Holding Karen tightly, Gail stood inside the screen door, watching Anthony's white shirt as he walked quickly toward the dim outline of the swings. Gail pushed open the door a few inches. "Shhh, Karen. We're not going out." Karen had stopped crying, but stood with her arms wrapped around Gail's waist, her face pressed against her shoulder.
Anthony was following the pool of light along the stepping stones, and where they ended came a quick flare of green. The light moved over the grass for a few yards before reaching the swing set. It swept over the ground under the three seats, found nothing, then climbed the frame, moving across the top bar, then quickly backing up.
There was a rope thrown over the bar between two of the swings. The circle of light slid down the rope and stopped. Anthony's hand appeared in the light, turning the rope, and a shape at the bottom moved with it. His hand jerked back, and the thing spun slowly. There was a dim flash of white, then black, then white . . . The beam suddenly flew out into the yard, swerving wildly before once again appearing on the grass to light Anthony's way back to the house.
In those few seconds Gail had seen what Karen must have seen—the limp body of a small cat suspended by its rear legs, and the hideous pink of severed flesh. Its head was gone. She pulled Karen away from the door.
As Anthony came in, she could see the revulsion on his face. He blew out a breath, composing himself, then came over to speak to Karen. He crouched beside her.
"Karen. Listen to me. Missy is dead. I don't know who did that to her or why. Someone very sick. A coward, maybe someone doing this for fun. There are people like that in the world, but he won't hurt you. He won't hurt you or your mother, and I promise you, he won't come here again. Don't worry. Okay? Karen?"
Her eyes came open. "Yes."
"Good. The police will come here and talk to you, so you help them as much as you can. All right?"
"Okay."
He kissed her as tears continued to stream down her face.
When he stood up, he said quietly to Gail, "Take her upstairs. ITI call the police. And I want to call my family's doctor to see about her, if that's all right with you."
Gail nodded. "Thank you."
Upstairs, she laid Karen in the big bed in the master bedroom and curled up beside her, murmuring softly and stroking her face. She told her that everything was going to be all right, even though she knew it could get even worse.
SEVENTEEN
The doctor who came that night gave Karen something to help her sleep. He took a look at Gail and prescribed the same for her. The next morning, Anthony suggested that they move to his grandparents' house for a few days. It was nearby, it was familiar, and he had already spoken with Ernesto and Digna, who would welcome them. The swing set would be removed and new sod laid so that when they moved back, no trace would remain.
Seeing the wisdom of this, Gail asked Irene to take Karen for the rest of the day, and she and Anthony moved what clothes and personal items they needed to the house on Malagueña Avenue. Gail felt unsettled, uprooted, but believed this would pass as soon as they were home again and Karen had recovered.
She returned to work on Friday, and just after ten o'clock Dave came to pick up his money.
Gail had found time yesterday to call the attorney hired by Marriott to handle the deal. Jeff Barlow remembered her, but hadn't known she was Metzger's former wife. Small world, he had said. Coming into work early, Gail drew up an agreement for Dave to sign and faxed the draft to Barlow for his approval. He made a joke about wishing his ex-wife was so generous, then told Gail that after the final papers were signed at two o'clock on Monday, he would disburse a check to Gail A. Connor, P.A., in the amount of $125,000.
Lynn and Miriam came in to witness Dave's signature and went out again. Gail had told them nothing of this transaction.
She took her desk-size checkbook out of her credenza and wrote out a check to David Metzger, the top cheek in a row of three, and added the notation OLD ISLAND CLUB. She signed it, tore it neatly out of the book, and slid it across the desk.
Dave looked at it for a while before picking it up. "I've had Karen so much on my mind, this doesn't seem that important anymore." He folded it and put it into his wallet. "Have the police come up with anything since we talked?"
She had called him that same night, not wanting him to hear about it on the news. TV reporters, alerted by God-only-knew-what telepathy, had descended on the house with their video cameras. The details were compelling: a quiet neighborhood in the Grove, a devastated child, a decapitated kitten, the missing head. Cameras panned over the street, the house, then focused on the door. There were shots of the empty swing set until Anthony ordered them out of the yard. He requested the Miami Police not to mention the other incidents, and so far they had complied.
