Patrick sat impassively. "Say we settle—just suppose that we do—for ten million. Say it takes you a hundred hours. At ten percent, that's ten thousand dollars per hour in attorneys' fees. And that's not theft?"
"Who says we'll settle at all? Nobody knows. And nobody knows how many hours we'll have in this. A thousand. Five thousand. I hope for a settlement, but we could go to trial. You could get nothing."
"Let's put this on a sliding scale. Or make it an hourly rate," he said. "We're talking about money that's supposed to go to people who need it a hell of a lot more than your Flagler Street legal machine does."
Gail wasn't going to whine about her struggle to get this far. "Sorry. If you want to hire someone else, I won't argue. And no charge for what I've done so far."
He drew his hand down over his beard, then laughed. "I feel like I've been sucker-punched."
"Oh, Patrick. That was never my intention. You should know that."
He stood up, walking barefoot to the window, hands in the back pockets of his jeans. Under the sounds of traffic and birds and Madame Debrosse's radio, a shrill warble from up the block threaded its way into the room. Probably a police siren.
Patrick turned around. "You going to win this case for me?"
"I'll try to." She laughed a little. "Patrick, you don't know how hard I'm going to try to win this case."
"I don't want to go anywhere else," he said.
She felt the relief flood through her, but only nodded. "Sit down, then. We'll sign these."
Eric tilted his head and rose to his knees. "Shh-shh! What is that?" She heard the siren, still whooping. He leaped to the window, then slammed his hand on the sill. "God damn!"
"Eric, what—"
"Shit! My goddamn car! The fuckers got my Lexus!" He hurtled out the door and his footsteps thudded down the wooden stairs. He must have picked out the cry of his car alarm like a mother could hear the wail of her own child in a crowded playground.
Gail said, "He gave a guy twenty dollars to watch it."
Patrick drew a little breath through his teeth. 'That could be construed as an insult."
"I feel awful. We should have taken a cab."
"They probably just got the radio." He sat down cross-legged again and signed the note and two copies of the contract, one of which he folded into neat thirds and tossed onto his desk.
When he turned around he smiled at her. "Don't feel guilty. Maybe he'll learn something. I mean, if you live for things, what have you got, right?"
She nodded. "Not a popular sentiment around my law firm, but I guess it works."
"Are you okay there? Really?"
"Sure." She took a sip of her tea. "Well, yes and no. I like being a lawyer. But it's so difficult. Most people don't know what lawyers have to deal with. I try to do a good job."
"I know you do."
"If I could just ... get to a certain point. Then it would be all right. I'd have more control over what I do. Make my own choices."
"Then you're where you have to be," he said. "You can't get to that unless you go through this."
She laughed. "And if I weren't at Hartwell Black, you couldn't drive me batty with your case, could you?"
He scooted over and kissed her cheek, and for a second the beard tickled her skin. "I've meant to do that. Do you mind?"
She smiled, shook her head.
"It's good to see you again, buddy."
"You too," she said.
"Hey, you're blushing," he said.
"Am not."
"Are too." He looked at her awhile. "I'm not hitting on you, Gail. Honest." "I know."
"Bet you've got a boyfriend."
She laughed. "Boyfriend. What a word. Yes, I do, actually."
"Good. No? Not so good?"
"Very good. I think. But—it's hard. You know. After Dave. And there's Karen to consider."
He squeezed her shoulder. "Whatever is meant to happen, will."
"That was never your philosophy," she said. "You always told me that nothing happens in human history that is not willed into being."
Patrick laughed. "I said that? When? In my impatient youth?"
"Oh, I see. Politics is one thing, love another." Gail shook the wrinkles out of her skirt. "I should go see if Eric is all right."
Patrick picked up Eric's untouched cup of tea. Gail carried hers to the table where the kettle sat on a green and white pot holder of the sort children weave in kindergarten.
"Patrick." When he looked at her, she said, "The document examiner mentioned something that made me curious. Have the police been asking about your aunt's death? Beyond the routine questions, I mean."
