Suspicion of Malice (47 page)

Standing beside her, Anthony said, "It does seem
clear, however, that Ted Stamos is Diane's father."

"Does it?"

"Who else could it be? Based on what Jack Pascoe
told you about Maggie, I don't think she was
promiscuous."

Gail was silent for a while, then said, "Claire was
so evasive. And didn't you pick up on that hideous
undercurrent of shame? Porter told Maggie what she
did was 'bad,' and Claire was afraid of gossip."

"Ah. You think Jack was the father. He was Maggie's cousin. There's the shame you noticed. This explains why he sent the portrait to Porter and Claire,
no? He used Nate to make a point."

"I wasn't thinking of Jack/' Gail said. "He loved
her, but not like that."

"Who, then?"

"Porter."

Anthony made a short laugh of disbelief. "No."

"Think about it. Porter refused to put the baby up
for adoption because it was his flesh and blood."

"But that's true. Diane is his granddaughter."

"But look at what he did with the portrait. He
walked out of the room when Maggie brought it to
them. 'Nobody said anything/ Why not? What were
they so ashamed of?"

Anthony shook his head. "I don't know. Ted
Stamos is more likely."

"You're probably right," Gail said. She leaned
heavily against the edge of the window. "Why did
he kill Roger?"

For a minute Anthony looked at the dancers below them. "For money. Let's say his relationship to Diane is irrelevant. If Nikki was right in what she told you, Roger knew that Dub was embezzling from the com
pany. Say that Dub paid Ted Stamos to get rid of Roger. Or we could assume that Porter paid Ted to
do it. Porter thought his son had betrayed him. Or Ted did it for Elizabeth because he's in love with her, and Roger was threatening her position."

Gail watched the dancers working in the studio
below. One of the male dancers made a leap, twisted,
and came down without a wobble. He did it again,
not as steadily. "Imagine taking a child to get a big
ger share of the company. What greed. God, I feel sorry for Diane. How could Claire have looked the other way all these years?"

There was no music. The voices were muffled, and
the only noise was the occasional thump of a foot
coming down on the wooden floor. One girl held
onto the barre and raised her leg past her shoulder,
then leaned slowly into an arabesque. Another
watched herself in the mirror. On pointe, then down,
then up, plie, releve, plie . . .

Anthony touched Gail's arm. "Look. It's Angela."

"Where? Oh. I see."

She was the girl in the pink leotard and tights. Her
long hair was pinned into a bun at the back of her
head, and she wore a hip-length wrap skirt tied at
her waist. She stood at the barre, arm raised, back
perfectly straight, leg moving quickly in and out
and in.

"She's auditioning tonight for
The Nutcracker/'
An
thony said, moving back from the window a little.
"Can they see us up here? I don't want to embar
rass her."

Angela turned the other way and saw someone
across the room. A black-haired male dancer came into view. Bobby Gonzalez was beautifully mascu
line, even in tights and an old T-shirt with a hole in
it. It hung off his broad shoulders. He walked around
Angela, holding her hand while she balanced on
pointe as delicately as a porcelain doll. Then she pir
ouetted, and the little skirt fluttered at her hips. As if showing off, Bobby ran and vaulted himself into
the air, legs perfectly extended in front and behind, arms open to the sides, hair flying. He landed, spun,
and dropped to one knee, a hand on his hip, the
other arm in a flourish.

"Bravo," Anthony said.

Rising, Bobby did a quick turn on one foot, stead
ied himself, then walked with Angela toward the front of the room and gradually out of view.

Gail continued to stare, unseeing, into the studio
for another minute, then another. No one spoke. Her
chest had become constricted, leaving her short of
breath. She was afraid she would start to cry if she
didn't leave quickly. Her legs stiffly carried her to the purse she had left on the table.

She managed to say, "Do we have enough to take
to Frank Britton?"

"We should go with the family on Sunday," Anthony said. "Maybe we'll push it a little and see what
kind of response we get. After that, we'll see
Britton."

"He'll leave Bobby alone, won't he?" Gail asked.

"I think so. He'll have other leads to pursue."

"Then we've done it." Gail looked at her watch.
"Past six. I should go." She took a breath. Then an
other. The things in the room blurred out of focus.
Of Anthony she saw only his shoes, the legs of his
trousers, and a hand at his side.

"What is going to happen to us, Gail?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. We should try
to be friends, I suppose."

He laughed.
"Ay, mi Dios.
Is that what you want?
Yes, friends. We'll be civil to each other. For the good
of the child, no? I will tell you this now. I can't be your friend, like Dave. I can't walk away and forget
it. That's what Nate suggested. 'Let her go. If it was meant to be, it will.' I'm not like Nate. What do you
want me to do? I can't forget you. I can't have you. You will marry again someday, but the thought of you with another man—to think of my son or my
daughter in another man's house—I would go
insane."

She looked at him. His eyes were black and hollow, as if he had been consumed from inside, and nothing was left but ashes.

"No. I won't marry again," she said.

"Why? You're a beautiful woman. You won't stay single for long."

"Because . . . you'd always be there. In one way
or another, you would be there. In my bones, my blood. In this child."

"I'm not a good man, Gail. Don't think I am."

