Suspicion of Betrayal (28 page)

Her teacup was empty when Anthony came in. There was an immediate smile, and he held out his arm, waiting. His jacket was a light wool and silk tweed, brown flecked with cream. Gold flashed at his cuffs. She had still not become accustomed to the sight of him when he smiled at her across a room. Her breath would stop.

He kissed her cheek.
"¿Cómo andas, amor?"

He took her to his office, where Gail told him that she had just lost her motion for contempt in the Sweet case.

"Lost? What happened? Sit down and tell me." He gestured toward the sofa, a leather sectional. Deep, boxy chairs faced an atrium, where sunlight danced on water burbling down ferny rocks. His desk was in a corner, curving into the room, lit by pinpoint halogen lights on thin wires.

Gail was too restless to sit. "The judge said that fifty pages of documents was substantial compliance. An insane ruling, but we'd lose the appeal. At the next hearing, Wendell Sweet will ask for a reduction in alimony and child support because he can't pay. On what he gave me, I can't prove otherwise. I was hoping that you might come through for me and talk to Harry Lasko, which you promised to do last week."

"Sweetheart, sit down. Please." When she remained standing, he said, "I spoke to Harry this morning."

"Finally."

"You're right to be upset, but this was the first opportunity Harry and I had to talk."

Gail leaned on the arm of a chair. "What did he say? Can he give me any information about Wendell's offshore assets?"

"I asked him. Harry and Wendell made some profits from the sale of the Eagle Beach casino, as you know, but Harry has no idea what Wendell did with his share. It was over a year ago, so he could have spent it or lost it in a bad investment. Harry suspects he still has a considerable amount, but he doesn't know where."

"Can we assume they didn't report their profits to the IRS?"

After a moment Anthony nodded. "They bought the casino using a complicated trust agreement and a corporation registered in Grand Cayman. There is an argument to be made that the income wasn't subject to U.S. tax laws, but it's questionable whether a jury would buy it. I've been talking to the prosecutors. They might agree to a sentence of seven years on the current indictment, but if they find out about Eagle Beach, Harry could die in prison. You see why I've been so careful."

She looked at him awhile, then walked over to the glass door, which led to the atrium. Dappled light fell across philodendron and ferns, and she could hear the muffled splash of water on rocks. "After the hearing I accidentally ran across Wendell Sweet in the parking garage. He offered me a deal. If I stop brainwashing his wife, he won't divulge certain information about you." She turned to look at Anthony. "What does he mean?"

A slight frown of confusion passed over his face. "Information? About me? I have no idea."

"He said he could take you down." Gail leaned a shoulder on the door frame and watched the fountain. "On the way over here I realized how little I know about what you do—aside from practicing criminal defense law, and the investments you rarely mention. I saw Hector Mesa come in. What does he do here?"

"He's a courier, Gail. He goes to the bank for us. Sometimes he acts as a bodyguard for our high-profile clients. There is nothing sinister about it." Anthony spread his arms wide. "What do you want to know? Ask."

"All right. What was Wendell talking about?"

"He was handing you a plate of bullshit."

"Were you doing business with Harry and Wendell?"

His brows lifted. "Is that what you think?"

"I don't know, Anthony. Were you?"

He seemed amazed that she would ask such a thing. "Absolutely not."

"I have a right to know," she said. "I would rather hear it now than find out after we're married." Anxiety stirred in her chest, and she took a breath. "I would never tell anyone else. Not ever. We have to trust each other."

His eyes stayed on her for a long moment. "Yes, we do. When I say I don't know what Wendell Sweet was talking about, that is exactly what I mean. Why do you question it?"

"Please don't be angry."

"Sweetheart, I'm not. Not at you, certainly. Listen to me. How can I disprove what he said? He said nothing. A vague allegation to . . . what? Was he specific?"

"No."

"Come on, you see what Sweet is after. He wants his divorce case settled on his terms, and he's trying to scare you. I have never spoken to Wendell Sweet, never met him. If he would care to elucidate on what 'taking me down' refers to, then I could answer. Until then I do not know. I can't even guess." Anthony took her hands and squeezed them for emphasis. "Gail?"