He stroked his beard. "What did he say to make you wonder that?"
"Well, that it's a big estate. And she died alone. You can imagine. I looked at the death certificate. It doesn't say 'accidental.' It says 'pending.' Meaning pending further investigation."
"Yes," Patrick said.
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, the Miami Beach P.D. came around asking questions."
"When?"
"Two weeks ago. Last week. And yesterday."
"Why?"
Patrick sighed. "Who knows? Cops." He set his and Eric's cups on the table. "They said her neck was broken before she fell. So who did it? There weren't any signs of a break-in. She would have opened the door to me. Plus we had a big fight a week before she died."
"Oh, Patrick."
"They're cretins. They've got nothing better to do."
"Why didn't you tell me any of this?"
"So you could tell me you didn't want to get involved?" They looked at each other. She said, "I wouldn't have done that."
He pointed all the cup handles in one direction. "I didn't think you'd let me get screwed on the fees either."
"Damn it, Patrick."
He smiled, not looking at her. "I guess you had to. It comes with the territory. Now you see why I got out of law school."
She crossed the room to put on her shoes. "And you talk to me about getting sucker-punched." She spun around. "Let me understand this. The Miami Beach Police suspect you of murder?"
"I don't know. Me, Rudy, the gardener. They ask questions. I tell them to go away. They do. Then they forget what I told them and they come back. Repeat."
Gail leaned against the table. "Did something happen to her, Patrick? Is it true?"
"I hope not. For somebody to do that—I don't want to think about it." He nodded toward his desk, where the contract lay tilted on the open book. "You want the agreement back?"
"No. I'm your attorney now, Patrick." But how, she wondered, would she explain a murder investigation to the partners of Hartwell Black and Robineau?
Chapter Ten
Larry Black called Gail to his office the next afternoon. They sat on the striped satin divan under the windows. His secretary brought in a tray with coffee and miniature pastries, and placed it on an antique cherry-wood table.
He stirred his coffee. "Alan Weissman phoned me yesterday." When Gail looked at him, surprised, he said, "I suggested that you were the person to speak to, but I think he felt more at ease talking to me. We worked together on the Hurricane Andrew rebuilding committee, and he knows I was acquainted with Althea. He wants a meeting to resolve this matter before it gets out of hand, as he put it.""'
Gail poured cream into her cup. "He can resolve it by admitting the will was forged. What did he say?"
"We talked only in general terms," Larry said. "I did propose a time for the meeting. Next Wednesday at ten o'clock, his office on the Beach. Can you make it?"
"I'll clear my schedule. You know, if we're going to talk to Weissman, we need to get together and go over the details."
Monday or Tuesday was impossible; Larry had meetings both days. "What about this weekend?" he asked. "Come over Saturday and stay for dinner. Karen can play with Trisha." Larry's younger daughter was in Karen's class at Biscayne Academy. He added, "Dee-Dee hasn't seen you for months. She was complaining about that yes
terday, in fact."
How did they do it? Gail often wondered. If Larry ever told her he and Dee-Dee were splitting up, Gail would throttle him. That, or lose all hope that marriage could work.
It had been two days since she had left a message on Anthony's machine at home. He might be busy, but not that busy. If he had anything in mind for Saturday night, it was too late now.
Gail smiled. "I'd love to come over. Thanks."
Larry uncrossed his legs and set his coffee on the table. "Oh. I have something for you." He went to his desk and lifted papers. "By the time I realized you might not have seen it, I had to go through my recycling bin at home. Althea Tillett's stepdaughter Monica is showing her work. Look." He handed her a page from the Herald, and his forefinger indicated the place.
It was from the weekend section, a preview of gallery openings. Gail scanned the announcement. Eros and Metaphor, sculptures and abstracts by Monica Tillett; Tillett Gallery, 833 Lincoln Road, Miami Beach. Reception 7-9 P.M. Friday, October 4. She looked up. "What is that supposed to mean? Eros and Metaphor?"
"It's tomorrow. Go find out."
