Suspicion of Malice (35 page)

"What time should I be at your office in the
morning?"

"I told Bobby nine-thirty. Is that okay?"

"I'll come a little early," Anthony said. "We can
go over the case."

"Sure. You can read my memo on what my mother
and I talked about."

"Memos. I'll bring you one of mine."

She laughed. "See you tomorrow."

He watched her get in and start the engine. The
back-up lights went on. "Gail, wait!" He came
around and tapped on the passenger door, then got in and closed it. Cold air was blowing out of the
vents.

She stared at him through her sunglasses.

"I meant to talk to you about the house," he said. "I completely forgot."

"What house?"

"Ours. The one we own in the Grove. A decision
to make."

The engine was running, and Gail's hands were
clenched on top of the wheel. "I thought Raul was
doing everything."

"He found a buyer. They can close immediately at
four hundred thousand. If we wait we could get
more."

"Wait? You wanted that house sold immediately,
at any price."

"I did say that, but
...
what's the rush, after all?"

"Do what you want," she said. "As far as I'm con
cerned, it's yours."

Anthony shook his head. "You told Raul to make sure I was paid back the money I gave you.
Gave.
It
wasn't intended as a loan."

"I think we should keep our relationship business
like. When you gave—
loaned
me the money, we were
engaged. Certain assumptions were made that are no
longer true."

"Listen to me, Gail." He turned in the seat to look
at her directly and with great effort restrained him
self from taking her hands. "That house cost you everything you had. You wouldn't have signed your
name on the contract if I hadn't wanted it."

"You didn't force me to do anything."

"When you had financial problems at your office, there was nothing left. I was glad to help you. I never
calculated the cost. And then, when we broke up,
everything you went through—I feel responsible for that. You had to move to a smaller space. You lost half your clients. I want to put you back in the posi
tion you were in before. It's the right thing to do.
Isn't it?"

She was wavering.

"What about Karen's tuition? Private school is expensive. How long will it take for you to buy another
house?" His voice was as gentle as he could make
it. "Gail? You shouldn't let your anger at me hurt
yourself and Karen."

Her hands let go of the wheel and fell into her lap.
"Okay. We'll wait, then. If it's really no difference
to you."

"None, I promise. Truce?"

A smile appeared. 'Truce. I don't mean to be so
...
God, so
awful
sometimes."

He offered a handshake. Her fingers slid into his, and he felt the warm pressure of her palm. He lifted
her hand and lightly kissed it.

It was nothing. A gesture between friends. He had
done this hundreds of times, but his fingers refused
to let go. He stared at her over the hand that seemed glued to his lips. Something shifted in his chest, like
a knot being pulled loose. He felt a flame in his body,
and it seemed to reflect in her face. Her cheeks
reddened.

He grasped her sunglasses in the middle and
pulled them off.

"Anthony, don't. Please."

If her voice hadn't wavered on
please.
...
He leaned toward her. She turned her head, and he felt the corner of her mouth, the softness of her cheek.
He grasped her face with both hands and brought
his mouth down on hers. He wanted to pour himself
into her. Find the lever, lower the seat—

High-pitched vibrations, muffled words on his lips.
Hands on his chest, pushing. He was barely aware of this. He thought of holding her there, showing her. Kissing her until the wall gave way, and the
tidal wave surged through the breach.

She jerked her head away and looked at him as if
facing a hard, stinging rain. "Take your hands off
me."

"Gail—" He was out of breath.

"Get out of my car."

He reached for the door handle, wanting to rip it
off. He ground his teeth together. "What is the matter
with you? How long do you hold a grudge?"

She spoke through her teeth. "You have no idea
what you've done, do you? And if I could possibly
explain it, you wouldn't give a damn."

The air in the car was charged, and electrical impulses made his body so tense he thought his bones
might splinter. He calmly smiled at her. "Why did
you hand me that shit about going to the Virgin Is
lands with your ex-husband? I don't believe you. Why did you say it? To get a reaction?"

She laughed. "My God. What an insufferable ego
tist. You are beyond redemption."

"No, tell me. I am so curious.
iDe veras?
You're
leaving?"

Her eyes were icy blue. "Yes."

"You want me to beg you to stay? Forget it. You
should be with a man you can walk on."

"Get the hell out of my car!"

He got out and gave the door a hard shove.
"Olvi
date. jOlvidate de todo!"

The rear wheels of her car kicked up gravel, and
dust hung in the air.

He was breathing through his teeth. "Idiot.” He
cursed himself for his generosity with the house. He
would tell Raul to sell it immediately. She had played
him on that one, hadn't she? "Fuck the house."

A fool to have loved her. He had said that to her
their last day together, and it was still true. A fool
to think that any love still remained, except as a last spasm of desire. She had ended that too, one sharp
little knee in the
cojones.

You are beyond redemption.
Sins beyond forgiveness,
as black as his soul.

