Suspicion of Malice (11 page)

"Maybe just find a man who can get it up."

"Where were you that night, Lizzie?"

"I was here with Sean and Patty, as well you
know."

"Couldn't have jumped in the car and run over to
Jack's? It would have taken five minutes to get there. Find Roger, plug him a few times. You could've told
the kids you were soaking in the tub. Or said you
were going over to give the neighbor a blow job.
'Now, don't tell your dad.' 'Okay, Mom.'"

"Stop it, Dub. That isn't fun."

"Sure it is. You can do whatever you want now.
Shit, when Porter's gone, you can even be president."

"Let's finish the game. Where were
you
that
night, Dub?"

Dub tilted the glass, sliding the last ice cube into
his mouth. "With Roger and Porter at the Black Point
Marina. We took those Canadian CEOs out for a
cruise. I sold two boats, just doing my job. As soon
as we landed, Roger split. I don't know where the
hell he went."

Liz rolled onto her stomach and slithered up till
her mouth was at his ear. "No, Dub. That's what you told the police, but you told
me
that Roger was going
over to Jack's. Did you find him? You didn't get home till two in the morning."

"I took the guys out to the Strip Mine. They
wanted to see some firm young bodies."

Her breath was hot on his neck. "Nobody would have missed you for an hour. I believe you even have
a .22 pistol in your gun locker."

"I had no reason to shoot him, Liz. I had no quar
rel with Roger, not like you."

"But you
did.
What better way to get back at Por
ter? Poor Dub. Always in second place. Porter got an
M.B.A., but you didn't finish college. Porter is presi
dent of Cresswell Yachts. You're the lowly director
of sales."

"So I was jealous and shot his son?"

"More than jealous." She burrowed closer. "Why did you rush all the way up to Aventura to tell Porter
and Claire about Roger, when Diane told you that
the police wanted to inform the family? Why, Dub?"

"Not because I hated him."

"Oh, yes. You wanted to see his reaction. You wanted to deliver the news yourself. 'Oh, boy, I get to tell Porter. I get to see him bleed.' "

"Elizabeth, you are one cold-hearted bitch."

She whispered into his ear. "It's why you married me." She left tooth prints on his earlobe, then sat up, kimono falling off one shoulder. "It's late. I'm going to take a shower. Set the alarm for six o'clock, will you? I have a meeting with the Detroit Diesel rep at
seven-thirty." Her kimono belled out behind her as
she crossed the bedroom.

In the shiny curve of the blank TV screen Dub
could see a distorted image of Lizzie going into the bathroom. The water went on. The shower door slid
shut. A minute later steam started rolling out.

What if she fell? Slipped on some soap and hit her
head on that gold-plated tub faucet that cost a thou
sand bucks for the set. Would she drown? How deep
would the water have to be?

Dub closed his eyes and drifted. He thought of his
island. A warm-skinned brown woman with breasts
ripe as mangos. The breeze in her black hair. A small
house painted yellow and turquoise. Water clear as gin, warm as blood.

Chapter 7

"Never do favors for
anyone
not on a time
sheet." Charlene stood at her desk shuffling
through papers. "There is no such thing as a five-min
ute phone consultation, don't you know that? It's like five-minute sex. They always want another one, and
they never respect you for it."

Gail had caught Charlene Marks just as she was preparing to leave for a hearing downtown. Charlene
handled divorces for sports figures, entertainers, poli
ticians, or anyone else with enough money to fight over. Before that, she'd been a prosecutor, slamming
prison doors on murderers, rapists, and assorted
armed thugs. Gail specialized in civil trial practice. Of criminal law, she had a fairly good grasp of where to find the county jail. She assumed that Charlene would be able to supply the guidance needed to field a simple telephone call from Angela Quintana's
boyfriend.

"Come on, Charlene. What do I tell him?"
Sliding files into a slim leather portfolio, Charlene looked over her glasses. The silver frames repeated
the strands in her salt-and-pepper hair. "You don't
need
five minutes. It takes five seconds. 'Bobby, if the
police contact you, tell them to call me. Tell them you are so sorry, but your mean, nasty lawyer has
ordered
you not to say a
word.'
See how easy that is?"

"For him. What do I tell the police?"

"What you
should
do," Charlene said, "is to send
this kid to a criminal lawyer. But since you've already promised to give him a quickie— Who's the victim, by the way?"

"Roger Cresswell. It's been in the news. Have you
heard about it?"

"Good God. Yes, I have heard about it. I've been
particularly interested because about two months
ago, Roger Cresswell came to see me. He sat right in that chair. He thought his wife was cheating on him.
Then he called a week later and said never mind, so
I never minded." Charlene folded her glasses. "They're
quite wealthy—his family, I mean. Roger would have
inherited everything if someone hadn't pulled his
plug. May I ask
you
a question?
What
are you think
ing? This isn't just any old murder case. The media are all over it. This kid—Bobby, right?—if there's even a chance he could be arrested, leave it alone. You don't have the experience."

"All right. If it gets sticky, I'll refer it out. You
know, Charlene, this isn't just any kid, either. Robert
Gonzalez dances for the Miami City Ballet. They have
scads of donors and board members with business
contacts, and if it gets around that I've done a credit
able job with one of their dancers, well . . ."

"Ahhhh. I see. Assuming he's innocent." Charlene lifted a slate gray, raw silk jacket off its hanger be
hind the door. "Not to throw ants on your picnic,
but I was in the system for fifteen years, and believe
me, ninety percent of them are guilty as hell."

