Suspicion of Guilt (36 page)

"Patrick Norris will settle for five million," Gail said. "He wanted the beneficiaries to pay the taxes, but I told him to drop that idea. For him to net five, they'd have to pay nearly eleven million dollars, and I don't think they'd do it."

"What do we get on a settlement? Ten percent, wasn't it?"

"Yes. Plus costs."

Warner looked over at Robineau. "Five hundred K in fees. What do you think?"

"It's fifteen percent of the estate if we go to trial," Robineau said. "Assuming twenty-five million, that would be ... three point seven-five million in fees."

"Only if we win," Gail said. She was leaning back in the softly upholstered chair with her legs crossed, one foot bouncing slowly. Brand new shoes, not a nick on them. "We don't have enough proof on our side yet to run that risk. I want to hear what Irving Adler has to say."

Robineau didn't like that response. "What are we going to tell the other side at two o'clock, Ms. Connor? Come back tomorrow?"

"No. We tell them we want ten million. They'll say either 'yes' or 'we'll get back to you.' " Gail smiled up at him, and felt the back of her neck getting moist with nervous sweat.

He paced to the windows, rolling his shoulders. "That son-of-a-bitch Ted Mercer is taking over the probate, now that Weissman's out. He's going to ask if we're here to play or jerk off."

Looking at him, Jack Warner chuckled. "Oh, it makes you itchy, doesn't it, Paul? You want to say, 'Why, hell, a jury of blind men could see that the will was forged. Let's just go to trial.' "

"Is that your advice?" Robineau asked. "Go for it?"

"Not on what we've got. Gail's right." Finishing off his iced tea, Warner glanced at his watch. "Where the hell is Larry?"

"He must have better things to do." Robineau walked over to stand by Gail's chair. He asked, "Why hasn't this case been filed already?"

She said, "Until the
Miami Herald
printed the story this morning, everybody had a stake in keeping it quiet."

"It doesn't matter, Paul. This is one we need to finesse." Warner stood up and put on his jacket. "But let's get the case in court. Get it filed. Are you ready to move on that, Gail?"

"I can do it tomorrow," she said. "The pleadings are ready, along with an emergency motion for deposition. I want Irving Adler before a court reporter as soon as possible." Gail raised a warning hand. "Please do not mention Irving Adler in the meeting this afternoon. We don't want to let them know what we've got until we've got it."

Warner said, "I'm tempted to tell them to go to hell." He smiled at her. "But as you say, not yet. Not yet."

Gail asked, "Who's going to talk to Howard Odell before the meeting?"

Robineau's eyes went to Warner, who made an almost imperceptible shrug. Robineau said to Gail, "It's your case. You feel like taking him on?"

She took her time answering. If she and Odell went into a private room to talk about this, would he listen to her? Or would he only grin and give her one of his patronizing winks? Jack Warner might do better with him. Or Paul Robineau, who could snap Odell's spine over his knee. One of them should do it. What, after all, did she have to prove? The goal was to obtain the best settlement for her client.

And yet ... Paul Robineau, managing partner of Hartwell Black, had asked her if she could handle it. It wasn't a question. It was a challenge.

Gail nodded and took the leap. "Give me fifteen minutes with Odell before the meeting starts. You can keep Ehringer's attorneys busy for that long."

She chose the main conference room, empty now except for the two of them, and quiet, only the
whoosh
of cool air coming through the vents. The walls were richly paneled, the floor carpeted in green with a pattern of gold and red.

It took her ten minutes to tell Howard Odell what she had learned and what she wanted in a settlement. Now he was watching something through the window. He had a deep tan, but he was not as young as she had thought at the gallery. There were no sporty clothes today; he wore a business suit and white-on-white shirt.

"Nice view," he said after a while, in his rich bass voice. "Sunshine, blue sky. Makes me want to crank up my boat and take off for the islands. Do some fishing."

"I'd like an answer," she said.

"Ms. Connor, you're a bitch. Not that I can't appreciate that in a woman. I married two of them." He walked farther along the windows, lightly rapping his knuckles on the marble sill. "You know, it's not my decision how much Easton or the other beneficiaries will give up."

"Sanford Ehringer lets you run the trust," she said. "The others will follow your lead."

"Not as far as ten million dollars. No way."