Miriam and Lynn had filtered calls to the office, many from friends. Others had been pranks. One elderly voice offered to pray for Karen, and another accused her of Satan worship. Still another suggested a santero to cleanse the property of evil spirits.
Gail told Dave, "The police are going to follow up with a couple of people. The kid across the street, which should endear me to his parents, and a handyman who was fixing the air conditioner. His name is Charlie Jenkins. His background is a little spotty, but I don't think he would have killed a pet at the same house where he'd just been working. That wouldn't be smart."
"Sickos don't have to be smart," Dave pointed out. "Listen, I've been thinking. What about taking Karen to my folks' place for the rest of the summer?"
His folks' place was a condominium in Delray Beach, fifty miles up the coast. Gail said she thought that this was an overreaction. "Karen is perfectly safe with the Pedrosas."
"For how long? You plan to go back to your house, don't you? She's not safe here, Gail, not in Miami. Mom and Dad would love to have her. You know she loves them, and they don't see her as much since we got divorced. There's a summer camp down the street and kids in the neighborhood. The building has a pool and a rec room."
"Anthony's going to hire a security guard. There is no way Bozo can get close."
"Bozo. How about . . . Dark Angel of Death?" Dave got up, too nervous to sit. "You don't want to let her go. You want to decide what happens. It's the same damn crap all over again."
"That's not true!" Gail followed him across the office. "Bozo—whoever—he could get to her easier in a small town."
"Not if he didn't know where she was!"
Gail opened her mouth, then said, "I'd be sick with worry."
Dave looked at her, then reached out and hooked an arm around her neck. "I know. I don't want to send her away, either, but it's not like she's going to Alaska. You can get there in an hour. We could drive together."
She laughed a little. "I don't think so." She let herself lean against Dave for a moment, then said, "Let's wait. We'll see what happens."
"Wait? Wait till he does the same thing to her that he—"
"Don't!" Gail turned away. She took a breath. "I try not to think about that. The only reason I don't dream about it is that Ernesto Pedrosa's doctor has very kindly given me some sweetdreams potion. Otherwise, I would probably go out of my mind."
Dave put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. "We'll wait, then. Not too long, okay?"
She nodded.
He went over to her desk for his copy of the agreement, which Gail had put into an envelope. "Thank you for this," he said. "I told Karen that we'd go to every one of the Old Island Clubs as they open. She asked me if I was going to be rich." Dave smiled. "I said, Princess, your daddy is already rich if he has you. But you and me, we're going to have ourselves a whole lot of fun."
Gail smiled back at him. "I'm happy I could help. Honestly."
"You should have believed in me a long time ago." He kissed her quickly on the lips before she could pull away. "See you on Monday, okay? I'll call you right after the closing and bring you the check myself." He saluted with the envelope and opened the door to her office.
&
nbsp; Gail walked him out. In a good mood, he paused to say hello to Miriam, whom he had not seen in a year, and to smile at Lynn, warning her not to let Gail work her too hard.
When he was finally gone, Miriam said, "Wow, he looks just the same."
"A good tan does wonders." Gail took the mail from Miriam, who had sorted it. Back in her office the checkbook for her trust account was still on the desk. She flipped it open and computed the remaining balance in her head—just under $8,000. The client in the Zimmerman case expected her money today— $28,650 and change. The doctors would want to be paid also, but they didn't even know the case had been settled. Gail would have to explain the slight delay to Ms. Zimmerman.
The risk, Gail had decided, was negligible. Dave had been right: Business was done this way. Never by her until now. Some lawyers did it frequently, flagrantly. Gail would see their names listed in the Florida Bar News under "Disciplinary Actions." This lawyer suspended, that one disbarred for using their clients' money. Knowing she wouldn't profit from this made her feel slightly better. She reminded herself that it wasn't even for Dave but for Karen.
Gail put the checkbook into her bottom drawer.
