Suspicion of Betrayal (36 page)

There was a situation to be taken care of with the bank. Last Friday, computing her trust account balance in her head, she'd made a mistake. She didn't have $8,000 left in the account, but a $12,000 deficit. Other checks would have bounced, but the bank had cleared them for payment. The bank officer had called:
Ms. Connor, could you drop in and see me tomorrow morning?
Gail had been forced to confess everything to Miriam, who was covering for her.

Today—unless a disaster occurred—Gail would deposit a cashier's check for $125,000, which Jeff Barlow would send to her office by two o'clock. And then she would mail Ms. Zimmerman a check for $28,650.27, the amount due from the insurance company as payment for one bad knee.

Gail was filling glasses with orange juice when Anthony came out and kissed the back of her neck. She inhaled spicy cologne. He sat down, adjusting the knee of his trousers. The sunlight fell through the trees like bright coins in his lap. His hair was polished mahogany, and his hands would have made a sculptor weep.

Full lips turned upward in a little smile. "What are you thinking about,
chulita?"

Gail hesitated. "My wedding gown. Lola Benitez left another message that I need to come in for a fitting."

"I can't wait to see you in it." He kissed her mouth, then turned his attention to the newspaper.
"¡Ño!
The
Marlins lost to Cincinnati, six to four. I owe Raul twenty bucks."

"Poor baby."

Anthony picked up the section and scanned the story. "I talked to Harry Lasko last night. We have a proposal on the Sweet case we want you to consider— you and your client."

Gail stopped her cup on its way to her lips.

He flipped the paper to the bottom half. "Harry is worried about Jamie. Aside from that, the divorce proceedings could drag out for months, and we are concerned what Wendell might do—as you and I have already discussed. So it would be to everyone's benefit, your client's most of all, if Harry takes care of her expenses—hers and the children's—minus what Wendell would probably pay without protest. I would make sure that money gets to her on a regular basis. Of course, we need to arrange a way to do this, not to draw attention, but if it's handled properly, Jamie will be free of Wendell, Wendell can do as he pleases, and Harry will have no reason to worry. So if you could prepare a list of her expenses"—Anthony tapped the refolded section on his thigh—"and your fees. What is it—twenty-something? Twenty-two?"

"Twenty-two thousand, five hundred," said Gail. "Less my retainer, which Harry already gave me."

"Harry will take care of your fees as well, since Wendell is making a big deal out of having to pay opposing counsel." Anthony smiled. "Well?"

Gail was astonished. "I don't know how Jamie could refuse. That's extremely generous."

Harry is fond of her."

"Yes. And of the idea of not spending any more time in prison than he has to." The sun twinkled on the juice glasses. "I'll call Jamie today."

"Good. Harry's sentencing is in two weeks. I would like to have this settled before then, if possible." Anthony lifted the napkin that covered the basket of toast. He picked up a piece and bit a corner off with perfect white teeth. His tongue darted out to catch a crumb, and he brushed something off his tie. The pattern was intricate Moorish swirls, green on gold, and the color matched the subtle stripes in his socks. His attention went to the newspaper that Gail had dropped in disarrayed sections between their chairs.

She was aware suddenly that a dismal mood had settled over her, but she didn't know why. The Sweet case was finished, or would be within days. Anthony had tied the solution up in a package, and all she had to do was carry it to Jamie. What bothered her, she decided, was that she hadn't thought of it herself. She had been too insistent that Wendell pay," and maybe it was her own pride that had jammed up the case. She had been beating against an iron door with her fists, when all the time Anthony had been twirling the key around his finger.

What kind of a lawyer was she, anyway? Still in her nightclothes at eight-thirty in the morning. Fuzzy on Xanax. Avoiding her office, with a lease payment she couldn't afford. Avoiding the paperwork stacking up on her desk. And avoiding the client whose money Gail had borrowed for
one
day to save her ex-husband's sweet ass on a deal he had promised would be
no risk to you, Gail. None.
She felt herself sliding toward catastrophe, a sickening, swirling rush—

Anthony broke into her thoughts, and she realized he had been talking for a while. ". . . might as well call the same sales agent we used when we bought it. What was her name?"

"Silvia Sanchez." Gail sipped her coffee, but it was too sticky sweet. She put it back on the table.