She folded the page. "I might do that. Thanks. I hope they don't slam the door in my face."
Larry sat down again, adjusting the knee of his trousers. "Gail, it wasn't a criticism of you that I opposed the Norris case. I do understand about your wanting to help him, but I have the entire law firm to think about. Our long-term interests."
"I know," she said. "You're too much a friend for me to take it personally."
"Well, then. Tell me what you need. Perhaps we could assign a paralegal to the case?"
Grace in defeat. She smiled at him. "No, Miriam is enough for now. Maybe I'll ask for a raise for her, though. And how's this? Eric Ramsay volunteered to help out. I'm going to share him with corporate and tax."
"I admire your patience."
"Okay, maybe he's immature, but he's smart, and he wants to learn." Gail added, "Besides, I felt sorry for him. His dad's a factory worker back in Ohio, and he's sending his kid sister through college."
"A factory worker? His father manages a factory that makes engine parts. I believe that's right. Our Mr. Ramsay seems to have embellished the facts."
"Maybe he's warming up for trial law already," Gail said. Then she shrugged. "He was desperate, Larry."
He took a swallow of coffee. "Ramsay. A lawyer for the Nineties. This is what we get, hiring graduates whose main qualifications are on paper. Maybe you can turn him around."
Gail said, "He says Paul has him on probation. Is that true?"
"Yes. I heard it from Jack Warner. Paul didn't tell me about it."
"Larry ... How serious is this rift between you and Paul? Is the firm in trouble?"
"Don't worry. What you witnessed the other day was only a clash of egos." He gave a suggestion of a smile. "We've lived through it before. The ship hasn't foundered yet."
Lawrence Black, the weight of five generations of lawyers on his narrow shoulders, had seemed middle-aged to Gail as long as she had known him. Not a brilliant legal mind, his great talent lay in snatching wealthy clients from firms with no snob appeal. He let his staff deal with the computers, investment managers, and pricey advertising campaigns.
Larry studied the circle of pastries before choosing a tiny cheese tart with fluted edges. "I want you to meet with the P.R. people. Would you do that?"
Like other major firms, Hartwell Black and Robineau had a public relations consultant to deal with touchy issues. He said, "We can't let anyone believe we're against widows and orphans. We're taking the case for the principle involved: exposing a forgery. I'm particularly concerned that Sanford Ehringer see it this way. Not only is he the personal representative of this will, he's chairman of the board of the Easton Trust, and they stand to lose a great deal if it's overturned. Ehringer will be doubly interested in what we're doing."
Larry turned on the divan to face Gail directly, his expression as serious as she had ever seen it. "We want to persuade Ehringer that our aim is to win justice for our client, not to make a fat fee for ourselves. That's important, Gail. Will you take my advice on this?"
After a moment, she said, "All right. God knows we don't want to tarnish the image. Larry, have you ever met Sanford Ehringer?"
"A few times. He's something of a recluse these days. He comes across as a jolly old great-uncle who likes a good glass of port and the occasional off-color joke, but he's devious and powerful. He could cause us serious trouble with many of our established clients."
She asked, "How do you know the Easton Trust's director, Howard Odell? You and he had lunch upstairs last week."
"Oh, Howard. He's always trolling for investors for his own deals. I wasn't interested."
"What do you know about him?" Gail wondered if Larry knew of Odell's connection to an alleged pornographer who operated out of the back of a dry cleaning shop.
"Nothing, really. We don't socialize."
Gail poured herself more coffee. "It's odd that I haven't heard of the Easton Trust. I was bom in Miami."
Larry said, "Not so odd. They keep a very low profile—so I've heard. The board members are from old families who have known each other for years. They're picky about who they give money to, and they avoid publicity."
"Now that is odd. Most donors to charity like the applause."
Larry finished his pastry before he spoke, then wiped his fingers on a comer of his napkin. "An anonymous giver is more blessed."
"Uh-huh."
His lips twitched into a smile. She noticed how the light from the window made a halo of his thinning hair. Gail asked, "What do they do, Larry? Arrange no-interest loans from money donated to the trust? Take tax deductions on the repayments?"
