Suspicion of Guilt (27 page)

Carla swung her foot. "And he needs a little excitement in his life."

"You could say that."

"Mmm-hmm. I hope he's worth it."

"So far he's been very generous with me. He wants us to have a good time on this trip, not to worry what it costs. In fact, he said I should check with Gateway Travel. You're specialists in discreet vacations?" Gail held her breath. She might have pushed too far.

Carla didn't blink. "How come Luis isn't in here himself?"

"He's too busy. He's ... a heart surgeon."

"Mama mia, a doctor." She directed a glance at the ceiling, then back to Gail. "Let me guess. In his forties, drives a sports car."

"A Cadillac convertible."

"Typical." Carla laughed. "I could set something up, sure. But honey, you don't seem like the type."

"What kind of vacation are we talking about?"

"I can send the both of you down to Mexico to watch girls doing it with donkeys, if that's what you want."

"Oh." She placed a hand flat on her bosom. "I don't think so."

"Sorry. You asked."

"It's okay. Does Gateway do a lot of this?"

"People are weird, what can I tell you?"

"Isn't this illegal?"

"Heck, no. We make the travel arrangements. What they do when they get there is up to them. Not everybody is kinky, now. I'm not saying that. Most people want a good time, like you and Luis. But some of them," she whispered, "I could tell you stories! Tourists come in—gay, straight, groups, whatever—they want something different. You know what I'm saying?"

"What if Luis wanted something different but closer to home?"

"It depends on what he wants."

"You mean, you could arrange ... escorts? If he wanted an extra person on our dates? Luis mentioned it, but I think he was kidding."

"Mmm-hmm." Carla smiled indulgently.

"You don't like this very much, do you?" Gail said.

"Soon as I can get some money in the bank, and it won't be long, I'm outta here."

"Where will you go?" Gail asked.

"Paramus, New Jersey. I have family there."

Gail gestured toward the triple photo frame beside Carla's computer monitor. "The people in the pictures? Can I see?"

"Oh, those! Yes, that's my grandbaby."

"You're a
grand
mother?"

Carla laughed. "Oh, honey, everybody says I don't look old enough, but I'll claim this little fella!" She slid the triple frame across the desk. The first section showed a splotchy-faced infant with a blue blanket wrapped around him. He had chubby cheeks and crossed eyes and black hair someone had coaxed into a mohawk. A handwritten card propped on his chest said
LoRusso, Michael Roy. 9 lbs, 2 oz. 7/31.
The next photo showed the baby with his eyes uncrossed, in the arms of a pretty, dark-haired young woman. The last was a department-store portrait: Mom, Dad, smiling baby against a backdrop of out-of-focus trees.

Gail asked, "Was he just born in this first picture?"

"Fresh as an egg."

"Big boy."

"Ouch, right? They almost had to give her a cesarian." "Were you there?"

"You bet. My son-in-law called me when Rita went into labor and I mean I was on a plane an hour later."

Gail said, "How long did you stay with her?"

"The weekend." Carla smiled at the photos. "As long as I could."

"I bet you made it back just in time for the old grind on Monday." "You got it."

"They're a beautiful family," Gail said.

"They're my life." Carla placed the triple frame exactly where it had been, nudging it until she got it right. Her gold bracelets twinkled, ringing like little bells.

"Aren't you married?" Gail asked.

"No, me and my husband got divorced a long time ago. I don't care. He was a drunk. Rita married a great boy, a real sweetie-pie. I'm gonna help them buy a house. You have any kids?"

"A daughter. She's ... with her grandparents ... in Kansas City. I send money."

"Oh, my. I went through that with mine. It's hard, isn't it?" Carla Napolitano squeezed Gail's hand. "Now look here, Connie. I don't mean to preach or anything. Far be it, you know? But this kind of life. It gets old. And you get old. And then what?"

She scooped up the travel brochures and tapped them on her desk, aligning them neatly. "You forget about this asshole Luis. Excuse the language, honey, but I know whereof I speak. You go find yourself a nice man while you're young, settle down, make a good home. Then maybe you can get your daughter back." She smiled. "We do it all for our kids, don't we? That's what matters."

Gail stood by her car with the door open for a minute, letting the heat out. She had forgotten to put the sun shield over the dash.

