"Mother, please!"
"Good lord, they see thousands of murders on television by the time they're her age."
"Those aren't real!" Gail reached over to cup Karen's cheek. "Someone came into her house, but they won't come into ours."
"I think we ought to buy a gun. Molly's dad has an Uzi."
"Ryan Perlmutter does not have an Uzi."
"She said he does."
"That's a fib. Sit down. We're almost there." Gail turned at the next corner. "Is this affair what Irving has on his conscience?"
"I doubt it," Irene said. "I'm sure he treasures that memory. Neither of them were kids, but Althea had such ... fire. You could never accuse Althea of being shy. She didn't wait for life to come to her; she went out and took it. Not like me. I was too timid. Someday my prince will come, all that sort of nonsense. I tell you, Gail, it ruins you for real men. You expect them all to be heroes, and they aren't, bless their hearts."
"Very true," Gail said.
"I never raised you girls to believe in fantasy, I hope."
"No, Mother. I think it's in the air. We can't help ourselves."
Gail slowed down. The street looked different at night. Quiet. Pulling itself in like a black drawstring bag. There was a wind, a cold front moving through, and the light from the street lamps shifted and danced in the branches of the trees.
Irving Adler's living room curtains were drawn, but the lights were on, glowing through the folds in the fabric. Gail pulled the car into his driveway and turned off the engine.
"Karen, I want you to be very polite with Mr. Adler. You hear me?"
She nodded, looking at the house.
"He's an elderly gentleman, and he's very sad about his friend dying. We must be very respectful. Okay?"
"Okay."
Irene closed her door. "This yard is so dark. He should have put the porch light on. Watch where you're stepping, girls."
Shifting Karen's alligator purse to one side, Gail brushed some crumbs off her Miami Hurricanes sweatshirt. She had refused to let Karen wear the hat. Gail still had her suit on, not a minute to change to anything else.
They walked up the three steps to the front porch and Irene rang the bell. Gail waited for Adler's poodle to throw herself against the inner door, yapping and snarling.
The storm door rattled slightly in a gust of wind, and their dark images trembled in the glass.
Irene pressed the button again, and the same long tones sounded from inside the house. She opened the storm door and rapped loudly with her knuckles on the little fan-shaped window level with the top of her head. "Irving? It's me, Irene." She moved aside and said, "What can you see through here?"
Gail stood on tiptoes. "Nothing. His entrance hall." Irene reached past her and tried the door. Locked. "Should we go around back?" Gail asked.
"No." Irene's chest rose and fell and she laid her hands on Karen's shoulders. "Stay here with your mama. I'm going next door to use the telephone."
A patrol car arrived first, and the officers tried knocking again, then calling out, before they broke a pane of glass in the kitchen door and reached through to turn the deadbolt.
The rescue van came, lights circling around the yard, flashing across the house. The paramedics went through the front door with their equipment. Gail had made Karen sit in the car. Now Irene appeared in the open doorway. She leaned on the white wrought-iron railing to come down off the porch.
Gail knew the answer before she went to put her arms around her. "Oh, Mom. He's gone?"
"Yes. His heart, they think."
"Oh, my God. If we had come—"
"He's been dead for a while." She took a tissue from her purse. Her voice trembled. "They tried to find a pulse and they said he was cold. I saw his face. It didn't look like Irving. It didn't."
Gail hugged her.
A neighbor woman called out from the next yard, "What happened? Is Irving all right?" Someone else called from across the street. Irene wiped her eyes, then went to tell them.
Gail looked around. "Karen, stay in the car. I'll be back."
"Mom, is he dead?"
"His heart gave out, sweetie. He was a very old man, and I'm sure he went peacefully. You know this happens."
"Can I see?"
"No. Stay with your gramma."
Gail went inside the house. The kitchen was noisy and crowded with men in uniforms. One officer was on his two-way radio; the other was watching the paramedics pack up. A chair was overturned, and Irving Adler lay beside it as if he had fallen asleep there, his legs pointed toward the dining room. She could see the spotless soles of his running shoes, his thin ankles, the pressed creases in his trousers, and one upturned hand. It was a neat kitchen, and the floor was shiny blue. A pot was on the stove. The table was set. Saltines formed a white wreath around a bowl of noodle soup.
