Porter's handshake was strong. One corner of his thin mouth rose. "Nate tells me you're a pretty good lawyer, Quintana."
"I wouldn't want to argue with a judge,” Anthony said.
Claire was closing in on Nate, who had come in carrying a flat package about two feet by three. "Now what can that be? You said you were bringing us a little surprise, but what is this?"
"It's to say thank you. You and Porter suggested I apply for the federal bench. You pushed me and cajoled and wouldn't let me say no. If I get the job, well, a lot of the credit goes to you."
Porter shook his head. "Come on, Nate. This isn't necessary."
Nate held the package and Claire pulled off the tape. The brown paper fell away, revealing a canvas framed in gold. "Maggie painted this," Nate said. "It's from before we were married, so I'd never seen it before. I mentioned to Jack that I was looking for something, and he showed me this. He says it's the only portrait Maggie ever did."
Anthony came closer. Nate had told him he was bringing his in-laws a painting. A young ballerina with silvery hair stood alone in her tutu in the darkened wings of a stage. Her body was flat-chested, very long and thin, almost sexless, and yet compellingly beautiful. An odd blue light made her skin glow.
Claire stared down at the girl. "Why, it's Diane. She's just a little girl here, isn't she?" Claire looked at Anthony, explaining, "Diane is Porter's niece, Dub and Lizzie's daughter. She's twenty now, a soloist with the Miami City Ballet."
"Is that so?" Anthony said, "My daughter, Angela, is taking classes with them this summer."
"Then they might know each other. What a small world." Claire smiled at Nate. "You're giving us this. Oh, it's too much. We can't."
"No, no, Claire, it's my sincerest pleasure."
"Why, aren't you the sweetest thing?" Claire set the painting upright on the rattan sofa and came back to kiss his cheek. "Porter? Don't you want to thank Nate?"
"Damn nice of you, Nate." Porter clapped him on the back. "Hey, who wants a drink? Claire won't let me have any, but I like to play bartender. What about you, Quintana? Got some rum. You're Cuban. I make a damn good daiquiri."
"Ahh ... a Bloody Mary? Skip the celery."
"Good choice. I make an even better Bloody Mary. Nate?" Nate said to make it two, and Porter Cresswell crossed the sisal rug and went around a carved mahogany coffee table to get to the bar.
Anthony walked over to the windows to gaze down at the intracoastal waterway. "An impressive view."
"They were going to put in another building over there." Porter Cresswell indicated the spot with a jerk of his chin. "We had to file a lawsuit. You know anything about condo law?"
"No, I specialize in crime."
A chuckle rasped out of Cresswell's throat. He came around the bar with the drinks in tall crystal glasses. "Here you go, gentlemen." He growled near Anthony's ear, "You and I can go in the study after we eat. Leave Nate and Claire to gab."
Anthony decided he did not like this man, and he began mentally to add digits to his bill.
A small hand curled around his elbow. "Porter, darling, talk to Nate for a minute. I'm going to show Anthony the gallery."
"Have a look at our newest acquisition," Porter said. "I bought it from a collector in Chicago. You wouldn't want to know how much."
"Oh, tell me." Anthony smiled at him.
"One hundred and thirty-five thousand bucks. My daughter's last big piece. That's how much her paintings are worth, and they say the prices will only go up."
"Amazing." He added another thousand or so to his fees.
Claire said, "It was on the cover of Art in America. They did a whole article on her. I have the magazine if you'd care to look at it later."
"Yes, I would."
"Never mind Claire. She has a stack two feet high of that magazine. You aren't obligated."
"I'd like to," Anthony said. He left his drink on the bar.
A wide corridor had been turned into a gallery devoted to the works of Margaret Cresswell. The floor was black slate, and the ceiling was dotted with lights. Claire stood gazing at her daughter's art, two dozen or more pieces. The centerpiece was a huge abstraction of black with splotches of color showing through. It was spiky and jarring.