"No, no. Nothing illegal, I should think. These are your quintessential pillars of society. They might try to influence what happens in Miami, though, and if they can use the weight of the trust to do it—Well, why not? Their opinions count as much as anybody's."
It was clear to Gail how influence might be applied. If one were a member of the Easton Trust, and wanted a certain ordinance passed, one could promise a donation to a certain city commissioner's favorite project, and he—the commissioner— could take the credit when the community center opened, or the hospital wing, or neighborhood police substation. Business as usual in local politics.
And a man like Howard Odell—whose morals were not so prissy—could be useful, arranging such favors. The pillars of society would be spared the embarrassment.
She asked, "Howard Odell manages the Trust. Who else is involved?"
"I don't know precisely," Larry said.
"Althea Tillett? With what she left to Easton—"
"That's logical." He shrugged. "I wouldn't be surprised if she'd been a member of Easton."
"There's something you ought to be aware of," Gail said. "Yesterday Patrick Norris told me that the Miami Beach Police are investigating her death. They don't believe it was an accident."
His mouth opened and shut, then opened, but no sound came out.
"They think someone may have broken her neck before she went down the stairs."
"My God." He went white. "Who? Do they know? What are they basing this on?"
"The autopsy, I assume. And no signs of a break-in. They've questioned Patrick three times at his apartment."
He braced his hands on his knees and sucked in a breath.
"Larry?" Gail went to him.
"I'm fine." He smiled. Sweat shone on his forehead. "Bit of a shock, that's all. Have you told anyone else in the firm?"
"No."
"Don't. Let's decide what to do, shall we? How to handle it... We should have known this before the meeting. Before we decided to take this damned case."
"Larry, you can't be thinking ... not Patrick. That's the last thing I would suspect him of."
"We should find out what the police are doing. How does one accomplish that?"
"I suppose," Gail said, "that we could begin by a
sking them."
She tried Anthony Quintana's office: He was in trial. She left a message for him to call. Not urgent, just some advice on a matter involving the Miami Beach police.
"Damn." For a minute or two she looked at her telephone, wondering whether to call them now, and what she would say. Hello, this is Patrick Norris's attorney. Is he a suspect in the death of Althea Tillett?
She would think of something.
Gail looked up the number, dialed it, and asked for records. A man's voice told her that yes, police reports are public records, and she could get duplicates for a few dollars.
She checked her watch—4:15—then found Miriam typing at her keyboard, humming to herself as she worked.
"Where's Senor Ramsay?" Gail asked.
Miriam turned. "Oh, there you are! I've got something to tell you."
"Okay, but where's Eric?"
"Getting an insurance estimate on his car," Miriam said. She punched a button to save what she had done and the monitor chirped. "He just called and said he was on his way back."
The passenger window on his Lexus had been shattered, his cellular phone and stereo gone like teeth yanked out of a jaw.
Gail said, "I'm going over to the Beach. Tell Eric to do a final version of the Tillett petition. Plus a summons for everyone involved. Help him out. I don't think he knows a summons from a subpoena."
"But I'm only a secretary. He'd be insulted." Miriam got up from her chair, and it spun around. "Guess what. I found Carta Napolitano."
"Where?"
"I called Tallahassee, the office that keeps track of notaries." She held up a piece of paper so Gail could see it. Carla Napolitano. Home on Collins Avenue. Office on Alton Road, Miami Beach. Phone numbers.
"Good girl." Gail read it. "Why don't you call that work number and see what it is."
"I did already."
"And?"
Her large brown eyes opened wide. "A man answered. He said, 'Gateway Travel,' so I said, 'Who am I speaking to, please?' And he said 'Who do you want?' Like that. So I said, 'Does Carla work here?’ He said, 'Carla stepped out for a minute.' Then he asked me who I was, and what did I want? It was so weird. I didn't know what to say, so I told him my name was Patty and I was calling about the job, and never mind, I'd call back."
Suspicion of Guilt Page 12
