Suspicion of Betrayal (4 page)

"I guess so. At least I can sit in the same room as him and not start shakin'." She took Gail's hand in both of hers. "Thank you so much." Then Jamie Sweet gave a laugh that lit up her face. "You know what? I'm startin' to feel like I might get through this."

"We still have a long way to go," Gail said. "The order is only temporary. The judge is going to reconsider in thirty days. Meanwhile, Wendell has to produce copies of every scrap of paper in his possession relating to offshore business, right down to his Kleenex. I'd like you to help me go through everything." Jamie said she would, then Gail asked if she had any questions.

"No, I pretty much got it all." She added, "Gail, I don't know what help I can be. Wendell handled the money. If he was cheatin' on the taxes, I never knew about it. He didn't talk much about his business. He could have accounts anywhere. Lord, how stupid I was, never put aside a nickel for myself or the kids."

"Most women don't. You weren't to blame." Gail dropped her dog-eared copy of the Rules of Civil Procedure into the box and put on the lid. "To be honest, Jamie, I'm not sure Wendell will give us everything, or if he does, what we'll find."

Jamie steadied the luggage cart while Gail dropped one box on it, then another. "You know what I think? We ought to talk to Harry Lasko."

Harry Lasko was Jamie's boss—her former boss. Jamie had lost her job as the receptionist at Premier Resorts Inc. after the U.S. attorney had indicted Lasko for money laundering. He was currently out on bond awaiting trial, represented by Anthony Quintana. It was Harry Lasko who, several months ago, had recommended that Jamie Sweet talk to a lawyer.

"What does Harry know about Wendell?" Gail asked.

"Well, him and Wendell were friends. Not
friends,
like buddies, but they knew the same people, and I do recall Wendell sayin' he went out on Harry's boat a few times. You know how men talk about stuff."

Gail nodded, visualizing Wendell Sweet and Harry Lasko on a cabin cruiser anchored in a crystalline little harbor, far out of American jurisdiction, reeling in grouper and comparing notes on tax havens. "We know that Harry is a financial felon, so why not Wendell?"

"Harry isn't like that! He made some mistakes, but he isn't a
criminal.
You should see all the pictures of his grandchildren in his office. He loves those babies. Harry has been good to me, Gail. He gave me the money to pay your retainer."

Gail backtracked. "Of course you know him better than I do."

Jamie reached across the luggage cart to take Gail's hand. "I didn't mean to jump on you like that. I just feel so bad for Harry. Maybe Mr. Quintana can help him. I pray every night that Harry won't have to go to prison. At his age he might never get out. You tell Mr. Quintana to do his very, very best, will you? Tell him I said so."

"I'll tell him." Gail tilted back the cart and gave it a shove with one foot to get it rolling while Jamie held open the door. "If Harry Lasko is as fond of you as I think, he'll help us out. You know, I should check with Anthony first, since this criminal matter is pending, but I don't foresee a problem."

Charlene Marks gave a deep-throated laugh that made her gold earrings shake. "Wait. If a man is fool enough to stick it in— Then what? Do the accent again. Do the accent."

Gail smiled. "He'll git it
frooooze
awf."

"God. That's priceless." She slapped her desk with an open palm. "Well. Congratulations. And good luck with round two."

"Thank you, Charlene. And I appreciate your help, your advice."

"Pooh. You know what you're doing in a courtroom. I've seen you eviscerating some poor schmuck on the other side."

"Never like this. Divorces are so
personal.
They're vicious. People kill each other over divorce."

"Love gone bad," Charlene said. With a push of one black stiletto heel on the edge of her desk, she swiveled her leather chair and leaned back to take from her credenza a little silver flask. "May I interest you?"

"What is that?"

"Russian potato water." She unscrewed the top.

"Vodka at eleven in the morning?"

"Not by itself, good God. Bleahhh." She pressed a button on her phone. "Ruth, would you bring me and Ms. Connor—" Gail was shaking her head and mouthing
nothing for me.
"Just me, then. Bring me a spicy V-8 and some ice, would you dear? And a nice piece of celery." She smiled at Gail. "I'm on a diet. Salad for lunch."

