Suspicion of Malice (34 page)

A split-second after the accidental endearment
slipped out, Gail took the handkerchief and shifted
away from him on the bench. Anthony stared at the fossilized shells in the keystone pavement, gritting
his teeth.

"Thank you," Gail said. She folded the handkerchief neatly on her bare thigh. "I'll wash this and get
it back to you."

"Are you going to mail it?" he retorted.

She gave him a look. "You can pick it up at my
office tomorrow."

He recovered his manners. "You're feeling better now?"

"I'm
fine."
She took a breath. "Thank you. Really."
She stood up and reached into her bag for a fresh roll of film. "Let's go, it's hot in here.”

He was aware once again of that odd sense of dis
location, of time having slipped backward. This place
was so quiet. A bird, the whisper of leaves. The sun
dappling the path at their feet. She had worn those same sneakers when they'd walked together twenty
times—five miles—around the deck of the
Sovereign of the Seas
last winter. He slowly raised his eyes. Up
the curves of her legs, over her sharp-boned knees, snagging for a moment on her shorts. Cuffed hems, which had caught the sand on the beach at Captiva Island, Gail leaning back against his chest as they'd watched the sunset. Six months ago—or six days, it
was all the same—he had unbuttoned that same
shirt, such damnably small buttons, which now rose
and fell on the curve of her breast.

His eyes lifted to her face. "Gail, I regret—so much—what happened to us."

She stared back at him, then looked down at her camera, which hummed as the film was pulled back into the cannister. She shook it into her palm and dropped in another. "No regrets. We're lucky to have
found out in time, aren't we? I'm sure you feel the same way." The back of the camera closed with a
sharp click. "Things have worked out quite well, actually. It looks like I'll be moving to the Virgin Islands. Dave and I think it would be better for Karen, having both her parents in the same time zone, so
really, you shouldn't regret a thing."

Gail swung her bag onto her shoulder and walked toward the trellis.

Anthony stared into the unfocused tangle of greenery. Dimly, from deep underground, he heard bars
rattling and howls, and he knew that if he opened his mouth, it would be the creature's voice, not his
own. Anthony took a few slow breaths, then got up
from the bench and followed the path.

She was waiting around the curve. She glanced at
him as if to assure herself that he posed no danger.
"I want to take some pictures of the seawall before
I leave. Do you know where Nate and Bobby were
sitting?"

How cold-blooded she was. Anthony's body ached from the effort of maintaining his composure. He had to repeat her question to himself before remembering
the answer. "No, I don't. Why do you want the sea
wall?"

"I take pictures of everything."

They walked from under the trellis into the sun.
Jack Pascoe's back porch was empty, a pair of ceiling fans slowly revolving. Anthony heard music, and realized it came from the small white house across the yard. A black dog lay on the front porch asleep under
a swing. It lifted its head and watched them.

The path went into the shade of some sea grape
trees, and their feet rustled through fallen leaves.
Branches swayed, and Anthony felt the cool relief of
wind on his face. He listened to Gail planning how
she could speak to Roger's widow, what she might ask,
and whether to do it before the family went out on the
boat next weekend to scatter the ashes. She talked with
out a glance at the man beside her. Anthony allowed
himself to ponder what Gail had told him back there
by the fountain. Leaving for the Virgin Islands. Aban
doning her law practice, her mother, her friends, her relatives, and her way of life to travel 1,500 miles to
be with a man she had ceased to love. There was Karen, of course, but Anthony did not believe that any woman, had she a choice, would go to such ex
tremes, even for her daughter. Round-trip airfare was
less trouble.

Mentirosa.
What games she played.

The wind tossed her hair. She wore no makeup
today, but there was a pink glow on her face. She
carried her small chin up, which had the effect of tilting her lashes slightly downward. Hiding from
him.

They walked to the seawall. While Gail took photo
graphs, Anthony sat on a bench in the shade of the
boathouse, a wooden structure built over the shal
lows of the bay. A small power boat was up on hoists
under the roof. Key Biscayne lay to the northeast,
Elliot Key just south of it. Mangroves at Pascoe's
property line hid the skyscrapers downtown. This
spot could have been fifty miles away from the city. Water splashed softly against the pilings.

Anthony stretched out his arms along the back of
the bench and put his ankle on the opposite knee.
The warm buzz in his chest had returned. From ten
yards away Gail turned toward him. "I'd like a shot
of the boathouse. Do you want to move?" He smiled and shook his head, then waved at her as she looked through the viewfinder.

Gail closed her camera. "All right. I think that's everything."

"Come sit down for a minute. It's shady and cool here."

"No, I really have to go. Karen's waiting."

But she didn't go. She stood there looking at him. He said, "How is Karen? I am sorry not to see her
anymore. May I say that without making you angry?"

He could see her let out a breath, then smile. Hang her head a little. "Yes, you may. Karen is wonderful, beautiful. She had a good time over the summer, and
she's very glad to be home."

Ah-ha. This woman wasn't going to the Virgin Islands. Anthony raised his brows. "And your mother?
Is Irene well? You must give her my regards."

