"Forget it." Rage leaped up her throat and for an instant the corridor vanished into a blur. "Forget calling, forget everything."
"What do you mean?"
"I made a reasonable request. You're being a jerk. It's what you always do. I've had it. I can't take this from you anymore."
Anthony picked up his briefcase with one hand and clamped the other on her elbow. He looked around, smiled across the lobby at his associate, then headed for the doors. He spoke through his teeth. "I'll give you the damn phone number, but first we're going to talk."
She nearly tripped going down the steps. He took her around the corner. The sun was glaring over the buildings across the street.
He said, "Now tell me what is the matter with you."
As if she should explain her surly attitude. The talons of her rage sank deeper. "My mother always told me, Try to end a bad relationship with a man before it goes completely sour, so you can remain friends. Am I too late? What do you think?"
Anthony looked at her, stunned. She closed her eyes and said, "Oh, Christ. Just go back to your clients. I don't want to talk about this now. I don't, don't, don't."
He set his briefcase down as though it might contain a bomb. "What are you saying to me? We're through? What have I done?"
"It isn't you." She pushed back her hair, laughing a little. "I always wanted to go to Mykonos, now I've been there. I want to go home."
"What has happened?" The sun was on his face, making him squint. "I know. It started Friday, at the hotel on South Beach. All right. It was a bad idea. I shouldn't have suggested it. You were too upset about the police—"
"Anthony—no. What happened at the hotel—it was going to happen sooner or later. I've felt it for weeks."
He continued to look at her. "Why didn't you tell me this? If you felt this way, you should have told me."
"I know that. Oh, God, I know." She leaned heavily against the wall. "Anthony, what are we doing with each other? Do you ever really think about it? We play at being in love. It's loads of fun, but it isn't real. I play with you and neglect my daughter. Last night—last night I saw what I've been doing to her. She needs me. I'm all she has. My marriage died because I neglected it. Now my daughter is without her father. There's only so much of me—"
"Ah, this is it. You feel guilty. You blame yourself for her problems. Gail, he never writes her. You said so. A postcard. A phone call if he thinks of it." Anthony's voice was rising. "He abandoned you. He is living on a boat in the Caribbean with another woman. You told me this!"
"Well, good for Dave. Let him do what he wants. I can't be so free."
Two men in suits came nearer. One of them raised a hand to Anthony. He nodded. Gail studied the sidewalk, a pattern of a leaf that had dried there long ago.
The men were gone. Anthony said, "You complained that I didn't know what I wanted from this relationship. Are you asking me to make a decision?"
She shook her head. "I couldn't tell you what to do, even if I wanted to." Gail wasn't angry anymore. She regretted the way she had spoken to him. She smiled, touching the front of his jacket. "You had the most placid life until I came along, didn't you? You'd always say 'Oh, Gail, you make me crazy.' I know you never meant it, but it's true. If we spent a lot of time together, I really would drive you crazy. I know you. You'd feel trapped. I can't ask you to be anything but what you are. It wouldn't be fair."
"A lovely speech. And you said I was condescending."
Her smile faded. "I'm trying—really trying—to be honest with you."
"Unbelievable." He moved away from her, paced, looked at his watch, then came back. "You arrive at the federal courthouse just as I am about to go into a trial and you deliver me a package. I unwrap it, and it's a notice that we are through. I didn't ask for it. I wasn't consulted."
"Listen to you," she said. "That's what I mean. Have you ever noticed that you've got to have everything exactly the way you want it, when you want it?"
He laughed. "¿Y tú? You don't? I think you want me to beg you to change your mind, no? Is that what you want?"
She flared again. "I don't want you to do a damn thing. You like not making choices. Look at you. You float between Miami and Havana and your whole life is like that. You believe in nothing unless it affects you"
"Aha. Ahora tenemos la verdad. This is it. Now I know what you really think of me. Finally the truth."
She felt a sudden, unreasoning urge to weep, but only crossed her arms tightly over her chest. "You were right. I should never have taken this case for Patrick. It made me open my eyes."
"This man is a self-deluded—¡Este mongólico retardado! ¡Este hombre está fundidor!”
