Suspicion of Malice

by Barbara Parker

  Her words contained more than a hint of accusation. He searched for a reply. "We never talked about his life. Only about the law. He's a good judge. A brilliant legal scholar." Anthony shrugged. "I don't know."

  "I would have killed myself, too." She pushed away from the window and went to the table to sort through her papers.

  "Where did you learn about Margaret Cresswell becoming pregnant at fifteen?"

  "It's a rumor my mother unearthed. We don't know whether she had the baby or not. I imagine it was taken care of—one way or the other—at the mental hospital. If it was a mental hospital. Wherever this alleged institution was."

  "Why are you pursuing this?"

  "I can't even say anymore. It seems to have less and less to do with her brother's death, and yet I can't leave it alone." She waved it all away. ""I need to get home."

  Anthony wanted to keep her there, to make some excuse. There was more to say, too much more. Maggie and Nate went through his mind. Bloodless. Dead.

  "I talked to Angela again. We had breakfast together. I told her about the baby. She took it better than I had expected." Anthony remembered his daughter's sudden smile, the arms thrown around his waist. And the question he'd had no answer for: What next?

  "What will you tell Karen?" he asked.

  Gail laughed. “I have noooo idea.”

  The top edge of the paternity and support agreement protruded from her leather-bound folder, which she held loosely in one hand. Anthony slid it out. "You're right. This is too complicated. Why don't you tell me what you want? That would make it easier."

  She picked up her bag. "I'll ask Charlene to handle it, if you don't mind. I don't want to think about it. But you should know that this may all be for nothing. I have a history of miscarriages."

  "No." His breath stopped. "What does your doctor say?"

  "I don't have one yet."

  "Why?"

  "I don't know. I—I've been . . . too busy."

  Anthony put a hand on her arm. "Well, get one immediately. The best, I don't care what it costs. Will you do that?"

  Eyes averted, she made a quick nod and went toward the door. "Let me know what you find out at the company tomorrow."

  "Gail?"

  She stopped and looked over her shoulder.

  "Why were you afraid to tell me about the child?"

  "Probably because ... I needed to be free of you."

  It was said with regret, not rancor, but no words could have injured him more, a final thrust into a heart already bleeding.

  Chapter 21

  Porter Cresswell growled, "Ask me what you need to, but make it quick. Claire's running me to the doctor's office for a little checkup. I had a close call a few months ago. I'm okay now, but she keeps me on the straight and narrow. Don't you, honey?"

  Her eyes looked over the top of her magazine, then back to the page.

  Anthony said, "I'm not an accountant, Porter. I'll have to send a team to go over the records. They'll need full access to anything Roger was working on. Will I get cooperation from your brother and his wife?"

  "I told them to give you whatever you need. Open the books, show you around. I said, 'If Roger was screwing with the accounts, I want to know before the IRS does.’ You shouldn't have any problems."

  "Good. I understand that Roger's wife, Nikki, is unhappy about distribution of shares. She's accusing you of fraud. Is that anything we should worry about?"

  "Jesus, no. I tried to tell her. The shares reverted to me when Roger passed. That was my dad's idea. He and his first wife went through a bad divorce, so when he set up the corporation, he made it so shares stay in the family. We can't sell them or give them away unless everybody consents to it, and spouses don't inherit, only kids. I told Nikki that. She's a nitwit."

  "I'd like to review the original documents," Anthony said.

  "What for? That was set up over fifty years ago."

  A voice came from the corner. "Porter? If Anthony says he needs it, I'm sure he does. He's trying to help."

  "Okay, okay." Porter was leaning sideways in his chair with his weight on an elbow. He waved a hand. "Tell my secretary I said to give you a copy. It's out there because I was about to write a letter to the lawyer handling Roger's estate, show him what I'm talking about."

  "Why did you give Roger ten percent?"

  "I was being a good father, bringing him into the company. Shit, it was going to be his anyway, wasn't it? Then he turned around and bit my hand. I think of that cretin out there running it someday, I get sick. Dub's boy. I'll sell the goddamn company before I see that happen. This is sad. Very sad. A fine company, falling apart. I told Roger to marry some nice girl and have a couple of kids, but they kept putting it off. Selfish, both of them. Having too much fun, to hell with the family. My son was the biggest disappointment of my life."

