Suspicion of Madness (2 page)

"You've been there before," she said.

"Only once, about four years ago."

"Did you take someone with you?"

His low laugh caressed her ear. "No, I hadn't met you yet. Come with me. Please,
amorcito,
don't make me sleep alone."

"Anthony, I really can't—"

"You have a secretary, no? A cell phone? A laptop?"

"Karen's school is doing the Biscayne Bay clean-up on Saturday, and I promised to chaperone."

"A stick with a nail in it.
Que divertido."

"All right. I'll go, but I have to be back on Friday night. We should take two cars."

"No, no, I'll come back with you." He sighed.

"Te quiero."
She made a kiss into the phone.

"I want a lot more of those,
mami,
for being so good to you."

It had taken Gail the rest of the afternoon to wrap things up at the office, beg Karen's permission to be gone for a few days, and pick out the right clothes. Her mother came in, closed the bedroom door, and leaned on it with her arms crossed. She was a small woman of sixty with curly red hair and bright blue eyes.

On her knees in the closet, Gail pawed through her shoes. What to take? Sandals, flats, sneakers, black ankle-strap stiletto heels— "Karen is fine, Mother. She made a scene because it's in her contract as a twelve-year-old. She adores Anthony."

"I was thinking about
you.
Every time that man calls, you go running."

"That is not remotely true." She zipped the shoes into a bag.

"Darling, your grandmother Strickland had a saying: 'If a man can have the juice from your oranges, why should he buy his own tree?'"

"Can we please not discuss this right now?"

"I'm just making an observation," her mother said. "Nobody has mentioned marriage ever since he put that engagement ring back on your finger. Or am I wrong?"

"Yes, you are wrong." Gail shoved hangers across the rod. "We're thinking of next June." She turned around with a dress under her chin. "Do they wear black in the Keys?"

"A little short, isn't it?"

Gail laid it on the bed with the others.

It was nearly eight-thirty when Anthony turned off U.S. 1 at a floodlit sign with a leaping swordfish and the name
BLUE WATER MARINA. Gail didn't know what key they were on, but the last mile marker she could recall was number eighty, which meant eighty miles to Key West. Boats on trailers filled one end of the fenced lot; at the other, loud music came from the open windows of a restaurant specializing in seafood, no surprise. Ahead were the docks with sportfishermen, cabin cruisers, and sailboats snugged in for the night.

A sign for The Buttonwood Inn directed Anthony to a long green awning that would keep the rain and sun off the cars parked under it. Martin Greenwald had assured Anthony that his Cadillac would be safe for five days.

"Three," Gail reminded him. "I have to come back on Friday."

He leaned across the front seat and kissed her. "Don't be too sure of that."

They rolled their suitcases along the dock, Anthony with a garment bag over his shoulder, looking
muy guapo
in pleated slacks and an open-collar white shirt that showed off his tan. Guessing wildly at what to wear, Gail had put on a sleeveless dress printed with tropical flowers. Her high backless sandals clicked on the concrete. She carried a big straw hat in one hand. There were three swimsuits and two pareos in her bag, along with her notebook computer, a printer, and a stack of files from her office.

A pelican flapped slowly away from one of the pilings and settled on the tin roof of a tiny house built cutesy Key West style with a wood porch, wicker chairs, and an abundance of potted palms. A gold-lettered sign said
GUESS ONLY, BUTTONWOOD INN.
The lights were off, and the space at the dock was empty.

"Where's the boat?" Gail swatted at a mosquito on the back of her knee.

"It should be here." Anthony laid his garment bag over his suitcase and opened his cell phone. He had already called twenty minutes ago, as instructed, when they'd reached Tavernier.

A breeze came up, turning sailboat rigging into bells and bringing the aroma of fried fish wafting across the marina. They hadn't eaten on the way down. The Greenwalds were planning a late dinner on the veranda, a simple meal as the chef would not return until the grand opening next week. Gail had taken a look at the Inn's Web site. The veranda would overlook the water. There would be ceiling fans, tiki torches in the yard, good china on the table, a wine list with hundreds of choices. After dinner, a walk along a moonlit beach to their cottage. A soak in the immense bathtub, then to bed. A four-poster, king-size bed.

