Suspicion of Malice (20 page)

"I canceled it. Don't worry about me, I already
ate."

He stared at her.

"My dear heart, please listen. Ernesto has not always been wise, but he has always loved you. More than any of the others. You know this. If he was hard
on you, if he lost his temper—"

"Because I'm the son of a communist traitor."

"Oh, be quiet. Ernesto expected more from you
than from the others because you could give it. If the hope was greater, so was the disappointment, every
time you turned away. He demanded from you no more than he would of himself. You are so much alike, you know."

"Forgive me, Nena, but I am not like my grandfather. I have never wanted to be." Anthony stared
through the sliding door into the atrium. Light from the second-floor skylight dappled the ferns and min
iature palms. Water sparkled on coral rocks and
lapped at the sides of a small pool. He wondered
if he could find an office in Manhattan that would accommodate something similar.

His grandmother's soft voice mixed with the muf
fled burble of the fountain. "How is Gail Connor?"

Taken slightly off balance, Anthony looked over his shoulder. "I haven't the least idea. Why do you ask that?"

"You're not seeing her again?"

"No, Grandmother, I am not."

"Thank God. I had resigned myself to your mar
riage, but I was never in favor. American women
are too independent. They make decisions for their
husbands, I have heard. Is this true?"

"They try."

"You need a woman like your sister. You see how Alicia supports Octavio."

"Octavio is an ass."

A ripple of humor played across her face. "Yes,
but Alicia doesn't let him know it. American women always .criticize. To them, the individual comes before the family, isn't that so? Has Gail Connor poi
soned your mind? Turned you against us?"

Anthony found himself in the odd position of de
fending a woman he had no wish ever to see again.
"No, she didn't do that."

But Digna went on, "Then why do you hate us?
Ernesto is a part of me, like my eyes or my tongue. If you hate him, you hate me too." She fumbled at the clasp of her purse and withdrew an embroidered handkerchief, which she pressed to her nose.

He sat down and put an arm around her. "Nena, don't say such things."

"Will you see him? I swear to the Holy Mother I will never ask another thing of you as long as God
grants me breath."

The phone rang. Anthony ignored it and held onto
his grandmother's hand. The age-spotted skin was
soft, and her nails were beautifully tended. After sixty years, her wedding ring had worn thin. "I'll
think about it, all right? Not today. Give me some time. A couple of weeks."

"Ernesto may be dead by then."

"I doubt it. The old man has another ten years in him, at least."

The phone was still ringing. Anthony turned his
head, frowning. "What does she want? I told her, no phone calls."

It continued to ring. Perhaps Angela had been in
a traffic accident. She was unconscious. The police
had found his number in her wallet.

"One moment." Anthony stood up to reach the extension on the end table. "Yes, what is it?" His secretary apologized for disturbing him, but Judge
Harris was on the line. He wanted to speak to An
thony. It couldn't wait. Extremely urgent. Anthony
told her he would take the call in the conference
room. His grandmother still clasped the handkerchief on her knees.

"Nena, I'm sorry. It's a client. An emergency. I'll
be right back." The glassed-in conference room was
just down the hall. He closed the door and picked
up the extension on the credenza under the windows.

"Nate? This is Anthony. What's going on?"

The voice on the other end was measured and
clear, but he could hear the tension in it, and as he listened, his hand tightened on the receiver.

"Ay, mi Dios. .
. . You didn't tell me you saw Gon
zalez at the party! . . . What do you mean,
forgot?
.
.
.
Yes, Nate, it is most definitely a problem."

Anthony paced as far as the phone cord would
allow. "When do you go back on the bench? . . . I'll be there in fifteen minutes. . . . Listen to me. If by some chance she calls, do not talk to her. Don't talk
to
anyone
about this. . . . No, no, it's going to be all
right, I'm sure of it. We'll think of something."

When he replaced the handset it rattled slightly. Had she gone mad? To threaten a judge? And how
had she come to represent Bobby Gonzalez? Had she
sought him out? Had he come to her? Why would
she take a homicide case? She knew nothing about
criminal law.

He was halfway to the lobby before he remembered that he had left his grandmother in his office.

His sister had come back with the tea. Alicia and Digna were both seated on the sofa. Their hushed conversation broke off as he came through the door.

He found himself speaking English, already creat
ing a distance between himself and the women.
"Nena, Alicia, please forgive me, but I have to leave. A client just called with a problem. An emergency situation. Very serious."

Alicia stood up. "How convenient."

Digna's cup clicked into its saucer. "Hush, Alicita.
Your brother has to go save someone. It's his job,
no?"

Anthony felt his pocket for his car keys. "Stay here,
please. Finish your tea. I'm going to be gone for at
least an hour."

His grandmother said, "Will you call me? Soon?"

He rushed back across the office and kissed her.
"Within a few days, I promise."

She reached up to pat his cheek, a touch as delicate
as a butterfly wing. "Thank you.
Te quiero, mi corazon."

"I love you too, Nena."

Alicia's deep blue eyes poured reproach.

