Suspicion of Guilt

Barbara Parker

For Laura

Acknowledgments

This book was not created whole from my own imagination but woven from the suggestions, insights, and stories that many people have generously shared.

I am indebted to Lance R. Stelzer (criminal law), Karen H. Curtis (civil trial practice), and Eugene W. Sulzberger (probate), who filled in what I have forgotten (or never knew) about practicing law.

Many thanks to Detective Gary F. Schiaffo, Miami Beach Police Department, for the gritty details and some great lines.

And what would I have done without Helen M. Z. Cevern, World Gallery, Miami Beach, for her artful take on the Lincoln Road scene; Harry J. Coleman, Associated Forensic Services, Miami, for showing me how to detect a forgery; Oscar Delgado, for some great lines in Spanish; Trudi Gilbert, Everglades Marina, and Dan Leahy, the
New Moon
at the Bahia Mar, both in Fort Lauderdale, who taught me bow from stern; Liz Pittenger, Renaissance woman, for the highbrow stuff; freelance writer Rosalind Resnick for sharing her style and her persona; and, as ever, Warren Lee.

Prologue

The night she was murdered, Althea Tillett had hosted a party for her best girlfriends. The four of them usually played bridge on Wednesdays, but tonight was special, the last bridge game before Althie would fly off to Europe for a month. Ignoring the cards after the first round, they went through three bottles of wine and ended up singing old show tunes around the grand piano.

Jessica's driver showed up promptly at ten o'clock, as instructed, waiting patiently in the foyer while the women all shrieked with laughter, trying to aim their feet into the right shoes.

As soon as the taillights disappeared past the bougainvillaea at the gate, Althie came back in and locked up. The house seemed quiet now, strangely empty. Through the high windows she could see the black waters of Biscayne Bay and in the distance a line of streetlights twinkling through the trees on the Miami side. She glanced at the mess they had made—napkins, plates, glasses, an empty bottle on the carpet. The grandfather clock chimed the quarter hour.

Humming to herself, Althea unsteadily climbed the stairs, coming back down in her kimono and wooden Japanese sandals. She put
Madama Butterfly
on the CD player, the scene where Pinkerton marries Cho-Cho San. Hands folded geisha-style at her breast, Althie sang with them in Italian. Bowing, she bumped into a plaster replica of
Winged Victory,
then grabbed its rocking pedestal just in time, laughing at her reflection in the windows. A post-middle-age broad in a red silk robe. She untied the belt and flashed the darkness. The best thing about this house, Althie noticed when her late husband, Rudolph W. Tillett, moved her into it, was the privacy. When the kids were gone, she and R.W. used to walk stark naked through the place, and turn up the stereo so loud the chandelier would rattle.

They had met at the opera. She had bought a seat for herself and by chance his was adjacent. During
La Boheme
she saw the tears on his cheeks and pressed her handkerchief into his hand. A year later, just after his invalid wife passed away, they married. His black-haired twins—a boy and a girl—were perfect little brats about it, but she didn't give a damn. Her friends warned her about R.W., said he was a selfish bastard, but she told them sweetly to shut up. He loved her. What else did she need to know?

R.W. had indulged her. He let her redecorate the house, whatever she wanted. She got rid of the French Empire furniture and the dusty velvet curtains and brought in a mix of Art Deco, modern Italian, Persian rugs, carved Chinese panels, and mementoes from their trips abroad. The landscapes were banished to the attic and replaced with abstract impressionists. In the living room Althie hung a convincing copy of a Gauguin Tahitian nude, and in the master bedroom a Picasso drawing—a real one—of a devil with dark, heavy genitals.

She hadn't expected such
passion
from this man. When the mood struck, he would put on his tuxedo and sit in an armchair, sending puffs of cigar smoke over his shoulder, his deep-set gray eyes fixed on Althie. With the Mozart buzzing on the windows, or the Bizet, or Verdi, she would slide out of the Pappagena bird outfit or flamenco dress or Egyptian wig, or whatever it was she had on. If he ever noticed that she dimmed the lights a little more as the years passed, he had the tact not to say so. Barefoot, Althie would dance over to him, loosen his bow tie, take the studs out of his pleated shirt ...

For their fifteenth anniversary they went to a spa in Switzerland. He got a penile implant and she, a face-lift. Afterward, they spent a week in Paris. A small hotel. It had rained. Delicious, whispery rain.

Memories. They always made her eyes sting. Althie went over to the bridge table, began to stack plates, then sighed. Let Rosa tidy up in the morning. Althie unlatched the sliding door and walked out onto the terrace on the swelling crescendo of the Metropolitan Opera Chorus. The bay was dead calm, the air thick and heavy. She flapped the sides of her robe, making a little breeze. Summer goes on forever in Miami, she thought.

Three and a half years ago, in winter, the sky shimmering with stars, she and R.W. had put on a new Wagner CD, dropped their bathrobes on a chaise, and took their steins of pilsner into the hot tub. He found the ledge to sit on and held out his big hand. Laughing like a witless teenager, Althie pushed through the bubbles to settle down across his thighs. A little later, those whimpering noises he made— She could barely hear them over the
Gotterdammerung
pouring through the open doors. Clinging to his shoulders, she thought he was having a ferocious climax. But no. His implant still stiff as a piling, the rest of him went limp, and he slid off the ledge and under the steaming water.

