Suspicion of Malice

by Barbara Parker

  A simple act, but impossible to tell Alicia about. Not her, or Nena, or any of them.

  Ernesto Pedrosa had arranged for a murder. A man had been shot and dumped into the river on his orders. No money had been paid. It had been done out of loyalty, respect. Love for an exiled patriot who for forty years had fought for la causa, the cause above everything. He had sacrificed his only son, Tomas, dead at the Bay of Pigs, for the cause. He had financed terrorist acts for the cause, had warped American foreign policy, had divided a community. When Pedrosa asked a favor, it was done. A certain man had threatened his grandson—his life, his flesh, his heir—and so he had to die. Ernesto had not first asked permission from the beneficiary of this service, no, because he'd thought Anthony didn't have the cojones to see that it had to be done.

  Confronted, the old man had admitted everything. Anthony had cursed him to hell and back, had ripped the bullet-riddled Cuban flag off the wall and thrown it at him. From his wheelchair, Ernesto had laughed. Call the police. Have them take me away. You have the backbone of a woman. I should have left you in Cuba.

  Anthony had walked out and had kept going. In saving him, Ernesto had killed everything else between them. Anthony could not go on as before. To condone a murder, to forget that the dead man had a family—Anthony might as well have pulled the trigger himself.

  His sister had been wrong. This had nothing to do with Gail Connor. She had only been the catalyst, telling him what Ernesto had done, and daring him to do something about it. What? To wreck a family by turning an old man over to the police? She had not understood that. She had said he would cover for Ernesto to protect his own position. That he wanted power more than truth. That he and his grandfather had become exactly alike.

  There it was: her quick accusations, her lack of trust, her willingness to believe the worst. Of course he'd been angry, but not for long. They were equally unsuited. He felt the relief of a man who'd been kicked off the elevator just before the cables snapped.

  He went back to the kitchen, picked up the bottle on the counter, and held it to the light. Empty. When had he bought it? Monday. He couldn't remember drinking all of it, but someone had. He threw it into the trash.

  The front door opened, and he turned toward the sound. "Angela, estas tu?"

  "I'm home. Estoy a casa, papi." She had an American accent. He was trying to improve her Spanish, but she spoke it reluctantly. "Hi, Dad."

  "iDonde has estado? Es tarde, ninita."

  She turned and looked at him. "I wish you wouldn't call me that. I'm not a child."

  "You're late." He spread his hands wide. "I may say that, no? Where have you been?"

  "We went for something to eat afterward."

  "Who are 'we'? You and . . ."

  "Some of the girls in my class."

  "Haven't I asked you to call if you expect to be late? I tried to reach you. Did you have your phone off?"

  "I didn't notice. It was off in the theater, then I forgot."

  "We have orientation at the university at eight o'clock in the morning. Did you forget that too?"

  "Papi, don't yell at me, please. I'm sorry." She came over and leaned against his arm. The part in her hair ran straight and clean, and the delicate curve of her forehead and cheeks made his chest hurt. "I'm really sorry to be late. I won't do it again."

  He could never remain angry with her. He kissed the top of her head. "All right. I was worried. Come sit down. I want to talk to you."

  She seemed not to hear him. Then she raised her eyes. "What if I don't go to school this semester? To tell you the truth, I don't think I'm ready for college."

  "Not ready? What would you do instead?"

  "Audition for the ballet. They always need extra people for The Nutcracker, and auditions are in a couple of weeks. The thing is, I need to work hard to prepare, and there are all the rehearsals and performances. If I make it, and they like me, they might hire me to be in the company. And if not, I could go to school in January. Doesn't that sound reasonable?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "Sweetheart, listen to me. Don't you think maybe you're just a little bit infatuated with all the lights and the glamour?"

  "That's a very patronizing thing to say."

  "Angela."

  "It is! I've been dancing since I was seven years old!"

  "You never said anything about dancing as a career. Now suddenly this is what you want?"

  "I'm a good dancer, better than anyone in my class. Edward Villella himself saw me this week. He picked me out to show the others what to do. He said, 'Look how well she moves, look at her line.' He chose me."

