Suspicion of Vengeance

by Barbara Parker

  He set his glass down on the table. "That's correct. Ms. Connor is unavailable at the moment. Why do you want to talk to her?"

  "Listen, I owe you folks an apology. I mean it. I got a little stressed at the party, and then a friend of mine who lives out that way called and said he saw some people trespassing near Pines Road, and I said, well, ask them to leave. Then he called me back later and told me who they were—you and Ms. Connor. I should've let it go, and if he inconvenienced you in any way, I'm sorry."

  Qué mentiroso. Anthony said, "Thank you for the apology. I should send you a bill for my jacket, which Rusty Beck ran over in his truck and ruined."

  Silence. McGrath wondering how they knew the name.

  Jackie, who had initially pretended not to be listening, had turned around on her chair. She slid off it and walked toward him.

  McGrath's voice said, "Absolutely I'll pay for it, absolutely. Hey, listen, how about you and Gail coming over to my place tonight? The wife is having some people in, but that's her thing, and I could use an excuse to duck out. We should talk."

  Gail came out of the bedroom in jeans and a T-shirt, and Anthony held up a hand to keep her quiet.

  "I confess to you, Mr. McGrath"—Anthony pointed to the phone—"that I am curious what it is you want to discuss." Gail's eyes widened.

  "Call me Whit. What I would like very much, with all humility, is to ask a favor of you and Ms. Connor relative to that case you're working on. Come on over, say six, six-thirty, we'll have some drinks. It's not far, a little ways down on Jupiter Island. How about it?"

  "I'll get back to you after I talk to Ms. Connor. But first I have a question."

  "Okay."

  "How do you know we are here and not in Miami?"

  "How? Ms. Connor's secretary said she was in Stuart."

  "Ah. Of course."

  Ending the call, Anthony wondered if he had missed spotting the black pickup truck behind them today. He had left his pistol in the glove compartment of his car and thought he would probably go down and get it.

  The women were staring at him.

  Gail said, "Anthony, what is going on?”

  He repeated his conversation with Whit McGrath.

  For a long moment the only sound was the faraway breaking of waves on the beach below them.

  "There's no reason for both of us to go," Anthony finally said. "You have to work on the affidavit for Kenny Clark tonight. I'll go see what he wants—"

  "You're not going without me," Gail said. "Whit McGrath isn't going to do anything. Not at his house, with his wife and all those people around." Gail looked at Jackie. "You know him. What do you think?"

  Jackie stood with her hands in the back pockets of her shorts. "I don't think it's dangerous."

  Gail looked back at Anthony, waiting for him to speak. She wasn't waiting for his approval. He picked up his scotch. "I want Hector to go with us. He went to Indiantown today, looking for friends of the Mendozas, but I can have him back here within an hour."

  "If Hector is there too, McGrath might not talk to us."

  "Hector's being there won't make any difference. We'll go, we'll listen. McGrath wants a favor, but I doubt it's anything we would be willing to give him. He called you, so you take the lead. I suggest we tell him nothing. We don't mention the Mendoza deed, and we don't reveal our suspicions that Rusty Beck killed Amber Dodson."

  Frowning, Gail shook her head. "I don't know. It's just so useless to go there and say nothing. What do we gain from it?"

  "If you know what he wants," Jackie said, "it would help with your strategy."

  "Exactly," Anthony said.

  "No," said Gail. "That's not enough." She was breathing quickly again, and color flooded across her pale cheeks. With short, jerky steps, she began to pace. She whirled toward them again. "I'm not going to go over there and do nothing while Whit McGrath toys with us. The man is evil. He thinks he's in control, but he needs to be shoved off balance. Kenny Ray Clark is going to die unless we start pushing somebody, hard. Why should we hide what we know? Why? There's nothing to lose. Why don't we threaten to turn Whit McGrath in for the murder of the Mendozas? He forged the deed, and now they've disappeared. Do any of us really believe that they're still alive? Or that McGrath wasn't involved in their deaths? Even if the police do no more than investigate, the publicity could ruin him."

  "Gail, we can't provoke him for the satisfaction of doing it." For support, Anthony looked at Jackie.

