Suspicion of Vengeance (23 page)

The clock on the dashboard said 3:15 p.m.

The bridge heading east was just ahead, and Gail braked to avoid it. Horns blared. She swerved quickly into a gas station, realizing she had been paying no attention and could have been rear-ended. Catching her breath, she parked and turned off her engine.

She had thought of someone who had to have known Amber's friends. She unfolded a map of Stuart and opened her address book. Gary Dodson had sold the house where his wife had been murdered, but he still practiced law in Stuart. Gail had found his office address through the Florida Bar.

His office was not, however, in the same high-rent bank building as before. Gary F. Dodson, P.A., was located in a fading, dusty, two-story frame house within blocks of where Gail had just had lunch. Traffic rushed past on U.S. 1 at the end of the street. A concrete walkway led to a porch, a door with flaking green paint, and a buzzer. A hand-lettered index card taped to the glass said RING FOR ADMITTANCE.

A living room had been made into a waiting room. Stairs vanished upward on the left; a heavy, middle-aged woman in a brown cardigan sweater sat behind a desk on the right. She took her finger off the door-release button when Gail came in.

Gail asked if Mr. Dodson was available. She laid her business card on the desk and said it was a personal matter. The secretary glanced at the card and lifted the telephone. From along a narrow hallway came a distant, muffled ring. While the woman murmured into the mouthpiece, Gail took in details as her eyes adjusted to the dim light: dark wood furniture; out-of-date magazines on a marble-topped end table; an indifferent oil painting of sunset on a beach.

"Ms. Connor?"

She turned. A gaunt figure in a dark business suit stood in the entrance to the hall. One side of his mouth lifted in a tentative smile, creasing his cheek. "I'm Gary Dodson. You wanted to see me?"

Momentarily confused by his appearance, it took her a second to say, "Yes. How do you do?" The man in the photographs had been young and robust; this could have been his father. His hair was still black but so thin on top that the scalp showed through.

Dodson took her down the narrow hall to his office. It was cramped and even more poorly lit than the front room. There was one tall, wood-framed window, but curtains had been drawn over it to keep out the afternoon sun. As her eyes adjusted Gail could see that every file folder, book, and piece of paper lay at exact right angles to the surface upon which it had been placed. Dodson went around his desk to sit in the black chair behind it. From below came a strange odor of dust, mildew, and rot, as though the subflooring had been flooded but never properly dried.

Gary Dodson propped her card on his brass pen holder, taking some time to get it exactly in the middle. "Civil trial practice. Commercial litigation. You're a sole practitioner? So am I." His smile left a long crease in his cheek.

"It's a constant fight for clients," she said.

"Yes indeed. Isn't that so?"

His skin seemed unnaturally pale, and Gail wondered if he lived upstairs, rarely going out, sending his secretary to do his shopping. The afternoon sun found a crack in the drawn curtains and sent a column of light angling to the floor. Cold air blew silently from a vent.

"Mr. Dodson, this has to do, in a way, with your wife. First let me say how sorry I am for your loss. Not only your wife but your child as well. Twelve years have passed, but it's something a person doesn't get over easily—if at all."

With elbows on the arms of the chair, the points of his shoulders rose as if suspending his desiccated body between them. He began absently to scratch at a scab on his hand. "That's very kind of you to say, Ms. Connor."

"I'm in Stuart because I've been retained by a relative of Kenneth Ray Clark. Based on a reinvestigation of the case, I am convinced that Mr. Clark was nowhere near your house when your wife was killed. This must come as a shock, of course, but I assure you it's true. I'm going to file an appeal, but the governor has signed his death warrant. We don't have much time."

"You say ... Clark wasn't there? My neighbor saw him."

"Mrs. Chastain was mistaken." Gail added, "It happens more frequently than police or prosecutors will admit."

The music that had been playing in the background finally worked its way into her consciousness. The radio on his credenza was tuned to a "lite FM" station—slow, soothing instrumentals that could drive her insane.

Beside the radio was a gold-framed photograph of a young blond woman holding a laughing baby on her lap.

