Suspicion of Malice (27 page)

"Believe in a delusion? When he finds out the truth, what then?"

"He wouldn't. He might die before the arrange
ments were made—it could take a year or two—but
he would be happy."

"Alicia, no. Are you as crazy as he is? How can
you suggest such a thing? Listen to me. Ernesto Pedrosa can't go to Cuba. He cannot. No arrangements
in the world would allow him entry. They'd arrest
him as a traitor as soon as he got off the plane. He's a wanted man. He would be put on trial. He
knows
this."

"He wants you to take him in secretly."

Anthony let his head fall back on the headrest.
"Jesus Christ."

"You've done it, Anthony. You do it all the time, to go visit
papi
and Marta and the kids."

"I don't sneak in. I go through Mexico. I get off a plane at Jose Marti Airport in Havana, where Ernesto
Pedrosa's name is on a list. If our father weren't a decorated hero, I would probably be arrested."

"But people do sneak in, don't they? Tell him there's a way. It would make him so happy."

"Alicia . . ."He laughed in disbelief. "Does Nena
know about this?"

"He says he hasn't told her. She would never let him go."

"Good. Then someone is thinking clearly."

"Anthony, talk to him. Tell him you'll go with
him."

"Absolutely not."

"Did I say you really have to do it? Did I? Just tell
him you will."

"I won't lie to him."

"Yes! He needs to believe it's possible. He needs
hope. Imagine how he feels, facing death knowing that he will never see home again. Ever."

"What of his promises? He swore—swore on the
sanctity of the virgin and the blood of Christ—that
he would never go back as long as the regime was
in power. He financed acts of terrorism. Was his life
a lie? Everything he believed in?"

"I know, I know."

"He threw me out of the house. He called me a
communist. I had to move out of Miami so I could breathe. Now you tell me that none of it
mattered?"

Alicia was still looking at him patiently. "Will you see him?"

"No."

"Anthony." Gently Alicia took his arm and hugged it. "Some things must be done because they're right,
and we have to put aside how we feel. You need to for
give him. And yourself. You're my brother, and I
know you. At heart, you're a good man."

He stared at the street. "I'm not good, Alicia, what
ever that may be. I'm not like you. My sweet sister. You
are the best woman in the world. An angel. Why do
you stay with Octavio Reyes? What does he do to deserve you?" Anthony looked at her fiercely.

Her eyes widened. Blue as the sea. "Octavio
doesn't have to
do
anything. I love him. He's the
father of my children. Love doesn't depend on
whether we deserve it or not. It's just . . . given."

Anthony dropped his forehead into his palm. He
wanted to weep.

"Oh, what's this?" Alicia pulled at the string on
his sleeve.

"Don't—"

The button came off in her hand. "I'm sorry. Leave
your coat with me. I can sew it back on."

"I'll take it to my tailor."

"For a button?" She laughed. "You're so useless."
She pushed his jacket off his shoulder. "Come on. Let me have it."

"No, Alicia, I have to be in court this afternoon.
It's all right." He took the button from her and
dropped it into his pocket.

His sister folded her hands in her lap. It seemed
she had run out of words.

Anthony said, "I don't know what to do about
Ernesto."

She leaned over and kissed his cheek. "Remember
I love you, whatever you decide."

Stopping to talk to his sister meant that Anthony had
to hold his Eldorado on eighty miles an hour until
the exit for Aventura. Speeding tickets were only a minor risk. Highway patrolmen were generally absent from me expressways in Miami until rush hour, when they were hardly needed, since it was impossi
ble to go over thirty.

The valet who took his car told him that Mrs. Cress
well could be found at the marina. Anthony left his coat and tie in the car and rolled up his shirt sleeves.
A brisk wind on the intracoastal waterway ruffled
his hair as he walked around the corner of the building. There were a few dozen sail and power boats at
the docks that fingered into the water, and a sleek
white yacht was tied along the seawall. The bow jutted toward him, and the bridge was a curve of tinted
glass. Coming closer, he could see four or five people
onboard, one of them a big, gray-haired man with a
crooked mouth and wide jaw. Porter Cresswell.

His wife stood in the shade of a tiki hut on shore.
Her white cotton hat turned in Anthony's direction.
The brim sparkled with rhinestones, and sunglasses hid her eyes. She extended her hands. "Anthony. It's good to see you again. Thank you for your kindness.
The flowers you sent, and the lovely letter."

"All too inadequate," he said. "Are you going boating?"

"No, I'm having lunch with
you.
The boys are
going out, Porter and Dub and some men from the company. It's a brand-new boat, and they want to make sure it doesn't sink." She laughed gaily.

The boat had no name on the stern. There were no curtains at the windows, no carpeting or furniture. All this would be added, Claire explained, after the
boat passed its water test and went back to the yard.
They didn't usually bring them all the way up here, but Porter felt like going out.

"I'm glad," Claire said. "He's always loved the
water. A wonderful fisherman. Roger was too."

This close to the ocean the heat was bearable.
Claire looked fresh in a crisp blue shirt and white
walking shorts. Her legs were still shapely. She'd
been a dancer, Anthony recalled.

