Suspicion of Betrayal

by Barbara Parker

  "Simon Yancey." He reached into the breast pocket of his sports shirt and withdrew a single sheet of paper, which he unfolded. "Last year Yancey moved to Winter Springs, just outside Orlando. I called up there, and the department is small, so they remembered the case." Novick gave Gail a copy of a newspaper clipping from the Orlando Gazette. He sat forward, as seemed his habit, with his forearms on his thighs. "This is from last December. Yancey was intoxicated and got into an argument with his wife. He shot her and their two boys, then himself. The children died, but the mother survived, although the clipping doesn't indicate that. Apparently he had lost his job just before Christmas."

  Horrified, Gail scanned the body of the article, which ran two and a half columns.

  FAMILY TRAGEDY: MAN SHOOTS WIFE, KIDS, SELF. Winter Springs . . . late Tuesday night neighbors heard gunshots . . . Yancey had been employed as a drywall worker . . . Rita D. Yancey, 28 . . . sons Timothy and Jason, 3 and 5 . . . each shot twice in the chest ... Yancey's mother said her son had been depressed since the couple lost their home in Miami to a foreclosure action—

  "Oh, my God." Gail let the clipping fall to her lap.

  Novick said, "It isn't your fault."

  "You said everything has a cause."

  His eyes were gentle behind his glasses. "This was a chain of events. You didn't cause it."

  "Well." She slowly folded the sheet of paper. "At least we can scratch one person off our list."

  Ladue looked at his watch, then pushed himself out of the chair. "We need to get going."

  Gail stood up. "Thank you for coming."

  Novick held up the photos. "Do you want these?" Gail said she didn't. He dropped them into the empty bubble envelope, then said to Ladue, "Dennis, I'll carry this, and you take the box. You're bigger than I am."

  "Guy's a comedian." Ladue went over and picked it up.

  Gail walked out with them. In the corridor she said to Detective Novick, "Karen's father wants to send her out of town for a while-—to his parents' place in Delray. Do you think I should be that worried? Anthony is going to hire a guard when we go back to Clematis Street."

  Ladue turned around. "Someone chopped the head off your daughter's cat and mailed it to you in a Zip-Loc bag. The photographs are his way of saying he could get to her too."

  "Hey," Novick said.

  "I'm sorry, Ms. Connor," Ladue said. "You didn't ask me, but if I were in your shoes, and my girl had a place to go, I'd send her there—for my own peace of mind, if nothing else. When we have an arrest, you can bring her back, safe and sound."

  Novick looked at Gail. "It's a thought."

  "Considered and decided," she said.

  "And you will change your locks, won't you?"

  "Absolutely." She opened the entrance door for them, then went out into the hall. "I have another question."

  They turned to look at her. Ladue had the box under one arm.

  "Ricardo Molina. He's a Venezuelan with a condo on Brickell. I believe he also owns a casino on Aruba. Does that name mean anything to you?"

  EIGHTEEN

  The Pedrosa house was as still as a museum when the relatives were gone and the old people were there. Ernesto and Digna. The aunts. Uncle Humberto.

  The maid was mopping the floor when Gail came into the kitchen. She explained what she wanted. Leche en un . . . una copa. No frio. Warm milk in a cup. Por favor. The woman found a mug in the high, glass-fronted cabinets and rattled on in Spanish about Karen's state of mind.

  "Karen's feeling better—" Gail started over in Spanish. "Ella está mejor." "Gracias a Diós. Pobrecita."

  The milk was warmed in the microwave and put on a tray with a napkin and a slice of chocolate cake. "Para la niña." The wrinkled face smiled.

  "Muchas gracias."

  Anthony had stayed late at his office, preparing for a trial that would begin Monday morning. He was likely to spend tomorrow and Sunday there as well. Now that the old man was a little better, Anthony needed to catch up. Gail had brought some files, which she'd been going through in Karen's room, but her mind wandered. She worried about ever catching up.