  A shadow passed over Jackie's brown eyes, and her face seemed less young than it had five minutes ago. She said, "You should do it. Push him."

  CHAPTER 21

  Thursday night, March 22

  It was past six o'clock when they left the apartment, crossing the bridges to the mainland. Heavy clouds dimmed what little light remained. The bridge to Jupiter Island was several miles farther south.

  Gail could hear Hector's voice. He sat directly behind her in the backseat, able to look at Anthony. It was Anthony to whom he spoke. Gail knew she had no status with Hector Mesa.

  He had spent the past two days around Indiantown, a one-stoplight town near the canal dredged from Lake Okeechobee, where Spanish was heard as often as English, and migrants lived in shacks without screens on the windows. Hector said he had dressed the part: mismatched old clothes and cheap, dusty sneakers. A harmless little gray-haired Chicano.

  He had found a Guatemalan woman named Maria who had known Celestina Mendoza.

  "Maria worked at a Mexican market in Indiantown. Celestina used to go there to shop and to buy money orders to send home. Maria says the Mendozas came to Florida about 1985, after a few years in Texas. First they lived in a camp in Belle Glade, and then they came to Martin County to pick oranges during the season. There was the husband, Ignacio, and Celestina, and their son, Jose, and Celestina's father, Ramon. The boy, Jose, was a teenager but... idiota. What is that?"

  Anthony said, "You mean mentally disabled?"

  "Yes. They had another son, but he was murdered by the paramilitary in Guatemala, so they came to the U.S. They worked for the old American man you told me about, and he gave them the property, as you know. Celestina told Maria that a man came to the house and wanted to buy their property, but Ignacio said no. They had moved too many times already, and no more. The man came back and said if they didn't sell, there would be trouble."

  "Who was the man?"

  "She doesn't know. Maria didn't see Celestina for a long time. She didn't notice at first because they weren't close friends, but then she thought they must have sold the property and moved somewhere else. She told me the name of Ignacio's brother and the town where Celestina sent the money orders, San Cristobal. I have a friend in Guatemala, and he went to see what he could find out. The brother, Felipe, is dead, but his wife says that after July 1988 the money orders stopped. Ignacio had no telephone, so Felipe wrote letters. Nothing. He was going to come look for them, but he died before he could get a visa and save the money for the trip."

  "Rusty Beck," said Anthony.

  "Sí, es seguro."

  "That's horrible," Gail said. "Beyond horrible. A family murdered for ten acres of land. Do you think they were buried near their house?" She turned her head to hear his answer.

  "Maybe. It's too late now to find them. The shopping center at River Pines was built there."

  A sharp laugh hissed through Anthony's teeth.

  Hector murmured more softly, "Van a pagar." They will pay.

  Gail pretended not to have understood. Revenge produced only more violence, but in her current mood, to utter such an opinion would have been the height of hypocrisy.

  At a small park on the ocean Anthony turned right, and the narrow road took them through a golf course, deserted so late in the day. Gail turned on the map light. Jupiter Island was a long and narrow strip of land that extended south to Palm Beach County. Dense foliage obscured any view of the water. There were no side roads, only driveways. Small signs of a common design contained a last name o
r sometimes only a three-digit number. A few indicated the service entrance. Some of the houses came into view, but most were hidden behind gates or the curve of a driveway. There was very little traffic.

  McGrath had said he lived on the intracoastal side. Gail had expected another immense set of gates but saw only the name and an opening in a hedge of bougainvillea. The initial impression was misleading. The brick-paved driveway led between a double row of royal palms, then to a house that resembled an Italian villa, whose mahogany-framed windows gave glimpses of beamed ceilings, chandeliers, and a curving staircase. A dozen other cars had found places along the circular drive. As Anthony put on his jacket and straightened his cuffs, he stared at the house, and Gail thought he might be sharing her fantasy: a smoldering heap of rubble.

  She checked her lipstick in her compact. "Okay, let's go"

  Hector, in his dark business suit, trailed a few paces behind, up the wide steps and across a patio tiled in antique terra-cotta. Anthony pressed a buzzer. The door opened almost immediately, and a woman with a French accent took them through the entrance hall, across an indoor courtyard with a fountain and statuary, then up some stone stairs flanked by carved columns. Voices came from below them: a party. The woman tapped at a door, then opened it and stood aside to let them enter.

