"Shouldn't I be there?" Gail said.
There was a long pause, then a slight tapping noise as if he were bouncing a pen on his black granite desk. "No, you're Bobby Gonzalez's lawyer. If they found out, they would be suspicious of your motives."
"All right," she said grudgingly. "What about alibis? We can't send the police after someone who wasn't there."
"You assume that our suspect pulled the trigger himself. He could have hired someone else. Unfortunately, the police won't give us their reports, so if we want to know about alibis, we'll have to start from zero. No, I remember hearing that Roger's wife was spending the weekend with a friend in West Palm Beach. So Nikki has an alibi. Jack Pascoe told Nate that he was with Diane Cresswell after the party was over. She's Roger's cousin, a ballerina with the Miami City Ballet. She lives in the cottage on Pascoe's property, and supposedly they were up all night talking in his kitchen—if you can believe that."
"Anthony, she's only twenty. How old is Jack Pascoe?"
"About my age. You know, Gail, this has been known to occur."
"Yes, but they're cousins."
"No, no, they aren't related by blood, only by marriage. Jack was Roger's cousin. Roger was Diane's cousin."
Gail began drawing a chart on another page, then put an X through it. "Nate Harris knows who's who, doesn't he? Could you ask him to do a list?"
"I have one. I'll fax it. Here, write this down. Nate told me that Roger came to Jack's house that night around nine-thirty, and he and Jack went into the study. Ten minutes later, Roger came out, walked right past Nate, and slammed the front door when he left. Nate asked, and Jack told him it was nothing. Quote, 'the same shit.' He was referring to their longstanding competition for Claire's affections. In wealthy families, this usually comes down to money. Roger was Claire's only child, but Jack was her only other relative. Aside from millions of dollars' worth of other assets, Claire has an art gallery in her home devoted to her daughter's paintings. Jack is an art dealer, and . . . well, you can see."
"Talk about motive." Gail added, "This is getting a little sticky for you, isn't it? If the media find out Nate was at the crime scene, and that you advised him not to talk—"
"Nate had nothing relevant to add."
"So you thought."
There was a long pause, then he said, "Maybe I shouldn't have told you about that. I don't know— are we co-counsel or adversaries?"
His question, so simply phrased, echoed with complications. Gail said, "I think whatever we discuss between us is confidential. We have to start there/'
She could hear his pen tapping on the desk. Then his breath in her ear as he sighed. "Yes. We'll start with that. You've always been discreet. There was nothing I ever told you that you didn't hold in confidence. If I implied otherwise, I'm sorry."
Feeling the conversation sliding away from her, Gail said, "So let's not worry about it. When are you going to see Jack Pascoe?"
"As soon as possible," Anthony said. "Nate is setting it up, otherwise I wouldn't expect much cooperation. I hope to see the crime scene early next week."
"I'd like to go along."
"No, I'll do it."
"Why can't I go?"
"Gail, didn't I just explain that you shouldn't investigate the case?"
"You were talking about interviewing witnesses."
"No," Anthony said firmly. "If you want to be involved, why don't you be responsible for putting everything into writing and keeping track of details?"
Gail had put Diane Cresswell's telephone number on her desk. She took the piece of paper and turned it over. "So what you want me to do, basically, is to stay home and keep the place tidied up."
"Could I be so lucky?"
"Ha-ha. Please bear in mind," she said, "that if we don't come up with something within a week, I’ll have to get Bobby off the hook myself, and saving Nate Harris is not my priority."
"Tell me, Ms. Connor, was your client able to explain where he was after the party, now that his alibi witness has recanted?"
Gail picked up a paper clip and twisted it open. "Oh, that's right. I need to see about that, don't I?"
"When can I talk to him?"
"Is that necessary? He may not want to talk to you."
"I don't care what he wants." Clearly enunciating each word, Anthony repeated, "When can I talk to him?"
With the phone still tucked under her ear, she bent the paper clip into a crank shape and turned it. "When can I talk to Judge Harris?"
"For what reason? He isn't a suspect."
