Suspicion of Betrayal (18 page)

"Cute kids," Gail said.

"Uh-huh." Lynn's attention was fixed on the screen.

"How old are they?"

Lynn waited till she had finished a line. "Six and four."

"Really? They look younger."

"I haven't taken any pictures recently."

"Oh, you have to. Kids grow up so fast."

"Well, our camera broke, and I can't afford to buy another one."

Gail combed through her hair some more. Twelve bucks, she thought. Twelve bucks for a simple throw-away camera and five more to process the film. She wondered if Lynn had said it to make her feel bad.

She shifted to see the screen. "That's it. But don't double-space the caption."

"I know. I know. I hit the wrong key." Lynn shook her hands in the air as if the keyboard had scorched them.

Gail wondered what she'd been thinking of, hiring a woman who knew nothing about working in a law office. Because she'll answer phones and run errands for eight dollars an hour, Gail said to herself.

A door down the hall slammed, and a moment later Miriam appeared barefoot, limping and laughing at the same time. "My leg is asleep!
Ay, que pena,
I've been sitting on the floor for two hours." She leaned an arm on the wall and held her right leg out, size-five foot dangling. Without shoes she was shorter than Karen.

The day after talking to Detective Novick, Gail had assigned Miriam the job of making a list. She told her to go through the files and pick out anyone who had caused trouble. Were there any letters of complaint? Anyone who could remotely be classified as a nut case?

"Did you find anything?"

"Like about . . . twenty names?"

"Oh, my God."

Miriam stepped gingerly onto her foot. "You remember that man who said you stole money from the closing on his house? He's on my list. I know he admitted he was wrong, but you said to write down anybody you ever had an argument with."

"Well, let's take a look." Gail started down the hall, then turned back to tell Lynn to print out the release. "Three copies," she said. "Proof it to make sure it's perfect. She might hang me for a misspelled word, the mood she's in." Gail laughed. "Twenty names? I'd better start being nicer to my clients."

In the small storage room, Miriam had pulled file boxes off the steel shelves that took up one wall. The rest of the room was crammed with books, old office furniture, and assorted junk brought from Hartwell Black. Miriam had cleared off a space on the floor, leaving several stacks of files.

"Gail,
te juro,
they aren't bad. I mean, I don't think any of them would want to
kill
you."

"That's a comfort." Gail crouched down to look through the files, handing them to Miriam to be returned to their proper storage boxes. "No maniacs here," she murmured. "No stalkers, no obsessives, nobody who claims to hear signals from outer space. Two complaints to the Florida Bar—resolved in my favor. Actually, these look fairly normal." She stood up.

Arms extended from the weight, Miriam slung the last box onto a shelf.

"Miriam, do you remember that case at Hartwell Black? I was in trial, I think, and the defendant kicked over a chair. He was coming after me, and the judge had
to call the bailiff. Didn't I tell you about that?"

The brown eyes grew large. "Yes, you did. It was a foreclosure case, I'm pretty sure. He sent you a letter afterward—what you did was so bad, you put me out of my house, blah blah blah . . ."

Gail nodded. "What was the case?"

Miriam blew out a breath. "I forgot. It's been way over a year ago. Oh! What about that woman, the stockbroker, who was cheating her customers, and you told the FBI, and she was arrested? Do you think she's in jail?"

"I hope so." Gail turned off the light and shut the door. "You might as well look through the files at Hartwell Black too. Not tomorrow, because Lynn won't be here to watch the office. She has a field trip for her son, I think. Which reminds me. Tomorrow is Friday, and Wendell Sweet is supposed to drop off his documents. Do you think I would be risking my life to call his lawyer and remind him?"

An hour later Gail was sharing a table with three friends in the cafeteria downstairs, which at noontime buzzed with the voices of well-dressed men and women who joyously devoted most of their waking hours to the needs of clients and money. Impressive arrangements of tropical flowers decorated the ends of the serving lines, and halogen lights in the faraway ceiling shone down like small suns.

