Suspicion of Malice (28 page)

Porter came out of the salon with a plastic cup.
"Quintana! How about a drink?"

"Thanks, but I need to get back to work soon. I
dropped by to express my condolences to the
family."

"We appreciate it," Porter said. "This has been a
difficult time for all of us."

Dub said, "Roger was a great guy."

A moment passed in which no one spoke. As if rousing himself, Porter said, "What about this boat?
Isn't she something? Eighty-two feet, our latest
model. We're going to go bigger next year. CEOs
aren't afraid to spend money anymore on boats. Ev
erybody wants to make a statement. Mine's bigger
and stiffer." He gave a husky laugh, turning stiffly, head and torso in the same movement, to see if the
man at the helm approved of the joke.

A laugh came down from the bridge.

"You got a boat? You should. Lawyers have
money. I know because they've skinned me for
enough of it."

Anthony said, "My law partner does. That's better
than having one myself."

"You may be right," Porter said. "Damn pricey toys. Why don't you go out with us? Come on."

"Maybe next time."

"Got some news for you." Porter's crooked smile faded, and his jaw seemed to settle further into his
neck. "They have a suspect in my son's murder."

"Nate mentioned it."

"A kid who used to work at the yard—Bobby Gon
zalez, a friend of Dub's boy. Dub and Liz used to
have him over to their house. What about that? You
let someone in close and he turns on you. The kid
attacked my son, threatened his life. Ted here saw it all. He told the police about it. Isn't that right, Ted?"

The man at the bow had tossed the lines to some
one on the foredeck, and he walked toward the stern.
"That's right."

Anthony asked him, "Why did he attack Roger?"

"Roger fired him for stealing."

Porter said, "This is Ted Stamos. Ted's our super
visor in the glass shop. Been with us since he was a kid."

Anthony inquired, "You install the windows?"

"
Fiber
glass. I build the boats."

"Your last name is Stamos. Is that Greek?"

"I'm an American. I was born here. What about
you?" Stamos went to untie the lines at the stern.

Having heard such insults before, Anthony let it go.

The noise of the engines increased, and the smell of diesel exhaust hung over the dock. "All aboard that's coming aboard," Dub Cresswell said. "Come on, Cap'n. Make this baby scream."

"I'm going. Jesus." Porter grasped both sides of
the handrail on the stairs to the bridge. He made a
misstep and fell to one knee. His brother watched
from tike bench seat.

Alarmed, Claire called out, "Porter!"

"Leave me alone, I'm okay." He pulled himself up.

"Help him, Dub! Help him get up."

Dub Cresswell said, "Have a drink, Porter. That's
what you need."

Porter Cresswell laughed. "Who moved the fuck
ing step?" He climbed the stairs and took his place at the helm. An air horn sounded a long, clear note
that echoed on the buildings and gradually faded
out.

Ted Stamos swung back aboard and closed the gate. The growl of the engines grew louder, and
water frothed.

Dub Cresswell was swinging his beer back and
forth. "Yo ho and up she rises, yo ho and up she
rises—"

"Bye, Porter," Claire called out, cupping her
hands. "Bye, honey."

Porter Cresswell snapped a salute off the brim of
his hat and maneuvered the yacht away from the
dock. It glided smoothly into the intracoastal, leaving
a widening wake.

Claire waved for a long time, till the boat turned into a channel and headed out toward the Atlantic.
Without looking at the man beside her she said,
"We're taking Roger's ashes out to sea next weekend.
I'd like it very much if you could join us."

Shortly after one o'clock, as Anthony's Cadillac sped south on the interstate, he held a microcassette re
corder in his left hand, fingers on the buttons. He
had become adept at simultaneously driving and dic
tating instructions to his secretary.

He pressed RECORD. 'This is to be sent to Gail Con
nor. Her fax number should be in your files. Title it
'Memorandum' and put today's date. It goes . . .
Today I met with Claire Cresswell at her residence in Aventura—"

He turned it off. Not at her residence, outside on the dock, watching her husband play boat captain.

"Al cara'o con los
memos!" He tossed the recorder to the passenger seat, then half a mile later picked it
up again and rewound to the beginning. He would give this to a courier for delivery to Gail Connor's
office.

"Gail. This is your memo. If you want it in written form . . . well, you can type it yourself. I just had a
meeting with Claire Cresswell."

He hit the PAUSE button, then let it go and said,
"This was arranged quickly. Nate called her last
night after you and I spoke. He asked her to see
me today, and she agreed." The tape spun. "I didn't
mention it this morning because you would have
wanted to come along, and Mrs. Cresswell doesn't know you."

Anthony rewound, rinding his voice saying
and she
agreed.
Why the hell should he explain to Gail Connor
his reasons for not telling her about the meeting? He
would record over the rest of it.

When the tape was spinning again, Anthony told her that when he had gone to the Cresswells' apart
ment that first time, Claire had spoken to him alone. Anthony had realized that she was attracted to him. Today he had gone to see Claire intending to rely on
those feelings, he couldn't deny it, but Claire had
accused him of threats and manipulation. He hadn't
intended to push her around, but he saw now that
he had. This woman who had lost her son. Before
that, a daughter. Had he been callous, using these
tragedies to get what he wanted from her?

