Suspicion of Malice

by Barbara Parker

  "Fine." Gail's long strides carried her quickly along the walkway to the house. She glanced at him. "I'd like to ask him about his wife."

  "Maggie again. Do you really believe that a woman three years dead has anything to do with this?" Raising his hands, he said, "All right. You want to chase the painting. Go ahead."

  They went under the portico, past a small red car, and into the front yard. Anthony's black Eldorado was parked in the shade, and he took out his keys. Gail rummaged around in her bag for hers.

  She muttered, "Always at the bottom."

  "What time should I be at your office in the morning?"

  "I told Bobby nine-thirty. Is that okay?"

  "I'll come a little early," Anthony said. "We can go over the case."

  "Sure. You can read my memo on what my mother and I talked about."

  "Memos. I'll bring you one of mine."

  She laughed. "See you tomorrow."

  He watched her get in and start the engine. The back-up lights went on. "Gail, wait!" He came around and tapped on the passenger door, then got in and closed it. Cold air was blowing out of the vents.

  She stared at him through her sunglasses.

  "I meant to talk to you about the house," he said. "I completely forgot."

  "What house?"

  "Ours. The one we own in the Grove. A decision to make."

  The engine was running, and Gail's hands were clenched on top of the wheel. "I thought Raul was doing everything."

  "He found a buyer. They can close immediately at four hundred thousand. If we wait we could get more."

  "Wait? You wanted that house sold immediately, at any price."

  "I did say that, but... what's the rush, after all?"

  "Do what you want," she said. "As far as I'm concerned, it's yours."

  Anthony shook his head. "You told Raul to make sure I was paid back the money I gave you. Gave. It wasn't intended as a loan."

  "I think we should keep our relationship businesslike. When you gave—loaned me the money, we were engaged. Certain assumptions were made that are no longer true."

  "Listen to me, Gail." He turned in the seat to look at her directly and with great effort restrained himself from taking her hands. "That house cost you everything you had. You wouldn't have signed your name on the contract if I hadn't wanted it."

  "You didn't force me to do anything."

  "When you had financial problems at your office, there was nothing left. I was glad to help you. I never calculated the cost. And then, when we broke up, everything you went through—I feel responsible for that. You had to move to a smaller space. You lost half your clients. I want to put you back in the position you were in before. It's the right thing to do. Isn't it?"

  She was wavering.

  "What about Karen's tuition? Private school is expensive. How long will it take for you to buy another house?" His voice was as gentle as he could make it. "Gail? You shouldn't let your anger at me hurt yourself and Karen."

  Her hands let go of the wheel and fell into her lap. "Okay. We'll wait, then. If it's really no difference to you."

  "None, I promise. Truce?"

  A smile appeared. 'Truce. I don't mean to be so ... God, so awful sometimes."

  He offered a handshake. Her fingers slid into his, and he felt the warm pressure of her palm. He lifted her hand and lightly kissed it.

  It was nothing. A gesture between friends. He had done this hundreds of times, but his fingers refused to let go. He stared at her over the hand that seemed glued to his lips. Something shifted in his chest, like a knot being pulled loose. He felt a flame in his body, and it seemed to reflect in her face. Her cheeks reddened.

  He grasped her sunglasses in the middle and pulled them off.

  "Anthony, don't. Please."

  If her voice hadn't wavered on please. ... He leaned toward her. She turned her head, and he felt the corner of her mouth, the softness of her cheek. He grasped her face with both hands and brought his mouth down on hers. He wanted to pour himself into her. Find the lever, lower the seat—

  High-pitched vibrations, muffled words on his lips. Hands on his chest, pushing. He was barely aware of this. He thought of holding her there, showing her. Kissing her until the wall gave way, and the tidal wave surged through the breach.

  She jerked her head away and looked at him as if facing a hard, stinging rain. "Take your hands off me."

  "Gail—" He was out of breath.

  "Get out of my car."

  He reached for the door handle, wanting to rip it off. He ground his teeth together. "What is the matter with you? How long do you hold a grudge?"

  She spoke through her teeth. "You have no idea what you've done, do you? And if I could possibly explain it, you wouldn't give a damn."

