Anthony waited, then said, "No, I don't."
"Grandfather said, 'I want him to take me to Cuba before I die.' "
Anthony tilted his head, not sure he had heard it right. "Pardon?"
"He wants you to take him to Cuba before it's too late."
Wavering between laughter and shock, Anthony said, "He's gone totally insane."
"He didn't sound at all incoherent, as he sometimes does." Alicia shook her head. "No, he meant it."
"That proves he's crazy."
"You have to talk to him, Anthony. He won't live much longer."
"That's not true."
"It is. I've spoken to his doctors. He's dying. His pacemaker helps, but he's eighty-four years old, and so depressed. He doesn't want to eat. He lies in his bed all day. If he believed that he were going to Cuba—"
"Believe in a delusion? When he finds out the truth, what then?"
"He wouldn't. He might die before the arrangements were made—it could take a year or two—but he would be happy."
"Alicia, no. Are you as crazy as he is? How can you suggest such a thing? Listen to me. Ernesto Pedrosa can't go to Cuba. He cannot. No arrangements in the world would allow him entry. They'd arrest him as a traitor as soon as he got off the plane. He's a wanted man. He would be put on trial. He knows this."
"He wants you to take him in secretly."
Anthony let his head fall back on the headrest. "Jesus Christ."
"You've done it, Anthony. You do it all the time, to go visit papi and Marta and the kids."
"I don't sneak in. I go through Mexico. I get off a plane at Jose Marti Airport in Havana, where Ernesto Pedrosa's name is on a list. If our father weren't a decorated hero, I would probably be arrested."
"But people do sneak in, don't they? Tell him there's a way. It would make him so happy."
"Alicia . . ."He laughed in disbelief. "Does Nena know about this?"
"He says he hasn't told her. She would never let him go."
"Good. Then someone is thinking clearly."
"Anthony, talk to him. Tell him you'll go with him."
"Absolutely not."
"Did I say you really have to do it? Did I? Just tell him you will."
"I won't lie to him."
"Yes! He needs to believe it's possible. He needs hope. Imagine how he feels, facing death knowing that he will never see home again. Ever."
"What of his promises? He swore—swore on the sanctity of the virgin and the blood of Christ—that he would never go back as long as the regime was in power. He financed acts of terrorism. Was his life a lie? Everything he believed in?"
"I know, I know."
"He threw me out of the house. He called me a communist. I had to move out of Miami so I could breathe. Now you tell me that none of it mattered?"
Alicia was still looking at him patiently. "Will you see him?"
"No."
"Anthony." Gently Alicia took his arm and hugged it. "Some things must be done because they're right, and we have to put aside how we feel. You need to forgive him. And yourself. You're my brother, and I know you. At heart, you're a good man."
He stared at the street. "I'm not good, Alicia, whatever that may be. I'm not like you. My sweet sister. You are the best woman in the world. An angel. Why do you stay with Octavio Reyes? What does he do to deserve you?" Anthony looked at her fiercely.
Her eyes widened. Blue as the sea. "Octavio doesn't have to do anything. I love him. He's the father of my children. Love doesn't depend on whether we deserve it or not. It's just . . . given."
Anthony dropped his forehead into his palm. He wanted to weep.
"Oh, what's this?" Alicia pulled at the string on his sleeve.
"Don't—"
The button came off in her hand. "I'm sorry. Leave your coat with me. I can sew it back on."
"I'll take it to my tailor."
"For a button?" She laughed. "You're so useless." She pushed his jacket off his shoulder. "Come on. Let me have it."
"No, Alicia, I have to be in court this afternoon. It's all right." He took the button from her and dropped it into his pocket.
His sister folded her hands in her lap. It seemed she had run out of words.
Anthony said, "I don't know what to do about Ernesto."
She leaned over and kissed his cheek. "Remember I love you, whatever you decide."
Stopping to talk to his sister meant that Anthony had to hold his Eldorado on eighty miles an hour until the exit for Aventura. Speeding tickets were only a minor risk. Highway patrolmen were generally absent from me expressways in Miami until rush hour, when they were hardly needed, since it was impossible to go over thirty.