  The room was obviously McGrath's private lair, overdone with dark paneling and red leather. The floor was parquet, the fireplace stone, and horned animal heads decorated the walls.

  Whitney McGrath himself, in tux and black tie, his hair boyishly mussed, rose to his six-foot-plus height from the embrace of a brass-studded leather chair. "Hey, come on in. No trouble finding the place, I hope."

  There were handshakes, introductions. Hector, introduced only as "an associate of ours," nodded and remained several paces away. McGrath didn't ask what this odd little man was doing here; perhaps he knew. Drinks were offered and declined.

  "What an impressive house," Gail said.

  "Taylor gets the credit—my wife. She's a terrific decorator. We've been here sixteen years, ever since we got married." McGrath explained about the dinner party downstairs. Some friends visiting from New York. Others sailing back north. Couldn't spend too much time away from his guests. An hour, and then Tay would send out the search party.

  The muscles along Gail's spine felt like twisted ropes.

  McGrath's brow furrowed nicely. "First let me offer my most humble, most sincere apologies. Ms. Connor, I am sorry. Mr. Quintana. I talked to Rusty Beck, who gave you that little scare. He's very sorry. So am I. How much was your jacket? How much? Seriously."

  Anthony insisted that it didn't matter. He had others; it wasn't that much. Gail knew how much: the suit had cost over a thousand dollars, useless without the jacket. She hadn't expected Anthony to accept compensation: McGrath's money was toxic.

  "Rusty Beck is a friend?" Anthony made a polite smile.

  "Yeah, I've known him, jeez, probably twenty-five years. We were in high school together. He takes a sort of vicarious interest in my property, I guess you could say. That's no excuse for what happened, though."

  Hector Mesa's black-framed glasses tilted toward the bristled head of a boar mounted on wood over an ornately carved cabinet. Long, yellowing tusks lifted its snout.

  McGrath noticed Hector's interest and grinned. "Ugly beast, isn't it? I got it near Pahokee when I was a kid. In fact, Rusty and I were out target shooting, and this baby came charging out of the woods. It headed for Rusty, and I had to kill it."

  Hector walked closer to inspect it. "What did you use? A shotgun?" He reached up to touch the bristles on the animal's left cheek.

  "I know, bad choice of weapon, but it was all I had." McGrath opened the cabinet, which lit up when the double doors swung back. The red velour interior shone with the barrels and gleaming wood of a dozen or more large guns.

  Gail glanced at Anthony, who shrugged slightly. McGrath showing off his toys. He rummaged through a drawer at the bottom. "Oh, here it is. A Remington auto. I got off one good shot, and that stopped him, then I let him have a couple more. That's why his face is messed up. Most people don't notice that."

  "You were lucky to have a five-shot magazine." Hector raised the gun easily, planted it against his shoulder, and sighted down the barrel.

  "This one you'd like better." McGrath pointed to another gun standing upright in the cabinet. "It's an Arrieta side-by-side. I picked it up in Spain. Or this. A Piotti, sixteen-gauge, Italian. I had it custom-made."

  "Beautiful." Hector murmured something about automatic ejectors and slid his fingers along the satiny, burled wood stock.

  Gail wandered to the open French doors, and Anthony followed. Beyond was a balcony, a view of the intracoastal and the mainland a couple of hundred yards away. Landscaping lights illuminated a pool, a dock, a fifty-foot sailboat. The sky had darkened.

  His arm pressed against hers, and she felt the warmth of it. Her hands were icy. Softly he said, "Do you want me to talk to him?"

  "I think I'm okay." She took a breath. "But if I start screaming, take over."

  His lips formed a little kiss. Then he turned to say, "Mr. McGrath, we don't want to keep you from your guests."

  Leaving Hector Mesa to continue gazing at the guns, McGrath brought his drink across the room. They sat in three red leather chairs facing the balcony, Gail in the center. A slab of marble rested on the tops of three Doric columns, probably hauled in from Greece.

