Suspicion of Guilt (17 page)

He led her through a waiting room, then through a locked door marked INVESTIGATIONS. Inside, low partitions divided an open area of cubicles. Three men and one woman, all in plain clothes, glanced at her without interest, then returned to their conversations. On one divider she spotted a mug shot of Fidel Castro with darts sticking out of it, and on the next a calendar with a back view of a girl in denim cut-offs that showed her cheeks.

Davis stopped at a glass-walled office on the south side, and Gail went in. His desk was littered with papers, forms, and folders. A green Gumby toy was bent to hang onto the in/ out box. A hand-held radio sat in a battery charger, and a dispatcher's voice came through at low volume. Photos of a family looked back at her from the window ledge—a woman, two teenage boys. Beyond the window, the top of a palm tree moved silently in the breeze.

Davis still had his hand on the doorknob. "You want a cup of coffee? A cold drink?"

"No, thanks." She sat down in a chrome-legged chair.

He closed the door, then raised one forefinger. "Connor. Why does that name sound familiar?"

Gail saw no reason not to tell him. "My mother was one of the women at Althea Tillett's house playing bridge the night she died."

"Irene Connor. She's your momma? Did you know Althea Tillett also?"

"Not well, but yes, I did."

"Is that how you got involved with her nephew?"

"We met in law school."

"My. It's a small world, as they say." Gary Davis rested one hip on the edge of a metal table stacked with files, his beefy arms crossed over his stomach, one foot swinging slowly. He seemed to fill the available space in the office. He said, "Law school? Mr. Norris didn't tell me he was a lawyer."

"He isn't. Detective, forgive me, but you still haven't told me why you were questioning him."

Davis's eyes were red-rimmed and shadowed. "You said you're representing Patrick Norris on a civil case. What would that be about?"

"It has to do with the probate of Mrs. Tillett's estate."

"Do tell."

"I prefer not to comment further on it at this time."

"Attorney-client privilege?" Davis reached into his shirt pocket and read from her card. "Civil trial practice. You do probate work too?"

"Tangentially."

"Well, there's a hundred-dollar word. You know who Alan Weissman is, right?"

"Yes. Mrs. Tillett's attorney. He represents the estate in probate court."

"Weissman says your client is going to collect two hundred and fifty grand."

"According to the will," Gail reported.

"Did Mr. Norris know about this before his aunt died?"

"I'm not prepared to comment on that."

Sighing, Davis spun her card to the desk. "Ms. Connor, I don't mean to be a pain in the ass, but you want to get yourself charged with obstruction? I'm tired. I'm working three homicides, two rapes, and a strong-arm robbery. Last night we found the body of a French tourist barbecued in a dumpster off Collins Avenue. I haven't seen my wife since Tuesday. I'm not in the mood to let a lawyer jerk me around, and I don't give a goddamn what gold-plated, Flagler Street law firm you're from."

Gail could feel her heart rate quicken. "I'm Mr. Norris's attorney. You can't arrest me for asking questions."

Davis bent forward at the waist. "You got information relevant to a homicide case? You don't represent Patrick Norris on that case? Watch what I can do."

She resisted the impulse to scoot her chair backward. "Detective Davis. I'm not going to comment on what he knew or when he knew it. So if you want to toss me in your dungeon, or wherever you put recalcitrant gold-plated Flagler Street lawyers, then go ahead. I'll call my own attorney and sue you for false imprisonment."

Gary Davis gave a short laugh, walked around behind his desk and sat down, gripping the armrests of his chair. "The only heir, and a measly quarter of a million. What did he hire you to do, Ms. Connor? Overturn her will?"

Davis may have learned this much from talking to Weissman. She would have to give him something. She nodded. "Yes. We're going to challenge the will."

"Which if you win the case, Patrick Norris collects twenty-five million dollars. I mean, hell—talk about motives, there's one right there. Wouldn't you say?"

"Twenty-five?"
When Davis's eyes fixed on her, Gail retreated into silence. Twenty-five million dollars. More than she had ever imagined.

