Suspicion of Vengeance (19 page)

"Yeah, he came out a lot. I remember him. Rich asshole. Excuse me."

"He told the police he rarely came to the site."

"That's a lie. When I worked there, before I got fired, I saw him around a lot. Did he know Amber Dodson?"

"He said no, but I'm going to check it out."

"Why the hell didn't my first lawyer ask me any of this?"

"Meadows was a drunk. If we can get you a new trial, you'll have the best."

"You?"

"Not me. Anthony Quintana. I'll twist his arm."

"Hey. Your brilliant boyfriend."

"What I really hope for," Gail said, "is to prove that you're innocent. If we can do that, you're out of here, but for now, let's just think about a stay of execution. That would give us more time."

"Prove that I'm innocent? How you going to pull that off?"

"Find the person who did it."

"You're too much." Laughing softly, Kenny Ray Clark leaned against the wall again and rolled his head into a comfortable position.

His eyes shifted to her. "Why are you doing this? Helping me."

Gail played with her pen, turning it around and around before setting it on her notes. "I've asked myself that too. I care very much about Ruby. She was so good to us and I never really knew how good, until I had a child of my own. Maybe it's a way to say thank you, that's all."

After a few seconds, Kenny said, "Yeah, she's a sweet lady. I've caused her some heartache."

"You can make it up to her, Kenny. Just want to live. Okay? Come on, let's get back to work."

"Slave driver."

CHAPTER 12

Wednesday, March 14

Anthony Quintana had dinner with his grandparents, and afterward helped the old man up to bed. They talked over a few more details about the trip to Cuba before Ernesto nodded off. Anthony went back downstairs to the study and called Hector Mesa's beeper, leaving the numeric code that would let Hector know he was wanted at the Pedrosa house.

Anthony sat at his grandfather's desk, and as a favor to his grandmother, went over some of the family's corporate accounts. He lit a cigar—not one of the Dominicans in his grandfather's humidor but one of his own Romeo y Julietas. Ernesto stubbornly refused to buy Cuban-made cigars.

Ten minutes later a knock came at the door.

"Entra."

Hector showed no surprise at the impertinence of Anthony occupying Ernesto's chair. He silently crossed the thick carpet and sat in one of the leather armchairs, hands folded in his lap. He was wearing the usual dark suit and tie, and his black-framed glasses hid his eyes. If he was annoyed at having been dragged out of his usual Wednesday night domino game, he kept it to himself.

In Spanish he said, "You wanted to speak with me, sir?"

He used the word
señor.
To say
Anthony
was too familiar and
Señor Quintana
too formal. Hector referred to the old man as
Señor Ernesto,
not appropriate for the grandson, for whom Hector had only conditional respect.

"I have a job for you—if you want it."

Anthony lifted his cigar from the ashtray. He didn't offer one to Hector, who would in any event have refused. Hector didn't want to be treated as an equal; he preferred the role of faithful, noble, and potentially deadly guard dog.

As the smoke drifted upward, Anthony said, "First tell me how the search is going. Are you close to finding Gail's ring?" He knew the answer because he had already asked his grandmother, who knew everything.

The little man squared his shoulders, ready for a tongue-lashing. "We have found nothing but golf balls and rusted cans. I don't understand it. The divers marked the bottom, and they searched every inch carefully. You saw them."

Rocking back in the chair, Anthony wondered if Hector was lying. He could have pocketed the ring, not to sell but to cause problems with Gail. Hector didn't like Gail. No. It was more accurate to say that Hector didn't believe she was the best choice Anthony could have made. On the other hand, Hector would lie to the Virgin Mary, but not to Señor Ernesto's grandson, when Señor Ernesto himself had ordered Hector to find the ring.

As a boy in Havana, Hector Mesa had shined rich men's shoes for pennies. One day he demanded that Ernesto Pedrosa give him a job washing his limo, and Ernesto had done so, admiring the boy's spirit. After the Revolution, Ernesto brought him along to Miami and lent him out to anticommunist paramilitary groups, where Hector learned other sorts of jobs. But those days were past, and Hector's talents were going to waste.

"If I may be permitted? I have a suggestion." Hector's thick gray brows rose, furrowing his forehead.

