Suspicion of Malice (3 page)

Anthony decided he did not like this man, and he
began mentally to add digits to his bill.

A small hand curled around his elbow. "Porter, darling, talk to Nate for a minute. I'm going to show Anthony the gallery."

"Have a look at our newest acquisition," Porter
said. "I bought it from a collector in Chicago. You
wouldn't want to know how much."

"Oh, tell me." Anthony smiled at him.

"One hundred and thirty-five thousand bucks. My daughter's last big piece. That's how much her paint
ings are worth, and they say the prices will only
go up."

"Amazing." He added another thousand or so to
his fees.

Claire said, "It was on the cover of
Art in America.
They did a whole article on her. I have the magazine
if you'd care to look at it later."

"Yes, I would."

"Never mind Claire. She has a stack two feet high
of that magazine. You aren't obligated."

"I'd like to," Anthony said. He left his drink on
the bar.

A wide corridor had been turned into a gallery de
voted to the works of Margaret Cresswell. The floor
was black slate, and the ceiling was dotted with
lights. Claire stood gazing at her daughter's art, two dozen or more pieces. The centerpiece was a huge abstraction of black with splotches of color showing
through. It was spiky and jarring.

"This was my birthday present from Porter."
Claire laughed. "Don't ask me which one! Sometimes
I just . . . come in here and look at it. Maggie was
such a beautiful, talented girl. Not always easy to
understand, as you can guess from her work. She was never known as a Florida artist, because she spent her adult life in the Northeast. She met Nate
at my nephew Jack's gallery when he showed her works, and Nate was so taken with her. He flew up
to New York for her first single exhibition, and they married a year later. I'm so glad, or we'd hardly ever have seen her. One always thinks that time will just go on and on." She hesitated. ''You know about Mag
gie's suicide, I suppose?"

"Yes. Nate told me."

"He's a sweet man," Claire said. "He wanted to
blame himself, but she was fighting her demons long before they met. He gave her some happiness before
the end. She was . . . only thirty-three." Claire fell
into silence. The bright, unforgiving surroundings re
vealed the sagging skin of her neck that her luxurious
Hermes scarf failed to cover. She looked up at An
thony with a smile. "It's all right if you don't like
the painting. Not everyone does."

"No, I wouldn't say I don't like it, only that it is,
as you say, hard to understand." He walked closer. The paint had been applied in intricate layers. "The first time I met your daughter, we argued. I said art had to mean something. She said no, the observer is
the one who gives it a meaning. Without the ob
server, it doesn't exist. I can't look at any painting without remembering what she said. She was a per
son of rare genius and warmth."

"Thank you for saying that." Claire's eyes glis
tened. She took Anthony's arm. "Listen, I have to apologize for Porter. The situation at the company is
causing such stress. I guess Nate explained. Porter
let Roger handle things while he was sick, and before you knew it, everybody was at each other's throats.
Porter decided for the sake of the company he had
to go back, but Roger says, 'You're too old, Daddy.
You're too stuck in the past.' Well, when it's your
son, you don't just
fire
him. Porter is beside himself.
If you could just set his mind at ease, he'd feel so
much better."

Anthony didn't say anything right away. What did they expect him to do? Recite prayers? Make the sign of the cross?

He took Claire's hand and kissed it with great re
spect. Then he held it close to his chest. "You mustn't
worry. I'll make sure everything is all right."

When they came back, Porter and Nate stood at the
windows talking about the list of candidates for the vacancy in the federal court. Nate was one of three. Porter was giving reasons why Florida's senior sena
tor would send Nate's name to the White House for
official nomination.

"You don't want to know how much I contributed
to that cocksucker's last campaign."

"Do me a favor, Porter. Don't remind him."

"Might do some good." Porter gave a raspy laugh.
"He stopped that fucking condo down there in its
tracks, I'll give him that much. Money talks, bullshit
walks. Remember that."

"It's on a plaque outside the courthouse," Nate
said.

Porter looked at him sideways and caught sight of Claire and Anthony. "There you are. What were you
doing, playing lovey-dovey with my wife? Her face is all red."

Claire's eyes closed. "Porter, please."

"The man can take a joke, honey." He put an arm
around her shoulders and kissed her cheek so hard
it pressed her eye closed. "Smile. Come on. Let's
see it."

She smiled, then pulled away, patting his chest.
"Isn't everyone hungry?" There was a phone on a
table by the sofa. She pressed a button, waited, then told someone named Maria that they were ready for
lunch. She hung up and flashed a smile. "Okay.
Soup's on in five minutes!"

Porter splashed some plain club soda over the ice in his glass. "A toast. To United States District Judge
Nathan Alan Harris."

"Hear, hear," Claire said. Anthony raised his
Bloody Mary as the muted chime of a doorbell fil
tered into the room.

Porter said, "You do a lot of drug cases, Quintana?"

"A few. All my clients have been wrongfully indicted, of course."

"You bet." Porter grinned, then gestured with his
drink to Nate, who sat at the bar eating salted peanuts. "They say the only damn cases down there in
federal court are drug cases. I remember this one guy
wanted us to make him a fast boat. That was back
in the good old days of the Cocaine Cowboys. Guy says, name your price. I told him to get lost. You
remember the Don Aronow case, don't you,
Quintana? I knew Don. Used to build racing boats.
Nice fellow, but ran with a bad crowd. Ended up
filled full of holes."

The doorbell was still chiming. "Who the hell is that? Where's Maria?"

Claire said, "Maybe I should go answer it."