"This was my birthday present from Porter." Claire laughed. "Don't ask me which one! Sometimes I just . . . come in here and look at it. Maggie was such a beautiful, talented girl. Not always easy to understand, as you can guess from her work. She was never known as a Florida artist, because she spent her adult life in the Northeast. She met Nate at my nephew Jack's gallery when he showed her works, and Nate was so taken with her. He flew up to New York for her first single exhibition, and they married a year later. I'm so glad, or we'd hardly ever have seen her. One always thinks that time will just go on and on." She hesitated. ''You know about Maggie's suicide, I suppose?"
"Yes. Nate told me."
"He's a sweet man," Claire said. "He wanted to blame himself, but she was fighting her demons long before they met. He gave her some happiness before the end. She was . . . only thirty-three." Claire fell into silence. The bright, unforgiving surroundings revealed the sagging skin of her neck that her luxurious Hermes scarf failed to cover. She looked up at Anthony with a smile. "It's all right if you don't like the painting. Not everyone does."
"No, I wouldn't say I don't like it, only that it is, as you say, hard to understand." He walked closer. The paint had been applied in intricate layers. "The first time I met your daughter, we argued. I said art had to mean something. She said no, the observer is the one who gives it a meaning. Without the observer, it doesn't exist. I can't look at any painting without remembering what she said. She was a person of rare genius and warmth."
"Thank you for saying that." Claire's eyes glistened. She took Anthony's arm. "Listen, I have to apologize for Porter. The situation at the company is causing such stress. I guess Nate explained. Porter let Roger handle things while he was sick, and before you knew it, everybody was at each other's throats. Porter decided for the sake of the company he had to go back, but Roger says, 'You're too old, Daddy. You're too stuck in the past.' Well, when it's your son, you don't just fire him. Porter is beside himself. If you could just set his mind at ease, he'd feel so much better."
Anthony didn't say anything right away. What did they expect him to do? Recite prayers? Make the sign of the cross?
He took Claire's hand and kissed it with great respect. Then he held it close to his chest. "You mustn't worry. I'll make sure everything is all right."
When they came back, Porter and Nate stood at the windows talking about the list of candidates for the vacancy in the federal court. Nate was one of three. Porter was giving reasons why Florida's senior senator would send Nate's name to the White House for official nomination.
"You don't want to know how much I contributed to that cocksucker's last campaign."
"Do me a favor, Porter. Don't remind him."
"Might do some good." Porter gave a raspy laugh. "He stopped that fucking condo down there in its tracks, I'll give him that much. Money talks, bullshit walks. Remember that."
"It's on a plaque outside the courthouse," Nate said.
Porter looked at him sideways and caught sight of Claire and Anthony. "There you are. What were you doing, playing lovey-dovey with my wife? Her face is all red."
Claire's eyes closed. "Porter, please."
"The man can take a joke, honey." He put an arm around her shoulders and kissed her cheek so hard it pressed her eye closed. "Smile. Come on. Let's see it."
She smiled, then pulled away, patting his chest. "Isn't everyone hungry?" There was a phone on a table by the sofa. She pressed a button, waited, then told someone named Maria that they were ready for lunch. She hung up and flashed a smile. "Okay. Soup's on in five minutes!"
Porter splashed some plain club soda over the ice in his glass. "A toast. To United States District Judge Nathan Alan Harris."
"Hear, hear," Claire said. Anthony
raised his Bloody Mary as the muted chime of a doorbell filtered into the room.
Porter said, "You do a lot of drug cases, Quintana?"
"A few. All my clients have been wrongfully indicted, of course."
"You bet." Porter grinned, then gestured with his drink to Nate, who sat at the bar eating salted peanuts. "They say the only damn cases down there in federal court are drug cases. I remember this one guy wanted us to make him a fast boat. That was back in the good old days of the Cocaine Cowboys. Guy says, name your price. I told him to get lost. You remember the Don Aronow case, don't you, Quintana? I knew Don. Used to build racing boats. Nice fellow, but ran with a bad crowd. Ended up filled full of holes."
The doorbell was still chiming. "Who the hell is that? Where's Maria?"
Claire said, "Maybe I should go answer it."
"We've got a fucking housekeeper so you won't have to. Sit down." He bellowed, "Maria!" His face turned red. "Get the goddamn door!"
Anthony could hear quick footsteps on the marble floor. A few moments later a heavyset man in a green knit golf shirt appeared in the doorway, and the housekeeper's footsteps receded back toward the kitchen.