Gail sat opposite Charlene Marks, whom she had hoped to talk to privately, but two friends from the building had seen them in line and saved places at their table—Susan and Carol, both lawyers. Gail liked them very much. Carol, in fact, would be one of Gail's attendants at her wedding. But their chatter made her restless. Gail wanted to find out what trouble Dave's lawyer was making. Charlene had told her that Joe Erwin had called. Gail also wanted Charlene's opinion on Karen's appointment with the psychologist at one o'clock. Her father would be there, but Mom would be busy at her law office. What would this say to Dr. Fischman? Would Gail's absence hurt her chances of retaining custody? Or would her presence make her appear too controlling?

A deeper question was gnawing at Gail that Charlene Marks, as attorney, could not answer: Would Karen feel abandoned? A stranger would be asking her questions, and Karen might want both parents waiting for her outside. But it was already after noon, and Ms. Zimmerman with the bad knee would be in soon to sign the release. And Gail's afternoon calendar was heavy with appointments.

Charlene said, "Gail, tell them about your car."

Susan and Carol already knew about the phone calls. As she picked at her salad, Gail told them what had happened on Monday night.

Carol said, "Oh, my God. Aren't you petrified?"

"The police say not to be—unless he does something violent."

Susan was wolfing down her quiche. "The bastard. I hope you catch him at it and shoot him."

"I don't have a gun. They scare me. I'll let Anthony shoot him."

"Oh, pooh," Charlene said. "Come to my office, I'll show you mine. A darling little .38, never jams."

Carol's forehead was creased with worry. She swallowed her last bite of grilled portobello sandwich. "You don't have any idea who it could be?"

"Anthony thinks it could be my ex-husband," Gail said.

"Dave?"

Susan said, "Do you think so?" "No." Gail laughed.

"My
ex would do something like that," Susan said. "He was so jealous after we split up."

"Of course," Carol said. "He's a Latino."

Gail said, "Hey, watch it. I'm marrying a Latino."

Susan made a little face at Carol. "My ex isn't Latin, he's Italian."

"Same thing."

"No, it isn't. In Miami if you're Italian, you're Anglo. If you're Polish, you're Anglo. I'm Jewish and Anglo."

Charlene replied, "I married a Mexican when I was young and foolish. Javier. The man was hung like a
caballo.
It lasted a month. I walked out after he blacked my eye."

Carol protested. "Charlene! Don't say that in front of Gail."

"You're absolutely right. I apologize, Gail. I've known several other Latin men, and they were all pussycats."

Gail said, "The detective told me to start looking at my clients. Is that crazy?"

"Not at all." Susan gestured with her fork. "If you practice law, you get loonies. I was handling a probate case a few years ago for a man whose mother had died, right? And I thought he was a little strange when he said, 'Don't call me at home, my lines are tapped.' Then a week later he tells me the CIA murdered his mother because they thought she was a spy for the Cubans. He wanted me to sue the government. I said, whoa, buddy, I can't do that. So he sent a letter to everybody in the building accusing
me
of being in on this murder plot. People teased me about that for months."

"What finally happened?" Gail asked.

"I managed to withdraw from the case. Then"—she giggled—"then I sent him over to my ex-husband's law firm!"

Their laughter made people at neighboring tables look at them and smile, wondering what the joke was.

Carol whispered, "One of my clients sued me for fraud. Purely by coincidence, my boyfriend at the time bought the client's property at a foreclosure sale for a personal investment, but this woman was certain we were conspiring to steal her house. It was just awful. I had to explain and explain to the Florida Bar, even after the case was thrown out."

"Not
a loony," Susan said. "That doesn't even qualify as funny, Carol."

"Well, I'm sorry. Nothing exciting ever happens to me."

Susan nudged Charlene. "Come on. You've had loonies. I know you have."

A low laugh came back. "Oh-ho, don't get me started." Charlene tapped slowly on the table with her long red nails. "I represented the owner of a nightclub in an uncontested divorce. The wife never put up a fight, and I couldn't figure out why. I mean, the guy had money. After it was over, he asked me out. I said no, I don't date clients. He kept asking. He sent flowers. He called. He said that he just
knew,
through some spiritual force, that we were meant for each other. I told him to get lost. Then one night I heard a noise outside my apartment and called the police. Guess who? He was carrying a pair of latex gloves, a roll of duct tape, and an eight-inch serrated hunting knife."

The other three at the table stared at her.

Charlene smiled. "He's in the state hospital. They said they'd let me know if he's ever released."