Across the street, over the flat-roofed white storefronts with their aluminum awnings, she could see the six-floor bank building where Lauren Sontag worked. Lauren Sontag— unless she was buzzing around collecting endorsements for her judicial candidacy—was probably up there right now. It made Gail's head spin. Lauren had lied, lied, lied.

The will was a phony, beyond question. It hadn't been signed on Saturday, August 3. The notary had been cuddling her new grandbaby in Paramus, New Jersey, making it back to Miami Beach in time for work on Monday.

Gail got in and started her car, flipping the AC to high. It worked wonderfully, now that the weather was cooling off. She took a left onto Alton Road, going back toward the causeway.

Carla Napolitano had seen some things in her life. Had done some things. She had her lapses, but she wasn't really
wicked.
Now Gail would have to betray her, and she took no pleasure in that thought. Jack Warner would have to handle Carta's deposition. Gail knew she might hesitate going for the kill, remembering how Carla had shown her the photos of that cross-eyed baby.

At the next stop light Gail checked her watch. Only 4:15. She made a U-turn. As long as she was on the Beach, on a lucky streak ...

She stopped around the corner from 1470 Drexel Avenue, got out of her car, and ignored the meter. She would only be there long enough to take a quick look.

Moving along with the other pedestrians on the sidewalk, she could see the alley behind the two-story building. There was a pile of boxes and an old tire. A back door was open, and through the screen came the clang of pots and pans and the smell of garlic. Above, water dripped from a rattling air conditioner hanging out a window.

She turned north, passing a carry-out pizza place, then a barber shop. Old drink cups had been left among the dusty bushes in the brick planter outside. The next door was set back into an angled entranceway beside a directory listing the businesses upstairs. There were ten of them. Atlantic Enterprises was first, Seagate, Inc., near the end. Suites 203 and 205.

Gail looked through the heavy glass door, which was scratched around the metal handle. She could see an elevator.

What if, on a pretense of some kind, one could simply knock on the door? Play a part. See if they had any job openings. Pretend to be a new tenant in the building. She opened the door.

On the second floor the carpet was stained and wrinkled, and a long strand of it had frayed out of the weave as if caught by someone's shoe. Gail walked noiselessly along the corridor. At the far end a window covered in steel mesh let in a yellowish light that shone on the slickly painted walls. She heard voices from somewhere, then a laugh.

Numbers 203 and 205 were painted on the same door. No names. Rock music came faintly through it. Gail started to turn the knob, but knocked instead, her heart doing a little flip before it settled.

A man's voice shouted for her to come in.

The room was about fifteen feet square with display tables along two walls. Headless torsos on a shelf wore T-shirts reading YOUR LOGO HERE. There were sales catalogs and boxes of key chains, pencils, plastic mugs, everything covered with dust.

A chunky man in his late thirties was standing in the doorway to an inner office, where the music was coming from. His black hair curled close to his head in little ringlets. He wore a loose, abstract-patterned shirt and light-green pleated pants. Behind him Gail could see a woman's bare legs, crossed, and a pair of ankle-strap silver platform shoes.

"Can I help you?" Frowning a little, curious, he walked closer to where Gail stood. He was shorter than Gail by a few inches, with a pudgy face and thick hair on his forearms. His heavy gold ID bracelet was outlined in little diamonds. She could make out the letters F
-
R-

"I'm looking for Frankie Delgado," she said.

He raised his eyebrows, spread his hands. "Who's looking?"

"Miriam." It was the first thing that jumped into her head. She tossed back her hair and looked down her nose at him. She thought her heart might stop. "I hear you have some openings at Wild Cherry."

He stuck a striped plastic straw in his mouth. It was bent double and already gnawed and pointed. He chewed on it for a while, looking at her. "No offense, sweetheart, but how old are you?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yeah, it matters."

The legs uncrossed and the woman they belonged to came to the door—a young woman; very slim, with a perky butt and breasts like apples. She wore a long-sleeved black top held together at the shoulders by silver circles, and her curly, white-blond hair swooped into a sparkly clip, then corkscrewed to her waist.

Frankie glanced back at her. "Hey. Turn down the radio."

Gail brought her eyes back to the man. "I wasn't aware there was an age limit." Anxiety was making her voice husky.

The radio went silent.

He said, "You don't look like a dancer."