Swiveling his chair, Dodson saw what she was looking at. "There they are. Amber and Darry. That's short for Darryl. They're beautiful, aren't they? I never got married again. I didn't have the heart for it. I loved my wife and child very much." He rocked slowly in his chair, leaning his head on his fist. His starched white cuff was fraying at the edge, and the button was cracked.

"I read about the warrant in the newspaper last week. They said the execution date had been set. April eleventh, isn't it? I'd almost forgotten that Kenneth Clark is still alive. I get so busy with my work, you know how that goes, and I hardly think about it anymore."

"I'm trying to save his life," Gail said. "He truly is innocent."

"Is he? Then he might end up being executed. The innocent perish and the guilty prosper. File the appeal if you like, it's all the same to me." He said, "I've had enough of death."

The constant chill breeze from the vent had its effect, and Gail crossed her arms. Her lightweight tweed jacket did little good. She crossed her legs as well, but her slacks failed to keep her ankles warm. "I wonder if you remember one of Amber's friends, a girl named Mary Jo, who used to work at River Pines with Amber? She drove a Corvette."

"Yes, I remember her."

"Do you know her last name?"

He pursed his lips, then said, "Hammond. Mary Jo Hammond. I believe they met at Indian River Community College, and it was she who suggested that Amber apply for the job at River Pines. Mary Jo was in accounting."

This was promising, Gail thought. "Where is Mary Jo now?"

"She married some fellow named ... Danziger. Can't remember his first name. He owned a night club in West Palm. Amber and I went to the wedding. I think they moved to South Beach, in your neck of the woods. Does this relate to your client in some way?"

"Possibly. I hope that Mary Jo might tell me who Amber knew at work. My theory is that she wasn't killed by a stranger—such as Kenny Ray Clark. When a woman is the victim, and she is attacked in the way that Amber was—"

"What way is that? She wasn't raped."

"I know, but ... her pajamas were left in a suggestive position. She was stabbed repeatedly, many more times than necessary, in the chest and abdomen. Forensic psychologists would say that this indicates an emotional connection. I'm sorry to ask you this, but is there any chance that your wife was involved with someone?"

Shaking his head, Dodson continued to pick at the scab. "The police asked me that too. No, my wife and I loved each other. We were very happy."

Gail could see dark, dried flesh under the nail on his forefinger. All his nails were long and yellowed, and they had cracked off unevenly, leaving some with points at the corners. She quickly looked away.

"Mr. Dodson, you used to work in the Stuart office of Hadley and Morgan, based in Palm Beach, and one of their clients was Whitney McGrath, who developed River Pines. In July 1988 you left Hadley and Morgan to open your own practice. Amber had stopped working at River Pines when she was pregnant, but she went back in September of '88, when Darry was six months old. Is that right?"

"You've been doing your homework."

"Did Amber know Whit McGrath?"

"Naturally. She worked for him—rather, for his company, JWM."

"Were they on good terms?"

"As far as I know."

"Is it remotely possible she could have been involved with him? And that you might not have been aware?"

Dodson's forefinger slowed on the back of his hand. "You believe that Whit McGrath killed my wife?"

"I don't know if he did or not. I'm looking into possibilities."

"Point one: That isn't a possibility. Point two: I don't discuss my clients." Dodson opened a paper clip and cleaned under his nail.

"You're .. .Whit McGrath's lawyer?"

"Yes."

"Really"

"Not his
only
lawyer. Mr. McGrath has several."

"How long have you represented him?"

"Oh, it's been quite a while, ever since I opened my own office."

"I see." But Gail did not see. Why would Whit McGrath hire this man whose office, whose very appearance, screamed failure? Was Gary Dodson telling the truth? Was he sane?

"What kind of cases do you handle for Mr. McGrath?"

"Various matters."

"Like what?"

Dodson raised a finger in admonition. "Do you talk about
your
clients, Ms. Connor?" The line in his left cheek deepened as he smiled in that lopsided way. "But as to your first question. The answer is no. My wife and Mr. McGrath were not involved. Amber was a loving and faithful wife and mother."

"Of course. I'm sorry."

His intercom buzzed. He picked it up, then checked his watch. "It's only four o'clock, Nelda. Have you finished everything? ... Yes, all right, go ahead, but make a note on your time sheet."