"It isn't coming out of your pocket," she said.

He laughed, the lines in his cheeks making slashes. "Lawyers. Jesus. No, it's not my money, Ms. Connor. It's only numbers. A few million here, a few million there."

"If I wanted to squeeze this case, I'd do it. The will was forged. We can prove it. My client wants it now, not two or three years from now. You're getting a break. You and the other beneficiaries come out with over half."

"Blah blah blah." Laughing again, he turned toward her. "I don't give a damn. I don't. You believe that? It's true. You know, Gail—Gail? You mind? People today, they're in a cage. On a wheel. You, for instance. Same thing, maybe you don't see it. Most people don't. I'm fifty-four years old next month. I'm getting off my wheel. So settle the case, I don't care. Like you said—it's not my money."

She looked at him for a minute. "What are you going to tell Ehringer's lawyers?"

"What do you want me to tell them?" Odell spread his arms. "I'm not telling them ten."

"Any less than eight, we go to trial," she said.

"Six sounds better. They might go with six."

"Eight. Payable within three months."

"That's up to the beneficiaries' committee, isn't it? I don't write the checks." His eyes were fixed on the eastern horizon again. "We'll give you a call next week. Ted Mercer will. He's got the probate now, let him earn his fees."

"The case will be filed tomorrow, but it won't affect our negotiations," Gail said. She added, "As long as you don't impede them, you can count on my discretion."

Howard Odell's smile worked into a low chuckle. "You and my ex-wives ought to form a club, you really should."

Gail leaned casually against the windowsill; her knees had gone weak. She swallowed to clear her throat. "I'm curious about something. Who are the current members of the Easton Trust?"

He turned around, quizzical. "Why?" "I'd like to know, that's all."

"Sanford said you asked him that. If he wouldn't discuss it, then don't ask me." "Is the name an acronym?" "I don't know, is it?"

'Try this. Samuel Ehringer and five of his politically conservative friends in 1937. E for Ehringer?"

He grinned at her, perfect teeth, almost too white in his deeply tanned face. "My grandpa George used to play poker with Sanford's dad. There. You get one for free."

O for Odell,
Gail thought.

"One other question. How well did you know the woman who notarized the will? Carla Napolitano. She worked at Gateway Travel."

A puff of air escaped his pursed lips. "I know who she is, that's about it. Why are you asking?"

"She died last Thursday night."

"Yes, I heard. Fell off her balcony. Too bad."

"You don't seem sorry. She was a nice woman."

"I hardly knew her. Look, Gail. Carla was not a nice woman. She used to be a heroin addict and a prostitute. This is true. The manager at Gateway was giving her a chance. But, you know, people like that, they don't change." When Gail said nothing more, Howard Odell smiled sadly and lifted his shoulders.

She checked her watch. "You'll want a few minutes with Mr. Ehringer's attorneys. You may use this conference room if you like."

"Tell them to come in, would you, Gail?" He winked at her. "Thanks."

She looked at him for a moment, then turned and left him standing by the windows.

Last night she had dreamed of Carla Napolitano. Carla was dancing along the railing of her balcony in her high, clear plastic shoes with the daisies on the toes. Bracelets jingled on her wrists. Then Carla was airborne, slowly flapping her arms toward New Jersey. The sky was startlingly blue, with puffy white clouds. Below, little Greek fishing boats sailed on clear turquoise water. Then the sea turned gray and flat, with yellow lines marking the parking places, and it came rushing toward her like a fist. She tumbled down and down to the bottom of the stairs, and a crimson pool began to spread on the cold white marble.

Chapter Twenty-Three

It was 7:35 before Gail got to Irene's, 7:45 when they crested the Venetian Causeway bridge, heading for Irving Adler's house on Miami Beach. Karen sat in the backseat with a box of Chicken McNuggets and a large order of fries.

Irene said, "Gail, please. You drive like someone is chasing us. I told him we'd be late."

"I'm only five miles an hour over the speed limit." "Well, it's dark, and you know driving in Miami at night makes me jittery."

Gail let her foot off the gas a little, then turned on the dome light and adjusted the rearview mirror. "Hold that Coke between your knees so it doesn't fall over," Gail said to Karen's reflection. "And don't get anything on your clothes." She left the light on.