"I meant to tell you." Gail stepped from the sea
wall to the dock, then under the eaves of the boat-house. She sat on the other end of the bench. "My
mother has turned into a spy. She asked her friends
about the Cresswells, and . . . well, I don't have any
specifics, but you're right, what you said on that
tape. They pretend to be close, but it's all an act."

Anthony let himself look at her. He smiled. "You
can write me a memo," he said. "Ah. By the way, what did Bobby Gonzalez say about his alibi? Did
you talk to him?"

It took her a second to reply. "Let's save that for
tomorrow, when you see him at my office."

He continued to look at her, and her eyes became
unfocused, then slid away from him. "You know,
Gail, I can tell when something is going on. What is
it this time?"

"Nothing is
going on.
We'll discuss it tomorrow."

She began to stand, but he held onto the strap of
her shoulder bag. "Before I put one more hour of
my time into helping that young jackass, I want to know where the hell he was when Roger Cresswell was shot to death." He looked directly at her, lifting
his brows. "Where?"

"He was with a friend. We can discuss it later."

Anthony made a few little tugs on the strap. "What friend? We're working for the same thing, no? Why
are you keeping secrets?"

She sighed. Deeply. Regretfully. "I'm so sorry
about this."

It took him a few seconds before the impossible
answer came to him. "Not . . . my daughter."

"Yes. Angela was supposed to have talked to you already. I see she didn't. Bobby's car wasn't working. She dropped him off here at eight o'clock and picked
him up again about a quarter till twelve. All the times are the same, but he was with Angela, not
Sean. They were together till about three in the morn
ing, when she left him at his apartment on South
Beach."

Anthony held up his hands. "No, no, I was at
home that night. She was upstairs in bed by ten-
thirty. She couldn't have left. There's an alarm
system."

"Girls that age can be very resourceful."

"Cono cara'o."

"Bobby wanted to keep you from finding out, so
, he gave the police Sean's name as an alibi. It was
foolish, but he did it for Angela."

"She told me—she
promised
—that she would stay
away from him! How long have you known about this?"

"Two days. Bobby wanted to give Angela a chance
to tell you herself. It was Angela who asked me to
help Bobby. That was about a week and a half ago."

"iPor que no me
— Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I don't snitch on my friends."

"He barely graduated from high school! He's been arrested and he smokes pot. Do you think I want my
daughter with someone like that? Do you approve
of this?"

"Stop screaming at me, Anthony. If you so much
as mention this to my client, I will throw you out of my office."

"Voy a matar al hijo de puta."

"Oh, shut up. You're not going to kill anybody. Bobby is a decent young man, and Angela is in love
with him. Deal with it."

A thought rocketed through his brain. "Have
they . . . ?"

"How should I know?"

"You think this is funny, don't you?"

"I think you're being ridiculous."

Anthony opened his mouth to say something
more, but could see there was no use in it. He put his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands and stared down at the rough boards of the dock.
How had he failed his daughter? What secret life did
she lead? What other lies was she guarding?

"I knew I would lose her someday, but not so
soon. Not like this."

"Anthony. You haven't lost her." A sigh came from
the woman beside him. "She's a normal teenage girl with a boyfriend you don't happen to like. This is so unbelievably
typical"

"Wait until Karen does it, then tell me it's typical."

"Good Lord."

"What do I say to her? That it's okay?"

"Just say .. . that you love her and you hope she'll be responsible." Gail followed that inadequate advice
with a little shrug.

Anthony pushed his hair back with both hands.
"Yes. You're right." He let out a breath. "This won't
be easy, but
...
I'll talk to her. I will be
...
gentle.
Like a saint."

Gail's laughter rippled like a light puff of wind on the water. "I think the heat is affecting your brain."
She glanced at her watch. "I really have to go."

He stood up. "I'll walk with you to your car."

Her eyes went to his face, then away. She turned around and stepped off the dock and into the yard.
He caught up. She reached into her bag and took out
her sunglasses. "Did you ask Nate about smoking
grass with Bobby?"

"Gail, listen to me. When you talk to Nate this week, stay away from that. It's not relevant."

"Are you setting limits on my questions?
^”

"I wouldn't put it that way."

"I would."

"Ay, que pena.
Listen to me. Nate didn't follow
Bobby from the house. Nate was sitting alone on the
porch of the cottage having a drink. He was thinking
of his wife and how she died. Nate saw someone walk
to the seawall, he was curious, so he went to see who it was. That is
all.
And about the marijuana . . . Nate is embarrassed. He has no explanation, not much recollection, and as it isn't relevant, don't bring it up. I
will not allow him to answer."

"Fine." Gail's long strides carried her quickly
along the walkway to the house. She glanced at him.
"I'd like to ask him about his wife."

"Maggie again. Do you really believe that a woman
three years dead has anything to do with this?" Raising his hands, he said, "All right. You want to chase
the painting. Go ahead."

They went under the portico, past a small red car,
and into the front yard. Anthony's black Eldorado was parked in the shade, and he took out his keys.
Gail rummaged around in her bag for hers.

She muttered, "Always at the bottom."