Suspicion of Betrayal (15 page)

Hector Mesa made his customary little bow.
"Señora."
Then to Anthony,
"El señor Gutierrez está aquí."

"Momento,"
Anthony replied.

Mesa vanished.

Gail was shaking with rage.

Anthony said, "I can't go to dinner with you to night. My grandfather's lawyer—Jose Gutierrez—is here to draw up a power of attorney in case Ernesto is . . . temporarily incapacitated by the operation. The doctors don't expect that, but we want to cover all eventualities."

Gail took a slow breath. "And you will be the one appointed to take over. In case."

"Yes."

"You aren't going to ask me what I think?"

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I'm sure it doesn't matter, but I'll tell you anyway." Gail held onto the railing of one of the beds. "I think you should tell Mr. Mesa—because as chief court conspirator, he's no doubt behind this—that Bernardo can do it, or Elena, or one of the others."

"Ernesto asked for
me
to handle it. How can I refuse, when he's facing an operation in the morning?"

She could only laugh. "My God. You want this so badly, don't you? You told me you didn't, but I saw you with the mayor. You were eating it up."

"Gail, what is the matter with you?"

"You don't even see it. You're becoming something you said you'd never be—a puppet of Ernesto Pedrosa."

They stared at each other, Anthony's gaze going through her like a shard of ice. He said softly, "Why don't you go home? We can discuss this later."

"Later. Sure. When would that be? Tonight? Tomorrow?"

"Expect me around nine o'clock."

"Fine." Gail picked up her purse and walked out.

Mesa was standing outside the door, waiting for Anthony. His hands were loosely clasped, and he inclined his head.
"Señora."

Through her teeth she said, "Go to hell."

He was still smiling under his neat gray mustache.

On the way down in the elevator she was barely in control. The tears started to come when the automatic doors in the lobby hissed open. She wiped her cheeks and walked faster, retracing her steps under the covered walkway, then to the parking garage. The last rays of the sun had faded to gray. She pounded up three flights of concrete stairs, footsteps echoing in the stairwell.

The heat and humidity bore down. Sweating freely, she hurried past car after car, looking for her light blue Mercedes. On the point of screaming with frustration, she went up another flight of stairs. Nothing there. Cars passed her, tires squealing on the turns. Her nose filled with the stench of exhaust. She took the stairs back down a level, certain she had not driven as far as the fourth.

On the third level again she pivoted slowly, looking downline row of cars, one end to the other. Just as she became convinced that her car had been stolen, she saw it.

She could see now why she had walked past it before. The color was wrong.

Red. There were stripes of red on the trunk that dripped slowly onto the slick concrete floor of the parking garage. She walked closer, staring. Almost without knowing it, she reached out and touched the liquid, then studied the smear on her forefinger.

Stunned, she walked along the driver's side between her car and the one next to it. More red flowed over the hood and dripped down the sides and into the air vents. Not my car, she said to herself. Someone else's. No one would do this to my car. Then she recognized the bamboo handle of an umbrella on the floor inside. "Oh, no. Oh, my God."

She could see a word scrawled at an angle across the windshield.

DIE.

Written in vivid scarlet, the color and consistency of blood.

NINE

“The
police won't come out for a vandalism complaint." The security guard shook his head. "They say to send people to the station to make a report."

He sat in his golf cart with one black sneaker propped on the dashboard, waiting to see what would happen. Several yards away, Anthony paced back and forth, shouting in Spanish into his portable telephone. Gail waited in the car, trying to be inconspicuous.

The garage was clearing out, cars slowly circling down the levels. Faces at the windows turned to look at the Mercedes C280 covered with paint, and at the woman in the yellow dress stained with red.

People had stared at Gail when she'd gone back inside the hospital. They had seen her wild hair, the mascara under her eyes, and the smears of red on her hands. Someone asked if she had been injured. Shaking her head, she had hurried into the elevator, wanting only to find Anthony. Their argument didn't matter anymore, or the cold manner of their parting. One of Pedrosa's nurses brought Anthony out. When he saw her, his eyes widened. He rushed to her, touching her face and arms as if she might break. He had gone back inside his grandfather's room for a moment and how he had explained his abrupt departure Gail did not know. Or care. Anthony had taken charge. When security said they were extremely sorry, but there was nothing they could do, he demanded that the Miami police send a detective to the scene.