A pair of blue eyes stared back at her for a moment, then Karen scooted over to sit directly behind the driver's seat. She was still mad because Gail couldn't take her shopping. Usually Karen didn't give a damn about clothes. Now suddenly she did. It had taken a screaming match and five dollars' advance on her allowance to get Karen to come along. Phyllis couldn't stay over, there was no answer at Karen's friend Molly's house, and Gail refused to leave her by herself.

She said quietly to Irene, "You're positive Irving won't mind? I think Karen feels out of place."

"Mind? No, he has five grandchildren." Irene smiled at Karen and reached between the seats to pat her knee. "He has the cutest dog you ever saw. A tiny little white poodle."

Gail heard Karen mutter, "Oh, yay." Yay, indeed. Mitzi. Ill-tempered little bitch. Suited Gail's mood exactly. She took another sip of her soda, then wedged it back into the holder on the dashboard. "Maybe we can sit in the kitchen and Karen can watch the TV in the living room. Could you suggest that to him? People feel more at ease in kitchens," Gail said. "I brought my tape recorder. It's in my purse."

Irene gave her a look. "Irving is my friend. He is not a witness to be cross-examined."

"Mother, I won't do that. Watch. I'll be an angel."

Karen snickered from the backseat. Gail turned her head to speak to her. "If you're finished, put everything in a bag. On the floor, please, not on the seat." She turned the dome light off.

They had gone to see Clarinda Campbell at five o'clock. Two hundred bucks for the first session, one hundred thereafter. The first time was for the whole family, but a third of the family, Gail had explained by telephone last week, was now sailing from St. Croix to Curasao. Clarinda had said Dave could come when he was in town, but it was the family here that she must work with. The two of them, mother and daughter. Then Clarinda had gently asked whether she should speak with Anthony Quintana. I don't think so, Gail had replied. Not yet.
Maybe not
ever,
she had added to herself.

Clarinda Campbell was an elfin woman with protruding eyes, arching eyebrows, and light-brown hair that was brushed straight up, so that she looked constantly delighted. She wore soft clothes that she had designed and stitched together from old shirts and dresses. Green plants in Navajo pottery decorated the knotty pine bookcase, and in one corner of her consulting room was a drum made of elk hide, which she and a group of other women had made and painted with berry juice.

She told Karen that she herself had kept a secret box when she was a girl, full of things that no one else could know about. Then she complimented Karen on the alligator purse. Beautiful. Much better than her own gray metal box, because the purse was alive, and it had come from her own grandmother, besides.

Her voice was like soft, steady rain.

At ten years old, Clarinda explained, Karen was constructing her identity. During their time together she would take the threads of her life and weave them into her womanhood. And meanwhile, Mother should supervise the television, not allow Karen to watch violence or mindless comedies. Best to view it together, talking afterward about what it meant. They would study myths together. It would take time, but all precious things take time.

By then Gail's watch said 6:20. Clarinda gave them a list of special foods they could prepare together in the evenings, for the spirit as well as the body. No heavy meats, no grease, low sugar, plenty of fruit and whole grains.

As they left, Clarinda reached up to squeeze the back of Gail's neck. The small fingers were cool and strong.
So tense! Have you tried hatha yoga?
Gail smiled and wrote a check. By then it was 6:30. Too late for cooking. They would go by McDonald's on the way to Irene's. Brown rice and veggies tomorrow.

Gail turned north onto Alton Road, the headlights sweeping around curves in the darkness. She said, "Mom, here's a puzzle for you from Sanford Ehringer. It's an acronym." She told Irene her theory about the letters in Easton. They represented names. Most likely, last names of men with money and influence who had been business and political intimates of Sanford Ehringer's father, Samuel. "I have two of them, Ehringer and Odell. You know people. Who do you think the other four are?"

Irene looked at her. "From 1937? How old do you think I am?"

"What about my grandfather, John B. Strickland?" Gail asked. "He was a friend of Ehringer's. He could be the S."

"I never heard anything about that," Irene said. "It might have been my second cousin Eugene Spencer. He knew the Ehringers. Gene started the Bank of Miami, if I remember my history."

"There's still a Spencer at the bank, Leland. He's a cousin?" Gail stopped for a traffic light. "You know what? He's a client of Hartwell Black."