Suspicion of Guilt (19 page)

Lauren finally said, "So. We seem to be on opposite sides of the issue. Your office and my law partner, at any rate."

"I'll still vote for you." Gail smiled.

A soft laugh. "Thanks."

"Do you know Monica?"

"I know her work." Lauren lifted a shoulder. "It's not to everyone's taste, but I like it. I met her when I was collecting some pieces for my house."

Into the next silence Gail said, "Larry Black and I will be over to see Alan next week."

"I've heard."

Gail listened to the splash of water in the fountain. "Sorry about all this. As soon as I saw you, Althea Tillett went out of my head. I wanted us to go to lunch sometime and catch up."

"We will." Lauren raised the cigarette to her lips, then away. Her nails were perfect and diamonds winked on her fingers. "What is going on? I know you. You wouldn't take a losing case. So what is it? You can't show that Mrs. Tillett lacked the capacity to execute a will. She was as sane as you or I. Saner."

"Perhaps."

"You're going to discuss it with Alan on Wednesday. Why don't you tell me now?"

"Please don't ask me to."

"I'm hardly a stranger."

"Come on, don't."

"You come on." The words had an edge.

"Lauren—this isn't between us."

She shook her head, spoke softly. "No. I'm sorry, Gail. Forgive me." She seemed to study the gallery, where people walked among the white-painted dividers and spotlights hung in the high, black ceiling. She said, "Despite what you told Jessica Simms about Althea's competence, you think the will was forged."

When Gail made no answer, Lauren smiled. "Don't deny it. Rudy told me Patrick was throwing accusations around."

"We're investigating it," Gail said.

Lauren dropped her cigarette to the pavement, slowly pivoting the toe of her pink suede pump. "You're completely wrong about this, Gail. You're being manipulated and lied to."

"By whom?"

"Your client. He hates his cousins. I could tell you things."

"Such as?"

Lauren shook her head. 'Tales of childhood. Does anyone ever escape unharmed?"

Gail asked, "What do you know about this?"

"Would you call me as a
witness if I told you?"

"Lauren. My God. Whatever Alan Weissman did, it's his problem. Are you afraid you'll get splattered? You'll be safely on the bench long before the case is litigated."

"And therefore I shouldn't care about what happens to him. I do care. He brought me into this firm, he was there for me in ways you can't begin to know. No one has been as faithful to me as Alan." She smiled. "It isn't sex, if you wondered."

"You're protecting him."

Lauren seemed to consider what to say. "He may admit to you on Wednesday that he botched the signing of Althea Tillett's will. But to accuse him of forgery ... I could laugh if it wasn't so sad."

"What happened?"

"Between you and me, all right?"

"All right," Gail said slowly. She wondered if Lauren had been drinking. Lauren had no business discussing these things with an opposing attorney. Holding her breath, Gail followed Lauren's gaze toward the people under the awning, saw a pale young man in a T-shirt and painted leather vest, his blond hair sticking straight up in two-inch dreadlocks. He spoke to a heavy woman in a long purple skirt and boots, something about having to get a tooth filled. A rather ordinary topic for this gathering, Gail thought.

Finally Lauren said, "Althea Tillett called Alan on Friday afternoon for a Saturday appointment to change her will. You have to understand. Althea would do this routinely on whatever legal matter came to mind—her will, her property, an insurance question. She would simply drop in and expect to be catered to. Naturally, Alan charged her accordingly, but he came to resent the imposition.

"He should never have allowed her to come on a Saturday because we have no staff. During the week there are people to witness a will—secretaries, the law clerk. Alan told Althea this, but she said she would bring two of her friends as witnesses. Jessica Simms didn't want to be there at all, and Irving Adler shouldn't have been. I heard you went to his house. You must have seen how fuddled he is. But Althea insisted, and they all showed up Saturday at ten o'clock."

Under the awning, the woman in the purple skirt was talking to another woman in a business suit. They sipped their wine. The second woman had a gold ring through her left nostril.

Gail looked back at Lauren. She was reaching into her purse for another cigarette, took it out of a case, lit it, snapped the bag shut again. She inhaled deeply.

"I should stop this," she said. "I'll die from it." She pushed her side-parted hair away from her face. "Where was I?"

"Althea and her friends arrived on Saturday at ten."