Anthony lifted a hand from the desk, waiting. "Well?"

"A duplicate. The jeweler has a copy of the design? It would be expensive, but—"

"I can't do that. It isn't the money, Hector. She would know."

"There are ways of making it seem that an object has been submerged for months, even years. I know people who could do it."

Of course he knew them: his former-CIA pals. Two of them had been diving in the pond on the golf course. "Tell them to try again. The ring is there, deeper in the mud. They missed it."

He shrugged. "As you wish. And the other job?"

"I think, Hector, that you will find this more to your liking."

Anthony told him about the murder case in which Gail Connor had become involved. He told him about the victim, her bloody and violent death, and the evidence that had led to the arrest and conviction of Kenny Ray Clark. Now, unless something extraordinary happened, Clark would be executed on Wednesday, April 11. Four weeks. A stay might be granted
if
enough new evidence could be found. Anthony believed he could persuade Gail to let someone else take over at that point. If Clark were executed on schedule, and Gail believed that her inexperience was in any way to blame, she could sink into another depression, and her health, her law practice, and their relationship would suffer. It was damned bad timing that the governor had signed a death warrant so soon.

"You see the problem, don't you, Hector?"

He nodded slowly. "Your trip with the old man. Yes. An execution would be inconvenient."

A heavy crystal ashtray sat on the desk, and Anthony rolled his cigar on its edge, dislodging the ashes. "Inconvenient. I wouldn't have chosen that word, but you're right. There's no choice about the trip, I have to go." It had taken months to arrange. If it was postponed, Ernesto might not live long enough to go. He was eighty-four years old, and his heart was failing.

"I don't know if Clark will ever get out of prison, and frankly, that isn't my concern. I want a stay of execution, if at all possible, and that requires a good investigator. Will you do it?"

Hector stared at the wall behind the desk. A tattered flag of Cuba hung there. "Maybe. If Señor Ernesto doesn't need me for anything. I should ask him."

"Yes. Ask him, by all means." Anthony knew as well as Hector that the old man had nothing planned, but protocol had to be observed. "If you can take the job"— Anthony picked up the brown mailing envelope on the desk but hesitated in passing it over—"these are my notes, an outline of what I've just told you. There's a list of things to do in order of priority. First, find Vernon Byrd." For the pleasure of seeing Hector's reaction, Anthony added, "Byrd is a bouncer at a pool hall in the black section of Stuart. His arrest record is in here. He's over six feet tall, three hundred pounds. They call him 'Peanut.' He could give you some trouble."

A smile flickered across Hector's lips. He held out a hand for the envelope.

Anthony took a smaller, heavier envelope from his breast pocket and handed it over without comment. Five thousand dollars in cash. To state the amount would have been an insult. Hector slid the envelope into his jacket. He would use it wisely, and if he ran out, he would ask for more.

"Work as quickly as you can. If you need extra help, hire it. With some of the witnesses, an American investigator would be a good idea. That place up there, those people—they aren't what you're used to. Stay in contact with me. If Gail asks you to do something, put her oft Check with me first, but don't tell her about it. She's a little sensitive in that way." Anthony leaned over to stub out the remains of his cigar. "I think that's all. Do you have any questions?"

"No, not at the moment." Hector was trying to hide his joy. He stood up and waited to be dismissed so he could get to work.

"Good night."

"Good night,
Señor
Anthony."

Señor Anthony?
Surprised by this, he watched Hector leave the room, the carpet deadening his footsteps. The door clicked shut behind him.

Hector might have asked a certain question before leaving. Anthony had expected him to.
Is this man guilty of murder?
But the question had not been asked, and Anthony realized why. Of all the issues that might have piqued Hector Mesa's curiosity, this was the least important.

Gail opened the front door for Anthony but avoided his kiss. They went through the living room and into the wood-paneled den that used to be her father's, but which she had turned into a second office. Papers were laid out across the sofa, banker's boxes sat on the floor, and files were stacked on a corner of the desk. Her laptop computer was on. She had been working when he called, asking to come over, to talk.

"I see the files have arrived," Anthony said.

