Suspicion of Guilt (46 page)

"Someday I will," he said.

"Should I find a
santero
to exorcise the evil spirits?"

"Gail, it's not that. What about Karen? If I stayed overnight at your house—" He shook his head. "Not yet."

"Maybe you're right."

"I am right." He drew back far enough to focus on her. "Gail. We're more to each other than what we do in bed."

"We are. Yes. A lot more." She turned to kiss the palm that cupped her cheek, then laughed. "But I still wish you had come home earlier."

"So do I."

They stood in the brightly lit kitchen, embracing, until it was time for her to leave.

Chapter Thirty

When Gail turned into the parking lot at the Sea Towers Condominium on Collins Avenue, Eric was already there, leaning against his Lexus. The sky was boiling with clouds, and wind ruffled the surface of the puddles.

She closed her door, walked over to him. "What do you think?"

His hair lifted off his forehead, then settled. "I walked around before you got here. There's no doorman or security desk. Front, rear, and garage entrances lock automatically. I'd say whoever shoved Carla off her balcony had a key. Or she let him in."

The building had fifteen floors, each with a row of terraces and white metal railings. Gail counted up ten floors. Plants hung in baskets from many of the balconies. Had Carla grabbed for them, for anything, in that last hideous moment? She let her gaze fall to the parking lot with its slanting yellow lines.

"They probably hosed it down," Eric said. The reflection of clouds swept across his sunglasses.

Gail let out a breath and looked away. At the rear of the building, beyond a low wall, the tops of folded umbrellas rattled in the wind. She could smell the ocean and hear the breakers on the beach.

She headed toward the front of the building, and Eric followed. The pastel-painted lobby had a terrazzo floor, potted palms, and ceiling fans.

Eric said, "You see a connection between this and whoever did Althea Tillett. Correct?"

She nodded.

"Because both Carla and Althea knew about the X-rated businesses Easton owned—"

"Not Easton's," Gail said. "Some Easton members owned shares in Biscayne, which owned the companies that ran the businesses. Biscayne is a front. Charging ten dollars for a drink in a nude bar is legal. Running a call-girl service using teenagers isn't. They were probably into gambling, sports betting, pornography ... Carla knew. I think she told Althea when she handled her travel arrangements, and Althea argued with Irving Adler about it. He didn't want her to expose the truth, because it would have ruined too many of their friends' reputations." Gail added wryly, "A lot of supposing."

"But it makes sense," Eric said.

"Add Larry Black to the equation," Gail said, "then ask, Who had a reason to want them all dead? My first choice is Howard Odell."

"Obviously. He had a lot to lose." Above his sunglasses, Eric's forehead creased. "However ... beating Larry Black like that? I don't think he's capable. And why go after Larry? Did Howard think he was a threat?"

"I saw them together at lunch in the Hartwell Club a few weeks ago," Gail said. "Larry told me they were discussing investments, but I doubt it." She hesitated, then said, "Larry was a member of the Easton Trust. His wife Dee-Dee told me.

Eric nodded as though the news were no surprise.

"What you haven't heard about Larry—and you're not hearing it now—was that the police found cocaine in his pocket. Larry doesn't do coke. I think it was planted there to make the crimes look unrelated. When you knew Howard, was he using it?"

"No." Eric shrugged, then smiled a little. "I would have known. But Gail, in Miami cocaine is common as dirt. Rudy Tillett had it on him when he was arrested. That doesn't mean he went after Larry. I can get him for the other two, though. Althea, for her estate. And Carla, because she may have demanded more than the five thousand he paid her, after she found out how much the estate was worth."

"I can get Howard Odell for all three,” Gail said. "All of them knew about his dirty businesses and any one of them could have shut him down."

"True." Eric swung around to study the lobby again. The wind lifted his tie over his shoulder. "Question. Would Carla have let Howard Odell into her apartment? Did they know each other?"

"He said they did." Gail remembered Odell's claim that he hadn't known Carla well. But he had also said she had once been a heroin addict and prostitute. He had known her well enough. For a moment Gail could see Howard Odell standing by the window in the conference room at Hartwell Black. Seeming older than he had at the gallery. Wanting to give it all up, go fishing.