Davis reached out and grabbed the Gumby off his in/out basket and straightened its green arms. "On Thursday, September 5, Althea Tillett's housekeeper called 911. Fire-Rescue arrived, saw the body, and uniformed officers sealed off the scene. It looked like an accident, which is what the
Miami Herald
reported. The housekeeper said she came in through the kitchen and turned off the alarm, like she usually does. Then she saw Mrs. Tillett lying at the foot of the stairs in the living room.

"She was coming out of rigor when I got there. I could tell she'd been laying there awhile because of the way the blood settles. Didn't look like she'd been moved from where she fell. She had on a red kimono, bra and panties underneath. White socks. Wood sandals. One of them was on her foot, the other one halfway up the stairs. Her eyes were open. She smashed her nose on the floor and broke out three teeth, and there was some blood from that. She had also evacuated her bowels, but it didn't look to me like she had done it when she landed. Might have been before."

Davis shifted his eyes up at Gail, the whites showing under the irises.

Gail clamped her teeth together, feeling a little sick.

He went on, playing with the Gumby. "I examined her hands. Her wrists weren't broken, like where she would've tried to stop her fall. I looked for where she might have grabbed at a railing on her way down the stairs. Torn fingernail, a bruise. If you're conscious, and you're falling, you grab. It's a reaction. Even people who jump off buildings grab at the last second, and you see how their fingertips are scraped by trying to hang onto the bricks. The instinct to live is that strong. Not too many people try to kill themselves by diving down a flight of stairs, however. Anyway, from what I heard, Althea Tillett wasn't suicidal. So we did the usual: took statements, dusted for prints, questioned whoever saw her last, canvassed the neighborhood. Did anybody see anything odd? Hear anything? Your momma and the other ladies left at ten-fifteen. The lady next door heard them laughing and carrying on. A little while later, ten-thirty, she heard Mrs. Tillett's stereo go on. An opera.
Madame Butterfly.
It's on for a
few minutes. Then it goes off. And nothing the rest of the night.

"So Mrs. Tillett got to the M.E. about two P.M., and the post was done the next morning. I was there. Anytime there's a
question, I go."

Davis laid the Gumby down on a stack of folders and drew his finger down its torso. "The M.E. split her open, stem to stern. There was some decomp, but not a whole lot. He went into the neck, layer by layer. He said, Hey, Gary. I see something funny here. Some contusion that could have happened before death. I suspect foul play here, Gary. Why don't you go on back and see what you can find out?"

Gail hugged her crossed arms into her chest. "So he listed the cause of death as pending."

"Correct. But I do believe, Ms. Connor, that he filed an amended certificate this week. Homicide. You ought to get yourself a copy." He twisted the toy's head so its smiling mouth and big eyes were facing Gail. "Althea Wilma Norris Tillett, age fifty-eight. Nice lady, from what I heard. Had a lot of friends to say that about her. They cried. Your own momma too."

"My mother didn't mention that you were conducting a murder investigation," Gail said. "You questioned her, didn't you? And the other women who were there that night?"

"Oh, sure, but it was pretty much routine. We didn't think we had a homicide on our hands. Anyhow, didn't seem like they could add much."

Davis bent Gumby's legs and sat him down on the edge of the desk. "Funny thing. I talk to your client about this sweet lady and all I get is the runaround. You want to know if Patrick Norris is a suspect. Yes, ma'am, he surely is. He knows how to work the alarm. He told me so. The man can't come up with an alibi. A quarter million is a hell of a motive. And frankly, Ms. Connor, his attitude sucks. We asked him to talk to us. You know what he said?"

Gail shook her head. She wanted to strangle Patrick.

"He said I should go perform an intimate act on myself. The man is rude. I get bad vibes whenever somebody doesn't want to talk to me. I ask myself, What can this person be hiding?"

Davis leaned back in his chair and tossed Gumby into the in/out box. "That answer your questions?"

"Not quite. What evidence do you have against Patrick Norris? Or is this all supposition because you don't like his attitude?"

"I'm not prepared to comment at this time." Davis smiled.

"Could I have a copy of the reports?"

"No."

She reached down for her purse. "Then I guess we're finished."

"For now." Gary Davis rolled his chair back. "Let me ask you something, Ms. Connor. If Patrick Norris did do it, he's out of luck, right? I mean, a killer can't inherit from his victim?" He was still smiling when he opened the door.

"I'm sure you know the answer to that, Detective."

