She took a ragged breath. "I think ... I was so afraid of losing you that I pushed you away, so it wouldn't hurt as bad when you finally decided to leave anyway. Does that make sense? I never thought you would stay. But at the same time, I wanted you to. I was waiting for you to rescue me ... and you didn't. I mean, what about happily-ever-afters?"
Gail laughed a little, turning aside to wipe her fingers under her nose. "It is funny. I never wanted to be weak that way. To be rescued. All that romantic shit. It's the worst sort of lie."
The silver edge of the pay phone was cool under her forehead. "I've been thinking about what what you said this morning, that you—that you love me ... with all your heart—"
She laughed again, her voice thick. "You know, that was pretty romantic. It was lovely. I've never said anything like that to you, have I? Not really. Not like that." She closed her eyes. "This can't be all. Things don't ... end like this."
There was a beep, then silence, then a dial tone.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Paul Robineau invited Gail to the partners' dining room for lunch the next day. He wanted to know what was up with the Norris case, now that Irving Adler, a witness to the will, had died of a heart attack.
There were a dozen or so Hartwell Black lawyers there, plus their guests, doing the bump and grind of schmoozing and deal-making. Forrest Putney, filling his pipe, presided over a table for eight by the windows. Maxine Canady, tax genius, resplendent in a cherry red suit, was listening to Cy Mackey tell a joke to a director of First Union Bank. The egos in the room gave off a kind of erotic perfume, like musk in a locker room at halftime, the players bleeding a little but ready to go out and slam somebody into the ground at the whistle.
At a table in one of the far comers, Gail talked and Robineau ate his veal chop and looked at the comings and goings with a neutral stare. He could be pleased or pissed, it would be hard to say from a distance. Up close, Gail thought he might swoon over what she was telling him—Lauren Son-tag printing out the fake will at Weissman's office, Rudy signing Althea's name, Jessica and Irving adding theirs as witnesses, five grand paid to the notary.
Gail thought Robineau must already have computed the attorneys' fees: ten percent on twenty-eight million dollars, plus costs. . . .
He picked up his iced tea glass without looking at it. "You're certain Alan Weissman had nothing to do with the forgery?"
"Only in trying to protect Lauren Sontag."
He tipped back his glass and took a swallow, then wiped a napkin across his mouth. "I still don't understand her motivation."
"She wasn't specific," Gail said carefully. "I was lucky to get what I did."
"Will she be prosecuted?"
"I doubt it. If the State Attorney's Office doesn't ask, I won't tell them. Lauren dropped out of the judge's race. That's enough damage."
"Unreal," he said.
"I'm going to let it sit over the weekend to see what Lauren might do on her own. Then we'll decide what the next step is."
Robineau gave her a quizzical glance. "What do you mean, next step? Contact Ted Mercer. He's got the probate now. Tell him it's over. No discount-rate settlement, no trial. He hears this, he's going to shit in his drawers. He's ours."
Gail shook her head. "Let's take it slow, Paul. Lauren Son-tag hasn't given a statement. As far as I know, I'm the only one she's told. She could change her mind."
"Is it likely?"
She took some time answering. "Probably not."
"Okay, then. You handle it, but for God's sake, don't let her backslide." Robineau rattled the ice in his glass, took a swallow, then asked, "What's the deal in probate? When the will is tossed out, is Ehringer out as personal representative?"
"Right. The judge would have to appoint somebody else."
"Patrick Norris. He's the only heir." Robineau smiled, no doubt joyous about the prospect of snatching the probate out of Ted Mercer's office. Mercer had been a real bastard in the settlement conference two days ago with Howard Odell and Ehringer's Palm Beach counsel.
Gail said, "The judge won't let Patrick do an estate this size. He'd appoint one of his friends first. His campaign manager does probate."
Robineau snorted, a soundless laugh. "What about Patrick beating up Rudy Tillett? Will it affect us?"
"I doubt it. He has a criminal lawyer who's taking care of that. Anthony Quintana."
"That's your friend Quintana, correct?"
