"It's a phase. I did the same shit. Put him to work in the glass shop. See how he likes rubber gloves and a face mask eight hours a day."
"Porter's going to talk to him. Maybe that'll do some good. Dub is no help. I don't think he even cares. He sits in his recliner and drinks, oblivious to everything."
"Hey, Elizabeth?" Ted set the plane back on the bench. "I don't want to hear about your family situation. Okay?"
"Okay." She kissed him under the ear, then ran her tongue inside.
He pulled her around between his knees. "Where have you been, pretty thing?" She undid his buckle and tugged to release the belt. He sat up straighter so she could get to the button on his jeans. There was a small scar at the corner of her upper lip, and he liked to imagine he'd put it there. He felt his zipper go. "Go lock the damn door."
"I did already."
He reached around and pulled off her scarf, and her hair fell into his hands.
Chapter 10
At 7:45 a.m. on Thursday, as Gail was pulling out of the driveway at her mother's house, Her cell phone rang. Bobby Gonzalez told her that the police had just arrived at his apartment with a search warrant. Could she come over? Gail told him to stay out of their way and be quiet. She would be there in fifteen minutes. "As if I know what the hell I'm doing," Gail muttered to herself.
Bobby rented the spare room in an apartment near Lenox and Seventh, a relatively quiet area where the architectural blandness was mitigated by shade trees and tropical plants. The small, two-story building was not streamlined Art Deco but the flat, blocky style of the fifties. A school of gray and pink bas-relief dolphins swam across the end of it.
Gail parked illegally at the curb in a residents-only zone and hurried along the sidewalk, passing two patrol cars and a plain sedan with a blue light on the dash. The men they belonged to were, she assumed, busy tossing her client's apartment.
A cracked concrete walkway extended at right angles from the sidewalk, and a walk on the second floor formed a roof over the doors on the first. Four up, four down, each looking out on a narrow stretch of grass, a hedge, and the whining air conditioners of the adjacent building. Gail dodged around curious neighbors. An old man with a white beard and a yarmulke peered over the painted metal railing. Two women rattled away in Spanish. The aroma of frying bacon came through someone's open jalousies.
At the last apartment, portable barricades and yellow tape marked the door. Gail looked for Bobby and found him seated on the edge of a brick planter, dressed only in a pair of jeans. Two other young men sat beside him, equally as rumpled. Bobby's friends from the ballet company, she assumed. It was their apartment.
Gail grabbed Bobby's elbow and pulled him out of earshot. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah, fine. They went through my car already. They said if I didn't give them the keys they'd break the window. Can you go see what they're doing?"
"In a minute. Did they give you a copy of the warrant? Let me have it." He took some folded sheets of paper from his back pocket, and Gail looked them over.
The warrant gave the police authority to enter Apartment 4, 690 Lenox Avenue, Miami Beach, and to search for a weapon, instrumentality, or means by which a felony, to wit: murder, had been committed. . . . She scanned farther down. One gold Rolex watch, engraved RCC; one black leather wallet belonging to Roger C. Cresswell and contents of same. Driver's license. Credit cards. A .22-caliber pistol and/or ammunition for same. Clothing, footwear, and/or any other item of evidentiary value—
Gail flipped the page, finding an affidavit signed by Frank Britton, Miami-Dade Homicide Bureau. An enumeration of facts that justified a search. That Robert Gonzalez had worked for Roger Cresswell. That on August 14, after Cresswell fired him from his job, Gonzalez physically attacked him. That on August 16, the night before Cresswell's body was found, Gonzalez threatened him—
"It says you attacked Roger Cresswell. And threatened him the night he died." Gail looked at him. "Is that true?"
"When he fired me, we got into this scrap, and I hit him. He saw me over at Jack's and, you know, we had some words, but it was more like he threatened me."
"You didn't tell me about that."
"Well ... I didn't think it mattered."
Gail gave him a hard look then went back to the affidavit, reading aloud in a murmur. "Failed to produce credible alibi for period encompassing time of death. . . . On August 22, a dark blue T-shirt was taken from the trash discarded from Apartment Four"—her voice rose—"and the bloodstains on the shirt were found to have the same blood type as the victim, B positive?" Her eyes rose from the page.
