Suspicion of Malice (23 page)

His hand tapped on his thigh, then reached for her empty glass. "Well, that's all we can do for now. I'll
call you tomorrow."

"Morning is better." She went to retrieve her purse. "I'm taking the afternoon off to shop for
Karen. She's coming home on Saturday."

"Ah. Summer vacation's over already."

"Yes. She spent most of it in the Virgin Islands
with Dave."

Purse in hand, Gail looked around, hoping to see some kind of reaction to that, but there was only a
rush of water from the minibar. Anthony was rinsing
her glass in the sink.

He called across the room, "I'll phone you at ten
o'clock. Is that convenient?"

"Fine." She went toward the door. "Good night.
I'll see myself out."

She made it into the corridor, but decided not to wait for the elevator and ran for the exit stairs. Then the
pain in her chest let go, and she leaned against the
concrete wall and cried. A great hiccup of a sob, then
another. Hot tears dropping off her chin. Fingers
against her mouth, hiding the noise. Making her way
down fifteen flights in her high heels because the
doors didn't open from the stairwell. The echoes of her footsteps accompanied her.

In her misery Gail felt as if a knife were being plunged into her heart. Even her bones ached.
You
despise me, don't you?
Yes. Yes, I do. Arrogant, stone-
hearted son of a bitch.

Hanging on the railing with one hand, she pressed her other fist into her belly and doubled over, wanting it gone immediately, now. Out of her, gone. She
cursed herself for not having kept the appointment. It would have been easy. Judge Harris hadn't called
till five-thirty, and she could have kept the damned
telephone in her hand at the clinic.

She had wondered, until this moment, why she'd
waited so long. Why she'd felt relief every time she'd had to cancel, gloom as each new date came nearer.
Moral queasiness? Fear of pain? Not really. Then why?

Because she hadn't wanted to let things slip away
from her anymore, not even this. She'd wanted to
salvage something from the wreck. To be able to say,
even after seeing her marriage dry up and her
daughter tossed back and forth between them, and
watching her career turn to shit and a love affair go
down in flames, that there was at least one thing in her life she could do.

No, there was an even worse reason for not having
ended it. This . . . thing inside her that she still
couldn't call a child was part of a man she had once
loved beyond reason. He had entered her brain, her
lungs, the marrow of her bones, so deeply that when
he pushed her away and called himself a fool for
ever loving her, she hadn't believed him, not in her soul. It was like watching someone die, the breaths
still coming, slow and shallow, one tiny, flickering
spark of irrational hope still remaining.

That spark had at last gone out.

On the fifteenth floor, Anthony Quintana walked onto the terrace with a glass of ice and a bottle of
his client's best single-malt scotch. He had left his
jacket inside and rolled up his shirt sleeves. It was too humid tonight. The air conditioning pouring
through the open door helped.

He set the glass on the edge of the balcony and
poured. He wondered how in hell it had all turned
out this way. Gail should have accepted with grace
the fact that she was in over her head. He had
thought—he had
known
—that after one look at him,
she'd have been happy to throw this case to some
other lawyer.

Now what? He had to find a murderer. How had
he been cornered into this? How? It had happened before, with that woman. Suddenly finding himself in a place he'd not wanted to be in, with no knowledge of how he had gotten there. Very strange.

In some way he couldn't define, she seemed differ
ent. She'd lost weight, perhaps, though she was al
ready thin. Or had gained a few pounds. Or her hair
was combed differently. She was too pale, and he
had made out faint tracings of blue under the delicate
skin of her neck. He had seen the flutter of a rac
ing heartbeat.

Anthony leaned to see over the balcony, not touch
ing it because it was wet, and he didn't want to ruin his shirt. The driveway was down there at an angle,
and at long intervals a car would come out from
under the portico and move slowly toward the
bridge. There had been two BMWs and a Mercedes. So far no small silver Acuras. This was what Gail
Connor drove now. He knew this because a month
ago, just before leaving for Spain, he'd seen her in traffic on Flagler Street near the courthouse. His car
had been at a cross street, and he had watched her
until horns had started blaring behind him. Three
days ago he had seen another silver Acura and a
woman with blond hair, and his breath had caught in his throat until he realized that it wasn't Gail at
all, and he'd felt stupid.

He drank his scotch and watched the driveway,
but her car never appeared, or he had missed it somehow. He watched the bay for a while, but the
rain had kept the boats from going out, and there
was nothing to see. He remembered how the plants hanging from the edge of the roof had swung in a
sudden breeze, and the light had flickered on her
hair, and even in the darkness it had shimmered
with gold.

Chapter 13

Gliding on pointe, arms floating outward, Angela noticed in the studio mirror that Bobby was
walking toward the door. A girl from the office had
come in. Angela made^ pirouette and stopped, a
hand on her hip. With
The Nutcracker
on the CD
player she couldn't hear what they were saying.
Bobby looked around and said to keep working. He
would be back in a few minutes.

As soon as he was gone, Angela ran over and
peered into the corridor, then hurried toward the
exit. She came out at one end of the lobby. At the
far end, big photographs hung on the curved wall, and windows gave a view of the plaza. There were two figures in silhouette, Bobby in his sweat pants
and baggy T-shirt, Gail Connor in pumps and a suit.