  Anthony wondered what Claire had thought of her husband's outburst, but he didn't want to turn and look. He said, "Dub and Roger could have pooled their shares, correct? Did they?"

  "They planned to. They were going to vote me out of office. I wasn't going to go gently into the night, as the old saying goes. I should've left it the way my dad set it up. Doesn't pay to be nice." One corner of his mouth rose. "My dad gave me seventy-five percent. You know why? Because he knew I had the brains to run this corporation, goddammit, not that lazy ass in the next office."

  From the corner of the room came the rustle of a magazine page turning.

  Anthony pulled some facts from his memory. "And now you have fifty-one percent. Dub has forty-nine."

  "And that's as far as it goes. It stops right here. You put two heads on one body, you're asking for trouble." He pushed himself out of his chair. "You tell my secretary to give you whatever you need."

  Anthony stood up. "Porter, one question. Why did you make Dub half owner? Rather, a forty-nine-percent owner?"

  Porter straightened his lapels. "That's between my brother and me."

  "The accountants will want to know."

  "Fuck the accountants. Claire? Put that magazine away. Let's go."

  The sign on the half-open door said DUNCAN CRESSWELL, EXECUTIVE VICE PRESIDENT, SALES.

  The executive VP himself was on the telephone, leaning back in his chair and passing one hand slowly over his head, again and again. Discussing a boat show in Savannah. A steak house on the wharf. Best fuckin' ribs outside of Memphis.

  Anthony knocked. The big executive chair swiveled around. Still talking, Dub Cresswell motioned for Anthony to come in. The walls were paneled in maple halfway up, then covered with vinyl printed with regatta flags. An immense swordfish took up the wall opposite the desk, the shelves were lined with fishing trophies, and under the windows were a series of glass cases containing scale models of Cresswell boats. Anthony spent some time reading the labels, certain that the conversation would have ended already if he were not there.

  To prod it along, he took a card from his wallet and laid it in the center of Dub Cresswell’s desk. A minute later the handset dropped onto the telephone. "Quintana. How's it going? Porter said you'd be dropping by."

  Not having been asked to sit, Anthony remained standing. "A favor for Claire. If I may be candid? She's afraid for Porter's health. Their son's death has put stress on him, physically and mentally. You understand. On Monday the accountants will come to look into Roger's transactions with the company. A simple matter."

  "Yeah."

  The faces of the Cresswell brothers were similar in the square shape and cleft chin, although the younger man's features were heavier, more flushed with blood. He didn't get out of his chair, and his navy sports coat rode up on his shoulders.

  "If Porter wants you to look at the operations side, that's fine," Dub said. "Sales and marketing is a whole 'nother department. Roger didn't have anything to do with it, and I can't give out sales figures willy-nilly."

  Anthony acknowledged that with a nod, but said, "Your business secrets would remain confidential. I can assure you of my compl
ete discretion."

  "I don't see the point to this. Roger's dead."

  "But the IRS is alive. Roger owned ten percent of the company. He had a direct connection, in that way, to everything that goes on here."

  "Yeah, well, I'll talk to Porter."

  "I'm confused about one thing," Anthony said. "Your ownership. You have forty-nine percent, correct?"

  “That's right.”

  "How much was your share originally? I infer from your brother that it was less at some point."

  The man was politely being asked to say what value his father placed on him. "Twenty-five percent. Porter had the MBA, and he showed an interest. I wasn't sure I even wanted into this business, but Dad twisted my arm."

  "Ah. And when did you acquire the other . . . twenty-four percent from Porter?"

  "Oh, it's been quite a while. Twenty years, maybe more. The IRS won't care about that, will they?"

  "Probably not. I was simply trying to get it straight in my own mind. And . . . why was this done? Why did Porter nearly double your interest in the company?"

  Heavy hands rose for a moment from the arms of the chair. Then he laughed, his cheeks making ruddy circles. "I'm a damn good salesman."