"You want more honesty?" Her voice was shaking. "You thought we must have been lovers because I wanted to help him. I denied it. Well, you were right about that too. I did have an affair with Patrick. Me, a married woman at the time. I didn't tell you because I knew it would only have pissed you off."
Anthony said nothing, but a muscle in his jaw bunched into a knot.
She smiled a little. "See?"
"No. I don't give a damn what you did with Patrick Norris in law school. What you do now is worse. This is not our affair, it is yours. Gail—poor, suffering Gail—must decide what will happen because Anthony's emotions can't be trusted. Your conceit is beyond belief!"
Suddenly he laughed and let his hands fall to his sides. "Bueno. Maybe you're right, you know? We should end it. Yes, I agree. You're not so easy to put up with either."
Gail saw heads turn in their direction. She said quietly, "Well. We've had our talk. Are you going to give me Rosa Portales's address or not?"
For a long moment Anthony looked at her, eyes blazing. Then he sat on his heels to click open his briefcase. He pulled out his portable telephone, hit some numbers with a stiff forefinger, crossed his arms, and walked away a few paces, his back to her.
"Mirta. Es Quintana. Llama a la secretaria de la Senora Connor con la dirección y numero de teléfono de Rosa Portales. " In another burst of Spanish he said no, he didn't want his messages; he would be back at six.
Anthony rammed the little antenna back into the phone, threw it into his briefcase, and slammed the lid. "All right?" He grabbed it up and tucked his tie into the front of his jacket, not looking at Gail. "Mirta will call your secretary. Is there anything else? I have a trial, which now I do not know if I can get through without shooting someone."
There was that feeling again. The same calm a person must feel when the airplane is plunging toward the ground, and there is nothing, nothing you can do.
She said, "I'm so sorry. Please try to understand."
"Understand? You want me to understand? What do you think I am?" He took a few steps, then came back, one hand clutching his briefcase, the other frozen in midair.
"You know, the crazy thing—" He took a breath. "The crazy thing is, I have loved you with all my heart. And now what? I am to let it die? Don't tell me to understand what you are doing. I can't. It is too much to ask."
Chapter Twenty-Five
Gail found Eric Ramsay in the library at one of the computers, the screen reflecting in his eyes. He noticed Gail and looked up. "Hey, boss."
She let herself down in the adjacent chair. "Miriam says you filed the Norris case this morning."
"Yeah. First in line at the clerk's office. I got the summonses and subpoenas issued, ready to be served whenever you say. They're in the file." Eric hit some buttons on the keyboard, and the screen went blank. He swung around in his chair. "Miriam told me about Irving Adler. I guess we can toss out his subpoena for deposition."
Gail nodded. Her head felt heavy, off-balance.
"And you found him," Eric said. "That must've been a shock. I don't think his death is going to hurt us, though. We've got a settlement going. Why should Odell back out now?"
"Odell wouldn't, necessarily, but Sanford Ehringer's attorneys might." She propped her cheekbone on her hand. "If Irving can't testify that the will was
forged, what have we got?"
"Now what?"
"I'm going to go see Mrs. Tillett's housekeeper," Gail said. She closed her eyes. They felt hot and dry, as if someone were pushing them back into the sockets. "We've got her address. I called her. Eric, would you drive?"
"Sure. You look beat."
"I didn't get much sleep."
"Oh, hey." He put his hand on her back. "You ought to go on home, get some rest. We can talk to Mrs. Portales later."
She could have fallen against him and for a moment let him gently squeeze her shoulder. He had large, warm hands. "No, let's go now." She pulled away. "Eric—" She glanced into the room. A law clerk was at the far end of a corridor of ceiling-high shelves, turning slowly through a book.
"What?" Eric asked.
"I'm not going to make it till five o'clock. Do you have anything?"
"Sure," he said quietly. His hand went to her back again. "I've got something you could take. It's not too strong."
"I hate to ask," she said. "I don't do this, usually."
"Don't worry about it." He turned off the computer. "When do you want to go to Rosa's?"
"In a little while. I have to make a phone call."
Gail stood up. Irene had come over early in the morning to be with Karen, who wouldn't go to school. Gail wanted to see if Karen was still sleeping.
