"And therefore I shouldn't care about what happens to him. I do care. He brought me into this firm, he was there for me in ways you can't begin to know. No one has been as faithful to me as Alan." She smiled. "It isn't sex, if you wondered."
"You're protecting him."
Lauren seemed to consider what to say. "He may admit to you on Wednesday that he botched the signing of Althea Tillett's will. But to accuse him of forgery ... I could laugh if it wasn't so sad."
"What happened?"
"Between you and me, all right?"
"All right," Gail said slowly. She wondered if Lauren had been drinking. Lauren had no business discussing these things with an opposing attorney. Holding her breath, Gail followed Lauren's gaze toward the people under the awning, saw a pale young man in a T-shirt and painted leather vest, his blond hair sticking straight up in two-inch dreadlocks. He spoke to a heavy woman in a long purple skirt and boots, something about having to get a tooth filled. A rather ordinary topic for this gathering, Gail thought.
Finally Lauren said, "Althea Tillett called Alan on Friday afternoon for a Saturday appointment to change her will. You have to understand. Althea would do this routinely on whatever legal matter came to mind—her will, her property, an insurance question. She would simply drop in and expect to be catered to. Naturally, Alan charged her accordingly, but he came to resent the imposition.
"He should never have allowed her to come on a Saturday because we have no staff. During the week there are people to witness a will—secretaries, the law clerk. Alan told Althea this, but she said she would bring two of her friends as witnesses. Jessica Simms didn't want to be there at all, and Irving Adler shouldn't have been. I heard you went to his house. You must have seen how fuddled he is. But Althea insisted, and they all showed up Saturday at ten o'clock."
Under the awning, the woman in the purple skirt was talking to another woman in a business suit. They sipped their wine. The second woman had a gold ring through her left nostril.
Gail looked back at Lauren. She was reaching into her purse for another cigarette, took it out of a case, lit it, snapped the bag shut again. She inhaled deeply.
"I should stop this," she said. "I'll die from it." She pushed her side-parted hair away from her face. "Where was I?"
"Althea and her friends arrived on Saturday at ten."
"Yes. Alan said he would make the changes on the word processor and call a notary. Awhile later I arrived to pick up some papers. Althea was quite annoyed. Where was Mr. Weissman? It had been nearly an hour. I found him asleep in his office. He had been drinking all night, as I found out later, and he hadn't even been home. I pulled the will off the word processor, took everyone into the library, and went back to wake Alan. By the time he came in, they had already signed the will. Alan couldn't notarize it because he isn't a notary. Neither am I. Althea and her friends wanted to leave, so Alan said he would take care of it."
Lauren inhaled smoke, let it go. "A will doesn't have to be notarized to be valid, you know, but on hers, there was a place for it. Alan couldn't leave it empty. How would it look?"
"And so he found Carta Napolitano."
The smoke drifted in the still air. "No. I found her. She's downstairs in a travel agency."
"That was ... not smart."
"I agree. It was incredibly stupid."
Under the awning, the woman with the nose ring had hooked her arm around the neck of a man in pleated pants and a hundred-and-fifty-dollar Armani cotton shirt. Gail knew the shirt. Anthony had one.
"At the time, it seemed all right. Althea had signed so many wills. She would be back in a few months to do another."
Gail brought her gaze back around. "How did you persuade the notary to do this?" "Fifty dollars." "Oh, my God."
Deep blue eyes fixed on her, not wanting to plead, but pleading nonetheless. Lauren made a smile, took a drag off her cigarette. "Now what?"
"I don't know. I really wish you hadn't told me this."
"The will is valid, Gail, even if the notarization isn't. Alan's going to try to protect me, to say I wasn't involved, but I was. It was more my fault than his. He didn't know what he was doing. I was the clear-headed one." She laughed lightly. "Or maybe not." She awkwardly took Gail's hand, and her fingers were trembling. "Don't crucify him—both of us—on the way to losing this case. Please. I'm asking you as a friend."
"Lauren, I can't just drop it."