"Does he have information about the Cresswell family? Was he at the scene?"
A sigh of forbearance preceded Anthony's reply. "I'll see what I can arrange. And Bobby? What about this weekend? Oh, you have Karen coming home. Of course you want to spend some time with her. Shall we say Monday morning?"
"Monday is Labor Day."
"Good. You have nothing else on your schedule. Do you want to bring him to my office, or for me to come to yours?"
"Why don't we just do it on a conference call?"
"You're kidding."
"No."
"Ay, mi Dios. Yes, maybe we should write memos. I agree. Memos and faxes. Is that how you want to handle it? To avoid contact? We can send e-mail. No, let's go into a chat room right now, on our computers. Why don't we do that?"
"Anthony—"
"We could put one of those little cameras on the monitor to see with—unless you object to that too." When she didn't reply, he said, "What do you think will happen if we talk face to face? Tell me. What would happen?"
"We would start screaming at each other?"
"I'm not screaming at you."
"Yes, you are."
"I am not."
"Are too."
Then he laughed. "If I was—and I don't think so— then I apologize."
Gail said the word again in her head. Apolozhice. "Am I being difficult?"
"Yes, but I'm used to it."
"Oh, thanks. All right, what about Nate?"
"At my office. Is late Tuesday afternoon good for you? Or we could have dinner together, the three of us. I think he would enjoy seeing you again."
Gail wanted to take the phone from her ear and stare at it. She said, "You don't mean that, do you?"
Several seconds ticked by.
"No." The silence went on until he said, "You know something funny? I forgot we don't do that anymore. Have dinner together. It's true, I forgot. We were talking as if ... as if we . . . My brain must have slipped backward. No, I didn't mean to say it. Never mind. What else do we need to discuss, because I have a client waiting for me."
The room went out of focus, and her breath stopped.
"Gail?"
"Oh, sorry. I think that's it for now."
"Good. Let me know about Monday, the time and so forth." He laughed. "And don't forget to fax me your memo."
There was a click, then nothing. Still staring across her office, Gail finally heard the telephone company's announcement: If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and try again—
She put back the handset and sat for a while longer trying to figure out exactly what she was feeling. Finally she pinned it down. The same sickening rush of terror that had accompanied her only hot-air balloon ride, when at two thousand feet the gas jets had clogged, and the pilot couldn't get the valve cleared, and a gust of wind had pushed the balloon, rapidly sinking, toward the Everglades, and on the horizon lightning had danced among gathering clouds.
Chapter 14
The instant his conversation with Gail Connor was over, Anthony stood up from his desk so quickly that his leather chair wheeled backward and slammed into the credenza, knocking over a perfectly balanced, abstract metal sculpture. He recovered the fallen piece from the carpet and set the nail-like point back on its vertical support, where it bobbled and dipped. What must she have thought, listening to his lapse, and worse, his inane attempt to explain it? With the flick of a finger, he set the cantilevered metal into a swo
oping spin.
He had said too much, but he had not told her everything. At noon he would have lunch with Claire Cresswell. Only Claire; her odious husband, Porter, would be out on the water with his brother and a few people from the yacht company. If Gail knew '"that he would be speaking to the murder victim's mother, she would make up some excuse to go along. He preferred not to argue about it.
His day was already jammed. After lunch there would be a plea negotiation with a federal prosecutor. A quick bond hearing. An appointment with a stockbroker accused of bilking his clients. He would probably refer the case to some other lawyer, rather than become involved in a lengthy trial that could complicate his move to New York. That decision was still to be made, but among the papers on his desk were two letters and three phone messages regarding positions in or near the city. He was taking very little new work. His desk was stacked with files to close out or reassign.
Anthony swept his jacket off the back of the chair, put it on, and noticed a piece of dark green thread protruding from one of the sleeve buttons. He tugged gently. "No." His favorite Armani. He opened his top drawer for the small pair of scissors he used for such emergencies.
As he unzipped the leather case, the phone rang. His private line again. Was she calling back already? He picked it up. "Yes?" But it was only his sister, and he took a breath. "I can't talk now. I'm on my way out."
