Suspicion of Malice (52 page)

Liz clenched her teeth. "Shut
up."
Quickly she put
the hammer back and closed the drawer. She had
seen the resin tanks near the hull where Ted lay. The stainless steel tanks were on wheels, and a hose ran from each one to a resin gun. There was a rusty fifty-five-gallon drum used for trash, and in it she found some old paintbrushes and rollers. She pulled out a
brush. The resin had hardened on the handle, but
the bristles had some play in them. She flipped a
switch on the tank. The compressor motor came on,
and Liz snapped it off after a few seconds. She
squeezed the resin gun. The liquid came out, the
color of honey. She wet the brush with it, hoping there would be enough.

Sick with fear that someone would see her, she climbed the ladder again. Ted was four feet below. His eye followed her movements, focusing on the brush coming closer. She leaned over as far as she
could reach.

"Don't. No. Elizabeth. God's sake—"

She touched the brush to his nose, dabbing the
resin into his nostrils. Not too much. They would say it happened that way when he fell into the hull. Then
she placed the brush firmly against his mouth. His
eye rolled, and she looked away. She could feel him
trying to push the brush away with his tongue and
lips, and she pressed it tighter.
Mmmpphhh. Mmmffj.
His palm hit the hull.
Thud, thud . . . thud. Thud.
Each
time he lifted his arm she heard the popping noises of drying resin.

She was leaning over the gunwale, and she felt the vibrations in her hipbones.
Thud
. . .
thud.
He gasped
in a breath, and she adjusted the brush, pressing
harder. Her arm shook from the strain. She thought about the extra shirts in the office storeroom. She would have to put one of those on and throw away
this one.

"Oh, no!"

Roger's wallet was still in the front pocket of Ted's jeans. They would find it. Liz wondered about climb
ing in to get it, then realized what they would think. They would think what was already true—Ted had
killed him.

She looked around the assembly building again.
Still no one. The thudding had stopped. Ted was quiet now, but Liz counted off another full minute
on her watch. Finally she looked down at his face.
His eye stared at the hull. She slowly pulled the
brush away. Waited. Nothing.

As she went down the ladder she wiped off her
fingerprints with the hem of her shirt, which was
already ruined. Then the handle of the brush. The
bristles touched her shirt, leaving a red smear of
blood on the white fabric. She wrapped the brush in
a piece of newspaper and tucked it under her arm.

Unseen, Liz ran across the darkening boat yard to
the office building, punching in her access code at
the back door. The halls were eerily quiet. She found
the box of company shirts and put one on in the
ladies' room, then washed her hands, using nail polish remover to clean off the resin. She saw herself in the mirror, astonished that she recognized her own
face. She stashed the old shirt and the brush in her
tote bag and went out the front entrance to her car.
She smiled and waved at the security guard on the way through the gate.

It was late, and Liz felt the pressure of time, but
she made a detour off the expressway. Behind a
Cuban shopping center south of the airport she
found a green dumpster, opened the lid, and tossed her shirt and the now stiffened brush inside.

Once that was done, she used her cell phone to
check in with Sean. On my way, she cheerfully told
him. They chatted for a couple of minutes about what
movies he'd picked up, and she told him to keep the pizza warm.

Chapter 26

The weekend weather was typical for late summer
in Miami: temperatures in the mid-nineties, humidity over eighty percent. Conditions like these accelerated the decomposition of flesh, and so security at the boat yard noticed the smell before they finally
located the body around eight o'clock Sunday
morning.

The matter might have remained a routine Miami
P.D. accident investigation, except that when the victim was finally cut out of his clothes and freed from the fiberglass, a wallet was found in the front pocket
of his jeans. The M.E. opened it and saw the face of a young blond man, Roger C. Cresswell, age thirty-two.
Recognizing the name from a county case, he put in a
call to Frank Britton of Miami-Dade Homicide.

At 1:45 Anthony Quintana turned his car onto the short dead-end street leading to Cresswell Yachts. He
and Gail Connor were planning to board the
Lady
Claire
with family and friends of the late Roger Cress
well, whose ashes would be scattered at sea. Roger's mother had instructed them to park close to the dock, but Gail pointed out the activity going on in the yard. Several city and county units were clustered around
the open end of the main assembly building.

Anthony parked in the lot and they got out. Yellow
tape strung between sawhorses barred entry through
the wide door. As they walked closer, Anthony spot
ted Frank Britton talking to a crime-scene tech with
a camera. Britton finished his conversation and came
over. Sweat dampened his blue sports shirt, and his collar was open.

"Well, Tony Quintana, don't you turn up every
where," he said. Light slid over the lenses of his sun
glasses as he turned to Gail. "Hello again, Ms.
Connor. Y'all just happened to be driving by?"

Anthony said, "We're meeting the Cresswells at
the dock. They're taking Roger's ashes out to sea in
the family boat. What's going on, Frank?"

"Oh, yeah, I heard about the boat trip. What happened is, one of the construction supervisors fell and killed himself. You want to guess what we found in his pocket? Roger Cresswell's wallet."

"Ay, mi Dios.
Which supervisor?"

"Ted Stamos. His office overlooked the floor, and
he took a dive over the railing. We think it had to be Friday because he landed in one of the molds
where they'd just laid down some fiberglass. He was stuck like a fly on flypaper. Security had to call the owners for permission to saw him out. They got here a little while ago with their families. We took some
statements and sent them over to the boat. They're
pretty shaken up. Stamos worked here all his life. So
did his father."

