Suspicion of Malice (36 page)

She stared at him with red-rimmed, accusing eyes.
"No! I mean what you did to
her."

"Who?"

"Gail Connor. What you did."

"What I did?" He was blank for a second, then
said, "You mean—sweetheart, we're adults. Please."

"You got her pregnant, didn't you? That's why
you broke up with her and she has to raise the baby
by herself, or else get an abortion, so don't preach to
me
about morality."

'
'iQue me estas diciendo?"
He glanced around the
room. "Angela, why do you say such things?" He whispered, "This is impossible. We . . . took precau
tions. We were very careful about that. If anything
had happened, she would have told me, you can be
sure. Where did you get this crazy idea?"

She wiped her eyes. "Bobby told me."

"Bobby?" His mind spun.

"He saw her eating Tums and soda crackers."

Anthony laughed. "That doesn't mean anything. Just because a woman is eating an antacid—"

"And he overheard her on the phone talking to a
doctor's office."

Anthony's hands were in midair until the solution came to him.
"Mentiras.
Don't you see? He's making
up stories to make me look bad."

"He wouldn't do that! He wouldn't lie!"

"No? Didn't he lie about being with you? Didn't
he tell you to lie? What have you become?"

"I'm sorry!" Angela stood up, and her chair
tipped, then fell back on its legs. "I'm sorry I'm such a disappointment! You don't have to worry about me anymore. I'll get a scholarship, and if I can't, maybe I'll drop out, but at least I can live my own life. You
hypocrite!" She ran a few steps away, then turned, and her hair whirled around her head. "And I'm
auditioning for the ballet, too, and you can't stop
me!"

They stared at each other. She burst into tears and
ran for the stairs.

"Angela!" He started to follow, then noticed that there were two dozen pairs of eyes on him. All con
versations had stopped. With dignity, he slowly
turned, crossed the lobby, and pushed his way
through the door.

Chapter 18

“Where'd you get the money, Bobby?"

"I told you where I got it."

"No, I want a name. You gotta give us a name.
Was it somebody at Jack Pascoe's party? I could go
down the list for you."

Bobby Gonzalez folded his arms across his chest.
The room was too cold. The gray color made it
worse. Gray chairs, table, walls. He didn't know
what time it was. Early. There wasn't a clock in here,
and he hadn't put on his watch.

"When can I leave?"

"You ain't goin' nowhere, punk."

Detective Britton was okay, but the other guy, the skinny Latino with bad skin, looked, like he'd enjoy grabbing a fistful of Bobby's hair and slamming his face into the table.

Britton said, "Take it easy. He can go as soon as
he decides he wants to help himself. What's it gonna
be, Bobby?"

Bobby stared at the things on the gray tabletop.
Two mugs of cold coffee. Some glazed donuts on a paper plate. And a clear plastic bag with red tape on it and three one-hundred-dollar bills inside. The cash they'd taken out of his dresser drawer last Thursday.

A quarter to eight this morning, they'd come back
banging on the door, pissing off his roommates.
A
small matter to resolve . . . a few minutes at our office.
Bobby had put on his jeans and T-shirt and got in
the back of their unmarked car. He'd been sure he
could handle this.
A couple of questions about the money
we found in your room.
Bobby hadn't called Gail Con
nor because he didn't know what side she was on.
She was working with Anthony Quintana, who
would probably let Bobby go to prison if he had a choice about it. Anything to get him away from Angela. Bobby had spent some time last night listening
to Angela cry into the telephone. She'd be over to his place at noon. He hoped he'd be home by then.

Sergeant Britton picked up the clear plastic enve
lope and held it up by a corner, let it swing. "Who
gave you this, Bobby?"

"I don't remember."

"Who was it, we'll talk to him. A name. That's all
you have to do."

Bobby could see it again—Sean Cresswell fanning
out all those hundreds. He didn't think Sean had
killed Roger. It had to be a mistake about the serial
numbers. Or the cops were lying. Bobby thought
about what would be better, to send the cops after
Sean or keep his mouth shut. If he gave up Sean,
that didn't mean his problems were over. Sean would
say he didn't know anything about the money. His
parents would hire a lawyer who would make Bobby
look even guiltier, and he'd be right back here.

Britton was still talking in that hick voice of his.
Looking worried, taking his glasses off, cleaning
them on a napkin. "I don't know what to do about
you, son. These hundreds are from Roger's wallet. Soon as that blood on your shirt comes back with Roger's DNA, the state attorney is going to draw up
an indictment for murder one. I'd hate to see it
happen."

The other cop put a foot on the chair and leaned
into Bobby's face. "You jacked his wallet after you blew him away. He fired you from the company. You
said, hey, the asshole owes me."

"I didn't touch his wallet. Did you find his wallet in my house? Did you find his Rolex?"

Britton held his glasses up to the light, then put
them back on. "You goin' down for somebody else's
crime? That's not smart."

Arms still crossed, Bobby stared at the opposite
wall. "I want to call my lawyer."

The skinny cop laughed. "What a pussy."

Britton pulled out a chair and sat next to Bobby, leaning in close. "You're here, I'm here. Talk to me, son. This isn't going away. Are you protecting somebody? Is that what you're doing? You want to spend the rest of your life in prison? Come on, Bobby, I'm
trying to cut you a break. Where did you get the
money?"