She backed up: There would be, during dinner, some polite chatter with Mr. and Mrs. Greenwald. The son, Billy Fadden, age nineteen, would be there. So would Martin Greenwald's sister, Lois, who acted as general manager. Unless the Greenwalds mentioned it themselves, in no event would Anthony spoil the meal, or breach his code of ethics, by turning the conversation toward what had brought him there—the murder of a young woman employee of The Buttonwood Inn. Those discussions would wait until morning and be held in private.

Sandra McCoy had been single, twenty-two years old, a local girl. The newspaper had called her "a pretty redhead." She had rented a small apartment on Plantation Key, commuting by shuttle boat to The Buttonwood Inn, where she had worked in the office. A week and a half ago a hiker exploring an abandoned coral-rock quarry on Windley Key had found her body. Her throat had been cut. The last person known to have seen her alive was a clerk at a video store in Islamorada, where Sandra had rented a movie. The receipt had been time-stamped October 3 at 7:52
P.M. Her purse and the bag with the video had been found the next morning on the ground next to her car.

Without leads, Monroe County Sheriff's detectives were talking to everyone who had known Sandra McCoy. They had been out to The Buttonwood Inn twice, but by circumstances of timing, had spoken to everyone but Billy. They wanted him to come to the substation to answer some questions. Anthony would go along. He had been hired to do what he was so good at: standing between a client and the police. Except that Billy wasn't officially a suspect. He had been in Islamorada that night, but according to the Greenwalds, he'd been home by eight o'clock.

Gail had been curious to know about the family, but Anthony hadn't given her much. Billy an only child; his mother, Teresa, originally from Cuba; his father a fishing guide, an American. The parents divorced and Billy's mother married Martin Greenwald, who had retired early from a Wall Street bond trading firm after two serious heart attacks. Martin had bought the island and built a resort on it.

End of story. Anthony never said more about his clients or his cases than he had to. Gail might have admired this if she hadn't felt so shut out. She studied the diamond on her left hand, a flawless blue-white solitaire. She had seen other people—other women—looking at it enviously. But they must also have noticed that there was no wedding ring to go with it. Sometimes Gail wondered if they thought that she—a lawyer in her mid-thirties, a tall blond with bony knees and elbows but without the compensation of curves that most men prefer in girlfriends they give diamonds to—had bought the ring for herself.

Walking a little farther, she gazed toward the island. It would be two miles south, rising up from the shallows beyond which the bottom would dive into the darker blue waters of the Florida Straits. Her view was obstructed by a jog in the breakwater and the black silhouette of foliage. It would be safe out there. Sandra McCoy had been dragged from her car and murdered only a few miles from where Gail now stood.

Anthony dropped his cell phone back into his pants pocket. "The boat is on its way. It should be here any minute."

"Thank God. I'm starving." Gail looked longingly at the restaurant across the parking lot. "I wonder how fast they do takeout?"

"Be patient. We'll have a good dinner, go to bed early..." He nudged her hair aside with his nose and spoke into her ear.
"Vamos a hacer el amor basta que me supliques ‘papi, no más.
'
"

The words slowly translated themselves in her mind. Make love until... you beg me to stop. "Mmm, that might take all night." She bumped against his hip. "Tell me something. Why does Billy need a lawyer? If he isn't a suspect, and the police only want to collect information about the victim, why do you have to come along to hold his hand?"

Anthony shrugged. "Well, Martin and Teri called for my advice, and I thought it would be better if I went with him."

"Yes, but why?"

"Because, sweetheart, I never assume that when the police ask a client to drop by for a visit, their motives are innocent. When the client is nineteen, I'm doubly careful. And if the police have heard, who knows how, that my client used to give the victim money to buy liquor for him, I hear alarms go off."