Theresa Zimmerman's number was in the computer. Gail hit the button for automatic dial, then turned on her speaker phone, listening to the ringing on the other end. She shuffled through the mail and saw what she was looking for—an envelope from Harry Lasko. Miriam had slit it open and left the contents inside.
"Oh, yes! Harry, I love you." There were letters, most of them in Spanish. Fax numbers showed at the top. There were pages of figures that appeared to be income and expenses from the casino. What appeared to be a disbursement statement was typed in Spanish. She noticed $3,200,000 to Pan-Caribbean Holding Company. Harry had penciled in the initials HL. There was another figure, $1,050,000 to Yellow Rose, Ltd.—who else but a Texan would have named it that? As if confirming Gail's guess, Harry had written Wendell Sweet's initials. The buyer was a company called Inversiones Venezolanos, owned or managed by one Ricardo Molina of Caracas. Gail shuffled back through the faxes. One had been addressed to an R. Molina at the Commodore Club, Miami. Gail knew the building—tall, glitzy, and overpriced, just off Brickell Avenue downtown. Many wealthy South Americans had condos in Miami. Gail wondered if Molina knew Wendell Sweet. She wondered if Molina would be willing to talk. Why not? The deal was over.
With a start, she became aware that Theresa Zimmerman had answered the phone. She took it off the speaker. "Theresa, hello. It's Gail Connor. I wanted to let you know about your settlement. There's been a slight delay." Gail explained that the settlement check had not actually gone into her trust account until two days after she had received it, due to some mixup in her office, for which she took full responsibility.
The mail had slid off a heavy brown bubble envelope on the bottom of the stack. Gail noticed the return address: Ferrer & Quintana, P.A. Miriam had not opened it because someone—Anthony or his secretary—had typed PERSONAL next to her name and underlined it. There was a boxy shape inside.
With the phone tucked under her chin, she turned the envelope over and picked at the zip-release tab. "But I'll mail you a check Monday, if that's acceptable."
Anthony rarely sent gifts to the office, but Gail pulled from the envelope a pound-size box of Godiva chocolates in a gold paper box with a red ribbon. She looked back into the envelope for a note but found none.
Ms. Zimmerman's voice cut into her thoughts. No, mailing the check on Monday would not be acceptable. She would come pick it up. She needed the money immediately.
Gail felt a flutter of anxiety. The check from the Marriott deal would be issued on Monday afternoon. "The money won't actually be available till Tuesday," she said. "If you care to come in then, I'll have the check for you."
Tuesday? Ms. Zimmerman protested that last week Gail had promised her the money today.
"No, I said it would probably be available, but I'd have to confirm it." Gail slid the ribbon off the box. She interrupted the irate voice on the telephone to say, "I'm so sorry about the mixup. There's no problem, I assure you." She lifted the lid, then frowned, seeing a snapshot of Karen's room. A three-by-five color photo showed the unmade bed and too many clothes strewn on the floor. Gail took it out and found two more pictures taken from different angles, then the white and gold tissue that covered the chocolates.
She heard Theresa asking if Gail was keeping her money to earn a few extra days' interest, and if so, she didn't appreciate it one bit. Gail said, "No, it's just—"
The paper rustled softly between her fingers when she turned it back.
"It's . . ." She felt dizzy and grabbed the edge of the desk for support. "I'm sorry. Tuesday. Call then." She dropped the phone twice before she managed to put it back.
Gail stood up, backing away from the box. Her stomach heaved, and she stumbled for the bathroom.
When the detectives arrived a half hour later, Gail led them to her office. She had not been inside since the gruesome discovery. She stood at the door, Miriam and Lynn behind her, as Ladue and Novick went to take a look.
The older man lifted the tissue with the end of his pen. "Holy shit."
"We might as well take it in," Novick said.
Ladue leaned closer, sniffing through his short nose. "He's got a pretty good seal on that bag."
"Clear duct tape," Novick said. He asked Gail if she had a storage box. Miriam brought one, and he put the gold-trimmed box inside and interwove the flaps. "We'll dust for prints, but I don't expect to find any." He set the box by the door, then looked at the three women standing there. "Ms. Connor?" She came in, and he smiled at the others. "If you could hold her calls for a few minutes?"