Gail Connor glanced up from the pages on her
desk—Anthony Quintana's latest memo. Anthony himself was still reading Gail's notes. It occurred to Gail that they'd done the same thing: written memos
to avoid having to talk to each other.

She hadn't been certain, until the buzzer had
sounded in her waiting room, that Anthony would show up. But he had, and so far they'd managed to
discuss the case at a polite distance, each pretending
that yesterday afternoon had never happened.

Gail noticed the clock on the bookcase. 9:42. Bobby
Gonzalez was late. She thought of asking Miriam to call, then remembered again that Miriam wasn't here today. This was Labor Day. A holiday. Karen hadn't understood why Mom had run off to work. Gail had
promised to be back around noon, and they would
spend the afternoon on the beach. As if to underline
this promise, Gail had left the house wearing jeans
and a sunny yellow top.

She let her eyes drift to the man seated in one of
the client chairs, elbow on the armrest, legs casually
crossed, reading the pages on his thigh. She could
see one laced shoe of gleaming brown leather. A
finely woven sock that vanished under a cuffed pant
leg. A dark green, double-breasted Armani jacket
with subtle lines of midnight blue that matched the trousers. Emerald ring on his right hand, heavy gold
on the last finger of his left. Perfectly white shirt,
open collar. His hair was combed neatly off his fore
head, curling into waves. Dark winglike brows, glow
ing skin. Sleek as a cat. He propped his cheek on extended fingers, and she saw that a button on his
sleeve was missing, a thread dangling in the gap.
How strange.

As if aware, he looked up, and for a second their
gaze held before Gail returned to the memo he had
brought. She forced herself to stare at the words, a
jumble on the page. Not much sleep last night. An
hour or two. She had lain in bed watching the numbers change on the digital clock, then reading a magazine, then throwing it aside. Unbidden, the memory of his kiss had intruded into conscious thought. The searing heat of his mouth, his tongue stroking hers, the hands imprisoning her face too tightly for escape.
An assault, an invasion. But last night that kiss had replayed, over and over, and her body had traitor
ously responded.

A moment later she heard the rustle of paper as
Anthony laid her memo on the desk. He draped an
arm over the back of his chair. "You say a lot about
the portrait of Diane Cresswell."

"She wants to keep it. I'm trying to help her."

"I still don't see how it relates to Roger's murder."

"It may not, but . . . isn't it odd how it keeps
popping up? Porter and Claire give it to Roger, he
sells it to Jack Pascoe, Jack sells it to Nate, and Nate gives it back to Porter and Claire, and
they
give it to Diane's parents, and now Diane has it—right back in
the place where Maggie died. Don't you wonder?"

Dark brown eyes were focused over her head. He
sighed. "No. It's interesting, that's all. Pursue it if
you want, but I'd rather concentrate on Roger. Your mother found out some things that I doubt the police know about. Let's follow up on that. In my criminal cases, I've found that the most obvious motives are
usually the ones that count. Greed and lust. Which
of our suspects has both of those?"

This was a rhetorical question. Gail had seen it
asked and answered in Anthony's memo. She re
plied, "Jack Pascoe."

Anthony lifted his hands. "Exactly. Nikki Cresswell now owns twenty million dollars' worth of com
pany stock. Diane could have lied for Jack. From
what you say of her, I think her motives were innocent—to protect him from suspicion of another kind.
How guilty he would seem if the police knew that
he was sleeping with the victim's wife."

"We have no proof whatsoever of that," Gail
pointed out.

"Not yet."

“Why would Jack shoot Roger on his own property?"

"Who knows? We don't need to supply a reason.
All we need is a set of facts from which the detectives can reasonably infer that Bobby Gonzalez is innocent."

"Yes, I suppose that's true."

The pretense of civility was making Gail's head
ache. With feet propped on a half-open desk drawer,
she swiveled her chair slowly back and forth.

Anthony pulled back his cuff to see his watch—a gold Patek Philippe with a lizard strap. "You did say nine-thirty?"

"I told him to take a taxi. He should be here any
minute." Gail made a little smile of reassurance.

"When did you speak to him?"

"On Friday."

"Alaba'o.
That explains it. Last night I talked to
Angela. God knows what she told him. That
papi
is
going to break his neck the next time he sees him."

Gail inquired, "You didn't lose your temper, I
hope?"

"Not at all. I never raised my voice. I was a model of fatherly concern. Even so, she started crying. She became angry. She said I had no right to tell her how
to live her life. I've never seen Angela like that. I
don't understand it."

"I wouldn't worry. She probably felt so guilty and defensive that she'd have cried no matter what you said."

"That could be so. I'll have to fix it with her
somehow."

Gail looked at her telephone. "Maybe I should
call Bobby."

"In a minute." Anthony made a slight smile, tapped
his fingers slowly on his thigh, then said, "How are you feeling lately?"

"Fine. Why?"

"You almost fainted yesterday, and you were so pale." He gestured toward her face. "You look a little
pale right now."

"Well, I
...
was up late with Karen."

"You haven't had a stomach virus, have you?
The flu?"

"No. What a strange question."