Suspicion of Malice (24 page)

"She's sick?"

Bobby smiled at Angela as if she had said something funny. He kissed her forehead.
"Mi angelita.
You're too sweet. She's pregnant."

Gail was driving slowly down the ramp in the parking garage when she saw a girl running toward her
from the other direction. She waved for Gail to stop.

Pulling to one side, Gail pressed the button to
lower the window.

"Ms. Connor? I almost couldn't find you." She
took a breath. "I'm Diane Cresswell. I apologize if
you're in a hurry. . . ."

"No, it's fine. Wait. Let me park the car." She
pulled into another space and turned off the engine.
When she got out, Diane Cresswell extended one
finely boned hand. Her yellow tank top hung loose
outside a miniskirt that showed off her legs. The muscles were slim and smooth, but Gail thought a
tuning fork might make a nice ringing noise if tapped
on her thigh.

Gail said, "I'm glad to meet you. I saw you dance
on Lincoln Road last week. It was lovely. And please accept my condolences for your cousin. I know it's
hard to lose someone in your family."

"Thank you. We didn't know each other that well,
Roger and I. He was a lot older. I feel so sorry for
his mom and dad."

"I think my mother might know your aunt Claire,”
Gail said. "She belongs to the Ballet Guild."

"Mmmm. Then I may have met her. Aunt Claire
is in the Guild, too."

Waiting for whatever would come next, Gail studied the girl who had found Roger Cresswell's bullet-riddled body. She was different from the ballerina at the theater, but there she had danced in full makeup.
Her platinum hair was tied with a bow at the nape
of her long neck, and her brows were delicate curves.

She said, "It's good I saw you, because I was think
ing I might need a lawyer. Not for anything
major,
just a question—if you have a minute?" Her words were soft and perfectly enunciated.

"Yes, of course. We could find some coffee if you like."

"That would be nice, but unfortunately, I have a costume fitting at nine o'clock."

"Well, then. How can I help you?"

"It's about a painting my cousin Maggie did—a portrait of me when I was twelve years old." Diane paused. "You know who she is, right?" When Gail
nodded, she went on, "It was at my parents' house.
My uncle Porter gave it to them, but they didn't like it. They only wanted it because Maggie was famous,
so I took it to my cousin's gallery. That's Jack Pascoe.
Well, he's not really my cousin, but—"

"Yes, I know who Jack Pascoe is," Gail said.

"Okay. Jack says if I can establish ownership I could sell it and buy an apartment on the beach. I
don't think I
want
to sell it because I'm sure my
cousin Maggie meant it for me. Anyway, my mother says if I don't bring the painting back, she'll call the
police. I don't know what to do. Jack says I should
get some legal advice."

"Surely your own mother wouldn't have you
arrested."

A smile played at the corner of her mouth. "You
don't know my mother."

"No, I don't." Gail wanted to pull this girl by the
elbow to the nearest bench.
Tell me about your mother,
your father, your aunt and uncle. Tell me about Jack
Pascoe. And tell me about Roger. Who wanted him dead?

Gail said, "Well, I'd need to have the facts before
I give you an opinion. We should talk about it.
Would you like to come by my office?"

"Angela Quintana said you might not charge. I have to be careful with money."

"There's no charge for a consultation." Gail smiled at her. "I'd love to see the portrait sometime. Where
do you keep it?"

The answer was what Gail had hoped for. "At my place. I live in a cottage behind Jack Pascoe's house.
Where the party was."

There was a quick intelligence behind Diane Cress
well's cool blue eyes. Gail said, "Maybe we could
talk there. Save you a trip?"

"Today?"

"This weekend. I can't on Saturday, but maybe Sunday. Would that be convenient?"

"Sure. What time?"

"Give me your phone number. I'll check my sched
ule and let you know." She went back into her car
for a pen and notepad. As Diane was writing, Gail
said, "Bobby must have told you quite a bit. He
really should be careful about that."

"We're very good friends." Diane lifted one shoul
der in a small shrug. "Discretion is a virtue, they
say."

"Yes, it is. We should all practice it."

"I agree."

After another moment or two, Gail said, "I'll call
you."

"Thanks."

Diane Cresswell shouldered her dance bag and hurried toward the exit.

Traffic in Miami, barely tolerable in off-hours, was
so snarled at nine, even heading south, that it took
an hour for Gail to get from the beach to her office. Jammed behind a landscaper's truck with a flapping
load of palm trees, Gail reached for her portable
phone. With one eye on the road and a knee bracing the steering wheel, Gail quickly punched in Charlene
Marks's number.

The receptionist said Charlene was on her way to
court.

Gail disconnected and tried her cell phone, and Charlene answered. She said, "My God, I'm on U.S.
One, too! Wave as you go past. What's up?"

Gail filled her in.

A laugh came over the line. "I don't
believe
this!"

"I should have predicted it," Gail said. "He and
Nate Harris are friends. If the judge gets himself into a little problem, of course he's going to go to the one
man devious enough to pull him out of it."

"Can you trust him?"

"Of course not, but it's the best alternative for
Bobby. He gets the benefit of an investigator on the
case. It could work." Gail adjusted the vent on the
air conditioner to blow more directly on her neck.

"Are you going to tell him about seeing Diane
Cresswell?"

