Suspicion of Malice (5 page)

If they weren't blind, what did they see? Moving
around the other women at the mirror, Gail turned
sideways and studied her body. The sleeveless black dress still skimmed over her tall, thin frame. She smoothed her dark blond hair back from her ears.
Nothing had changed.

In the small lobby she stood in line for a soda. The small theater was restored Art Deco, all curves and red carpet, brushed steel, and frosted glass. Her gaze
swept over a group of girls, then backtracked. One
of them was looking at her with wide brown eyes.
Angela Quintana. In that moment of recognition, Gail
caught her breath. It was too late to turn around, too
late to slip back to her seat.

The girl hurried across the lobby, dodging around
people in her way. She was all legs in a short black
skirt and chunky sandals. Angela put a polite kiss
on Gail's cheek, then smiled again and hugged her,
an unhesitating gesture of affection that took Gail
by surprise.

"Hi, Gail. How are you?"

"Great." Unsure what else to do, she continued to
smile. "Well. What's up? Have you started college
yet?" Angela had been living with her mother in
New Jersey since her parents' divorce, but she would attend the University of Miami. Gail remembered
hearing Angela's father say she needed to be close
to her Cuban heritage, and where else but Miami?
Exiled parents often said such things, Gail had
noticed.

"School doesn't start for a couple of weeks," An
gela said. "I've been taking classes with the ballet."

"Oh, yes, that's right. How's it going?"

"Wonderful.
Really
hard, but I love it."

"And your brother? How's Luis?"

"Okay, except for having to attend summer school,
so he didn't get to go to Spain with Dad. I couldn't
go either because of ballet. Dad just got back with
this dark tan and about ten rolls of pictures—the
whole tourist thing. I had to stay with Nena because,
well, you know, he wouldn't let me stay by myself."

"Your great-grandparents are well?" Gail main
tained her smile. At some point they would run out
of conversation.

"Oh, sure. Getting old, but they're so sweet." Angela wore a blue top with little cap sleeves, and her
waist seemed as narrow as a flower stem. A tiny gold crucifix hung just below the notch in her collarbones. As she looked at Gail, her brows slanted downward.
"My dad told me you guys split up. I didn't believe him at first. Gail, I'm so sorry."

For an instant Gail wondered just how he had explained it. He must have been fairly vague, may even
have pretended a certain regret, or Angela would
never have crossed the lobby to say hello. Her dark eyes shone with curiosity.

Gail made a dismissive wave. "Well, you know.
Really, we're both fine with it." The line moved
toward the concession stand. "Oh, can I get you
something to drink? A soda?"

The girl shook her head and came closer. "Gail, there's something really important I have to ask you.
It's a favor—not for me, but for a friend of mine.
He's one of the dancers—Robert Gonzalez. He's the
one who did
Tarantella?"

The Italian dance that Gail had walked out on,
halfway through. "Oh, yes. He's very good." Gail
told the attendant to give her a club soda, no ice. She laid two dollars on the counter, then turned back to
Angela. "I'm sorry. This friend of yours—"

"Bobby Gonzalez. He wants to talk to a lawyer, and I saw you in line, and I'm like, wow, it's Gail.
Could you see him after the show? He needs some advice."

"I can't stay afterward, I'm afraid." Gail picked up her soda and threaded her way toward the windows
through the crowd. "What's this about?"

Angela glanced around before saying in a low
voice, "You know the man that was killed? Roger
Cresswell? Bobby was at that same party. The police
are talking to everybody, and they came around to
Bobby's apartment, and he
told
them he doesn't
know anything, and now they want to ask him
more questions."

"He was there when Roger Cresswell was
murdered?"

"He didn't see it. Nobody did. He doesn't know anything about it."

Gail angled her straw into her soda. "Then why— if I might ask—is he reluctant to talk to the police?"

"Bobby says they don't have any suspects, so
they're after him because they know where he came
from. He grew up on the streets in East Harlem.
Well, not
on
the streets, but in a tough neighborhood, mostly Puerto Rican, you know? I promised I'd help
him, and then I saw you right
there.
It's fate."

"Angie, this is a criminal investigation. You know
who to ask."

"Mv dad? Well . . . he's busy."

"Not too busy for you. He can't be."

"Okay. The thing is, he doesn't like Bobby. I went
out with him once, and Dad totally freaked. He's
like,
no,
you're not going out with him again ever, he's nobody. Wait till you're in college, find some nice guy from a good family." She rolled her eyes. "He doesn't approve of
anyone."

"So . . . you don't want him to know you're still
seeing Bobby."

"We see each other at the studio. We're friends."

Gail knew that lie when she heard it. "How old is
he? Just curious."

"Twenty-one." Angela gazed up at Gail. Two gold
barrettes held her center-parted hair back from her
face. "Can you help him? It wouldn't take much
time. And he'd pay you. I know he has some money
saved." Delicate brows drew together, making a
small crease in smooth skin. Seventeen years old.
Gail could see Anthony in the straight nose and full
lips. His eyes were darker, hers a soft velvet brown with long lashes.

"Please? You could talk to him, couldn't you? On
the phone, even. I won't tell my dad I spoke to you.
You don't have to see me again."

