Suspicion of Malice

by Barbara Parker

  On the television, Jay Leno was talking to an actress with long curly hair, someone he didn't recognize, plugging her new movie, which he'd never heard of. Jay saying, Let's show a clip, can we? Dub thumbed the remote. A music video from India, women singing in warbling voices, dancing in a line in flowing saris. He pressed buttons at random. The Nashville Network. HBO. The Weather Channel.

  Her hand was moving on him, squeezing, long nails occasionally catching his flesh, but nothing was happening down there. Dub lifted his cigarette to his lips. He wanted to touch the end of it to the sleeve of that silk robe, see what she'd do.

  First time he'd seen her she'd been polishing fiberglass with a disk sander. Face mask on for the dust, gloves, long smock, hair all white, nothing showing but those cocoa-brown eyes. Within a year she'd been wearing a short dress and high heels, running a calculator in the sales department. He still didn't know how she'd managed that transformation. She did a boat show with him, and he wound up in the forward stateroom with her head in his lap. Six months later she was pregnant with Patty, and they got married.

  She'd picked up the boat business fast, and she'd known how to get the most out of the workers. Any idea she had, she let Dub take the credit, and when the old man died, he'd given Dub a share—only a third, but without Liz, he'd have gotten zip. Now he had half—on paper only. Porter still made the decisions. Dub didn't care. He had his bank account.

  'Turn the TV off, Dub."

  "In a minute."

  She grabbed the remote, jabbed at it, then flung it across the room. It hit the armoire, and the batteries fell out.

  Dub stared at the blank screen. "I guess I don't get any tonight."

  "Up yours."

  "What about you, Lizzie? Why did you want Roger dead?"

  "I didn't say that."

  "Come on. You started this game."

  Her hair was in her eyes, and she swept it back and held it. "Me. Well, why did I want him dead? His ideas weren't bad, but he was such an asshole. Roger never listened to me, and I've been there for twenty-four years! Does that count, Dub? Wanting to kill someone because he ignores you?"

  Dub reached into the drawer for his pint of bourbon. "Roger wanted to fire you. He said you were overstepping your authority."

  She hooted a laugh. "Let's call it saving the company from bankruptcy."

  Liquid flowed into the glass. "Lady of leisure. What would you have done all day? Get yourself a regular massage. Go to ballet parties with Claire. Maybe find a tennis instructor who likes mature, foxy women."

  "Maybe just find a man who can get it up."

  "Where were you that night, Lizzie?"

  "I was here with Sean and Patty, as well you know."

  "Couldn't have jumped in the car and run over to Jack's? It would have taken five minutes to get there. Find Roger, plug him a few times. You could've told the kids you were soaking in the tub. Or said you were going over to give the neighbor a blow job. 'Now, don't tell your dad.' 'Okay, Mom.'"

  "Stop it, Dub. That isn't fun."

  "Sure it is. You can do whatever you want now. Shit, when Porter's gone, you can even be president."

  "Let's finish the game. Where were you that night, Dub?"

  Dub tilted the glass, sliding the last ice cube into his mouth. "With Roger and Porter at the Black Point Marina. We took those Canadian CEOs out for a cruise. I sold two boats, just doing my job. As soon as we landed, Roger split. I don't know where the hell he went."

  Liz rolled onto her stomach and slithered up till her mouth was at his ear. "No, Dub. That's what you told the police, but you told me that Roger was going over to Jack's. Did you find him? You didn't get home till two in the morning."

  "I took the guys out to the Strip Mine. They wanted to see some firm young bodies."

  Her breath was hot on his neck. "Nobody would have missed you for an hour. I believe you even have a .22 pistol in your gun locker."

  "I had no reason to shoot him, Liz. I had no quarrel with Roger, not like you."

  "But you did. What better way to get back at Porter? Poor Dub. Always in second place. Porter got an M.B.A., but you didn't finish college. Porter is president of Cresswell Yachts. You're the lowly director of sales."

  "So I was jealous and shot his son?"

  "More than jealous." She burrowed closer. "Why did you rush all the way up to Aventura to tell Porter and Claire about Roger, when Diane told you that the police wanted to inform the family? Why, Dub?"

  "Not because I hated him."

