Suspicion of Malice

by Barbara Parker

  As if aware, he looked up, and for a second their gaze held before Gail returned to the memo he had brought. She forced herself to stare at the words, a jumble on the page. Not much sleep last night. An hour or two. She had lain in bed watching the numbers change on the digital clock, then reading a magazine, then throwing it aside. Unbidden, the memory of his kiss had intruded into conscious thought. The searing heat of his mouth, his tongue stroking hers, the hands imprisoning her face too tightly for escape. An assault, an invasion. But last night that kiss had replayed, over and over, and her body had traitorously responded.

  A moment later she heard the rustle of paper as Anthony laid her memo on the desk. He draped an arm over the back of his chair. "You say a lot about the portrait of Diane Cresswell."

  "She wants to keep it. I'm trying to help her."

  "I still don't see how it relates to Roger's murder."

  "It may not, but . . . isn't it odd how it keeps popping up? Porter and Claire give it to Roger, he sells it to Jack Pascoe, Jack sells it to Nate, and Nate gives it back to Porter and Claire, and they give it to Diane's parents, and now Diane has it—right back in the place where Maggie died. Don't you wonder?"

  Dark brown eyes were focused over her head. He sighed. "No. It's interesting, that's all. Pursue it if you want, but I'd rather concentrate on Roger. Your mother found out some things that I doubt the police know about. Let's follow up on that. In my criminal cases, I've found that the most obvious motives are usually the ones that count. Greed and lust. Which of our suspects has both of those?"

  This was a rhetorical question. Gail had seen it asked and answered in Anthony's memo. She replied, "Jack Pascoe."

  Anthony lifted his hands. "Exactly. Nikki Cresswell now owns twenty million dollars' worth of company stock. Diane could have lied for Jack. From what you say of her, I think her motives were innocent—to protect him from suspicion of another kind. How guilty he would seem if the police knew that he was sleeping with the victim's wife."

  "We have no proof whatsoever of that," Gail pointed out.

  "Not yet."

  “Why would Jack shoot Roger on his own property?"

  "Who knows? We don't need to supply a reason. All we need is a set of facts from which the detectives can reasonably infer that Bobby Gonzalez is innocent."

  "Yes, I suppose that's true."

  The pretense of civility was making Gail's head ache. With feet propped on a half-open desk drawer, she swiveled her chair slowly back and forth.

  Anthony pulled back his cuff to see his watch—a gold Patek Philippe with a lizard strap. "You did say nine-thirty?"

  "I told him to take a taxi. He should be here any minute." Gail made a little smile of reassurance.

  "When did you speak to him?"

  "On Friday."

  "Alaba'o. That explains it. Last night I talked to Angela. God knows what she told him. That papi is going to break his neck the next time he sees him."

  Gail inquired, "You didn't lose your temper, I hope?"

  "Not at all. I never raised my voice. I was a model of fatherly concern. Even so, she started crying. She became angry. She said I had no right to tell her how to live her life. I've never seen Angela like that. I don't understand it."

  "I wouldn't worry. She probably felt so guilty and defensive that she'd have cried no matter what you said."

  "That could be so. I'll have to fix it with her somehow."

  Gail looked at her telephone. "Maybe I should call Bobby."

  "In a minute." Anthony made a slight smile, tapped his fingers slowly on his thigh, then said, "How are you feeling lately?"

  "Fine. Why?"

  "You almost fainted yesterday, and you were so pale." He gestured toward her face. "You look a little pale right now."

  "Well, I ... was up late with Karen."

  "You haven't had a stomach virus, have you? The flu?"

  "No. What a strange question."

  His eyes were like beams of black light, moving over her face as if searching for something. His lips were pursed in concentration.

  Gail pulled open her top drawer. "I nearly forgot. I washed and ironed your handkerchief. Thank you for lending it to me. And there's something else I've meant to return for a while." She set the handkerchief on the edge of the desk, then held out a small black velvet box.

  He looked at the box in her hand. "What is that?"

  "The earrings. The aquamarines. You should have them back. When I took them by your office last month, Raul said he couldn't accept them."

