Suspicion of Guilt (26 page)

"How little you know. Sad." Ehringer sighed. 'The Easton Trust was founded as an alternative to Roosevelt's leftist social programs. Its members—whom I will not name—have a point of view which is unpopular, and they prefer to keep it private. That is all."

"May I ask if you have heard of these corporations: Seagate and Atlantic Enterprises?"

"No. What are they?"

Gail said, "Seagate owns a travel agency called Gateway Travel."

He made an expansive shrug, smoke whirling into a spiral.

"And Atlantic Enterprises ... owns a nightclub. With exotic dancers."

Ehringer pulled on his cigar, watching her over the end of it. "I do not frequent such places, my dear."

"Are either of these corporations owned by the Easton Trust?"

A laugh rumbled out of his chest. "I should say not."

There was another knock at the door. The Asian woman brought in a tray with Ehringer's toddy on it, then went to clear the table. Ehringer smoked his cigar, turning it slowly in his mouth, the end of it wet and dark.

Gail stood up and combed through the tassel on the green silk shade. When the woman had gone, she asked, "Who is in the Easton Trust?"

"Why do you wish to know that?"

"Why must it be a secret?" she responded.

He turned to tap his ashes over a crystal ashtray. "You're worse than a government bureaucrat! Pick and probe."

"At least you can tell me who Mr. Easton was."

Ehringer brought his gaze around to settle on her. "Who was Mr. Easton?" His thin lips curved into a smile. "I'm afraid I can't tell you who he was."

"Don't be so obscure, Mr. Ehringer. And don't play with me."

He slapped the arm of his chair, laughing. "Her feathers are wet now, by God!"

Gail stood and made a polite smile. "I really must be going. It's late. Dinner was lovely." She picked up her purse from the sofa. "Perhaps you'd have Russell drive me home."

Ehringer's jowls flowed over his collar as his head sank into his shoulders. "I apologize. That was unkind of me." He went to press the button to signal his staff. 'Tell me, Gail. Have you really considered what will happen if this case goes to trial?"

Cigar between his teeth, he wheeled over to where she stood. "Say by some misstep of divine judgment you win, and your client can hand out money like loaves and fishes. His parents were missionaries in El Salvador. Perhaps he is following in their footsteps. But what will become of this noble experiment? The people in the neighborhood will resent him, as well they should. Who is he? A wealthy white man telling them what to do, how to live. What presumption! A failed attorney, a veteran of trouble with the law, and now under police investigation. Yes, Gail. I know what they suspect him of."

"He didn't do it."

"Innocence, guilt. Such a thin line." Ehringer regarded the glowing end of his cigar, closing one eye against the smoke. "It would be amusing to find out how easily he could be pushed over it." He inhaled deeply, then tilted back his head.

"What do you mean?" The only answer was a circle lazily floating upward. Like a noose.

The door opened and the butler stood there in his white jacket. "Yes, sir?"

"Ms. Connor is leaving. Summon Russell, would you? Gail, one more thing before you go."

In the hall she turned around, furious.

Ehringer glided toward her, stopped. "You asked me who Mr. Easton was. Would you still like to know?"

She allowed a shrug. "Yes, if you'll tell me."

"I will give you this much. He doesn't exist. He's no one. There. Now you won't go looking for him." Sanford Ehringer reached out to close the door. He smiled. "Good night, Ms. Connor."

Gail had the phone halfway back to her bedside table when she finally heard Anthony's voice.

"It's me," she said. "Are you asleep already?"

There was a pause, a shifting of comforter and sheets. "It is ... one-thirty. What happened?"

"That late? Oh. I've been lying here awhile. I didn't—"

"Gail. I got in at midnight. I have to meet a client at seven in the morning."

"Sorry. I went to Sanford Ehringer's house."

"Yes. You said you would. And?"

"I think he's going to set Patrick up to be framed for murder."

A tired laugh. "Only in the movies."

"I'm serious, Anthony. He could do it. He has more money and power than you can imagine. He lives in a secret compound by the river. He has a tower in his backyard where he sits with a camera and he watches—"

"Ay, mi diós."

She let some seconds pass, realizing how irrational it must have sounded. "Never mind. But could you talk to the police? Find out what they're doing? And if you could talk to Patrick—"

"I don't want to talk to Patrick."

"Well, I'm sorry I woke you."

