"We only say it when we're making love. It doesn't count then."
"It counts. Why not?"
"Don't pretend not to understand."
"Yes, Gail. I love you."
"You're saying that because I asked you to."
"Okay, I'll say it tomorrow while you're having your coffee."
She slid down far enough to nuzzle her face into his chest. "Patrick is right, you know. People have to make choices."
"What a pathetic excuse for a man. He only makes speeches, and those are irrational."
"You know what I mean."
Anthony rolled over to lie flat on his back. He exhaled heavily. "Me vuelves loco."
"Poor baby. Completely crazy." She kissed him, then propped herself on one elbow. "Talk to me," she said.
"About what?"
"I don't know." She was silent for a while. "Anything."
"Philosophy? Politics."
"Stop it, will you?" Gail sat up.
Laughing softly, he reached for her, drew her down to him, and put his arms around her. "I know. Art."
"Be serious."
"I am." His hand cupped her breast, squeezed. Then slid between her legs. "The machine we saw tonight—did you notice the flowers?"
Gail closed her eyes and nodded. "Yes. I did notice that."
"How realistic. How the petals opened?"
"Oh, yes."
Chapter Thirteen
Monday morning it rained, a steady gray drizzle that brought the first real evidence that summer had finally ended. Even by noon the temperature was only eighty degrees. Gail took a cab back from a hearing at the courthouse, shook her umbrella under the awning, then went straight up to see Eric Ramsay on the sixteenth floor.
He had a small office between the computer room and personnel, with the windows of the building next door to look at. New associates would often start in the woods like this, then move closer, if they lasted. In the deserted corridor Gail could make out a low-level hum, the nerve system of Hartwell Black, its ganglia and synapses: computers whirring around the clock, printers buzzing for accounting, billing, word processing.
Eric's door was open. He wasn't there, but the light was on, and his color monitor glowed with figures. Gail hadn't been up here in weeks, and the office seemed more cluttered than ever. Besides the usual books and files and legal magazines that crammed the shelves, there were a miniature pool table on his credenza, a basketball hoop over the teak trash can, and a stack of Wall Street Journals beside his chair. The chair was stainless steel and black leather, and it had cost $1,200. Gail knew that because he had mentioned it to her twice. He had also complained about the measly starting salary of $55,000 for new associates. There were no family photos in his office. A fern sat in the window, unwatered, dropping tiny curls of brown on the sill.
"Hello, boss. Looking for me?" When Gail turned in the doorway, Eric moved past her with a stack of books under one arm.
"Yes. I want to tell you about my adventures with Rudy and Monica Tillett." She set her umbrella against the wall and her briefcase beside it. "I was also wondering if you finished the motions for deposition in the Norris case."
"Almost. This afternoon."
"Come on, Eric. You said you'd have it done this morning."
Eric dropped the stack of books on his desk. "Friday at six-thirty Cy Mackey dumped this shit on me. He said he had to go out of town on an emergency and he needed it by noon today." Eric motioned toward the computer screen. "I'm about done. I was here till four-thirty this morning. You know what Cy's emergency was? He took his girlfriend to Cozumel for the weekend. Schoenfeld's law clerk just told me."
"That sounds familiar. I went through the same sort of thing my first two years." Gail sat down. "You must be exhausted."
He chuckled. "No."
"What are you doing, speed?"
"Me and every other clerk and junior associate who has to hump it sixteen hours a day. Don't tell me you never did."
Gail only replied, "I don't suppose you had a chance to find out about Carla Napolitano over the weekend."
"Yes, actually I did." He sat in his steel and black leather chair. "Carla Napolitano. Middle-aged, brown hair, overweight. She drives a blue 1990 Toyota, lives alone, rents a unit in a beachfront condo at Fiftieth and Collins. She works at Gateway Travel, and she's a notary. That's about it." He slid a piece of paper in her direction. "The number on her license plate, which you asked for."
"How about that bar? Wild Cherry."
