Suspicion of Guilt (33 page)

Gail said, "I'd prefer that you not talk to my client."

"You doing criminal law now, Ms. Connor?"

"Yes."

"Uh-huh." Davis tapped on the cell. "Mr. Norris? I had one of my officers go back over and try your keys in Mrs. Tillett's door. And you know what? One of them fit. It sure did."

"Don't say anything, Patrick." Gail's hands were shaking. She looked angrily at Davis. "He has a right not to answer any of your questions."

"Yes, ma'am." Davis's attention was still on Patrick. "Remember a couple of weeks ago I asked you about a key? I asked if you had one. What did you tell me? You said, 'Why, no, Officer, I don't have a key.'"

Patrick turned around far enough to mutter "Fuck you."

"Skinny as you are, you don't look like you could have broke Althea Tillett's neck. But you're
strong.
You took care of Rudy Tillett. My, my."

Gail stepped closer. "Detective Davis, leave my client alone."

"Mr. Norris is gonna visit with me in the interview room. You want to stick around?" He looked at her torn, smudged, rumpled dress. "We gonna talk about Althea Tillett some more. A looo-o-ong talk."

Detective Hanlon stepped around the row of cabinets. "Gary?" He jerked his head toward the main area.

Davis smiled at Gail. "I'll be right back. Y'all don't go away."

When he was gone, Gail clutched the metal grid of the cell. "Patrick! You mustn't talk to him!"

"I know that, Gail." His voice was hollow. "I've had some experience with the police."

She dropped her head. "I'm not doing you much good, am I?"

He came back to where she stood and poked a finger through to touch her cheek. "Sure you are."

"I won't let them push you around, Patrick. I won't."

"You're my buddy."

She smiled, and his face grew blurry. "You bet." Davis reappeared but stayed at the end of the cabinets. "Ms. Connor? Come out here, please."

She wiped under her eyes. "Why?"

"You've got company."

Gail followed him past two desks, then saw Anthony Quintana standing by Davis's office. His hands were in the trouser pockets of his suit—deep blue with micro-thin red lines that formed a subtle plaid. His hair was precisely combed. There was a visitor tag clipped to his lapel. His dark eyes took a quick inventory, but he made no move to touch her.

"Why are you limping?" he asked.

"I fell. During the fight, I tripped over the piano bench."

"Ah. What is this blood? Yours?'

"No."

"Are you all right?"

"I'll live."

"I made some phone calls from my car," he said. "They say you can go. Where is your purse?"

Gail said, "But they want to keep Patrick here."

"For what?"

"More questions about Althea Tillett. He had a key to her house and they found it on him. They want to give him the third degree, I don't know. They're charging him with burglary! He needs an attorney."

"He can find one in the yellow pages."

"I won't leave him alone in this place," she said. "I can't."

Anthony let out some air between his teeth. "Wait here."

"Where are you going?"

'To speak to the detective. Stay here." He walked to where Hanlon sat. Davis came over, and the three of them talked. Then Davis and Anthony went into Davis's glass-walled office and closed the door. She could barely hear their voices over the top of the partition, with the other conversations in the room, phones ringing, somebody telling a joke.

She detested Anthony Quintana at this moment with a force that made her want to weep with rage. She glanced toward the holding cells, which she could see from this angle. Patrick was sprawled on the metal bench again. In Davis's office, Anthony sat casually in one of the chairs, his legs crossed, not a bit of calf showing under the neatly pressed hem of his trousers.

She wondered if she ought to go in there. Then she realized who she was—the client. She had often told her own clients to stay where they were while she went down the hall to speak to the opposition. They always stayed without a murmur of protest because they knew it was her show. She knew what she was doing.

Here Anthony knew what he was doing. And like it or not, she needed him.

Awhile later the door opened and Anthony motioned for her to come in. She sat down gingerly in one of the chairs at Davis's desk. Through his windows she could see that the sun had set.

Anthony said, "I've told Detective Davis about your case with Patrick Norris. The forgery and who you suspect did it. They'll send the paperwork through because they have to, but with a recommendation that the case not be filed. You are very fortunate."

Her hands were shaking, and she twisted them together in her lap. "Thank you."

