Suspicion of Malice

by Barbara Parker

  He found himself speaking English, already creating a distance between himself and the women. "Nena, Alicia, please forgive me, but I have to leave. A client just called with a problem. An emergency situation. Very serious."

  Alicia stood up. "How convenient."

  Digna's cup clicked into its saucer. "Hush, Alicita. Your brother has to go save someone. It's his job, no?"

  Anthony felt his pocket for his car keys. "Stay here, please. Finish your tea. I'm going to be gone for at least an hour."

  His grandmother said, "Will you call me? Soon?"

  He rushed back across the office and kissed her. "Within a few days, I promise."

  She reached up to pat his cheek, a touch as delicate as a butterfly wing. "Thank you. Te quiero, mi corazon."

  "I love you too, Nena."

  Alicia's deep blue eyes poured reproach.

  Chapter 12

  The judge requested that Gail meet him at eight o'clock at his condo on Grove Isle. The island was a private enclave a hundred yards or so off Coconut Grove, accessible by a bridge with a security checkpoint. Gail recalled a private marina, a flashy lobby, and a four-star restaurant. Otherwise, her memory was hazy, as she had been there only once, a black-tie dinner party for the newly installed Brazilian consul. Her former law firm had represented the Banco do Brasil, and she had just settled a case worth millions. What glittering days those had been.

  At home, there was a note stuck to the refrigerator under a palm-tree magnet. Have gone to movie with Verna, home ten-ish. Love you. Gail suspected that her mother had cleared out to avoid the temptation of asking how it had gone at the clinic today. It had not gone. Afraid to miss Judge Harris's call, Gail had canceled. Again.

  She grabbed a cup of yogurt and ate it on the way to her room, fearing that anything heavier might make her throw up on the judge's shoes. She showered and changed into a sleeveless beige dress and short jacket. Clipped on gold earrings. Brushed her hair sleekly behind her ears. The effect was businesslike but not butch. From force of habit she turned sideways in her dresser mirror. Stop that, she told herself. She set out fresh water for the cats, then wrote a note for her mother—where she would be, with whom, and what time to expect her. Love you. She stuck it under the magnet.

  On the front porch, popping up her umbrella for the drizzle, she realized why she had been so detailed. The note had been prompted by subconscious concern that Judge Nathan Harris, whose spotless reputation and rising career she had put into jeopardy, would suddenly snap. He would seize her by the throat, pull out a gun, come at her with a lamp raised over his head . . .

  At five minutes to eight, her car turned off Bayshore Drive onto the short bridge that led to Grove Isle. The headlights picked up flashes of rain in the fading gray of evening. Heavy trees gave way to a view of two buildings, each about fifteen stories high, brown-painted terraces making horizontal stripes on beige stucco walls. The style had been popular in the late seventies, an era when cash from drug profits had flooded Miami like a tropical downpour.

  The buildings were joined by a common entrance. Judge Harris had told her to leave her car with the valet. She pulled out of the rain and turned off the wipers. A middle-aged couple, dressed for the evening, got into their Jaguar, and the valet jogged in Gail's direction.

  How odd, Gail thought, that Nathan Harris would live here. A measly salary of a hundred grand a year wouldn't be enough, unless he had inherited money from his wife. That was possible. Aside from the value of her paintings, Margaret Cresswell had been born into a wealthy family. Gail made a note to ask her mother about that. With her charity work and contacts, Irene had access to every society tattle-tale in Miami.

  A doorman held open a heavy glass door, and Gail entered the lobby, where she checked in at the desk. With a practiced smile, the guard directed her toward the elevators. Top floor, apartment two. And go right in. The door would be open.

  Gripping her purse in both hands, she watched the indicator flash from floor to floor. What did she really know of him? His wife had overdosed on sleeping pills at age thirty-three. Why? Had he driven her to it?