  Not to jostle the tray, Gail walked carefully through the tiled hallway, passing the gallery of paintings. She had just reached the stairs when Hector Mesa came around the corner from the study. If he had not already seen her, she would have darted into the living room. His eyes floated over her, and invisible strings lifted the corners of his mouth and just as quickly let them drop. He turned toward the foyer and she toward the stairs. She waited, a foot on the bottom step, until she heard the click of a latch and the soft thud of the front door closing.

  She set the tray on the floor between the stairs and the grandfather clock and walked silently toward the study, wondering if Anthony had arrived. Light from inside the room fell onto the tiles. She was aware of cigar smoke, then the low murmur of Spanish—at least two men, possibly three, but Anthony wasn't among them. Ernesto Pedrosa growled, and someone gave an answer that he didn't like. "¡Cono! No, voy a'blar con mi nieto cuando regrese a casa." I'll talk with my grandson when he comes home.

  The old man was planning to take up the rest of Anthony's evening with business. When he comes home, as if it were Anthony's home, and nothing would happen until he got here. The voices grew louder, approaching the door.

  Gail fled. Around the corner she picked up the tray. She turned at the landing and looked back down. Pedrosa—swinging his cane like a pendulum—was talking quietly with his lawyer and a man from the bank. Gail had learned one thing at least: Pedrosa was not as feeble as he pretended.

  "You conniving old fraud," she whispered.

  Upstairs at the end of the hall she pushed open the door to Anthony's old room. Digna had given it to Karen and brightened it with flowers and a pink comforter. Karen's eyes came open. She had already taken her pill and would not be awake much longer.

  "Where were you, Mommy?" She groggily sat up.

  "I had to chase the cow all over the backyard. There's some cake too, sweetie." Gail set the tray on the nightstand and gave Karen the mug, but kept her hand poised underneath. Karen gulped half the milk and said she was full. Gail set the mug on the tray. "Sweetie? Daddy and I talked today about letting you go to Nonna and Poppa's house for the rest of the summer. We thought it might be fun to be with them for a while. You could go fishing. Do you think that would be all right?"

  Karen thought about it. "Is it so nobody can find me?"

  Gail sat on the edge of the bed. "Nothing's going to happen to you, I promise. It would just make us feel better. We wouldn't worry. Okay?"

  "Would you come see me?"

  "Of course I would. I'd drive up every weekend. Daddy too." Gail held her hand. "It's only for a little while. Two or three weeks. A month. It depends."

  "Can I come back for the wedding?"

  "We wouldn't have it without you."

  "I told everybody about my dress. Lindsay and Jennifer want to see it. They can come, can't they?"

  "They're on the list. You'll be so pretty. People will say, Who is that stunning creature in the purple dress?"

  Karen laughed. "A creature. Oh, great. Mom, are we living here now?"

  "No, we're just visiting for a few days."

  "This house is like . . . huge. There's a wall all around it with spikes on top. They have servants here and everything."

  "Not servants, Karen. They have people who help with the house."

  "The old lady with those really thick glasses—Tia Fermina? She made my bed this morning and hung up my clothes. She called me Señorita Karen. If we lived here, my room would be a lot cleaner."

  Gail could only laugh.

  "And they would bring me breakfast in bed every day."

  "Oh, certainly. And draw you a perfumed bath every night."

  Karen looked down her nose. "Bring me some more ice cream—in a crystal goblet this time."

  "On a silver tray," Gail added. "One for la señorita Karen and another for la dama Connor de Quintana
."

  "What?"

  "That's me, after I marry Anthony. I'll be Gail Ann Connor de Quintana—if we used the old Spanish system. Actually, I'd use my mother's name too. So my whole name would be Gail Ann Connor y Strickland de Quintana. But they really don't do that anymore, and I plan to keep my own name."

  "Who am I?"

  "Oh, let's see. Karen Marie Metzger y Connor. Your gramma is . . . Irene Louise Strickland y Quarterman, viuda de Connor. That means she's the viuda, the widow, of Edwin Connor, your grandfather."

  "Weird." Karen yawned, and her eyes opened again, but slowly.

  "Time for bed." Gail was standing up to rearrange the pillows as a soft knock came at the door. Anthony came in, still wearing his shirt and tie from the office. One hand was behind his back.

