Suspicion of Malice (19 page)

Judge Harris touched her arm. "Sorry. Walk with
me. I'm wanted in the courtroom." In the hall he
nodded at a colleague going the other way, then in
clined his head closer to Gail. "Does this have some
thing to do with a mutual acquaintance of ours? Anthony Quintana?"

Gail, who had been on the point of speaking, re
leased a small laugh. "No. It's about a client of
mine."

"Is it? Oh. I assumed . . ." He made an apologetic grimace. "I thought you might ask me for some . . .
oh, some advice, or
...
God knows. I'm sorry, you said—"

"A client of mine, a young man named Bobby
Gonzalez—"

"Not an open case, I hope. It wouldn't be ethical
for me to—"

"You don't recognize the name?" The judge shook
his head. "He's twenty-one, about my height, black
hair. A dancer with the Miami City Ballet. You met Bobby Gonzalez at a party two weekends ago at the
home of Jack Pascoe, where Roger Cresswell was
shot to death. Bobby is now a suspect in the
murder."

Gail waited for a reaction. There was only a blank stare through the tortoiseshell glasses. She went on.
"Bobby couldn't have done it. He had no opportu
nity. He left the party about a quarter to midnight
and met a friend. During the forty minutes prior to leaving the party, he was with you. We need you to
explain that to the police. I realize that this puts you in a delicate position, but we should be able to work
this out in a way that—"

"No, your client is mistaken. I do know Jack
Pascoe, but—"

"—a way that protects your privacy, but we need
to prove that the police suspect the wrong man."

"As I
said."
The judge waited for Gail to stop talk
ing. "Yes, I know Jack—he was my late wife's
cousin—and while I have visited his home on several
occasions, I did not do so on that night, and to my
knowledge, I have never seen or spoken to your
client."

"But you must remember him. A young man with
black hair. He speaks with a New York accent. He
was wearing a Hawaiian shirt."

"How can I remember if I wasn't there?"

"You and he sat on the seawall talking for forty
minutes—"

"He may well have, but not with me."

"He said you'd had a lot to drink—"

"Ms. Connor, I repeat, I was not there."

Angrily, she retorted, "Please don't expect me to
believe that."

"You accuse
me
of lying?"

She swallowed. Her mouth was dry as cotton. "I think your first reaction is to protect yourself, but a
young man's freedom depends on your courage."

"'This is outrageous."

His bailiff called from the door of the courtroom.
"Judge? They're ready."

"Yes, I'm coming." Nathan Harris made a chilly
smile. "If you will excuse me?"

Gail followed him along the corridor. "Bobby remembers you clearly. He can describe what you look like. He said you told him you'd gone to school in
Chicago. Your wife was an artist, and she died—"

"He could have learned that anywhere. I have
nothing more to say to you."

She held onto his arm through his robe, forcing
him to stop and look at her. "If you walk away, there
will be six TV reporters outside your chambers in
time for the evening news. What will the judicial no
minating committee have to say about that?"

He stared at her.

The bailiff said, "Judge, is there a problem?"

"One moment!" He turned his back on the open
door to the courtroom and spoke through clenched
teeth. "What do you want from me?"

"To get this resolved as discreetly as possible. Judge Harris, I understand your situation." Gail
pulled a business card from her pocket. "Call me on
my cell phone. The number's written on the back. We'll arrange to meet this evening, perhaps at my
office, or wherever you feel comfortable."

"That's impossible. I'm in trial."

"A phone call. Thirty seconds. Just call to say
where I can meet you."

"I—I have to think about this. Give me till
Monday."

"I can't. Bobby could be taken into custody before then. You can have until six o'clock today. No later."

Nathan Harris studied her business card. Thin lips
pursed outward, and a pulse beat in his hollow tem
ple. With a stiff nod, he said, 'I'll call you." His
black robe swirled behind him as he walked into the
courtroom. The bailiff looked at Gail, then closed
the door.

The corridor was empty. Gail heard a quick, rasping noise and realized it was the sound of her own
breathing. She put a hand on the wall to steady
herself.

Chapter 11

Anthony Quintana's grandmother, Digna Maria Betancourt de Pedrosa, counted among her fore
bears a prince of Castille and a mistress of King Carlos V.
Her grandmother had married the first president of
Cuba, her uncle had founded the Havana Yacht Club,
and her father had owned a shipping line. Digna's
marriage, at age eighteen, to a young banker, Ernesto Jose Pedrosa Masvidal, had been attended by the island's business and social elite. They had honey
mooned for three weeks in Europe.

Forty-some years ago, the family—including aunts, uncles, and cousins—fled Cuba, believing they would
go back in six months, a year at most. They were still waiting. As matriarch, Digna kept alive the
dreams and illusions of old Havana in the Pedrosas'
house on a shady street in Coral Gables. She knew
the birthday and saint's day of each child in the family, collected food for the poor, and took care of servants who became too old to work. She said her confession, attended mass twice a week, and carried her rosary everywhere. Although ladies of her class did not believe in
santeria,
she had a corner shelf in
her bedroom and on it she kept a yellow candle, a
strand of blue and white beads, some tobacco, a vial
of rum, and a small statue of the black virgin of Caridad del Cobre. She took no chances.