Chapter Eleven

Gail arrived at her mother's at a quarter to seven the next evening with Karen's elbow in one hand and an overnight bag in the other. Irene opened the screen door and drew Karen into a big hug that knocked her Hurricanes hat to the floor of the foyer.

"Look who's here. My favorite girl in the whole world!" Irene kissed her, then glanced at Gail while Karen bent to retrieve her hat.

"I found her on the roof," Gail said.

"Oh, you scared us, honey, disappearing like that." Irene led Karen across the living room, through the dining room with its chandelier and softly ticking clock, then into the kitchen. The kitchen was big enough to eat in, with the original cabinets from the Sixties and thirty years' worth of knickknacks. Drawings of Karen's were stuck with fruit magnets to the refrigerator door. A casserole sat on the stove under an inverted plate, keeping warm. Gail could smell cheese.

Irene said, "After dinner we'll make your volcano for school. I haven't done papier-mache" since your mother was a girl."

Karen hung her alligator purse over the back of a chair and petted the orange striped cat curled up on the seat. Gail gave her a look. She sighed. "Gramma?"

"What, darling?" Irene was pouring apple juice into a plastic Lion King cup.

"I am sorry for making you worry about me, and I wanted to come over here to see you. I like your house."

"Of course you do. We always have a
good time, don't we?" Irene dropped Karen's hat over a knob on the chair back. "What happened to your hair?" She set the juice on the table.

"Mom cut it. I look stupid."

She laughed and squeezed Karen around the shoulders. "Why no, you don't. You're cute as a bug." She fluffed her bangs with her fingers. "There you go. The prettiest girl in Miami. Tell your mommy to take you to a real beauty salon next time." Another squeeze. "Run and wash your hands for dinner."

Karen flipped her hat back on, picked up the cat, its forelegs straight out under its chin, then went down the back hallway to the guest bathroom.

Irene took two plates from the cabinet. She wore bright yellow culottes, a tropical-print shirt, and white sandals decorated with faux emeralds that glittered when she walked. She asked Gail, "Are you hungry?"

"No, I can't stay long. Anyway, we're having a
dinner after the gallery," Gail said, meaning dinner on South Beach with Anthony Quintana after they went to see Monica Tillett's collection.

Irene raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, Mother, I'm spending the night with Anthony." "Is this getting serious?"

"I don't know what it is. We enjoy each other's company. We're monogamous."

"He's certainly an attractive man." She levered a slice of macaroni out of the casserole dish and dropped it on a plate. Her nails were painted a
scorching red. "What does Karen think?"

"She says he's a
geek. We can't talk about it civilly, so I hardly mention his name." Gail rummaged in a drawer for the aspirin Irene kept there. "She's afraid he's going to take me away from her. She's already nervous because her father doesn't call as much as he promised. Dave says he can't— there's no phone on his sailboat. He sends her postcards."

"Well, be careful."

Gail gave her a quizzical look. "About what?"

"The charming Mr. Quintana. I'm afraid your biological urges are going to get the better of you."

"My urges are firmly in check, thank you." She closed the drawer, opened another.

"What are you looking for?"

"I have a headache."

Irene pointed at the brown plastic bottle on the counter, in plain sight. "What if you married him? Have you thought of that?"

"Don't worry. We haven't mentioned the M word." Gail washed the aspirin down with a sip of Karen's juice.

"I do worry. Betty Ott's daughter married a Venezuelan—a doctor, too—and within six months he was playing around. It's in their blood."

"Good lord."

"Don't believe me, then. I've read
The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love.
It was written by a Cuban, so that should tell you something. It's bad enough, Dave leaving. I'd hate like the dickens for you to be disappointed a second time. Although freedom has its merits. Doing what you please, and no man underfoot. See if
I
ever get married again." Irene licked a smear of cheddar off her thumb. She set the plates on placemats printed with sunflowers.

"But you, darling. You're still young." She smiled up at Gail. "You can make a
whole new life with someone. And I want him—whoever he is—to be right for you this time. Someone who will take good care of my girl."

Smiling, Gail pulled out a
chair. "Mother, I don't need to be taken care of."

"Oh, you know very well what I mean." Irene went back across the kitchen, her sandals twinkling. "You better start asking some hard questions about what it is he wants from you."