"As for Patrick, he'll be transported immediately. I'll send a bondsman to meet him at the jail." Anthony added, "I'm representing him. For now."

She looked at him, surprised, then nodded.

"The detective would like to know what you and Patrick were doing at Althea Tillett's house. Do not discuss how you got in."

"Should I talk to him?"

"Yes. But stop immediately if I tell you to."

"We were looking for Rosa Portales." She explained that Rosa might know what Althea Tillett had done with her prior will.

Anthony said, "Gary, could we get that address from you?"

Gail wondered how he could possibly have worked into a first-name relationship with a homicide cop in ten minutes.

Davis nodded. "Don't see why not. Rosa didn't have nothing to say to me about any will, you understand. She found Mrs. Tillett's body, that's about it."

"You know where she is?" Gail asked.

"Hialeah. She's living with her sister."

Gail shifted in the chair. Her hip hurt. "Detective, have you ever heard of a man named Frankie Delgado? He has an office on Drexel Avenue. A company named Seagate. They supposedly sell promotional items, but I think he's a pimp or something."

Anthony raised a hand to cut her off, then changed his mind and dropped it to his lap. "Go on. Tell him what you did. Maybe he knows about this man."

She gave Anthony a hard look, then started her story at the door of the rundown office building on Drexel and took it upstairs. A minute later, Davis was grinning. "This Frankie Delgado sounds like one sleazy little punk. I don't have anything on him, though. There's a lot going on we don't know about. And you went in there playing like a hooker? Mmm
mmm."
He laughed and glanced at Anthony, who wasn't smiling.

Gail said, "It may have nothing to do with the forgery, you see, but—well, Seagate owns another company—Gateway Travel Agency. Do you know it?"

"Sure. Up Alton Road a few blocks."

"The woman who notarized the will works for Gateway. Carla Napolitano. She wasn't even in Florida on the date the will was supposedly signed. Anthony, did you tell him about Carla?"

"We didn't get to that," he said.

She asked stonily, "Well? May I?"

"Go ahead."

Gail spent a minute or two telling Gary Davis why she had gone to Gateway Travel—including the part about pretending to want an exotic weekend for herself and her married cardiologist lover. Anthony's face was expressionless, but his fingers tapped a slow rhythm on his thigh.

"Hang on a second." Davis lifted his phone, punched a number. He said, "Donna? You know that case last night up on Collins and Fiftieth? Yeah. What was the lady's name? ... Uh-huh. Thanks." He hung up and turned his brown eyes toward Gail.

"What?" Gail asked, knowing something was wrong. "What is it?"

"Carla Napolitano died last night. Fell off her balcony. Or jumped. We don't know yet. Front door was locked. Tenth floor, right onto the parking lot. Not pretty."

"Ohhh."

Anthony bent to look at her, then gently took her hands away from her face. He reached into his pocket for his handkerchief. "Gail. Take this."

Finally the shock of the fight, the humiliating arrest, and her own inability to help Patrick or herself crashed over her, sweeping her momentarily into a whirl of grief and confusion. She wanted to fall into Anthony's arms, but he remained in his chair, only his hand on the back of hers.

Davis asked, "Ms. Connor? How well did you know the woman?"

"We only met that one time. She didn't even know who I was." Gail wiped her nose. "It must have been an accident. She wouldn't have killed herself. Her daughter just had a new baby. She was going to move to New Jersey."

Davis clasped his hands on his desk. "I'd like to hear some more about this."

Anthony said, "Let me take her home, Gary. I'll talk to her first."

Gail watched them bring Patrick out of the cell. He was still depressed, but she didn't think he would hang himself. Anthony told him the bondsman would send a bill, which Gail could pay out of Patrick's cost account at Hartwell Black. Patrick thanked them both and kissed Gail's cheek before he was taken away in handcuffs.

"Will he be all right in jail, do you think?"

"For two hours? He'll be fine," Anthony said. He spoke as if he were watching something far in the distance.

"I do hate to bother you, but my car is in the parking garage at my office," Gail said sweetly. "Would you drive me there?"

"Of course."

They rode the elevator to the lobby in silence. Anthony stared at the doors. They walked outside. Gail was limping slightly. It was dark now, and men with filthy clothes and matted hair were staking out their places on the curving white concrete benches between the police station and city hall.