Eric said, "Carla would have let Frankie Delgado in. He manages the travel agency. He had as much to lose as Howard Odell. And consider what he did to you. That shows a capacity for violence."

Frankie Delgado's muscular arm had snaked out to grab her purse before he shoved her against his office door. The blond-haired girl looking on, srnirking—

"He could have been working for Howard," Gail said.

"Could have been."

They walked back to the parking lot.

"You know, Gail, instead of beating our heads against a brick wall, we could wait till Larry wakes up and ask him."

"When will that be? He's barely conscious, and they don't know if he'll remember anything. The neurologist doesn't want to push him."

Leaning on the fender of Gail's car, Eric said, "You haven't mentioned Irving Adler in this scenario."

"I talked to one of his sons. Irving died of a heart attack. His doctor found nothing suspicious. I'm going to his funeral this afternoon with my mother. She was a friend of his."

"Did they ever find out what happened to Adler's poodle?"

"No," Gail said.

There was a high wooden fence around Adler's backyard, she recalled. Someone could have come into his house unobserved, even in broad daylight. And then what? Viciously kicked the dog? Adler saw this and dropped dead? She had thought of Mitzi a few times, followed by the image of Rudy and Monica Tillett throwing raccoons under the wheels of oncoming cars.

"Where to now?"

"Are you up for talking to Howard Odell?" When Eric gave her a surprised glance, she said, "You've got a car phone, let's see if we can find out where he is." She reached into her purse for the business card she had saved, still creased.

Eric stood there with his keys in his hand. "Seriously?"

"It's a place to start. Look what I found out when I asked Carla a few questions."

"Yeah, look what happened when you met Frankie Delgado."

"You're bigger than Howard." She got in when Eric unlocked the doors.

He turned on the engine. "What are you going to say?"

She punched the number for the Easton Charitable Trust printed on Howard Odell's business card. "I'll probably make it up as I go."

He laughed. "Jesus Christ. And what am I supposed to do, hang him out a window by his ankles?"

When a woman's voice answered, Gail motioned for him to be quiet, then announced herself as a Ms. Miriam Ruiz with First Florida Bank, was Mr. Odell in? No, he wasn't. How could he be reached, as the matter was quite urgent. There was a little pause, then the woman replied that she wasn't certain. Perhaps Ms. Ruiz could leave a number?

Gail said she would call back.

"Now what?"

"Back to the office." She got out and spoke to Eric through the open door. "Miriam is getting some information on the other officers of the Biscayne Corporation. I want to check them out. We're also going to dig into some bank records, see how all
these businesses overlap. Biscayne and Atlantic and Seagate. Find out who owns what."

Eric's expression was disbelieving. "How do you do that?"

"Contacts."

He smiled. "Not exactly legal."

"There's a lot to be said for a big law firm when you need something done. You ought to think again before you throw it all away."

"Wait a minute." He looked up at her through the window. "You know, something doesn't fit here. What about Althea Tillett's will? The forgery? What does that have to do with Easton?"

After a moment, Gail said, "I'm not sure." "Another question. How did he—whoever it was—get into Althea Tillett's house?"

Gail followed Eric to North Bay Road, pulling in behind him alongside the wall that ran around Althea Tillett's property. A lone bicyclist passed, splashing through a puddle. Gail locked her car, leaving her purse under the seat.

The gate was set between columns covered in flowering pink bougainvillaea. Standing beside Eric she could see the colonnaded portico, the overhanging trees, the circular drive where the police had taken her and Patrick and the Tilletts into custody.

"If you were Althea Tillett," he said, "would you let a stranger into your house in the middle of the night?"

"Howard Odell wasn't a stranger."

He slid a hand down one of the metal bars, then took off his sunglasses and put them inside his jacket. Backing up a little, he glanced both ways along the street, then toward the house on the other side, hidden behind hedges and Bahama shutters. He stripped off his jacket and tossed it at Gail. "Hold this."

"What are you—"

He jumped, grabbed the top of the wall with both hands, and pulled himself up, supported finally on straight arms. His suspenders made an X on his white shirt. He brought up his knees, crouched, and disappeared. Gail heard a thud and looked through the gate. Eric came from behind a tree, dusting off his trousers.

