Anthony leaned forward, stopping the chair's motion with a hand planted firmly on each leather-upholstered arm. His silk tie swung into her lap. "No, Gail, our biggest problem at work"—his lips brushed across hers—"would be how to get anything done."
She tugged on his tie and smiled. "I'll think about it."
"How can you say no?"
"I'll say maybe. I have a lot on my mind."
"Of course. You don't have to decide now." He kissed her forehead.
"What should I do about Wendell?" she asked. "Ignore him?"
"Claro que si. Yes, forget about Wendell. But if he bothers you again, tell me."
"Don't beat him up on my account, Anthony."
He put a hand on his heart. "Oh, Gail. Where do you get these ideas, that I would do such a thing? I promise, I am the most gentle of men. Te juro." He shrugged. "Unless he touched you, then I would have to kill him."
"Funny." Gail got up and stood between Anthony's thighs. Under the warm brown fabric of his trousers, his legs were trim and hard.
He slid his hands down her hips, pulling her tightly against his groin. "Would we get any work done? Hmm. Un problema muy grande."
"Anthony, I forgot to tell you. Bozo sent roses to my office."
Leaving Ferrer & Quintana, Gail went by Miami Police headquarters with the envelope that had come with the flowers. At the information desk she was given a pass to clip to the lapel of her jacket and told to take the elevator to the third floor. She knew the way, having been here two days ago. Anthony wanted to come along, but had already made an appointment with a client. Gail assured him she would park in a safe place and, yes, look around before getting out of the car. Anthony, for God's sake, I'll be surrounded by cops.
The older of the detectives assigned to the case, Sergeant Ladue, met her in the hall and took her to the room used by homicide and personal crimes. Windows looked east, but an apartment house with faded turquoise paint obscured a view of the water. Detective Novick looked up from a phone call and acknowledged Gail with a nod. Ladue held a chair at the end of his desk, and she gave him the card.
He remained standing, belly thrust out for balance. A pistol in a scuffed brown holster rode on his belt, along with a badge. Sergeant, Miami Police Department, the city's palm tree logo in the center. He took a pair of glasses out of his pocket, shook them open, and set them on his short nose.
Gail held her purse on her lap. "Renee is my sister. She died last year. A homicide."
"Uh-huh." Ladue flipped the card over, found nothing, then dropped it onto his desk. "You want a copy?" Gail said she didn't. Ladue said, "I heard about your sister. Apparently our guy did too. Okay, we'll call the florist, see if they have a record."
Opening her purse, Gail withdrew some folded pages. "Detective Novick asked me to make a list of people I've had disagreements with in the recent past. There are about a dozen people whom I'd consider remotely possible as suspects." She had listed names and addresses and a brief description of the dispute, most of which had been amicably resolved.
She tapped the top of the list. "This one, Simon Yancey, was the defendant in a foreclosure case I handled April a year ago. Here. I made you some copies from the case file. He wrote me a letter."
Novick, who had finished his phone call, came to look over Ladue's shoulder. While they read, Gail idly looked at the stuff pinned to the wall. Cartoons and drawings. A cap from the 1998 Pig Bowl on a pushpin. Lists of names and telephone numbers. A three-month calendar with court appearances marked in red. Ladue had a stapler with an old derringer welded to it and a miniature electric chair with a lightbulb in the seat. Behind Novick's desk, which was considerably less cluttered, several snapshots of snow-topped mountains were tacked to a cork board. In one Novick and a dark-haired woman stood in the foreground, arms around each other. Elsewhere in the room, conversations went on. A phone rang.
Novick finished reading the letter and pulled a chair closer. "Do you get a lot of letters like this?"
"No, they're very rare. Whoever that lawyer is he's complaining about, I don't recognize her. She isn't me."
He had a pleasant smile. "We who deal with the public are often misunderstood."
Ladue dropped his bulk into his swivel chair. "Our resident egghead. He actually graduated high school."