Gail went to the open door to breathe some air. The swimming pool shimmered in the light from the kitchen. She could faintly hear a television playing in the house next door. The yard was dark, circled by a wood fence.
One of the officers came over and asked what she wanted. She told him who she was. Her mother, Mr. Adler's friend, might know how to reach his family.
The officer nodded. "We'll ask her." He lifted an arm toward the dining room, a suggestion that she should leave.
Gail said, "Did he die of a heart attack?"
"Apparently. Can I get you to wait outside?"
"Tonight Mr. Adler was going to tell me who forged a will. It's an estate worth several million dollars. Althea Tillett. Do you know the name?"
The cop looked at her awhile. He was young, with large brown eyes and a straight part in his black hair. He turned his head toward the other officer and said to call investigations back and tell them to hurry up.
Detective Gary Davis arrived ten minutes later. He went into the kitchen while Gail waited in the living room with Irene and Karen. Karen wanted to see the body, but Gail said no. She nearly told Irene to go on home and take Karen with her, but Irene didn't look as if she was in any condition to drive. Awhile later an ambulance arrived—no lights or siren—and took Irving away. Irene had called several of their friends, and Irving's son was on his way over.
Davis asked the younger man to check all the windows and sent the blond officer outside with a flashlight. Karen asked if she could watch. Gail said no, but Davis said it was okay with him, as long as she didn't get in the way.
He sat on the edge of Irving Adler's chintz-covered armchair. He said, "Here's what I think, Ms. Connor. You tell me the man had a triple bypass last year. I don't see any marks on him, no signs of struggle. Doors were locked. It looks like a plain ol’ heart attack to me."
"I just thought ..." Gail's words trailed off with a motion of her hand.
"No, it's good to ask. Tough luck about your case, though, him being a witness and all."
"Oh, well." Gail touched Irene's arm and spoke quietly. "Mother, are you ready to go home?" Irene nodded, red-eyed and subdued. Gail stood up, then asked, "Detective, do you know anything more about Carla Napohtano? Did she fall? Or what?"
"Far as I know, it was an accident. There was a half-empty bottle of Southern Comfort on the patio, and the M.E. says she had a blood alcohol level of one point six. It would help if you could tell me anything you know."
Gail felt utterly drained. "Let me call tomorrow. There isn't much more to tell you."
"Tell me now, then."
Irene sat back down. Gail told him what Howard Odell had said about Carla. She asked, "Was she ever on drugs? Did the autopsy show anything?"
"The M.E. didn't find evidence of current drug use," Davis said. "I don't know her history. According to her neighbors, she led a pretty quiet life."
"Carla told me she kept books, as well as making travel arrangements."
"Right. The manager confirmed that. Frankie Delgado."
Gail glanced at her mother, then looked back at Davis. She hadn't told her about impersonating a hooker. "I believe I
may have mentioned Mr. Delgado to you before."
"I believe you did."
"Did you ask him where he was last Thursday night, by any chance? When Ms. Napolitano had her accident?"
"Sure did. A private party at Tony Roma's, which I confirmed with the maitre d'." Davis smiled. "You practicing to be an investigator?"
"I'm not doing any worse than your department. You still suspect Patrick Norris." Gail picked up her purse from the coffee table. "If you're going back to headquarters tonight, could I call you? I need the address and phone number of Mrs. Tillett's housekeeper."
He scratched the side of his face. "I gave it to Quintana already."
"Yes, but he's in trial and I can't reach him."
"What are you gonna do?"
"Talk to her."
"No. Uh-uh. In fact, you tell Quintana I said nobody talks to Rosa Portales. I want to interview her again myself, in light of what you told me about the will. Maybe I missed something."
"Detective Davis, she may be important to my case."
"Mine too. And I'm talking about a homicide."
