"True." Eric swung around to study the lobby again. The wind lifted his tie over his shoulder. "Question. Would Carla have let Howard Odell into her apartment? Did they know each other?"
"He said they did." Gail remembered Odell's claim that he hadn't known Carla well. But he had also said she had once been a heroin addict and prostitute. He had known her well enough. For a moment Gail could see Howard Odell standing by the window in the conference room at Hartwell Black. Seeming older than he had at the gallery. Wanting to give it all up, go fishing.
Eric said, "Carla would have let Frankie Delgado in. He manages the travel agency. He had as much to lose as Howard Odell. And consider what he did to you. That shows a capacity for violence."
Frankie Delgado's muscular arm had snaked out to grab her purse before he shoved her against his office door. The blond-haired girl looking on, srnirking—
"He could have been working for Howard," Gail said.
"Could have been."
They walked back to the parking lot.
"You know, Gail, instead of beating our heads against a brick wall, we could wait till Larry wakes up and ask him."
"When will that be? He's barely conscious, and they don't know if he'll remember anything. The neurologist doesn't want to push him."
Leaning on the fender of Gail's car, Eric said, "You haven't mentioned Irving Adler in this scenario."
"I talked to one of his sons. Irving died of a heart attack. His doctor found nothing suspicious. I'm going to his funeral this afternoon with my mother. She was a friend of his."
"Did they ever find out what happened to Adler's poodle?"
"No," Gail said.
There was a high wooden fence around Adler's backyard, she recalled. Someone could have come into his house unobserved, even in broad daylight. And then what? Viciously kicked the dog? Adler saw this and dropped dead? She had thought of Mitzi a few times, followed by the image of Rudy and Monica Tillett throwing raccoons under the wheels of oncoming cars.
"Where to now?"
"Are you up for talking to Howard Odell?" When Eric gave her a surprised glance, she said, "You've got a car phone, let's see if we can find out where he is." She reached into her purse for the business card she had saved, still creased.
Eric stood there with his keys in his hand. "Seriously?"
"It's a place to start. Look what I found out when I asked Carla a few questions."
"Yeah, look what happened when you met Frankie Delgado."
"You're bigger than Howard." She got in when Eric unlocked the doors.
He turned on the engine. "What are you going to say?"
She punched the number for the Easton Charitable Trust printed on Howard Odell's business card. "I'll probably make it up as I go."
He laughed. "Jesus Christ. And what am I supposed to do, hang him out a window by his ankles?"
When a woman's voice answered, Gail motioned for him to be quiet, then announced herself as a Ms. Miriam Ruiz with First Florida Bank, was Mr. Odell in? No, he wasn't. How could he be reached, as the matter was quite urgent. There was a little pause, then the woman replied that she wasn't certain. Perhaps Ms. Ruiz could leave a number?
Gail said she would call back.
"Now what?"
"Back to the office." She got out and spoke to Eric through the open door. "Miriam is getting some information on the other officers of the Biscayne Corporation. I want to check them out. We're also going to dig into some bank records, see how all these businesses overlap. Biscayne and Atlantic and Seagate. Find out who owns what."
Eric's expression was disbelieving. "How do you do that?"
"Contacts."
He smiled. "Not exactly legal."
"There's a lot to be said for a big law firm when you need something done. You ought to think again before you throw it all away."
"Wait a minute." He looked up at her through the window. "You know, something doesn't fit here. What about Althea Tillett's will? The forgery? What does that have to do with Easton?"
After a moment, Gail said, "I'm not sure." "Another question. How did he—whoever it was—get into Althea Tillett's house?"
Gail followed Eric to North Bay Road, pulling in behind him alongside the wall that ran around Althea Tillett's property. A lone bicyclist passed, splashing through a puddle. Gail locked her car, leaving her purse under the seat.
The gate was set between columns covered in flowering pink bougainvillaea. Standing beside Eric she could see the colonnaded portico, the overhanging trees, the circular drive where the police had taken her and Patrick and the Tilletts into custody.
"If you were Althea Tillett," he said, "would you let a stranger into your house in the middle of the night?"