Listening closely, one could still hear the New York in Charlene Marks's husky voice. She had curly gray hair, a bad complexion she hid behind makeup, and incredible legs she showed off in slim skirts well above her knees. Charlene Marks had been a prosecutor, and defense lawyers had cheered when she quit to go into civil practice. She slept with a judge on the appeals court a week before arguing a multimillion-dollar divorce case, and appeared so surprised when she won that her opponent actually forgave her. For her fiftieth birthday she bought herself a screaming red Porsche Turbo-Carrera. At fifty-two she traded it in for a more sedate Jaguar sedan.
I'm too old for this shit.
Gail could never remember how many times Charlene had been married, divorced, and widowed. But that was before she went into marital law.
Now I know better,
she had said.

Charlene's secretary brought in her vegetable juice, dropped a few messages on her desk, then went out again while Gail gave an opinion as to why the judge had ruled so strongly in Jamie Sweet's favor.

"Basically he just didn't like Wendell. The judge thought he was lying. When I looked at Wendell, and knew we had him, what a grand feeling."

"You don't have him yet. First the evidence. Then the execution." Charlene drizzled vodka into her glass. "One word of caution. Keep your emotions out of it. Feel sorry for Jamie Sweet if you must, but don't let her know it. You have to keep a safe distance between you and the client. Don't be their lover, their mother, or their pal."

"I thought you and I were pals."

"We are. I should know better."

"Well, as my attorney, what's on your mind?"

When Gail had returned from court, Miriam had told her that Charlene Marks wanted to see her, so Gail had gotten back on the elevator and punched the button for the top floor. The view here was better than on the fourth, where Gail had her office.

Charlene stirred her drink with the celery. Her diamond-faced watch glittered. "The judge's assistant in your case called me with the name and phone number of the psychologist appointed for Karen. Sorry to give you the bad news."

"Which bad news is that?"

"The man is a putz. But aside from that, he's an ambitious little twerp by the name of Evan Fischman. He likes kids to call him Dr. Fish. Makes it all nicey-gooey with the little darlings. He's about five-four with lifts in his shoes, and compensating like mad." Charlene clipped off the end of the celery with a sharp crunch. "I think he hates women."

"Marvelous. What do I do, make an appointment for Karen?"

"At your convenience. He'll want to talk to you and Dave too, of course, and no doubt Anthony as well. Do the complete family portrait."

"Should I worry about this?"

"Not yet. If he goes against you, we can hire someone to rebut his opinion. I have a Rolodex full of shrinks."

Gail laughed wearily. "It's like ... 'Take off all your clothes, put on this paper robe. The doctor will be with you in a moment.' "

Sympathy showed in the warm brown eyes. "I know this isn't pleasant for you. In fact, it sucks. And I would be lying, my darling, if I told you that you are guaranteed to retain custody of your daughter."

Gail involuntarily hugged her crossed arms close to her chest.

"We can make it hard. I could run up his legal expenses so high his ears would bleed. But here's what I think. You should talk to Dave. Find out where he's coming from."

"Talk to him? How?"

"Make some excuse. I don't want his lawyer calling me to whine. Listen. You're going to be hooked to that man as long as you live. Not only through Karen; there will be a son-in-law someday, God willing, and grandchildren, and they're all going to appreciate it if you and Dave aren't sniping at each other. It just ruins the holidays. You know I don't like to compromise, and if you want me to pound his ass into the ground I will do my damnedest. But what do you get from that in the long run? No, I think you should find out what he really wants, and if it doesn't make you puke, give it to him to make him go away."

"I think he wants Karen."

"Does he? A man thirty-six years old, running a bar, who gets to ride on boats and look at women in bathing suits all day? A guy with a nice tan, who can play tennis with the rich folks? Does he really want a child in the way? He may think he does, but no. Karen is a substitute for something else."

"What?"

"Jesus, I don't know. You were married to him. You find out." Charlene crossed her long legs and rotated one foot, the sharp point of her shoe making a slow circle. "Don't bother asking directly. Men are rarely introspective enough to understand their own motivation. It's either money or sex. Start from there."