Chapter 12

The judge requested that Gail meet him at eight o'clock at his condo on Grove Isle. The island was a private enclave a hundred yards or so off Coconut Grove, accessible by a bridge with a security checkpoint. Gail recalled a private marina, a flashy lobby,
and a four-star restaurant. Otherwise, her memory was hazy, as she had been there only once, a black-
tie dinner party for the newly installed Brazilian consul. Her former law firm had represented the Banco do Brasil, and she had just settled a case worth mil
lions. What glittering days those had been.

At home, there was a note stuck to the refrigerator
under a palm-tree magnet.
Have gone to movie with Verna, home ten-ish. Love you.
Gail suspected that her
mother had cleared out to avoid the temptation of
asking how it had gone at the clinic today. It had
not gone. Afraid to miss Judge Harris's call, Gail had canceled. Again.

She grabbed a cup of yogurt and ate it on the way
to her room, fearing that anything heavier might
make her throw up on the judge's shoes. She show
ered and changed into a sleeveless beige dress and short jacket. Clipped on gold earrings. Brushed her hair sleekly behind her ears. The effect was businesslike but not butch. From force of habit she turned
sideways in her dresser mirror.
Stop that,
she told
herself. She set out fresh water for the cats, then
wrote a note for her mother—where she would be, with whom, and what time to expect her.
Love you.
She stuck it under the magnet.

On the front porch, popping up her umbrella for the drizzle, she realized why she had been so de
tailed. The note had been prompted by subconscious concern that Judge Nathan Harris, whose spotless
reputation and rising career she had put into jeopardy, would suddenly snap. He would seize her by the throat, pull out a gun, come at her with a lamp
raised over his head . . .

At five minutes to eight, her car turned off Bayshore Drive onto the short bridge that led to Grove Isle. The headlights picked up flashes of rain in the fading gray of evening. Heavy trees gave way to a
view of two buildings, each about fifteen stories high,
brown-painted terraces making horizontal stripes on beige stucco walls. The style had been popular in the
late seventies, an era when cash from drug profits had flooded Miami like a tropical downpour.

The buildings were joined by a common entrance.
Judge Harris had told her to leave her car with the
valet. She pulled out of the rain and turned off the wipers. A middle-aged couple, dressed for the evening, got into their Jaguar, and the valet jogged in Gail's direction.

How odd, Gail thought, that Nathan Harris would live
here.
A measly salary of a hundred grand a year
wouldn't be enough, unless he had inherited money from his wife. That was possible. Aside from the
value of her paintings, Margaret Cresswell had been born into a wealthy family. Gail made a note to ask
her mother about that. With her charity work and
contacts, Irene had access to every society tattle-tale
in Miami.

A doorman held open a heavy glass door, and Gail
entered the lobby, where she checked in at the desk.
With a practiced smile, the guard directed her toward the elevators. Top floor, apartment two. And go right
in. The door would be open.

Gripping her purse in both hands, she watched the
indicator flash from floor to floor. What did she really
know of him? His wife had overdosed on sleeping
pills at age thirty-three. Why? Had he driven her
to it?

The good judge could be living a secret life, Gail
thought. Why had he gone to that party the night
Margaret's brother was murdered? He'd gotten
smashed, had smoked a joint with a twenty-one-year-old kid. Such a strange crowd—drunks, artists, old hippies, a transvestite teaching the samba. Gail's imagination flashed with wild scenarios. Perhaps the
judge couldn't confess that he'd been there because
it was he who had shot Roger Cresswell. But why?
What had Roger known that had ended his life?
What if he had been blackmailing the judge? What
if—

The elevator stopped, and the door slid back. Gail
peered into a carpeted corridor illuminated by a
chandelier in a long gold oval. Audubon prints of spoonbills and egrets decorated the walls, and an arrangement of fresh flowers sat on a mahogany table.
No one was about. She stepped off the elevator just
as it started to close. There were four sets of double doors, and from one of them a patch of light fell into the hall. She walked closer. A view of the living area
was blocked by a divider paneled in exotically
grained wood. Recessed lights shone in pools on
white travertine marble. Her heels tapped, then sank
into carpet as she moved around the divider. She
rapped her knuckles on one end of it.

"Judge Harris?"

The large room contained sleekly modern leather
furniture and more polished wood. Hidden lights
glowed on glass shelves. Several oddly shaped vases
with twisted black branches had been placed along
the wall of windows facing east. Through them she
saw the darkening sky.

A light shone from a hallway near the dining area.
She went halfway into the living room and called
out, "Hello?"

From behind her came a noise—a click and a hollow thud—the sound of a closing door. She whirled
around, and a moment later a man appeared beside
the divider.

Inhaling a gasp, she stumbled back a step. Quick
images flooded her mind—dark hair and eyes, the
white vee of an open-collared shirt, a coffee-brown
suit.

Anthony Quintana.

He stopped a few feet away, out of range for a
handshake. His casual stance showed no sign of tension. "I apologize for frightening you, and for the subterfuge, but you might not have come otherwise."

Gail's hand was clenched over her heart. "What are you doing here?"

He smiled slightly, then added, "I'm representing
Nate Harris."

"Oh, really." Anthony hadn't materialized out of
nowhere, she realized. He'd been standing behind
the divider, waiting for her to go around the other
end of it. After Gail was sure she could speak calmly,
she said, "Where is he?"