  The air in the car was charged, and electrical impulses made his body so tense he thought his bones might splinter. He calmly smiled at her. "Why did you hand me that shit about going to the Virgin Islands with your ex-husband? I don't believe you. Why did you say it? To get a reaction?"

  She laughed. "My God. What an insufferable egotist. You are beyond redemption."

  "No, tell me. I am so curious. iDe veras? You're leaving?"

  Her eyes were icy blue. "Yes."

  "You want me to beg you to stay? Forget it. You should be with a man you can walk on."

  "Get the hell out of my car!"

  He got out and gave the door a hard shove. "Olvidate. jOlvidate de todo!"

  The rear wheels of her car kicked up gravel, and dust hung in the air.

  He was breathing through his teeth. "Idiot.” He cursed himself for his generosity with the house. He would tell Raul to sell it immediately. She had played him on that one, hadn't she? "Fuck the house."

  A fool to have loved her. He had said that to her their last day together, and it was still true. A fool to think that any love still remained, except as a last spasm of desire. She had ended that too, one sharp little knee in the cojones.

  You are beyond redemption. Sins beyond forgiveness, as black as his soul.

  Stanford Residence Hall at the University of Miami was a freestanding, blocky beige tower of twelve stories on the shore of a placid little lake with a fountain that shot into the air. The light was fading when Anthony drove onto campus. In no mood to go through red tape for a visitor's pass, and unable to find any sort of parking place, he parked beside a fire hydrant, half on the grass, half on the sidewalk.

  He had inspected this building two weeks ago, but now it seemed different with students milling around. He went to the security desk in the lobby, said who he was, and that he'd like to see his daughter, Angela Quintana, a freshman who lived in ... he couldn't recall the room number, but she was expecting him.

  The guard asked for ID, gave him a paper to sign, and told him to wait.

  Fifteen minutes later, the elevator door opened and Angela stepped out, looking around, a slender girl in jeans and a T-shirt. His blood, his life. He smiled at her and lifted a hand. His eyes stung. She seemed to take a breath before crossing the lobby.

  He kissed her tenderly on the forehead. "Hola, mi nina."

  "Hola, papi." She stared up at him. "You wanted to talk to me?"

  He smoothed his hair, which had fallen over his forehead. "Yes. Can we sit over here?"

  They sat in the most remote of the many groupings of green-upholstered chairs and couches. Angela folded her hands on her knees and looked at him across a low table littered with the UM newspaper, some crumpled paper, and an empty drink cup. He picked up the cup and the paper, saw no trash can nearby, and set them back down.

  He nodded at the cartoon of the Hurricanes mascot—a white ibis—on the front of her T-shirt. "That's very nice. I see you're into the team spirit already."

  "Dad? Are you okay?"

  He felt his chin, remembering he hadn't shaved since early this morning, then noticed the mud on the bottoms of his trousers and the dirt across his sleeve. He brushed at the stains. "I was in some woods earlier
today. A case I'm working on." He wished now he had suggested on the phone that they meet somewhere else. He reached over and laid his hand on hers. "I'm too busy lately. I've ignored you, haven't I? Maybe this is my fault."

  She looked at him warily with her dark eyes. Her hair was a curtain pulled back on both sides with gold barrettes. He glanced around. There were other people in the lobby, but no one was paying attention to them. He leaned forward, keeping his voice low.

  "Angela, you mean more to me than anything in the world. Don't you know this?"

  She nodded.

  "I was talking today with Gail Connor. You remember her, don't you? Of course you do." He paused to assemble his thoughts. "She told me something very disturbing. I couldn't believe it. She said you've been with Bobby Gonzalez. Is this true?"

  Angela lowered her lashes.

  "I'm not angry, but be honest with me. Is it true?"

  "Yes."

  "And you were with him the night Roger Cresswell was murdered?'7

  She nodded and seemed to shrink into her chair.

  Gently, Anthony asked, "How did you get out of the house without my knowing? Did you turn off the alarm system?"

  Another nod.

  "And you were with him until three o'clock in the morning? Yes or no?"

  A tear slid down her cheek. Her lips moved to form the word yes. She cleared her throat. "I—I was going to call you tonight anyway."