She shook her head. "I'm sorry. This case is getting to me."

"Yes, I would agree with that." He pulled her closer and softly kissed her lips. She let herself lean against him, inhaling a scent of cologne, light but distinctly male. He said, "Why don't you to go to bed early tonight?"

"Do I look awful?"

"A little tired, that's all. Come with me." He led her away from the glass doors and across his office. "I want you to try something." He swiveled his black leather desk chair and held out his arm. "Sit here."

She laughed. "Why?"

When she was seated, he tilted the chair back. She clutched the arms. "Not a bad fit," he said. "Gail, I have a proposal for you." He sat on the edge of the desk with both feet on the floor. "I've already discussed it with Raul. We want you to join Ferrer and Quintana."

Her mouth opened. She said, "You mean ... a partnership?"

He hesitated. "No, not.. . right away. You'd be an associate, and then we'd see. What you have, Gail, are the old Miami Anglo contacts that we lack here. Raul does real estate and business. I'm in criminal defense. You're an expert in commercial litigation, eight years with one of Miami's oldest and best law firms. We have associates in a number of Other fields, but none with what you would bring to it. It would be perfect." He smiled, creases deepening along either side of his mouth. "Well?"

"Anthony, I . . . What about my office? Miriam and Lynn?"

"Bring them with you. I know you wanted your own business, but this is crazy. You're barely getting by. You think I don't see what's going on?" He reached out and lifted her face. "You're working so hard. Look at you. The shadows under your eyes. I hate to see you like this,
cielo."

Gail kissed his palm. "Since when is fatigue a qualification?"

"No, that's my ulterior motive," he said. "What qualifies you is that you're a damned good lawyer. This isn't charity. We could use you here. We need what you know and
who
you know. Put in as many hours as you want. Take more time to be with Karen. You see? There's another reason to do it."

Gail thought of the report that Charlene Marks had shown her. Time with Karen. Dr. Fischman had noted how little she had of it. Rocking back in the chair, Gail swung it around, her gaze passing over the ultramodern lights in the ceiling, the glass-fronted bookcases, the atrium, the leather chairs around a granite-topped table. There were two partners, seven associates, three paralegals, a dozen support staff, a library, two conference rooms. . . . "This is all very seductive," she said. "One could become accustomed to this, I suppose. But"—she spun the chair faster, lifting her feet— "would we get on each other's nerves, working in the same office? You and I are independent creatures, more so than most."

Anthony leaned forward, stopping the chair's motion with a hand planted firmly on each leather-upholstered arm. His silk tie swung into her lap. "No, Gail, our biggest problem at work"—his lips brushed across hers—"would be how to get anything done."

She tugged on his tie and smiled. "I'll think about it."

"How can you say no?"

"I'll say maybe. I have a lot on my mind."

"Of course. You don't have to decide now." He kissed her forehead.

"What should I do about Wendell?" she asked. "Ignore him?"

"Claro que si.
Yes, forget about Wendell. But if he bothers you again, tell me."

"Don't beat him up on my account, Anthony."

He put a hand on his heart. "Oh, Gail. Where do you get these ideas, that I would do such a thing? I promise, I am the most gentle of men.
Te juro."
He shrugged. "Unless he touched you, then I would have to kill him."

"Funny." Gail got up and stood between Anthony's thighs. Under the warm brown fabric of his trousers, his legs were trim and hard.

He slid his hands down her hips, pulling her tightly against his groin. "Would we get any work done? Hmm.
Un problema muy grande."

"Anthony, I forgot to tell you. Bozo sent roses to my office."

Leaving Ferrer & Quintana, Gail went by Miami Police headquarters with the envelope that had come with the flowers. At the information desk she was given a pass to clip to the lapel of her jacket and told to take the elevator to the third floor. She knew the way, having been here two days ago. Anthony wanted to come along, but had already made an appointment with a client. Gail assured him she would park in a safe place and, yes, look around before getting out of the car.
Anthony, for God's sake, I'll be surrounded by cops.

The older of the detectives assigned to the case, Sergeant Ladue, met her in the hall and took her to the room used by homicide and personal crimes. Windows looked east, but an apartment house with faded turquoise paint obscured a view of the water. Detective Novick looked up from a phone call and acknowledged Gail with a nod. Ladue held a chair at the end of his desk, and she gave him the card.