Gail turned the letter around to see the signature. Sincerely, Simon T. Yancey. Small, cramped letters. The turns were sharp angles, not curves. "Can the document examiners compare this to the writing on the envelopes?"
"Not likely," Novick said. "The envelopes were addressed in block print. When a person makes a deliberate attempt to disguise his handwriting, it's almost impossible to make a match."
He leaned in his chair to reach a pen and notepad on his desk. "Can you give us a description of Simon Yancey?"
"He was big—not fat, but strong. He kicked a chair over. I can't remember his face. He was in his early thirties. Brown hair, sort of long." She touched her collar. "In court he said, 'You'd better watch out, bitch.' Something like that, but definitely the word 'bitch.' "
Novick held the pad on his lap, and words flowed quickly into neat lines. "Did he have a distinct accent? The electronic device on the telephone could have been used to disguise an accent."
Gail thought. "Accent. Not really."
Swiveling his chair, Ladue picked up the telephone and dialed the information operator. He asked for the number of Simon Yancey. He waited, then hung up. "No listing in this area, not even an unpublished number."
"After I stole his house, he had to live on the street."
"Yeah, no wonder he's pissed—if it's him." Ladue glanced down at his beeper. "We'll run a computer check, see if we can track him down. The license bureau will have a picture. I gotta go, Mike. They want me in court." Ladue stood up and took a blue jacket off the back of the chair. "Ms. Connor, keep in touch, anything else arises."
She thanked him, then looked back at Detective Novick. "Would it be possible to ask you something unrelated?"
"Sure."
"Have you ever heard of a man named Wendell Sweet? Black hair, late thirties. He's a consultant in offshore oil. Spends a lot of time out of the country."
Behind his glasses Novick's brown eyes went out of focus for a moment, then returned to Gail. "In what connection might I have heard of him?"
"Narcotics?"
He shook his head. "I don't generally handle narcotics cases, unless they turn into homicides, which they often do."
Gail asked, "Do you know the name Hector Mesa? Mid fifties, Cuban?"
That brought a slight nod. "He's an associate of your fiancé’s grandfather, Ernesto Pedrosa. What do you want to know?"
"I was just curious. Nobody talks much about Mesa."
"He came to our attention in connection with some anti-Castro activities. Of course, in Miami that's half the population."
"Has he ever come to your particular attention?"
Novick smiled. "You mean, questioned in a homicide? No. Are Sweet and Mesa acquainted?"
"Not that I know of. Wendell Sweet is married to a client of mine. They're going through a divorce. There was some abuse in the marriage, and today, after a hearing in court, he said I should have my jaw fractured."
"I can't arrest him for that."
"I know. I'm just telling you."
"Is he on your list?"
"It isn't likely," Gail said. "He has three kids, and he's never been violent with them."
Novick tapped the pen on the notepad like a small drumstick. "Well. We should probably put his name and information in the file. People can surprise you."
"All right. I'll call you." Gail put the strap of her purse over her shoulder.
He stood up. "Ladue says you didn't want to see the last photograph."
"Two were enough, don't you think?"
"If you don't mind, Ms. Connor, there could be something you recognize. The more you know, the more help you'll be to us."
Anxiety, which had played w
ith her all day, began to rise up her throat. She took a long, slow breath. "Show me." She put her purse on the desk while Novick went to his four-drawer file cabinet, returning with a manila envelope marked PROPERTY MPD. He pulled out the three color copies, putting the latest one on top, then holding it for her to see. Gail stood stiffly, not touching it, gripping the back of the chair.
The first two pictures had been taken on different days, obvious from the fact that Karen had been wearing different clothes. Blue shorts the first time, red the second. In the third Karen's clothes had been blackened. Black with ashes, burned to dust. Her body was on fire. Her mouth was a gaping black cave of agony. Red and orange streamed out behind her as she ran. Her hair burned. Flames shot up from the school, visible at the edge of the picture. Fire consumed the trees and blotted out the sky.