They had decided to sell the house on Clematis Street. Karen didn't want to go back there, Gail did not care for the neighbors, and Anthony could only see years of remodeling. He had broached the idea; Gail had agreed. They would look for something else. And meanwhile they would live here.

"If you have her number, would you mind giving her a call?"

"All right."

"¿Qué pasa, mamita?"
Anthony took her hand. "It's not an easy decision. I have mixed feelings too. Should we keep the house?" The look on his face answered the question.

She formed what she hoped would pass as a reassuring smile. "I'll call Mrs. Sanchez. Maybe I can show her the house on Saturday. I'd like to visit Karen on Sunday."

"I'd like to see Karen too. May I go with you?"

"Of course." Gail had wanted time alone with Karen, but she didn't want to disappoint Anthony.

He tipped his head back to take a big breath of morning air. "As a boy I wanted to get out of here. It was a prison to me. You know, at that age, coming from rural Cuba, where I could roam around the countryside barefoot . . ." He laid a hand on Gail's arm. "I want you to think about something. We could live here. Last night Nena said to me, Why do you want to buy a house? We have so much room, and we wouldn't charge you anything. If you want, help with the groceries."

Gail propped her cheek on her fist. "A few cans of black beans now and then."

He laughed, then became serious. "She has a point."

"We wanted our own place." "They're going to leave this house to me in their wills." "They are?"

"Nena told me, but I'm not supposed to know." He squeezed Gail's hand. "Don't think about it now. There's time." He leaned over and kissed her cheek. "When this is over—when Karen comes home, then we'll talk about it."

She held onto his shoulder before he could pull away. "Where are you, Anthony?"

"What do you mean?" He frowned, smiling a little. "I'm right here, as always.
Siempre tuyo."
He kissed her again, on the mouth, lingering. "Always yours."

A soft electronic ringing noise was coming from the bedroom. He turned his head. "Is that your phone or mine?"

"Yours. I turned mine off."

He got up to answer it.

Of course they would live here, Gail thought. It was inevitable. Not so bad, really. The house had appeared in
Architectural Digest,
and the grounds had been photographed for a book on South Florida gardens. Meals would be prepared. There would be no cleaning to do, which would make Karen happy. It was quiet— except for the parties and dinners—which occurred two or three times a week and which, living here, she would have no way to avoid— "Gail."

She turned to see Anthony in the open doorway.

"That was Harry Lasko. He's at Jamie Sweet's house. The police are there too. Last night they pulled Wendell out of the Miami River."

"He's
dead?"

"Very."

Wendell Sweet had been murdered by drug dealers. Or by someone who wanted it to look that way. His BMW had been found in a park upriver with an empty gym bag in the trunk—empty except for some white residue at the bottom and a few scraps of silver duct tape, the sort commonly used to seal kilos of cocaine. Wendell had been shot in the chest twice at close range with a small-caliber weapon, then once again in the back of the head. His body had been dumped in the river. Gunshots were not unusual in that neighborhood, and no witnesses had turned up. His wallet and car keys were still in his pocket.

On an ebbing tide Wendell Sweet had floated down the dark, narrow river past rusty Haitian freighters tied to docks, past yachts at the Bertram yard, past barnacled wood pilings and small houses with banana trees in the backyards. He had drifted on the brackish, oil-specked water with rotting coconuts, plastic jugs, and sodden wood, and finally had come into the lights of an outdoor seafood restaurant, where one of the patrons had stood up and pointed at the shape bobbing a few yards away.

Miami homicide detectives, using the address on the victim's ID, had arrived at eight-fifteen in the morning to break the news. Mrs. Sweet came to the door. The police discovered that Mr. Sweet had not lived there since a restraining order in his divorce proceedings had ordered him out. Mr. Sweet's demise would leave his wife in full ownership of their jointly held property. They also discovered an overnight guest at the house, a former business associate of the victim.

Five minutes after the phone call from Harry, Anthony's car was accelerating out of the driveway at the Pedrosa house. Five minutes because he had allowed Gail only that much time to get dressed.

Anthony had told Harry Lasko to keep his mouth shut and to tell Jamie Sweet not to say anything else until he got there. With morning rush-hour traffic, they made it by nine o'clock.

"Exactly who do you represent, Mr. Quintana?"