  "Call me? Were you ashamed to see me face to face? To admit that what you did was wrong? I don't know what to say, Angela. You have disappointed me. Your mother will have to know about this too. What can I tell her?"

  "Papi, please. You don't understand."

  "Yes, I do. You're in love, but sweetheart, love is more than sex. Sex is a wonderful thing, of course, and necessary, or we wouldn't be here, but at the appropriate time and with the right person. The right person, Angela. That's important. Your mother and I have tried to teach you that you are too valuable to throw yourself away on someone who has nothing to offer. A young man with no education. No money. An arrest record. And who smokes marijuana. Don't you deserve more than that?"

  "He doesn't smoke anything!"

  "Shhh." Anthony held up a hand. "Yes, Angela. He does. Now I've thought about this a good deal, and maybe it's better, after this semester, if you go back to New Jersey and live with your mother. I have failed."

  Her nose was running. Anthony started to reach for his handkerchief, then remembered where he had left it. He looked around the room, and several of the students glanced away, as if they'd been staring.

  Angela wiped her nose on the hem of her T-shirt. "I won't leave! Bobby and I love each other."

  His heart ached. "Sweetheart, listen to me. When a man is very young, he wants only one thing from a girl. He may deny it to himself—and certainly to you—but it's the truth. For him, it's not really love."

  "How can you—" Her voice broke, and she took a deep gulp of air. "How can you get drunk and come here and tell me—"

  "Angela! I am not—"

  "Yes, you are! I can smell it on your breath. You didn't used to be this way! You drink when you're out, and you drink at home." She was crying. "You have no right to tell me how to live my life after what you've done."

  "All right. I stopped by a bar. I had a couple of drinks. You're right, I shouldn't have done it, but don't change the subject."

  She stared at him with red-rimmed, accusing eyes. "No! I mean what you did to her."

  "Who?"

  "Gail Connor. What you did."

  "What I did?" He was blank for a second, then said, "You mean—sweetheart, we're adults. Please."

  "You got her pregnant, didn't you? That's why you broke up with her and she has to raise the baby by herself, or else get an abortion, so don't preach to me about morality."

  ''iQue me estas diciendo?" He glanced around the room. "Angela, why do you say such things?" He whispered, "This is impossible. We . . . took precautions. We were very careful about that. If anything had happened, she would have told me, you can be sure. Where did you get this crazy idea?"

  She wiped her eyes. "Bobby told me."

  "Bobby?" His mind spun.

  "He saw her eating Tums and soda crackers."

  Anthony laughed. "That doesn't mean anything. Just because a woman is eating an antacid—"

  "And he overheard her on the phone talking to a doctor's office."

  Anthony's hands were in midair until the solution came to him. "Mentiras. Don't you see? He's making up stories to make me look bad."

  "He wouldn't do that! He wouldn't lie!"

  "No? Didn't he lie about being with you? Didn't he tell you to lie? What have you become?"

  "I'm sorry!" Angela stood up, and her chair tipped, then fell back on its legs. "I'm sorry I'm such a disappointment! You don't have to worry about me anymore. I'll get a scholarship, and if I can't, maybe I'll drop out, but at least I can live my own life. You hypocrite!" She ran a few steps away, then turned, and her hair whirled around her head. "And I'm auditioning for the ballet, too, and you can't stop me!"

  They stared at each other. She burst into tears and ran for the stairs.

  "Angela!" He started to follow, then noticed that there were two dozen pairs of eyes on him. All conversations had stopped. With dignity, he slowly turned, crossed the lobby, and pushed his way through the door.

  Chapter 18

  “Where'd you get the money, Bobby?"

  "I told you where I got it."

  "No, I want a name. You gotta give us a name. Was it somebody at Jack Pascoe's party? I could go down the list for you."

  Bobby Gonzalez folded his arms across his chest. The room was too cold. The gray color made it worse. Gray chairs, table, walls. He didn't know what time it was. Early. There wasn't a clock in here, and he hadn't put on his watch.

  "When can I leave?"

  "You ain't goin' nowhere, punk."

  Detective Britton was okay, but the other guy, the skinny Latino with bad skin, looked, like he'd enjoy grabbing a fistful of Bobby's hair and slamming his face into the table.