The valet who took his car told him that Mrs. Cresswell could be found at the marina. Anthony left his coat and tie in the car and rolled up his shirt sleeves. A brisk wind on the intracoastal waterway ruffled his hair as he walked around the corner of the building. There were a few dozen sail and power boats at the docks that fingered into the water, and a sleek white yacht was tied along the seawall. The bow jutted toward him, and the bridge was a curve of tinted glass. Coming closer, he could see four or five people onboard, one of them a big, gray-haired man with a crooked mouth and wide jaw. Porter Cresswell.
His wife stood in the shade of a tiki hut on shore. Her white cotton hat turned in Anthony's direction. The brim sparkled with rhinestones, and sunglasses hid her eyes. She extended her hands. "Anthony. It's good to see you again. Thank you for your kindness. The flowers you sent, and the lovely letter."
"All too inadequate," he said. "Are you going boating?"
"No, I'm having lunch with you. The boys are going out, Porter and Dub and some men from the company. It's a brand-new boat, and they want to make sure it doesn't sink." She laughed gaily.
The boat had no name on the stern. There were no curtains at the windows, no carpeting or furniture. All this would be added, Claire explained, after the boat passed its water test and went back to the yard. They didn't usually bring them all the way up here, but Porter felt like going out.
"I'm glad," Claire said. "He's always loved the water. A wonderful fisherman. Roger was too."
This close to the ocean the heat was bearable. Claire looked fresh in a crisp blue shirt and white walking shorts. Her legs were still shapely. She'd been a dancer, Anthony recalled.
She said, "We'll have lunch upstairs after the men are gone. Porter likes me to wave bye to him. Let's sit down for a minute." She took one of the molded plastic chairs, and Anthony pulled another beside her. She said quietly, "Nate told me everything. I haven't told Porter yet. Should I?"
"Of course a wife has a duty to confide in her husband." He added, "I leave that up to you."
A little smile tugged at a corner of her mouth. "I suppose that if you wanted Porter to know, you would have insisted on his being with us for lunch. No, don't answer."
One of the men picked up a cooler and carried it up the portable wooden steps, then went aboard through the gate in the side. The moment he set down the cooler, a heavy man sprawled on the bench seat opened the lid and pulled out a beer. Anthony recognized him as Porter's brother, Duncan, who had arrived at the condo with the news of Roger's death. He jammed his beer can into an insulated foam cover and popped the top. "Let's go. Hoist the mains'l cap'n! All ashore that's going ashore."
From the bridge Porter shouted, "Hold your water, we're checking the GPS." He noticed Anthony sitting under the tiki hut and lifted a hand. A gold Cresswell emblem was embroidered on the front of his white captain's hat. "Hello! Claire said you'd be by. Come aboard."
Claire called back, "In a minute, honey. It's too hot." She crossed her legs and swung a foot, clad in a tennis shoe. "Porter says the police think Bobby Gonzalez killed Roger, but they can't prove it yet."
"With all respect to the police, they're on the wrong track. Bobby is innocent." A doubt still lingered—Bobby had not yet explained his whereabouts after midnight—but to admit that now would be fatal to Anthony's
purpose.
Claire exhaled. "I'm so relieved. Bobby is a delightful young man. They're going to promote him to soloist this season, you know. I knew Porter was wrong, and I made him promise not to gossip about it. What can I do to help?"
"We can talk over lunch," Anthony said.
"Tell me now."
The engines started with a deep rumble, and water splashed from exhausts at the stern. Anthony watched Porter Cresswell carefully make his way down the ladder from the bridge. He moved like an old man.
"Nate told you that we need to direct the investigation toward another suspect. To do that, I have to know your son. Who he was. His friends, his enemies. I'm particularly interested in his relations with those who were closest to him."
"You don't mean the family."
"For now, with regret, I can't rule anyone out."
The brim of her hat turned quickly toward him. "How can you ask me to accuse someone in my own family?"