"But he hasn't even been arrested, much less indicted. If I can show that Bobby couldn't have done
it, they'll leave him alone. He'll be happy, the ballet
will be happy, and I might pick up a few clients."

'"You mean represent him solely for purposes of
striking him off the list of suspects. Yes, you could
do that, but be prepared to dump him the moment
you hear the words 'arrest warrant.' Not to worry. I
have a referral list of criminal lawyers." Charlene put the narrow strap of a black Gucci bag over her shoul
der. "Follow me out, we'll talk."

Charlene's skirts were hemmed several inches
above her knees, and the slit in the back revealed an incredible pair of legs. Even with her mane of gray
hair, men thirty years younger would stare. She waved goodbye to the receptionist, and pushed through the heavy paneled door.

"Okay, here's what you do. Debrief him on every
thing he did for several hours either side of when
Roger Cresswell was last seen, and when they found his body. Where was your client during all this time? Who'saw him? Witnesses, witnesses. And have him
tell you what he knows about Roger Cresswell to
sniff out a reason somebody else might have
whacked him—but a gold Rolex is motive enough."

"So is getting rid of your husband before he can
file for divorce." At the elevators Gail pressed the
down arrow. "You wouldn't mind sharing your
notes, would you? The prospective divorce client is
now dead."

"What a waste. He was so blond and buff, with
pretty blue eyes. He gave me distinctly unmaternal urges. I'm such a bad girl. What was his wife's name?
Something silly. Nikki, that's it. He paid for her
breast implants, and she was nagging for lipo on
her butt."

The doors opened and the women went inside, facing their own images in bronze-tinted mirrors. Light
jazz played on hidden speakers.

Charlene leaned closer to the mirror to check her
makeup, pinching a piece of mascara off her lashes. "Ask Bobby what he told the cops. Defendants al
ways run off at the mouth. They just have to explain
themselves. That tendency was of great help to me as a prosecutor, but it can screw up the defense.
How's my hair?"

"Fine."

At the lobby the doors slid open, and Charlene put a foot across the track. "I'll be back from court by eleven-thirty. We'll leave at noon. Are you okay? Did you bring everything you need? You're still spending
the night at my place, aren't you?"

"Got my toothbrush and jammies," Gail said.

"Good. We'll bring home some takeout and a bottle of Dom Perignon and get smashed. Tomorrow's
Saturday; you can sleep as late as you want." Charlene smiled and gently squeezed Gail's hand. "It's
going to be all right."

Sitting at her desk, Gail worked through the corre
spondence and pleadings and assorted junk that
seemed to sprout like weeds on her desk every night.
She typed notes into her computer, pausing every
now and then to nibble a soda cracker. The nausea was easing, but mornings were still iffy.

Calls came in during the morning but none from
Robert Gonzalez. By 11:15, Gail had given up on him.
Then Miriam buzzed her that he had arrived.

"He's here? As in, standing on the other side of my
door?" She looked at her watch and quietly cursed.

Miriam brought him in. Bobby Gonzalez did not
walk—he moved in a combination of lope and glide.
A baggy green T-shirt hung from square shoulders. He wore loose cargo shorts, and the muscles in his legs were so sharply defined they looked chiseled.

"I know I was supposed to call, but I wanted to meet you, so I took the bus—my car's got a radiator
leak—and you have to make like two transfers, then get on the Metrorail, and by the time I got to the Dadeland Station I said, well, I'm here now, no point calling." He sounded as if he'd just stepped off the subway from the Bronx.

Gail gestured toward a chair. "Yes. Well, we have
a little time. I'm sorry, but I absolutely must leave
at noon."

"No problem. I can't stay too long, either." He dropped his backpack on the floor and set a Yankees ball cap on top of it. Black curls fell onto his forehead. "It's very nice of you to talk to me, Ms. Connor." Thick eyebrows arched, and his wide mouth
hovered in the smile of a person who wasn't quite
sure what to expect. He sat forward, then back, then on the edge of his chair, glancing around the room,
taking in the plants on the windowsill, the maple
wood furniture, the certificates and licenses on the
wall.

Gail said, "I enjoyed you last night in
Tarantella."

"Yeah? Thanks. I'm hoping to do it in the season, if they make me a soloist. It's a gut-buster. That's what Edward calls it."

"Edward . . ."

"Edward Villella. He's the director. He
started
the
Miami City Ballet."

"Of course. He's from New York."

"Right, so am I. East Harlem. He's Italian, from
Queens. I'm the same height as him, and we have
the same body type. What I really want"—Bobby
knocked his knuckles on the arm of the chair—"is
to dance
Rubies
someday. It was choreographed for Edward by Balanchine. You know who
he
is, right?"

"Of course. Well, I should come see you. When does the season start?"

"Our first performance is in late October. Hey,
anytime you want tickets, you let me know. I'll get
you some house seats."

Gail caught sight of her clock on a shelf across
the room. "I suppose we ought to talk about why
you're here."

"No problem." Bobby sat on the edge of the chair,
clearing his throat, bouncing his knees.

"Angie told me that the police have been asking you questions about the Cresswell murder, and you
prefer not to talk to them. You don't have to. If they
have questions, you can refer them to a lawyer. To
me, if you wish, but you should know that I'm not
an expert in criminal law. My specialty is commercial
litigation—trial work for business cases, personal in
jury, things like that."