"I'm not asking for that. A settlement, before everyone in the world knows about it. Something Patrick Norris can be reasonably happy with. And ... something you can be happy with. I know things are tight for you right now—"
"Don't. I don't want to hear it. We'll talk on Wednesday, but at some point I'll have to take your deposition. Yours and Alan's."
The eyes went cold. "What I told you was between us, as friends. You agreed. I didn't think you'd attack me with it."
Off balance, Gail said, "Lauren, you committed a crime."
Lauren laughed. "A crime! Please. Tell me you never cut corners. What will you do, use this to force a settlement?"
Gail felt the heaviness in her chest.
The ember glowed. Lauren exhaled smoke, crashed out her cigarette. "I think I'll see if Barry's ready to go."
"What am I supposed to do, forget about this?"
"Do what you want. I'll deny it happened." She turned and made her way through the crowd, then was lost inside the gallery.
"Damn it. Damn, damn, damn." Gail spun toward the street and noticed Anthony leaning one shoulder against a tree, hands in his pockets. The street lamp cast uneven light through its branches. She walked over to him.
"How long have you been standing there?" she asked.
"A few minutes," he said. "I hate to interrupt an argument unless it comes to blows. Who was she?"
"Lauren Sontag. My friend and a candidate for judge. She just offered me a bribe."
He looked toward the gallery. "Weissman's partner. What was she doing here?"
"I don't know. Hobnobbing with a bunch of posers. She fits right in. God, you think you know someone." She hitched her purse farther up on her shoulder. "Let's go."
"Where?"
"Home. Your house. A hotel. I don't care."
"What about the gallery?"
"Screw the gallery."
"You make me curious about these people, and then you want to leave?" He took her arm and turned her toward the Beach. "We'll go to the comer and back, and then see the gallery. Tell me what happened."
She did.
They walked east, and the street was illuminated by the light shining through the windows of a drugstore, a coffee-shop, a vintage clothing store. A cop pedaled past on a bicycle, blue shorts, white shirt, a gun on his belt.
"I don't know if Lauren is lying or not. I hope she isn't." Gail leaned on Anthony's arm. "I found myself wanting to help her, and Alan too. Even to cover up for them. I mean, why be such a hard-ass? If the will is valid, why make Alan Weissman look like a drunken fool? Or cause Lauren to lose the election?"
"So you now believe the will is genuine?" he asked.
"Imagine if it is. Never mind the partnership, Mr. Robineau, I screwed up." She laughed, then was gloomily silent for a while, watching the concrete move under her feet. Anthony took her hand. They passed two other couples on the sidewalk, and he told her to slow down, they had all night. The scent of the sea began to come up on a warm breeze.
Gail looked at him. "You want to hear my mother's theory of why Jessica Simms and Irving Adler did it? Because Althea would have wanted it that way. She would have wanted the charities to get the money."
Anthony's mouth curved into a smile.
"Maybe it's true. And maybe they're right. The best of motives, as my mother said. So do I blow the whistle on them? They're nice people, respectable citizens, and all that. They just didn't want to see her dissolute nephew get it all when it could go to better causes."
"That makes more sense."
"He isn't dissolute,"
Gail said firmly. "He doesn't want the money for himself. It's for others. I wish my own motives were so uncluttered. Sometimes I wonder why I'm doing this. Is it because I admire Patrick's ideals or because I want a partnership?"
"But Gail. Selfish motives are mixed into everything we do. That doesn't mean we shouldn't do them." Anthony put his arm around her shoulders. They coasted to a stop in front of a dance studio. Silhouettes of dancers overlapped each other, whirling across the long, dark window.
"All right. Here is a question for you," he said. "I frequently asked myself this when I began to practice criminal law. Who is your client? Who hired you?"
"Patrick, but—"
"Patrick. Yes. And it is to Patrick that you owe your legal duty. And that is the end of the discussion."
"That's too simple. What if people are ruined by this lawsuit?"
"You're an advocate, not a judge. All right, here's another question. Was the will forged or not? If so, it's a crime, and those who did it have no right to your sympathy, and you, Gail, should not be concerned about the consequences of their actions. You have been hired by Patrick Norris. Your duty is to him. He says the will is a forgery. Your document examiner says it is a forgery. Simms and Adler are obviously lying. Lauren Sontag may be lying. Proceed accordingly."