  Anthony picked up his handkerchief. "No, you keep them. They look nice on you."

  "I can't. Really, it wouldn't be right. They cost a lot of money. Give them to Angela." She set the box on the edge of the desk nearest him.

  He straightened the corners of his handkerchief. "I don't want them back."

  She dropped the box back into the drawer and slammed it. "Fine. I'll sell the damned earrings and give the money to charity."

  He laughed. "What a childish response."

  "So is yours."

  The phone rang. Gail waited, then remembered that Miriam hadn't come in today. She picked it up. "Law offices . . . Bobby! Finally. Where are you? . . . Where? ... Oh, God . . . Why didn't you call me?"

  Anthony asked, "What's going on?"

  "Wait. Wait a minute." Gail put her hand over the mouthpiece. "He's at the police station. Frank Britton picked him. up, and he went with them. I can't believe he would do something so dumb!"

  "Is he under arrest?"

  "Bobby? Are you under arrest?" She looked back at Anthony. "They took him in for questioning. What should I tell him?"

  Standing up and extending his arm across her desk, Anthony motioned with his fingers for the telephone. "Let me have it."

  Gail stared up at him. "What are you going to do?"

  "Give it to me."

  She took her hand off the mouthpiece and said, "Bobby? Anthony Quintana is here. He wants to talk to you. . . . It's all right, I promise. He's going to help you." She gave him the phone, praying she wasn't wrong.

  He pushed back his jacket, put a fist on his hip, and walked slowly back and forth with the phone at his ear. "Bobby, this is Anthony Quintana. You're at Metro-Dade police headquarters, is that right? ... I want you to listen carefully to what I'm going to tell you, and then repeat it back to me. 'My lawyer is on his way, and he has instructed me not to talk to you.” Now repeat that back to me. What did I just say? 'My lawyer is on his way . . .' "

  The lobby of the Metro-Dade Police Department had shiny floors, an open reception desk, and glass cases with crime lab displays. Gail tried to look at them, but wound up pacing nervously while Anthony leaned a shoulder against the wall and read the sports section of the Herald. Finally a detective appeared—Frank Britton's partner, whom Gail had last seen outside Bobby's apartment after the search warrant had been served. He waited for the desk sergeant to issue visitor tags, then escorted them through a set of glass doors and into an elevator.

  In the Homicide Bureau, Sergeant Britton stood talking to another man in a corridor running along a warren of open dividers upholstered in gray. Gail recognized the military haircut, wire-rimmed glasses, and beefy torso. The holster on his belt was empty, but the man and the surroundings were sending tremors into Gail's stomach. Britton broke off his conversation and watched them approach. He and Anthony shook hands.

  "Frank."

  "Look who's here," Britton said. "Hello again, Ms. Connor. My, my. Bringing in the big guns."

  Anthony said, "I should complain about this, questioning a suspect without his attorneys present."

  "Soon as the Supreme Court says not to, then I'll think about it. Bobby agreed to speak to us. He's not in custody. If we did things by your book, we'd never solve a single crime, would we?"

  Gail asked, "Where is he?"

  Britton nodded toward the plain gray door a few yards away. "Right there. We asked him about the cash we seized from his apartment. Brand new bills. T
wo of them are right in sequence with some others we found in a bank envelope in Roger Cresswell's car. Bobby says somebody lent him the cash. He won't say who. It would be in his best interest to tell us, you'd think. You want to go in there and see what his problem is?"

  "Ms. Connor is going to take Bobby downstairs. Let me talk to you for a few minutes, Frank."

  As they headed south again on the expressway, Gail glanced around at her client in the backseat. He was staring out the side window. His black hair was a mess, as if he'd been hauled out of bed. His faded blue T-shirt had a rip in the shoulder seam.

  Anthony's eyes went to the rearview mirror. "We're going to Ms. Connor's office, then I'll make sure you get home. All right?"

  “Fine." Bobby's knee was bouncing.

  Gail exchanged a wordless glance with Anthony.