"Come up to my office first." Eric was gathering his notes. He was wearing navy-blue suspenders with little leather straps that buttoned inside the waist of his trousers. He stuck a thick enameled pen into his shirt pocket.
Gail said, "On the way to Rosa's I'd like to make a couple of side trips, if you don't mind."
"No, I don't mind. Where to?"
"I'm curious. I want to see what Wild Cherry looks like."
Half an hour later the two of them were ten miles or so north of downtown, heading up West Dixie Highway past an Italian pizza place, a discount store, a used car lot.
Eric slowed down. "It's up ahead on the right."
Wild Cherry didn't look as dangerous as he had described it two weeks ago. In fact, the place had neatly clipped hedges and a gold-trimmed sign. There was a red awning at the entrance, like a downtown hotel. The tree-lined parking lot was a quarter full at ten-thirty in the morning. A security guard sat on a stool outside. But still, you couldn't mistake what it was: MIAMI’S HOTTEST EXOTIC DANCERS. LADIES NO COVER CHARGE, DRINK HALF PRICE. LET YOUR FANTASIES RUN WILD.
Gail craned her neck as they drove past. "This doesn't seem too bad. How much money do they make here, do you think?”
"How much do they make, or how much do they report? These establishments can be money machines," Eric said. "Particularly one that's geared to tourists and businessmen. I had to pay ten dollars for a mixed drink, six if I'd wanted a beer. Plus a ten-dollar cover."
She looked sideways at him. "I thought you only stayed five minutes."
He grinned at her. "Can I put it on my expense account?"
"No, you probably enjoyed it too much."
"You ever been to a nude bar?"
"No."
"We can turn around. They let women in." Eric was wearing his sunglasses with the gold frames and leather trim. He playfully tapped the brake.
"I'll pass." Gail asked, "When you were talking to Howard Odell last year, did he mention Wild Cherry?"
"Not at all. He said he invested, but I didn't know it was in this kind of thing."
"Howard Odell is a hypocritical S.O.B.," Gail said. "Collecting money for the poor at the same time he's involved in companies that own nude bars and porno movie houses, and using Easton as his own slush fund, no doubt."
Gail had wanted to see what Larry Black thought, but he had not come in yet. His secretary said he hadn't even gone home last night and his wife, Dee-Dee, was frantic. Gail told Eric to take a left at Northwest 167th Street, a six-lane road of shopping centers, kosher delis, Chinese takeout, small storefronts. Naughty 'n' Nice Apparel Shoppe would be among them.
Eric asked, 'Tell me what happened last night. What did the police say?"
Gail described how Irene had knocked at Irving Adler's door. The paramedics arriving. Adler dead on the kitchen floor.
"They say it was of a heart attack. No sign that anyone broke in. The doors were locked. Just like with Carla Napolitano and Althea Tillett, if you think about it. Except there was a mangled dog in the garbage."
Eric took his eyes off the road to look at her. "Three dead people, three locked doors? Is that supposed to be a pattern?"
"And all three people were somehow involved in this case." She made a laugh. "Next, the body of Jessica Simms, the other witness, will be found stuffed into a kettle drum."
"It's possible." Eric said, "I think you ought to call that detective with the Beach police. See what he thinks."
"He'd think I was demented," Gail said. "What bothers me is Mitzi. Why would Irving Adler throw his pet poodle into a garbage can?"
Eric shrugged. "Maybe a car hit it, and he thought it was dead."
"No, he'd have buried her. Besides, a car would have flattened Mitzi into a little fur rug."
"Maybe Adler accidentally stepped on her," Eric said. "Then he became so distraught that he had a heart attack and died."
Gail remembered the neat kitchen, the carefully placed crackers on his plate. "I don't think so." She pointed through the windshield. "Slow down. It's up ahead on the left."
Eric turned into the parking lot of the strip shopping center, then cruised along the storefronts. Gail looked past him at the shop. Naughty 'n' Nice looked just like any other boutique, except for the black silhouettes of a man and woman on the sign, framed in a red heart. Mannequins in frothy nighties stared blankly back from the windows. A poster read FIFTY PERCENT OFF ALL TOYS AND NOVELTIES.