"Wait. Don't hang up." A few seconds passed. "Call me tomorrow, all right? Tomorrow afternoon." He let out his breath. "I didn't mean to be cross with you. Don't worry so much."

"Anthony. What are you doing tomorrow night? Come over for dinner. Karen suggested it."

"Karen?"

"Don't say you're busy. It'll be simple. Pizza or something." She waited. "Okay?"

"Okay. Six o'clock. No mushrooms."

She said, "I love you."

"Yes. I love you too. Good night."

"Anthony?" She closed her eyes, holding the phone tightly. "Do you think we love each other with our hearts and intellects?"

A few deep breaths came over the line, then: "Gail, what are you talking about?"

"It's something Sanford Ehringer said about Althea Tillett."

"Those two had an affair?"

"A passionate affair, in the summer of 1958 on an island called Mykonos, in the Aegean."

A few more seconds went by. "I don't love you with my intellect. My heart, yes. And a few more places." He yawned. "Let me go back to sleep, will you?"

Chapter Sixteen

Gail spent most of Tuesday buried in office work, trying to keep her mind off Sanford Ehringer. It wasn't easy. She had caught herself thinking of multinational conspiracies, the inner circles of the CIA, the Northeastern Ivy League establishment, the hidden power elite who really called the shots, while poor everyday folk trudged from home to work to home, believing their lives were their own. Sanford Ehringer and his friends were watching from their towers like Jane Goodall in Kenya. They might lend a hand here and there, as long as it didn't upset the natural order of things.

Anthony had called. By way of a friend with the Miami Beach Police, he had found out what proof they had against Patrick Norris:
nada.
The cops didn't like him, and everyone else had an alibi. So don't worry about it, he had told her. The old toad couldn't buy off an entire police force and then corrupt a judge and jury. Anthony made a kiss into the telephone and said he would see her at six o'clock for pizza.

Three-thirty found Gail speeding eastward from downtown over the causeway to Miami Beach, passing luxury cruise ships on her right, the mansions of Palm, Hibiscus, and Star islands on her left. She swooped Onto South Beach, which a consortium of financiers was snapping up like hors d'oeuvres. Then a left onto Alton Road toward Gateway Travel Agency. She wanted to see Carla Napolitano for herself.

At first Gail had assumed, because Patrick had said so, that Rudy and Monica were behind the forgery of Althea Tillett's will. Now she sensed other forces at work, chief among them the Easton Charitable Trust. Ehringer, its chairman, wanted a quiet settlement. So did its director, Howard Odell. Usually in litigation you settle if you think you can't win, not because you have something to hide. Gail wondered what she would find if she could peel back the skin of this case.

What unnerved her most was that the will might not have been forged at all. The document examiner could be mistaken. Discrepancies in the witnesses' stories could be reconciled. And Lauren Sontag might have told the truth: that Althea Til-let had signed her will, but it had been improperly notarized.

These theories converged at one point: Carla Napolitano. Lauren Sontag said she had paid Carla fifty dollars to notarize the will. And Carla worked for Gateway Travel, whose registered agent was located in the same building as the Easton Trust.

Going north on Alton Road, Gail slowed past the bank building where Weissman, Woods, Merrill & Sontag, P.A., was located. Tomorrow she and Larry Black would drive back over here to meet with Alan Weissman, but for now she wanted to stay anonymous. Gateway Travel was two doors down. She parked on a side street.

Luckily she had worn a dress today. She didn't look like an attorney. As for Carla—she would be plump and middle-aged, with brown hair. A blank. Eric hadn't noticed much. The thing with Eric Ramsay was, people didn't interest him, unless they were players. But then, maybe that's what it took to get rich in the law. Stick to the facts, the numbers, the deal.

Walking slowly, Gail glanced through the plate glass windows of Gateway Travel. Discount airline tickets. Fall specials to New England. A faded cutout of a cruise ship. Possibly Carla Napolitano wasn't there at all. What about Frankie Delgado? He had answered the phone when Miriam called looking for Carla Napolitano. What kind of man was this, to offer a girl he'd never seen a job dancing naked in a nightclub?

Gail passed the door, kept going, then walked by again. There were three or four desks inside. More posters. Racks of brochures. No one inside. She stopped. Toward the back, seated at a desk, a woman. Brown hair.

