Suspicion of Malice

by Barbara Parker

  "Hey, Sean." He leaned forward and tapped Sean on the arm. "I need you to do something. Last Saturday, when Roger died, the cops want to know where I was after I left Jack's. How about if I say I was with you?"

  After a few seconds looking at the screen, Sean said, "With me?"

  "Yeah. My car was in the shop, so Angie dropped me off at Jack's and picked me up later, about a quarter till twelve. Nobody saw her, but if her dad finds out we were together, she'll get in trouble. What were you doing? Were you with anybody the cops could check out? Pay attention, Sean." Bobby's hand shot out and ripped the joystick away. "This is important."

  "What the fuck? Give me that back."

  "You going to help me or not?"

  "You made me lose." Sean dropped his bare feet to the floor and leaned over to turn off the PlayStation. "Yeah, I left here about eleven and went over to the Beach. Mom hid my fuckin' keys, so I used my spares. You were with Angie?"

  "Yeah. We went and had coffee."

  "Is that all you had, bro?"

  "Come on, Sean. Let's say you beeped me at eleven-forty, and I called your cell, and you said to meet you on the Beach. Far as Jack knows, I had my car. Okay. So say we met up about twelve-thirty at my house and we went out. Where? Where's a good place we could've gone?"

  "I don't know. Liquid. Cameo. Whatever. No, it was Amsterdam. I used my fake ID. The bouncer was this fat bald dude, remember? We met those bitches from Germany. Fritzi and Mitzi. Or wds it Helga and Olga?"

  "Don't try to be funny, okay? If they ask."

  "I got your back, man. We were at Amsterdam. What time did we stay till?"

  "Like, a quarter to three, 'cause I got home at three o'clock. You got all that? Sean?"

  "Yeah, bro. I beeped you at eleven-forty, we hooked up at twelve-thirty, went to the club, and left at a quarter to three. By the way—Sonic Boom was playing that night, then they went to disco. We got bored and split. It was mad crowded. And I really did go by there. Are we straight now?"

  "Fine. Just keep Angie's name out of it." Bobby dropped back down on the end of the bed. "Hey, Sean. I have to see a lawyer in the morning. Do you have any cash? I can pay you back next week."

  "How much you need?"

  "I don't know. Three hundred. Have you got it?"

  "No problem." Sean stood up and moved some books around on a shelf over his desk. He turned around with some hundred-dollar bills and fanned them out. Bobby counted eight or nine. Sean said, "Take what you need."

  "Whoa. Where'd you get all them benjamins?"

  "My dad." Sean sounded bored. "I've got some mutual funds I can't have till I'm twenty-one, but he let me sell some. My mother doesn't know, so I keep it out of sight."

  "Oh, yeah? You didn't jack it out of his wallet, did you?"

  "No." Sean shoved three bills at Bobby. "Don't be stupid, take it. Just pay me back, yo." He put the rest of it behind the books.

  "I'll get it back to you next week." He stuck the bills in his hip pocket.

  Sean was doing his little smile—sleepy eyes, one side of his mouth going up. "The cops are after you for Roger?"

  Bobby shrugged. "They want to talk to me."

  "You could've done it. You hated him."

  "So did you. Wasn't for Roger, you wouldn't be doing algebra like back in high school."

  "So? He called you a faggot, man."

  "And I busted his face for him." Bobby flicked a punch on Sean's shoulder.

  Laughing, Sean aimed one back, which Bobby deflected. "You the one who shot him, man?"

  "What?"

  "Did you cap him, bro?"

  "Did I cap him? Bro? Look at you, rich white boy, talking street." Bobby clenched a fistful of Sean's polo shirt and shoved it into his stomach. "Homeboy from Gables Estates. Look at that computer, the TV and shit. You busted up two cars, your old man lets you drive his fuckin' Corvette, and you so hard. You go to my street, they'd crack up laughing."

  Sean went after him jabbing, kidding around. Bobby swerved away. Sean was big, but Bobby was fast. Sean came across the room laughing.

  Bobby held his hands up. "Shut up, Sean, your folks are gonna hear. Listen, you know if Jack has any friends named Alan? He's got thick gray hair and round glasses? Taller than me, kind of skinny. You ever see anybody like that over at Jack's?"

  "I don't think so. Why?"

