"I promised I wouldn't go anywhere until afterward. That includes Cuba."
His grandfather said, "Ah. We'll wait, then. I hope I can live that long. I am going to go, whether you or someone else takes me. I want you to do it. I want you with me. You, Anthony."
The voice was suddenly thin and weak, and Anthony knew if he turned around he would see his grandfather crying. Lie to him, Alicia had said. He needs hope. Yes, a lie was sometimes the right thing to do.
Anthony said, "Arrangements would have to be made. Where and how to enter. It wouldn't be easy. You could go in on false papers, but I suppose they have your photograph."
"In every Guardia office."
"Naturally. You made quite a nuisance of yourself. Is it true that they sent agents to kill you?"
When Anthony finally looked around, the old man was smiling. "Oh, yes. Fidel sent his agents three times, but each time I was warned, or I saw something that alerted me, and they failed."
"And it would be a satisfaction to you, wouldn't it? Getting in and out of Cuba under their noses."
His grandfather laughed. "I would send the Beard a picture of myself on the Malecon. Well? Are we going or not? I want an answer."
Anthony said, "Yes. I'll take you."
"Good. Good." Ernesto Pedrosa pulled in a long, slow breath and leaned back in his wheelchair, touching his side.
"Are you all right? Do you want the nurse?"
"No, I want to lie down for a few minutes." He wheeled his chair around, and Anthony pushed it into the room. "Do you remember the orchids in Soroa? I would like to see that again. And the waterfall? Do you remember?"
"I remember." His grandfather slowly stood up, and taking him by an elbow, Anthony guided him to the edge of the bed, then knelt and took off his shoes. The socks were thin, outlining his big, knobby feet. Men in Cuba wore socks like this years ago. He set the shoes by the bed.
When he bent to kiss his grandfather's cheek, the old man was already snoring. Anthony pulled a blanket over him. "Duermete bien, viejo."
Chapter 25
It was nearly sundown, and the office had been deserted for hours. Everyone liked to leave early on Friday. Passing by the workroom, Elizabeth Cresswell happened to glance inside. Fluorescent lights buzzed in the ceiling. Her son was at a computer desk tapping on a keyboard.
"Sean? Are you still here, honey?"
He kept his eyes on the screen. "I'm just finishing some stuff for the website."
"It's Friday night. Aren't you going out?"
"No. I'm kind of tired. I might watch some videos."
Liz nodded, hardly knowing what to say to this. It pleased her that Sean was working so hard, but his mood worried her. He had been home every night this week. He didn't listen to music or play his video games; he read. She wondered if he was depressed. Young men who became depressed could do terrible things to themselves. He had come home late Monday night with scrapes on his face, which he'd refused to explain. This worried her, but she was aware that most things worried her these days.
She smiled at her son. "Okay, you choose the movies. Your dad wants to order a pizza. Would you like that?"
"Fine."
"Good. I'll see you at home later." She patted the door frame, then continued walking around the corner to Dub's office. The door was open, and she could see papers scattered on his desk. He'd been staying late ever since Porter had ordered him to turn over the sales figures to the accountants by Monday. Dub didn't have the backbone to refuse, even if the request was as crazy as the man who'd made it. Porter had been complaining about Roger all week. Betrayal and sabotage. Selling boats right out the back door, pocketing the cash.
Dub reached to pick up his bourbon and saw her in the doorway. "It's my lovely helpmate. Hello, lovely helpmate." He lifted his drink in her direction.
Liz nodded at the papers. "What's that, Porter's project?"
"Yeah, what a fucking waste of time."
She came in, closing the door. "You and Porter had some kind of meeting this morning. Nobody told me about it."
Dub widened his eyes and put a fingertip to his mouth. "A secret shareholders' meeting. As you aren't a shareholder, I shouldn't talk."
"Don't play with me, dammit, I've had a horrible week."
Dub's belly stretched the front of his green knit shirt. He leaned back, sipping his drink, making her wait. "Broward Marine made an offer. Porter had the papers on his desk already. We went over them."
"That can't be true."