  Karen watched him. "What have you got?"

  It was a teddy bear with curly brown fur. Anthony dipped him forward in a bow. "I don't know the name of this fat little gentleman, but he said he wanted to meet you. He was very insistent, so I brought him with me. Señor, this is the young lady I told you about." Anthony held his ear to the bear's mouth. "Ah. He says you are very charming, and he would like . . . What? To spend the night? Well, I don't know about that."

  Karen held out her arms. "Yes. He can stay. Thank you." She hugged Anthony around the neck, then placed the bear on her raised knees. "What's his name?"

  "Oh, I think he will tell you when you get to know him a little better."

  Gail and Anthony exchanged a smile.

  "Can I take him to Nonna and Poppa's?" Karen waggled the bear's ears. "I have to go live there."

  "You do?"

  Gail put a hand on his arm. "For a little while. We'll talk about it."

  His eyes lingered, pulling away as he said, "Señor Bear may go with you wherever you like." He bent to kiss Karen's cheek. "Que te duermas bien." Sleep well.

  "Buenas noches, Anthony."

  He said to Gail, "I'll be in our room."

  The guest room across the hall had not been redecorated, Anthony had told her, since he had first seen it as a boy—still the big four-poster bed and green walls accented with gold-framed ink drawings of old Havana. An armchair and ottoman angled out from the corner, and curtains were held back on brass knobs. French doors led to a small balcony overlooking a golf course. Gail had stood there this morning with her coffee at dawn, and rain had obscured the city.

  When she came in, Anthony turned around from the doors, which now were dark, except for a few lights twinkling behind him through the glass. He had showered and put on his robe. The deep red silk made his skin glow as if from an inner fire. He held out his hand.

  Gail crossed the room. "That was sweet of you, getting a bear for Karen." "How is she today?"

  "Improving. The sedative helped her rest, and of course Nena ordered everyone to treat her like a little princess. She'll be spoiled rotten." Gail slid her hand up the lapel of his robe. "I expected you to be waylaid by your grandfather."

  "He said he had something to discuss, but I told him"—Anthony locked his arms behind her waist— "that I had other business upstairs."

  "He's laying a trap for you."

  Anthony laughed. "I know that. I will fall into it when I am ready." He pulled her close. His kiss was deep and warm, and her bones seemed to soften. The scent of his skin made her dizzy with need. He gently bit her lower lip. "Do you know, mi rubita, that we haven't made love in a week? Incredible."

  She tugged on his belt. It slid out of its knot and his robe fell open. She found what she wanted, like heated satin. He hardened in her hands. She inhaled the warmth of his chest, left a kiss over his heart, and stepped away. Laughing softly, he retied his robe. "You like to torture me."

  "I'll be back in a few minutes. Don't you dare go anywhere."

  He caught her wrist. "Ten minutes or I'll come look for you."

  In the bathroom, gleaming with marble and gold-plated fixtures, she showered quickly, smoothed on body lotion, brushed her teeth, then dabbed perfume on the places he loved most to kiss. She dropped a nightgown over her head, bias-cut white satin with thin straps. She frowned into the mirror and drew her fingers across her collarbones. She hadn't been eating enough, and there were dark circles under her eyes.

  As if it had been shoved in front of her, she saw a gold paper box and a plastic bag darkened with dried blood and matted black fur. Small white teeth. The eyes . . . She felt chilled and clammy, and leaned on the sink with both hands.

  Anthony's muffled voice came through the door. "Fifteen seconds. Fourteen—"

  "Coming." She drank some water from a disposable cup and opened the door.

  He lay on the bed in his robe, hands behind his head, feet crossed. The small lamp on the nightstand made a soft glow. "I like that thing you have on," he said.

  "You should. You bought it for me."

  "Turn around."

  She pivoted slowly, looking at him over her shoulder.

  Anthony's eyes, so dark in the shadow cast by his arm, moved slowly over her body. "Ven aca."

  "Why should I?"

  "Because I want to know what you have on underneath."

  "Only myself."

  "Come here, I said. Let me see."