"Oh, Angie, it isn't that. I've done a few criminal
cases, but when it comes to a murder investigation, well. . . Bobby should find someone who specializes.
The ballet has lawyers, surely, who could recommend someone?"

"He doesn't want to tell them about this." Such desperation on that face. In a small voice she said,
"Do you know anybody else?"

Gail glanced away, a hand on her hip. So. Anthony Quintana would toss this kid overboard, not a second
thought. A poor Puerto Rican, not good enough for
his
daughter. Ballet dancer? Even worse. Gail set her
cup on the windowsill and opened her bag. "All
right. This is my card. Give it to Bobby and tell him
to call me tomorrow morning. I'll be in the office
till noon."

"How much do you think it will cost? He'll want to know."

Gail smiled and shook her head. "Nothing. It's on me. He does a great
Tarantella."

"Oh, thank you! He'll be so relieved." Angela
pressed the card to her small bosom. She kissed
Gail's cheek again before running back through the lobby to her girlfriends. Her dark hair swung on her
shoulders, and she moved as lightly as a bird.

Before the fiery crash of their engagement, Gail and
Anthony had bought a house in Coconut Grove. Now that it was on the market, both sets of keys
had been given to Anthony's law partner, who was handling the details so the owners wouldn't have to
speak to each other. Gail would get nothing from the sale because, by her reckoning, what she owed to Anthony exceeded her share of the equity. He hadn't asked for repayment, but she—in a gesture of pride that she had almost come to regret—told his partner
that she didn't want Mr. Quintana's money, and if
he didn't either, he should stack it up and strike a
match.

Until she was able to buy her own place, she and
Karen would live in her mother's house near down
town Miami. The rear of the property faced Biscayne
Bay, and the gated, walled neighborhood was shaded
and quiet. For Karen's room, Irene had bought new
curtains and a matching comforter and had arranged
on the bookcase all the books, Beanie Babies, art sup
plies, rocks from her travels, and other junk an eleven-year-old girl could accumulate.

In ten days Karen would be home from her sum
mer with Dave. He lived in a small apartment on the
island of St. John with a balcony overlooking the
town of Cruz Bay. There were banana trees and goats
along the winding dirt road that led up to it, and
green hills in the background. Karen had sent pictures. Dave made enough to live on, but not enough
to pay for Karen's private school in Miami, or her
clothes, or the braces she soon would need.

In hindsight—achingly clear—Gail could see how
wrong she'd been to turn down a partnership at one
of Miami's most prestigious law firms. She had been
too sure of herself, too eager to set her own hours,
to choose her own direction. She'd wanted more time with Karen and Anthony. She'd wanted a
life.
So she had rented an office near a major shopping mall and
burned up her savings on furniture, books, equip
ment leases, salaries, and simply staying afloat until the business took off.

It hadn't—not yet. Bills were getting paid, but
without much left over. If she failed, it meant starting over, finding a salaried position. This would not be easy in a town where the old firms were hiring more
Hispanics, and civil practice lawyers like Gail were
in plentiful supply. She might be forced to take a job
farther north, perhaps Tampa or Orlando, where an Anglo last name was no liability.

If she could just hang on, just a little while longer,
it would be all right.

In pajamas Gail knocked at the open door of her
mother's room. Irene was sitting cross-legged on her
bed writing letters, using a book as a desk. She
looked over the top of her glasses.

"I should go online. Everybody else is. Nobody sends letters anymore, do they?"

"You can use my computer," Gail said. "I'll show
you how."

"Okay, but let's do it before Karen gets back. I
want to show her how smart her grandma is. She
thinks I'm over the hill. Well, I guess I thought my grandmother was decrepit when she was fifty-nine. That isn't
old.
Is it?"

"You're a kid." Gail sat on the side of the bed. "Mom, I am so sorry for speaking to you the way I
did at the ballet. I can't explain it, except that
...
it
seems that all I have in my head these days are
thorns and scorpions and spiders. So ugly. And sometimes they get out. Forgive me?"

"Always." Irene squeezed her hand.

"Hey, I got a client tonight. It's a freebie, but great PR. He's one of the dancers. His name's Bobby. He was at the party where Roger Cresswell was killed,
and the police want to talk to all the guests, of
course. Bobby is reluctant to get involved, and he
wants some legal advice."

"He was
there?"

"Yes, but he didn't see anything. The police are talking to everyone. I think they'll just draw a line through his name and move on. You'll never guess how I got this one. Angela Quintana is his girlfriend.
She saw me in the lobby and we talked about it. I
don't do criminal law, but this is only a quick phone consultation. I thought I'd run upstairs and see Charlene Marks before Bobby calls. She's a former prosecutor. Five minutes' worth of advice from Charlene,
and I'm ready."

Irene folded her glasses. "Why didn't Angela ask
her father to handle it?"

"Senor Quintana doesn't like Bobby. Angela
doesn't want him to know they're going out."

"Is that what you call him now? Senor Quintana?"

"It's either that or "jerk.' "

Her mother carefully set her glasses in the box of
stationery on her nightstand. "You know very well
that Anthony's going to hear about it sooner or
later."

"She won't tell him. And if she does, so what? If
it annoys Anthony that I'm helping Bobby Gonzalez,
then tough bananas."