Porter frowned. "You should've called. We've got guests."
Claire began the introductions. "This is Duncan Cresswell, Porter's brother. Dub, this—"
"Why didn't you call?"
Duncan Cresswell shook his head, and his jowls moved. "I need to talk to you and Claire right now— in private." He glanced at Nate. "Hello, Nate. Sorry about this."
Claire's hand was at her throat. "What's the matter? Dub? What happened?"
Anthony stood up. "We'll be in the living room." Nate nodded, and the two of them walked into the hall. Anthony said quietly, "Do you have any idea what that was about?"
"None."
A woman's scream came from the patio, turning into a wail. "No, no, no—"
They spun around just as Duncan Cresswell came out. "Maria! Maria, get in here!" The woman was already on her way from the kitchen, asking what had happened, what was the matter? The man grabbed her shoulder. "Their son—he's been killed. Go get Claire's pills from her bathroom. Go on! Hurry." White-faced, the woman vanished.
Nate stopped him from going back inside. "Dub! What did you say?"
The answer came in a whisper. "Roger was shot to death last night at Jack's place." Nate stared at him, too stunned to speak. "The police won't say anything, but it looks like a robbery. His wallet's gone, his watch—Diane found him. She'd been up at Jack's all night, and after breakfast she was going back to the cottage and heard the dog barking, and found Roger's body. They called 911 right away, but it was too late. I mean, Jesus, he was lying there all night. Diane called us about an hour ago. I didn't want them to hear this from the police."
"Oh, my God. What about Nikki? Does she know?"
"Not yet. The cops sent somebody to the house. The neighbor says she's up in West Palm Beach for the weekend. They're trying to find her cell phone number. Oh, Jesus." He turned toward the door. "This is terrible. Maggie's gone. Now Roger."
"Let me talk to them," Nate said.
Anthony moved closer, not wanting to stare, but shock and sorrow had erased his presence. He might have been a shadow, for all the notice they paid him. Porter Cresswell's arms were wrapped tightly around his wife, who sat on the sofa and moaned. Nate crouched beside them. The housekeeper ran in with a pill bottle and leaned over Claire, weeping, touching her shoulder. Dub handed her a glass of water. "Claire. Claire, honey. Take these."
Giving them privacy, Anthony walked into the living room and stared at the view till Nate came out. "Stay with mem," Anthony said. "I'll get a taxi."
Nate wiped his glasses on his handkerchief. "No, it's better if we leave. Claire wants me to apologize to you for the disruption. That's Claire. Always the lady. I promised Porter I'd find out what's going on. Dub's going to call the rest of the family. It's a damn, miserable shame, isn't it?"
Outside, the rain had stopped, but the smell of it lingered in wet earth. They waited for the valet, and finally the Taurus squealed to a stop on the cobble-stoned driveway. Anthony was just opening the passenger door when a shout came from the parking lot.
"Nate!" A man in a white Panama hat ran toward them, face hidden by sunglasses and a wide blond mustache. He leaped over a low hedge and stopped, breathless.
"I just heard," Nate said. "Dub came over. He's upstairs."
"Fuckin' cops. They're all over the place. I had to slip out the back. How's Claire?"
"Bad. Go see her, but don't stay. The police could give you some problems for leaving the scene, Jack."
"I'll deal with that later." The sunglasses turned toward Anthony. Introductions were made. The man was Claire's nephew, Jack Pascoe. The body had been found on his property. Nate repeated what Dub had said about a robbery. "Do they have any idea who did it? Or when? Did you or Diane hear anything?"
Pascoe glanced over at Anthony, then said, "Not the first. Anyone could have wandered in from the street. My security arrangements last night were somewhat porous. Who expects something like this?" Pascoe's mustache curled onto his round cheeks. He moved closer to Nate. "Lucky you're here. Could we chat? I left a message on your voice mail about an hour ago. Ignore it. Would you excuse us, Mr. . . ."
"Quintana. I'll wait under the portico."