He remained standing, belly thrust out for balance. A pistol in a scuffed brown holster rode on his belt, along with a badge. Sergeant, Miami Police Department, the city's palm tree logo in the center. He took a pair of glasses out of his pocket, shook them open, and set them on his short nose.

Gail held her purse on her lap. "Renee is my sister. She died last year. A homicide."

"Uh-huh." Ladue flipped the card over, found nothing, then dropped it onto his desk. "You want a copy?" Gail said she didn't. Ladue said, "I heard about your sister. Apparently our guy did too. Okay, we'll call the florist, see if they have a record."

Opening her purse, Gail withdrew some folded pages. "Detective Novick asked me to make a list of people I've had disagreements with in the recent past. There are about a dozen people whom I'd consider remotely possible as suspects." She had listed names and addresses and a brief description of the dispute, most of which had been amicably resolved.

She tapped the top of the list. "This one, Simon Yancey, was the defendant in a foreclosure case I handled April a year ago. Here. I made you some copies from the case file. He wrote me a letter."

Novick, who had finished his phone call, came to look over Ladue's shoulder. While they read, Gail idly looked at the stuff pinned to the wall. Cartoons and drawings. A cap from the 1998 Pig Bowl on a pushpin. Lists of names and telephone numbers. A three-month calendar with court appearances marked in red. Ladue had a stapler with an old derringer welded to it and a miniature electric chair with a lightbulb in the seat. Behind Novick's desk, which was considerably less cluttered, several snapshots of snow-topped mountains were tacked to a cork board. In one Novick and a dark-haired woman stood in the foreground, arms around each other. Elsewhere in the room, conversations went on. A phone rang.

Novick finished reading the letter and pulled a chair closer. "Do you get a lot of letters like this?"

"No, they're very rare. Whoever that lawyer is he's complaining about, I don't recognize her. She isn't
me."

He had a pleasant smile. "We who deal with the public are often misunderstood."

Ladue dropped his bulk into his swivel chair. "Our resident egghead. He actually graduated high school."

Gail turned the letter around to see the signature.
Sincerely, Simon T. Yancey.
Small, cramped letters. The turns were sharp angles, not curves. "Can the document examiners compare this to the writing on the envelopes?"

"Not likely," Novick said. "The envelopes were addressed in block print. When a person makes a deliberate attempt to disguise his handwriting, it's almost impossible to make a match."

He leaned in his chair to reach a pen and notepad on his desk. "Can you give us a description of Simon Yancey?"

"He was big—not fat, but strong. He kicked a chair over. I can't remember his face. He was in his early thirties. Brown hair, sort of long." She touched her collar. "In court he said, 'You'd better watch out, bitch.' Something like that, but definitely the word 'bitch.' "

Novick held the pad on his lap, and words flowed quickly into neat lines. "Did he have a distinct accent? The electronic device on the telephone could have been used to disguise an accent."

Gail thought. "Accent. Not really."

Swiveling his chair, Ladue picked up the telephone and dialed the information operator. He asked for the number of Simon Yancey. He waited, then hung up. "No listing in this area, not even an unpublished number."

"After I stole his house, he had to live on the street."

"Yeah, no wonder he's pissed—if it's him." Ladue glanced down at his beeper. "We'll run a computer check, see if we can track him down. The license bureau will have a picture. I gotta go, Mike. They want me in court." Ladue stood up and took a blue jacket off the back of the chair. "Ms. Connor, keep in touch, anything else arises."

She thanked him, then looked back at Detective Novick. "Would it be possible to ask you something unrelated?"

"Sure."

"Have you ever heard of a man named Wendell Sweet? Black hair, late thirties. He's a consultant in offshore oil. Spends a lot of time out of the country."

Behind his glasses Novick's brown eyes went out of focus for a moment, then returned to Gail. "In what connection might I have heard of him?"

"Narcotics?"

He shook his head. "I don't generally handle narcotics cases, unless they turn into homicides, which they often do."

Gail asked, "Do you know the name Hector Mesa? Mid fifties, Cuban?"