Suspicion of Betrayal (24 page)

"Unfortunately, yes. Tomorrow I have some cases to prepare, and a hearing on Monday. I'm so far behind. This thing with Karen—"

"Tell me about it. I hardly got anything done yesterday." Gail turned to look at him. "Did you speak to Harry Lasko?"

"What?"

"Anthony, you said you would do it on Friday. Wendell Sweet didn't deliver his documents, I doubt they'll come Monday either, and I really need to talk to Harry. I've only got three more weeks to track down Wendell's money."

"Oh, yes. Okay. I'll call him next week."

"Monday," she said. "And don't forget."

Anthony said patiently, "Look, Gail. Even if you find Wendell's money, your client is out of luck. The Bank of So-and-so might have an account in his name, but they won't let you have it, not even with a court order. Our courts have no jurisdiction—"

"Anthony. Darling. I
know
how it works. All I want to show is proof. I don't need to
take
it. Harry said Wendell made a million dollars from the Eagle Beach casino. Does Harry have any proof? Where's the closing statement? If I could show the judge that Wendell made that money, lied about it, and hid it offshore, he's going to award everything else to Jamie. She needs it, Anthony. She's right on the edge."

"All right, I'll talk to Harry and find out what's going on. But I am going to remind you,
bonboncita,
not to take this into your own hands." When Gail frowned at him, he lifted his brows. "What? What did I say?"

"Don't call me
bonboncita
when we're discussing legal matters."

"Por
Dios.
Yes, Ms. Connor, I am so sorry."

"I'm serious."

"You don't look very serious in this position, Ms. Connor." With one arm tightly locking her against her body, he pulled up her skirt.

"Stop it! Anthony!"

"Ms. Connor, where is your dignity?"

"I said, stop it!" She knocked his arm away and twisted out of his grasp to stand up.

For several seconds he looked up at her, both surprised and quizzical. He glanced to one side as if for an answer, then made a slight smile. "What did you do that for?"

She raked her fingers through her hair, smoothing the tangles. "I don't like it. Not in that context."

"Ay,
mi madre, me vuelves loco.
Let me finish this, then we can go."

Gail smoothed the creases out of her skirt and straightened a sleeve. "I have to take Karen to her father's place. I might as well go now."

"Let Hector take her."

"I don't
want
him to take Karen. Anyway, Dave wants to talk to me."

"Talk to you about what?"

"The photograph. What we can do. What to tell Karen."

Anthony leaned back in the chair. Color was rising up the planes of his face, and his eyes darkened. "If the photograph was that important to him, he could have come by our house."

"Not with you there. He said it would be awkward."

The chair rocked slowly. "Awkward. An interesting word. Was it his? Or yours?"

"Don't start."

"He doesn't want to see me face to face?"

"No more than you want to see him. I need to borrow your car. Please?"

Anthony sat without moving for a few more seconds, then stood up and reached into his pants pocket. "I don't like you going over there."

"I know you don't."

"Why do you do it when you know I don't like it?"

She held out her hand. "The keys."

He tossed his key ring onto the desk.

She said, "You couldn't have given them to me? You have to throw them at me."

"I didn't throw them at you."

Her hand was still extended. "Give me the damned keys or I will call a taxi."

He hooked the key ring with one finger. The gold-trimmed Cadillac ignition key turned slowly. She reached out. He pulled the keys away before dropping them into her palm.

"I would like you back here within an hour."

Gail slammed the door on her way out of the study.

THIRTEEN

Dave's town house was one of a dozen in a U-shaped building, parking lot in the center, patios in back. A metal picket fence and electronic gate gave residents some protection against the urban crime that lurked at the fringes of Coconut Grove.

Karen would be spending the night and going with her father to a tennis tournament in the morning. She had brought her bag and her racquet, and on the short trip from the Pedrosas' house she had taken her hair out of the intricate knot acquired at Lola Benitez, and had brushed it into its usual style, a ponytail.

Gail pressed the buzzer. She had never been past the front door of Dave's apartment. She had seen it only from the walkway, dropping Karen off or picking her up, a glimpse of a tiled entrance and two bicycles.