  He said, "Bobby. While you were waiting downstairs, I explained to Sergeant Britton that I'm helping Ms. Connor out as a favor. I didn't mention Judge Harris. Did they ask you anything about him, or did you mention his name?"

  "No."

  "What did you discuss with the detectives? The money? Anything else?"

  "They wanted to know where I got it."

  "And you didn't tell them."

  "No."

  "Are you listening? This is a high-profile murder, and they're under pressure to solve it, but Britton won't rush into an arrest. He admitted that the pistol they took from your roommates wasn't used in the crime. They're waiting for DNA results on the shirt. I told Britton you'd been in a fight with Roger a few days prior to the murder, and that he'd bled on your shirt at that time, and you were wearing a different shirt the night of the murder. Correct?"

  "Yes."

  "I told him we were developing some leads, and that in a week or two we'd share what we have, if he would keep our names out of it—Ms. Connor's and mine—for a little longer. There's a reason for this."

  Bobby's wary and sullen expression hadn't changed, but he was listening.

  "We're going to be talking to members of the Cresswell family, using a story about investigating Roger's financial problems. They won't talk to us if they think we're trying to point the finger at one of them. Do you understand so far?"

  "Sure."

  "This requires your cooperation. Does your friend Sean know that Gail Connor is your lawyer?"

  "I never told him."

  "Could his sister, Diane, have mentioned it to him?"

  "I don't think so."

  "Find out and tell her to keep it quiet. Will she do that?"

  "Yeah, Diane's straight."

  Anthony maintained the warmth in his voice, but Gail could tell from the occasional twitch of his jaw muscle that it wasn't easy. "I'm sure Ms. Connor has already told you, but don't talk about this case with anyone. Not your friends or your family. Or with Angela. Is that clear?" Anthony turned his head to look at him.

  Bobby stared back. "Are you telling me not to talk to her?"

  A couple of seconds went by. "I said don't talk to her about the case."

  "All right." Bobby glanced at Gail, and she gave him a subtle smile.

  Anthony continued, "We're looking for a better suspect than you to throw to the police. We might have one—Sean Cresswell. He gave you money that could have been taken from Roger's wallet. This doesn't prove Sean killed him. Maybe Roger gave it to him earlier that day. There are many possibilities. When we get back to Ms. Connor's office, you can help us sort through them."

  "I could ask him," Bobby said. "I won't mention your name."

  Anthony's eyes went to the mirror again. "Bobby. What did I just say? Don't talk about this case with anyone. That includes Sean Cresswell."

  With a touch of defiance, Bobby asked, "Why?"

  "Because, unless he is mentally ill, he would lie to you. Let us handle it. All right?"

  "Fine." Bobby sighed and looked through the side window again.

  The men took the client chairs, turned around to face the sofa under the window, where Gail sat with a legal pad on her lap. Bobby said, "Sean got the cash from his dad. That's what he told me. He said he had some mutual funds he couldn't get till he was twenty-one, but his father sold some shares for him and gave him the money."

  "Do you believe that?" Anthony asked.

  Bobby shook his head as if this were a particularly painful revelation. "No. Sean didn't used to lie, not to me. I mean . . . we were friends, you know, when we were kids. Like family. I thought so."

  "Yes. But you didn't give the police his name. Why not?"

  "I don't know. It didn't feel right."

  A slight smile appeared on Anthony's lips. "I think it's called loyalty. But you can't keep any information from your lawyers. You know this, don't you?"

  "I know."

  Anthony asked if Sean had a .22 pistol.

  "His father does. Sean took it one time, and we went target shooting. Dub has a gun closet. Handguns, rifles ..."

  For the most part, Gail let Anthony ask the questions. This was his meeting, arranged so that he could interview Bobby Gonzalez. Gail had said she would take notes.

  Anthony wanted to know Sean Cresswell's whereabouts the night of the murder, starting from about ten o'clock.

  "He was over at the Black Point Marina with his dad and his uncle, then later on, about midnight, he went over to South Beach. He said he was home in between."

  "What was going on at the Black Point Marina?"