She laughed. "Well, that cuts through the fog, doesn't it? Helps maintain an emotional distance, anyway." She slid her hands under his jacket. He was wearing a white silk shirt and a chocolate brown suit. He kissed her, lightly at first, playing, then his tongue stroked into her mouth.
After a minute, she pulled back, her face flushed. "Well. Yes. Was it a forgery or wasn't it? You know what some of my lady friends in the law would say about that approach?"
Anthony pressed against her. "What if I say I don't care?"
"I'll tell you anyway." She edged a thigh between his, pushed. 'They would say it's a male system of ethics. Linear."
"Very linear," he said.
"Like a switch. On or off."
He drew in a sharp breath. "Very much on."
"See? No subtlety at all."
"Do you want subtlety?" he asked.
"No."
His hand closed around her breast. "Do you want to go back to the gallery?"
They took some time thinking about that, then Gail pulled herself out of his arms. She took her compact and lipstick from her purse. "Yes. Actually, I do. I want to see who we're dealing with. I want to see their reaction when I mention the murder investigation." She smoothed on her lipstick.
"I could remind you," Anthony said, "that your friend Patrick is the chief suspect."
"But you won't, right?" Gail smiled into her compact, powdered her nose and cheeks, then snapped it shut. "Would you like to know what Rudy and Monica Tillett used to do with dead raccoons?"
Chapter Twelve
Outside the Tillett Gallery the crowd had grown, spilling out past the awning. Some teenagers in tattered jeans wandered around, possibly from the School of Arts, copping the free wine. Obviously well-off young couples gathered in groups. A bearded man in running shorts and clogs spoke in French with a turbaned black woman. There weren't many Latinos. Anthony told her they preferred the galleries in Coral Gables, sticking mostly to themselves. He picked up a two-page guide from a rack at the entrance.
The gallery was long and narrow, with a concrete floor and a high ceiling. The young man with the blond dreads poured wine at a table in the corner. Above the echoing voices came the twang-bong-click of strange music. White dividers angled and turned like a maze.
At the door Gail stood on her toes, trying to spot Rudy or Monica. Seventeen years ago in high school their hair had been curly Wack. Rudy had been Gail's height, Monica several inches shorter, both of them muscular and quick, with the physiques of soccer players.
"Gail, my birthday is next month." Anthony nodded toward a pedestal supporting a machine that seemed to have been crafted from wood. Leaves and tendrils sprang from gears and sprockets. A closer look revealed the wood and leaves weren't real at all, but cleverly made of metal and painted. The machine moved, one part thrusting into another. Words slid across a small video screen: "He shew'd me lilies for my hair, and blushing roses for my brow ..." A small white plaque announced: Romance. Monica Tillett. $4,500.
"Would you mind terribly if I just bought you a card?" Gail slipped her arm through his. "Although I do like this. Whatever it is."
From the other side of a divider came loud female laughter. A whoop, really. And then Gail saw a man who seemed familiar. Late forties, good haircut, expensive sport jacket. He veered away from the exit and came in her direction.
He held out his hand. "Gail, how are you? We met downtown last week." He smiled. Perfect teeth, deep voice. "Howard Odell." His collar was open, and he wore a flat gold chain that gleamed sinuously against his neck.
"Of course," she said. "How do you do, Mr. Odell."
"Howard." There was no wink this time. 'Tony, my friend. Haven't heard from you."
"Ah, well. Bad timing."
"Gotta get together." But his attention was back on Gail. "Wonder if I can give you a buzz at your office. Like to chat with you."
"What about?" she said pleasantly.
"Oh ... business. A probate matter you may be involved in."
Anthony said, "Excuse me, there's someone over there I need to speak to." He drifted away, Gail looking after him. "A probate matter, Mr. Odell?"
"Please. It's Howard." He touched his chest. "I'm not a formal kind of guy."
He handed her a card similar to the one she had seen before. His name was printed in gold, followed by the words, EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR, EASTON CHARITABLE TRUST.