"Please don't say that." She placed her fingers
lightly on his cheekbone. The skin seemed tight and
fevered. "You are. I didn't see it."

His eyes closed. He took her hand and pressed it
to his lips.

Chapter 23

The faint whisper of waves came through the slid
ing door. They had left it open a little, and the curtain belled inward, gauzy white. Warm, salt-laden
air drifted into the room, carrying the smell of the
ocean ten floors below.

Exhausted, sated, but unable to sleep, Gail had watched daylight fade, watched stars appear, barely
visible in tine wash of light from the moon. The
things in the room had become shadows—the ar
moire, the sofa and chairs, the lamps, Anthony's suit
on the chaise by the windows. The entire east wall was windows, and the curtains were drawn, except
for that one place they had slid the door open.

Anthony's hair looked black on the pillow. One arm was below her breasts, and the other hung off
the side of the bed. He lay as if he had run for miles, then collapsed facedown. She could hear him breath
ing, slow and deep.

Their bodies touched at chest, hips, thighs. There
was just enough light to see the long curve of his
back. The sheet was down there somewhere, and the air conditioner was almost too cool, but Gail couldn't bear to move. She wound a strand of his hair around
her finger. It was still damp, smelling of the herbal
shampoo they had found on the marble vanity in the
bathroom. Two kinds of shampoo. Stacks of towels.
A basket of lotions. Two soft terry robes in the closet,
both of which now lay in a heap on the floor.

The first time—before they had filled up the im
mense bathtub and floated around in the perfumed
water—the first time had been excruciatingly slow.
Finally she'd had to tell him she wouldn't break,
nothing would happen, for God's sake, do it,
please—

How cool she had once been. How perfectly balanced, protected by layers of pretense, manners, and professional caution, like calluses. Not anymore. She
was a greedy slut. Hands and mouth all over him.
In bed their bodies had still been slick from bath oil, and she had crawled on top of him, Anthony groaning in pleasure. She'd finally straddled him, bearing down so hard she felt him probing the mouth of her womb, and her body had flamed. Not a polite and
bloodless love.

The mattress was soft and deep. Pillows like
clouds. Gail would see a client in the morning, and Anthony would be back at Cresswell Yachts, but all that was years away. She had called her mother last
night to say where she was, and with whom, and
she might be late. . . . Her mother had said if she
came home before dawn, she was an idiot.

What would Karen think of this? Gail wasn't sure what she herself thought of it. In the space of a few
hours the world had shuddered to a stop, creaking
on its axis, then had slowly begun to revolve in the other direction.

In the staff lounge at the ballet he had kissed her
hand. She had felt the heat in his mouth, and if he
had thrown her to the carpet she would have let him do it. He had simply suggested they go somewhere
else. Quickly. Even in this extreme state, Anthony
had chosen well. No noisy Art Deco relic but a suite
at the Fontainebleau. The heavy door had thudded
shut. They had stared at each other as if neither had the least idea how this had happened. She remembered being horribly frightened. Then he had kissed her. Held her face and kissed her so gently she had
started to cry. His hands had been cold. In bed it
had taken awhile to get warm. And then the fire
had caught.

In the bathroom mirror she had seen fingertip-shaped bruises on her butt, bite marks on his neck.
Then starting all over again in the bathtub, sloshing the water onto the floor. Then back to bed, and she would have been content to lie snuggled against him,
but he had wanted more and, she discovered, she
did too.

The sun had finally gone down, and it had become
dark as he slept.

She lightly stroked her fingers on his temple. His beeper went off, a vibrating buzz on the nightstand. He stirred, took a breath. A deep sound in his throat. The one eye she could see came open halfway. Then he dragged himself up and looked at the clock.
"Nine-fifteen?
You shouldn't have let me sleep so
long."

"I needed the rest," she said.

With a soft chuckle, he kissed the corners of her
mouth. Stroked his hand over her breasts, moving
down to kiss each one, biting softly, then doing won
derful things with his lips and tongue.

"I'm not sure. Are they bigger?" He weighed one
in a palm. "I think so."

"I hope so," she said. His shoulders were smoothly muscled. She loved looking at him, the way muscle
joined tendons, the fit of his skin.

He slid his hand across her belly and caressed her
between her legs.

"Ow. It's sore."

"Lo siento."
He gently kissed her in the same spot.
"Is this better?"

"Oh, yes. Perfect. Right . . . there."

The beeper buzzed again.
"Cara'o."
He sat up and reached for it, squinting to see the illuminated panel.

Gail said, "Don't let it be a client calling from jail."

"No, it's Angela. I should see what she wants.
Close your eyes, I have to turn on the light." He
reached for the telephone, but before dialing, he pulled the sheet up to his waist and smoothed his
hair with his fingers.

"Hola, Angelita, es tu papi, que pasa?
. . . Ohhhh,
que bueno,
congratulations. That's a good part, no? ...
I'm very proud of you, sweetheart.
...
Be sure to call your mother. I'll see you this weekend. Wait." He looked around at Gail. "Guess who's here with
me—in the kitchen. We're having a late dinner
together. . . . Right. . . . Yes, I'll tell her. . . .
Te quiero mucho, preciosa."
Anthony hung up. "Angela says to
tell you hello."