  She walked barefoot across the carpet and stopped a short distance from the bed. With a finger she pushed a strap off her shoulder, then let the fabric fall to expose the top of one breast.

  "Take it off."

  She grasped the nightgown at her knees and it rose up her calves, then stopped on her thighs. He told her to keep going. The satin gathered into her hands, pulled by her fingers, inching higher.

  His arm shot out faster than she could react and went around the back of her thighs. Laughing, she fell forward, then gasped when he buried his face between her legs. She felt his teeth, then the wet heat of his tongue. Moving to kneel before her, he left kisses up her belly, pushed her nightgown over her breasts, and drew one, then the other, into his mouth till the tips hardened. Her fingers dug into his shoulders.

  Putting her nightgown back into place, he raised his eyes to look at her.

  She was breathless. "Anthony—"

  "I need to ask you something," he said. "It's bothering me."

  "What?"

  "It's about Karen staying with Dave's parents. Whose idea was that?"

  "Oh, God. Don't. Not now."

  "Was it his?"

  "It was mutual. Dave and I discussed it this morning. I wasn't sure, but after what I got in the mail, I decided he was right. It was more than that disgusting thing in the box. Anthony, someone got into our house. They took pictures of Karen's bedroom. She isn't safe in Miami."

  "You don't believe she is safe in this house?"

  "Perfectly. If she doesn't go out. If she doesn't see her friends—"

  "Why didn't you discuss it with me first?"

  "Please don't make this into something it's not." She started to move away, but he held her upper arms.

  "Gail, listen to me. You can't take Karen out of here. It's too dangerous. The man is psychotic. He's ruthless and obsessive. He could find her."

  "When do we get to the real reason you don't want her to leave?" She twisted out of his grip and straightened her nightgown.

  Anthony sat on the side of the bed. "And what is that?"

  "You think Dave suggested it to lure me away. Where Karen goes, I go. If she stays here, I do too."

  "What I think, querida, is that he is taking advantage of your fears, and I don't like that."

  "I don't need your permission or your advice regarding my daughter."

  He stood up, smoothing his hair. "You talked to him this morning? Where?"

  "At my office."

  "He couldn't have called?"

  "We had to talk about Karen."

  "It's always about Karen." He circled her. "Why do I so frequently have the feeling that you aren't telling me everything? Why is that?"

  She pivoted. "Because you're naturally suspicious and irrational?
"

  "Is it irrational to believe that he wants you back? And that he's using Karen to get to you?"

  "And you're using her to keep me," Gail said.

  Anthony held his hands in the shape of a tube and looked at her through them. "Why does she evade the question?"

  She clenched her fists. "The answer is, it doesn't matter what he wants. I'm in love with you—if you don't make me completely crazy."

  His hands fell to his sides.

  She turned her back on him and walked to the French doors. His reflection appeared in the glass.

  "Gail, let's go to bed. I'm sorry I brought it up."

  She brushed away some dried paint on the inner frame. "In a minute. I need to tell you something, so you won't accuse me later of hiding it from you. I'd have told you already, but I've had other things on my mind." She flicked the paint off her thumb.

  "I told you Wednesday about going to Jamie Sweet's house. What I didn't tell you was that after I left there, I went to see Harry Lasko. I told him what happened and asked for anything he had on the casino at Eagle Beach. His copies of documents came in the mail today."

  Anthony stood so still he could have been carved from wax.

  Gail turned around. "I had to, after what Wendell did to her. He might as well have punched her in the face again—it would have been more obvious. What he did was worse than rape."

  "So . . . you went to see Harry."

  "I did what I thought best for my client."

  "And if Harry Lasko has to spend the rest of his life in prison, well, que lástima. So sorry."

  "As if that would happen," Gail said. "I promised him—-and you—that nothing of what he gave me will be used in court."

  There was more astonishment than anger on Anthony's face. "And what will Wendell Sweet do, Ms. Connor, when he finds out what you have?"

  "Who's going to tell him?"

  Anthony laughed. "He has to know. He will wonder how you got so smart, and it won't take him five minutes to figure it out."

  "He can't say a damn thing. He'd incriminate himself."