Bobby said, "That's the shirt from when I got in the fight with Roger. His nose was bleeding. I tried to explain to the detective, but he's like, shut up, I don't want to hear from you."
"You admitted it was your shirt?" When Bobby only stared back at her, Gail said, "I told you not to talk to the police."
"Sorry."
She let out a breath. "Stay here. I'll be back."
At the perimeter of yellow tape she spoke to the officer standing guard. "I'm Bobby Gonzalez's lawyer. If Sergeant Britton is in there, could I speak to him?" She extended her business card. After a second, he took it and leaned into the apartment. "Sergeant? Some lady out here wants to talk to you." Through the crack in the door Gail could see the arm of a green sofa and an empty pizza box.
Frank Britton hadn't changed much from the last time they'd met—gold-rimmed glasses, short brown hair, a stomach settling toward forty. He could have passed for a high school math teacher.
"Gail Connor. My goodness, it's been a while." They shook hands across the tape. He glanced at her card. "Mr. Gonzalez said you might be dropping by to join us." Britton had a deceptively friendly smile and folksy Florida Cracker accent. "I thought you did civil trial practice."
"Generally, yes." She smiled back at him. "Since Bobby isn't in handcuffs in the back of a patrol car, I assume you don't have enough evidence for an arrest."
"Not yet, but we're working on it."
"By going through his trash?"
"Anything thrown out is considered abandoned, Ms. Connor. Fair game."
Two Miami-Dade officers came out of the apartment, each carrying a cardboard box. The other detective, a younger Hispanic man, gave Britton a clipboard. "We're done in there, Frank."
Britton took a pen out of his pocket and signed it. "This is your receipt, Ms. Connor, for things we're going to take with us." He tore one copy off the form and handed it to her. "Keep in touch."
"You bet." Walking back toward Bobby, Gail read it. Master bedroom: one .22-caliber semiautomatic Ruger pistol, one partially empty box of Remington .22-caliber bullets. Bedroom #2: Six pairs of pants, four shirts, three T-shirts, and a pair of Nike sneakers. And $300 in cash.
Gail whirled toward the street and caught up with Britton by his unmarked sedan.
"Wait a minute. What's this? You took a pistol and bullets from his roommates' bedroom. The warrant doesn't give you the right to search their room."
Britton finished adjusting his clip-on sunglasses, then said slowly, "Well, Ms. Connor, we can search anywhere the occupants give us permission, which they did. They were real cooperative."
She detested her own uncertainty even more than his patronizing tone. "The money, then. Why did you take money from Bobby's room? You can't possibly tie that to Roger Cresswell. And why are you taking his clothes?"
Smirking, the other detective set the boxes inside the trunk and closed the lid.
Britton said, "The day Roger Cresswell died, he took a little walking-around money out of his bank— twenty-five hundred dollars in cash. We found the withdrawal slip in his car. I want to know if those new, sequentially numbered hundreds we took from your client's dresser might be traced to Mr. Cresswell's bank. As for the clothes, we're going to run them through some tests. If we find any blood, a sample goes to the lab. They've already started a DNA check on that shirt that came out of the trash. Bobby can have his clothes back
if they come up negative. The money too, if it belongs to him. And the pistol—well, his buddies are going to need to get a court order."
Britton came a little closer, brow furrowing, showing his concern. "You know, I'd hate to see the boy charged with first-degree murder. They had a fight. Maybe it was self-defense. Why don't y'all come with us, and let's talk about it?"
"I think not."
He let out a sigh and shook his head. Gail watched him go, then turned around, staring in Bobby's direction. The neighbors were dispersing, and Bobby's roommates were going back inside the apartment. And from somewhere, a dark-haired girl in a short skirt had appeared. Angela Quintana.
Gail motioned for Bobby. Angela came along too, hanging onto his hand. "Hi, Angela. Let me borrow Bobby for a minute, may I?"
Bobby squeezed Angela's shoulders. "Be right back, baby." His jeans hung off his hips far enough to show a muscled lower abdomen and dark, feathery hair at his belt line. "Don't worry. Gail's taking care of everything." He kissed her quickly on the lips and turned her toward the apartment.
