Suspicion of Innocence (46 page)

"Did she?" Gail was shivering, her jaw tight, her arms across her chest. It wasn't the wind.

Anthony's eyes were searching her. "Renee became better. Happier with herself. You should know that about her, too. We spoke a few times afterward, and that was my impression."

Gail could barely get the words out. "Why did you tell me these things?"

He took some time to answer. "Because you have the wrong idea of what I am. I would never have told you this if you had not found out about Renee and me. Never. I knew she would come between us. She's in your mind too much. When you were with me last week you told me what she was like. You described her. On the terrace, as you fainted, you said you saw her."

"I said that?"

"Yes. You called her name."

Gail turned her back on the wind and held her hair with one hand.

Anthony was closer now. She could feel the heat of his body. "When you came to—when I was holding you— Renee was still there. You did what you thought Renee might have done. You said that, too. But it wasn't Renee I made love to. It was you. Do you think that I touch you and think of Renee? Gail, you're nothing like her. Believe me, I would know."

She laughed. "Oh, God. Stop. What did you expect would happen? Two adults, unattached. I come running to you to save me from Frank Britton. My hero. Plus you're tall, dark, and macho. Add a couple hours of intense conversation.
¡Salsa!"

He leaned around her. "And that's what you think? An impulse? I have wanted you since the day we walked on Flagler Street. The moment you told me to go screw myself with that letter from Nancy Darden to Carlos, or words to that effect."

She looked back toward Bayside. "Anthony. You're a dangerous man. I don't need this. I really don't."

"And what did you call me? Latino macho—?"

She knew he saw her smile. "More or less." She could feel the heat pulsing through her body. Stupid, stupid, she thought.

He said, "For you—tell me if I'm wrong—it wasn't an impulse either."

"I don't know you," she said. "I don't know what I want with you."

"No?"

"No," she said.

"We should find out," he said.

"Oh, you think so."

"Yes. We should."

"Tell me something." She turned her head. "Do you always make love in Spanish?"

A smile started at the corners of his mouth, moved to his eyes. She could have fallen into them. He said, "Come home with me. I'll show you."

She nodded, feeling the desire. She could hardly breathe. He kissed her and she turned to him, slipped her arms under his coat. Warm, solid. The delicious scent of him. Whatever he had done, she didn't care.

His tongue went into her mouth, along her teeth, going deeper. She pushed her hips against him. He was ready. She wished she had a skirt on. Wished no one else was there, she would pull it up herself. She slid her hand between them, heard him groan.

He tightened his fingers in her hair and tilted back her head. His mouth went to her ear. She shuddered, sagged against him. In clear English he told her what he would do to her.

It was somewhere near dawn. A pale gray light was coming through the curtains. She had awakened to the sound of ringing. A telephone.

Anthony was speaking softly, not to wake her, propped up on one elbow. Gail closed her eyes, burrowed deeper into the blankets, felt the warmth of his bare hip and thigh.

Gradually she became aware that the tone of his voice was wrong. She pulled the blanket away from her face, blinked.

"Who else did you call? . . . No, I'll do it, as soon as—" He ran his fingers into his hair. "Okay. Thank you." He quietly replaced the phone but didn't lie down again.

She sat up and touched his back. "Anthony?"

He turned his head to look at her. "Carlos is dead."

Twenty-Three

The rain had slackened to a light mist by the time Anthony turned his Cadillac onto the Loop Road. The Loop ran south off the Tamiami Trail, making a meandering U shape before cutting back north.

Gail sat in the passenger seat. It was just past eight in the morning. She had told him he might as well take her along, because she would follow in her own car if he didn't.

Anthony turned the windshield wipers to intermittent. He hadn't said much during the trip from Key Biscayne. His hands were tight on the wheel, his body hunched forward a little. He kept the speed up, trees and tangled bushes blurring past, tires rattling over the potholes. He had told her what he knew. Late yesterday afternoon a cane fisherman had noticed the back end of a car about four feet under the water in a weedy pond. The fisherman flagged down a state trooper when he got back on the Trail. It was raining hard by then and getting dark. They waited until first light to call a tow truck. The shift commander knew Ernesto Pedrosa but didn't want to notify the old man right away. He had called Anthony instead.

They saw the flashing lights a couple miles in, police vehicles blocking the left side of the narrow road—Metro squad cars, a couple of vans, a black-and-tan Florida Highway Patrol cruiser. Yellow tape had been strung from tree to tree. Police Line Do Not Cross. A few onlookers had gathered, early-morning fishermen most likely, their pickup trucks and rusty sedans parked on down the road. An ambulance waited to one side, lights off. No hurry.

The back bumper of the silver Mercedes had been unhooked from the wrecker. The trunk was open. Police leaned in, looking.

Anthony drove slowly past, found a place to park. He turned off the engine. "Wait in the car."

"Why?"

He looked at her. "Stay out of the way, then. I don't want anybody to ask what Gail Connor is doing here."

They got out, mist turning to drizzle. Gail stayed on her side of the yellow tape. Anthony ducked under it, then spoke to the cop who came to see what he wanted. They went over to the Mercedes, behind the open trunk lid. Gail noticed the headlamps. One of the little gold wipers was twisted back, the light smashed. Dirt and leaves stuck to the heavy chrome grill. The windows were foggy with grit.

She glanced toward the road. A dark blue sedan with a small rooftop antenna had just come to a stop. Frank Britton got out, closed the door. Gail ducked behind a heavy man in boots and overalls.

A couple of men rolled a gurney over to the Mercedes. The cops moved back. She could see Anthony now, his face grim. He came toward her. She went under the tape, met him halfway, took his arm. They stood next to a green-and-white, the chatter of a police radio coming through the half-open window.