  Anthony knew it would be useless to ask further questions. He expected to have a report from his accountants within ten days. Excellent men. Former FBI. He expected it to reveal that Duncan Cresswell had been looting the sales accounts. The next problem would be proving that Roger had known about it. Nikki Cresswell had alleged this, but did she have evidence? Or had she only repeated to Gail Connor what her husband had told her?

  Hands in his pockets, Anthony walked over to the swordfish, which took up eight feet of wall space. The creature had been turned into blue plastic. One glass eye looked back at him. "You're a fisherman."

  "I pulled him in, but my wife hooked him and fought him for two hours. Lizzie insists that this is her fish. Big sucker, isn't he?" As if in testimony, a framed photograph on a shelf underneath showed a woman in fishing hat and sunglasses grinning up at the fish hanging by its tail from a crossbeam, boat in the background.

  Anthony turned around. "Where could I find her?"

  "Probably out in the yard somewhere. Get someone to page her."

  Porter Cresswell's secretary pressed the appropriate button on her telephone and spoke into it. "Elizabeth, call the main office, please. Liz, main office." While Anthony waited, the secretary made a copy of the original articles of incorporation and the resolution regarding distribution of shares, which Anthony folded and put into the breast pocket of his suit coat.

  A pudgy young man around twenty years of age sat at a worktable going through papers, sorting them, writing notes. This had to be Sean, Anthony thought. His brown hair was short on the sides, longer on top, and he wore a white company shirt. No earrings in sight. He glanced over at Anthony, holding his gaze for only a few seconds. Sullen, bored. He returned to his work. There had been nothing in his gaze to tell Anthony that Sean Cresswell knew of his connection to Bobby Gonzalez.

  Within minutes, an elevator opened, and the brunette who had hooked the swordfish stepped off it. Her breasts filled out her shirt, and khaki shorts came to mid-thigh. Good legs, firm and tanned. She had a two-way radio on her belt. She looked around, then spotted Anthony, who walked over and shook her hand.

  "Hi. I'm Liz Cresswell." Her dark hair was tied back in a scarf and heavy bangs went straight across her forehead. "I've been expecting you. Come on, I'll show you around the facility. We'll ride in my cart."

  In the elevator, he said, "Who was the young man at the table, your son?"

  "Sean." She beamed. "He works here part-time while he's in college. We'd like for him to hurry up and graduate, but he takes his time. Maybe he plays a little too much. They all do. Not like it used to be, isn't that the truth? Kids." She led Anthony through the lobby on the first floor. Big photographs of boats decorated the walls. "Porter told me why you're here. Is there some way I can help you?"

  "Tell me about Roger."

  "He was a smart man. Not easy to get along with, but he had the right ideas." Elizabeth pushed through the glass doors into the blazing white sun. "Roger and I had some fights about how it ought to be done, but we usually agreed on the goal. I'm sorry he's gone. God knows what's going to become of the company now. No, I don't think he was stealing. He didn't have to. He was making good money. He'd have wound up as half owner someday. I question Porter's sanity."

  The cart was on the walkway under a canvas awning. A tag on it read, E. CRESSWELL, VP OF OPERATIONS. Anthony laid his folded coat on the seat. He put on his sunglasses and held onto the bar supporting the roof. The cart took off with a jerk.

  "We've got ten acres here, and you can find anything from a plumber to an electronics engineer. All the trades are represented. It's like you're building a house, except the damn thing has a point at one end and a couple thousand horsepower at the other."

  As the cart hummed over the asphalt, Elizabeth Cresswell pointed out the assembly building, the various warehouses and shops. Her bangs blew back from her face in the breeze. She went through the front entrance, waving to the security guard, then sped down a short street to the Miami River. "This is where we put the boats in the water." There were three shiny new craft under a shed, and she called out to the man in the stern of one of them. "Carlos! iComo se van los cables?" The man shouted back in Spanish that the cables were working now, no problem, senora. She waved back at him and turned the cart toward the main yard, fishtailing the back end. "We test them in the water first, then do the finish work, and off they go."

  It occurred to Anthony, as he braced one foot on the dashboard to hold himself steady, that if Elizabeth Cresswell had been Dub's sister, not his wife, she would have been running this company. Perhaps she already was.

