Suspicion of Guilt (28 page)

"Who?" She heaved her heavy purse through the open door. "Karen and Mr. Quintana? Why, they're in the kitchen talking to each other. What did you think?" Phyllis squeezed herself under the steering wheel and rolled down her window. "I need you to write me my check tomorrow. No, don't do it now. I got to go." She put on her brakes and stuck her head out the window. "Why're you walking like that? You hurt yourself?"

"I backed into a doorknob."

"Lord have mercy." Phyllis pulled out of the driveway. Gail went inside, dropping her briefcase on the sofa. Anthony and Karen looked around when she appeared at the kitchen door. They were sitting at the counter on high stools. Anthony had his shirtsleeves rolled up and his tie loosened. Karen spun her seat around.

"Mom, where were you?"

"Miami Beach. It took longer than I thought, then there was an accident on the causeway." Holding herself straight, she came across the kitchen to put down her purse. She gave Karen a hug. "I am so glad to see you." She smiled at Anthony over Karen's head. "You too."

"You need a car phone," he said, frowning.

"I know. You told me." She lightly kissed his cheek. His shoulder felt warm and solid under her hand. She wanted to scratch her fingernails through his clean, dark hair. "What have you guys been doing?"

"Waiting for you," he said. "Karen fixed me some Kool-Aid. She showed me the lizards she feeds in the backyard, and I told her about a pet iguana I had when I was a kid."

Karen held up a gold-colored coin the size of a quarter. "He gave me this. It's one Cuban peso. See? It has a picture of Jose" Marti on the front. It says
Patria o Muerte.
That means 'fatherland or death.' " Karen took back the coin. "Can we eat now?"

Gail noticed the flat box on the table. "Who ordered the pizza?"

"I did. It just arrived," Anthony said.

"How much was it?"

"Never mind."

"No. If I invite you for dinner, I can pay for the pizza." She crossed the kitchen for her purse.

"Gail, it's okay."

"It isn't okay!" She laughed a little, pushing back her hair. "Let me do this."

Anthony and Karen looked at her steadily. He said, "I gave the delivery man twenty dollars."

"Do you guys want salad? I have some ripe plum tomatoes—" Gail took her wallet out and opened it. Wider. "Where—" She tossed it aside and rummaged through her purse, pulling out brush, notebook, makeup, and the parking ticket that had been left on her windshield. Her charge cards were in the bottom but the money was gone. "Well. I seem to be a little short of cash. I'll pay you back."

"I said forget it. Gail, what's the matter with you?"

"It appears that someone has been through my wallet."

Anthony stood up. "When did this happen? On the Beach?"

Gail crossed to the sink and turned on the hot water. "Karen, sweetie, get three plates and some forks and napkins." She pumped the liquid soap into her palm. "I went to talk to some people in that case I'm doing for Patrick Norris. Some witnesses, I guess you'd say." Her skin was turning pink under the steaming water. "When my attention was distracted, poof!"

"You need to call the police."

"Somebody stole your money?" Karen looked up at her with wide blue eyes. She held the plates in her arms.

Gail took a fresh dish towel from a drawer. There were three versions of this story. One for Karen, one for Anthony, and one she would keep to herself. She dried her hands. "I don't want to call the police. It isn't that much money."

"But you know who took it," Anthony said.

"A girl. I don't know her name."

Karen said, "When my bike got stolen you said to call the police, and we didn't even know who did it."

Gail smiled at her. "This is different, sweetie. I'll explain it later. Go set the table."

When Karen's back was turned, Gail pulled Anthony closer and quickly kissed his mouth. "Everything's okay with you two?" she asked softly.

"Yes. Fine."

"She's been polite?"

"Perfect. How much did you have to pay her?"

"Oh, stop." She slid her hand up his shirt then tugged on his tie. "Let me go change my clothes. It won't take long. I feel grungy."

He held her by the forearms when she started to move away. "What happened to you?"

Gail glanced at Karen, who was filling turquoise plastic glasses with cherry Kool-Aid. "Have you ever wanted to take a naked sailboat cruise?"

Anthony squeezed her arms. "Gail."