"A sleazy dive on West Dixie Highway next to an auto repair shop. I spent about five minutes there on my way home from the office about midnight on Saturday. I asked if they knew anybody named Carla Napolitano. They didn't. I asked about a Frankie. No to that too. Then the bouncer wanted my name, so I left. Whoever this Frankie was that Miriam talked to at Gateway Travel, I didn't find him. Maybe she got it wrong. I don't see how we connect Napolitano to a nudie bar. Miriam's pretty scatterbrained."
"Miriam? Hardly."
"What can I tell you? I struck out." Eric clicked the point of his pen in and out several times, then made a rhythm on his tax manual.
Gail uncrossed her legs. "I see you're busy."
He gave her a crooked smile. He had a short nose and broad, ruddy cheeks. "Never that busy. I want to hear what happened at the gallery. Sit down."
She did. "Rudy and Monica denied forging the will, but I'd expected that. We were talking about settling the case, then Patrick showed up."
"No kidding."
"It was quite a scene. He accused Rudy of stealing from the estate, and Rudy attacked him. He hit him in the face. I had to get Patrick out of there fast, before it got worse."
"So did you file a police report?"
Gail waved the idea away. "Patrick's all right. Let's not stir it up. Look, I need you to draft a restraining order against Rudy and Monica. They mustn't be allowed to touch anything belonging to the estate. Can you get that done by the end of the week?"
"Sure. No problem," Eric said.
"Don't file it. Larry Black and I are talking to Alan Weissman on Wednesday. Let's see what happens with that." Gail would keep her conversation with Lauren Sontag to herself. Eric didn't need to know everything.
"I'd like to come along," Eric said. "I want to see what you do to Weissman."
"I'm not going to do anything to Weissman. Listen, Eric. You don't go to a conference with an attitude. The other side can sense it, then they either get hostile or they start lying, and you wind up with nothing. You have to get their trust, then pounce."
He laughed softly, playing with a rubber band. "Shuffle and jive."
Gail looked at him without smiling, then said, "I have a question about G. Howard Odell." He tilted his head.
"In the management meeting you said you did some work for him last year." "Right. What about him?"
Gail told Eric how she had run into Odell at the gallery, about his request for a settlement, his threats if she didn't go along.
Eric nodded. "Oh, yeah. That sounds like Howard. He can't stand not being in total control. I met him playing racquetball at the spa I go to, and he got worked up because I beat him by fifteen points. He can play, but come on."
"What kind of legal work did you do for him?"
"He was selling a house on Star Island, part of a divorce settlement, I believe. He let me review the contract." Eric was revolving the rubber band around and around his fingers. He still had the beefy hands of a college athlete.
"I thought about it later. Why would Howard let me review his contract? I was a new associate and he has his own attorneys at another firm. Then I remembered I'd let him win twenty bucks off me the previous two times we played." Eric stretched the rubber band from the tip of his finger to his thumb, cocking it like a pistol, squinting one eye. "So the next time I beat him twenty-one to six. That was it for the racquetball." Eric moved his thumb and the rubber band whirred toward the window and clipped some foliage off the thirsty fern.
"Wha
t did he tell you about himself?"
"Not a whole lot. He has a couple of ex-wives he pays heavy alimony to. A son at some Ivy League college. He invests. He puts deals together. He's related to Sanford Ehringer, by the way."
"I didn't know that. How?"
"His mother was Ehringer's second cousin, something like that, up in Palm Beach. The families go way back."
"Is that how Odell came to be executive director of the Trust?"
"Beats me. Why do you care about Odell?"
"Because if he's planning an attack, I want to know who I'm dealing with."
"Howard? He's full of hot air. He won't do anything to us."
"That's not the impression I get from Larry Black." "Are they friends?" "No. Business acquaintances."
On Saturday Gail had taken Karen over to Larry and Dee-Dee's waterfront house in Gables Estates. While Dee-Dee fixed the salad and the girls played in the pool, Larry took Gail into his study. She told him about the gallery episode, all of it, including Odell's threats. Larry had listened, then poured himself another Scotch. I knew this would happen. Sanford Ehringer's getting into this now. We've got to settle. Twist Patrick Norris's arm if you have to. And the decanter had rattled on the rim of the glass.