"Oh, come on, Lizzie. They've wanted to buy us for a long time. They make bigger boats, and they're talking about keeping the Cresswell name. I think that gives Porter a hard-on for the deal."
"Tell me he didn't sign the contract."
"Not yet. We want our tax lawyer to look at it, and we have the red tape with the corporate resolutions and so on. What do you want to do, buy Porter out? We don't have the money, Liz. We can't get a loan fast enough. Broward is hot to go. Yeah, okay, they'll probably close down the yard, but they'll take some of the guys up to Fort Lauderdale, those that want to make the move."
Liz screamed, "How can you be so damned indifferent? You can't let him do it."
"Porter has fifty-one percent. He can outvote me. Basically, he can do what he wants." Dub sat in his chair watching her explode. Enjoying it, the bastard.
"Stall him! All we have to do is wait."
"Yeah, I've been hearing that song for months now. The cancer's in remission. Porter could outlive both of us."
"Remission? Is that what he told you? No, Dub. No." Liz sat in a chair and rested her elbows on the desk, supporting her head in her hands. "Do you know what an unresectable tumor is? That means they can't operate. He has one in his liver. Chemo won't do any good. He may not last out the month."
Dub stopped swiveling his chair back and forth. "Jesus. Who the hell told you that? Claire?"
"God, no. Claire will deny he's even sick. A few weeks ago I asked the insurance agent for a favor— call Porter's doctor. He's going to die, Dub. Don't let him sign anything. Call Broward Marine and give them some excuse. Say we've got loans outstanding that don't show up on the books. Say our orders are off."
"I can't do that."
"Why not?"
"If he found out—"
"Screw if he finds out! Do it first thing Monday morning." Liz picked up a stack of computer print-outs and slammed them back down on his desk. "And I want those goddamn accountants out of here. Can't you see what Anthony Quintana is after? Can't you?"
Dub stared up at her. "Yeah, Porter is nuts, and he thinks Roger was ripping him off, and he wants—"
"No! It's Claire. Claire hired him, not Porter. That crap about Roger is bullshit. Claire wants this company sold. She's the one, not Porter. She must have known Broward Marine was going to make an offer. Claire wants this company valued by someone from outside."
"Why?"
"The money! Are you blind? If Porter dies, the shares go to you. If he votes to abolish the corporation and sell the assets, and then he dies, all the money goes to Claire. Not you, Dub. Claire. All you get is your fucking forty-nine percent."
"Minus our corporate liabilities," he said, "but it's still a nice piece of change. Lizzie, I don't want the company. I'm sick of it, to tell you the truth."
She was speechless for a minute. "How can you say that? It's for your family. For Sean. The girls aren't interested, but Sean is. He'll run the company someday. Sean and his children. It's for them, Dub. Stop thinking about yourself for once."
Dub was laughing. "My God, this is too much. Too much. Elizabeth, you were bom in the wrong century. You'd be a match for Lucretia Borgia any day. I'm just a way to get your son on the throne."
"Your son, Dub. Yours too."
"No, he's all yours. You've seen to that. He thinks I'm dog shit. Come on, Lizzie, why don't we sell the company? We'll have plenty of money. How much do we need?"
Anger boiled up inside her, making her vision blur. She clenched her fi
sts. "The money isn't the point. I've been poor, and I could be again, but I absolutely refuse, I will not allow, our children to have no sense of who they are. They will have a place. They will see the name Cresswell on a boat and know it means something. Yes, Sean, because the girls don't care. You know where your son is right now? In the computer room still working. He wants to take part. This is his birthright, and you would let it go?"
Dub was rubbing his forehead, and his eyes were hidden behind his hand.
She stood over him. "You know I'm right. You know I am. Kill the deal, Dub."
"Okay, fuck it." He dropped his hand to the arm of the chair. "You handle it, Liz. I leave it all up to you."
"Porter doesn't trust me. You have to do it."
"How?"
"We'll figure it out over the weekend." She wanted to drop to the floor and weep with relief, but her voice was calm. "All we have to do is put him off till he's too sick to sign anything. It won't be long."