The front door opened, and Dave held out his arms. "Heyyyy, it's my princess." He kissed Karen, then stood aside to let her pass. To Gail he said quietly, "One of the girls from the restaurant is going to watch her for a while."

The girl was the dark-haired waitress named Vicki, whom Gail had last seen behind the bar at the Old Island Club—there in tropical print shirt, here in a tank top and jogging shorts, glancing at Gail with brown eyes under upward-tilting brows. She picked up her car keys and a fanny pack from the kitchen counter and spun herself off the stool.

Dave told Karen that he and her mom had to talk. They'd go to the marina later, but right now, what about a video at Vicki's apartment? Karen's lack of curiosity told Gail that she had been there before.

"Bye, Mom." She reached up for a hug.

"See you tomorrow, sweetie. Have a good time." Gail watched them go, her daughter and the woman with the tanned, muscular legs. The door clicked shut.

Dave came back in. He said, "Vicki and I aren't sleeping together."

"I didn't ask."

"You were wondering."

Gail lifted a shoulder. "Okay, I was wondering."

"And now you know. You want something to drink? A soda? Beer?"

"Just water. And a couple of pain relievers if you have any."

"Sure." He told her to have a seat. "Sorry for the mess. Things have been crazy at the Club. Welcome to my humble home."

"It's nice."

"I try."

Leaving her purse on the counter, Gail wandered farther into the living room. Past the dining area, which was tiled, the carpet was that neutral berber ubiquitous to rental apartments. Sports magazines and newspapers littered the coffee table. The brown leather sofa faced the entertainment center, with its enormous television and on either side black glass doors behind which winked the amber lights of a stereo system.

Stairs led to the second floor.

What did he do here? What was his life like, a single man of thirty-six? Gail realized that she knew exactly. She walked over to the patio door and saw the gas grill that she had expected would be there. He would have his friends over to watch sports on TV. He would barbecue some ribs, boiling them first in beer to make them tender. She knew the contents of the refrigerator, and that in the trash she might find a folded pizza box—pepperoni and mushroom.

Two bedrooms upstairs. Gail did not know what Karen's looked like, but about Dave's she had little doubt. If the bed was made at all, the comforter would be pulled up over rumpled sheets. He would probably have some condoms in the nightstand but no sex toys or dirty videos. His two good suits would hang in garment bags in his closet, and slacks and some dress shirts would be in plastic from the dry cleaners. He had dozens of T-shirts, souvenirs of places he'd been or teams he liked. She knew the shape of his shoes, the way his long first toes made a bump in the leather. His closet would have the musty, male smell of clothes tossed back on the shelf, not quite dirty enough to require washing. Gail had complained, then given up. She'd had her own closet, her own dresser, and her own side of the bathroom vanity.

He liked to floss his strong, square teeth in bed while watching the news, then turn it off with the remote and drop the floss in a little pile on the nightstand to be picked up in the morning, if he remembered. Then he'd turn off his lamp. When they'd been married, her lamp would be on longer, and he'd usually be asleep when she put her files away. She learned to ignore the dental floss, and he learned to sleep with the light on. If he was not asleep, he might roll toward her and put a hand on her hip.
Are you tired?
Toward the end of their marriage the answer had been yes so often he had stopped asking. But before that, when things had been more or less okay, their lovemaking had fallen into a pattern both comforting and predictable.
Her attempts at variation had been met with mild embarrassment.

Had he cheated on her in the twelve years of their marriage? Gail did not think so, but the affairs would have been brief and inconsequential. Dave had been more in love with the house. He had kept a big red metal tool chest in the garage. Shelves sagged with home-improvement manuals, garden sprays, and fertilizer. Their lawn had been free of nematodes, chinch bugs, mildew, and weeds. He had installed the sprinkler system himself, then stood in the center of the yard and told Gail to flip the switch. He had waited, hands on hips, feet spread, sunburn on his big shoulders, hard muscles in his legs, sneakers soggy with dirt. The pump had come on with a hum, pushing water through the pipes, the fittings, the sprinkler heads. Then the water hissed out in neat circles or semicircles to fit the shape of the yard, sunlight making rainbows over the thick grass and neat flower beds. Dave had strode around the yard with his screwdriver and wrench, adjusting heads, getting soaked, just for the pleasure of watching it go.