"Howard Odell wasn't a stranger."
He slid a hand down one of the metal bars, then took off his sunglasses and put them inside his jacket. Backing up a little, he glanced both ways along the street, then toward the house on the other side, hidden behind hedges and Bahama shutters. He stripped off his jacket and tossed it at Gail. "Hold this."
"What are you—"
He jumped, grabbed the top of the wall with both hands, and pulled himself up, supported finally on straight arms. His suspenders made an X on his white shirt. He brought up his knees, crouched, and disappeared. Gail heard a thud and looked through the gate. Eric came from behind a tree, dusting off his trousers.
"Are you crazy?"
He spotted something on the latch and smiled. The gate swung inward with a metallic creak. "It wasn't locked, Gail."
"Get out of there!"
He grabbed her wrist and pulled her through, then closed the gate. "No one saw us." He took his jacket from her and put it on. He started down the curving brick driveway, empty of cars.
Gail glanced toward the street. The day was cool, but she had broken into a nervous sweat. Overhead, leaves rustled in the banyan tree. A blackbird screeched, loudly clattering its wings. Eric went onto the front patio and cupped his hands, looking through the window.
"Don't touch the glass," Gail warned. "There's an alarm system."
"I remember. Rosa Portales turned it off when she came in that morning." He moved to the next window, looked in. "I can see stairs. Is that where they found the body?" He walked along the colonnade. The front entrance was a double wooden door, painted white, with a heavy brass handle and two locks.
Gail said, "She was wearing a red silk kimono and her underwear, that's it." Eric looked around. "I wouldn't entertain unexpected guests like that. Maybe you're right. Whoever came in had a key. Or she knew him very well indeed."
Eric stepped off the patio. "How well did she know Howard Odell? They had the Easton Trust in common. She might have let him in." He motioned toward the walkway that led around the side of the house. "Let's go around back."
Gail remembered that trees shielded the view along the edges of the property. No one was likely to see them, unless from the bay. She said, "We might as well."
The house seemed huge from this angle, sand-colored stucco going up and up to the red barrel tile at the roof. Now she could see the rear terrace, the striped awnings, the gazebo. The surface of the pool wobbled, and occasional drops of rain made circles that expanded slowly to the Italian-tiled edges. At the edge of the sea-wall, the long, heavy fronds of the royal palms hung motionless, as though the wind was holding its breath.
Inside the house, the long sofas, laden tables, and cluttered walls showed dimly through the expanse of glass. One sliding door had been replaced by a sheet of plywood.
"Is this the one Patrick broke?" Eric laughed. "I wish I'd seen that." He opened his hands on the wood. "Glass doors can be lifted off the tracks, you know."
"What about the alarm?"
"Maybe it wasn't on. People forget. Didn't the detective say the women had been drinking? Althea forgets to reset the alarm, she goes upstairs to bed ..."
Eric stretched out his arms, easily spanning the door. He grasped either side of the frame. "Our i
ntruder lifts—which I won't do—and pulls outward from the bottom, like so. He moves the door away like this...." Eric continued his pantomime. "He sets it down. It takes him—what?—ten seconds. He goes upstairs, kills her, pushes her body down the stairs. On his way out he replaces the door and sets the alarm. No one will suspect her fall was anything but an accident. Otherwise, the police will start asking too many questions."
Gail shaded the glass to see across the living room, where the stairs curved to the second floor. "She went upstairs to change her clothes, then she came down again. My mother told me that Althea was wearing slacks and a blouse at the party." She walked farther along the terrace. The lid of the grand piano was still down, where it had crashed when Patrick was attacking Rudy.
"Althea put on some music. Her neighbor heard it. What was it?"
"Music? Yes." Eric's hand was moving as if to grasp the title. "An opera. You wrote it in the file. Madama Butterfly. Yeah, that explains the kimono. The intruder lifts the door while she's upstairs. No, forget that. Too risky. What if the alarm was on? This murder was planned better than that."
