Suspicion of Malice (15 page)

"Ten thousand. Cash." He added, "Since it was a cash transaction, we . . . dispensed with a contract
and sales receipts. Although I do have a bill of sale, proving my ownership. Well, actually, I sold it to
someone else. Never mind. The point is, Roger sold
it to me about two months ago."

A year or so after Margaret Cresswell's suicide,
Porter and Claire had given the portrait to their son,
Roger, who had promptly refrained it in hideous
black metal and hung it over his pool table. A couple of months ago, Roger had needed some quick cash. His profligate lifestyle had caught up with him. Jack had offered ten grand for the portrait. He had sworn to sell it back if Roger ever came up with the money.
And then Nate Harris had wanted a little something as a thank-you present. Jack had let the painting go
for under half its value for the delicious pleasure of imagining the result, next time Roger paid a visit to his parents' house. But his parents had given it away,
and Roger was dead.

Nikki's purse was still bouncing on her knees. "If you sold the painting, what's it doing in your office?"

"Well, it's for sale again. Perhaps."

"How much did you sell it for the first time?"

Jack could tell where this was going. "Nikki, my transactions are confidential."

"I bet you made a profit, though, didn't you?" Her
eyes had narrowed. "A big one. That painting had a price tag of seventy-five thousand dollars."

"A
suggested
price, Nikki. I sold it for quite a bit
less. Hardly anything."

"What if we split the profits? How about that?"

"Sorry."

"Jack, if I don't get some money soon, I could lose the house!"

Half expecting her to break into tears, he said,
"You have a job."

"Freelancing for an ad agency? I can't live on that!
This is totally unfair."

"It's not my fault. Blame Roger. He sold it."

"Because you cheated him, that's why."

"He was a big boy."

"I ought to sue you, Jack! Roger was right, you're
nothing but a cheat and a liar." Her voice became shrill, and her flame-red hair seemed to sizzle.

Anger set Jack's teeth together. "Go ahead. Sue me.
The police might find out about your lapse of marital fidelity."

"So we had an affair. So?"

"Let's be precise. You were going down on me
the same night someone was pumping bullets into
your husband."

"You're disgusting! It was
your
idea to lie to the
police, not mine. You even got Diane involved.
Here's something to tell them. The night Roger was killed, I called you at ten-thirty. Nobody could find
you. Where were
you,
Jack? With Roger? Explain that
to the cops. So don't threaten
me."
Nikki whirled
around and walked through his office door. "It's
mine,
and I'm taking it with me!" She reached onto
the shelf and grabbed the frame with both hands.

"Stop that!" Jack rushed for her wrists. "Let go! I
will break your fucking arms."

"It's
minel"
Her lips drew back, exposing her rab
bity incisors. She stamped a heel on his instep, and
he howled. He caught her in the gallery and dragged her around the corner, out of view of the street and
into a grouping of knock-off Boteros—fat men in fe
doras, fat-thighed women in flowered dresses.

He held her with one arm and ripped the portrait
away. It clattered to the floor, landing facedown. Jack
breathed into her ear. "Oh, yes, Nikki, call the police.
Tell them where
you
were that night. When you
knocked on my door at eleven, was he already dead?
I think you lured him to my house, you shot him,
and then you suckered me into giving you an alibi."

"Oh, brilliant!" Nikki was laughing so hard she
bent double. "Oh, my God. I shot Roger?" She
twisted around, breaking into giggles. "That would
have been dumb. Roger had nothing but debts!"

"You didn't know that till an hour ago, did you?"
Arms spread, Jack stood between her and the portrait
on the floor behind him. "Did you do it yourself or hire somebody?"

Her laughter had stopped, and she drew herself
up, raising her chin. "You know what? This may be
really hard for you to understand, but I cared for
Roger."

"Sure you did."

"Okay, we had some problems, but I
cared!
I didn't
know that till it was too late. When the police told me, I cried."

"Give this girl an Oscar."

"I
cried
and it was
real!
Roger loved me. Not like
you." With the heel of one hand she wiped the tears
off her cheek. "You only wanted to fuck me to get
back at him." Nikki picked up her purse from the
floor and put on her sunglasses. "You're a real shit,
Jack."

She ran to the door, turned the lock, and was gone.
The little sign swung back and forth.

Chapter 9

Theodore Stamos, sitting by the second-floor window in Porter Cresswell's office, noticed the fifty-ton high-lift rolling across the yard. It would pick up one of the new boats and carry it to the river. Ted
should have been down there. In his mind he listed
the things he wasn't getting done while he was stuck in this meeting, listening to Porter ramble on about how his old man had risked his last dollar on a prototype of the Cresswell Cutlass. How Charlie Cresswell turned the company into a leader in power boat
design, and they should all be proud to carry on
the tradition. . . .

What Porter ought to be talking about, Ted
thought, was how the company was going to recover from the various fuckups of the past six months, the
biggest fuckup being Porter's son, who had thought a business degree was a substitute for getting his hands dirty.

This was Porter's first day back since the funeral,
and he'd aged about ten years. His wife, Claire, sat
in the corner reading. She'd been driving him around
lately. With his money, Porter could have hired a limo and a chauffeur, saved her the trouble.

All the top people in the company were here. Por
ter's brother, Dub. Dub's wife. Management from
sales and marketing. And the production supervi
sors, including Ted, who was in charge of wood and fiberglass. Ted was thirty-seven, and he'd been get
ting his hands dirty at Cresswell over half his life.