  "Oh, yes. You wanted to see his reaction. You wanted to deliver the news yourself. 'Oh, boy, I get to tell Porter. I get to see him bleed.' "

  "Elizabeth, you are one cold-hearted bitch."

  She whispered into his ear. "It's why you married me." She left tooth prints on his earlobe, then sat up, kimono falling off one shoulder. "It's late. I'm going to take a shower. Set the alarm for six o'clock, will you? I have a meeting with the Detroit Diesel rep at seven-thirty." Her kimono belled out behind her as she crossed the bedroom.

  In the shiny curve of the blank TV screen Dub could see a distorted image of Lizzie going into the bathroom. The water went on. The shower door slid shut. A minute later steam started rolling out.

  What if she fell? Slipped on some soap and hit her head on that gold-plated tub faucet that cost a thousand bucks for the set. Would she drown? How deep would the water have to be?

  Dub closed his eyes and drifted. He thought of his island. A warm-skinned brown woman with breasts ripe as mangos. The breeze in her black hair. A small house painted yellow and turquoise. Water clear as gin, warm as blood.

  Chapter 7

  "Never do favors for anyone not on a time sheet." Charlene stood at her desk shuffling through papers. "There is no such thing as a five-minute phone consultation, don't you know that? It's like five-minute sex. They always want another one, and they never respect you for it."

  Gail had caught Charlene Marks just as she was preparing to leave for a hearing downtown. Charlene handled divorces for sports figures, entertainers, politicians, or anyone else with enough money to fight over. Before that, she'd been a prosecutor, slamming prison doors on murderers, rapists, and assorted armed thugs. Gail specialized in civil trial practice. Of criminal law, she had a fairly good grasp of where to find the county jail. She assumed that Charlene would be able to supply the guidance needed to field a simple telephone call from Angela Quintana's boyfriend.

  "Come on, Charlene. What do I tell him?" Sliding files into a slim leather portfolio, Charlene looked over her glasses. The silver frames repeated the strands in her salt-and-pepper hair. "You don't need five minutes. It takes five seconds. 'Bobby, if the police contact you, tell them to call me. Tell them you are so sorry, but your mean, nasty lawyer has ordered you not to say a word.' See how easy that is?"

  "For him. What do I tell the police?"

  "What you should do," Charlene said, "is to send this kid to a criminal lawyer. But since you've already promised to give him a quickie— Who's the victim, by the way?"

  "Roger Cresswell. It's been in the news. Have you heard about it?"

  "Good God. Yes, I have heard about it. I've been particularly interested because about two months ago, Roger Cresswell came to see me. He sat right in that chair. He thought his wife was cheating on him. Then he called a week later and said never mind, so I never minded." Charlene folded her glasses. "They're quite wealthy—his family, I mean. Roger would have inherited everything if someone hadn't pulled his plug. May I ask you a question? What are you thinking? This isn't just any old murder case. The media are all over it. This kid—Bobby, right?—if there's even a chance he could be arrested, leave it alone. You don't have the experience."

  "All right. If it gets sticky, I'll refer it out. You know, Charlene, this isn't just any kid, either. Robert Gonzalez dances for the Miami City Ballet. They have scads of donors and board members with business contacts, and if it gets around that I've done a creditable job with one of their dancers,
well . . ."

  "Ahhhh. I see. Assuming he's innocent." Charlene lifted a slate gray, raw silk jacket off its hanger behind the door. "Not to throw ants on your picnic, but I was in the system for fifteen years, and believe me, ninety percent of them are guilty as hell."

  "But he hasn't even been arrested, much less indicted. If I can show that Bobby couldn't have done it, they'll leave him alone. He'll be happy, the ballet will be happy, and I might pick up a few clients."

  '"You mean represent him solely for purposes of striking him off the list of suspects. Yes, you could do that, but be prepared to dump him the moment you hear the words 'arrest warrant.’ Not to worry. I have a referral list of criminal lawyers." Charlene put the narrow strap of a black Gucci bag over her shoulder. "Follow me out, we'll talk."

  Charlene's skirts were hemmed several inches above her knees, and the slit in the back revealed an incredible pair of legs. Even with her mane of gray hair, men thirty years younger would stare. She waved goodbye to the receptionist, and pushed through the heavy paneled door.