She told him that she needed to see him. It was important, about their grandfather.
"Alicita, I saw you and Nena only yesterday. Give me some time to think about it. I told Nena I'd call her." Anthony hesitated, then said, "What happened? His heart?"
No, not that. Alicia said she had just found out why Ernesto wanted to see him, and she thought Anthony should know about it before he called their grandmother.
"I am past caring what the old man wants. For the first time in my life I am truly free of him. When I walk back into that house—if I do—it will be because I choose to, not because of Ernesto Pedrosa's manipulation."
In a torrent of words, Alicia accused him of not caring for her, for Nena, for anyone but himself. That if fifteen minutes out of his day was too much to ask, maybe he belonged in New York, just go, forget he had a family—
"Enough!" Anthony looked at his watch. "What does he want from me? Just say it. Why does everything require a big discussion?"
Not on the telephone. She couldn't just say it. It would sound crazy. When could they meet?
"I don't know. I have no time this afternoon. Maybe after work, six o'clock. I'll call you in a couple of hours." Anthony hung up. "Ay, que pena."
His eyes fell on his desk diary. His daughter's name was written in at six o'clock for dinner. "Cara'o." He had suggested Caffe Abbracci or Les Halles, but Angela had wanted The Cheesecake Factory—overcrowded, overdecorated, and loud. That way, she could eat and run out the door to the movie she'd already arranged to see with her girlfriends. At 7:30 this morning, still in his bathrobe, he'd watched her bright yellow Volkswagen disappear down the street. Off to spend the day on the beach. Tomorrow she would take the rest of her things to the dorms. No, papi, don't bother yourself, my roommate has an SUV. He hadn't objected. It was her last weekend of freedom. And perhaps girls that age didn't want their fathers around. He had consoled himself with the thought that once she was settled in school, he could continue with plans for his own future.
Buried somewhere among the files on his desk were notes for an agreement to sell his interest in Ferrer & Quintana, P.A. The folder had floated from one spot to another for nearly three weeks, but he'd not been able to get to it. Raul hadn't pushed. Raul didn't want to dissolve the partnership. He had even suggested that if Anthony hadn't drafted the agreement by now, his heart wasn't in it. Not so.
In a cliff-top villa in Marbella, dozing in a chaise under the rustling fronds of a date palm, Anthony had seen the answers laid out as clearly as the blue Mediterranean two hundred feet below. Go back to New York. Resume his life where he'd left it ten years ago, before nostalgia had sent him home to the stifling cubanidad of Miami, that illiberal swamp of intrigue, with its lunatic politics and slavering fixation on money and power. But Ernesto Pedrosa, his Machiavellian wits still intact, was plotting to keep him here. What game, Anthony wondered, was the old man playing? What in hell did he want now?
He dialed the main line at the Pedrosa house, and when elderly Aunt Fermina answered, he spent thirty seconds inquiring about her health, then asked to speak to Alicia.
When she came on, he said he was sorry, but six o'clock would be impossible. He was meeting Angela for dinner. Perhaps tomorrow—
No, she had too much to do tomorrow. Why couldn't they meet right now? They could talk outside the house. It was less than a mile from his office. Park down the street, for God's sake. Five minutes. Was that so much to ask? Then it would be off her mind, and she wouldn't bother him again.
"All right. Five minutes."
Anthony hung up and grabbed his briefcase and cell phone. On his way down the corridor he paused to tell his secretary when to expect him back. He had his hand on the side exit door when he heard his partner call his name.
Raul Ferrer was a compact, balding man with an amiable nature, five children, a devoted wife, and an uncanny brilliance with multimillion-dollar real estate development deals, in which Anthony had wisely invested.
They stepped into an empty office. Raul said, "This morning I received an offer on the house in Coconut Grove."
"What house?"
Raul's mustache twitched. "Yours and Gail Connor's. On Clematis Street."
"You don't need my approval/' Anthony said. "Just sell it. You're the trustee." They had given Raul this power to avoid any discussion.