  Britton said, "Take it easy. He can go as soon as he decides he wants to help himself. What's it gonna be, Bobby?"

  Bobby stared at the things on the gray tabletop. Two mugs of cold coffee. Some glazed donuts on a paper plate. And a clear plastic bag with red tape on it and three one-hundred-dollar bills inside. The cash they'd taken out of his dresser drawer last Thursday.

  A quarter to eight this morning, they'd come back banging on the door, pissing off his roommates. A small matter to resolve . . . a few minutes at our office. Bobby had put on his jeans and T-shirt and got in the back of their unmarked car. He'd been sure he could handle this. A couple of questions about the money we found in your room. Bobby hadn't called Gail Connor because he didn't know what side she was on. She was working with Anthony Quintana, who would probably let Bobby go to prison if he had a choice about it. Anything to get him away from Angela. Bobby had spent some time last night listening to Angela cry into the telephone. She'd be over to his place at noon. He hoped he'd be home by then.

  Sergeant Britton picked up the clear plastic envelope and held it up by a corner, let it swing. "Who gave you this, Bobby?"

  "I don't remember."

  "Who was it, we'll talk to him. A name. That's all you have to do."

  Bobby could see it again—Sean Cresswell fanning out all those hundreds. He didn't think Sean had killed Roger. It had to be a mistake about the serial numbers. Or the cops were lying. Bobby thought about what would be better, to send the cops after Sean or keep his mouth shut. If he gave up Sean, that didn't mean his problems were over. Sean would say he didn't know anything about the money. His parents would hire a lawyer who would make Bobby look even guiltier, and he'd be right back here.

  Britton was still talking in that hick voice of his. Looking worried, taking his glasses off, cleaning them on a napkin. "I don't know what to do about you, son. These hundreds are from Roger's wa
llet. Soon as that blood on your shirt comes back with Roger's DNA, the state attorney is going to draw up an indictment for murder one. I'd hate to see it happen."

  The other cop put a foot on the chair and leaned into Bobby's face. "You jacked his wallet after you blew him away. He fired you from the company. You said, hey, the asshole owes me."

  "I didn't touch his wallet. Did you find his wallet in my house? Did you find his Rolex?"

  Britton held his glasses up to the light, then put them back on. "You goin' down for somebody else's crime? That's not smart."

  Arms still crossed, Bobby stared at the opposite wall. "I want to call my lawyer."

  The skinny cop laughed. "What a pussy."

  Britton pulled out a chair and sat next to Bobby, leaning in close. "You're here, I'm here. Talk to me, son. This isn't going away. Are you protecting somebody? Is that what you're doing? You want to spend the rest of your life in prison? Come on, Bobby, I'm trying to cut you a break. Where did you get the money?"

  Gail Connor glanced up from the pages on her desk—Anthony Quintana's latest memo. Anthony himself was still reading Gail's notes. It occurred to Gail that they'd done the same thing: written memos to avoid having to talk to each other.

  She hadn't been certain, until the buzzer had sounded in her waiting room, that Anthony would show up. But he had, and so far they'd managed to discuss the case at a polite distance, each pretending that yesterday afternoon had never happened.

  Gail noticed the clock on the bookcase. 9:42. Bobby Gonzalez was late. She thought of asking Miriam to call, then remembered again that Miriam wasn't here today. This was Labor Day. A holiday. Karen hadn't understood why Mom had run off to work. Gail had promised to be back around noon, and they would spend the afternoon on the beach. As if to underline this promise, Gail had left the house wearing jeans and a sunny yellow top.

  She let her eyes drift to the man seated in one of the client chairs, elbow on the armrest, legs casually crossed, reading the pages on his thigh. She could see one laced shoe of gleaming brown leather. A finely woven sock that vanished under a cuffed pant leg. A dark green, double-breasted Armani jacket with subtle lines of midnight blue that matched the trousers. Emerald ring on his right hand, heavy gold on the last finger of his left. Perfectly white shirt, open collar. His hair was combed neatly off his forehead, curling into waves. Dark winglike brows, glowing skin. Sleek as a cat. He propped his cheek on extended fingers, and she saw that a button on his sleeve was missing, a thread dangling in the gap. How strange.