"Are you crazy?"

He spotted something on the latch and smiled. The gate swung inward with a metallic creak. "It wasn't locked, Gail."

"Get out of there!"

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her through, then closed the gate. "No one saw us." He took his jacket from her and put it on. He started down the curving brick driveway, empty of cars.

Gail glanced toward the street. The day was cool, but she had broken into a nervous sweat. Overhead, leaves rustled in the banyan tree. A blackbird screeched, loudly clattering its wings. Eric went onto the front patio and cupped his hands, looking through the window.

"Don't touch the glass," Gail warned. "There's an alarm system."

"I remember. Rosa Portales turned it off when she came in that morning." He moved to the next window, looked in. "I can see stairs. Is that where they found the body?" He walked along the colonnade. The front entrance was a double wooden door, painted white, with a heavy brass handle and two locks.

Gail said, "She was wearing a red silk kimono and her underwear, that's it." Eric looked around. "I wouldn't entertain unexpected guests like that. Maybe you're right. Whoever came in had a key. Or she knew him very well indeed."

Eric stepped off the patio. "How well did she know Howard Odell? They had the Easton Trust in common. She might have let him in." He motioned toward the walkway that led around the side of the house. "Let's go around back."

Gail remembered that trees shielded the view along the edges of the property. No one was likely to see them, unless from the bay. She said, "We might as well."

The house seemed huge from this angle, sand-colored stucco going up and up to the red barrel tile at the roof. Now she could see the rear terrace, the striped awnings, the gazebo. The surface of the pool wobbled, and occasional drops of rain made circles that expanded slowly to the Italian-tiled edges. At the edge of the sea-wall, the long, heavy fronds of the royal palms hung motionless, as though the wind was holding its breath.

Inside the house, the long sofas, laden tables, and cluttered walls showed dimly through the expanse of glass. One sliding door had been replaced by a sheet of plywood.

"Is this the one Patrick broke?" Eric laughed. "I wish I'd seen that." He opened his hands on the wood. "Glass doors can be lifted off the tracks, you know."

"What about the alarm?"

"Maybe it wasn't on. People forget. Didn't the detective say the women had been drinking? Althea forgets to reset the alarm, she goes upstairs to bed ..."

Eric stretched out his arms, easily spanning the door. He grasped either side of the frame. "Our intruder lifts—which I won't do—and pulls outward from the bottom, like so. He moves the door away like this...." Eric continued his pantomime. "He sets it down. It takes him—what?—ten seconds. He goes upstairs, kills her, pushes her body down the stairs. On his way out he replaces the door and sets the alarm. No one will suspect her fall was anything but an accident. Otherwise, the police will start asking too many questions."

Gail shaded the glass to see across the living room, where the stairs curved to the second floor. "She went upstairs to change her clothes, then she came down again. My mother told me that Althea was wearing slacks and a blouse at the party." She walked farther along the terrace. The lid of the grand piano was still down, where it had crashed when Patrick was attacking Rudy.

"Althea put on some music. Her neighbor heard it. What was it?"

"Music? Yes." Eric's hand was moving as if to grasp the title. "An opera. You wrote it in the file.
Madama Butterfly.
Yeah, that explains the kimono. The intruder lifts the door while she's upstairs. No, forget that. Too risky. What if the alarm was on? This murder was planned better than that."

Eric blinked away a raindrop. "This isn't getting us anywhere, Gail. You can devise any theory you want to about how Althea's killer got in here: Howard Odell rang the doorbell. Rudy had a key. Frankie walked in through the sliding glass door, which was wide open."

"I want to hear that one." Laughing, Gail stepped under one of the blue and white striped awnings. Drops of rain were making silvery crowns in the swimming pool.

Eric backed up, looking at the house. "All right. The open door theory. Between this house and the closest neighbor— about fifty yards away—there's an eight-foot concrete wall and a jungle of trees. Althea died on September sixth. Summer. Windows are shut and the AC is running. But the neighbor hears
Madame Butterfly.
Not for the entire opera, but only for five or ten minutes. How is this possible?" He nodded toward the sliding glass door. "The door was open. And if the door was open, our intruder could have come in without a key."