Eric's laughter broke into the silence. "God damn, I wish I'd been there when you tore up Howard's card. I'd love to have seen his face. Do you have some nerve, or what?" Eric fixed his eyes on her. Pale green with flecks of hazel. "You're okay, Gail. I'm glad we're working together."
After a second, she nodded. "Thanks."
"I won't be much longer, then we can compare notes on Norris. Let's go to lunch. I'm buying."
She hesitated, not sure if she was reading this invitation the way it was meant. "Sorry, but I've got some things to do. Maybe later in the week."
"I'll hold you to that." Eric leaned on his forearms, the sleeves rolled up, blond hair dusting the tight muscles. "Because I'll tell you straight out. You're one hell of an attractive lady. I think we could have a good time together."
Gail looked at him in the momentary quiet, in the subsonic hum of computers and printers and electricity surging over the lines. "You know, Eric. It's not good policy to date people in the office."
He laughed softly. "Yeah? Is that your policy or office policy?"
"Mine."
He shrugged and leaned back in his chair. "By the way, did you read the Herald this morning?"
"No. Why?"
"Take it with you." He gestured toward a section of newspaper on his desk. "My secretary brought it in. Liz Lerner's piece."
The Business Monday section was already turned to the right page, a column called "Legal Notes." Liz Lerner knew the dirt on every law firm in South Florida, or at least every law firm assumed she did. Leaks and gossip made the staple fare of her wickedly delicious report. Attorneys would call her up in advance to "set the record straight" on events Liz couldn't have heard about yet.
The headline queried MIAMI’S OLDEST FIRM HEADING FOR A SPLIT? Gail sat back down to read it
Rumors are flying at Hartwell Black and Robineau, founded 1922. Paul Robineau, managing partner of the 78-lawyer firm headquartered in Miami, did not deny he has inquired about space in the InterAmerica Tower. "A firm has to change with the times," Robineau said. "It's unfortunate that some of us are so reluctant to give up old habits." Partner Lawrence Black denied talk of a divorce. He did say, however, that he has the "utmost respect for Paul, whatever may occur."
"Makes you ask yourself," Eric said, "why you break your back for them. What's the point, if you could be out of a job tomorrow?"
She laid the paper back on his desk. "The firm has come through this sort of thing before."
Eric flipped open one of the tax manuals, then smiled up at her. "Forgive me, but I must return to Mr. Mackey's project. Let's hope he had a simply smashing time in Cozumel."
Gail unwrapped a ham and swiss sandwich and tossed the pickle slices into the trash can under Miriam's desk. Taking a bite of sandwich, she leaned over the work table to scan the finished version of the petition Eric Ramsay had prepared last week. Patrick Norris v. Sanford V. Ehringer, as Personal Representative of the Estate of Althea Norris Tillett, Deceased. The petition looked fine. Depending on what happened with Alan Weissman on Wednesday, it would be filed the day following. Or not.
She glanced up. Miriam had come into the cubicle with her hands full of files. Seeing Gail, she grinned as if she'd just caught one of the senior partners in the storeroom with his secretary. She was wearing flats today, her hair was down, and she could have passed for sixteen.
"You have something to tell me," Gail said.
"It's about Carla Napolitano." Miriam dropped the files on her desk and began searching for something. "This morning at the computer upstairs I got the Secretary of State's office in Tallahassee. The travel agency where Carla Napolitano works—Gateway Travel—is a fictitious name for a corporation called Seagate. Wild Cherry is owned by a company called Atlantic Enterprises."
Gail turned back her napkin far enough to take another bite of sandwich. "And then you ran those two companies through the computer?"
"Yes!" Miriam held up a long sheet of paper with holes down both sides. Gail took it. Two companies were listed, one after the other. Atlantic Enterprises and Seagate, Inc. Corporate name and address, date of incorporation—1979 for Atlantic, 1981 for Seagate. Two or three names she'd never heard of were listed in each of the officer/director spaces. More addresses. Then for each corporation, an office on Brickell Avenue where you could serve a summons and complaint if you wanted to sue the corporation. All very anonymous.
"Look at the addresses for Atlantic and Seagate," Miriam said, pointing.