Stanford Residence Hall at the University of Miami
was a freestanding, blocky beige tower of twelve sto
ries on the shore of a placid little lake with a fountain
that shot into the air. The light was fading when
Anthony drove onto campus. In no mood to go
through red tape for a visitor's pass, and unable to
find any sort of parking place, he parked beside a
fire hydrant, half on the grass, half on the sidewalk.

He had inspected this building two weeks ago, but
now it seemed different with students milling around.
He went to the security desk in the lobby, said who
he was, and that he'd like to see his daughter, Angela Quintana, a freshman who lived in
...
he couldn't recall the room number, but she was expecting him.

The guard asked for ID, gave him a paper to sign,
and told him to wait.

Fifteen minutes later, the elevator door opened and
Angela stepped out, looking around, a slender girl
in jeans and a T-shirt. His blood, his life. He smiled at her and lifted a hand. His eyes stung. She seemed
to take a breath before crossing the lobby.

He kissed her tenderly on the forehead.
"Hola, mi
nina."

"Hola, papi."
She stared up at him. "You wanted to talk to me?"

He smoothed his hair, which had fallen over his
forehead. "Yes. Can we sit over here?"

They sat in the most remote of the many groupings
of green-upholstered chairs and couches. Angela
folded her hands on her knees and looked at him
across a low table littered with the UM newspaper,
some crumpled paper, and an empty drink cup. He picked up the cup and the paper, saw no trash can
nearby, and set them back down.

He nodded at the cartoon of the Hurricanes mas
cot—a white ibis—on the front of her T-shirt. "That's
very nice. I see you're into the team spirit already."

"Dad? Are you okay?"

He felt his chin, remembering he hadn't shaved since early this morning, then noticed the mud on
the bottoms of his trousers and the dirt across his
sleeve. He brushed at the stains. "I was in some
woods earlier today. A case I'm working on." He
wished now he had suggested on the phone that they meet somewhere else. He reached over and laid his hand on hers. "I'm too busy lately. I've ignored you,
haven't I? Maybe this is my fault."

She looked at him warily with her dark eyes. Her
hair was a curtain pulled back on both sides with
gold barrettes. He glanced around. There were other people in the lobby, but no one was paying attention
to them. He leaned forward, keeping his voice low.

"Angela, you mean more to me than anything in
the world. Don't you know this?"

She nodded.

"I was talking today with Gail Connor. You re
member her, don't you? Of course you do." He
paused to assemble his thoughts. "She told me something very disturbing. I couldn't believe it. She said
you've been with Bobby Gonzalez. Is this true?"

Angela lowered her lashes.

"I'm not angry, but be honest with me. Is it true?"

"Yes."

"And you were with him the night Roger Cress
well was murdered?'
⁷

She nodded and seemed to shrink into her chair.

Gently, Anthony asked, "How did you get out of
the house without my knowing? Did you turn off
the alarm system?"

Another nod.

"And you were with him until three o'clock in the morning? Yes or no?"

A tear slid down her cheek. Her lips moved to
form the word
yes.
She cleared her throat. "I—I was
going to call you tonight anyway."

"Call me? Were you ashamed to see me face to
face? To admit that what you did was wrong? I don't
know what to say, Angela. You have disappointed
me. Your mother will have to know about this too.
What can I tell her?"

"Papi,
please. You don't understand."

"Yes, I do. You're in love, but sweetheart, love is more than sex. Sex is a wonderful thing, of course, and necessary, or we wouldn't be here, but at the appropriate time and with the right person. The
right
person,
Angela. That's important. Your mother and I
have tried to teach you that you are too valuable to
throw yourself away on someone who has nothing
to offer. A young man with no education. No money. An arrest record. And who smokes marijuana. Don't
you deserve more than that?"

"He doesn't smoke anything!"

"Shhh." Anthony held up a hand. "Yes, Angela.
He does. Now I've thought about this a good deal,
and maybe it's better, after this semester, if you go
back to New Jersey and live with your mother. I
have failed."

Her nose was running. Anthony started to reach
for his handkerchief, then remembered where he had
left it. He looked around the room, and several of
the students glanced away, as if they'd been staring.

Angela wiped her nose on the hem of her T-shirt. "I won't leave! Bobby and I love each other."

His heart ached. "Sweetheart, listen to me. When
a man is very young, he wants only one thing from
a girl. He may deny it to himself—and certainly to you—but it's the truth. For him, it's not really love."

"How can you—" Her voice broke, and she took
a deep gulp of air. "How can you get drunk and
come here and tell me—"

"Angela! I am not—"

"Yes, you are! I can smell it on your breath. You
didn't used to be this way! You drink when you're
out, and you drink at home." She was crying. "You
have no right to tell me how to live my life after what you've done."

"All right. I stopped by a bar. I had a couple of
drinks. You're right, I shouldn't have done it, but
don't change the subject."