Gail nodded. "I imagine Anthony will speak to Rudy's attorney, whoever that is, and tell him that if Rudy declines to prosecute, we won't mention the forgery to the police."
"From what you've told me, Rudy Tillett might have done more than forge Althea's will."
"Possibly."
"Who else could have killed her? Any theories?"
Gail had a few. Maybe Howard Odell and Rudy had conspired, and Lauren knew nothing about it. Or Frankie Delgado had to keep Althea from telling that the businesses had crossed the line from naughty to illegal. Or Sanford Ehringer had sent Russell over. The old man had said he loved Althea, but maybe he was crazier than he appeared.
What worried Gail was Larry Black's part in this. He knew the people involved. Now, lying semiconscious in a hospital, he didn't need anyone speculating about his connection to a murder.
Gail shrugged her shoulders and said to Robineau, "Your guess is as good as mine, who killed Althea Tillett."
The waiter came with a dessert tray. Robineau didn't want any, but said Gail should try the kiwi-and-strawberry tart. The waiter set it down on a doilied plate, a shimmering jewel with a sprig of mint alongside. It was one of Paul Robineau's talents to make you feel like a friend, although the day before he might have smacked you around. Nothing personal. Just part of his job.
She tried the tart. Like cardboard, but nothing had tasted right today. She had gone to bed at nine o'clock last night, awakened long enough to send Karen off on the school bus, then had slept like a stone until nearly ten this morning. Anthony still had not called.
Robineau flexed his shoulders, then asked, "How's your schedule? Busy?"
He was going to give her a case, she could feel it coming. "Yes, but I'm always busy. What do you need?"
"Jack Warner's going up to West Palm Beach next week to talk to Pan-Atlantic Airways. It's a new charter service. He thinks we can get their business. Are you interested?"
"One question. Have you given any thought to my partnership? If I'm a partner, I might want the case. If I'm going to work under someone else, then ... I don't know."
Robineau cracked a smile. "Given that we haven't put the Norris case to bed, I can't make any assurances. But I don't think there's going to be a problem, do you?"
She shook her head, wishing she were so sure.
"Good. Then let's say Pan-Atlantic is your welcome-aboard present."
"Thank you, Paul."
Partnership. Percentage of the profits, bonuses, car allowance, membership at her choice of country clubs and downtown luncheon clubs, privileges at the firm's condos in Colorado and Key West. It would happen as soon as Patrick's case was on safe ground. And yet she felt no triumph. She was almost there, and she felt not much of anything.
Robineau's iced tea glass was pushed to one side now and his arms were on the table, heavy fingers interlaced. He wore a steel-gray suit, and his hair was perfectly styled. He spoke softly. "You know, Larry's going to be out for weeks. Months, who knows?"
They had heard this morning that Larry Black would make it. The neurologist wouldn't say much more than that. The police were ready to take a statement, whenever Larry was able. But before that, Gail wanted to speak to him herself. Larry had to see a criminal attorney before the police came in. She would recommend Anthony Quintana. Anthony might not do it as a favor to her, but he would do it for Larry.
"I want you to help reassign his files," Robineau said. "We can't let the clients feel like they've fallen through the cracks. Those who don't already know should be contacted."
"All right." It had to be done.
"Use one of the law clerks. Whatever you need." He shook his head. "Jesus. I thought we were going to attend a funeral. It would have been a loss, Gail, a great loss to this firm. Oh, sure, Larry and I have disagreed now and again, but I'll tell you, something like this ... it makes you appreciate the man."
His voice was hushed and reverent. He meant it. Gail wouldn't wager on how long he would mean it once Larry came back.
She said, "Paul, there's a matter I have to bring up. Eric Ramsay. He says you let him go."
"That's correct."
"He was working with me on the Norris case," Gail said. "I'd have appreciated your asking me about it. I could still use him, especially if I'm going to be picking up some of Larry's cases."
Robineau looked out over the dining room, smihng, not believing he was hearing this. "Here's a point of protocol, Ms. Connor. Don't act like a partner until you are one."
"You should have talked to me and you know it."