"We don't get much vandalism," the guard said. "We had some cars keyed or antennas snapped off, stuff like that. It usually happens to nice cars. That's true. I drive a Camaro, but it needs body work. I never have no problems." The security guard was somewhere in his thirties, with a tan uniform and a matching billed cap. His only weapons were a flashlight and a two-way radio.

Anthony folded his telephone. "They're on their way."

The guard sat up straight. "Who, the Miami PD? No lie? You must know somebody down there."

Ignoring the guard, Anthony told Gail he had parked on the second level and wanted to bring his car up. She went with him. He carried his jacket and put his arm around her waist. A humid breeze drifted through the garage, bringing the smell of decaying seaweed. He located his car and opened the passenger door for her, then went around. When the engine started, cool air came through the vents, and Gail felt her body sinking into the soft leather of the seat.

His hand touched her cheek. "Are you all right, sweetheart?"

"I thought you might not come."

"What? No. Oh, no." He reached for her across the console, and his arms went around her tightly. He was solid and warm, and the scent of his cologne was still in his clothes. "Gail, please forgive me for what I said to you earlier. I had no right to be angry."

She held on. "Who is doing this to me, Anthony?"

He lifted her face. His eyes seemed black in the dim interior of the car. "I swear to you, I will find him. Gail, you should have told me about the telephone calls. It wouldn't have been a bother—that's a crazy reason not to tell me."

"I thought it was just a kid. Payton Cunningham. That's what I thought at first."

"We'll change the phone number. I'll hire a private investigator." Anthony kissed her softly. "Don't worry anymore." Weak with relief, she began to cry. "No.
Deja de llorar, cielito."
He reached for his handkerchief, leaving his arm around her while she wiped her eyes. After she had assured him at least three times that she was fine, Anthony put the car into gear and backed it out of the parking space.

On the third level a Miami Police patrol car was coming along the ramp from the other direction. Anthony quickly parked and walked toward it. The window slid down, revealing a female officer with her coppery hair in a clip.

"Is there a Quintana here?"

"I'm Anthony Quintana."

The car pulled in diagonally, and both doors opened. The driver was a short woman whose gun belt rode high on her hips. Her partner had massive arms that strained the sleeves of his dark blue shirt.

Brakes squealed, and a blue sedan with tinted windows rolled to a stop behind the patrol car. Two men in sports shirts and ties got out, badges clipped to their gun belts.

The security guard laughed softly. "Man, this is unbelievable." The older man had fading blond hair and a fleshy neck. Deep creases ran from a blunt nose to the drooping corners of his mouth. His eyes swept over the car without particular interest. He was not, Gail thought, happy to be here. "I'm Sergeant Dennis Ladue. This is Detective Novick."

There were introductions but no handshakes.

Ladue walked around the car. "Looks like somebody repainted the girlfriend's Mercedes."

Anthony said, "This isn't a random act of vandalism, Sergeant. We believe it's related to telephone calls that Ms. Connor received at home last week. The calls were anonymous, threatening her life."

The detective tilted his head, reading the word on the windshield. " 'Die.' That's nice." He gestured toward the paint can near the left front wheel. "Is this the culprit?"

"We found it near the car," Gail said. Her shoe had sent something rolling into the wall—an empty quart-size can of high-gloss enamel. Holding it by the rim, Anthony had set it upright, instructing her not to touch it. The lid lay beside it.

He said, "That can should be dusted for fingerprints. I'd like some photos taken of the car as well. Unfortunately, they don't have a video camera to record cars going in and out, but someone might have seen a person loitering near the garage."

One side of Ladue's mouth lifted, exposing the yellowed teeth of a heavy smoker. "Look. I got pulled off a homicide investigation to come over here, so I'm guessing that certain weight has been thrown around. But don't tell me how to do my job."

"Then do it."