Gail nodded. "I am. Fourteen-seventy Drexel Avenue, Miami Beach. Both of them. Well, well... so this proves Gateway Travel and Wild Cherry are in bed together. But what does Carla Napolitano have to do with it? If we're going to scuttle her credibility, we'll have to do better than that."
"Maybe she's a stripper at Wild Cherry on the weekend."
"No, she is not a stripper, Miriam. Talk to Eric. The woman is way too old for stripping in public."
Miriam scowled. "Do you know what Eric wants me to call him? Mr. Ramsay. Really!"
"Don't let it bother you. Make him call you Ms. Ruiz."
"Well, I'm not going to call him Mr. Ramsay. If clients are here, then okay, but not to his face." Miriam took a sharp breath, her black-penciled eyes widening. "Se me olvido! Your mom called, and she's on her way here with Karen."
"What on earth for?" It was a teacher planning day, no school, and Gail had asked Irene to baby-sit, since Phyllis couldn't come until the afternoon.
"She just said she had to talk to you."
With a sigh, Gail signed the papers in Patrick's case, then started on the other pleadings and letters and memos Miriam had laid out for her. When she finished, Miriam's slender hand, bracelets jingling, dropped a gold-embossed business card on the table. It was Howard Odell's card, which Anthony had tossed into the ashtray upstairs and Gail had retrieved and clipped into the Norris file.
"What's this for?"
"Read the address on the card." Miriam leaned against the table with her arms folded, waiting. "See where Howard Odell works?"
"One Thousand Brickell Avenue, Suite 2140." Gail looked up. "Okay. It's the same as the Easton Trust. I know that. He's the executive director."
"Yes, but look." On the computer printout Miriam pointed to the name and address of the registered agent for the companies she had found. Corporate Services, Inc. 1000 Brickell Avenue, Suite 2190, Miami FL 33131.
"Hmmmm." Gail chewed her sandwich, her eyes on the paper. "Same building as Easton. Right down the hall."
"Interesting."
The companies that operated Wild Cherry and Gateway Travel Agency were in the same building on Miami Beach. They used the same registered agent in the same building downtown as the Easton Trust.
"What now?" Miriam asked.
"Dial the registered agent's office," Gail said. When Miriam had done so, she gave the telephone to Gail, and Gail listened to the rings on the other end. Then a man's voice. "You have reached the office of Corporate Services, Inc. No one can take your call at the moment. If you leave your—"
"Dead end," she told Miriam. Gail looked down at the desk for a while, studying the computer printouts. "I'd love to know who owns Seagate and Atlantic."
Miriam shrugged. "The officers in the computer printouts?"
"Probably. But not necessarily. Someone else could own the stock. That information isn't accessible by computer, though."
"I could call Tallahassee."
"They won't know. They don't have that information. We could always contact one of these officers and ask him, but I can guess how far that would get us." Gail took the last bite of her sandwich and tossed her napkin into the trash basket. "Something is bothering me about this."
"What?"
"Carla Napolitano. She works for one of those companies. They've got a registered agent in the same building as the Easton Trust. And the will that Carla Napolitano notarized leaves money to Easton."
It didn't seem possible that Carla Napolitano was linked to the Easton Trust; that pushed the bounds of believability. But still. . . .
"Let's go at this another way," she said. "Let's start with Easton."
"You don't want me to call Howard Odell, do you?" Miriam asked.
"That's the last thing I'd do. And don't bother with Tallahassee, either; a trust isn't a corporation. Look in the Dade County property index. I want to know what real estate the trust owns. What has it bought? Or sold? And to whom? That will tell us who they deal with, and we can go from there. Tell Eric to help you."
Her words were coming faster now, and she barely heard Miriam's phone buzz. "Go to the library and look in the Miami Herald index for Sanford Ehringer. Get me some biographical information. See if you can find out who's on the board of the Easton Charitable Trust. And another thing. Who the hell is Easton?"
Miriam nodded at the same time she put the receiver to her ear, swinging her hair to one side. "This is Miriam." She glanced at Gail, smiled. "Sure! I'll come get them." She hung up. "They're in the lobby."
Suspicion of Guilt Page 17