She looked up.
He was smiling. "My understanding is, you've been retained by Althea Tillett's nephew to overturn her will. Gotta tell you, I'm disappointed. Althea left the residuary of her estate to the charity I'm involved with—the Easton Trust. You know, Althea was a great gal. Her biggest joy in life, I'd say, was to help those less fortunate than herself. She wanted to start a scholarship program for inner-city youth. Week or two before she died, as a matter of fact, she called me up. Said, 'Howard, you know I've always made a provision in my will for the Easton Trust. Here's what I want you to do. You make sure that those kids—' "
Gail broke in. "Excuse me, but who told you I represent Patrick Norris?"
"Rudy Tillett, just now. We're on the Art Deco League together, so I know Rudy pretty well." Odell shook his head. "I said, 'Rudy, you're kidding. What's going on?' But I guess you're the one I should ask."
She noticed his hair—thick brown, a hint of gray at the sides. Perfect. It must have cost a fortune. "What is it, exactly, that you do as director of the Easton Trust ... Howard?"
He laughed softly, a deep rumble. 'Try to separate people from their money and then help the board decide where best to spend it, who can benefit most. So what are we going to do about Patrick Norris? Look, Gail. Your client isn't happy? Let's see what we can do to make him a little happier. Get this thing resolved tout de suite. You litigate, it'll be years. And from what Rudy tells me, he and Monica ain't gonna roll over. So let me take you to lunch, we'll talk."
"What you're saying is, the Easton Charitable Trust will pay Mr. Norris not to contest the will. Correct?"
He touched her arm, came in a little closer. "What I'm suggesting—and this makes sense—the trust kicks in, the Tilletts kick in, all the major beneficiaries. Everybody sits down together, works out a reasonable compromise. I'll be glad to make the phone calls."
"No, I don't think so—not unless we're talking some serious numbers."
"How serious you want to get?"
"Do you have any idea, Howard, what the estate is worth?"
"I have a good idea. I also know you don't have much of a case." He looked at her steadily. "Rudy says you think the will was forged. How come?"
"I prefer not to get into that," Gail said.
He came closer, speaking over the nois
e in the gallery. She smelled breath mints and Polo. "What are you doing, Gail? Althea wanted to give her money to charity, not to taxes. Or to lawyers. She wanted to remember her best friends. And what about the ordinary folks Althea cared about? Her household help, for instance, who faithfully toiled for many years. You going to leave them with nothing?"
She dropped his card into her purse, made a smile. "It was a pleasure seeing you, Howard. Perhaps I'll give you a call sometime."
He raised a hand, pointing at her. "Be careful, Gail. The media haven't got hold of this yet. Once they do, your bargaining power's down the tubes. What have we got? A lawyer blocking disbursement of money to charity, using the system to jack up a big settlement for a man the decedent herself thought was a pain in the ass. I see that Cuban station, Canal 23, over at his apartment, talking to the pro-Castro leftists he hangs out with. I see the Miami Herald uncovering his conviction for drug possession. You didn't know about that? I bet Norris has a few more surprises for you. That is not a model citizen you've picked for a client, Gail. You get the community on your back, the judge wonders about that. He has to. Human nature."
"What are you planning, a press conference?"
"It's up to you. You play nice, I'll play nice. Okay?"
Her hands trembling with anger, Gail reached back into her purse, took out his card, tore it in half, then again. The pieces fluttered to the concrete floor. She whirled around and went off to find Anthony, mumbling curses through her teeth, first cursing Howard Odell and then herself for a petty display of rage. From somewhere in the gallery came the same braying whoop she had heard before, followed by a chorus of laughter.
She found Anthony studying a miniature TV screen mounted in a rosewood box. He held his jacket over his shoulder by one finger in the neckline. Gail wanted to slip up behind him, press herself against his silk shirt, and close her eyes. She glanced at what held his attention so raptly: On scratched and grainy film a soft-fleshed woman wearing nothing but rolled stockings sank to her knees, hair flowing over her raised arms, mouth opening in a kind of ecstasy.
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