"Okay, here's a preview. I found out that my friend Lauren Sontag lied to me. The will is most definitely a fake. Second, I know where we can go to arrange X-rated vacations. And third—" Gail lowered her voice still further. "I found out I'm too old to be a call girl."

"What?"

"I'll tell you after dinner." She laughed. "If Karen isn't in the room at the time. It's funny now, almost worth the eighty dollars I lost." She laid her hand on his cheek, and the late-afternoon stubble felt scratchy under her palm. "I wish you could stay tonight. You don't know how much I wish that."

For a moment Gail thought she could hear the sound of Karen splashing in the bathroom down the hall. Gail had always insisted that the door be left open. Lately, in deference to her daughter's growing sense of modesty, Gail had compromised: Karen could close it all the way but the last inch. There were those stories of children slipping on a bar of soap, cracking their fragile heads, drowning because their mothers hadn't heard them. But tonight, with a man around, Karen had shut it completely, then turned the lock.

Anthony stood silently in the middle of the family room with one hand on his hip and the other over his eyes as if he had a migraine.

"That was the most brainless, idiotic—"

Gail said, "I had no idea it would be like that."

He dropped his hand. "That is the point. You didn't think what you were doing."

"What difference does it make now?" she said, stung. "I got what I needed. I can prove the will is a forgery."

"No, you can't."

She laughed. "Oh, really."

"No. I would love to defend this case. I would ask the jury, What does it prove that Carla Napolitano was out of town on the third of August?"

"That the will was forged."

He shook his head slowly, his eyes fixed on Gail. "Yes, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, she was in New Jersey. But so what? Carla Napolitano could have put any date on the will. It does not mean that Althea Tillett didn't sign it."

"I can prove Carla lied! It goes to her credibility as a witness."

"All right. Let us say they admit she lied. Now you have Lauren Sontag's explanation. You still must prove Althea Tillett did not sign that will." Anthony spread his hands, waiting.

"I hate it when you do this," she said, turning her back.

"Better you hear it from me than from the other side." He walked around her. "This is what I mean. In your enthusiasm to play detective, you do not think. Carla Napolitano may be related to your case, but this other! What could possibly be gained by pretending to Frankie Delgado that you were a
prostitute!"

"I should have given you the same sanitized version I'm going to tell Karen because you obviously can't handle it."

"What do you expect? What? You tell me this man attacked you. They stole your money ... You could have been killed. Or worse."

"A fate worse than death?"

"Yes. He could have raped you, cut you into pieces, then dumped your body, and your daughter—" Anthony raised an arm toward the hall. "—would be without a mother!"

"Enough! Okay! Thank you for your concern!"

He let out a sharp breath through his nose. "Don't ever do anything like this again."

Gail stared at him. "Don't speak to me like that. I was investigating my case. I have a responsibility to my client."

"Aha. Your client? Your friend Patrick."

"I would do the same for any client."

Anthony spun around, speaking Spanish too fast for her to grasp a word of it. He turned back to glare at her. "You were never like this. Ever. Then you took this case—I told you not to take this case—" He pointed.

"It's my damn case, and I'll handle it as I see fit!"

"Somebody has to protect you against yourself, I think."

"How condescending! I don't need to be protected."

"No? What is that bruise you have showed me on your back?"

"If this is how you're going to react, then why should I tell you anything?"

"Bueno. No me
digas nada."
Anthony stalked into the kitchen.

"Where are you going?"

"Home. It is impossible to talk to you." He lifted his jacket off the back of a chair. "Thank you for dinner."

"That's easy, isn't it? You get mad and you can walk out."

Calmly he slid an arm into a sleeve, hesitated with the jacket hanging on one shoulder, then took it off and threw it across the kitchen.

Together they noticed Karen sitting in one of the high stools at the counter, bouncing her bare toes off the bottom rungs. She was wrapped in one of Gail's old terry-cloth robes.

Anthony mumbled something, then went to pick up his jacket where it had landed on the floor.

"Oh, sweetie." Gail put her arm around Karen. "We weren't really fighting. We were disagreeing about a case."

He put his jacket back on, brushing his hands down the lapels. "Yes, we were fighting. Your mother did something dangerous today, and she doesn't want—"

"Don't tell her that!"

"Why not? Is it a he?"