Anthony exchanged a glance with Gail, hoping she
read the warning in his eyes not to say too much.
"Do you think he shot Roger Cresswell?"

"Damned if I know." Hands on hips, Britton
swung around to look into the building. "A few
weeks ago we interviewed Stamos along with every
body else connected to Roger, and he said he was with Duncan Cresswell and a dozen other guys at a
strip club from nine-fifteen till one o'clock a.m. Half an hour ago Duncan says, 'You know, Detective, I'm just not sure Ted
was
there the whole time. I'd been drinking. I don't remember.' And I go, 'Well, did Ted have any problems with Roger?' 'Oh, yeah, all
kinds
of problems.' 'Well, why the fuck—' Excuse me, Ms. Connor. 'Why didn't you tell me that before?' 'You
didn't ask, Detective.' Jesus. So now I've got a new suspect we had to peel off a boat hull. That throws
all my pet theories into the can. A very confusing situation."

Anthony gazed into the assembly building. Lines
of sleek white motor yachts extended to the other
end of the long, vaulted space. Ted Stamos lay unattended fifty yards away under a yellow plastic sheet. Confusing indeed. If Sean Cresswell had taken the
wallet, then how in the name of God had it wound
up in Ted Stamos's pocket? Anthony could not raise this question without implicating Bobby Gonzalez in an assault.

He checked his watch. They had a little time. "Could you show me Stamos's body?"

Britton hesitated, then nodded. "Sure. I'll warn you, it's not pretty."

To Gail, Anthony said, "Do you want to come
with us?"

Her lips tightened as she looked at him—she re
sented his suggestion that it might be too much for
her. Then her eyes shifted to the body, and she shook
her head. "No, I'll wait here. Don't be long. It's almost two o'clock."

Britton lifted the crime-scene tape, and Anthony bent to go under. The half dozen officers on the scene
watched them walk deeper into the building. Fans stirred the air, but not enough to waft away the sticky-sweet aroma of rotting meat. Anthony asked
if they had found the pistol used to kill Roger
Cresswell.

"Not in Stamos's office, and not at his apartment. I sent a detective over to check. He didn't find the Rolex either, but Stamos could have pawned it."

Anthony knew that if Sean Cresswell had told Bobby the truth, the Rolex had vanished under a
table at Club Apocalypse the night of Roger's
murder.

They passed three unfinished boats to get to the
one where Ted Stamos had landed. Lumber from the scaffolding had been pulled out of the way. The front
end of the hull lay in pieces on the foor, and one
section about six feet in length had been propped up
against the next boat in line. Tattered remnants of
blue jeans and a plaid shirt made the twisted outline
of a man.

Britton pulled back the tarpaulin. Stamos lay face
up on the bare concrete. Bits of fabric still adhered
to his chest and thighs. The decaying skin had turned several shades darker, and chunks of it were missing. One leg bent sideways at the knee. A piece of fiberglass was still attached to his hair and cheek, and the one eye in view was a narrow slit. His tongue had
turned purplish brown, protruding through broken
teeth.

Dropping his tinted clip-ons into his pocket, Britton said that the medical examiner had just left, and
that the van would arrive shortly for the body.
"Stamos fell from right up there, where you see the
boxes. He was working late, moving some stuff out
of his office."

There was a gap in the railing above them. The horizontal bar had come loose. Anthony remembered
leaning on it to watch the activity on the floor.
Stamos had warned him that the railing was rusty,
and that he should stay back. Why had Stamos disre
garded his own advice?

Holding his breath, he circled, taking a closer look at Ted Stamos's head and chest. There were no suspi
cious holes, no dents in his skull, no blood matted in his short brown hair.

"I didn't see anything, either," Britton said, "but the autopsy is this afternoon, and the M.E. will let
me know/'

Anthony looked at him. "You aren't calling this
an accident."

"I'm not calling it anything yet."

"Who was here-after hours besides Stamos?"

"Nobody in this building. Over at the office, Duncan Cresswell and his wife and their son were work
ing late. Duncan left about six-thirty, Elizabeth
around seven-fifteen, and the kid sometime in between. We don't know when Stamos went over. No idea."

"Have you interviewed them yet?"

"They have, a boat ride to go on. I said I'd be
in touch."
      
^v

Anthony stepped back from the body, but the smell was pervasive. "Did you mention to any of
the Cresswells that Bobby Gonzalez had cash from Roger's wallet?"

"No, I didn't. You asked me as a favor not to.
Remember that? You said to keep it quiet and you'd
call me with information, and I ain't heard squat
from you." Britton stood with his feet apart and his
fists on his hips. "If you know something, I want to
hear it."

Anthony let a shrug convey his regret. "I'll call you this week."

Britton was unhappy. "Far as I'm concerned, find
ing Roger Cresswell's wallet on Ted Stamos doesn't
prove Stamos killed him. You still haven't explained
where Bobby Gonzalez was between eleven and mid
night, and you haven't told me how he got the cash.
In fact, I want to know where he was on Friday
night, when Stamos took a swan dive off the edge."

"I can't talk to you yet, Frank, but I will."

"Tomorrow."

Leaving Frank Britton to cover the body, Anthony turned and crossed the assembly floor. Gail was a slender silhouette at the end of the building, a long-legged woman in a narrow dress above her knees.
Anthony ducked under the crime-scene tape and
walked into the sunlight, pulling in a lungful of
fresh air.