She turned around and walked past the agency a third time, astonished by her own presumption. If this was Carla, what would she say to her?
Tell me: Did Lauren Sontag give you fifty dollars to notarize a phony will? Is this travel agency connected to a nude bar called Wild Cherry?

This was crazy, Gail realized. It might even be against the Florida Bar Code of Ethics—pretending you weren't an attorney to induce a witness to give you information. Lying so you could get the truth.

Go home,
Gail told herself, walking past the travel agency yet again. Her photo might have been shown to Carla Napolitano. Then what would happen when Alan Weissman confronted her with it on Wednesday?

"Miss? Are you lost?"

Gail turned to see an old man behind her with a cane, squinting through his glasses. She shook her head. "Thanks. It's right here."

A bell tinkled when she went in.

"You know, Cancun is real nice in November. And it's cheap. I could get you a weekend for two for five hundred dollars, air included."

"Well, that wasn't quite what we had in mind."

"Rio!" Carla Napolitano playfully slapped Gail on the arm. "You could do Rio. Talk about fun!"

About the only thing Eric had gotten right in describing Carla Napolitano was the brown hair. It was dark chestnut brown, or a good attempt. It was curled and teased and held up by two combs covered in fake leopard skin. She wasn't plump; she was busty. As for being middle aged—Carla Napolitano would never accept that designation, whether she looked it or not. And she did. Makeup helped; her eyelashes were long and spiky, and upward slashes of powdered blush decorated her cheeks. The skin around her eyes was webbed with little lines.

"Rio?" Gail thought about it. "We don't have that much time."

"What about a package at the Doral here in town?"

"No. We don't want Miami."

"He's not married, is he? God, listen to me. None of my business."

"Well ... yes. But he's getting a divorce."

"Mmm-hmm. You be careful, honey." Carla swung one crossed leg. She wore tight red pants and backless high heels of clear plastic with daisies on the toes.

Gail sat at one end of the desk. At the other was a computer terminal and a stack of manuals. She asked, "Did you have bad luck with a married man?"

"Oh, did I." Carla glanced past Gail, lowered her voice. 'Twice, when I was young and stupid. One was a doctor. He gave me an MG convertible because he felt so guilty, then told me to give it back."

"Did you?"

"Please!" Carla laughed and turned back to the brochures on her desk. "Okay, let's see what we can find for Connie and Luis." She wore a black tank top and the soft flesh of her upper arm swayed as she moved. Her thrusting breasts hardly moved at all. Gail wondered if they were real.

She said, "I'd love to work in a travel agency."

"Ha."

"Really. How'd you get into it?"

"By accident, I guess. I'm good with people. Plus I know the manager."

"Who's that?" When Carla looked at her, Gail said, "I'd like to talk to him. You know. See if anything's available."

Carla's gold hoop earrings swung when she shook her head. "There's not. Besides, you gotta take courses for this. And let me tell you. I'm getting out of the business myself.
Adiós,
Miami." She smiled at Gail. "Maybe I wouldn't if everybody was as nice as you. I mean that."

Gail smiled back. "What did you do before this?"

"Oh, God. Everything. Bookkeeping. I do books here, as a matter of fact. Let's see. I sang in a cocktail lounge. I did some modeling."

"Really? Me too," said Gail. "Where did you model?"

"New York, Jersey. Lingerie, mostly. What can I say? It pays good. But I'm too short. You got the build. You still model?"

"Not anymore, at my age."

"Tell me about it. They want you, then you're on your ass. All right, Connie, take a look at these." She fanned out the brochures so Gail could see them. "I'd recommend Ocho Rios or Club Med, unless Luis wants something more unusual."

"Unusual?" Gail looked up.

"Different. I mean, in your situation, guys sometimes like something . . . unusual. Not that
you
would, but—" She shrugged.

For a few seconds Gail studied the brightly colored pamphlets. Couples running on the beach, embracing on a balcony, dancing on a ship. "How unusual do you mean?"

"Well, I've had 'em come in here wanting to take their girlfriends to see Shakespeare plays in London, and some wanting to go on a nude boat cruise. Use your imagination."

Gail turned a page in one of the brochures. There was a back view of a woman splashing in a lagoon. Her imagination told her that this travel agency could suggest trips that dovetailed nicely with the entertainment at Wild Cherry. Casually she said, "Well, possibly Luis would like something ... unusual." She smiled at Carla. "He's always complaining that his wife isn't much fun."