"It's up to me what I tell my daughter."

For a while Anthony concentrated on getting his cuffs straight. His cheeks were blazing with color high on the cheekbones. "Yes. You are right. It is your decision." Smiling at Karen, he made a slight bow. "Good night. It was a pleasure, sharing the pizza with you and hearing about your lizards."

Karen only looked at him with big eyes.

Gail followed Anthony to the front door and leaned her forehead against the frame. "I don't know what to say to you."

"Nothing." He stared down at his hand on the doorknob. "It's all right."

"It isn't."

He let out a breath. "No. It isn't."

"Well, maybe one day we'll talk about this," she said. 'This and all the other things we don't talk about"

"Perhaps." He stood there for a moment, then said, "Gail, I think maybe we should let it go for a while. A week or two."

She laughed softly, aching inside. "You're probably right." "Yes."

She touched his sleeve, running her finger along a fold in the fabric. "And after a week or two?"

"I don't know. We'll think about it then."

She nodded. "Kiss me good night."

Anthony turned to kiss her once on the lips. And then the door was clicking shut behind him.

Chapter Eighteen

Gail went back to Miami Beach the next morning. She and Larry Black had an appointment with Alan Weissman to discuss settling the Tillett case. Weissman was officially the attorney for the personal representative of the estate, Sanford V. Ehringer.

However, Weissman would have more than the interests of the Tillett estate on his mind: He had to cover his own rear end from charges of forgery. Gail supposed that at some point Ehringer would force Weissman to withdraw as counsel. Weissman would then become a reluctant witness for one side or the other in this affair. But for now he was the man to talk to.

At 9:55 a.m., Larry Black's Mercedes sedan pulled into the parking lot of the bank building. Gail was waiting in the shade of the entrance overhang. Larry locked his door then leaned straight-armed on the roof, head bowed, as if he were going upstairs to hear the verdict from his oncologist. A second later he turned and came toward the building.

Gail got up from the concrete bench. When Larry saw her she said, "I already checked in with Alan's secretary."

He nodded.

"Are you okay?" she asked. He looked tired. "I'm fine." He gazed at the automatic doors. "Well. Are we going to make some progress this morning?"

"We'll see. By the way, I've got some news about Carla Napolitano."

"Who?"

"The notary." How could he not remember? Gail waited until a bank customer had walked by, then said, "Yesterday I went to Gateway Travel and spoke to Carla using a false name. I pretended to be interested in taking a vacation. We got to talking about this and that, and I found out she wasn't even in Florida on the date the will was supposedly notarized. She was in New Jersey visiting her new grandson."

"I'll be damned," Larry said. "You've proved it's a forgery."

"Not quite. We can show that Carla made a false notarization, but we can't prove Althea Tillett didn't sign the will on the third of August. Weissman could say that Carla notarized the will when she got back into town, and Althea Tillett's signature was already on it. All we have for sure is the document examiner's testimony and a few good guesses."

Larry was picking at the skin around his thumbnail. "What is this going to do for us with Weissman?"

"They've lost Carla Napolitano as a credible witness. It proves that Weissman is a liar. Lauren Sontag as well, I'm sorry to say." Gail walked Larry out of the path of passersby. "There's something else, but I can't see how it ties in to the Tillett forgery. Gateway Travel and its parent company Seagate are probably fronts for some kind of illegal operation."

"What do you mean?" Larry whispered. "Illegal? How do you know this?"

"Remember I told you about Frankie Delgado? I met the man."

Quickly Gail described her visit to the shabby office on Drexel Avenue. She included the part about impersonating a prostitute.

Larry seemed stunned. "You're not going to tell Weissman."

"No, why should I? But this may come out at some point, depending on how it fits in. We can't let it slip that I spoke to Carla or Frankie. We'll call it 'confidential sources.' "

Suddenly Larry laughed, a sound nearer to a yelp. He said, "The firm took a hit with that damn column in 'Legal Notes' on Monday, telling the world we're on the verge of a split. As soon as this case is filed, people will think we're stealing from charity. Sanford Ehringer could have our client accused of murder. My God, what now? Will they say we're involved with procurers and criminals? Gail, we've got to settle it. Whatever it takes, settle it."