  "Okay, here's what you do. Debrief him on everything he did for several hours either side of when Roger Cresswell was last seen, and when they found his body. Where was your client during all this time? Who'saw him? Witnesses, witnesses. And have him tell you what he knows about Roger Cresswell to sniff out a reason somebody else might have whacked him—but a gold Rolex is motive enough."

  "So is getting rid of your husband before he can file for divorce." At the elevators Gail pressed the down arrow. "You wouldn't mind sharing your notes, would you? The prospective divorce client is now dead."

  "What a waste. He was so blond and buff, with pretty blue eyes. He gave me distinctly unmaternal urges. I'm such a bad girl. What was his wife's name? Something silly. Nikki, that's it. He paid for her breast implants, and she was nagging for lipo on her butt."

  The doors opened and the women went inside, facing their own images in bronze-tinted mirrors. Light jazz played on hidden speakers.

  Charlene leaned closer to the mirror to check her makeup, pinching a piece of mascara off her lashes. "Ask Bobby what he told the cops. Defendants always run off at the mouth. They just have to explain themselves. That tendency was of great help to me as a prosecutor, but it can screw up the defense. How's my hair?"

  "Fine."

  At the lobby the doors slid open, and Charlene put a foot across the track. "I'll be back from court by eleven-thirty. We'll leave at noon. Are you okay? Did you bring everything you need? You're still spending the night at my place, aren't you?"

  "Got my toothbrush and jammies," Gail said.

  "Good. We'll bring home some takeout and a bottle of Dom Perignon and get smashed. Tomorrow's Saturday; you can sleep as late as you want." Charlene smiled and gently squeezed Gail's hand. "It's going to be all right."

  Sitting at her desk, Gail worked through the correspondence and pleadings and assorted junk that seemed to sprout like weeds on her desk every night. She typed notes into her computer, pausing every now and then to nibble a soda cracker. The nausea was easing, but mornings were still iffy.

  Calls came in during the morning but none from Robert Gonzalez. By 11:15, Gail had given up on him. Then Miriam buzzed her that he had arrived.

  "He's here? As in, standing on the other side of my door?" She looked at her watch and quietly cursed.

  Miriam brought him in. Bobby Gonzalez did not walk—he moved in a combination of lope and glide. A baggy green T-shirt hung from square shoulders. He wore loose cargo shorts, and the muscles in his legs were so sharply defined they looked chiseled.

  "I know I was supposed to call, but I wanted to meet you, so I took the bus—my car's got a radiator leak—and you have to make like two transfers, then get on the Metrorail, and by the time I got to the Dadeland Station I said, well, I'm here now, no point calling." He sounded as if he'd just stepped off the subway from the Bronx.

  Gail gestured toward a chair. "Yes. Well, we have a little time. I'm sorry, but I absolutely must leave at noon."

  "No problem. I can't stay too long, either." He dropped his backpack on the floor and set a Yankees ball cap on top of it. Black curls fell onto his forehead. "It's very nice of you to talk to me, Ms. Connor." Thick eyebrows arched, and his wide mouth hovered in the smile of a person who wasn't quite sure what to expect. He sat forward, then back, then on the edge of his chair, glancing around the room, taking in the plants on the windowsill, the maple wood furniture, the certificates and licenses on the wall.

  Gail said, "I enjoyed you last night in Tarantella."

  "Yeah? Thanks. I'm hoping to do it in the season, if they make me a soloist. It's a gut-buster. That's what Edward calls it."

  "Edward . . ."

  "Edward Villella. He's the director. He started the Miami City Ballet."

  "Of course. He's from New York."

  "Right, so am I. East Harlem. He's Italian, from Queens. I'm the same height as him, and we have the same body type. What I really want"—Bobby knocked his knuckles on the arm of the chair—"is to dance Rubies someday. It was choreographed for Edward by Balanchine. You know who he is, right?"

  "Of course. Well, I should come see you. When does the season start?"

  "Our first performance is in late October. Hey, anytime you want tickets, you let me know. I'll get you some house seats."

  Gail caught sight of her clock on a shelf across the room. "I suppose we ought to talk about why you're here."

  "No problem." Bobby sat on the edge of the chair, clearing his throat, bouncing his knees.