  "And on the basis of a compliment, you would throw away your college, your place in the dormitories, the tuition that I have already paid—"

  "We could get a refund!"

  "Olvidalo. Absolutely not. It isn't the money. I don't care about that. Of course you're a good dancer. You're a very talented girl, but you said yourself, a dancer has a short life. Then what? You'd have no education, no way to earn a living. Do you expect me to support you? I won't. You'd be spoiled like so many kids whose parents have money."

  "But Dad, just to audition—"

  "No. I can't allow it. Don't look at me like that, Angela. You're only seventeen years old. You must grow up a little. Get an education first. Or dance in your spare time—as long as it doesn't interfere with your studies. Have I ever been proven wrong in my advice to you? Have I?"

  "No, papi."

  "All right, then." With an arm over her slender shoulders, he guided her toward the living room. "Sit down. There's something I need to tell you." He sat in his chair, she on the ottoman with her back straight and her hands folded, waiting. Her mouth was in a firm line. She was still angry.

  "This young man who came to the house. Robert Gonzalez. You haven't seen him again, have you?"

  She blinked. "At the studio—"

  "Socially. Have you seen him socially? Have you been alone with him? Has he talked to you?"

  "Why are you asking me that?"

  "Yes or no?"

  "No."

  "Do you recall ever hearing him mention the name Roger Cresswell?"

  "I—I don't think so. Who is Roger Cresswell?"

  "He was the man murdered last weekend at a house off Old Cutler Road. Don't you remember it on the news?"

  "I haven't been watching much TV."

  "Well, there was a party, and someone shot him and took his money. An acquaintance of mine, connected to the investigation, told me that Bobby Gonzalez is a suspect." Angela stared at him. "I know this is a shock to you, sweetheart, someone you know, and so forth, but it's true. Promise me, Angela. Don't speak to him. Don't be alone with him."

  "It isn't true! Bobby couldn't do that. He couldn't"

  Anthony took her hand. There were little gold rings on two of her fingers, a silver one on another. So innocent. "I am sorry to tell you this, cielito, but people are full of surprises, not always pleasant ones. This young man refuses to answer questions, he threatened Roger Cresswell at the party, and he has no alibi. He's been arrested before—possession of drugs and carrying a concealed weapon. One has to wonder what's on his juvenile record."

  She stared back at him.

  "Bobby didn't mention this, did he?" She shook her head. "He could be very dangerous. Stay away from him. Do you promise?" Her mouth opened. "Angela? An answer, please."

  She bit her lips, then nodded. "Yes. I promise."

  "You must be careful with young men. Most of them want only one thing from you. This is true. Many girls have been ruined, believing their lies and flattery. You know what I'm talking about, don't you, preciosa?"

  She stared at the hands clasped in her lap. "Yes, papi."

  "Good. Now go to bed. We have to be on the road by seven to beat the traffic. I'll wake you up at six o'clock, all right?" He touched her cheek. "Don't be angry. Te quiero mas que nada. Tu lo sabes, is?"

  "Si, papi. I know you love me more than anything.
"

  "Sleep well." He held out an arm.

  She kissed him good night. "Buenas noches, papi." From the hall she looked at him with dark, mournful eyes, then ran up the stairs.

  Chapter 5

  After he saw the number on his beeper, Bobby took Sean Cresswell's portable across the bedroom and sat on the floor under the windows. The only noise was the click of buttons on the PlayStation. Sean's mouth would go into strange shapes when he jerked on the joystick. Sean was listening to Wu-Tang through his headphones, but Bobby would have to keep his voice down. If Sean's mother knew he was here, she'd probably kick him out. He was a bad influence on her little boy—nineteen years old, on probation for jacking his cousin Roger's Porsche out of the boat yard parking lot. Roger had gotten the car back but pressed charges anyway, teaching the young man a lesson.

  He entered Angela's number, and she picked up on the first ring. "It's me, baby. What's up?" She started crying. "Angie? What's the matter?"

  "Where are you?"

  "Sean's."

  "Oh, great."

  Bobby knew that Angie didn't like Sean, but there wasn't much he could do about it. "Why are you crying, mamita?"

  "I have to talk to you. Can you come over? I'll sneak out."