One of the doors at the main entrance opened, and
Angela saw Diane Cresswell come in. They said hello
to each other, then Diane looked around to see what
had held Angela's attention.

"Who's that with Bobby? His lawyer? What's
going on?"

"I don't know. She just showed up."

Diane knew about Bobby. He had told her every
thing. They had gone out a couple of years ago— which Angela didn't like to think about—and they
were still friends. Diane was beautiful, with her
milky-white skin and silvery blond hair. And a beautiful dancer, strong and quick. She'd never had to audition. Edward Villella had seen her in New York
and had invited her to join the company.

Bobby was staring at the carpet, then up at the
skylight as if Gail were lecturing him about some
thing. Their voices were muffled. Diane said, "Do you think she'd talk to me for free, like she did for
Bobby?"

"Do you need a lawyer?"

"I might."

"Gail would probably help you. What's it about?" Angela waited, but Diane said nothing more. Diane was watching Bobby and Gail come across the lobby
toward the glass doors at the entrance. Gail contin
ued outside, vanishing past the corner of the ticket window.

Bobby turned and saw the girls, and Angela could tell by the stiff way he moved that something was
wrong. "Hi, Diane."

"Hi." Still looking toward the street, she said, "See
you guys later, okay?" She went out the same way Gail Connor had gone, leaving them alone in the
lobby.

Angela said, "What did Gail want?"

His mouth was tight. "Sean sold me out." Bobby
started toward the studios, and Angela had to hurry to keep up, clattering in her pointe shoes. Bobby looked to see if anyone was around before saying, "He told the cops I asked him to lie. I can't believe
he would
do
that. Gail wanted to know if your dad
talked to you last night, and I said I didn't think so,
because you didn't say anything to me."

"Bobby, slow down."

He pulled open the door to Studio Six and let her
go in. The music was still playing. He went over and
punched a button. Silence.

"They met last night—your dad and Ms. Connor.
He's the lawyer for Judge Harris. They're
friends,
would you believe? That's how your dad got into it.
He's supposed to call Ms. Connor this morning, so
she wanted to talk to me first. She guessed I was with you, Angie. She said if I wasn't with Sean, where was I? Damn Sean. Why'd he do it? I'd never have ratted
him out like that."

"Oh, my God. She's going to tell my father?"

"She has to. They're working together, and she has to explain where I was after midnight. But she won't tell him today. I made her promise. That gives you
time to talk to him yourself."

Angela pressed her hands against her cheeks,
which were burning. "I
can't."

"You have to. You want him to find out from her?"

"If he finds out I was with you till
three o'clock in the morning
—Oh, God."

"People stay out all the time. Jesus. You're in col
lege, not junior high. Tell him we were at Denny's."

"He wouldn't believe that. He'll send me back to
New Jersey."

"How? Tie you up and put you on the plane like
a piece of luggage? There's nothing he can do. If he breaks anybody's neck, it's gonna be mine. If he cuts you off, so what? Get a job. I told you, you can live
with me."

Angela sank to the floor and sat with her legs straight out, face in her hands. "Oh, my God."

Bobby stood over her. "You said you would."

"You don't understand!"

"Sure I do. I'm not good enough for your
papi,
the big important lawyer, and all your stuck-up relatives.
I never even seen that house you're always talking
about. Every time your dad comes over here, you tell
me to get lost. You're ashamed to be seen with me,
aren't you?" He pulled her hands away from her
face. "Aren't you?"

"No! Bobby, don't say that. I love you."

"Yeah? You don't know what that means. You love
somebody, you stand up for them. If you can't do
that for me, then leave. Go on. Be his baby girl the
rest of your life."

Hands falling limply into her lap, Angela started to cry. Through the shifting light of her tears she could see a pair of white socks and worn practice
shoes, gray at the toe and heel. They moved away,
then came back. He stood on one foot, then the other.

"Hey. Would you stop it?"

She drew in a breath that tore at her throat. "I
do
love you, I'm just scared. Please don't be mad at me."

Bobby dropped down cross-legged beside her and
pulled her head against his chest. "I'm not mad at
you,
mamita.
I'm
tired
of it, you always taking shit from your old man." He stroked her hair and kissed
her. "You have to decide, girl."

Angela wiped her eyes on the hem of his T-shirt.
"Okay. I'll talk to him." Bobby hugged her tightly.
She said, "I'm moving to the dorms tomorrow anyway. I might call him from UM. I can hang up when
he starts yelling at me."

"Angie, listen. Your father has no right to judge you. How to live your life, what to do. Like he was
so perfect. I'm going to tell you something I noticed,
okay? About Ms. Connor. I could be wrong, but I
don't think so. Yesterday at my apartment, she's
eating Turns and drinking a Sprite, you remember that?"

"Yes."

"Same thing last week. I go to her office, and she's
eating saltines and a soda for lunch. Plus the Turns.
I
know
what that is, because I've seen my sisters and their girlfriends do it. And while I was there? I overheard her talking to a doctor's office, canceling her appointment because she had a client—me—and she
couldn't go that day. So tell me. What does that
mean?"