He and Gail headed toward the end of the block. She gave him the receipt. He held it with both hands, and his eyes moved across the page. "Shit! They took my clothes? My money? I was going to pay you with that!"
"They'll give it back. Where'd you get it?"
"I borrowed it from Sean Cresswell."
"Okay. Did you notice the .22 semiautomatic on the list?"
"Yeah. It's Jason's." Bobby seemed surprised she would ask. "That's not the gun that shot Roger. No way. Twenty-twos are everywhere. My uncle has one."
"Please don't say that to the police. All right?" Gail said, "Tell me. Why did you keep a bloodstained T-shirt for more than a week, then throw it out after the murder?"
Bobby shoved his thick black hair off his forehead. "I didn't notice! There wasn't that much on it, and the shirt's so dark. Last week I was getting some clothes together to wash, and I saw these, like, stains, and I go, whoa, that's blood. So I threw it away."
His explanations made sense. Gail realized that she'd been afraid he had lied to her. Or worse.
At the corner they turned back, walking in silence. No cars passed. The only movement was the sway of branches overhead. Dappled light played on the street. A shiny yellow Volkswagen was parked along the curb. Its bumper sticker read: Ballerinas Do It On Pointe. Angela's car.
"The T-shirt. You obviously didn't wear that same shirt to the party at Jack Pascoe's, did you?"
"No, I had on this funky old Hawaiian shirt and some shorts."
"Good. He has to remember that," Gail said. "It isn't as bad as I'd thought."
They had reached the walkway leading to Bobby's apartment. Gail stopped him with a hand on his arm. "On Tuesday I called Judge Harris's chambers and left a message for him to call me. Supposedly he's in trial. He didn't call yesterday, so as soon as I leave here, I'm going to track him down."
"He'll say he never saw me."
"No, I don't think so. I've met him a couple of times. Some people just strike you as decent. I hope I'm right."
"Yeah, if we get Alan, I'll be okay." Bobby nodded, then broke into a smile. "Stay and have breakfast with us. Angie brought some bagels."
"Maybe some other time. You aren't telling her about any of this, are you? About Judge Harris?"
"I just said we found who it is, but not his name."
"Well, don't tell her anything. What's she doing here?"
"We're going to go to the studio for a couple of hours and work. The ballet's auditioning next week for Nutcracker. I'm helping her practice." A smile turned up the corners of his wide mouth. "You have to see her dance. She's so beautiful. There are some things to work on, but she's got a lot of talent. Her father doesn't know how much. He's an idiot."
"Does he know she's trying out?"
"No way. If he knew I was helping her, he'd probably break my legs."
Gail's mind spun on visions of what Anthony would do, finding his ninita in this rundown apartment, which a gay couple shared with a boy from East Harlem who might be arrested for murder—if Gail didn't persuade a circuit court judge to risk his career by telling the truth.
"I want to give you a check," Bobby said. "You came all the way over here, and now you're going to see Judge Harris—"
"Forget it. I agreed not to charge."
"No, really. I'd feel better. How about I give you a hundred now, and more when I get paid? Is it okay if I post-date the check?"
She sighed. "Sure." A man had his pride.
He opened the door to his apartment. The living room was a mess—sofa and chair cushions tossed aside, books removed from shelves, desk drawers pulled open. A poster of Rudolph Nureyev in a turban gazed back at Gail from above a TV resting on concrete blocks. No sign of the roommates. She assumed they had gone back to sleep.
Bobby fixed the sofa cushions. "Here, sit down. I'm going to get dressed."
Looking out from the kitchen, Angela said, "Is everything okay?"
Gail went to speak to her. "Angie, listen. Bobby and I can't talk about the case. I'll do what I can for him, I promise."
Angela gave her a quick hug. "Thanks, Gail. It means a lot."
The kitchen was no more than a narrow corridor leading to an exit door, and the sun streamed in through glass jalousies. Yellow daisies lay in their wrapper of paper on the worn countertop. The dish drainer was crammed with mismatched plates and cups. Apparently Angela had just washed them. A small coffeemaker hissed on the stove. She stirred the milk that steamed in a bent saucepan. With her small breasts and long, slender limbs, she looked about fourteen. Pink butterfly clips held back her hair. The gold chain of her crucifix made a thin line of light on pale skin.