She shrugged. "I do a lot of things."

Leaning on the door frame, the girl snorted. "She's gotta be like thirty. At least."

"Shut up." The girl folded her thin arms. Frankie chewed on his straw. "What else you do, Miriam?"

"Whatever. I have a vivid imagination."

He looked around at the girl, grinning. "Hey, maybe I should send you out for coffee, sweet cheeks."

She smiled at him, raising her middle finger, showing a long, iridescent purple fingernail. Her round face was absolutely without lines. She could have been fifteen.

"Miriam. Hey. Who sent you over?"

"I ... met somebody at the travel agency."

"Somebody who?"

"A woman."

The girl laughed. "Carla's doing referrals now?"

"Hey." Frankie looked over his shoulder. "Shut up or go in the other room." She dropped into a molded plastic chair by a display table and hugged her arms around one leg. She was wearing pink underwear.

Frankie sat on a corner of the table, his trouser leg tight, his thigh big as a ham. "You go out, Miriam? You date?"

It flashed through her mind that she ought to apologize for bothering him, then twist the doorknob and flee into the hall. But she couldn't pull her eyes away—the thick arms, the gelled ringlets on his forehead. Did she
date!

She smiled. "Yes. But I'm very particular."

He took the straw out of his mouth and bent it the other way. "You go out with businessmen? High-class-type guys?"

Gail could feel the sweat prickling her neck. "Men of intelligence appreciate my talents," she said. "Lawyers, for example."

From the chair the girl snickered.

"Shut up," he said, still looking at Gail. "You got a specialty? Something you like to do?" He slid off the table and walked toward her.

She pressed back a little, the doorknob in her spine. "Not really."

"I guess you're—what?—versatile. A lady of many talents." He turned the straw around and around in his mouth, holding it between thumb and forefinger. She could smell his heavy cologne. "Nice dress. Classy."

"Thank you. It was a gift."

"Yeah? From who? A guy?"

"We had a lovely evening."

Arms crossed, Frankie chewed on the straw. "Dinner, dessert, all that? Where'd you go?"

"Here. South Beach."

"Then what'd you do? Let him take you in the ass?" Gail stared.

"I mean, for a dress like that." He looked into Gail's eyes without expression, then slammed his shoulder against her chest and dragged her purse off her arm too fast for her to grab it.

She coughed and sucked in a painful breath. The air had been knocked from her lungs, and the doorknob had caught her in the ribs. "Don't!"

He backed away with a hand palm up. "Hey. Hey! I'm not keeping it. Just want to see who I'm talking to, okay?" He tossed the purse to the girl, who overturned it on the table. Frankie stood in front of her and kept his eyes on Gail.

The girl swung her hair out of the way, shuffling plastic. "Her driver's license says Gail Ann Connor. Lives in South Miami. She'll be thirty-four in December. I
told
you. Account at Barnett. American Express Gold Card, Visa, Lord & Taylor ..." She waved one of Gail's business cards slowly back and forth.

Frankie took it. "A lawyer. No shit. Gail A. Connor. You want to tell me what the fuck you're doing here, Gail Ann?"

Her mind raced. "So what if I'm a lawyer? I do this for fun. And the extra cash."

"Yeah?" He laughed, and deep lines formed around his eyes. "An attorney who admits she's a whore. That's refreshing."

"Give me my purse back!"

"Take it easy." He poked through her things for a minute, then put her card in his shirt pocket. "I might need a lawyer, you never know. Somebody with your versatility? Could be fun. Pack up her stuff, sweet cheeks. And you. Gail Ann. Go get a paper route."

Chapter Seventeen

By the time she arrived home, twenty minutes late, there was a dark-blue Cadillac convertible in her driveway, next to Phyllis Farrington's old Chevy.

Gail parked on the grass. She had prayed Anthony would be late. She wanted a shower and clean clothes, wanted to wash off the scent of Frankie Delgado's cologne, which she could imagine wafting up from her dress as if a dog had lifted its leg on her.

The front door opened and Phyllis came out, looking a little miffed. "Is it all right if I go? I've got a neighborhood action committee meeting tonight."

"Yes. Of course." Gail stepped over a sprinkler head. "Sorry I'm late. The traffic was awful." She paused by Phyllis's car. "What are they doing in there?"