Eric blinked away a raindrop. "This isn't getting us anywhere, Gail. You can devise any theory you want to about how Althea's killer got in here: Howard Odell rang the doorbell. Rudy had a key. Frankie walked in through the sliding glass door, which was wide open."
"I want to hear that one." Laughing, Gail stepped under one of the blue and white striped awnings. Drops of rain were making silvery crowns in the swimming pool.
Eric backed up, looking at the house. "All right. The open door theory. Between this house and the closest neighbor— about fifty yards away—there's an eight-foot concrete wall and a jungle of trees. Althea died on September sixth. Summer. Windows are shut and the AC is running. But the neighbor hears Madame Butterfly. Not for the entire opera, but only for five or ten minutes. How is this possible?" He nodded toward the sliding glass door. "The door was open. And if the door was open, our intruder could have come in without a key."
She had to smile. "Or perhaps, Eric, this was when our intruder was lifting the sliding glass door off the tracks, and Althea was upstairs changing into her kimono."
"No, we have to ditch that theory. What about the alarm? The intruder must have had a key. There was no forced entry. The alarm didn't go off. And he didn't simply walk through an open door. So who had a key? Rosa Portales." He laughed, then suddenly his smile faded. "Gail, do you remember, when we were at Rosa's, what she said? Rudy and Monica were upstairs going through their stepmother's papers. Did Rosa say she found them there, or did she let them in?"
Over the bay hung a long, low cloud, and rain fell in the distance like a swirl of gray chiffon. Gail watched it for a minute, knowing that soon it would be overhead. Already fat drops were dotting the terrace.
She said, "Rosa found them upstairs."
"Maybe Rosa left the front door unlocked."
"Maybe."
"You sure it wasn't Patrick? He had a key."
"Ha-ha. Yes, I'm sure."
"What about Sanford Ehringer? He could have sent his bodyguard over."
"No. Ehringer told me he and Althea used to be lovers. He wouldn't have let anything happen to her."
"Yeah? You two must be pretty tight."
"He isn't the ogre I once thought, no."
Eric walked back along the perimeter of the pool, joining her under the canvas awning. His hair was darker blond on top, dampened by the rain. He said, "Where was Rudy Tillett on Monday morning, when Larry was attacked?"
Gail shook her head.
"We could find out easily enough," Eric said.
The rain began to patter on the canvas awning. The bay was empty, only a sportfisher half a mile out. A pelican on the seawall lifted its wings then flapped away.
"Let's go," she said.
Running, they went back around the corner of the house. Rain whispered in the trees, drizzling through in places.
Eric said, "It's too late to get anything else done this morning. What are you doing later?"
"Later when?"
"After work. We could go over to the Beach. Rudy Tillett runs his catering and party business out of a building on Fifth Street." The rain was falling harder now, and Eric swung his jacket over their heads.
As they hurried along the driveway more questions formed in Gail's mind. Larry hadn't wanted the firm to take the forgery case. He had said they shouldn't alienate prominent members of society. Who was he really afraid of, and why?
Eric pushed open the gate, holding his jacket over Gail while she took her car keys out of her pocket and unlocked the door. She got in.
"I can't do anything tonight," she said. "I have a deposition in the morning to prepare for."
He leaned closer, the jacket over his head, rain making a racket on the roof. "You want me to talk to Rudy? He doesn't know me." His hair was stuck to his forehead. "I could get friendly with his secretary, if he has one." He grinned. "Unless his secretary's a guy, then I don't know."
"No. Don't do anything yet," Gail said. "Tomorrow. We'll talk about it then."
She closed her door, waving through the window.
The graveside services for Irving Adler were held at 2:00 p.m. at Menorah Gardens, a cemetery at the western edge of development one county to the north. The family sat under a green canopy whose scalloped edges flapped in the wind. Past the trees, four lanes of U.S. 27, and a drainage canal, the Everglades extended for miles to the west. Clouds were moving like a lid being slowly pulled across the earth, but for now the rain had stopped.