Novick's quiet voice pierced the silence. "Ms. Connor, do you recognize anything in the way it was drawn? The color, the lines?"
"Nothing." She took a breath through her teeth. "Who would do that to a child? Who would think of it?" She glanced at the detective. His steady brown eyes must have seen worse things, not in altered photographs but in reality. Real blood, real children bludgeoned, stabbed, burned.
He slid the color copy back into the envelope with the others and returned them to the file cabinet. Her fingers trembled on her cheeks as she swept away some tears.
"Please. Sit down." His hand was firm on her elbow. "This is difficult, and I appreciate your willingness to help."
"Of course I'll help. I'll do anything. Oh, God." She took in a long, shaky breath. "I wish I knew why, then I could deal with it. This is like punishment without a trial. Without even an accusation. You said there's always a cause. I wish I knew what it was."
"This may sound strange," he said, "but did you pick up on any sexual references in the way the photographs were altered?"
Gail looked at him. "No."
"I didn't either. There's usually a sexual basis to that kind of violence against children." Novick leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Ladue and I worked a case a couple of months ago, a man who was parked outside a school. One of the children noticed that his pants were down and called the police. They took him in, and we searched his apartment. He had hundreds of nude drawings of children—boys in this case. If he drew a gun or knife, it was used in a violent and very sexual way. Do you understand?"
"Yes." Detective Novick's understated words conveyed content so chilling that Gail shivered. "But the photos of Karen weren't sexual. What does that tell us?"
"I don't know." The light reflected on his glasses. "We'll keep it in mind."
When she stood up, she noticed again the photographs of mountains, misty blue in the distance, folds of white at the craggy peaks. "Where were those pictures taken?"
He turned toward the wall behind his desk. "Oh, those. Near Whistler in British Columbia. It was a hiking trip last spring. Give me a steep incline, I'm happy."
"What are you doing in Miami?"
A smile accompanied his shrug. "If you live in the mountains, you stop seeing them."
Gail leaned closer, picking out a small blue lake, its surface reflecting the peaks behind it. "I suppose that makes sense. Detective Novick, how many cases like mine have you had?"
"Like this? Not many. Usually we know who it is going in."
"And if not, do you find out?"
"Eventually."
"Sooner rather than later, I hope." She extended her hand. "Thank you, Detective."
He walked with her to the elevators and pressed the button for the first floor. Gail turned in her badge at the desk.
Biscayne Academy, out for the summer, offered a day camp that Karen attended. The children would get lessons in dance, music, and art, visit galleries, and take field trips to study local history. The staff called it an "enriched" program—which meant it cost two hundred dollars a week. The camp ended at four o'clock, with aftercare until six at an additional charge for parents who worked. Past six o'clock the charge zoomed to fifty dollars every fifteen minutes. Gail had often pushed the limit, and if she couldn't break free she would send Miriam or Lynn to pick Karen up and bring her to the office.
It felt strange to be here so early, among other parents—mothers mostly—who had found shady spots along the sidewalk to wait for the doors to open. The women were in shorts and light tops and sneakers, greeting each other, clustered in groups. Gail knew some of them from parent-teacher meetings during the year. She smiled and returned a few hellos, but continued to walk along the chain-link fence that bordered the play yard, picking her way over the root-buckled sidewalk in high heels better suited to carpeted corridors.
One could become accustomed to this, she thought. Accustomed to arriving at this hour every day. To being here when the children returned from their trips or came running out of the building. It would not be so hard to get used to. Picking Karen up, taking her for ice cream. During the school year they would be home before dark and fix dinner together—fresh, grilled fish instead of microwaved meat loaf. There would be time to decorate the house for Christmas, to have holiday parties, to shop ahead rather than dashing frantically through the mall the weekend before. Karen would get stories every night. Her grades and her behavior would be exemplary.
Dr. Fischman could go screw himself. Gail would be a model mother. Another Peggy Cunningham, she thought, imagining a pool in the backyard of the house on Clematis Street. Peggy might even become a friend. On Saturdays they might lie on lounge chairs, do their nails, and discuss neighborhood events while Karen and Lindsay splashed in the pool. Gail would have a tan. She would join a health club.