"You like cafe con leche, don't you?"
Gail took a moment to assess the state of her stomach. "Sure. Is there a soda? A Coke or something?"
"Look in the fridge." She moved aside so Gail could open the door.
The refrigerator was nearly empty. A carton from a Chinese restaurant. A bag of limp carrots. Nonfat milk. A mango. Gail shifted some beer cans and found a Sprite. "Bobby told me you're trying out for The Nutcracker."
"Next week, and I am so nervous."
"He says you have a lot of talent."
A smile brightened her face. "Oh, I hope so. I've studied for ten years. The last two summers, I've taken classes at the American Ballet Theater, but I never believed, till now, that I could have a career in dance. The problem is, I can't do that and go to college at the same time. A dancer's life is very demanding, you know." The coffeemaker was bubbling, sucking the water through the grounds, and Angela turned off the heat.
Gail reached into her pocket for her roll of Turns and peeled back the paper. "You should probably mention this to your father."
"I can't."
"Well, you'll have to at some point."
Angela thought about that. "I'll tell him after try-outs." She poured the thick, dark coffee into an old glass measuring cup and added sugar, stirring vigorously. "I'm supposed to be moving into the dorms this weekend. He says if I drop out of school, he won't support me. I don't care. Look at Bobby, He doesn't have a lot of money, but he's happy. That's what matters in life, isn't it? If a person is happy or not? Well, I want to dance, and I'm going to, no matter what anybody says."
Angela's chin went up, and she looked at Gail through her lashes. The full lips, pressed tightly together, turned down at the corners. Gail felt a jolt of recognition: Anthony's expression exactly. But while he might accompany that look with an order, his daughter wanted approval. If not from her father, then from a reasonable substitute.
Nibbling her Turns, Gail nodded. "Then do it. I believe that a woman should always do what she wants as long as she has no encumbrances. Opportunities might not come around a second time."
"Exactly." Vindicated, Angela accented her words by thumping three mugs onto the counter. She filled them with hot milk.
"Where would you live?"
"W
ell ..." Her brown eyes shifted to Gail. "They're about to promote Bobby to soloist. He'd be making more money, so he could afford his own apartment. We could share. That's not wrong, is it?"
Gail laughed. "Who am I to judge? Just be careful. I hope you are."
Angela's cheeks colored. "I am. Bobby is so respectful, you wouldn't believe. Oh, my God, if I moved in with Bobby, my father would kill me."
"No, he wouldn't."
"I know, but ... he always has these perfect responses to whatever I say, and it makes me feel like I don't know anything. Like if I make my own decisions, they've got to be wrong, and if he doesn't keep me under surveillance twenty-four hours a day, I might get pregnant or end up on drugs, and totally ruin my life."
Gail nodded.
"He's so Cuban, and I can say that because I'm one, too." Angela sighed. "I just have to think of how to tell him so he doesn't freak out."
She set the bagels and coffee on a tray and Gail carried it to the table. Angela followed with cream cheese and napkins, then went back to arrange the daisies in a wine carafe. Just then Bobby came out of his room. He'd put on a clean T-shirt and sandals and combed his hair. He gave Gail a check for one hundred dollars and apologized that it wasn't more. Angela told them to sit down and eat before everything got cold.
Bobby came around to pull out Angela's chair and kiss her cheek. Smiling at him, she topped the hot milk with espresso. Bobby told Gail to help herself to the bagels. Angela asked Bobby what kind he wanted. Onion, please, mamita. She put it on a plate and spread it with cream cheese.
Gail couldn't look at them anymore. They were too beautiful. She wanted to cry.
The criminal courts were housed in a gray building with a view of the expressway that arched over the Miami River. Gail could count on one hand the times she'd gone up the wide, pink-marble steps, passed through the X-ray machines, then taken the narrow escalators packed with lawyers, police officers, court personnel, witnesses, the accused, and extended families of the accused.
Suspicion of Malice Page 11