"Ramsay's work at this firm was substandard. He has no place here. What's wrong, are you feeling sorry for him?"
"Come on, Paul. At least until he finds another job."
Paul Robineau gave her a neutral stare.
She waited. "Well?"
In her office, Gail checked her desk for phone messages Miriam might have left before going to lunch. Nothing. For an instant she felt a nudge of anger. After pouring her heart out on Anthony's answering machine, it was rude of him not to reply.
She sat down and began to review some documents, making a few corrections on drafts. She paused with her forehead on her fist. Maybe he had arrived home too late to call her back, or hadn't checked his messages. Or he'd been shot dead by a client.
She crossed the hall to look on Miriam's desk and found three pink slips, messages from opposing attorneys on matters Gail should have attended to last week.
Possibly he was so distraught from their fight that he'd gotten drunk on Havana Club and didn't hear the telephone. Or he was glad their affair had ended and would never call.
Gail tapped out a message on Miriam's computer. Send flowers to Larry Black's house for the girls. Something cheerful, with balloons. With love from Gail and Karen.
She added a postscript. Have gone upstairs to Eric's office.
Eric Ramsay was dropping things into a cardboard box on his desk—a calculator, a Rolodex, papers with their edges every which way. He turned around to toss his miniature pool table into the trash can. The little cue and balls rattled to the bottom.
He noticed Gail. "Hello there, boss."
"Eric, what are you doing?"
"I am preparing for my imminent departure."
She came in and closed the door. "I spoke to Paul Robineau at lunch. He says you can stay." Eric tossed a stack of Forbes into his trash basket. "You'll be working full-time for me. I'm going to get my partnership, barring disaster on Patrick's case."
"Congratulations. I'm sure you'll be very happy here."
"And where are you going?" she asked.
He looked through some folders, putting them one by one into a banker's box on the floor. "Oh ... I've always wanted to see Wyoming. I could become a forest ranger. Or a ski bum—got to learn to ski first, I guess." He laughed.
"This is a joke, right? Go to Wyoming in late October, without a job—"
"Want to come along?" Eric grinned at her. "Yeah, you do. Think of it. Good-bye, all you suckers, have a happy heart attack! I'm going to live in a cabin, go fishing, get drank, work when I feel like it—"
"Eric. You can't just walk out"
"Why, did they lock the doors?" He sat on his heels to go through a bottom drawer of the credenza. His expensive dress shirt strained across his shoulders.
"You've got projects you're working on. You have clients." She gestured toward the case files in the box. "What about these?"
"Let Robineau handle them. Did you ever notice how clean that man's desk is?"
Gail shoved the credenza drawer shut with her foot. "And never mind the sister you're sending to college back home," she said. "Or was that a lie?"
Eric looked up at her, pale green eyes. "No, I have a sister." Then he slumped a little. "I wanted to find out if I could be a trial attorney. I can't. I'm no good at litigation and I hate tax."
"So you're running away to Wyoming," Gail said.
"No. You're missing the point," he said, standing up. His collar was open, his tie askew. "I'm not running away. I'm running to. You want to bust your buns for these people? Go for it." He carried the box to the door and set it down.
Gail watched him come back and toss more folders into another box. "I used to think it was important to bust my buns for Paul Robineau or Jack Warner or the others," she said. "Bill the hours. Come in early, leave late, show my face on Saturdays. But you're right. They don't matter. What matters to me is my clients. Doing my job. Look, I don't usually ask for help, but I'm asking you. I need some help with Patrick's case."
"Why? It's going to settle, isn't it?"
"Maybe. Last night Lauren Sontag admitted she helped Rudy Tillett forge the will."
Eric glanced at her. "No shit. What about Weissman?"
"He was drunk and didn't know what was going on. She took advantage of him to help Rudy and Monica. As we thought, Jessica Simms and Irving Adler went along with it for Althea's sake."
"Damn. Why'd Lauren do it? Money?"
"Something like that," Gail said.
He dropped the second box by the door. "So what's the problem? You've won."
