nowhere, coalescing into heavy gray masses, swirling into thunderstorms, then breaking up in a rain of spite and bad PR, scattering partners and associates into other offices. Hartwell Black and Robineau, founded in 1922, had for the most part avoided such turbulence. Associates came and went; most partners stayed, happy with their stratospheric salaries. At the firm's main office on Flagler Street there were sixty-seven attorneys, seventeen of them partners. Gail had decided: After eight years with Hartwell Black she was either going to get a partnership or not. If not, she would quit. No point hanging on, getting overripe, people wondering what the problem was.
She heard the click when Larry hung up the telephone. He was putting on his glasses, coming out from behind his desk. "Sorry to take so long. What have you brought me?" He glanced at the file. "Beltran Plastics. Yes. What's up?"
He knew the facts, so Gail got to the point. "The other side is offering to settle. Bottom line, $175,000, everybody takes care of their own costs. I think it's reasonable, given what we have to work with. Did you read Oscar Beltran's deposition? I told Miriam to give you a copy." Gail pulled hers out of the file,
Larry made a cursory nod toward the papers stacked on his desk. "It's here, but I haven't had a chance to review it."
"The man sounds evasive. He mumbles and speaks in monosyllables. I've worked with him, but he isn't going to impress the jury. They want what they see in movies."
Larry flipped through the onionskin pages of the deposition. "Are we ready for trial?"
"Absolutely."
"What are we asking for in the complaint?" "Four hundred thousand." His thin face went into a grimace. "Ouch." Gail said, "They've got a counterclaim for two-fifty. Beltran could wind up eating it." "What about fees?"
"We bill our own. We've collected about fifteen thousand so far, with maybe another two outstanding. We're ahead on the cost deposit. I don't think it's worth the risk of a trial."
"So you believe it's a decent offer."
"I'd grab it before they change their mind."
"All right." He took off his glasses. "You know the situation better than I do. Just make sure the client approves."
Clients were often the last to admit they had a lousy case, particularly if they had paid a law firm thousands of dollars in fees. On the eve of trial, adrenaline pumping, they would die for principle.
"I've already explained it to him," she said. "He understands."
"Good." Larry swung around to check the clock. "Uh-oh. I forgot to call Dee-Dee. We're supposed to go out to dinner tonight."
"Larry—"
He stopped, waiting for her to go on. She took a breath. 'Trans-State Bank. I understand they're not happy with their bond broker." His creased brow said he hadn't heard of this. "They lost close to eight million on some muni bonds in Illinois, a real dog of a deal. They say fraud was involved. If it's going to wind up in litigation, I'd like to take it on."
"Oh, that." He folded his glasses, came back across his Oriental rug. "Yes, someone mentioned Trans-State in the last management meeting. And you want to do this case?"
"Why not? I've worked for them before. They know me. But they're Paul's client. Would it be better if you talked to him?"
Paul Robineau represented banks, but he didn't do litigation. He and Gail rarely spoke, except on business. He was the firm's managing partner and grandnephew of a founding member. She couldn't imagine dropping by his vast office upstairs and casually asking for a multimillion-dollar case.
Larry was mulling it over, his eyes fixed somewhere past the windows. "You want me to talk to Paul for you?"
"Would you mind?" She noticed her hands had gone weak.
"Mmmn. We're going to have federal banks, out-of-state counsel, claims and counterclaims all over the place. I assumed Paul would give it to one of the senior attorneys. Jack, for instance. What about a spot as co-counsel?"
Jack Warner ran the litigation department. Not hard to work with, but he would take all the credit.
"No. Give me the staff. With Beltran settled, I've got the time." After a moment, she said, "I need this case, Larry." When his forehead creased again, she said, "Forget talking to Paul. You don't have to. Knowing Paul, he'd probably think I was going behind his back."
He looked at her reproachfully. "Gail. Are we friends or not?"
"I don't like to ask for favors, so I won't. Just—" She managed a smile. "Well, maybe this once. I could work the hell out of a case like this, Larry. You know I could."
He nodded. "You'd do a fine job. You've had some ... personal crises, but they're behind you now."
"Yes. Absolutely."
"All right. I'll ask Paul about it. Lead counsel on Trans-State."
She wanted to hug him, but didn't. "Larry, you're a peach. But don't tell him it was my idea. Oh, that sounds gutless, doesn't it? Tell him whatever you want to."
"I'll say I thought of it."
She went to gather up the Beltran file. "Better call Dee-Dee. It's getting late."
"Yes. I will." He was looking at her closely. "Are you all right?"
"Of course."
"If you need anything—" He touched her arm.
"Larry. I'm fine. Really." She waited for him to nod. "If Paul says no, I'll take your suggestion and talk to Jack Warner, okay?"
"You sure?"
She laughed. "Yes. Enough already."
No one was in the corridor outside her office, and the room itself was dim. It faced north, and the sun had dropped behind the adjacent build
ing. Gail stood just inside the doorway for a while, replaying her conversation with Larry Black.
"Stupid," she finally muttered, and flipped on the light. Miriam had left a few messages on her desk. There was a note: Have taken the Acosta Realty motions home with me, will work on them. Hasta mahana! And then a loopy letter M and a happy face, which made Gail smile.
She shuffled through the messages. A client wanting his deposition reset. A witness returning her call.
Nearly eight years at this law firm. She might have been a partner already, except for... personal crises. Larry's polite term, which didn't quite catch the reality of death and divorce falling like double hammer blows.
Her sister Renee had not just died. She was slashed and left to bleed to death, and Gail had been accused of murder. One hell of an inconvenience for Hartwell Black. They took away her major cases for the duration. Not a judgment about her work, of course. Only a PR move, to keep the clients from getting nervous until she was exonerated.
It might not have been so bad if Dave hadn't walked out two weeks before that. She woke up one bright Saturday morning and he said it was over. He couldn't explain why, except that half his life was gone and he couldn't breathe. And anyway, they weren't suited to each other, never had been. But she would be all right, he was sure of it. She was the strong one. And Karen would be better off, not hearing her parents yelling at each other. And so Gail's marriage had bled to death too, and it was somehow her fault. Now Karen was in therapy and Dave was giving tennis lessons to tanned, fortyish wives of corporate executives on vacation in St. Thomas or St. Croix or wherever.
Personal crises. Larry Black didn't know how close she had come to losing it. Nobody knew. It was funny now. That time she had looked through the windshield of her car and realized she was in Key Largo, for God's sake. Or couldn't remember her daughter's name. Or sat on the floor of her closet for over an hour, unable to decide what to wear.
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