  "Well, he was at Jack's party, and the cops say he doesn't exist. They asked me where I was, right? This one cop goes, 'Can you account for your whereabouts during the entire course of the party?' And I said, 'Sure, I was inside the house washing glasses and tying up the garbage mostly, or out on the porch. Ask anybody.' And he goes, 'You never went out in the backyard at all?' "

  Grabbing his toes, Bobby arched his foot then stretched it the other way, testing the pain. "I wasn't trying to play with these guys, but you gotta be careful. One of Jack's friends he goes fishing with slipped me a joint, so about eleven o'clock I took a break and went down to the water. I told the detective, 'Yeah, I was sitting on the seawall with this guy named Alan from about eleven to eleven-forty.’ The detective was like, 'How do you know the time so precisely, Mr. Gonzalez?' And I go, 'I just remember, okay?' Well, I remember because Angela beeped me at exactly eleven-forty, but I can't tell him that. Then he asks me what was Alan's last name, and I said I didn't know the last name. Just Alan. I described him, and then the cop says there was nobody like that at the party, nobody named Alan. Then he asked if I still had the clothes I wore that night, and could they have them. He goes, 'It's routine so we can get this matter cleared up.' "

  Sean had turned his desk chair around to sit facing Bobby. "Did they take your clothes?"

  "No, man, they didn't have a warrant, they couldn't do shit. I said, 'Look, you better leave, I'm late to rehearsal already.' The main detective gave me his card and told me to call. I didn't, so yesterday they were waiting for me outside the studio. He goes, 'Mr. Gonzalez, don't you want to help solve this crime and ease the suffering of Roger Cresswell's family?' It was so funny, man, the way he said it, I had to laugh. Then the other guy gets in my face. He goes, 'You're lying to us, and I don't like that.' And I go, 'Well, I don't like your bad breath, dude.' The older guy pulls him off of me and says, 'We'll be seeing you.'"

  "Did they get a warrant?"

  "Maybe. They might be there right now, ransacking the apartment. My roommates will be pissed off."

  Sean gave Bobby's shoulder a punch. "You were with me, bro. We can say I beeped you at eleven, and you left then."

  "No, they don't like it when you change your story. Besides, I went back in the house and told Jack I was leaving. I'll ask the lawyer what to do." Bobby put his elbows on his knees and dug his fingers into his hair. "Alan. He was there, bro. I saw him. Jack fuckin' knows him, and when I called, he goes, 'Sorry, man, I can't talk about the case.'"

  They heard the knock on the door and froze. Sean exhaled. "Shit."

  "Sean? Sean, let me in."

  "I'm studying, Mother."

  "Who's in there with you?"

  "No one. I have the TV on. Is it disturbing you?"

  The doorknob rattled. "Open this door. Now."

  "Go in the bathroom," Sean whispered.

  "No. Open it." Bobby started putting his sneakers back on.

  Under his breath Sean said, "Bitch." He flipped open his math book and picked up a pen. Twiddling it in his fingers, he opened the door a few inches. "Yes?"

  His mother pushed him out of the way and came in, looking around. Her dark brown hair swung at her shoulders. Elizabeth Cresswell was one of those older women who looked good in makeup, but most of it had worn off. It was smudged under her eyes.

  She smiled at him. "Bobby, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

  Sean said, "Why does he have to leave?"

  "Because it's late, and I said so."

  "He doesn't have to leave. I told him he could stay the night."

  "Sean, dear. Whose house is this? And please put your father's car key
s back where you found them."

  "I don't have his fuckin' keys. Ask him, or is he too drunk to remember what he did with them?"

  His mother crossed her arms. "Now, what was it your probation officer said about cursing? Remind me."

  Bobby swung his backpack over his shoulder. "Let it go, Sean. I'll catch you tomorrow."

  "Later, bro."

  They did the hand slap as Bobby walked past. "Later."

  Elizabeth escorted him down the curving stairs, through the living room, then into the foyer. She opened one side of the double doors. The neighborhood was quiet, only the crickets and the splash of water in a fountain in the driveway. A line of lamps led out to the front gate. His own car was parked around the corner.

  "Good night, Mrs. Cresswell." He trotted down the wide steps.

  "Bobby."

  Letting out a breath, he stopped and turned around.

