Suspicion of Malice (26 page)

He had said too much, but he had not told her
everything. At noon he would have lunch with Claire Cresswell. Only Claire; her odious husband, Porter,
would be out on the water with his brother and a
few people from the yacht company. If Gail knew '"that he would be speaking to the murder victim's
mother, she would make up some excuse to go along.
He preferred not to argue about it.

His day was already jammed. After lunch there would be a plea negotiation with a federal prosecu
tor. A quick bond hearing. An appointment with a
stockbroker accused of bilking his clients. He would probably refer the case to some other lawyer, rather than become involved in a lengthy trial that could complicate his move to New York. That decision was
still to be made, but among the papers on his desk
were two letters and three phone messages regarding positions in or near the city. He was taking very little
new work. His desk was stacked with files to close out or reassign.

Anthony swept his jacket off the back of the chair, put
it on, and noticed a piece of dark green thread protru
ding from one of the sleeve buttons. He tugged gently.
"No."
His favorite Armani. He opened his top drawer
for the small pair of scissors he used for such
emergencies.

As he unzipped the leather case, the phone rang.
His private line again. Was she calling back already?
He picked it up. "Yes?" But it was only his sister, and he took a breath. "I can't talk now. I'm on my way out."

She told him that she needed to see him. It was important, about their grandfather.

"Alicita, I saw you and Nena only yesterday. Give me some time to think about it. I told Nena I'd call
her." Anthony hesitated, then said, "What hap
pened? His heart?"

No, not that. Alicia said she had just found out
why Ernesto wanted to see him, and she thought
Anthony should know about it before he called their grandmother.

"I am past caring what the old man wants. For the first time in my life I am truly free of him. When I
walk back into that house—if I do—it will be because
I choose to, not because of Ernesto Pedrosa's manipulation."

In a torrent of words, Alicia accused him of not caring for her, for Nena, for anyone but himself. That
if fifteen minutes out of his day was too much to
ask, maybe he belonged in New York, just go, forget
he had a family—

"Enough!" Anthony looked at his watch. "What
does he want from me? Just say it. Why does every
thing require a big discussion?"

Not on the telephone. She couldn't just
say
it. It
would sound crazy. When could they meet?

"I don't know. I have no time this afternoon.
Maybe after work, six o'clock. I'll call you in a couple
of hours." Anthony hung up.
"Ay, que pena."

His eyes fell on his desk diary. His daughter's
name was written in at six o'clock for dinner.
"Cara'o."
He had suggested Caffe Abbracci or Les
Halles, but Angela had wanted The Cheesecake Factory—overcrowded, overdecorated, and loud. That way, she could eat and run out the door to the movie she'd already arranged to see with her girlfriends. At 7:30 this morning, still in his bathrobe, he'd watched her bright yellow Volkswagen disappear down the street. Off to spend the day on the beach. Tomorrow
she would take the rest of her things to the dorms. No,
papi,
don't bother yourself, my roommate has an SUV. He hadn't objected. It was her last weekend of freedom.
And perhaps girls that age didn't want their fathers
around. He had consoled himself with the thought that
once she was settled in school, he could continue with
plans for his own future.

Buried somewhere among the files on his desk were notes for an agreement to sell his interest in Ferrer &
Quintana, P.A. The folder had floated from one spot to another for nearly three weeks, but he'd not been able to get to it. Raul hadn't pushed. Raul didn't
want
to dissolve the partnership. He had even suggested
that if Anthony hadn't drafted the agreement by
now, his heart wasn't in it. Not so.

In a cliff-top villa in Marbella, dozing in a chaise under the rustling fronds of a date palm, Anthony had
seen the answers laid out as clearly as the blue Medi
terranean two hundred feet below. Go back to New
York. Resume his life where he'd left it ten years ago, before nostalgia had sent him home to the stifling
cubanidad
of Miami, that illiberal swamp of intrigue,
with its lunatic politics and slavering fixation on
money and power. But Ernesto Pedrosa, his Machiavellian wits still intact, was plotting to keep him here.
What game, Anthony wondered, was the old man
playing? What in hell did he want now?

He dialed the main line at the Pedrosa house, and
when elderly Aunt Fermina answered, he spent
thirty seconds inquiring about her health, then asked to speak to Alicia.

When she came on, he said he was sorry, but six
o'clock would be impossible. He was meeting Angela
for dinner. Perhaps tomorrow—

No, she had too much to do tomorrow. Why
couldn't they meet right now? They could talk out
side the house. It was less than a mile from his office.
Park down the street, for God's sake. Five minutes.
Was that so much to ask? Then it would be off her
mind, and she wouldn't bother him again.

"All right. Five minutes."

Anthony hung up and grabbed his briefcase and
cell phone. On his way down the corridor he paused to tell his secretary when to expect him back. He had
his hand on the side exit door when he heard his partner call his name.

Raul Ferrer was a compact, balding man with an
amiable nature, five children, a devoted wife, and an uncanny brilliance with multimillion-dollar real es
tate development deals, in which Anthony had
wisely invested.

They stepped into an empty office. Raul said, "This
morning I received an offer on the house in Coconut Grove."