Anthony paced slowly, hands in his pockets, pretending disinterest, but on his first turn he noticed Jack Pascoe gripping Nate's upper arm. Their words were obscured by the rustle of palm fronds. A minute later, Pascoe rushed toward the double glass doors, which swung open, then shut, swallowing him into the cavernous marble lobby.
In the car, Nate said nothing. He gripped the top of the steering wheel as if he'd aged thirty years. At the end of the driveway, he abruptly stopped, swung the wheel to the right, and parked under some trees. The radio played at low volume. Nate turned the knob and it went off. "Mind if I ask an opinion?"
"Go ahead. I assume this is related to the conversation you just had."
"I was at Jack's house last night. He had some people over." Nate lifted the tortoiseshell glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. "Jack's father was Claire's brother, so Jack and Maggie practically grew up together. Anyway, she had her studio in the cottage behind his house, and that's how I came to know him. He called me last week and said why don't you come over Saturday and look at that painting we were talking about? Jack's an art dealer. I'd told him I wanted something to give Claire and Porter, and he suggested the portrait. I paid him five thousand dollars as a down payment."
Anthony made a small laugh. "What's the total price?"
"Twenty."
"Alaba'o. You're a generous man."
"Oh, it's a steal, I swear to you. It would cost fifty in a Chelsea gallery. Jack let me have it for less because he wanted to make sure it went to Claire and Porter. It was Maggie's only portrait, after all."
Anthony waited. "I don't see the problem, Nate. Unless the painting is hot."
"No, no, nothing like that. Jack just told me back there that the police asked him for a list of his guests. I wasn't on it."
"Why not?"
"Jack. Oh, God. He was trying to do me a favor. You see, Jack had a fairly offbeat collection of acquaintances at his house last night. He didn't want my name to be found among them."
"Nate, I wouldn't describe you as offbeat."
"No, I'm the most boring of the lot."
"What kind of offbeat acquaintances are we talking about?"
"Aside from Jack's sailing buddies and their girlfriends, there was a poet who got drunk and made up limericks about his erection. A Brazilian samba dancer who turned out to be a guy—Jack's little joke. And a couple of musicians from the blues bar Jack goes to. Jack assured me that no one would even remember my face." Nate smiled. "This could be true. It wasn't a group that had much interest in judges."
"Nor a crowd that judges would normally hang out with. Particularly a judge who wants a federal appointm
ent."
"Correct." Nate's mouth twitched, either from nerves or a bizarre sense of hilarity.
"Did you see Roger Cresswell last night?" Anthony asked.
"I saw him with Jack around . . . nine-thirty? They were going into Jack's study. Roger wasn't there long, maybe ten minutes. I was in the living room at the time watching people dance and looking through Jack's old record collection."
"Did you speak to Roger?"
"I did. I said, 'Hello, Roger,' but he didn't make eye contact, so I'm not sure he heard me. He went right out the front door and slammed it. I asked Jack. He said, 'Oh, it's the usual shit.' You see, Roger and Jack have a problem about Claire. Jack's her only other relative, and Roger thinks Jack is after Claire's money. I don't believe that and I never have." Nate added, "I guess I should say ... they had a problem."
Anthony asked if Nate had heard the men shouting.
"No, nothing. Jack didn't seem angry. It's been going on for years."
"How long did you stay at Jack's?"
"I arrived about eight o'clock and left about midnight."
"It doesn't take four hours to put a down payment on a painting."
"True, but . . . Jack throws the most interesting parties. It's hard to pull yourself away. Try not to watch a drag queen giving samba lessons. But generally, I listened to music and watched the other guests. I had a few drinks—maybe more than I should have."
"Apparently. So you bought a painting, you saw Roger Cresswell come and go, you got drunk, and you learned the samba from a Brazilian transvestite. And if all this came out, the consequences for your nomination to the federal bench would he cataclysmic. Nate, if you're not leaving the circuit court, I won't run for that vacancy after all." Anthony raised his hand, forefinger upward. "But wait. Jack Pascoe says not to worry. No one will ever know you were there."
Nate smiled slightly. "I didn't actually learn the samba. Yes, Anthony, I am aware of my legal duty. I should call the homicide division and offer to make a statement. No. I should tell Jack to call so they won't charge him with obstruction of justice."
Suspicion of Malice Page 2