He dropped the handset back on the phone, then swung his chair toward Gail. "It's Friday. They always want to leave early on Friday, don't they?"

At the other end of the hall a door opened. A momentary noise of traffic, then a closing door. The click of a lock. Then nothing.

The light through the curtains had shifted, falling now in a Z-shaped line across his desk. Across his hand. His fraying cuff, his terrible nails.

Gail stood and put her purse over her shoulder. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Dodson. I should be going." She backed toward the hall. "Don't get up. I'll show myself out."

She had parked across the street. The sun shone brightly, but a chill had entered her bones. It took her a minute of sitting in the hot car before she felt warm enough to turn on the engine and open the window.

She put the car into gear and glanced automatically in the rearview mirror. There was a pickup truck at the end of the block pointed in her direction. A black one, riding high off the ground. The sun glanced off its windshield, but she thought she could make out the shape of someone inside. Rusty Beck.

She hit the gas, and her tires squealed out of the parking place.

The truck didn't follow. She looked back several times, but it wasn't behind her. By the time she reached the bridge to Hutchinson Island, her nerves had settled, and she began to feel foolish. It had been an ordinary pickup truck, nothing more. Her fright had turned it into an apparition.

CHAPTER 15

Saturday morning, March 17

A good morning to sit on the beach. Bright and sunny, about seventy degrees. A few people were in swimming already. Jackie thought they were probably Canadians. The locals had more sense, waiting till May.

Irene leaned back on a wooden lounge chair and Jackie sat on the edge of the one next to it, facing her. Karen was walking barefoot in the surf, looking for shells, the wind blowing her sun-streaked hair around her head. She was mad at her mother for not sticking around. The three of them had taken the weathered gray boardwalk over the dunes of sea oats and sea grape, then gone down the stairs to the sand. The hotel was behind them, across the road.

Jackie would have invited Irene and Karen to her house, if it had been hers. It was her father's house. Jackie hadn't told him where she was going this morning and didn't plan to. She was aware of withholding a lot from her father lately.

At breakfast, Gail had taken three calls on her cell phone, walking away to keep Karen from hearing. Jackie knew what it was about. Gail was looking for witnesses. She had a week to put her case together before her papers were due in court. She was running flat-out. Everything else in the world but breathing came second. It was hard to explain it to an eleven-year-old, when you didn't want also to explain that your client could be executed if you didn't run fast enough.

Settling back on the chair, Irene kicked off her sandals. Her toenails were painted bright blue with yellow flower stickers on the big toes. She wiggled them. Her feet were small, like the rest of her. "What do you think? Karen painted them for me."

"They're cute." Jackie smiled, then said, "What are you doing this afternoon, Aunt Irene? If you're not busy, bring Karen over to the station. I'll show you around."

"What a good idea. I'm sure Karen would go for it."

"She can see the inside of a patrol car."

"Hey, what about me?"

"You too." Jackie unlaced her sneakers and set them under her lounger with the socks rolled inside. "I remember the day they assigned me a car. At first they put you with a partner so you can learn, but then they let you go out on your own. I drove by a bank with a lot of windows, and I saw my reflection. I'm like, wow. I drove around the block so I could see myself again. A cop car, and this woman in a uniform carrying a gun, and she's got her sunglasses on. I go, hey, you're looking
good.
I ran up onto a curb and almost hit a light pole."

Aunt Irene laughed and reached over to squeeze Jackie's hand. "You're such a treasure. Now why haven't we visited more?" She patted Jackie's bare knee. The sun came through the straw brim of Irene's hat and made flecks of light on her face. Irene was almost sixty, but she had pretty blue eyes, and she wore mascara and lipstick and bright pink earrings.

"How are you, darling? All right?"

Jackie picked a shell out of the sand and brushed it off. "I guess Gail told you we talked yesterday."

"About your mother, you mean." Irene watched the water. "I still miss Louise so much. There were four of us kids, you know. She was the baby. Our parents had the place on Sewall's Point, and one Thanksgiving Lou was driving from FSU, and your father gave her a speeding ticket. That's how they met, but you've heard that story. They married when she got out of college. She was only twenty-two."