  "Angie told me that the police have been asking you questions about the Cresswell murder, and you prefer not to talk to them. You don't have to. If they have questions, you can refer them to a lawyer. To me, if you wish, but you should know that I'm not an expert in criminal law. My specialty is commercial litigation—trial work for business cases, personal injury, things like that."

  "But you're a regular lawyer, right?"

  She smiled. "Yes."

  "Ms. Connor, I really appreciate this, your time and everything, but I don't expect you to do this for nothing. I brought some cash with me."

  "No, keep your money for now, and let's just see what we've got. And remember, whatever you tell me stays here. We take an oath of confidentiality."

  He nodded. "Sure."

  "First, a little personal information." She took down his full name, his address, his telephone number. Date of birth. Contact number at the Miami City Ballet.

  Bobby sat forward, an arm on her desk. "What I'm worried about is, they might arrest me, even if I didn't do anything. It happens. They put people in jail because they want to say they solved the crime, and then you have to prove you didn't do it. If that happens, I can't make bail. My family doesn't have the money, and I don't think the ballet would pay it."

  For a few moments Gail looked for words to correct this amazing ignorance. Did he truly believe what he'd said? Police throwing citizens in jail on no evidence solely to clear a case, then making them prove their innocence? But Bobby had stumbled on one truth: Whoever was arrested for this crime would be staying in jail. There was no bond in capital murder.

  Gail said, "Why do you think they're after you, in particular?"

  He made a quick shrug. "Because they keep coming back." His thick-lashed, puppy-brown eyes seemed completely guileless.

  "Well, that certainly explains things." A few crackers were left on the napkin by the telephone, and Gail broke one in half and ate it. "Oh, I'm sorry, would you like one of these?"

  "No, thanks."

  "Lunch." She took a sip of soda. "Let's talk about Roger Cresswell. He was shot to death last Saturday night at a house near Old Cutler Road—"

  "Outside, in the backyard," Bobby corrected. "The owner is Jack Pascoe. Jack is Roger's cousin. He hired me to help him out at the party, and Roger showed up, then they found his body the next morning, back in the trees."

  "How well did you know Roger Cresswell?" She broke another cracker a
nd brushed away the crumbs.

  "Not real well. I'm friends with his cousin, Sean. Sean's sister, Diane, is in the ballet. Sean got me a job at Cresswell Yachts for a few weeks this summer, and I'd see Roger around. Their families own the company, but I think Roger was running it since his father got sick. They put me in the glass shop—that's where you make the boat hulls out of fiberglass. Roger fired me after the security guard found a disc sander in my locker, but I didn't put it there. I think Roger did. They keep spare keys in the office."

  "Why would he do that?"

  "Because I wouldn't kiss his butt. If he was wrong, I said so. Nobody liked him." Bobby shrugged. "I was about to quit anyway. It was only temporary, to make some money till rehearsals started."

  "When did he fire you?"

  "Last week, on Thursday."

  "Two days before he was killed?"

  "That looks bad, right?"

  "Do the police know about it?"

  "Probably, if they talked to anyone at Cresswell. I didn't tell them. They came to my apartment, and I told them what I knew, trying to be cooperative, but then they came back with more questions, and I didn't want to say anything else." Bobby leaned over to unzip a pocket in his backpack. "One of the detectives gave me his card."

  He laid it on Gail's desk. Sgt. Frank Britton, Homicide Bureau, Miami-Dade Police Department. "Well, look at this." In explanation, she waved a hand and said, "We've met in the past. What did Sergeant Britton ask you?"

  "Did I know Roger, did I know who might've wanted him dead, could I account for every minute at the party? I can, but they don't believe me. I got to Jack's at eight o'clock, and I was in the house— you can ask anybody—from eight to eleven, and at eleven I went down by the seawall to have a beer, and I was talking to this guy named Alan. Then Sean beeped me at eleven-forty, and I walked back to the house and called him, and he said to meet him on South Beach. So I left Jack's at a quarter to twelve and met Sean at twelve-thirty at my place. It's twenty-eight miles, and you'd have to drive like a maniac to get there in less than forty-five minutes. We went to Club Amsterdam, and I got home at three o'clock and went to bed. My roommates saw me."