Dub came out of his chair so fast Liz had to move back. He stacked the records and correspondence and put them in a drawer. He grabbed his jacket off the end of the desk.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"Out. Don't wait up."
"I was hoping we could all have dinner together."
"Not tonight."
"What do I tell Sean? He's expecting you. We're having pizza and watching movies. All of us."
"Baby, he won't even notice." Dub patted her cheek. "You two have a good time. Don't wait up."
After he left, Liz stood like stone in the center of the room, then went to the window, looking down into the nearly empty parking lot. A few seconds later Dub came into view and got into his shiny red Corvette. A ridiculous car for a man his age. He drove too fast in it. He sometimes drove drunk. She imagined his car going over an expressway embankment, bursting into flames. She knew that one day he would leave her. Knew it. And knew she would have to do something, but not yet. Just wait. Wait.
The guard at the entrance waved from the shack, and the chain-link gate rolled back. The Corvette braked, then turned and vanished at the corner. Still staring out the window, regathering her senses, Liz saw someone else come out from under the awning at the front of the building. A solidly built young man. His shadow stretched out in front of him. He crossed the parking lot and at the street turned left toward the river, going out of sight behind the warehouse at the edge of the property. A hundred yards farther on was the long tin roof of the boat shed. The setting sun had turned it deep orange.
Feeling a nudge of panic, Liz ran downstairs and got into her cart, still parked by the front of the building. She whirled it around and went across the lot. The guard saw her coming and opened the gate. She waved at him and went the same way Sean had gone. There were no other vehicles on the dusty dead-end street, only a couple of trucks parked off to the side. A line of palm trees marked the Cresswell docks.
Sean was walking with his head down, staring at the pavement. Liz stopped the cart just ahead of him. "Hi, honey. Where are you going?"
"Nowhere. Just taking a walk."
"Not in this neighborhood. It will be dark soon. Get in. I'll take you back."
"Jesus, Mom, I've been inside all day! I wanted some air, okay?"
"Get in. Please. I need to talk to you."
He scowled at her but did as she asked. She pulled ahead a few more yards and parked between two of the palm trees. Turning to look at him directly, she said, "Sean, something's wrong. What is it? You know you can tell me anything."
"Nothing's wrong."
"I can see it, honey. What happened? Some trouble with a girl?"
Sean stared straight ahead.
"Please let me help. Whatever's wrong, it's between you and me. You know I have never betrayed you." As she watched him, his face reddened, then twisted. His eyes squeezed shut. His chest rose and fell in great, heaving sobs, a man's sobs. "Sean? You're scaring me. What happened?"
He told her, and her breath stopped. He had gone to Jack's the night of the party, going in the back way to find Bobby Gonzalez and borrow a few dollars. He had stumbled over Roger's body, still warm. He had taken the wallet out of Roger's pocket, the Rolex off his wrist.
Sean inhaled a breath through clenched teeth. "I don't know why I took the stuff. That's all I did. I didn't kill him. I didn't. You've got to believe me."
Liz put her arm around his shoulders. "Yes, of course I believe you. Did you see anyone?" When Sean shook his head, she asked, "What did you do with his things? Where are they?"
"Somebody stole the Rolex. I went to South Beach that night, and I was wearing the watch. About five guys jumped me in an alley. They had knives and said if I didn't give up the watch, they'd kill me."
"Oh, God. That's where you got the bruises on your cheek. I was afraid of something like that." She touched his face, which he rarely permitted. Razor stubble rasped under her fingers. He was only nineteen, but too soon a man. She said quietly, "What about the wallet?"
Sean reached into his pocket and withdrew a black leather wallet that Liz had never seen before. She took it from him, opened it. Roger's face looked back at her. Blond, smiling. She felt her stomach tense. She shoved the wallet into her pocket.
"I was going to throw it in the river. I'm sorry I took it. I'm sorry. I don't know what to do." Sean wiped his nose on his shoulder, dampening his shirt. "Don't make me talk to the cops. Please, Mom. They might revoke my probation. I'd go to jail."
"I won't tell the police."