Gail picked up the envelope. "This isn't from Anthony's office. I should have noticed. The address label is plain white. Theirs is preprinted with the firm name, Ferrer and Quintana. This means something, doesn't it? Whoever sent it knows who Anthony is and where he works."
"Not that hard to figure out, is it?" Sergeant Ladue laid the photographs in a row on the desk. His hands were ruddy and thick. "Take a closer look. Can you tell when these were taken?"
Gail picked up one photograph, then the next. "No. I hate to say it, but her room frequently looks like this. Charlie Jenkins could have taken these two days ago. I went to look for Karen and left him in the house for about a half hour."
Novick said, "But you said that your daughter saw the cat after Jenkins left."
"He could have come back. Did you speak to him yet? I was sure he couldn't have done it, but now—"
"I went by his apartment," Ladue said. "The landlord says he lives alone. He wasn't there at the time, but we'll try again."
Gail remembered something and picked up one of the photos. "No. These weren't taken Wednesday afternoon. Her room was clean that day. I'd told her to straighten it, and she did, then she went out."
The detectives exchanged a look.
"Someone else was in my house taking pictures. My God. I don't know when. How did he get inside? I can't believe this."
Novick asked, "Aside from you and your fiancé, who has a key?"
"A key? My mother." Gail tried to think. "My secretary, Miriam. Karen has one in her book bag. No one else. Wait. Charlie Jenkins has been to my house before. He did a few things for me last month, then he came again last week. Monday. Yes. Lynn Dobbert—my receptionist—-used Miriam's key and let him in because I couldn't be home. I was there the other times, but not last week."
"Could we speak to Ms. Dobbert?" Novick asked.
"Yes, of course." Gail buzzed her on the intercom.
When she came in, Gail reminded her of last Monday, the day that Jamie Sweet had called and Gail needed someone to meet the handyman, Charlie Jenkins, at the house and let him in.
Gray eyes rolling from the detectives to Gail, then back again, Lynn picked at a fingernail and said yes, she remembered.
Sergeant Ladue put himself directly in front of her. "Ms. Dobbert, when you were
at Ms. Connor's house, was Charlie Jenkins ever out of your sight?"
She shook her head, and her straight hair swung. "I kept my eye on him, like Ms. Connor asked me to."
Gail said, "Lynn, it's okay. We're not accusing him of anything. Was there a time when he could have gone upstairs without your seeing him? If you were in the bathroom, perhaps?"
"I would've heard him," she said. "The house has wood floors."
Ladue asked, "You were with him the entire time?"
"Well, I ... I remember now that I went to the gazebo, but when I came back he was still in the kitchen."
"Why did you go to the gazebo?"
"Because ... I wanted to see it. I've only seen them in pictures."
"How long were you down there?"
"I don't know. Five minutes. Maybe longer, I don't know."
Ladue nodded. "Okay."
Lynn whispered to Gail, "What did Charlie do?" "We're not sure." Gail opened the door. "Thank you."
Ladue took his hands out of his pockets and wandered back to the desk, where he stacked the photographs. "We need to get going, but to bring you up to date . . ." He gestured toward the sofa. Gail sat on one end, and the detectives took the chairs.
"Exotic Gardens. We called about the flowers you got on Monday. They show a cash payment on Monday in the name of Renee Connor—your sister."
"A woman placed the order?"
"Maybe, maybe not." He held up a hand. "You could go in there and say you're placing an order for Joe Blow. We don't know who the clerk is that took the order, and they said they were too busy to look it up. We could get a photo of Charlie Jenkins from the DMV and take it in, but frankly, due to the homicides we're working, other things tend to get stacked up."
"I understand." Gail wondered if the FBI could be called in to help with the investigation. "They have jurisdiction, don't they? The U.S. Postal Service was used."
"Technically, yes. But let me tell you. They don't come in on something like this unless (a) your daughter was kidnapped, or (b) the case has a high publicity value for the Bureau." He spread his hands, then dropped them on the arms of the chair. "Novick, what was that thing you had to show her?"
Suspicion of Betrayal Page 25