She said, "We'll have lunch upstairs after the men
are gone. Porter likes me to wave bye to him. Let's sit down for a minute." She took one of the molded
plastic chairs, and Anthony pulled another beside
her. She said quietly, "Nate told me everything. I
haven't told Porter yet. Should I?"

"Of course a wife has a duty to confide in her
husband." He added, "I leave that up to you."

A little smile tugged at a corner of her mouth. "I
suppose that if you
wanted
Porter to know, you
would have insisted on his being with us for lunch.
No, don't answer."

One of the men picked up a cooler and carried it
up the portable wooden steps, then went aboard
through the gate in the side. The moment he set
down the cooler, a heavy man sprawled on the bench
seat opened the lid and pulled out a beer. Anthony
recognized him as Porter's brother, Duncan, who had arrived at the condo with the news of Roger's death. He jammed his beer can into an insulated foam cover
and popped the top. "Let's go. Hoist the mains'l
cap'n! All ashore that's going ashore."

From the bridge Porter shouted, "Hold your water, we're checking the GPS." He noticed Anthony sitting under the tiki hut and lifted a hand. A gold Cresswell emblem was embroidered on the front of his white
captain's hat. "Hello! Claire said you'd be by.
Come aboard."

Claire called back, "In a minute, honey. It's too hot." She crossed her legs and swung a foot, clad in
a tennis shoe. "Porter says the police think Bobby
Gonzalez killed Roger, but they can't prove it yet."

"With all respect to the police, they're on the
wrong track. Bobby is innocent." A doubt still lin
gered—Bobby had not yet explained his whereabouts
after midnight—but to admit that now would be fatal
to Anthony's purpose.

Claire exhaled. "I'm so relieved. Bobby is a de
lightful young man. They're going to promote him
to soloist this season, you know. I
knew
Porter was
wrong, and I made him promise not to gossip about
it. What can I do to help?"

"We can talk over lunch," Anthony said.

"Tell me now."

The engines started with a deep rumble, and water
splashed from exhausts at the stern. Anthony
watched Porter Cresswell carefully make his way down the ladder from the bridge. He moved like an
old man.

"Nate told you that we need to direct the investigation toward another suspect. To do that, I have to
know your son. Who he was. His friends, his ene
mies. I'm particularly interested in his relations with
those who were closest to him."

"You don't mean the family."

"For now, with regret, I can't rule anyone out."

The brim of her hat turned quickly toward him.
"How can you ask me to accuse someone in my
own family?"

"No, not to accuse, only to give me a direction. I
wouldn't be here if I didn't believe that you care about Nate."

"Of course I do, very much, but you're wrong. No one in the family would have wanted to harm Roger. We're a very close, loving family. We take vacations
together. Last year for Christmas we all went to
Puerto Rico on our boat. We have a successful busi
ness. It wouldn't be that way if we didn't get along."

Anthony leaned a little closer. "I am sorry, Claire.
I have to start with certain facts. Two months ago
Roger consulted a lawyer about a divorce from his wife, Nikki. The night he was killed, he argued with your nephew, Jack Pascoe. Two weeks ago, you told
me that Roger had problems at the company with
Dub and Elizabeth. You said that the situation was
so bad, Porter's mind had been affected. None of you
revealed anything to the police, did you? But it exists,
Claire. You know this."

She protested. "There were some disagreements,
but no one had a reason to
...
to hurt Roger. That
couldn't have happened."

With regret in his voice, Anthony said, "Very soon
the police will see—as you do—that Bobby Gonzalez
is innocent. When that happens, they will turn their
attention to the victim's family. They will question
everyone again, much more intensely. Your names will be in file news, and every detail of your lives
will be exposed. The tabloids will send photo
graphers."

"Don't threaten me like that.
Please
don't." Her
sunglasses were not so dark that he couldn't see the
accusation in her eyes.

"Then help me. If you care about Nate Harris,
you'll do it. We were looking at Maggie's painting in
your gallery, do you remember? You said you were grateful to Nate for keeping her closer to you, be
cause she had spent most of her life in the Northeast. You said that before your daughter died, Nate gave her at least a little happiness. Are you going to turn your back on him now? For what? Are you so con
cerned about family image that you would let Nate be destroyed, and your son's killer go free?"

Claire's mouth opened, then clamped shut in a
firm line. She pushed herself out of her chair and
strode across the grass to the edge of the dock, where
the motor yacht blazed white in the sun. Anthony
followed. Through the long window of dark glass,
he saw someone moving about inside. The bass rum
ble of the engines increased in pitch as the man at
the helm played with the controls.

Duncan Cresswell's sunglasses shifted toward Anthony. The wind blew thinning hair across his wide,
ruddy forehead. "Hey, we've met before."

From the dock Claire said, "This is Anthony
Quintana, a friend of Nate's."

Dub didn't get up, but he leaned into a handshake.
"Sure. I remember."

Anthony moved back to let one of the crew walk
by on the side of the boat. Like the others, he wore
a white Cresswell Yachts shirt. He stepped over the
railing and jumped down to the dock, where he
began to untie the lines securing the bow. His legs and forearms were corded with muscle.

It was time to leave, Anthony thought. His burst
of impatience had only alienated Claire Cresswell. He
had just lost his most valuable source of information.