"Well." Carol let out her breath. "You win."

Susan patted Gail's arm. "Get a gun."

The two friends, having started their lunches first, were finished. They picked up their trays and told Gail to be careful. "Lock your doors," Carol said.

Charlene gave them a little good-bye wave, then turned around and looked across the table at Gail. A hammered gold necklace glittered at the neck of her black tank dress, and her gray hair sprang away from her face in thick curls. "Should I be worried about you?"

"Not really."

"Such a stoic." Charlene idly picked up a plastic straw and twirled it by the ends. "Any ideas who?"

"Wendell Sweet?" Gail accented her uncertainty with a shrug.

"So his wife hasn't taken him back yet."

"Bite your tongue, Charlene."

"I see it so often. The yo-yo syndrome." Realizing she was playing with the straw, Charlene tossed it onto her tray. "I quit smoking twenty years ago, and I still want a cigarette. It's like sex. It doesn't go away."

Gail pushed aside her pasta salad, which she had barely touched. "Wendell is supposed to deliver his documents tomorrow, but I expect a call from his lawyer asking for a delay till Monday. Or next week. Or never. What would you do?"

"Tell his lawyer that unless Mr. Sweet has the documents on your desk by Monday at nine a.m., you will be in court at ten o'clock asking the court to throw his ass in jail."

"Jamie doesn't want him in jail."

Charlene lifted her eyes to the ceiling. "God, if there were only a way to keep the clients out of it. Let us fight and tell them afterward who won."

Gail said, "At the risk of interfering in my own case . . . What did Joe Erwin have to say?"

"Yes, I did call you for that, didn't I? Joe wants the judge to rehear the motion on visitation. Dave is allegedly concerned about the presence of the police at your house. Bad example for the child and so forth. As if in this town kids don't see cops all the time. He is further concerned that the vandalism to your car could have been carried out by one of Anthony Quintana's criminally minded clients, in which case we assume that Karen would be constantly exposed to such threats."

Gail rested her forehead on her palms. "This is making me crazy."

"Oh, come on. It's a ridiculous argument, and Joe Erwin knows it. The judge is not going to put this back on the calendar, I promise. What Dave wants is more access to Karen, obviously, and he hopes you'll capitulate. The good news is, Joe is probably charging him two hundred dollars in legal fees to make the phone call. Dave will see it differently when he gets the bill."

"So what's the strategy? Wear Dave down? And what about my bill?"

Charlene smiled. "This isn't on the meter. We're having lunch."

"We've had lunch a lot lately," Gail said.

"A person has to eat." Charlene asked, "Do you need to go? You keep looking at your watch."

"It's too late now, anyway."

"Too late for what?"

"Karen's appointment with Dr. Fischman at one o'clock. Dave's taking her."

Charlene sat up straight. "He is? What are you doing here?"

"I have a heavy schedule this afternoon. Should I go? Would it matter? It's not to talk to Dave and me, only to Karen."

"Of course you should go. Make motherly noises. Smile and pretend that Evan Fischman has a clue what he's doing."

"It's already twelve-thirty."

"So hurry."

Gail made it with ten minutes to spare, after running three red lights and using her portable phone to explain everything to Miriam. Apologize to the one o'clock client, Gail told her. Tell everyone it's a family emergency. And make sure Ms. Zimmerman signs the release.

The office was on a shady street just off Brickell Avenue downtown. It was one of those sleek, glassy buildings erected during the boom of the early eighties, when drug money poured into Miami by the billions. Since then the interior had been renovated, but the carpet in the corridor looked cheap. The metal plate on the door to 1225 announced EVAN R. FISCHMAN, PH.D., FAMILY COUNSELOR. Inside were the usual armchairs and department-store lamps. Gail announced herself to the receptionist. The smell of tuna sandwich came through the frosted window, which slid shut again.

Gail sat on the sofa, her purse beside her, and rested her hands on her knees. She had that peculiar lightness in her chest that accompanied nervous dread. She watched the entrance door, wondering what Dave would have to say about her being here.

A door opened from the other direction, and Gail turned her head to see a bald, bearded man around fifty, wearing a navy blazer over gray pants. He was indeed short, but made less so by the two-inch heels on a pair of brown-spotted snakeskin cowboy boots.