Porter rocked back in his chair. "My dad—and
Dub's—started this company in a shop no bigger than
a garage. It's still down there, right by the river.
Humble beginnings and a grand vision."

No mention of Ted's father, Henry Stamos, who
had built the first boat. Henry's only assets had been his hands.

Ted noticed the yellow Porsche come through the open chainlink security gate. It sped across the park
ing lot, swerved into a visitor spot, and skidded to
a stop. Roger Cresswell's car. Leaning closer to the
window, Ted saw the driver's side open. A woman's
long legs swung out, black dress up her thighs. Then a mop of red hair and big sunglasses. Nikki Cress
well. She slammed the door and disappeared under
the roof overhang at the entrance to the building, apparently in a hurry about something, not bothering
to park in the garage, leaving the car baking in the
sun. It was another day in the nineties, and heat
waves shimmered off the metal roof of the main as
sembly shed and glared on the hard white ground.

Ted heard Elizabeth Cresswell's voice and looked around.

"Porter, I'm sorry to break in, but I've got a meet
ing with Personnel in five minutes." She didn't
sound sorry to break in. She stood up, and her back
was to Ted. White shirt and slim khaki pants. Dark
hair tied with a red scarf. He wanted her to turn
around, give him the front view.

People shifted, started remembering things they
had to do.

Hands gripping the arms of his chair, Porter
pushed himself out of it. His jacket hung loose on
big shoulders. He lifted one side of his mouth in a
grin. The man looked like a cadaver. "I talk too
much. You should've stopped me fifteen minutes
ago, Liz. It's good to see you people again. I'm glad
to be back, damned glad. Claire and I are grateful
for your sympathy . . . your friendship." His voice
broke, and he waved them toward the door. "All right, let me get to work."

There were some handshakes as people filed out. The leasing manager squeezed his shoulder. Porter
said, "Stamos! Wait a minute. Close the door and come back in here."

Ted did, then walked over to Porter's desk. Dub
was still sitting in a chair to one side, a can of Coke on his thigh. Probably had a couple ounces of liquor
mixed in. He'd gained weight, and his belly hung
over his belt. Dub's job as director of sales involved
entertaining vendors and boat buyers, taking them
out for steaks, then to strip clubs, if they wanted. Ted knew this because Dub would take him along
to keep these people out of trouble.

In the corner, Porter's wife turned a page in her
magazine, inconspicuous as a sofa cushion.

"A couple of homicide detectives came by this morning," Porter said. "Sit down, will you? They wanted to talk to you, but you weren't around. Your
crew chief said you were doing a water test."

"Yeah, I was out on one of the forty-six-footers.
Why do they want to talk to me?"

"They've got some questions about a kid who used
to work here, Bobby Gonzalez. Friend of my nephew
Sean's. He worked for you. Isn't that right?"

"More or less. He was in the glass shop for about a month." Bobby Gonzalez had been put to work
laying down fiberglass and pressing in the liquid
resin with rollers and brushes—a tough job, and hot
this time of year, even with industrial fans blowing into the boat hulls. Ted said, "I believe Dub arranged
the job as a favor to Sean."

"I should have known better." Dub took a swallow of whatever was in his Coke can. "He has an arrest
record. He was in a gang. Did you know that?"

"No. I thought he was a dancer."

"He is. He's a ballet dancer. If I wasn't sure Sean
liked girls, I'd worry." Dub laughed, and his stom
ach moved.

Porter said, "Now, listen, Ted. The cops asked me about the relationship between Gonzalez and Roger here at the company. I said that Roger fired him for
stealing some tools, and Gonzalez attacked him. That's true, isn't it?"

Ted could see that Porter wanted it to be. "Well,
they had some problems. I think Roger resented hav
ing to add another worker on the shift, so he made
it real tough on Bobby, trying to make him quit, I guess. Bobby started backtalking Roger in front of
the men, and Roger told me to fire him, but I said, 'Well, Roger, you better learn to deal with the em
ployees,' so I wouldn't do it. Then security found
one of our sanders in Bobby's locker. I never pegged
the kid for a thief, but Roger brought Bobby up to
the shop office and fired him. I got there about the time they were tangling, and I pulled them apart."
Ted added, "The kid's a hothead, but I can't see him
shooting anybody."

Porter pointed at Ted. "Nobody asked you that,
did they?"

Ted didn't reply immediately. The finger was still pointing. He said, "That's the question, isn't it? If he
could have killed your son?"

"The cops think he did. The night Roger died, people at that party heard Gonzalez threaten him. Every
one there can provide an alibi—except Gonzalez. Last
week the police found a shirt in Gonzalez's trash can
with blood on it the same type as Roger's."

Claire looked up from her magazine but said nothing. The sun came through the window, lighting her
pale blond hair.

Ted said, "I'm not clear on
...
what you're
saying."

Porter laughed, and a crooked smile remained. The loose skin of his jowls settled onto his shirt collar.
"Just tell the cops about that fight. Tell them you
saw it all, how Gonzalez attacked Roger, and I don't want to hear how you tried to excuse his behavior.
When I ask for your help, I would hope that you
have enough loyalty to give it, and keep your fucking
opinions to yourself." Porter was still smiling. "Is that clear enough for you?"