Just beyond the front terrace of the building, Gail whirled on him. "I suppose I should thank you for helping Patrick. All right. Thank you. Now you can go to hell!"

To her surprise, Anthony sank down on the low wall that bordered the long ramp to the street. Light came dimly from underneath. He put his elbows on his knees and clenched his fingers in his hair.

"Ah, Gail. Why? ¿P
orqué me haces asi?
Why do I
let
you do this to me?" He groaned.
"Estoy perdiendo mi mente."

Losing his mind. As if she weren't. Arms crossed, she glared at him. "You were awful up there. You treated me like
shit
!”

"I know. I'm sorry."

A dozen yards away, a gray-bearded man in plaid pants and a striped pullover was watching them. He pushed the top of a paper bag down past the neck of a bottle.

She looked back at Anthony. "You wouldn't even touch me. As if I were ... tainted. Or ...
violated."
Her voice shook. "Which is exactly what I feel like."

He finally raised his head, then without speaking stood up and pulled her to him, locking one arm around her neck, the other around her waist. He kissed her mouth, her cheeks.

"Anthony!" She got her hands on his chest and pushed. "Let go!"

"I couldn't have touched you in Davis's office." He held her tighter. "I would have wanted to hold you like this. With them, I had to be your lawyer, nothing else. If you knew what I thought on the way here!
¡Me asustas!
Mirta told me you were in a fight, in jail, injured. I was so afraid."

"You?"

"Yes. Loving you is like watching a blind person cross a highway."

"Oh, thank you very much."

"My heart is going to stop." He laughed, one hand on his chest.

Wincing, Gail picked up her purse, which had fallen off her shoulder. "Are you going to drive me to my office, or not?"

A thin voice came from the plaza. "Kiss her some more!" Then a cackle. It was the old man with the paper bag. He raised it in a toast, then took a deep swallow of whatever was inside.

Anthony grabbed her hand. "Let's get out of here."

"Slow down! My hip hurts."

The sun was gone, and lights poured from the windows along Washington Avenue. His convertible waited at the next comer. He took his car keys out of his pocket. "Where is Karen?"

"With my mother. Why?"

He found the right key and unlocked the passenger side. "Let's go to a hotel." He took her purse and tossed it into the car. "We have time. Don't worry about your clothes. I'll give you my jacket. On South Beach who would notice?"

Gail stared at him.

Anthony shrugged. "Here we are. What are you going to do at home?"

"You didn't want to see me for a while, remember?"

"I was angry."

"Well, I happen to be a little pissed off myself."

"Gail—" He raised his palms to her face, but she pulled away. "I am sorry. Let me show you how sorry I am." He came closer, and this time she didn't move. "You scared me, that's all." He kissed the bruise on her jaw. She felt his breath on her cheek. He laughed softly. "I think it does something to me. Gail, please. Let's find a hotel."

"You
are
out of your mind."

"Then say we're on Mykonos, in the Aegean, and it's summer." He kissed both corners of her mouth. His lips were warm and soft. "Or tell me you've been there, and I'll take you back to your office. You can get in your car and go home."

He looked straight into her eyes, and his were bottomless and the ground under her feet was giving way, and he knew it, damn him. She could already feel the white-hot sun and the surge of the sea.

Chapter Twenty-One

Gail sat at her desk reading the article in the local section of the
Miami Herald
for the third time. There was a short piece on Patrick Norris's case: "CHARITIES COULD LOSE IN FIGHT OVER ESTATE."

Between the lines she could see the real story: Estranged nephew hires slick downtown lawyers to contest the will. But not only is the nephew greedy, he's a nut case. He wants to buy up property in the inner city and turn it into communal farms. And a dangerous nut case: He broke into the decedent's house and beat up her stepson, Rudolph W. Tillett, Jr. Then at the end of the article came a nasty postscript: "Miami Beach Police confirm that Althea Tillett's death has been ruled a homicide. Detective Gary Davis stated that her neck was broken by an intruder, but would not speculate as to suspects or motive."

Somebody with a sense of humor had pinned the article to the bulletin board in the coffee room with a caption: "Are you homicidal? Psychotic? Call Hartwell Black & Robineau today for free consultation!" Gail had tossed it into the garbage.