"No, not to accuse, only to give me a direction. I wouldn't be here if I didn't believe that you care about Nate."
"Of course I do, very much, but you're wrong. No one in the family would have wanted to harm Roger. We're a very close, loving family. We take vacations together. Last year for Christmas we all went to Puerto Rico on our boat. We have a successful business. It wouldn't be that way if we didn't get along."
Anthony leaned a little closer. "I am sorry, Claire. I have to start with certain facts. Two months ago Roger consulted a lawyer about a divorce from his wife, Nikki. The night he was killed, he argued with your nephew, Jack Pascoe. Two weeks ago, you told me that Roger had problems at the company with Dub and Elizabeth. You said that the situation was so bad, Porter's mind had been affected. None of you revealed anything to the police, did you? But it exists, Claire. You know this."
She protested. "There were some disagreements, but no one had a reason to ... to hurt Roger. That couldn't have happened."
With regret in his voice, Anthony said, "Very soon the police will see—as you do—that Bobby Gonzalez is innocent. When that happens, they will turn their attention to the victim's family. They will question everyone again, much more intensely. Your names will be in file news, and every detail of your lives will be exposed. The tabloids will send photographers."
"Don't threaten me like that. Please don't." Her sunglasses were not so dark that he couldn't see the accusation in her eyes.
"Then help me. If you care about Nate Harris, you'll do it. We were looking at Maggie's painting in your gallery, do you remember? You said you were grateful to Nate for keeping her closer to you, because she had spent most of her life in the Northeast. You said that before your daughter died, Nate gave her at least a little happiness. Are you going to turn your back on him now? For what? Are you so concerned about family image that you would let Nate be destroyed, and your son's killer go free?"
Claire's mouth opened, then clamped shut in a firm line. She pushed herself out of her chair and strode across the grass to the edge of the dock, where the motor yacht blazed white in the sun. Anthony followed. Through the long window of dark glass, he saw someone moving about inside. The bass rumble of the engines increased in pitch as the man at the helm played with the controls.
Duncan Cresswell's sunglasses shifted toward Anthony. The wind blew thinning hair across his wide, ruddy forehead. "Hey, we've met before."
From the dock Claire said, "This is Anthony Quintana, a friend of Nate's."
Dub didn't get up, but he leaned into a handshake. "Sure. I remember."
Anthony moved back to let one of the crew walk by on the side of the boat. Like the others, he wore a white Cresswell Yachts shirt. He stepped over the railing and jumped down to the dock, where he began to untie the lines securing the bow. His legs and forearms were corded with muscle.
It was time to leave, Anthony thought. His burst of impatience had only alienated Claire Cresswell. He had just lost his most valuable source of information.
Porter came out of the salon with a plastic cup. "Quintana! How about a drink?"
"Thanks, but I need to get back to work soon. I dropped by to express my condolences to the family."
"We appreciate it," Porter said. "This has been a difficult time for all of us."
Dub said, "Roger was a great guy."
A moment passed in which no one spoke. As if rousing himself, Porter said, "What about this boat? Isn't she something? Eighty-two feet, our latest model. We're going to go bigger next year. CEOs aren't afraid to spend money anymore on boats. Everybody wants to make a statement. Mine's bigger and stiffer." He gave a husky laugh, turning stiffly, head and torso in the same movement, to see if the man at the helm approved of the joke.
A laugh came down from the bridge.
"You got a boat? You should. Lawyers have money. I know because they've skinned me for enough of it."
Anthony said, "My law partner does. That's better than having one myself."
"You may be right," Porter said. "Damn pricey toys. Why don't you go out with us? Come on."
"Maybe next time."
"Got some news for you." Porter's crooked smile faded, and his jaw seemed to settle further into his neck. "They have a suspect in my son's murder."
"Nate mentioned it."
"A kid who used to work at the yard—Bobby Gonzalez, a friend of Dub's boy. Dub and Liz used to have him over to their house. What about that? You let someone in close and he turns on you. The kid attacked my son, threatened his life. Ted here saw it all. He told the police about it. Isn't that right, Ted?"