Working as an associate would mean being an employee again, but a partner's wife would be treated well. And there would be no kiting checks at the end of the month, or having to put off her own salary to pay Lynn's and Miriam's.
When Karen was older—sixteen or so—Gail could go back into the law full-time. If she felt like it. Or stay with her part-time schedule, devoting herself to charitable causes. Only during the day, because her nights would be taken up with Anthony.
Could this happen? She wanted to believe it, but at no time in her adult life had she been taken care of. When she was married to Dave, the burden had been on her shoulders, but she had carried it, there being no alternative. It was the way it was. The prospect of someone else taking care of her was disconcerting, like floating in midair.
Anthony Quintana wanted to make her happy, and he had the means to do it. Dear God. His eyes lit up when he talked about the things he would do for her. And for Karen. He would keep her happy too, if he could. And safe. Karen would be in no danger as long as Anthony was there to protect her.
The academy's play yard adjoined the building. Trees shaded the sidewalk, but blue sky showed through over the field. The blue sky of the photographs.
With a sudden shortness of breath, Gail recognized this scene. Karen had been no more than fifty yards distant when the camera had been aimed at her. Someone could stand unobserved in this group of moms and a few dads who waited, chatting, for the doors to open. What had he seen? The children whose parents would arrive later had run to claim spots on the swings or the big wooden play set. The older ones, the tens and elevens, had brought out balls for four square or toss. The girls sat in the shade, combing each other's hair and talking about girls they didn't like and the boys they did. In the second photograph Karen had been leaning against the tree. A bloody knife had been drawn as if pinning her to it, and the others flashed around her.
The first photo, and the third, showed Karen in motion. She had been playing kick ball in one, running in the other, hair streaming out behind her. The pistol had been the easiest to draw. The flames had been the most elaborate, the entire play yard and school burning, black smoke billowing. The camera had caught Karen leaping, nothing blurred. It had not been a cheap camera, Gail realized, but one with adjustable shutter speeds to catch a girl in mid-stride. And compact, not to be noticed.
<
br /> Gail walked along the sidewalk, shifting her perspective. At this distance, too much background would have showed. The camera must have had a telephoto lens. Or he had cut around the part he wanted and enlarged it to the proper size on a copy machine. Simple.
The play yard was still empty. The swings moved slightly in the breeze. A squirrel ran across the top beam of the jungle gym.
Near the school entrance a woman pushed a stroller. A man walked a dog on a leash. More parents had arrived, filling the space between the sidewalk and street. Car engines stayed on, and windows were rolled up to keep the cool air inside.
Easy to park here unnoticed behind tinted glass, wait till the children came out, then walk to the fence like any parent ...
A white pickup truck turned the corner. It moved slowly up the narrow street, then found a place on the other side, in front of the Presbyterian church. Dave got out, wearing his khaki shorts and tropical shirt, coming from work. The sun flickered on his hair as he jogged across the street.
Gail wondered what he was doing here. Coming early to be with his daughter before the wicked mother arrived? The mother's controlling personality . . . signs of instability bordering on pathological. . .
Dave saw her and nodded, then made his way around the bumper of a minivan too far over the sidewalk. He stopped beside her. No smile. The muscles in his face seemed too tight for that. "Your office said you'd be here."
She picked out a leaf caught between metal pipe and mesh. "Do we have anything to say to each other? I read the report from Fischman."
"Yeah, he didn't waste any time. I called my lawyer today and told him to drop it. The case is over."
She turned around to look at him. "Do you mean that?"
"It's over, Gail. I'm sorry it took me this long."
Almost afraid to believe him, she put her hand on his shoulder. "We can work this out. We'll decide what Karen needs and go from there. We can do this."
He took her hand and held it in both of his. "I need to talk to you. Could we go somewhere? It's important."
Suspicion of Betrayal Page 22