"What house?"

Raul's mustache twitched. "Yours and Gail Con
nor's. On Clematis Street."

"You don't need my approval/' Anthony said.
"Just sell it. You're the trustee." They had given Raul
this power to avoid any discussion.

"Yes, but I want to run this deal by you. The buyers can close immediately at four hundred thousand. This will
take care of the real estate fee and give you
back what you have in it."

"Fine. Sell it."

"On the other hand, if you wait, you could make a good profit."

"I don't need a profit."

"Perhaps not, but Gail does. She says she bor
rowed some money from you, so whatever she gets,
to let you have it, up to $125,000, plus interest."

Anthony frowned. That was the money he had
given her when she'd fallen into a financial emer
gency at her office. Given, not loaned. She knew that.
They were no longer engaged to be married, but that
didn't change the facts. "She doesn't owe me
anything."

"She says she does."

"When did you speak to Gail?"

"There were several occasions in the past month."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Why?" Raul arched his brows. "Before you left
for Spain you gave me specific instructions. I was to transmit nothing to you from Ms. Connor. No letters,
no phone calls, no third-party messages. Nothing.
You said, 'I don't want to know she exists.' But now
that you and she are talking again, I thought—"

"No. We aren't
talking.
We're working on a case together."

"Have you been putting something funny in
your cigars?"

Anthony took out his car keys. "I have to go. Sell
the house and send her a check."

"She won't take it," Raul said.

^“
What do you mean? She has to take it."

"She won't. She says she would tear up any check
unless she's certain you were repaid."

"You see how unreasonable she is, Raul?"

Raul gave him a long look. "What do you want
me to do? Accept the offer? Reject it?"

"I'm not sure." Then he remembered that he
would see Gail on Monday. "I'll let you know by
Monday afternoon."

"I won't be here," Raul said. "Monday is Labor Day, and I'm taking the family to the Keys."

"Tuesday, then."

Raul pointed. "Oh, by the way. Your button is
loose, there on your sleeve."

Anthony waved a dismissive hand as he opened
the door and went out to the parking lot. He put on
his sunglasses. The glare was intense.

What an impossible woman. She would starve before accepting a piece of bread from him. With the house on Clematis Street, she had insisted on paying
half the expenses, when he could easily have out-
spent her ten to one. Yes, there was the problem
again. He had called it love, to do things for her. She had called it control. She had thrown his help—his love—back in his face the same way she had thrown
his ring at him.

The Pedrosas lived in a sixteen-room, two-story
house on Malaguefta Avenue, where banyan trees arched into a shady green tunnel. A wall with deco
rative ironwork permitted a view of a fountain in
front, balconies at the upstairs windows, and a red tile roof. As he slowly drove past the gate, he saw his sister waiting under the vine-covered portico.

He made a U-turn at the corner and parked on the grass between street and sidewalk. Alicia got in and closed the door, giving him a look that left no doubt what she thought of this. Even so, she presented her cheek for a kiss before sinking into the leather seat.
Her dark, curly hair was up in a short ponytail, girl
ish for a woman over forty, but it suited her. She was still pretty. Twenty years ago she had wanted
to become a doctor. Then she had married that miser
able husband of hers, given him four children,
packed on twenty pounds, and never again spoken
of medical school.

Alicia asked brightly, '"How's Angela?"

"Very well, thank you. She's moving into the
dorms tomorrow. She said she would come say
goodbye to you before you leave and give you some
presents for your kids. How are they?"

"Crazy to see me again. I've been away too long.
Octavio cries to me on the phone. I miss him so
much. I tell him, be patient, sweetheart, just a few
more days."

He wanted to say, but didn't, that his sister was a
fool. He leaned an elbow on the armrest. "Alicia, I
have an appointment."

"Yes." She looked through the windshield as if the
words she wanted might be dangling from the trees. "Last night, after Nena had gone to bed, Grandfather knocked on my door. He was in his walker, and I thought he might be a little better, so I took him
downstairs and we had some milk and crackers.
Then, right there in the kitchen, he started to cry.
And he asked for you again. You see, he knows you
aren't still in Spain, so I couldn't fool him with that
lie. He said I had to get a message to you. He said it was something that only you could do for him.
And I said, 'Grandfather, my sweetheart, what is it?' He made me promise not to tell anyone but you. Do
you know what he said?"

Anthony waited, then said, "No, I don't."

"Grandfather said, 'I want him to take me to Cuba
before I die.' "

Anthony tilted his head, not sure he had heard it
right. "Pardon?"

"He wants you to take him to Cuba before it's
too late."

Wavering between laughter and shock, Anthony said, "He's gone totally insane."

"He didn't sound at all incoherent, as he some
times does." Alicia shook her head. "No, he meant
it."

"That proves he's crazy."

"You have to talk to him, Anthony. He won't live
much longer."

"That's not true."

"It is. I've spoken to his doctors. He's dying. His pacemaker helps, but he's eighty-four years old, and
so depressed. He doesn't want to eat. He lies in his bed all day. If he believed that he were going to
Cuba—"