  She was standing in the light of the doorway, a hand on her hip. Gold bracelets dangled from her wrist. She had a nice body for her age, and she knew it. "Stay away from my son. I don't care how good you look in tights, you're still a worthless little punk. If I see you around here again, I will have you arrested for trespassing. Are we perfectly clear on that?"

  He wanted to slap her, the bitch. He would have— back in the day. He smiled, ran up onto the porch and skidded on his knees, arms extended. "I'm gonna miss you, mama!"

  She stumbled backward. "Get away from me."

  The door slammed behind her, and the lock turned.

  Chapter 6

  She found Dub in bed already, lying on top of the satin comforter watching CNN, holding a glass of bourbon on his belly. He always wore V-necked white T-shirts to bed, and they rode up at the waist. Cigarette smoke drifted through the shade on the cut-glass lamp.

  "Did you give him the heave-ho, warden?"

  Liz kicked off her sandals and shoved them into her closet. "I told Sean I didn't want him associating with Bobby. Every time they're together, Sean starts in with the mouth, like some . . . ghetto kid. He never got into trouble until he met Bobby Gonzalez. He's a menace. If I could think of a way to send him back to Puerto Rico, I'd do it."

  "I think he was born in New York, Lizzie."

  She tossed her bracelets and watch into her jewelry box. "You don't take this seriously, do you?" Gold earrings followed.

  "Bobby's all right, except . . . don't you think it's a little weird, a kid from his background, running around in ballet slippers?" Dub waggled his fingers.

  "He isn't gay. Diane assured me of that."

  "Since when is she sleeping with Bobby?"

  Liz shook a cigarette out of her husband's pack. "They dated a couple of years ago. Don't you pay attention to anything? Now she apparently likes older men. Where's the lighter?"

  Dub switched channels, pausing at an ESPN replay of a Sammy Sosa home run. "If you mean Jack, I don't buy it."

  "She ran back over there in a damned hurry, didn't she? And the night Roger was killed they were in his house together. Talking? Please." Liz clicked the gold lighter and stared at the flame. "Maybe Diane lied to the police." She inhaled smoke and tossed the lighter back on the nightstand. "Do you think that's a possibility, Dub?"

  Ice cubes rattled as Dub sipped his bourbon. He put the glass back on his stomach. "What do you mean? Jack might've killed Roger?"

  "Hasn't it crossed your mind?"

  "Can't say it has." Dub pressed the remote through several commercials. "Why would Jack do that?"

  "Oh, twenty or thirty million dollars." Liz laid her cigarette beside his in the ashtray and pulled her red knit shirt over her head. "Claire's rich in her own right, and she'll inherit all of Porter's money, too. Who's she going to leave it all to, now that Roger is dead?"

  "Not good enough. Claire's going to be around for a long time."

  Liz unhooked her bra. "Porter won't. Jack will start working on Claire to let him sell Maggie's paintings. Think what it would do for his business." Liz tossed shirt and bra to the chaise longue, then unzipped her pants. "It's just my little theory, and Jack certainly isn't the only one who could have done it."

  When she stepped out of her underwear, Dub's glance didn't waver from the television screen. It annoyed her. Even at fifty-four, a man should at least have the courtesy of looking. Dub drank too much, she reminded herself. The doctors had told him to stop, and he wouldn't. He had bottles stashed all over the office. At least he had never been violent. He didn't yell at her or the kids. He would just get drunk and go to sleep.

  Liz knew about alcoholics. Her mother had been one—the violent kind. At sixteen Liz had moved out and put herself through night school. At eighteen she'd gone to work at Cresswell Yachts sanding pieces of fiberglass. No air conditioning in the boat sheds, fans going, eating her lunch out of a bag, listening to loud Cuban voices. She learned Spanish quickly, did her job without complaining, and moved up to shift supervisor. Then one day she stayed late, and Charlie Cresswell followed her into the tool shed and closed the door. She got her revenge by demanding a job in the sales department. She had noticed his younger son working there.

  "Are you going to share your little theory with the police?" Dub asked.

  Naked, Liz pulled a green silk kimono off its padded hanger. "God no. Let them figure it out. They don't need my help." Belting the robe, she looked at the floor by the closet again. The gold-framed painting she'd propped against the wall was gone. "Hey, where's that painting? It was right here. Did you move it?"