Anthony had never hesitated to oppose his grand
father, but Nena was another matter.

She had called yesterday to invite him to lunch at
a new French restaurant on Salzedo Street. If condi
tions were normal—if he hadn't vowed never to
speak to Ernesto again—Anthony would have gone
to her house, but Nena arrived at his office at a quarter till twelve, accompanied by his sister, Alicia, who
drove. He had not seen his grandmother since his return from Spain.

As always, she was elegantly dressed. She wore a
plum-colored two-piece suit with ivory hose. Big gold
earrings matched the buttons on her suit. Her platinum
hair was thinning, but stylishly coiffed. She clung to
him for a moment, the top of her head barely clearing
his shoulder. "I have missed you, my dear heart,”
she said in Spanish.

He kissed her rouged cheek. "You are well,
Nena?" He addressed her as
usted,
out of respect, not
tu,
which applied to younger relatives.

"Well enough, thanks to God."

She came into his office, noting with approval the modern furniture and soft leather chairs, all of which she had seen before. Halogen lights shone on built-in
bookcases and a black cantilevered desk. She lingered
over the framed photographs of Angela and Luis.
They spent a few moments discussing the children's
health, and their studies.

Alicia hung back, and her glance slid away when he looked at her. She had thick, curly hair and the
deep blue eyes of their late mother. Anthony had
inherited their father's dark eyes.

Digna set the graduation portrait of Angela back
on his desk. "She starts school soon, no? You are
sending her to live in the dormitories."

A reflection not on the child, but the father. An
thony said, "My house is too far away to be
convenient."

"You know the child could live with us. We are
very near the university." Digna smiled at her grandson. "But then you would have to visit her, and you have sworn not to enter my house again." Before he
could respond, she turned to Alicia. "My dear, do you think you could bring me a cup of tea?"

Anthony reminded her that they would be at the restaurant in ten minutes, but she wanted her tea
immediately. "My secretary can make it for you,"
he said.

"No, no. Alicia knows just how I like it. Nice and strong, not too much sugar. My doctor says my blood
is already sweet enough. Take your time, Alicita."

So. Nena wanted to corner him about something. Anthony asked his secretary to show his sister to the
office kitchen. He added, "Hold all my calls."

Digna had wandered to the far end of his office,
where a sofa and two armchairs faced a private atrium. She carefully lowered herself down and
crossed her legs at the ankle.

What would she say? That he should apologize to his grandfather. That he should make amends for the disastrous Fourth of July party, at which Gail Connor
had embarrassed the entire family by packing her
bags and walking out, in view of everyone. That he
must come back, or the family enterprises, forty years
of sweat and blood in this country, would crumble
to dust.

Digna watched him come toward her, tilting her head as if taking inventory—dark brown Hugo Boss suit, gold cufflinks, silk tie. "When was your last haircut?"

"Pardon?"

"It's very long."

"Is it?" With both hands he pushed it back from
his temples. "Not really."

"I see some gray there, my dear."

"Well earned, I assure you."

"But in general, you look very well. Not so pale as before. Spain does that, no?" Digna patted the
sofa. "Sit here next to me."

Still standing, Anthony smiled down at her.
"Nena. I think I know what this is about. When
Grandfather became ill, you agreed that Elena and
Bernardo could act as guardians, running his busi
nesses. Now he is better, but they refuse to give up control. Alicia has told me everything. The family is
in turmoil, and you find yourself in the middle. I admit that if I hadn't left, this wouldn't have hap
pened. Everything would be in my hands, as Grand
father had planned. I am sorry. My advice to you— most respectfully—is that you take care of your husband, enjoy your life, and let the others do as they
please. You shouldn't spend one moment worrying about it."

Digna Pedrosa's silvery brows rose, creating lines
on her forehead. "How impressive that you can
read minds.”

Anthony nodded. "In any event, I may not be here much longer. I have tentative plans to move back to New York."

"And why would you go to such a cold and for
eign place?"

"There's more opportunity in New York. And I'd
be closer to Luis. A boy needs his father around. I've
made inquiries about a job, and it looks promising.
I'll tell the children when everything has been
arranged."

Digna stared up at him, then said, "One of the few
privileges of age is to say what one thinks. May I?"

Anthony made a slight bow. "You have always done so."

"Run away to New York if you wish, or to the
moon, but don't expect to leave your problems in Miami. They will follow you like dogs and howl under your window." Digna looked at him steadily
for several more seconds, then sighed. "It wasn't the guardianship I wanted to discuss with you. It's your grandfather."

Anthony's groan was so soft he didn't think she could have heard, but her ears were still sharp. She
said tartly, "You should be grateful. He rescued you from that wretched island. If not for him, you would
have nothing, nothing, not even food for your
children."

"Of course I would. I'd have come out on a raft,
and we'd be having this same crazy discussion." An
thony pulled his cuff back to see his watch. "Where is Alicia? Our reservation is for noon."