  "They take buyers out to show them the boats, then they have dinner and get drunk. I went on a boat trip one time with Sean, and that's what they do. Dub makes Sean go along because he wants him to get a job in the company someday. Maybe that's why Sean never worries about school. His dad owns Cresswell Yachts. Half of it."

  "What about the relationship between Roger and Dub?"

  "It wasn't great. Roger was trying to take over, and Dub was ticked off. So was Liz, Sean's mother. They hated Roger. It's not like they said anything to his face, but I could tell. Not many people liked Roger at the company, unless they were brown-nosing."

  "You didn't like him, did you?"

  "No, I didn't. He fired me for stealing a disc sander. He set me up."

  "Why?"

  Bobby took a minute to answer. "To show he was the boss. Sean asked his dad to get me the job, and they hired me although Roger said they didn't need any more help. He put me to work laying down fiberglass in the molds. That's about the hardest job there. I was good at it, though, so he didn't have a reason to fire me. Yeah, I might have been rude, but Roger pushed people. He wanted you to bow down. Yes, sir. No, sir. Anything you want, Mr. Cresswell."

  "Did you hear anyone make serious threats against Roger?"

  "Like, I'm going to kill him'? No."

  "Did he fire anyone else who might have carried a grudge?"

  "Probably, but I couldn't name anyone. He wanted to fire the supervisor in the glass shop. That's Ted Stamos.”

  Anthony asked why.

  "He wouldn't take his shit. Ted's been working there since he was in high school. His father worked there. Ted has this picture in his office of the first Cresswell boat. He said his father made it. He knows what he's doing, but Roger always wanted it done some other way. Ted had to come down and straighten out the mess a couple of times, and Roger didn't appreciate it, you know, everybody standing around watching Ted make him look like an idiot. Ted's a good guy. Roger told him to fire me, and he wouldn't do it. Then a few days later security found"—Bobby's fingers made quotation marks around the word—"They found the sander in my locker."

  "At what point did you strike Roger?"

  "The day he fired me, he took me up to Ted's office, but Ted wasn't there. Like he wanted to show him, you know? So I said I didn't take the sander, and he'd have to prove it. Then Roger called me a faggot, and I hit him. Ted heard the commotion and came in and pulled us apart." Bobby kept his eyes on Anthony. "I lost my temper, I guess."

  Anthony lifted his hand from his thigh. The corners of his mouth turned d
own, the shoulders rose. No words, but the meaning was clear: Of course you hit him. He insulted your manhood. They went on to discuss Bobby's encounter with Roger at Jack's place. The shove in the shoulder, the heated words. Excluded from the club, Gail doodled boats and waves on her legal pad, thinking about what Bobby had said.

  She wrote down Stamos in block letters and underlined it twice. She had seen that name in Anthony's notes. He had met Ted Stamos on the dock behind the Cresswells' condo—a rough, uncommunicative type. Stamos had told the police that he'd seen Bobby attack Roger and threaten his life. This didn't match Bobby's version. Someone was lying. She put her money on Stamos. Gail penned the word why, then a question mark.

  Anthony was asking if Bobby would recognize Nikki Cresswell if he saw her.

  "Oh, yeah. Roger's wife. A red-haired chick. I met her a couple of times at family picnics and stuff Sean took me to."

  "Did you see her at Jack's house the night of the party?"

  "No. She called him, though. I forgot about it till now. It was about . . . ten-thirty? I recognized her voice. She asked to speak to Jack, and I couldn't find him, so I told her to call back later."

  "Did she say anything else?"

  "No, she just asked for Jack. She might've been in her car. I could hear road noises."

  Anthony looked over at Gail, who had already begun to write it down.

  Bobby explained why he had left the party early, even though Jack Pascoe had paid him to clean up. Angela had called him, so Bobby had told Jack to pay him only for the time he was there. Anthony made no comments about Bobby's relationship with his daughter. They went off for some time, however, on a discussion of Bobby's family background, but by this time Bobby's confidence had been so restored that he spoke without hesitation. The poor Puerto Rican boy from East Harlem who had made a career in classical ballet.