  McGrath put his elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. Onyx studs marched down his pleated shirt. "I think you're like me, you don't like to waste time, so I'm going to get right to the point. You're in Martin County to appeal a conviction in a capital murder case. Kenneth Ray Clark. He murdered an employee of mine twelve years ago, and you say he didn't do it. I happen to disagree with you, but never mind that. I believe that your strategy is to create doubt, and that means creating a doubt about somebody else. I believe you've decided to throw suspicion on me. It isn't fair, and it isn't right. I had nothing to do with Amber Dodson's death. Nothing."

  McGrath let out a breath and lowered his eyes. "I'm going to be honest with you. Amber and I had a fling at one time. I don't know how you found out, but you did. I swear to you, it was over, long over by the time she died."

  He picked up a framed photograph. Did he usually keep it there on the table? Gail didn't think so. He held it for a while before turning it around. "This is my family. Tay, Melissa, Billy. I love them very much. In the past, I've done some things I regret, but these three people mean the world to me. My wife and kids. I think about what they'd go through, if people started gossiping and pointing fingers, and let me tell you, it scares hell out of me."

  Gail glanced over at Anthony, whose dark eyes were steady, as calm as deep water. Certainty flooded through her as though transmitted by a touch.

  "Mr. McGrath, I'm sure you care about your family," Gail said, "but let me guess that you're also worried about the vote in the county commission next month. It's going to be close. A couple of the commissioners are looking for any excuse to vote against Phase Two of River Pines."

  He set the framed portrait back on the table and looked at Anthony. "I have a question. Who's in charge? Ms. Connor is the attorney of record. What's the deal here?"

  "The deal is, it's her case," Anthony said quietly, "but I filed a notice of appearance this morning as co-counsel."

  "Okay." McGrath leaned back in his chair. "You don't like bullshit. I don't either. I asked a lawyer about the odds of winning this case. Not good. You know that. At least you do, Quintana. Ms. Connor here is a civil practice lawyer, but you. Come on. You know this case is a loser, no matter what tricks you pull, and that includes trying to make me into a scapegoat. You could get disciplined by the bar, trying shit like that, and I would be forced to sue you for slander. But what do I gain? The publicity will already have killed me. You have me in a bad spot, you see? I'm willing to pay to get out of it."

  Anthony's casual posture in the ch
air was the same, but his interlaced fingers tapped slowly on his chin. "What do we do in exchange?"

  McGrath spread his arms. "Forget I exist. Don't mention my name. I didn't kill Amber Dodson. I had nothing to do with it, and if you imply I did, everyone will be hurt. I don't want to come after you. I don't. Let's work something out. I can be generous, as long as you keep it within reason."

  Gail had learned Anthony's moods. His anger was often signaled by utter stillness, and he was barely breathing. He looked at her. "What do you think?"

  "I think he should keep his money."

  "Do you? Yes, so do I."

  "Show him the deed," Gail said.

  Anthony withdrew a copy of the Mendoza deed from his inside pocket and handed it across the low table to McGrath, who unfolded it.

  "On June 28,1988," Gail said, "Ignacio and Celestina Mendoza supposedly sold ten acres to your corporation, JWM. The deed was recorded on July 7. We believe it's a forgery."

  McGrath's face had reddened. "What are you talking about? I don't know what this is."

  "You needed the property because it sat right in the middle of River Pines, but the Mendozas wouldn't sell. And then they disappeared. There are no traces of them after July 1988, and their family in Guatemala haven't heard from them. Gary Dodson had this deed recorded for you. He was fired from Hadley and Morgan because of it, and the law firm ended its relationship with you, but you continued giving Dodson scraps of legal work. Was it to insure his silence? We believe that Gary told Amber everything. What she learned about the Mendozas made her dangerous to anyone with an interest in River Pines."

  "Are you out of your fucking mind?"

  Gail's mouth was dry. She wished she had accepted the offer of a drink. "We believe we know who killed Amber Dodson, and so do you. The morning Amber died, the woman across the street saw a man with long hair and a denim jacket going behind Amber's house. A fisherman at a park nearby saw a dark-colored pickup truck with fender damage. Rusty Beck owned a dark blue truck at the time that had been in a minor accident about the same period. Amber was stabbed to death with a hunting knife, and he carried one on his belt. He still does."