  The good judge could be living a secret life, Gail thought. Why had he gone to that party the night Margaret's brother was murdered? He'd gotten smashed, had smoked a joint with a twenty-one-year-old kid. Such a strange crowd—drunks, artists, old hippies, a transvestite teaching the samba. Gail's imagination flashed with wild scenarios. Perhaps the judge couldn't confess that he'd been there because it was he who had shot Roger Cresswell. But why? What had Roger known that had ended his life? What if he had been blackmailing the judge? What if—

  The elevator stopped, and the door slid back. Gail peered into a carpeted corridor illuminated by a chandelier in a long gold oval. Audubon prints of spoonbills and egrets decorated the walls, and an arrangement of fresh flowers sat on a mahogany table. No one was about. She stepped off the elevator just as it started to close. There were four sets of double doors, and from one of them a patch of light fell into the hall. She walked closer. A view of the living area was blocked by a divider paneled in exotically grained wood. Recessed lights shone in pools on white travertine marble. Her heels tapped, then sank into carpet as she moved around the divider. She rapped her knuckles on one end of it.

  "Judge Harris?"

  The large room contained sleekly modern leather furniture and more polished wood. Hidden lights glowed on glass shelves. Several oddly shaped vases with twisted black branches had been placed along the wall of windows facing east. Through them she saw the darkening sky.

  A light shone from a hallway near the dining area. She went halfway into the living room and called out, "Hello?"

  From behind her came a noise—a click and a hollow thud—the sound of a closing door. She whirled around, and a moment later a man appeared beside the divider.

  Inhaling a gasp, she stumbled back a step. Quick images flooded her mind—dark hair and eyes, the white vee of an open-collared shirt, a coffee-brown suit.

  Anthony Quintana.

  He stopped a few feet away, out of range for a handshake. His casual stance showed no sign of tension. "I apologize for frightening you, and for the subterfuge, but you might not have come otherwise."

  Gail's hand was clenched over her heart. "What are you doing here?"

  He smiled slightly, then added, "I'm representing Nate Harris."

  "Oh, really." Anthony hadn't materialized out of nowhere, she realized. He'd been standing behind the divider, waiting for her to go around the other end of it. After Gail was sure she could speak calmly, she said, "Where is he?"

  "He's not here. In fact, this isn't his apartment. It belongs to a client of mine who comes in the winter. He owed me a little favor. I thought it would be private. Convenient for both of us." The soft Spanish accent made his words seem intimate, charged with meaning.

  Her heart was still slamming at her ribs. "What did you do, pay off the security guard?"

  "Again, my apologies." Anthony gestured toward the long sofa facing the windows. Gold circled his wrist and shone on his cuff. "Would you care to sit down?"

  She didn't move. "No. I prefer to speak to Judge Harris."

  "With regret, that's impossible. He asked me to handle this."

  "Looks like he picked the wrong lawyer." She walked toward the door.

  A few long strides took Anthony there first. "Nate won't talk to you. I ordered him not to."

  "Get out of my way."

  In a smoothly placating tone he said, "Gail, you made a demand on him this morning. I think we should discuss it."

  She calculated the odds of pushing him aside. "Kidnaping opposing counsel is a rather extreme method of representing a client, Mr. Quintana."

  "Of course you can go." His hands rose level with his shoulders, palms out, a surrender. "I won't stop you. But if you do leave, what will you have accomplished for Bobby Gonzalez? If he is arrested, what will you have gained?" Eyebrows went up, furrowing his forehead. "Yes, I admit that neither of us
wants to be here, but let's try to put aside our differences for the sake of our respective clients. That's reasonable, isn't it?"

  She had heard this routine in the courtroom, asking an adverse witness a few innocuous warm-up questions before the claws came out. She knew he wanted something, and that she wouldn't like it. But he was right: Leaving now would accomplish nothing. She sent him an icy stare. "What do you suggest?"

  Another polite smile. "We'll see what we can work out. Sit down, please."

  Turning her back on him, Gail walked across the living room as if to check the place out, but her vision was so dimmed by rage she barely avoided running into the furniture. She wandered to one of the built-in display cases, where rows of clay figurines sat on polished glass shelves, as if in a museum. Fat little creatures with oversize heads, stubby arms and legs, and jutting breasts and bellies.

  Anthony's voice said, "They're from Guatemala. Olmec, I think."

  She tossed her purse into one of the leather-and-chrome Eames chairs. "You do have a talent for picking solvent clients."