Raindrops silvered Anthony's hair. He said, "It's Carlos. He was shot. Twice. Once in the back of the neck, once in the temple. His hands were tied."

"My God," Gail breathed. "Are you okay?"

Anthony nodded. His color wasn't good. He hadn't shaved and he looked tired.

They waited. The men with the gurney rolled it to the back door of the ambulance. There was a black body bag on the gurney. When it was loaded the attendant slammed the door, got in. The lights went on, but not the siren. The ambulance pulled up on the road, crunching gravel, heading to wherever they would take Carlos Pedrosa's body. Gail didn't know how she felt about this.

Frank Britton ended his conversation with a state trooper in a yellow rain slicker. He lifted his hand, then turned and walked toward Gail and Anthony.

Anthony said, "Frank."

"Hell of a thing, buddy. Sorry as can be." Britton looked at Gail, sizing up the situation. "Ms. Connor, it's kind of a surprise to see you out here. Did you know Mr. Pedrosa?"

Anthony said, "Frank. She's not talking to the police."

Britton's glasses had drops of water on them. He was wearing a tan windbreaker, shirt and tie underneath. The rain was beading up on the shoulders. He said, "Is there something I should know about?"

Gail said, "Sergeant, I have nothing to say to you."

His eyes lingered on her, then shifted to Anthony. "You know if Carlos carried a gun?"

"I believe a thirty-eight," Anthony said. "Was it in the car?"

Britton shook his head. "Where are the car keys?"

"Didn't find them either. We've got Recovery coming out, we'll see what's in the water. So what do you think? Any ideas?"

"Not immediately," Anthony said. "Carlos had some financial problems. He owed money. Looks like a professional hit."

"Looks that way," Britton said.

"How long was he down there?" Anthony asked.

"Day and a half? Two?"

Gail glanced around at the half a dozen people standing behind the yellow tape. Britton read her thoughts. He said, "Tell you about this road. Not too many people out here after dark. And if you happen to pass by, and you see a car like this one parked, with its lights off, you don't stop and ask if the guy needs a ride."

Gail asked, "Did it happen here?"

"Don't know yet." Britton spoke to Anthony. "How about if we talk for a few minutes?"

Anthony said, "Ms. Connor and I need to get back to Miami."

"I’ll want to speak to you at some point," Britton said. "Preferably today."

Anthony gave a formal nod of his head. "I'll be with my family. You can reach me at Ernesto Pedrosa's home, Coral Gables."

He led Gail back to his Cadillac, held the door for her, then went around and got in. He closed his eyes for a few seconds. The interior of the car was silent, only the light rain ticking on the roof.

"How's your grandfather going to take this?" she said.

"Not well." Anthony put the key in the ignition, turned it. "I wish I didn't have to be the one to tell him."

"Is there anything I can do?"

He smiled at her. "No."

Anthony turned on the lights and windshield wipers and made a U-turn back toward Miami, gravel kicking up against the underside of the car until they hit the pavement.

She said, "I wouldn't tell him Carlos was stealing his money. There's no point, is there?"

He shook his head. ''But for your case, Ray Hammell will need to use that information."

Gail sat silently for a while, knowing how hollow any attempt at sympathy would sound. She noticed his car phone. "It's nearly nine," she said. "Let me call my office. I'll be late."

He punched the buttons one-handed, steering with the other. Gail told Gwen at Hartwell Black she had some personal matters to attend to. Then Gail asked Anthony to dial her mother's house. "I have to let her know you haven't kidnapped me," she said.

"Not yet."

When they came out on the Trail again, Anthony glanced to his left for traffic, then turned east, picked up speed. He hung up the phone when she gave it back to him.

Gail said, "If Carlos is gone, how does that affect my trial?"

Anthony thought for a minute. "It depends on how Ray handles it. Carlos won't be around to refute the allegations. However, it might look too convenient to blame a dead man. And the jury will wonder about the connection. Why did Carlos die just now? You heard Britton. It was in his mind already."

"What, did I kill Carlos, too?"

"Not you." Anthony adjusted the digital control on the AC. "He thinks I might have done it. When I see him today, that's probably what he'll try to find out."

"Are you serious?" Gail gave a little laugh. "Well, Mr. Quintana. And where were you on the night in question?"

Anthony smiled at her. ''If it was last night, you know where I was."

Gail let her eyes go to the road. The windshield wipers moved silently on the glass. She wanted to ask him. The question was sitting in her mouth, pressing on her teeth.
Did you do it? Or did you hire someone? You would know the people to contact. Did you do it?

She crossed her arms, the knuckles of her left hand against her lips, wondering where the hell she had gotten that idea. Lack of sleep, maybe. General paranoia. But she wanted to hear him say no and make her believe it.

Anthony took her hand, kissed her fingers, then tucked it into his lap with his own hand tightly curled around hers. Gail smiled at him, then looked back at the road.

Twenty-Four

Gail stood at the bathroom mirror in the skirt to her blue suit and a camisole, putting on her makeup. Irene came in. Gail supposed she wanted to hear about Carlos again. "More coffee?" Irene asked.

"No, thanks, I'm late as it is." Gail rummaged through her makeup bag. After a week at Irene's, she had still not unpacked it. She found the right eye shadow, clicked open the box, leaned closer to the mirror.

Irene set her own mug of coffee on the vanity. "By the way. Jimmy Panther called me last night. I forgot to mention it, with all this about Carlos Pedrosa. Jimmy says Edith Newell has been after him to donate that Tequesta deer mask to the museum. He says he's thinking about it, but he can't just give it away."