The man at the bow had tossed the lines to someone on the foredeck, and he walked toward the stern. "That's right."
Anthony asked him, "Why did he attack Roger?"
"Roger fired him for stealing."
Porter said, "This is Ted Stamos. Ted's our supervisor in the glass shop. Been with us since he was a kid."
Anthony inquired, "You install the windows?"
"Fiberglass. I build the boats."
"Your last name is Stamos. Is that Greek?"
"I'm an American. I was born here. What about you?" Stamos went to untie the lines at the stern.
Having heard such insults before, Anthony let it go.
The noise of the engines increased, and the smell of diesel exhaust hung over the dock. "All aboard that's coming aboard," Dub Cresswell said. "Come on, Cap'n. Make this baby scream."
"I'm going. Jesus." Porter grasped both sides of the handrail on the stairs to the bridge. He made a misstep and fell to one knee. His brother watched from tike bench seat.
Alarmed, Claire called out, "Porter!"
"Leave me alone, I'm okay." He pulled himself up.
"Help him, Dub! Help him get up."
Dub Cresswell said, "Have a drink, Porter. That's what you need."
Porter Cresswell laughed. "Who moved the fucking step?" He climbed the stairs and took his place at the helm. An air horn sounded a long, clear note that echoed on the buildings and gradually faded out.
Ted Stamos swung back aboard and closed the gate. The growl of the engines grew louder, and water frothed.
Dub Cresswell was swinging his beer back and forth. "Yo ho and up she rises, yo ho and up she rises—"
"Bye, Porter," Claire called out, cupping her hands. "Bye, honey."
Porter Cresswell snapped a salute off the brim of his hat and maneuvered the yacht away from the dock. It glided smoothly into the intracoastal, leaving a widening wake.
Claire waved for a long time, till the boat turned into a channel and headed out toward the Atlantic. Without looking at the man beside her she said, "We're taking Roger's ashes out to sea next weekend. I'd like it very much if you could join us."
Shortly after one o'clock, as Anthony's Cadillac sped south on the interstate, he held a microcassette recorder in his left hand, fingers on the buttons. He had become adept at simultaneously driving and dictating instructions to his secretary.
He pressed RECORD. 'This is to be sent to Gail Connor. Her f
ax number should be in your files. Title it 'Memorandum' and put today's date. It goes . . . Today I met with Claire Cresswell at her residence in Aventura—"
He turned it off. Not at her residence, outside on the dock, watching her husband play boat captain.
"Al cara'o con los memos!" He tossed the recorder to the passenger seat, then half a mile later picked it up again and rewound to the beginning. He would give this to a courier for delivery to Gail Connor's office.
"Gail. This is your memo. If you want it in written form . . . well, you can type it yourself. I just had a meeting with Claire Cresswell."
He hit the PAUSE button, then let it go and said, "This was arranged quickly. Nate called her last night after you and I spoke. He asked her to see me today, and she agreed." The tape spun. "I didn't mention it this morning because you would have wanted to come along, and Mrs. Cresswell doesn't know you."
Anthony rewound, rinding his voice saying and she agreed. Why the hell should he explain to Gail Connor his reasons for not telling her about the meeting? He would record over the rest of it.
When the tape was spinning again, Anthony told her that when he had gone to the Cresswells' apartment that first time, Claire had spoken to him alone. Anthony had realized that she was attracted to him. Today he had gone to see Claire intending to rely on those feelings, he couldn't deny it, but Claire had accused him of threats and manipulation. He hadn't intended to push her around, but he saw now that he had. This woman who had lost her son. Before that, a daughter. Had he been callous, using these tragedies to get what he wanted from her?
The tape spun slowly.
Anthony hit REWIND. If Gail were sitting in the passenger seat, he might have discussed his use of Claire Cresswell, and she would have commented, but on tape it sounded incoherent.
He said, "I leaned on her a little, but it couldn't be helped. She will do what she can, short of feeling like a traitor to her family."
Suspicion of Malice Page 17