"You can't forbid me to interview witnesses on a civil case. I'm certainly not going out of mere curiosity—"
He held a finger in her face. "I don't want to hear you've been to see Rosa Portales until you clear it with me. I might want to reinstitute some paperwork from an incident over at Mrs. Tillett's house. You understand what I'm saying?"
A long, piercing wail, as of a child in pain, came from deeper in the house. Gail gasped, then dropped her purse and raced across the dining room, colliding with Karen at the doorway to the kitchen.
"Mommeeeee!" There was a smear of blood on her sweatshirt.
"What is it?" Gail grabbed her by the arms. "Karen! Oh, my God! Are you all right?"
"Noooooo! Please!"
"What's going on?" Davis shouted.
"The dog! It's hurt! Mom, it's bleeding! You have to take it to a vet!"
Irene came around Detective Davis. "Do you mean Mitzi? Gail, I haven't seen that dog since we got here."
"She was in the trash! I heard a noise and I lifted the lid and she was crying!" Karen squeezed her eyes shut and drummed her feet, quick little steps in her torn canvas sneakers. "I dropped her. I didn't mean to!"
"Where is she, Karen?" Irene asked.
Karen spun around and ran for the door. The floodlights were on in the backyard now, a spotlight pointing in each direction from the corner of the roof, and the yard was a contrast of white and deep shadow. The young officer with the black hair pointed to the grass beside a garbage can filled nearly to the top with plastic bags. "It's a puppy or something."
Davis went over to see. "Oh, I hate this. God damn."
Gail pulled Karen back. Davis looked at Gail and shook his head.
The blond officer bent over the grass. "Yipes. It's flat in the back. Gross."
The young cop said, "What'd the old bastard do, throw it out?"
Karen buried her face in Gail's stomach and clung to her waist, screaming. "Mommy! Take her to a doctor. Pleeeese!"
Gail hugged her tightly. "All right. The policemen will take it to a vet. Won't you?" She looked at them. "Won't you?"
"A vet?" The young cop looked down at Karen. "That's right. We'll take good care of her."
"Now! Take her now!" Karen sobbed, and Gail pulled her toward the house. She glanced back. The blond cop toed the dog gently with his shoe and it yelped. Karen put her hands over her ears. "Don't!" She screamed. "Mommeeeee!"
Irene pushed past him and fell to her knees on the ground. Mitzi was whimpering, a high, staccato cry, as if her jaws were trembling. Irene looked around at the young cop and yelled at him, "Go get me a hand towel out of the kitchen! Move!"
Davis jerked his head in that direction and he took off. Irene pushed her sweater sleeves to her elbows. When he returned with a blue checked towel, Irene told him to spread it on the ground. She picked up the small shape, laid it on the towel, and wrapped it tightly. The cries were muffled now. She got up, walked quickly to the edge of the swimming pool, knelt, and plunged the bundle into the water, holding it there. The water darkened, blood spreading.
"Oh, shit." The young officer turned and looked up at the sky.
Karen stared.
Gail dragged her to the house. "Come inside."
"Leave her here!" Irene's arm was still straight down into the water. "Karen. You listen to me. Stop crying. This dog was too badly hurt to live, and she was suffering. She wouldn't have made it to the vet. Do you understand?"
Karen wailed.
"Answer me!"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good. Now you and your mother go inside and find me another towel. A pretty one. Bring a spoon and we'll make a place to lay Mitzi to rest. It's all right now. It's all right. Go on."
They found an embroidered hand towel in Irving Adler's linen closet. Gail went into the bathroom and wet a washcloth and cleaned off Karen's face. Karen was weeping silently, taking big gulps of air.
Gail said, "I'm so sorry, sweetie. I'm so sorry." Her throat hurt too much to talk, not from grieving over the life of Adler's poodle, or from the horror of watching it die, but from shame. When she was a child she had seen Irene drown a kitten in a bucket that way, after a dog got it. Gail and her sister Renee had said prayers and sung songs over the little mound of dirt in the backyard.
This time she should have been the one to do it.