THREE

Over the last week or so, coming home from work usually meant seeing the roofer's truck in the driveway. Or not. Gail couldn't decide which was worse. To see an empty driveway meant nothing was being done. To see the truck meant irritation of some kind. The smoky stench of tar. The incessant pop of a nail gun. Or those little plastic cuplets for Cuban coffee tossed into the bushes.

The truck was there, a rusty half-ton flatbed with a railing of two-by-fours around the back. Recio Roofing, blocking the garage. Pallets of Spanish barrel tiles had been offloaded into the yard. With nowhere else to put her car, Gail parked along the narrow, sun-dappled street.

Walking into the driveway, she saw how the rear truck tires, a double set, had left tracks over the newly laid sod. Then she noticed the little alamanda bush. It had come from her mother's yard, and now looked like a big boot had stomped it. She picked up one of the branches. The trumpet-shaped yellow flowers were limp. Gail muttered a low curse.

Karen looked at her. "Mom!"

The men were coming down off the roof, finished for the day. "Look at this." Gail pointed. They looked in the right direction, but none of them seemed to notice.
"Aquí.
Look at this.
Mira."

One of the men came to see what she was talking about. Gail assumed he was in charge, a big-bellied guy in a sweat-soaked T-shirt. His work boots were black with tar. "What's the problem?" he said.

"Were you driving the truck?" When he shrugged, she said, "Well, you ran over this bush! It was right there! Didn't you see it?"

"A bush . . ."

She waved the broken branch at him. "My mother planted it. And last week you—or somebody—broke two sprinkler heads. I asked you to stay off the lawn." She pointed toward the pallets. "And these weren't supposed to go there. We just had the sod laid down. They can't stay there all weekend, they'll kill the grass."

"I can't move them now. The forklift went to another job."

She heard a snicker behind her. The others might not know what they were saying, but they were enjoying the scene.

Gail turned around to give them a look and caught sight of a long-legged girl in shorts climbing onto the back of the truck. "Oh, my God! Karen, get down!" Karen held herself suspended by her fingers, then dropped, ponytail swinging. "Go inside, sweetie, and get cleaned up."

"The door is locked."

"You have a key in your backpack."

She turned back to the men and squinted in the glare. It was hot out here, and already she could feel sweat on her neck. These men had been up on the roof all day, baked red by the sun and splattered with tar, and now had to take shit from a woman lawyer who had just driven up in her little air-conditioned Mercedes.

Gail tossed the branch aside. "Never mind."

The men got into the truck, two in front and the others in back, hanging on. Salsa music blared through the open windows. Gail watched the rear tires just miss the grass; then the truck headed off with a grinding of gears and blast of smoke, ripping through the low-hanging limbs of a black olive tree.

When the racket of music and engine had subsided, Gail took out her keys to move her car. There was another sound.
Snik-snik-snik.
Across the street the bushes were moving, and sprays of red flowers bob-bled. Someone was pruning behind a low coral rock wall. Through the big heart-shaped leaves she saw a white head band and sunglasses. And behind them a woman pretending not to have noticed her new neighbor fighting with the roofers.

Gail walked over and stood in the gravel next to the wall. There were no sidewalks. "Hi, Peggy."

A yellow-daisy garden glove waved at her, and Peggy Cunningham came farther into view. She had the golden tan of a woman who spent time by the pool. "Hi. Sure is hot and muggy today."

"Sure is. Listen, Peggy. Was your son home last night around ten o'clock?"

"Payton? Why?"

"Somebody phoned my house and made some rude remarks. I didn't recognize the voice. It was going through an electronic device of some kind. That's my guess."

Peggy Cunningham shifted closer. "An obscene phone call?"

"No, not obscene, just ... rude. Anyway, Payton was in my backyard last night, with Karen, and she wasn't allowed out, and I told him to go home. Maybe he was mad at me—"

"Yes, he said you yelled at him for being on your property."

Gail forced herself to smile, not liking the way this was going. "I thought he might have been playing a little joke."

A chilly smile was returned to her. "No. Payton wouldn't play jokes like that."

"At that age, who knows? Kids can be unpredictable. If I could find out for sure, then I could stop worrying about it. Really, I'm not angry."

"I can't imagine Payton would do that."

"Well, was he home or not?"

Peggy Cunningham made a small laugh and waved a bug away from her face. "I feel like I'm being cross-examined."