Suspicion of Malice (8 page)

"No,
papi."

"All right, then." With an arm over her slender
shoulders, he guided her toward the living room.
"Sit down. There's something I need to tell you." He sat in his chair, she on the ottoman with her back
straight and her hands folded, waiting. Her mouth was in a firm line. She was still angry.

"This young man who came to the house. Robert Gonzalez. You haven't seen him again, have you?"

She blinked. "At the studio—"

"Socially. Have you seen him socially? Have you
been alone with him? Has he talked to you?"

"Why are you asking me that?"

"Yes or no?"

"No."

"Do you recall ever hearing him mention the name Roger Cresswell?"

"I—I don't think so. Who is Roger Cresswell?"

"He was the man murdered last weekend at a
house off Old Cutler Road. Don't you remember it
on the news?"

"I haven't been watching much TV."

"Well, there was a party, and someone shot him
and took his money. An acquaintance of mine, connected to the investigation, told me that Bobby Gon
zalez is a suspect." Angela stared at him. "I know
this is a shock to you, sweetheart, someone you
know, and so forth, but it's true. Promise me, Angela.
Don't speak to him. Don't be alone with him."

"It isn't true! Bobby couldn't do that. He
couldn't"

Anthony took her hand. There were little gold
rings on two of her fingers, a silver one on another.
So innocent. "I am sorry to tell you this,
cielito,
but people are full of surprises, not always pleasant ones. This young man refuses to answer questions, he
threatened Roger Cresswell at the party, and he has
no alibi. He's been arrested before—possession of
drugs and carrying a concealed weapon. One has to
wonder what's on his juvenile record."

She stared back at him.

"Bobby didn't mention this, did he?" She shook her head. "He could be very dangerous. Stay away
from him. Do you promise?" Her mouth opened.
"Angela? An answer, please."

She bit her lips, then nodded. "Yes. I promise."

"You must be careful with young men. Most of them want only one thing from you. This is true.
Many girls have been ruined, believing their lies and
flattery. You know what I'm talking about, don't
you,
preciosa?"

She stared at the hands clasped in her lap. "Yes,
papi."

"Good. Now go to bed. We have to be on the road by seven to beat the traffic. I'll wake you up at six o'clock, all right?" He touched her cheek. "Don't be
angry.
Te quiero mas que nada. Tu lo sabes, is?"

"Si, papi.
I know you love me more than
anything."

"Sleep well." He held out an arm.

She kissed him good night.
"Buenas noches, papi."
From the hall she looked at him with dark, mournful
eyes, then ran up the stairs.

Chapter 5

After he saw the number on his beeper, Bobby
took Sean Cresswell's portable across the bed
room and sat on the floor under the windows. The
only noise was the click of buttons on the PlaySta
tion. Sean's mouth would go into strange shapes
when he jerked on the joystick. Sean was listening to Wu-Tang through his headphones, but Bobby would have to keep his voice down. If Sean's mother knew
he was here, she'd probably kick him out. He was a bad influence on her little boy—nineteen years old,
on probation for jacking his cousin Roger's Porsche
out of the boat yard parking lot. Roger had gotten
the car back but pressed charges anyway, teaching the young man a lesson.

He entered Angela's number, and she picked up
on the first ring. "It's me, baby. What's up?" She started crying. "Angie? What's the matter?"

"Where are you?"

"Sean's."

"Oh, great."

Bobby knew that Angie didn't like Sean, but there
wasn't much he could do about it. "Why are you
crying,
mamita?"

"I have to talk to you. Can you come over? I'll
sneak out."

''It's thirty miles. What's going on? What happened?"

"My dad . . . He said . . ." Her voice was small
and tight. "He said the police think you killed
Roger Cresswell."

"That's bullshit. Why'd he say that?"

"He has this friend or something who knows about the investigation. He wants to make sure I stay away from you. Bobby, I
know
you didn't, but he told me other stuff too. He said you were once arrested for
having drugs and weapons. Is that true?"

"What?"

"Is it?" She didn't say anything else, and he could
hear Lauryn Hill singing in the background.

"No. It was some weed and a little pocketknife." She still didn't say anything. "Angie, I swear to you, it was nothing. Me and some friends were at a concert at Bayfront, okay? They told us to leave, and I
told them no. So the cops beat me up and searched
my pockets. They charged me with resisting with violence, plus the other stuff. Three felonies."

"Did you go to jail?"

"A couple days, then I bonded out. They put me
on probation for a year."

"Is that all you ever did?"

Bobby draped his arm across his knees. "It's the
last, if I want to keep dancing."

"What about before that?"

"It doesn't matter, baby. That was back in the
day."

"I want to know," she said. "I tell you everything,
don't I?"

"Yeah, but you don't do anything." He laughed.
"Mi angelita."

"Was it bad, what you did?"

"No, not . . .
bad."
He closed his eyes and put his
forehead on his arm. "It's not the same now, Angie.
I'm not with that anymore."

"Did you go to jail?"