Chapter Twenty-Four
At the federal courthouse, Gail looked inside the courtroom on the twelfth floor. Empty. Only the flags, the empty judge's bench, and a few rows of seats upholstered in mauve. Anthony's trial would restart at nine o'clock, according to the court clerk. Gail had detoured a few blocks north on the way to her office, hoping to find him here by now, half an hour early.
She took the elevator back downstairs to the lobby. Through two-story plate glass, light poured in from outside, a glare on the brown marble floor. She felt clumsy and disconnected; she had not been able to sleep last night.
People came and went, voices echoing. She scanned the faces, then glanced toward the street. He was just coming along the sidewalk, carrying his briefcase. Three people were with him, a younger associate from Ferrer & Quintana on his left, and a man and a woman on his right. The man would be the client—Latin, mid-forties. He was a co-defendant in an embezzlement case, and he held the woman's hand. Anthony spoke to the client, touching his shoulder for emphasis. He wore a conservative gray suit today, which said this must be a jury trial. He had told Gail that jurors prefer such suits, having seen them on lawyers in the movies or on television.
From an insider's vantage point she had watched him in trial. He was measured and calm, or could explode with enough raw emotion to make a jury gasp. His timing was superb, his gestures so assured they seemed completely without artifice—the eyes up to heaven, the little shrug, the ruffling through papers as if he had just recalled a vital point. But he had done his homework; he knew his lines. Once when he had finished mangling a government witness, he stalked back across the courtroom, blood still on his claws, and his eyes had caught Gail's, and the desire that had shot between them in that instant had nearly made her faint.
At the top of the steps the associate held the glass door. Anthony let the client and his wife go first, then followed them inside. He noticed Gail and said something to the others.
He crossed the lobby, curious, smiling. "This is a surprise."
Gail said, "I wouldn't bother you during a trial, but I need a favor."
"Why are you so pale? What's wrong?"
"I didn't get much sleep. Irving Adler died last night."
"Died? How?"
"A heart attack. He had called my mother, wanting her to bring me over to talk to him. He was going to confess the will was forged. When we got there, he was dead. Karen was with me. She found the dog with its back broken and thrown in the trash. She had nightmares all night."
Anthony took Gail's hand.
; She said, "I thought of calling you, but it was so late."
"No, no. You should have called." With an arm around her shoulders, Anthony steered Gail out of the way of people walking past. There was a deserted spot along one wall, and he set his briefcase down. "Where is Karen now?"
"With my mother. She's all right. Anthony, what I need from you is Rosa Portales's address and phone number. My case just took a hit. Irving would have told me the truth. Now he's gone. I want to talk to Rosa Portales today."
"Why? Is there a rush?"
"Yes. We're in settlement. I told them I could prove the forgery. Now I'm not sure I can," Gail said. "Do I have to explain it all now? I want to talk to her."
"When this trial is over next week I'll go with you," he said.
"I don't need you to go with me," she said sharply, then dropped her voice when a woman glanced at her. "You told your secretary not to give me Rosa's number. Why?"
He took a moment, then without looking at her spoke as if she were a law clerk asking an obvious question. "Because this involves the criminal prosecution of my client, and I prefer to speak to the witness first, before her memories have been altered by questions on other matters."
Gail laughed a little. "Excuse me? Your client?"
"Yes. Patrick Norris."
She felt the blood pounding in her head. "You didn't even want him as a client."
"But now I have him, no?"
"You don't care about Patrick. You want to control what I do, and I don't like it."
He looked down his fine, narrow nose. "Where a client is involved, what anyone else does or does not like is of minor importance."
The room seemed to tilt. "Well, where was that noble sentiment when I was telling you the same thing? You were screaming at me because I wanted to handle my case in my way. True? Yes?"
"It isn't the same."
"Yes. It is. Call Mirta. I believe you have a phone in your briefcase?" She made a polite little smile.
"I have a client waiting for me, Gail." Face completely neutral, he moved closer, not to let anyone hear them. "I'll call you tonight. We'll discuss it then."
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