On Monday she would fly to the Aegean one last time. Surely R.W., wherever he was, would forgive these little flings of hers. But soon she would look silly dancing in a tavern with a man half her age. One more trip to Mykonos, then come home to sink into a respectable dotage. She would never remarry.
Oh, R.W., my man, my love, my only love ...

Kimono fluttering, Althie abruptly crossed the dark terrace and slid the glass door shut, twisting the lock. The orchestra was leading up to "Un Bel Di Vedremo." She turned down the volume, then clopped through the arched entranceway to the kitchen in her wooden sandals. The silvery soprano followed.

"... Vedi ? E venuto! Io non gli scendo in contro
..." Do you see? He is coming.

Thirsty, Althie held a glass under the tap on the refrigerator, watched the water swirl closer to the rim.

"... Che dira? Che dirH? Chiamera 'Butterfly' dalla lontana
..." He calls "Butterfly" from far away.

Althie sang softly to herself. And then her voice leaped into a cry of confusion and panic.

Something had grabbed her hair, violently pulling backward. The glass dropped, hit the floor. Icy water splashed her ankles. Now an arm was across her throat.

Someone had come into her house. A man who didn't belong there. This could not be. The alarm system—

She tried to cry out, could only choke. The arm tightened. She clutched at the wrist and her hands slid on leather. He lifted her off the floor and she kicked madly, connecting once with the wooden sandal. He cursed and swung her around, and for an instant Althie saw her own face, eyes gaping, in the window.

He slammed her into the counter, pinning her. His body was solid, his breath hot on her temple. Her throat was caught in the crook of his elbow. Now his other hand moved to grip the back of her head. She wheezed, gagged. Her head was forced around and back. Out of the corner of one eye she saw things on the counter—a bowl of peaches, a coffee cup, a novel she had begun. With a pang of regret, she realized she would never know how it ended.

The soprano was still singing in a voice pure as sunlight.

Chapter One

Late on a Monday afternoon, Gail Connor sat in Larry Black's office waiting for him to finish a phone call. She should have packed up her briefcase and gone home to her daughter an hour ago, but she needed a favor.

One of the firm's biggest clients, a bank, was going to sue a major brokerage house. Two years ago Gail had won a federal trial for the bank, and wanted them to give her this new case. The decision wasn't up to Larry, but he would know what her chances were. He could put in a good word
_.

Gail had brought along another file, a case set for trial next week at the Dade County Courthouse. She and the other side had worked out a tentative settlement. Larry's approval wasn't necessary—Gail had full authority to settle—but it gave her a reason to talk to him. A way of getting to what she really wanted. The banking case would be massive, requiring her to fly out of state for meetings, organize a staff of junior associates, hire extra paralegals, supervise the drafting of dozens of lengthy documents. It would be the sort of ball-busting exercise required of those who deserved a partnership. Win a case like this, get your battle ribbons, no question.

She smiled to herself, aware of her own nervousness and of how ridiculous it was to be nervous at all with Larry. As if she needed a pat on the back before asking for a simple favor. With thumb and forefinger she curled up the frayed corner of the file.

Gail was a serious woman of thirty-three, slender, and as tall as most of her male colleagues, with dark blond hair that brushed the collar of her tailored suits. She'd had no trouble getting hired straight out of law school, due in part to top grades but more to connections. Her family went back four generations, rare in this town. There had been a street named after them, before it was buried under 1-95.

The little gold clock on Larry's credenza gave one soft ding. Six-thirty. The person on the other end of the conversation, she gathered, was the CEO for a shipping company that the firm was after. Apparently Larry had him on the hook and halfway in the boat. He chuckled, rocking back in his chair. Just shy of forty, balding at the crown, and dressed like a British banker, Larry Black created an aura of absolute trust. Unlike other attorneys she could name, it wasn't an act. His grandfather had founded the firm; Larry's position was solid as bedrock.

Leaving the file on a small table by the divan, Gail got up to wander around. Larry raised a hand to tell her he would be finished soon, don't go away. She nodded. At the windows she leaned on the sill, feeling the heat through the tinted glass.

Most big Miami law firms were like the clouds that formed over South Florida this time of year, late summer. They appeared out of nowhere, coalescing into heavy gray masses, swirling into thunderstorms, then breaking up in a rain of spite and bad PR, scattering partners and associates into other offices. Hartwell Black and Robineau, founded in 1922, had for the most part avoided such turbulence. Associates came and went; most partners stayed, happy with their stratospheric salaries. At the firm's main office on Flagler Street there were sixty-seven attorneys, seventeen of them partners. Gail had decided: After eight years with Hartwell Black she was either going to get a partnership or not. If not, she would quit. No point hanging on, getting overripe, people wondering what the problem was.

She heard the click when Larry hung up the telephone. He was putting on his glasses, coming out from behind his desk. "Sorry to take so long. What have you brought me?" He glanced at the file. "Beltran Plastics. Yes. What's up?"

He knew the facts, so Gail got to the point. "The other side is offering to settle. Bottom line, $175,000, everybody takes care of their own costs. I think it's reasonable, given what we have to work with. Did you read Oscar Beltran's deposition? I told Miriam to give you a copy." Gail pulled hers out of the file,

Larry made a cursory nod toward the papers stacked on his desk. "It's here, but I haven't had a chance to review it."

"The man sounds evasive. He mumbles and speaks in monosyllables. I've worked with him, but he isn't going to impress the jury. They want what they see in movies."