"I don't care who you are, buddy, watch your attitude."

"You want to see an attitude?"

Gail dug her fingers into Anthony's arm.

The younger detective said, "Dennis?" He was unwrapping a stick of gum, rolling it into a tight spiral. "There's a camera in the trunk."

"Jesus. Okay, go ahead." Ladue said to Gail, "Tell me about the phone calls." Feet spread, he crossed his arms over his belly and leaned back.

"They came on Thursday and Friday nights from a pay phone—I have caller-ID. The same thing showed up on the screen Saturday too, but I didn't pick up."

"Same number?"

"No, it varied. And the voice was disguised. It sounded metallic, like a robot."

"Leading us to think that it's someone she knows," Anthony said.

"Yes. He called me by name and kept saying . . . 'die, bitch,' things like that."

Detective Novick, who had returned with a camera and flash, murmured for everyone to move aside. Chewing his gum between his front teeth, he went slowly around the car, crouching or standing at different angles. The flashes of light illuminated the red paint and made it look sticky and wet.

"Did you record the calls?" Ladue said.

"No, but I kept the numbers in memory—except the first time. I erased that one."

"Pay phones. That could be anyone."

Anthony said, "But if we could find out
which
pay phones, we would know where this person was when he placed the calls."

"How long were you away from the car?"

"Around . . . fifteen minutes."

Anthony nodded to Sergeant Ladue. "No more than twenty."

"Ms. Connor, you have any idea who would do this? Got any enemies? Anybody threatening you?"

"She and her ex-husband are in a custody fight," Anthony said.

Ladue made his half smile again. "Mr. Quintana, how about letting her answer the questions? What about it, Ms. Connor? Is the ex a possibility?"

"No, he's with our daughter. I don't know who could have done it. I have no clue." She turned her right hand over, which she had scraped more or less clean in a rest room in the hospital after telling Anthony what had happened. "I tried to wipe that word off my windshield." She laughed. "Enamel paint, half-dried already. When I saw it, I just . . . flipped. All I could think was, my daughter can't see this." Anthony's arm went around her.

"Ms. Connor, I realize this is distressing for you, but really there's not much we can do. We'll make a report, that's about it."

"Thank you for coming."

Ladue nodded, then turned to look for his partner. The other detective had picked up the empty paint can with a paper towel. "Mike, I've got to get back. Why don't you finish up here and catch a ride to HQ with the officers?"

"Sure." He dropped the can into a plastic bag. The two uniformed officers waited by their patrol car.

Ladue took a card out of his shirt pocket and gave it to Gail. "If anything else occurs, feel free to call." He got into his unmarked car, made a tight, squealing U-turn, and was gone.

While Anthony made arrangements to have the car towed, Gail took her own telephone out of her bag and dialed Dave's apartment. His voice mail picked up. "Dammit." She disconnected. It was ten after nine. Dave had said he'd have Karen home by nine-thirty.

Detective Novick was writing numbers on the evidence bags. Gail said, "Excuse me. I wonder if we could finish this tomorrow. My daughter will be home soon and no one is there."

"Where do you live, Ms. Connor?"

"Clematis Street in the Grove."

"That's not far. We can do the report at your house, and I can get the phone numbers off caller-ID."

Gail hesitated.

"Is there a problem?"

"No. It's just— My ex-husband and I are having this . . . custody thing, and if the police are there, he'll wonder what happened, and I wouldn't want him to think that somebody is threatening my life, if that's what it is. He might say that our daughter was in danger. You understand."

Behind the glasses, his green-flecked brown eyes had not wavered. "Okay. Tomorrow's fine."

Anthony was arguing with someone over the telephone about towing the car out of here immediately. Gail shook her head. "Never mind. There's no way he's going to let me put it off till tomorrow."

From halfway up the block Gail could see it: a white pickup truck parked along the street, leaving just enough room for Anthony's Eldorado to swerve around it and park in the driveway. No one was in the truck. Lights shone through the windows in the living room and Karen's bedroom upstairs.

Anthony said, "What is he doing here?" "They obviously got here early, and Karen let him in."