"This isn't all. Most of them are at my office. Seventeen boxes. Miriam spent the day organizing everything." Gail crossed her arms. She was wearing jeans and a thin pink sweater. No bra. Barefoot. Her hair was uncombed, and mascara had smudged her eyes. She was beautiful. "Sorry to rush you, but I have a lot to do tonight. What did you want to say to me?"

He smiled. "I came to apologize for our little disagreement yesterday. You caught me at a bad time, in the middle of a trial. Gail. Sweetheart." He put a hand on his heart. "I am sorry. Forgive me."

Letting out a breath, she looked toward the ceiling, then at him. "Do you want some coffee or something? I just made a fresh pot."

"Is that brandy still in the cabinet there?" He took off his suit coat and laid it over the arm of the sofa. His tie had been off since he'd left the federal courthouse. Gail leaned over to reach into the bottom of the bookcase. The seat of her jeans was soft and faded. She blew the dust out of a liqueur glass and poured.

"Thank you," he said.

She kissed him on the mouth. "I am glad to see you, you jerk."

"How sweet you are," he said. "Tell me about your meeting with your new client."

"Kenny's all right. He's afraid to get his hopes up, but he's taking it pretty well. Better than I would, but he's had eleven years of practice. We talked for almost three hours. I typed up my notes, if you want to see them. He gave me some leads on witnesses."

"Excellent. I just spoke to Hector Mesa. He's going to help you out."

"With what?"

"Reinvestigating the case. He's very good. You're lucky he has time to do this." Anthony sipped his brandy.

"My God, Anthony, he was a paid assassin for Omega 7."

"Where did you hear such a thing?"

"You told me yourself."

"Did I? Well, Hector never took money. He was a patriot. Don't worry, he won't shoot the judge."

"This isn't funny. Maybe I don't want to work with Hector. I have a list of people that Denise recommended."

"No, no. How long will it take you to find someone else, explain the facts—"

"You're missing the
point"

He made a small shrug of surrender. "I should have called you. But I happened to see Hector on my way out, and I thought, well—"

"How much does he charge?"

"Nothing. He's doing it as a favor to me. Give him his expenses, if you insist." Anthony turned a chair around and sat in it, crossing his legs, holding the brandy glass on his knee.

"You are such a liar. Don't think for one minute that I'm letting you pay for this."

"All right, then. Hector can give you a bill when he's finished. You pass it on to Ruby Smith. All right?"

"Fine."

"Good. I told him to start by finding Vernon Byrd."

"I'm already ahead of him." Gail went over to the desk and looked through some papers, then wrote something on a legal pad. She tore off the page. "Here. Give this to Hector. Arid tell him to call me. I don't want him doing
anything
without my prior approval."

Anthony saw that she had written Vernon Byrd's name and an address in Stuart.
"Alaba'o.
Where did this come from?"

"Jackie. She called this afternoon."

"What a surprising woman. Most police officers would have turned their back. And if their father is the sheriff, forget about it. Why is she helping you?"

"She probably feels bad about the way Garlan jumped all over you. But I think the real reason is, she's a rookie on road patrol, and we dangle a homicide in front of her. It's too good to resist. She wants to get together for lunch next time I'm in town."

"When is that?"

"Friday." Gail took the sheet of paper out of Anthony's hand and went back to her desk. "I also need Lougie Jackson's address. Jackson was an alibi witness at the trial. The jury didn't believe him, but there were other people at his house who might remember that Kenny was there. It would help if Hector could find them."

"As long as you're going back to Stuart, get another check from Ruby Smith."

"I have it on my list." Gail gave him the paper again, which he folded and put in his shirt pocket.

"And don't forget to prepare a motion and order for the crime scene photos."

"It's done. I've typed up affidavits for Tina Hopwood and Bess Grigsby to sign, and I'm also going to ask to take new depositions of Ron Kemp, his partner Federsen, and Garlan Bryce. And maybe Dorothy Chastain, too. Why are you shaking your head?"

"I doubt the judge would allow it."

"That's probably true," Gail said, "but the more he denies us, the worse it looks, like the police are hiding something." •

"Don't waste your time on strategies that won't pay off. You have enough to do already. The state is going to fight to preserve this conviction. They will say that the evidence you found is too late. They won't believe any of it. You show them black, they insist it's white."