"Oh, I see. Liquor. Is that all?"

"Maybe not. In the morning I'll talk to Billy and see if he has anything to add to the investigation that will not at the same time incriminate him in something else. If this is the case, as I expect it will be, I'll take him to see the detective in charge, he will spill what he knows about Miss McCoy, and the rest of the week is ours."

"Promise?"

Anthony turned his head toward the channel at the sound of a boat engine. "Ah. Here comes our taxi."

The boat was a shiny little craft made of varnished teak, a replica out of the 1950s. Standing at the helm with the divided windscreen pushed open, the pilot slowed and put the engines in reverse. Water frothed, and the boat bounced against tires bolted to the pilings. A slender, light-haired man in baggy pants and a faded blue work shirt stepped onto the dock and ran to secure the lines at bow and stern. He went back aboard to position a carpet-covered step stool, then once more jumped to the dock.

"M-Mr. Quintana and Ms. Connor? I-I'm sorry to be late. The boat man isn't on duty, you know, with the... con-construction and all. Mr. Greenwald said t-t-to tell you... there was an… a- accident with Billy. They took him out by air ambulance... a-about an hour ago."

Anthony exchanged a look with Gail, then said, "Is he all right?"

"Oh… we think so, b-but they might not get back from the hospital till tomorrow, and... Mr. Greenwald said he'll call you when he can. I'll take you to the Inn." The man reached for Gail's suitcase.

"Wait," Anthony said. "What kind of accident? What happened?"

The man lifted his shoulders. "I-I guess you should talk to Mr. Greenwald."

"I'm Billy's attorney and I would like to know what happened to my client."

"Well… he tried to… to hang himself. With a rope. Someone saw. They cut him down."

"Where is he? What hospital?"

"Mmmm-Mariner's. In Tavernier."

"I'm going to call Martin." Anthony thumbed through the display on his cell phone and hit a number, then turned and walked away. Privacy. The attorney closing the door to his office.

Gail glanced at the strange little man. She smiled politely. He returned her smile, then lowered his eyes.

Anthony came back. "There's no answer. I need to drive to the hospital. Would you take Ms. Connor to the island and pick me up later?"

"Sure. No problem. Use that same... n-number you called before."

Gail held onto Anthony's hand. "Do you want me to come with you? I'd like to."

"No, go get settled in. Have some dinner." He quickly kissed her cheek. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

Under the low roof of the boat, two cushioned bench seats faced each other. Gail sat on one of them and looked backward at the shore as the boat left the marina, went past the breakwater, and picked up speed. The American flag fluttered at the stern. The lights of Islamorada receded.

Gail thought about Billy Fadden. Nineteen years old, putting a noose around his neck. Why? There had been nothing in what Anthony had told her—which hadn't been much—that had remotely hinted at a suicidal client.

Holding onto an overhead rail for balance, she made her way toward the front. The pilot sat clutching a wheel made to resemble antique brass. His narrow shoulders were hunched up, and his eyes were fixed on the empty ocean as though he expected a killer whale to surface. He adjusted the boat's direction to stay precisely between the channel markers. Gail noticed that he was wearing green gardening gloves with leather palms.

"May I?" She indicated the seat to the left.

He looked up at her. "Sure."

The boat dipped into a trough, and Gail dropped into the copilot's seat. She tugged at her hem. "Sorry, I didn't catch your name," she said.

"Arnel Goode." He smiled. "E-E-Everybody calls me... Arnel."

"Hi, Arnel. You can call me Gail." She pointed toward the pinpricks of light in the distance. "Is that the island we're going to?"

"Yes. Lindeman Key."

"What do you do there?"

"I'm the caretaker," he said. "Also the gardener. And the plumber and the pa-pa-painter. Whatever they need." His soft voice was nearly lost in the purr of engine and rush of water on the hull. His fair hair was thinning on top, and his skin reflected the amber glow from the lights on the instrument panel.