Detective Evaristo Garcia had been assigned to the case, and he asked the question at the door.

Anthony said, "By complete coincidence, I represent both of them. This is my associate, Ms. Connor. We'd like to come in. They're expecting us."

There was another detective inside. Harry Lasko and Jamie Sweet were sitting on the sofa. Anthony nodded to them and smiled. "Good morning, Mrs. Sweet. Mr. Lasko." Anthony held his hand out to Jamie Sweet. "Let's chat for a few minutes."

Jamie glanced at Gail, then led Anthony toward the kitchen. Gail heard a door close. The detectives looked at Gail. She said, "Harry?"

They stood out of earshot in the foyer.

"Where are the kids?" Gail asked.

"Upstairs, still asleep." Harry Lasko's beard had grizzled his face, and his rumpled hair stood on end. His eyes were wide. "How about Wendell? Holy smokes. The guy was dealing."

"You knew him pretty well. You never suspected?"

"It's a surprise to me."

"Who do you think shot him?"

"Come on. It was a drug rip-off. They took the coke, kept the money. Wendell shouldn't have gotten involved with those guys."

"You sold your casino to one of them."

"That's different."

Gail asked, "What were you doing here last night, Harry?"

"It's not how it looks. Jamie called me, feeling blue, and I came over. We talked. I played with the kids for a while—that Bobby kept me up till two in the morning! I fell asleep on the couch in the playroom. My back is killing me." Harry's slanted brows shot up. "Say, did Anthony tell you what I wanted to do for Jamie?"

"This morning he did."

"What a break." His eyes danced with amusement. "I'm trying not to smile around the cops, but it's hard."

Gail continued to look at him.

"Uh-oh. I know what you're thinking, doll." Harry pointed at her. "I remember what I said at my condo when you came over, but I swear, on the heads of my grandchildren, I did not pull that trigger."

Hearing Anthony's voice, Gail took Harry back around the corner. He went with Anthony, and Gail went over to see about Jamie. She had apparently thrown on her clothes this morning in some haste— old jeans and a big T-shirt stained with grape juice or Kool-Aid.

"Hey, Gail." She hugged her, then asked the detectives if they'd like some coffee. "I should've fixed a pot already." They said that sounded like a great idea, and looked at their watches. "Y'all want some pecan Danish? It's leftover from yesterday, but it's still good." They declined.

The kitchen had such a shine on it Gail nearly blinked. The floor had been mopped, dishes put away, and the cabinets were clean.

Jamie smiled and pushed her unruly red hair behind one ear. "Harry did this last night. I was upstairs givin' the kids a bath. Isn't he precious?"

"Too bad he's not thirty years younger."

"Well. He's special to me, and he knows it." Jamie ran water in the coffee maker. "I'm gonna miss that old bird."

Gail pulled out a stool at the counter. "Harry thinks Wendell was dealing cocaine. Did the police ask you about that?"

"They asked, and I don't believe it. Wendell had some friends I knew were in that business, but Wendell swore to me he wouldn't touch it."

"Not even if he was desperate for money?"

Jamie concentrated on measuring coffee into the filter. She shook her head. "I could tell when Wendell was lyin' to me."

"What did Anthony say to you?"

"Mostly he wanted to know where Harry was last night. And if Harry had anything to do with Wendell." She pressed the button to turn on the coffee maker. "Anthony didn't put it that way, naturally, but that's what he was gettin' at. He's pretty cool. Like . . . I'm not gonna tell you what to say to the police, but they're gonna be looking at Harry for this." Jamie nipped a switch on the machine. "And I told him, Harry didn't do it. We were here all night, talking and playing with the kids. You ask my oldest."

She took mugs from the dishwasher, which was still loaded with clean dishes. "And he didn't hire nobody either." She put the mugs on the counter in a row, five firm thumps, then looked at Gail, daring her to say otherwise.

Gail rested her cheek on her hand. "He told you that?"

"Who, Harry? No, he didn't tell me. He didn't have to. I
know
what kind of a man Harry is. I know he wouldn't do the kids that way. Wendell was their
daddy.
Harry wouldn't have taken away their daddy. They loved Wendell. They only saw the good in him, and Harry knows that kids don't have much these days to believe in, and if they don't have their daddy . . ."