"Yes, but I want to run this deal by you. The buyers can close immediately at four hundred thousand. This will take care of the real estate fee and give you back what you have in it."
"Fine. Sell it."
"On the other hand, if you wait, you could make a good profit."
"I don't need a profit."
"Perhaps not, but Gail does. She says she borrowed some money from you, so whatever she gets, to let you have it, up to $125,000, plus interest."
Anthony frowned. That was the money he had given her when she'd fallen into a financial emergency at her office. Given, not loaned. She knew that. They were no longer engaged to be married, but that didn't change the facts. "She doesn't owe me anything."
"She says she does."
"When did you speak to Gail?"
"There were several occasions in the past month."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Why?" Raul arched his brows. "Before you left for Spain you gave me specific instructions. I was to transmit nothing to you from Ms. Connor. No letters, no phone calls, no third-party messages. Nothing. You said, 'I don't want to know she exists.' But now that you and she are talking again, I thought—"
"No. We aren't talking. We're working on a case together."
"Have you been putting something funny in your cigars?"
Anthony took out his car keys. "I have to go. Sell the house and send her a check."
"She won't take it," Raul said.
“What do you mean? She has to take it."
"She won't. She says she would tear up any check unless she's certain you were repaid."
"You see how unreasonable she is, Raul?"
Raul gave him a long look. "What do you want me to do? Accept the offer? Reject it?"
"I'm not sure." Then he remembered that he would see Gail on Monday. "I'll let you know by Monday afternoon."
"I won't be here," Raul said. "Monday is Labor Day, and I'm taking the family to the Keys."
"Tuesday, then."
Raul pointed. "Oh, by the way. Your button is loose, there on your sleeve."
Anthony waved a dismissive hand as he opened the door and went out to the parking lot. He put on his sunglasses. The glare was intense.
What an impossible woman. She would starve before
accepting a piece of bread from him. With the house on Clematis Street, she had insisted on paying half the expenses, when he could easily have out-spent her ten to one. Yes, there was the problem again. He had called it love, to do things for her. She had called it control. She had thrown his help—his love—back in his face the same way she had thrown his ring at him.
The Pedrosas lived in a sixteen-room, two-story house on Malaguefta Avenue, where banyan trees arched into a shady green tunnel. A wall with decorative ironwork permitted a view of a fountain in front, balconies at the upstairs windows, and a red tile roof. As he slowly drove past the gate, he saw his sister waiting under the vine-covered portico.
He made a U-turn at the corner and parked on the grass between street and sidewalk. Alicia got in and closed the door, giving him a look that left no doubt what she thought of this. Even so, she presented her cheek for a kiss before sinking into the leather seat. Her dark, curly hair was up in a short ponytail, girlish for a woman over forty, but it suited her. She was still pretty. Twenty years ago she had wanted to become a doctor. Then she had married that miserable husband of hers, given him four children, packed on twenty pounds, and never again spoken of medical school.
Alicia asked brightly, '"How's Angela?"
"Very well, thank you. She's moving into the dorms tomorrow. She said she would come say goodbye to you before you leave and give you some presents for your kids. How are they?"
"Crazy to see me again. I've been away too long. Octavio cries to me on the phone. I miss him so much. I tell him, be patient, sweetheart, just a few more days."
He wanted to say, but didn't, that his sister was a fool. He leaned an elbow on the armrest. "Alicia, I have an appointment."
"Yes." She looked through the windshield as if the words she wanted might be dangling from the trees. "Last night, after Nena had gone to bed, Grandfather knocked on my door. He was in his walker, and I thought he might be a little better, so I took him downstairs and we had some milk and crackers. Then, right there in the kitchen, he started to cry. And he asked for you again. You see, he knows you aren't still in Spain, so I couldn't fool him with that lie. He said I had to get a message to you. He said it was something that only you could do for him. And I said, 'Grandfather, my sweetheart, what is it?' He made me promise not to tell anyone but you. Do you know what he said?"
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