  She braked the cart to a stop in the shade of an open building with a metal roof. A hot wind came across the lot.

  "See that? That's the polishing shed. See those girls in the face masks and smocks? That's me, twenty-five years ago. I worked seven in the morning till four in the afternoon. I had to, or I wouldn't eat. My dad died when I was fourteen, my mother was a drunk, and I was on my own. The other girls were Cubans, and so were the men in the shop. Cubans made the boat industry in Miami, Mr. Quintana. They came here and took jobs nobody else would want. I learned Spanish and sweated right alongside them, so I know how it was. But you don't look like you came up that way. Not saying you couldn't handle it. I'd say you could handle anything."

  Dark pencil outlined her eyes, and a reddish brown tint lay across sharp cheekbones. There was a scar at one corner of her upper lip. Anthony could feel the sexuality of this woman as clearly as the heat boiling up from the asphalt. She turned toward him and put her left foot up on the dashboard and swung her knee. White canvas deck shoes. A tanned, muscular leg. With each slow swing of her knee, a gap appeared between her shorts and her thigh.

  "What are you doing here? And don't tell me you're putting Porter's mind at ease, which is the line Claire gave me."

  "But it's true." Anthony smiled at her. "She's a devoted wife."

  "I know something about you, Mr. Quintana. I know from my son that your daughter is dating Bobby Gonzalez. Angela, right? Sean says she's adorable. So maybe you are here helping Porter find his lost marbles, but I also think that you have an interest in helping Bobby. I hope you do. He's a sweet kid."

  Anthony let this information settle, then said, "Do you have any idea who wanted Roger dead?"

  "I have a guess. The person who had the most to gain was Jack Pascoe. You know Jack?"

  "Claire's nephew. We've met," Anthony said. "He was sleeping with Roger's wife. Is that what you mean?"

  Liz's mouth opened as if a laugh might come out, but none did. "Jack didn't want Nikki. What he really wanted was for Roger to find out. Sleeping with Nikki was payback. You see, Roger told stories about Jack's double-dealing and put him out of business. But that's not the reason Roger's d
ead. I mean, what's the fun of having someone dead if you want to see him suffer? No, Jack did it for Claire's money. Porter won't last much longer, and everything will be hers. Millions of dollars and all those paintings. And Jack is her only heir."

  Under his shirt, Anthony could feel sweat trickle down his side. The heat was like an open oven door. "Jack won't inherit the company, will he? Porter's snares are worth around a hundred million dollars, and at his death they go to his brother. Your husband."

  Her exotically penciled eyes flared with comprehension, then amusement. "Dub? He didn't kill Roger. He wouldn't know what to do with this company."

  "But you would."

  Liz's knee swung back and forth. "That's true, but it isn't mine, Mr. Quintana, and it never will be. In fact, Porter will probably force a sale. The company is a burden to him now, and if Porter can't control something, he gets rid of it."

  "Could that apply to his own son?"

  "My God, what a thought." She made a low laugh. "Not that I didn't consider it myself. No, Porter was home with Claire on the night in question. Dub was with friends, and I was with my daughter Patty. Like I said, you should be looking at Jack. As soon as the company is sold, it turns into cash, and who inherits Porter's money? Claire does."

  A clang of metal on metal arose, adding to the steady whining noise from the polishing shed. Another golf cart went by, vanishing into the enormous door of the assembly building. Anthony looked back at Liz Cresswell. "What do you know about Ted Stamos?"

  "He runs the glass shop. He's one of our best men. Why? Are you saying Ted might have murdered Roger? There is no way."

  "They had problems on the job, no? I was told that Roger wanted to clean some old tools out of a workshop that Stamos's father had used, and Stamos threatened to break his face. Is that true?"

  "You were told? Meaning you won't say who told you. It doesn't matter. Everyone knows about it. Yes, they had problems, but not to that extent. Anyway, Ted was with my husband and about twelve other men the night Roger was shot. The police checked out everyone's alibis, believe me. So. Looks like you've struck out." Her knee was swinging again. "Give me your card. You never know. I might want a good attorney someday. We should stay in touch."