The tape spun slowly.

Anthony hit REWIND. If Gail were sitting in the passenger seat, he might have discussed his use of
Claire Cresswell, and she would have commented, but on tape it sounded incoherent.

He said, "I leaned on her a little, but it couldn't
be helped. She will do what she can, short of feeling
like a traitor to her family."

He went on to say that Claire would tell Porter
that she herself had hired Anthony Quintana to look
into Roger's financial dealings at the company. Roger
was dead now, but his crimes, if any, would survive
him. Claire would say that Mr. Quintana didn't ex
pect to find anything, but his investigation would at least allay Porter's fears. As cover stories went, it
wasn't too bad.

"I noticed an odd thing today," Anthony said.
"Porter slipped going up the stairs to the bridge and
his brother did nothing. I believe there is more malice
in this family than Claire will admit, even to herself. She won't accuse anyone, but she will open the door.
That's all I can ask of her."

Anthony turned off the recorder and idly watched
the green interstate signs pass overhead. He didn't
want to talk into this damned machine. He wanted to talk to Gail—the woman she used to be, before she turned into a chilly imitation of herself. He
wanted
that
woman in the passenger seat. She would have understood what he wanted to say. She would
have cut through to the point.

He wondered what would happen if he could play
back the tape of their last day together and stop it
before it went bad. They had awakened at dawn in
a bed upstairs in his grandfather's house. He had felt
her body beside him and pulled her closer. Had it been too rushed? She hadn't complained. Later that day, dozens of family and guests had converged on the house and the grounds, and then suddenly! She had run away, pushing through the gate, leaving the
party, everyone watching. He'd run after her onto the golf course, demanding that she come back, finally begging, but by then she was out of control, no reasoning with her. That had set him off, and there had
been nothing left but a smoking crater in the earth.
No, the tape would have to be rewound more than
a day. A week? A month?

Farther still. To before they had bought the house on Clematis Street. Yes, back to that point. She hadn't
been enthusiastic, but he had wanted it, never mind
the tens of thousands of dollars of repairs it had needed. An old house on a shady street, with tile
floors and cool patios. Even fireplaces upstairs and
down. He had talked her into it, then had let her
spend everything she had, money she shouldn't have
spent, trying to keep up with him. It had become a
battle, a contest with two losers. He should have
known.

He picked up the recorder. "I told Claire that
you're working with me—or rather, you're working for Bobby Gonzalez. I said you'd acquired him as a client through the ballet, and I mentioned your mother's name. She knows Irene, and I believe that this
helped put her on our side. As far as I know, none
of the other Cresswells is aware that you're representing Bobby. Claire said she wouldn't tell them. I
believe this includes her husband."

PAUSE.

RECORD. "Next weekend the family and a few
friends will go out on the company yacht and scatter Roger's ashes at sea. It will be a small group. Claire
suggested that you come too."

STOP.

Anthony rewound and replayed, going back and
forth until he found the point just preceding
Next
weekend.
. . . His finger hovered above Record. He
could press it and erase any thought of Gail's coming
with him. He could tell her about it later. Do a
memo.

But his finger moved over to Rewind, and the tape
went backward, picking up speed until the begin
ning, where it stopped with a sharp click. He ejected
the cassette and slid it-into his breast pocket.

Chapter 15

As Dave was leaving Irene's house on Saturday,
after dropping Karen off with her suitcases and
bags, Irene ran out onto the porch after him and in
vited him to Sunday breakfast. He glanced at Gail.
Quickly recovering, she smiled and shrugged.
"Great." Her mother would have offered him the
pull-out sofa in the den if he hadn't mentioned he was staying with friends. Selfishly, Gail wanted
Karen all to herself. They spent the rest of the day
with Irene looking at souvenirs and snapshots, trying
on sarongs and shell jewelry, and catching up after
a long month away from each other.

Just past eleven years old, Karen still had no hips,
and her chest was flat, but the summer had made
her glow. Giggling, she told Gail about the French Canadian boy she had met at the marina. Soooo cute.
His parents owned a sailboat, and they'd be back to
the islands next summer. He wanted to e-mail her. Could she write back? Could she? Karen fell asleep on Gail's bed, and the two of them slept curled up
together.

On Sunday Irene fixed Karen's favorites—pecan waffles and bacon. She squeezed fresh oranges and opened a jar of homemade calamondin jam for the toast. Red-haired and sunny in a yellow dress with
blue flowers, she fluttered around the kitchen like a
brightly plumed bird, then settled down across from
Karen, who chattered away about the things she
had seen.

Gail gazed at her daughter. How beautiful she was.
Sunstreaked brown hair. Long limbs, firm and
tanned. Gail's eyes had some gray, but Karen's eyes
were sky blue, like her father's, and her nose was
his, and her square jaw and straight brows.

Dave dredged a piece of waffle through a pool of
maple syrup. "Wow, Irene, I haven't eaten, like this
in years."

Not
years,
Gail replied silently. It had been Christ
mas a year and a half ago, the last one they'd spent together. It hadn't been much different from this morning, except that the topics of conversation had changed. Gail could almost imagine the scene after brunch: She and Irene would tidy the kitchen. Dave
would be on the sofa, eyes closed, head back, the
sports section sliding to the floor.