"No, baby. A little time in detention, that's all.
Mostly my uncle took me home and beat my ass."
All he heard was Lauryn Hill on the stereo. "Angie?
Your old man's trying to scare you, is what I think. Hey, it's me. Remember me? Bobby?"

"Oh, it was so awful, what he said." Her voice
was a whisper. "He was drinking tonight—
again.
I
could smell it on his breath. And he was really mad at me."

"Did he hit you?"

"Well . . . no."

"If he did, I'll take you out of there. Nobody does
that to you, not even your father."

"Bobby, it's okay. He doesn't ever hit me. He was
just mad because I got home late."

"I'm sorry about that. It's my fault."

"No, no, it was mine. God! He is so unreasonable. He wants to control my life. He refuses to let me
audition for the ballet. He goes, no, you can dance
in your
spare time.
Oh, sure."

"Try out anyway. Don't let him all up in your face.
You gotta be strong."

"He'd kick me out. He said if I don't go to school,
he's not going to support me anymore."

"I'd take you in."

"You would?"

He laughed softly. "You know I would."

"Bobby?" She had her mouth close to the phone,
probably with her hand cupped around it. "There's
something else. The night Roger Cresswell died—my
dad said you don't have an alibi, but you
do.
You were with me."

"Forget it. I'm not getting you into this."

"Bobby! I want to."

"No, it's okay. I'll get Sean to back me up. Really.
Don't worry."

"What are you going to say to Gail Connor? You
should tell her the truth."

"I won't tell her about
you."

"She knows we're going out."

"And like she's not going to tell your father."

"She said she wouldn't."

"How come they split up, anyway?"

"I don't know. It's probably my dad's fault. She's
very nice. You'll like her."

"Hey, Angie, don't be so afraid of your dad. Okay?
You're not a child."

"He treats me like one." Her sigh warmed his ear. "Bobby, do you think Edward meant what he said?"

"I told you ten times already, yes. The man does
not hand out bullshit."

"You think I have a chance to get in?"

"Didn't I say that? Have some faith. Look at me.
I mean, of all the guys in the world
least
likely to do
ballet—"

"I love you, Bobby."

"Te quiero, mamita.
You're the best thing in my
life."

"Better than dancing?"

"Well. That's different. Apples and oranges."

"What am I? The apple or the orange?"

Every time she did that sexy-voice thing, his brains
shut down. "Hmm. You're the apple."

"Am I the apple of desire? You want to take a bite
right now?"

"Oh, man." He laughed softly. "A big one. Real juicy."

"What would you bite first? Maybe . .. this? Or
...
let's see
...
this?"

He held the phone closer to his mouth. "Angela. You trying to make me come over there and show you?"

She pulled in a breath and whispered, "Oh, shit,
it's my dad. I gotta go."

When Bobby dropped the phone back on the desk, Sean was still sprawled out on his lounge chair playing Street Fighter, watching the TV screen past his bare feet up on the foot rest. He took off his head
phones. "Who was that, your woman?"

"Yeah." Bobby watched Sean's player, a black guy
in a bandanna, silently fire at a kung-fu fighter. Blood
spattered the street, then vanished, and the figures suddenly faced each other again.

Sean said, "You want to go out tonight, bro?"

"Why do you play that game? It's boring."

"You want to go out? I've got some cash. We could
go over to the Beach."

"No, I need to get up early." Bobby watched
Sean's hand jerk on the joystick. He was supposed
to be studying for his final in algebra at Miami-Dade.
Going to summer classes was part of his probation. He was smart, but he couldn't get into a regular col
lege, the way he'd messed up in high school. Too
bad, because his parents could have sent him any
where, even Harvard.

Bobby heard voices from downstairs and went
over to the door, easing it open a crack. Diane was
screaming about something. A condo on South
Beach, closer to the ballet.

"Then work for it!" her mother yelled. "I never
had things handed to me on a silver platter the way you have."

"I work! I have a job!"

"Five hundred a week, and you expect us to subsi
dize it, and we do. But all we hear is, 'I want more, more.' Whose new car is that in the driveway? You
want a down payment, sell the car."

"How am I supposed to get around without a
car?"

Sean's father got into it. "Hey! Shut up, both of you. Liz, we can lend her the money."

"Lend? We're not lending her another dime. She has to learn some responsibility."

Diane yelled, "You give Sean and Patty whatever
they want, and I get shit!"

"Maybe if you
asked
instead of
demanding
—"

"I'm getting out of here. I'm going back to Jack's."

"Go."

"Fine! You're a selfish, pretentious bitch."

"What? What? Say that again. Say it." Then some
screaming and slapping noises. "Filthy mouth
...
As
much as we've done for you
..."

"Stop it! Don't!"

"Liz! Leave her alone. Jesus, right in the middle of
Jay's monologue, every goddamn time."

Then the oldest girl, Patty, running down the hall, her voice moving toward the stairs. "Shut up! Why
can't you all be
quiet?
I'm trying to sleep!"

Diane was crying. "I hate it here! You can go to hell!" Footsteps came up the stairs then stopped. A
door opened and hit the wall.