"What about Dad? Are you going to tell him?"
"No. We're going to forget this ever happened. Now listen to me. You never went to Jack's house. You never saw Roger. You must keep this the darkest, deepest secret in the world. All right? You left our house that night around eleven o'clock, just as we told the police, and you drove straight to the beach. You never went anywhere else. Do you understand? Okay, now tell me. Where did you go? After you left our house, where?"
"I went to the beach."
"That's right." She squeezed his hand. She wanted to hug him, but he would be embarrassed. "I'll take care of everything. Don't worry. Nothing will ever hurt you. I swear. Whatever happens, I'll take care of you. You believe me, don't you? Sean?"
"Yes. I believe you."
"I love you very much, Sean. No one will ever love you as much as I do." Liz turned the key in the golf cart. "Come on. I'll take you to your car. I want you to go home now."
"What are you going to do?"
She turned the wheel, and the cart hummed back toward the boat yard. "I have to finish some paperwork. Do you have any money with you?" He said he did. "Why don't you go pick out two or three movies and order a pizza? I'll pay you back when I get home. I won't be long."
Liz didn't know what she would do, but something would come to her. It had to.
She found Ted Stamos moving boxes out of his office in the assembly building and stacking them up on the mezzanine floor they called the catwalk. He would start his new job next week. Porter had arranged for Ted to have his own secretary and a company car. His office would be in the executive suite. Ted had said he wanted to set it all up tonight so it would be waiting for him when he came in on Monday.
Ted was maneuvering a hand truck under a stack of cardboard boxes that he had set by the railing on the catwalk. Each was marked Stamos in his uneven handwriting. At a distance, he could pass for a man in his twenties. Wide shoulders and narrow hips. Brown hair sticking out over his forehead. Seen closer, his lean, sun-browned face showed the lines of thirty-seven years.
Liz pulled the wallet out of her pocket and dropped it onto the top box, flipping it open. Ted leaned over, curious, frowning at the picture on the driver's license. "What— Holy shit." Liz went into his old office and Ted followed, closing the door. The air conditioner rattled away in a corner.
As if someone might hear them in this deserted place, he whispered, "Where the hell did you get that?"
She told him.
Ted fell h
eavily into his desk chair, an old brown relic on casters. "Did your boy see anything?"
"No. You were damned lucky. Give me your handkerchief." Liz intended to clean off the wallet and every piece of plastic inside it. "I told Sean never to mention this again."
"What are you going to do with that?"
"Nothing. You take care of it. Burn it. Bury it. Throw it wherever you threw the gun. Damn you for being so stupid. Why didn't you take it? I told you to. His wallet, his watch. It had to look like a robbery. And why did you do it there?"
"Shut up about it, all right? We've been over that already. I did the best I could."
His feelings were hurt. Liz pressed her fingers against her forehead, then said, "Okay. I'm just nervous about Sean. I'm crawling out of my skin."
Ted put everything back into the wallet and slid it into the front pocket of his jeans. "I'll take care of this for you. Don't worry about it."
"Thanks. Be careful, will you?"
Liz knew already, but it hit her again with sickening force. Ted Stamos was a dunce. He had barely graduated from high school. He knew what to do with his hands and his body, and he made her feel good. She had ignored everything else. She was the stupid one. She wondered why Porter had given him a promotion at all. Ted didn't fit the part of executive. He was gloomy and coarse. Why had Porter done it?
Ted smiled at her. His face tended to look vacant when he smiled, as if this expression were foreign to him. Deep creases appeared on either side of his mouth. "You are so sexy."
She smiled back, then said, "I need to talk to you, Ted."
"I don't feel like talking." He ran his hands up her arms. "I want you. I must be crazy to want you so much." He pulled her shirt out of her waistband, then in another motion her bra went over her breasts, and he buried his face between them. She bit her lip not to shout at him to stop it. She had no time for this. No time.
He was sucking at her, pulling her into his mouth. Alarmed, she looked through the glass that ran on three sides of the room, from waist level up. 'Ted, not here. The security guard will be by in a while."
Suspicion of Malice Page 31