Irene and Gail stood among the crowd of fifty or so, holding hands. When it was over, Irene went to speak to Adler's family. Gail had noticed Jessica Simms earlier, but the woman had only looked icily through her big round sunglasses, pretending not to see her. Now Irene was picking her way across the grass. Her red hair stood out in the background of dull gray suits and dark dresses.
"Are you okay?" Gail asked.
"Oh, yes. We all knew Irving wouldn't be with us much longer. This isn't like Althea's funeral. No. I cried buckets over Althea."
They made their way toward where the cars were parked. The tops of the trees swayed and rustled.
"Mother, I think Anthony and I may get married."
Irene blinked. "When?"
"I don't know when," Gail said. "I mentioned it to him, and he said he wouldn't rule it out."
"Only a lawyer would give that kind of answer," Irene said. "Do you love him? No, that's a dumb question. Obviously you're ga-ga over this man. I'm not going to offer any advice."
"I don't want advice, Mother," Gail said. "I'm just letting you know. And be nice to him."
"Nice? When have I not been nice?" Irene tilted her head up to look directly at Gail. Her blue eyeshadow was the same shade as her dress. "He'd better take good care of you, that's all I have to say about it." She hugged Gail's arm. "Or else. What does Karen think?"
"We'll have to work up to that. There are a lot of things we still have to resolve."
"Well. If he makes you happy."
"Happy? Yes. And miserable." Gail laughed. "But I'd be more so without him."
"Now, listen," Irene said. "Don't mention marriage to him again. If he's serious about you, he'll bring it up. Men are another species, darling. Their minds don't work the same as ours. It might ruffle his pride if you ask him directly."
"I'll certainly keep that in mind, Mother."
They came out on a narrow asphalt road bordered with low hedges. Already mourners were getting into their cars, doors slamming, moving slowly toward the gated exit.
Gail said, "I spoke to Sanford Ehringer on Tuesday about the case I have for Patrick. I went to his house by the river. I’d been there before, as a kid. Do you remember taking me?"
"It's been years! Were you with me?"
"I know that my grandfather brought me. Ehringer says John Strickland was a friend of his. He also told me that your grandfather Benjamin was one of the founders of the East
on Charitable Trust. Is that true?"
"Grandpa Benny? I didn't know that"
"Really you didn't?" A gust of wind blew Gail's hair across her face, and she shook it back.
"No. I would have told you, Gail. Is Sanford certain? Well, I guess he'd know." Irene's skirt fluttered. "Now, why on earth didn't anybody in the family mention that Grandpa was a founder of Easton? Maybe they did, and I forgot."
It was more likely, Gail decided, that the family hadn't wanted Irene Strickland Connor to know about Grandpa Benny's ignominious departure from the board of the Easton Tmst after getting caught with the mayor's wife.
"What do you remember about him?" Gail asked.
Irene smiled. "He was a wonderful man, very kind and funny. He used to take all his grandchildren rowing on Biscayne Bay, and we'd play like we were pirates. I swear, he could catch a fish on a safety pin. He passed away when I was just a girl."
Gail took her mother's arm and they began to walk. "I didn't know I'd missed so much. Mother, could you tell me about my grandfather John sometime? I want to hear the real story. Never mind the version I could read at the Historical Museum. Sanford Ehringer says he was a gambler."
"Oh, he drove Momma batty. Card parties, coming home at all hours. He loved the casinos, till they went out of business, then he'd fly down to Havana for the weekend. Momma hated it, but she went along to keep Daddy out of trouble. These days she would have divorced him, but fifty years ago husbands and wives didn't do that."
Fingers pressed to her face, Irene laughed. "Oh, I remember one time this loo-o-ong black Chrysler brought him home just before dawn. I was about Karen's age, and I saw it through my bedroom window. Daddy got out, drunk as a skunk, and they had to help him to the door. He couldn't find his keys so I sneaked downstairs and let him in. There were men in tuxedos inside the car, and a black-haired woman in a sparkly dress. I just knew they were gangsters! But Daddy said no. I still wonder. He had to bring Momma three dozen red roses before she would let him back in their bedroom."
"You never told me this story."
"I did, too. I must have. You didn't pay attention."
Suspicion of Guilt Page 36