  Another sidelong glance brought more details. He still wore his hair combed back from his forehead, but now it fell into waves at the nape of his neck. His skin glowed with a rich tan, and she remembered what Angela had said: Her father had vacationed in Spain. This annoyed her. She had wanted to see evidence of dissolution. Of loss and decay. Circles under his eyes. Anything.

  "May I offer you something to drink?"

  "No, thank you."

  "I hope you are well. And Karen? Your mother?"

  She mirrored his emotionless smile. "We're wonderful. How kind of you to ask. It must be so distressing, having to see me again, after you ordered me out of your sight."

  Finally a reaction—a tightness in the lips, a little flare in the nostrils, just a ripple on the surface. "It would be better—don't you think?—if we agree to leave the past where it is? It's not relevant." •

  "Oh, I don't know. It makes this whole thing sort of fun. Maybe we can just agree not to throw each other off the balcony." She found the latch and pushed open one of the glass doors. The buildings downtown, a few miles to the northeast, were vague towers of lights in the rain. The ocean was an endless expanse of gray. Legs still shaking, she pulled in a deep breath of moist, heavy air. Bougainvillea, potted palm trees, and hanging baskets had turned the long, narrow space into a jungle.

  Anthony's silhouette appeared, moving across the terra cotta tiles and up the low wall of the balcony. Standing just out of arm's reach, he leaned an elbow on the wall and interlaced his fingers. He obviously hadn't noticed how damp it was, or the patches of mildew that would grind themselves into the fine wool-and-silk fabric. She recognized the suit. He'd bought it off the rack at the Hugo Boss store in Bal Harbour. On sale—$1200.

  He said, "How did you come to represent Bobby Gonzalez?"

  The unexpected question surprised her. She remembered the promise made to Bobby not to involve Angela. She shrugged. "I know people at the ballet. One of them told him to call me. Someone in administration."

  "Did he mention my daughter?"

  "Oh, that's right. Angela's taking classes at the ballet this summer. Such a coincidence."

  "I'm not certain I believe in coincidences."

  "What difference does it make where I find my clients? I certainly didn't ask for this one, knowing it would bring me here. Can we get to the point? Bobby Gonzalez is a suspect in a homicide, and he needs Nathan Harris's help. This isn't complicated. It shouldn't take five minutes."

  He replied with a sigh of endurance. "Well, it's not that easy."

  "Why not?"

  Turning toward the city, he rested both elbows on the wall. For Anthony Quintana to do that, unaware, showed a state of extreme mental distraction. His cool demeanor was a fat lie. But Gail remained tense, like standing too close to a purring but uncaged panther. Her eyes, now accustomed to the darkness, glided over his profile, searching for a clue to his thoughts. She studied the planes of his face and the angles of cheekbone and temple. The long straight line from brow to the tip of his nose, then the curves of full lips and rounded jaw.

  Finally he said, "The situation for Nate Harris is ... delicate, even dangerous. You understand that. The morality police on the committee would kill his nomination if there were the least suggestion of impropriety, regardless of truth."

  "If it's handled discreetly, I don't see why they'd find out."

  Anthony went on, "Nathan Harris is a good man. A fine judge. You've talked to him. You said you admired him."

  "Yes. I did say that."

  "He has done nothing wrong. He's completely blameless. It would be a loss to the federal judiciary if he were kept off the bench. To Miami as well, because if this turns into a scandal, he could be forced to resign."

  "I doubt that. A judge in this circuit can do anything but insult the Cubans."

  Anthony let that pass. "What you want—if I understand fully—is a statement from Nate Harris that he was with Bobby Gonzalez for a period of about forty minutes during a certain party on the night Roger Cresswell was shot to death. Yes?"

  She nodded. "Not necessarily a formal statement, as long as he makes it clear to the police that Bobby couldn't have done it."

  "But Gail, he can't make that assurance. He might recall a conversation with Bobby at some point during the evening. He might recall where it took place. But when? He isn't certain. Nor could he vouch for what Bobby did before or after the alleged conversation. You see the problem."

  The pushing was still at the subtle stage, but Gail had felt a distinct bump. She looked at him, then said, "Alleged?"