  ''It's thirty miles. What's going on? What happened?"

  "My dad . . . He said . . ." Her voice was small and tight. "He said the police think you killed Roger Cresswell."

  "That's bullshit. Why'd he say that?"

  "He has this friend or something who knows about the investigation. He wants to make sure I stay away from you. Bobby, I know you didn't, but he told me other stuff too. He said you were once arrested for having drugs and weapons. Is that true?"

  "What?"

  "Is it?" She didn't say anything else, and he could hear Lauryn Hill singing in the background.

  "No. It was some weed and a little pocketknife." She still didn't say anything. "Angie, I swear to you, it was nothing. Me and some friends were at a concert at Bayfront, okay? They told us to leave, and I told them no. So the cops beat me up and searched my pockets. They charged me with resisting with violence, plus the other stuff. Three felonies."

  "Did you go to jail?"

  "A couple days, then I bonded out. They put me on probation for a year."

  "Is that all you ever did?"

  Bobby draped his arm across his knees. "It's the last, if I want to keep dancing."

  "What about before that?"

  "It doesn't matter, baby. That was back in the day."

  "I want to know," she said. "I tell you everything, don't I?"

  "Yeah, but you don't do anything." He laughed. "Mi angelita."

  "Was it bad, what you did?"

  "No, not . . . bad." He closed his eyes and put his forehead on his arm. "It's not the same now, Angie. I'm not with that anymore."

  "Did you go to jail?"

  "No, baby. A little time in detention, that's all. Mostly my uncle took me home and beat my ass." All he heard was Lauryn Hill on the stereo. "Angie? Your old man's trying to scare you, is what I think. Hey, it's me. Remember me? Bobby?"

  "Oh, it was so awful, what he said." Her voice was a whisper. "He was drinking tonight—again. I could smell it on his breath. And he was really mad at me."

  "Did he hit you?"

  "Well . . . no."

  "If he did, I'll take you out of there. Nobody does that to you, not even your father."

  "Bobby, it's okay. He doesn't ever hit me. He was just mad because I got home late."

  "I'm sorry about that. It's my fault."

  "No, no, it was mine. God! He is so unreasonable. He wants to control my life. He refuses to let me audition for the ballet. He goes, no, you can dance in your spare time. Oh, sure."

  "Try out anyway. Don't let him all up in your face. You gotta be strong."

  "He'd kick me out. He said if I don't go to school, he's not going to support me anymore."

  "I'd take you in."

  "You would?"

  He laughed softly. "You know I would."

  "Bobby?" She had her mouth close to the phone, probably with her hand cupped around it. "There's something else. The night Roger Cresswell died—my dad said you don't have an alibi, but you do. You were with me."

  "Forget it. I'm not getting you into this."

  "Bobby! I want to."

  "No, it's okay. I'll get Sean to back me up. Really. Don't worry."

  "What are you going to say to Gail Connor? You should tell her the truth."

  "I won't tell her about you."

  "She knows we're going out."

  "And like she's not going to tell your father."

  "She said she wouldn't."

  "How come they split up, anyway?"

  "I don't know. It's probably my dad's fault. She's very nice. You'll like her."

  "Hey, Angie, don't be so afraid of your dad. Okay? You're not a child."

  "He treats me like one." Her sigh warmed his ear. "Bobby, do you think Edward meant what he said?"

  "I told you ten times already, yes. The man does not hand out bullshit."

  "You think I have a chance to get in?"

  "Didn't I say that? Have some faith. Look at me. I mean, of all the guys in the world least likely to do ballet—"

  "I love you, Bobby."

  "Te quiero, mamita. You're the best thing in my life."

  "Better than dancing?"

  "Well. That's different. Apples and oranges."

  "What am I? The apple or the orange?"

  Every time she did that sexy-voice thing, his brains shut down. "Hmm. You're the apple."

  "Am I the apple of desire? You want to take a bite right now?"

  "Oh, man." He laughed softly. "A big one. Real juicy."

  "What would you bite first? Maybe . .. this? Or ... let's see ... this?"

  He held the phone closer to his mouth. "Angela. You trying to make me come over there and show you?"