"Why not? I won't let him go with me, but we
need to share information. Charlene, I need a favor."

"Oh, dear."

"Your notes on Roger Cresswell.
Por favor."

Charlene promised to call her secretary and have the copies waiting when Gail came to get them.

There wasn't much—a client intake form and two
handwritten pages torn from a legal pad. Gail
scanned them in the elevator, trying to puzzle out
cryptic symbols and nearly illegible handwriting.
Charlene had not been happy to give up her notes, but Gail had pointed out that a dead client was not
likely to raise the issue of attorney-client privilege.

Gail found her door unlocked, meaning that her
secretary had arrived. Before she could cross the
small waiting area, the inner door opened, and Miriam Ruiz's wide-eyed face appeared.

"Ay,
Gail! Guess who just called."

"Who?"

She trotted after Gail into her office. At twenty-
two, Miriam still had the enthusiasm of a teenager,
and her corkscrew hair bounced on her shoulders.
"No, you have to guess."

Gail tossed her purse to her desk. "Anthony
Quintana?"

Large brown eyes blinked. "Yes! How did you know?"

"We sort of
...
ran into each other last night on
opposite sides of a case. He's representing Judge
Harris."

"No!"

"Que si,"
Gail replied. "What did he say?" She put
a hand on her telephone.

"He asked if you were here, and I said no, and he said call as soon as you get in." Miriam twisted her
fingers together. "What are you going to do?"

"Call him back?"

"Do you need the number?"

"I seem to remember it."

At the door Miriam said, "He sounded exactly the
same. He asked how I was. And if I got my degree
yet in my accounting program. He asked about the
baby. He remembered Berto's broken tooth!"

Gail picked up the handset and smiled at her.
"Yes, isn't he just charming? Go on. Let me call him.
I'll tell you all about it."

"Oh, sure. Sorry."

The door clicked shut. Gail looked at the handset for a moment, then dropped it back on the telephone.
It was still early, only 10:15. Better to read Charlene's
notes first. Then write a memo, which could be e-
mailed to him. But before anything, some coffee, lots
of it. She'd had a bad night. The window had lightened to pale gray before she had finally slept.

A month ago Gail had leased a larger suite up
stairs, which had its own compact kitchen. Now the coffeepot sat on a small refrigerator in the secretarial
area, and they got their water from the ladies' room
down the hall. But Gail bypassed the pot in favor of
the Styrofoam cup of
cafe cubano
that Miriam had
bought in the cafeteria. She lifted the lid and poured some into a one-ounce plastic cup.

Miriam was watching her from behind her com
puter. "Did you call him?"

"I'm fortifying my nerves."

"Was it okay last night?" Miriam was looking at
her like a puppy left out in the rain. "Did you . . .
talk about things?"

Gail sipped the
cafe.
"No, and I don't plan to." She gave Miriam a quick smile. "The man is a complete asshole. My only regret is that it took me so long to see it."

"Wow. You're in a mood."

"Rotten," Gail cheerfully agreed. "If he calls again,
I'm not here." She tossed the empty cup into the
trash. "I'll call when I'm ready."

At her desk she kicked off her shoes and sat with one leg under her, reading. Most of Charlene's notes
had to do with money. Making a joke—or maybe
not—she had once told Gail,
The first two questions for any potential client are How big a check can you write me?
and
Will it clear the bank?
Gail didn't particularly
wonder why he hadn't come back. Charlene's initial retainers started at $10,000, and Roger could have
been shopping around.

Roger Charles Cresswell. Only son of Claire and Porter Cresswell. Age thirty-two. Worked at Cress
well Yachts, executive V.P., making $250,000 a year.
Before that, he ran the company's leasing operation. An entire page was devoted to assets and liabilities. Stocks, bonds, mutual funds—all highly margined.
Condo in the Grove, owned by Roger and Nikki—
big mortgage. His Porsche and her BMW were
leased. They had a few thousand dollars in a savings
account. They owed a staggering amount on their
charge cards. Charlene had written,
Wife a spendthrift.
Gail wanted to add,
What about you, Roger?

They had been living large, but it was all show,
except for the shares of Cresswell Yachts, a ten per
cent ownership, which Roger had acquired along
with his new job as company V.P. Charlene had lovingly written, and underlined several times, the fig
ure of $20,000,000.

Gail mentally filled in the blanks left by Charlene's
abbreviated style. Daddy had drawn Roger back to
the family fold by giving him ten percent of the business. Roger had alienated Uncle Duncan and Aunt Elizabeth. Daddy had wanted his job back. Charlene had written,
Old man going mental?
Roger's opinion,
anyway. Had the old man been crazy enough to
shoot his own son?

The juicier details were on the other page. Nikki
Cresswell, age twenty-six. Married four years. They'd
met when the ad agency she'd worked for had done
Roger's boat leasing ads.
Possible adultery?
Gail
wished Charlene hadn't put a question mark after the word. She wished Roger had said with whom.

Roger's first Christmas present to Nikki had been
a set of breast implants. Then the other enticements—
cosmetic dentistry, ladies' Rolex, Caribbean cruise
(first-class cabin), set of Ping golf clubs, weekends in
New York, membership at a health spa. Then the diamond engagement ring.
Wife refuses to work full
time.
Well, duh.