"Let's go," Gail said. "I've seen enough."
Eric braked at the sidewalk, then guided the Lexus into the flow of traffic. "You know, I used to think you were cold, uptight ... by the book. It was wild, you going to see Frankie Delgado that way, telling him that story about being a call girl. I'd never have expected it from Gail Connor. Now here we are, looking at a sex shop."
Her head on the headrest, Gail shifted her eyes toward Eric. "Better than tax law, right?"
They made their way to Okeechobee Road, which as U.S. 27 would eventually bisect the flat sugarcane fields fifty miles to the northwest. In Hialeah, the road ran past shops and gas stations on the right, with signs in Spanish. A drainage canal bordered the south side of the street, where tall pines shed needles on the rocky ground.
Finally Gail spotted the Aphrodite Motel. A mildewing goddess of poured concrete stood outside the flat-roofed, U-shaped building. There was a wood fence around it. High hedges divided the parking spaces for privacy, and there were a few enclosed garages. A guest could pay and get the key at a drive-up window while his secretary or neighbor's wife ducked down in the seat, ABIERTO 24 HORAS. Special hourly rates for business meetings. Visa and MasterCard accepted. A block beyond, there was another motel. Cupid's Arrow, ADULT VIDEOS AND WATERBEDS. It was, Gail decided, totally depressing.
The Lexus idled in the parking lot of the convenience store next door, air conditioner blowing through the vents.
"Hey."
Gail looked around. Eric was facing her in his seat, smiling through his sunglasses. "We're not in that big a rush. Let's go in."
She laughed. "Are you serious?"
"Sure. Come on."
"No." She let out a breath. "Jesus, Eric."
His smile faded. He turned around, put the car into gear, and gunned it out of the parking lot.
"I didn't mean to laugh," she said. "Really."
"Yeah." He gestured toward her file. "Give me Rosa's address."
She found it in her notes and told him to turn north on West Twelfth Avenue. She looked at him for a minute. His face was expressionless. Shaking her head, she watched the traffic. After a while, she said, "There were some files I didn't get to last night. I could use so
me help this afternoon, if you're not busy."
Eric adjusted the AC vent. "I'm not busy. Pretty soon I won't be busy at all. Paul Robineau gave me my notice yesterday. Take as long as I need to finish up, then get out."
"What? How can he do that?"
"He does what he wants, he runs the firm."
Gail said, "No. He should have told me. He knows you're working with me."
Eric pushed his sunglasses farther up the bridge of his nose. "No big loss. And I'm sick of it. Nobody likes lawyers, not even other lawyers. You're a high-class prostitute. They love you when they need you, then it's over."
"Then why did you go to law school?"
"It made as much sense as anything else. The pay's good." He laughed. "The hours are a bitch."
"Don't quit," Gail said. "This job is like anything else. You do the best you can, and you don't throw it away when it gets tough. Your clients come to you in trouble, and you help them. That's worth a lot."
Gail could see her own face in the lenses of his glasses. The mouth under them smiled, and the cheeks made ruddy circles. "I'm gonna miss you," he said. "Our little talks. Your pointers about life and the law."
"Forget it, then," she said, aware of how vacuous she must have sounded. Quotes from a self-help book. "Go north on West Twelfth."
He put on the brakes and turned the corner.
This part of Hialeah was light industry, small restaurants with a window at the front to serve café, and off-brand gas stations. A mile or so farther on, Eric turned east into a residential area of boxy houses with flat roofs and chain-link fences dividing the yards. They parked on the sparse grass outside the house where Rosa Portales was living with her sister. There was a shrine to the Virgin Mary under a palm tree.
Inside, Rosa Portales sat them down on the sofa. Tile gleamed on the floor and pleated curtains hung at the open windows. On the chrome-and-glass etagere were a statue of San Lazaro, a vase of artificial flowers made of feathers, and a silver-framed photo of a young man and woman in tux and wedding gown, their gazes fixed rapturously on each other. Rock music played faintly from one of the back rooms. Her nephew's day off, Rosa explained.
Suspicion of Guilt Page 30