"We've got a fucking housekeeper so you won't
have to. Sit down." He bellowed, "Maria!" His face
turned red. "Get the goddamn door!"

Anthony could hear quick footsteps on the marble
floor. A few moments later a heavyset man in a green
knit golf shirt appeared in the doorway, and the
housekeeper's footsteps receded back toward the
kitchen.

Porter frowned. "You should've called. We've got guests."

Claire began the introductions. "This is Duncan Cresswell, Porter's brother. Dub, this—"

"Why didn't you call?"

Duncan Cresswell shook his head, and his jowls moved. "I need to talk to you and Claire right now— in private." He glanced at Nate. "Hello, Nate. Sorry
about this."

Claire's hand was at her throat. "What's the matter? Dub? What happened?"

Anthony stood up. "We'll be in the living room."
Nate nodded, and the two of them walked into the hall. Anthony said quietly, "Do you have any idea
what that was about?"

"None."

A woman's scream came from the patio, turning into a wail.
"No, no, no
—"

They spun around just as Duncan Cresswell came out. "Maria! Maria, get in here!" The woman was
already on her way from the kitchen, asking what
had happened, what was the matter? The man
grabbed her shoulder. "Their son—he's been killed.
Go get Claire's pills from her bathroom. Go on!
Hurry." White-faced, the woman vanished.

Nate stopped him from going back inside. "Dub!
What did you say?"

The answer came in a whisper. "Roger was shot to death last night at Jack's place." Nate stared at
him, too stunned to speak. "The police won't say anything, but it looks like a robbery. His wallet's gone, his watch—Diane found him. She'd been up at Jack's
all night, and after breakfast she was going back to the cottage and heard the dog barking, and found
Roger's body. They called 911 right away, but it was too late. I mean, Jesus, he was lying there all night.
Diane called us about an hour ago. I didn't want
them to hear this from the police."

"Oh, my God. What about Nikki? Does she
know?"

"Not yet. The cops sent somebody to the house.
The neighbor says she's up in West Palm Beach for the weekend. They're trying to find her cell phone
number. Oh, Jesus." He turned toward the door.
"This is terrible. Maggie's gone. Now Roger."

"Let me talk to them," Nate said.

Anthony moved closer, not wanting to stare, but shock and sorrow had erased his presence. He might have been a shadow, for all the notice they paid him.
Porter Cresswell's arms were wrapped tightly
around his wife, who sat on the sofa and moaned.
Nate crouched beside them. The housekeeper ran in with a pill bottle and leaned over Claire, weeping,
touching her shoulder. Dub handed her a glass of
water. "Claire. Claire, honey. Take these."

Giving them privacy, Anthony walked into the liv
ing room and stared at the view till Nate came out.
"Stay with mem," Anthony said. "I'll get a taxi."

Nate wiped his glasses on his handkerchief. "No,
it's better if we leave. Claire wants me to apologize
to you for the disruption. That's Claire. Always the lady. I promised Porter I'd find out what's going on. Dub's going to call the rest of the family. It's a damn,
miserable shame, isn't it?"

Outside, the rain had stopped, but the smell of it
lingered in wet earth. They waited for the valet, and finally the Taurus squealed to a stop on the cobble-stoned driveway. Anthony was just opening the passenger door when a shout came from the parking lot.

"Nate!" A man in a white Panama hat ran toward them, face hidden by sunglasses and a wide blond mustache. He leaped over a low hedge and stopped,
breathless.

"I just heard," Nate said. "Dub came over. He's upstairs."

"Fuckin' cops. They're all over the place. I had to
slip out the back. How's Claire?"

"Bad. Go see her, but don't stay. The police could give you some problems for leaving the scene, Jack."

"I'll deal with that later." The sunglasses turned toward Anthony. Introductions were made. The man was Claire's nephew, Jack Pascoe. The body had been
found on his property. Nate repeated what Dub had
said about a robbery. "Do they have any idea who
did it? Or when? Did you or Diane hear anything?"

Pascoe glanced over at Anthony, then said, "Not the first. Anyone could have wandered in from the
street. My security arrangements last night were somewhat porous. Who expects something like this?" Pascoe's mustache curled onto his round cheeks. He moved closer to Nate. "Lucky you're here. Could we
chat? I left a message on your voice mail about an hour ago. Ignore it. Would you excuse us, Mr. . . ."

"Quintana. I'll wait under the portico."

Anthony paced slowly, hands in his pockets, pre
tending disinterest, but on his first turn he noticed
Jack Pascoe gripping Nate's upper arm. Their words
were obscured by the rustle of palm fronds. A min
ute later, Pascoe rushed toward the double glass
doors, which swung open, then shut, swallowing him
into the cavernous marble lobby.

In the car, Nate said nothing. He gripped the top
of the steering wheel as if he'd aged thirty years. At the end of the driveway, he abruptly stopped, swung the wheel to the right, and parked under some trees.
The radio played at low volume. Nate turned the knob and it went off. "Mind if I ask an opinion?"

"Go ahead. I assume this is related to the conversa
tion you just had."

"I was at Jack's house last night. He had some
people over." Nate lifted the tortoiseshell glasses to
rub the bridge of his nose. "Jack's father was Claire's brother, so Jack and Maggie practically grew up together. Anyway, she had her studio in the cottage
behind his house, and that's how I came to know
him. He called me last week and said why don't you
come over Saturday and look at that painting we
were talking about? Jack's an art dealer. I'd told him
I wanted something to give Claire and Porter, and
he suggested the portrait. I paid him five thousand
dollars as a down payment."