  "I haven't seen it, Liz."

  "Goddamn it. She took it. Diane came in here and stole it on her way out!"

  "So what? You said it didn't look like her."

  "That's not the point! Porter gave it to us, and she stole it! Don't you care if that girl is a thief?"

  Dub took a sip of his drink. "Jesus."

  "I do my best for this family, and all I get from her is sarcasm and hostility. Sometimes I think she hates us."

  "She was mad because we didn't go to her performance tonight."

  "I'm surprised she went. It showed such disrespect for Porter and Claire. Oh, I don't want to talk about it. It's been a hideous day. I hate funerals." She scooted across the bed, sliding on satin. "Pass me the ashtray, will you?" He put it between them.

  Lying crossways, propped on her elbows, Liz watched Bette Davis in a big-shouldered coat and a hat, knocking frantically on a locked door in a seedy hotel. Richard! Richard, let me in! It's me, darling. It's Helen. Dramatic music played on the sound track.

  Dub asked, "What do you mean, 'Jack isn't the only one'?"

  Liz tapped her cigarette on the ashtray. "Only one what?"

  "The only one who could have done it. What did you mean?"

  "Oh, I don't know. Roger was such a prick. Even Porter was outraged. He double-crossed his own father, for God's sake."

  "Double-crossed?"

  "Roger promised him he wouldn't make any big changes, but the minute Porter was gone, bam. No more of these wallowing luxury boats, no sirree, let's make them lighter and cheaper and sell twice as many! A good idea in theory, but my God, you just don't stop a production line in its tracks! The money we lost! Porter was absolutely livid. 1 could kill you! You're trying to destroy everything our family stands for.' Yes, I could believe that Porter had shot him."

  "The only kid he had left?"

  "He's a lunatic. If he can't have it his way, he destroys it. Remember last month the men found a crack in one of the fuel tanks? They could have fixed it, but Porter came after it with a fire axe!"

  Dub was apparently still chewing on her previous remark. "Not everybody looks guilty, Liz. Claire couldn't have done it."

  "I agree with you there. Claire couldn't see Roger's faults. Claire is the queen of denial. A pretty little windup toy. 'Yes, Porter. No, Porter.’” Liz rolled over to lie on her back. Her silk kimono came open, only the belt spanning her bare waist. "Let's not talk about this anymore."

  "You started it."

  "I'm so
rry I did. Turn off the TV. Please, Dub."

  "What about Nikki?" He flipped to another channel. David Letterman was making jokes with the bald guy who led the orchestra. "The wife is the first person the police look at when the husband gets whacked. That's what I've heard."

  Liz made a low laugh. "Watch yourself, Duncan." She stretched out, arms over her head. The kimono slid off her breasts. Cool air from the vent made her nipples stand up.

  Colors flashed on the ceiling, and the speakers popped every time Dub pressed his thumb on the remote.

  He had considered hiring someone to follow his wife, see if she was cheating, but knowing would be worse. Which one of the engine salesmen or sunburned lift operators? Who was getting sawdust or machine oil in his wife's panties? Who was looking at Duncan Cresswell and smirking? It was more peaceful not to know. He wasn't even sure he cared.

  In five years he had accumulated over two million dollars. He'd never made as much as Porter, so a little creative accounting was his way of evening things out. Roger had started sniffing around, but he hadn't known how to read the books.

  Dub considered it his rainy day fund. If one day Liz tried to fuck him over in court, or if he woke up and decided he couldn't stand hearing Spanish or fighting traffic anymore, he could pack a bag, grab his passport, and . . . go. He had the destination picked out. Anguilla, in the French Antilles. He'd been down there fishing last winter. As the boat had headed back to the marina, he'd looked out at the white spume off the stern and thought of Liz. He'd seen her slipping overboard. He'd seen her getting smaller till her head was a black dot. Then nothing.

  He took his cigarette out of the ashtray. "I could fire you. Do you realize that, Lizzie? Maybe Roger was right. It would be a lot more peaceful in the office if you weren't around."

  "Would you fire me, Dub? Would you?"

  She scratched her nails along the waistband of his shorts. What she ought to do, Dub thought, was show him a centerfold photo of his bank statement from Caledonia Bank and Trust, Ltd., on Grand Cayman.