"Yes. Alan said he would make the changes on the word processor and call a notary. Awhile later I arrived to pick up some papers. Althea was quite annoyed. Where was Mr. Weissman? It had been nearly an hour. I found him asleep in his office. He had been drinking all night, as I found out later, and he hadn't even been home. I pulled the will off the word processor, took everyone into the library, and went back to wake Alan. By the time he came in, they had already signed the will. Alan couldn't notarize it because he isn't a notary. Neither am I. Althea and her friends wanted to leave, so Alan said he would take care of it."

Lauren inhaled smoke, let it go. "A will doesn't have to be notarized to be valid, you know, but on hers, there was a place for it. Alan couldn't leave it empty. How would it look?"

"And so he found Carta Napolitano."

The smoke drifted in the still air. "No. I found her. She's downstairs in a travel agency."

"That was ... not smart."

"I agree. It was incredibly stupid."

Under the awning, the woman with the nose ring had hooked her arm around the neck of a man in pleated pants and a hundred-and-fifty-dollar Armani cotton shirt. Gail knew the shirt. Anthony had one.

"At the time, it seemed all right. Althea had signed so many wills. She would be back in a few months to do another."

Gail brought her gaze back around. "How did you persuade the notary to do this?" "Fifty dollars." "Oh, my God."

Deep blue eyes fixed on her, not wanting to plead, but pleading nonetheless. Lauren made a smile, took a drag off her cigarette. "Now what?"

"I don't know. I really wish you hadn't told me this."

"The will is valid, Gail, even if the notarization isn't. Alan's going to try to protect me, to say I wasn't involved, but I was. It was more my fault than his. He didn't know what he was doing. I was the clear-headed one." She laughed lightly. "Or maybe not." She awkwardly took Gail's hand, and her fingers were trembling. "Don't crucify him—both of us—on the way to losing this case. Please. I'm asking you as a friend."

"Lauren, I can't just drop it."

"I'm not asking for that. A settlement, before everyone in the world knows about it. Something Patrick Norris can be reasonably happy with. And ... something you can be happy with. I know things are tight for you right now—"

"Don't. I don't want to hear it. We'll talk on Wednesday, but at some point I'll have to take your deposition. Yours and Alan's."

The eyes went cold. "What I told you was between us, as friends. You agreed. I didn't think you'd attack me with it."

Off balance, Gail said, "Lauren, you committed a crime."

Lauren laughed. "A
crime!
Please. Tell me you never cut corners. What will you do, use this to force a settlement?"

Gail felt the heaviness in her chest.

The ember glowed. Lauren exhaled smoke, crashed out her cigarette. "I think I'll see if Barry's ready to go."

"What am I supposed to do, forget about this?"

"Do what you want. I'll deny it happened." She turned and made her way through the crowd, then was lost inside the gallery.

"Damn it. Damn, damn, damn." Gail spun toward the street and noticed Anthony leaning one shoulder against a tree, hands in his pockets. The street lamp cast uneven light through its branches. She walked over to him.

"How long have you been standing there?" she asked.

"A few minutes," he said. "I hate to interrupt an argument unless it comes to blows. Who was she?"

"Lauren Sontag. My friend and a candidate for judge. She just offered me a bribe."

He looked toward the gallery. "Weissman's partner. What was she doing here?"

"I don't know. Hobnobbing with a bunch of posers. She fits right in. God, you think you know someone." She hitched her purse farther up on her shoulder. "Let's go."

"Where?"

"Home. Your house. A hotel. I don't care."

"What about the gallery?"

"Screw the gallery."

"You make me curious about these people, and then you want to leave?" He took her arm and turned her toward the Beach. "We'll go to the comer and back, and then see the gallery. Tell me what happened."

She did.

They walked east, and the street was illuminated by the light shining through the windows of a drugstore, a coffee-shop, a vintage clothing store. A cop pedaled past on a bicycle, blue shorts, white shirt, a gun on his belt.

"I don't know if Lauren is lying or not. I hope she isn't." Gail leaned on Anthony's arm. "I found myself wanting to help her, and Alan too. Even to cover up for them. I mean, why be such a hard-ass? If the will is valid, why make Alan Weissman look like a drunken fool? Or cause Lauren to lose the election?"