  "Until we reach an agreement on the facts, I can't allow my client to admit anything."

  "Fine. The alleged conversation took place between eleven and eleven-forty on the seawall behind the home of Jack Pascoe, who hosted a party that your client and mine both attended. Witnesses saw when Bobby left the house and when he returned. Bobby says that Judge Harris appeared within a minute of his having sat down on the seawall, and that Nate remained there when Bobby went back to the house. Forty minutes. Or thirty-nine, if you want to be picky. Judge Harris had been drinking, but was he so drunk that he doesn't remember any of this? Bobby has an alibi for the entire night except for that period. That gap is what we need to eliminate."

  Anthony leaned forward as if she might say something more. He prompted, "And after those forty minutes?"

  "Bobby left the party at eleven-forty-five and drove to his apartment on South Beach, where he met a friend, Sean Cresswell, Roger's nephew, at twelve-thirty—the travel time checks out. They went to a night club, and Bobby got home at three o'clock, which his roommates can verify."

  "Ah. Then you haven't heard. Sean Cresswell's parents took him by police headquarters this morning. Sean admitted that Bobby asked him to lie. Sean was at home the night of the murder, and his mother confirms it." Anthony made a slight shrug—palms out as if asking her to drop into them some explanation for this discrepancy.

  All she could think to say was, "That can't be right."

  "I'm afraid it is. Bobby was lying."

  "Where did you get this alleged information?"

  "From someone who knows." Anthony went on quietly, "It doesn't make much sense, does it, to demand an affidavit from Judge Harris when the truth is, Bobby could have killed Roger Cresswell after midnight, not before."

  A hip against the wall kept Gail steady. If Bobby hadn't been with his friend, then who— Gail closed her eyes for an instant, seeing a slender girl with long, dark hair. A girl he'd want to protect, and who would be in deep caca if her father ever found out.

  She crossed her arms. "I'll talk to him. There has to be an explanation. There is no way he killed Roger Cresswell. I would never believe that."

  "You know he was in a gang? That he was arrested for stabbing another boy with a knife?"

  "That was years ago! He grew up."

  Anthony leaned closer. "This morning the police seized
a .22-caliber pistol from his apartment."

  "From his roommates' bedroom. It isn't his, and he didn't use it. Let them test it. There won't be a match."

  "They also found a bloodstained shirt in the trash outside Bobby's apartment. The blood is the same type as Roger's. Explain that."

  "It's Roger's blood. It got there because on the day that Roger falsely accused Bobby of stealing tools from the boat yard, Bobby hit him in the nose. He finally threw the shirt out, and the police found it. He was wearing a different shirt entirely the night of the murder. There are witnesses."

  "What about Sean Cresswell?" Anthony demanded. "The false alibi."

  "I don't know, but I'm going to find out. Meanwhile, forty minutes or four hours, I need to establish where he was. I need Judge Harris."

  There was no reply as Anthony gazed back at her, eyes black in the shadows. When he spoke, his voice was controlled. Polite again. "This isn't the kind of case you usually handle," he said. "I think you'd prefer—if you had a choice—not to be involved."

  "How insightful," she said.

  "You're a commercial litigation attorney—an excellent one, I would be the first to say it—but in criminal law . . . well, most lawyers in your position might feel. . . uncertain. Criminal law is constantly shifting, and procedure can be a trap. But you want to do your best for Bobby. Don't you?"

  "Of course."

  "As I do for my client," he said. "Yes. I think we agree that both our clients deserve effective representation." He waited.

  Gail exhaled. "Yes. And?"

  "And you would probably agree that a lawyer with more experience and more . . . how can I say it? Recognition in the field. Someone with clout. That person is more likely to do a good job for his—or her—client."

  When his eyebrows lifted again, she said, "All right, a lawyer with clout. What's your point?"

  "That you don't have it. Not in criminal law. For Bobby's sake, and for Nate Harris, please. Let someone else do this. A lawyer who has experience dealing with the police and the state attorney's office. Someone they know and respect. I can suggest several names, and you could pick one you approve of. I believe that's a reasonable accommodation."