That he had wanted out of their marriage had surprised her. That he had sailed away to the Caribbean had not, because Dave was by nature a dreamer. Gail had stood on firmer ground. She knew how much things cost, how much debt his business was in, and what was needed to turn it around. Five businesses in twelve years, then the marina, the last fiasco. His dreams had done them in. So off to the Caribbean, away from everything. But he had come back. He said he had changed, but Gail doubted it. And if he said that he wasn't sleeping with Vicki-the-waitress, it meant he wasn't sleeping with her
at present,
though he probably had. Why else would a woman in jogging shorts agree to baby-sit indoors on a perfect Saturday afternoon?

Dave came out of the kitchen with a glass of water, ice tinkling against the sides. He put a coaster on the coffee table and gave her two pills. "That's ibuprofen. You shouldn't take aspirin on an empty stomach. I wasn't sure if you'd eaten. Is it bad?"

"Is what bad?"

"Your headache."

She swallowed the pills with some water. "It's been worse." "You look like shit," he said. "Oh, thanks."

"Want me to rub your neck?" He used to do that for her when the pain had been bad enough to make her cheekbones ache. His blunt-fingered hands were strong and sure. But she didn't want him touching her.

"I'm okay," she said, then laughed. "It's been . . . an interesting week."

His sun-blond eyebrows were drawn together. He was waiting for her to expand on that. She thought of telling him about Anthony. A long time ago she and Dave had talked to each other about anything, and he had always listened. He hadn't always come up with the answer she needed, but he had listened.

Gail said, "I brought the photograph."

"Okay. Well, let's have a look."

He followed her to the dining table, where she opened her purse and withdrew a small brown mailing envelope. She unfolded the clasps. Dave put his hands on his hips, blowing out a breath, preparing himself to see what Gail had already described over the telephone. The envelope slid out, color copy inside. Dave lifted the flap. His jaw shot forward, and his lips twisted as if he had tasted something vile. He swallowed.

Finally he set it down, and Gail could see the colors against the light wood of the tabletop. Blue sky and trees. The children's clothing. Karen's red shorts. And the immense black pistol aiming at her head. The three straight lines that marked the trajectory, the curves that indicated smoke, and the bullet crashing through her skull.

Dave spun around and walked stiffly to the sliding door, his back to the room. He sucked in a breath through his nose, and she heard the snuffle of liquid. He was close to tears.
"Fuck!"

She folded the copy into its white envelope. Calmer now, Dave looked around and cleared his throat. "What did the police say?"

"There's nothing to go on. It's a common envelope, and anyone can make a color copy at a print shop. Mother and I handled the paper, so it would be hard to find fingerprints. He probably didn't leave any. There weren't any prints on the paint can. We assume it's related. The phone calls as well." Gail squared up the envelope with the grain in the table. "We might get more photographs. Letters, calls. Whatever. They've had cases of harassment that go on for months. Years."

"Jesus."

"They said it's good if he does send more. We might find out who." Gail picked up the envelope. "Do you want a copy?"

"No. Take it with you. I don't want it around." Dave blew out another breath. "Is she safe, Gail? What are we going to do to keep her safe?"

"I don't let her go out as much. She's never by herself. Anthony is living with us now. He has a gun, and there's an alarm system. We don't think anyone's going to break in. And the police say that a killer usually doesn't advertise his plans in advance."

Dave paced around the living room, thinking. "We could send Karen to my folks' house for the rest of the summer. What about that?"

"She wouldn't like it."

"I don't
care
if she likes it."

"I want her here, Dave. I don't want her out of my sight. It even makes me nervous to see her go with Vicki."

"She's fine. Vicki's place is a block from here."

For a while they talked about who might have done it. An angry client. A neighbor. Even the possibility that it was someone Dave knew. Or someone Anthony Quintana knows, Dave suggested. Or Anthony himself.

Gail gave him a look.