"So you now believe the will is genuine?" he asked.

"Imagine if it is. Never mind the partnership, Mr. Robineau, I screwed up." She laughed, then was gloomily silent for a while, watching the concrete move under her feet. Anthony took her hand. They passed two other couples on the sidewalk, and he told her to slow down, they had all night. The scent of the sea began to come up on a warm breeze.

Gail looked at him. "You want to hear my mother's theory of why Jessica Simms and Irving Adler did it? Because Althea would have wanted it that way. She would have wanted the charities to get the money."

Anthony's mouth curved into a smile.

"Maybe it's true. And maybe they're right. The best of motives, as my mother said. So do I blow the whistle on them? They're nice people, respectable citizens, and all that. They just didn't want to see her dissolute nephew get it all when it could go to better causes."

"That makes more sense."

"He isn't dissolute," Gail said firmly. "He doesn't want the money for himself. It's for others. I wish my own motives were so uncluttered. Sometimes I wonder why I'm doing this. Is it because I admire Patrick's ideals or because I want a partnership?"

"But Gail. Selfish motives are mixed into everything we do. That doesn't mean we shouldn't do them." Anthony put his arm around her shoulders. They coasted to a stop in front of a dance studio. Silhouettes of dancers overlapped each other, whirling across the long, dark window.

"All right. Here is a question for you," he said. "I frequently asked myself this when I began to practice criminal law. Who is your client? Who hired you?"

"Patrick, but—"

"Patrick. Yes. And it is to Patrick that you owe your legal duty. And that is the end of the discussion."

"That's too simple. What if people are ruined by this lawsuit?"

"You're an advocate, not a judge. All right, here's another question. Was the will forged or not? If so, it's a crime, and those who did it have no right to your sympathy, and you, Gail, should not be concerned about the consequences of their actions. You have been hired by Patrick Norris. Your duty is to him. He says the will is a forgery. Your document examiner says it is a forgery. Simms and Adler are obviously lying. Lauren Sontag may be lying. Proceed accordingly."

She laughed. "Well, that cuts through the fog, doesn't it? Helps maintain an emotional distance, anyway." She slid her hands under his jacket. He was wearing a white silk shirt and a chocolate brown suit. He kissed her, lightly at first, playing, then his tongue stroked into her mouth.

After a minute, she pulled back, her face flushed. "Well. Yes. Was it a forgery or wasn't it? You know what some of my lady friends in the law would say about that approach?"

Anthony pressed against her. "What if I say I don't care?"

"I'll tell you anyway." She edged a thigh between his, pushed. 'They would say it's a male system of ethics. Linear."

"Very linear," he said.

"Like a switch. On or off."

He drew in a sharp breath. "Very much on."

"See? No subtlety at all."

"Do you want subtlety?" he asked.

"No."

His hand closed around her breast. "Do you want to go back to the gallery?"

They took some time thinking about that, then Gail pulled herself out of his arms. She took her compact and lipstick from her purse. "Yes. Actually, I do. I want to see who we're dealing with. I want to see their reaction when I mention the murder investigation." She smoothed on her lipstick.

"I could remind you," Anthony said, "that your friend Patrick is the chief suspect."

"But you won't, right?" Gail smiled into her compact, powdered her nose and cheeks, then snapped it shut. "Would you like to know what Rudy and Monica Tillett used to do with dead raccoons?"

Chapter Twelve

Outside the Tillett Gallery the crowd had grown, spilling out past the awning. Some teenagers in tattered jeans wandered around, possibly from the School of Arts, copping the free wine. Obviously well-off young couples gathered in groups. A bearded man in running shorts and clogs spoke in French with a turbaned black woman. There weren't many Latinos. Anthony told her they preferred the galleries in Coral Gables, sticking mostly to themselves. He picked up a two-page guide from a rack at the entrance.

The gallery was long and narrow, with a concrete floor and a high ceiling. The young man with the blond dreads poured wine at a table in the corner. Above the echoing voices came the
twang-bong-click
of strange music. White dividers angled and turned like a maze.

At the door Gail stood on her toes, trying to spot Rudy or Monica. Seventeen years ago in high school their hair had been curly Wack. Rudy had been Gail's height, Monica several inches shorter, both of them muscular and quick, with the physiques of soccer players.