  She pulled in a breath and whispered, "Oh, shit, it's my dad. I gotta go."

  When Bobby dropped the phone back on the desk, Sean was still sprawled out on his lounge chair playing Street Fighter, watching the TV screen past his bare feet up on the foot rest. He took off his headphones. "Who was that, your woman?"

  "Yeah." Bobby watched Sean's player, a black guy in a bandanna, silently fire at a kung-fu fighter. Blood spattered the street, then vanished, and the figures suddenly faced each other again.

  Sean said, "You want to go out tonight, bro?"

  "Why do you play that game? It's boring."

  "You want to go out? I've got some cash. We could go over to the Beach."

  "No, I need to get up early." Bobby watched Sean's hand jerk on the joystick. He was supposed to be studying for his final in algebra at Miami-Dade. Going to summer classes was part of his probation. He was smart, but he couldn't get into a regular college, the way he'd messed up in high school. Too bad, because his parents could have sent him anywhere, even Harvard.

  Bobby heard voices from downstairs and went over to the door, easing it open a crack. Diane was screaming about something. A condo on South Beach, closer to the ballet.

  "Then work for it!" her mother yelled. "I never had things handed to me on a silver platter the way you have."

  "I work! I have a job!"

  "Five hundred a week, and you expect us to subsidize it, and we do. But all we hear is, 'I want more, more.’ Whose new car is that in the driveway? You want a down payment, sell the car."

  "How am I supposed to get around without a car?"

  Sean's father got into it. "Hey! Shut up, both of you. Liz, we can lend her the money."

  "Lend? We're not lending her another dime. She has to learn some responsibility."

  Diane yelled, "You give Sean and Patty whatever they want, and I get shit!"

  "Maybe if you asked instead of demanding—"

  "I'm getting out of here. I'm going back to Jack's."

  "Go."

  "Fine! You're a selfish, pretentious bit
ch."

  "What? What? Say that again. Say it." Then some screaming and slapping noises. "Filthy mouth ... As much as we've done for you ..."

  "Stop it! Don't!"

  "Liz! Leave her alone. Jesus, right in the middle of Jay's monologue, every goddamn time."

  Then the oldest girl, Patty, running down the hall, her voice moving toward the stairs. "Shut up! Why can't you all be quiet? I'm trying to sleep!"

  Diane was crying. "I hate it here! You can go to hell!" Footsteps came up the stairs then stopped. A door opened and hit the wall.

  Dub shouted, "Are you satisfied, Liz? Are you?"

  "Patty, go back to bed. I'm sorry, honey. Go back to sleep."

  A minute later, Diane's footsteps went the other way, then down the stairs. The front door slammed.

  Bobby quietly closed Sean's door. He used to think these people were all right. Huge house, new cars, everything clean, big refrigerator never empty. One girl in college, another in the ballet, Sean an athlete at Gulliver Prep—before they expelled him.

  "Diane just left."

  "Yeah. They're always scrapping about something. Mom says she's tired of Diane sucking money off of them. Dad just wants it quiet so he can watch TV." Sean jerked the joystick. "We could go to the Grove. It's closer. I got the keys to Dad's Vette."

  "No, man. I'm tired."

  "You only live once, bro."

  Bobby sat on the end of the bed, blinking a little with fatigue. His left ankle was hurting. He'd come down wrong on it tonight, though no one had noticed. He'd been up too many hours, been rehearsing too hard. When he stayed over, Sean let him sleep in the recliner, but right now Sean was in it, still playing his game. The light of the TV screen was on his face. He looked like his father—chubby cheeks and a big forehead. Sean had a ring in his ear, one in his navel, and another he wore in his eyebrow when he went out. He kept his hair buzzed short, except on top. Bobby used to cut his that way, but it looked ridiculous onstage, so he'd grown it out before auditioning for the company.

  He and Diane had been in the ballet school together, and about five years ago, he'd met Sean. Sean had noticed Bobby's tattoo, which was gone now. They started hanging out. Lately Liz had made it clear that she didn't like Bobby around. Bobby wouldn't be here now if he hadn't been afraid of going home or to any of his friends' places on the Beach.