"Maybe not," Gail said. "The judge will know that Patrick is under investigation for Althea Tillett's murder. Is he likely to throw out the will? No. He says to himself, 'If I do that, and Patrick Norris is guilty, then the State of Florida gets the money, everybody will be mad at me, and I won't get reelected. ' But say he does declare the will invalid. He still won't release the money, not as long as Patrick is a murder suspect, because a murderer can't inherit from his victim. We could be tied up for a long time. You think the beneficiaries won't figure this out? This is millions of dollars. Sanford Ehringer won't give up easily. He believes Patrick is guilty and he's going to turn on the pressure."
Eric leaned on the edge of his desk, arms crossed. He shoved a box aside with one foot. "What would he do? Pay witnesses to say they saw Patrick hanging around outside Althea Tillett's house?"
"Maybe not go that far, but he could stir up the police and the State Attorney's Office to make an arrest. Or use the media to create bad publicity. I don't want Patrick to go through that. We might have to pay the beneficiaries so they'll leave us alone."
She flicked some dead leaves off the dry fern in the window. "I saw Sanford Ehringer yesterday. He's taking it personally that I haven't dropped die case."
"Why? Because he was buddies with your grandfather?"
"No loyalty to my class," said Gail. "I'm a traitor."
"He could mess you up."
"I don't think he will." She smiled tiredly. "I'm Johnny Strickland's granddaughter. But he'll nail Patrick if he can. What I want to do is give the police someone else to think about besides Patrick."
"Such as who?"
Gail said. "I don't know exactly. I have some theories."
Eric played with the end of his tie, then asked, "What do you want me to do?"
"Be my bodyguard?" She gestured toward the boxes he had stacked. "Along with finishing out your cases, or at least turning them over to someone in a more orderly—"
"Wait, wait." He held up a hand. "What do you mean, bodyguard?"
"I didn't tell you this before, but when I was in Frankie Delgado's office, he slammed me into a door. I still have the bruise."
"Shit," Eric muttered, and pushed his sandy hair off his forehead. "I don't think we ought to get into a confrontation—"
"No." She laughed a little. "Just ... be there. If I want to talk to Rudy Tillett, for instance. Or ask Frankie some more questions."
After a few second
s, Eric went over and picked up the boxes he had stacked, then dropped them on his desk. He looked around at Gail. "One thing. Keep Robineau off my back." Then he gave her a wry smile. "I'm still going to Wyoming after we wrap this case up."
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Gail dropped her purse and briefcase on the kitchen table and pushed open the back door. Phyllis Farrington was spraying off the patio with the garden hose, and a rainbow of mist hung in the air. The sun slanted across the backyard, saturating the treetops with gold. She saw Gail and nodded.
"Did anyone call?"
The plumber." Phyllis flipped the hose over a lawn chair. "Said you got a leak in that back bathroom, might have to tear out the wall to get to it."
"Wonderful."
Gail started to go inside, then said, "How's Karen?"
"Bus dropped her off and she went straight to her room." Phyllis aimed the nozzle out of the way so she could pick up a big yellow leaf that had fallen from the umbrella tree. "I tried to talk to her. She's got it in her mind to lie on her bed with the lights out, feeling sorry for herself."
"Phyllis, really. It was awful for her, what happened at Mr. Adler's house, then to hear about Larry Black."
"Well. You go take a look at her, then." Phyllis turned off the spigot and looped the hose into circles as easily as a cowboy with a rope. The red-and-green striped crotons bordering the patio dripped into the wet earth.
Gail hesitated at the door. "If anyone calls, please say I'm busy for a minute, but to call back."
Phyllis eyed her from the other end of the patio. "All right."
"Sweetie?" Gail knocked lightly at Karen's door, then pushed it open. She took a minute to look around. The curtains were drawn, and the dinosaur quilt was tied to the rod with shoelaces. A navy blue pillowcase was draped over the desk lamp.
Karen lay with her arms at her sides. Her eyes opened and moved toward Gail, who came in and sat on the edge of the bed. Sheets torn off a roll of pink toilet paper were neatly stacked on the nightstand.
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