Suspicion of Betrayal (33 page)

When he was finally gone, Miriam said, "Wow, he looks just the same."

"A good tan does wonders." Gail took the mail from Miriam, who had sorted it. Back in her office the checkbook for her trust account was still on the desk. She flipped it open and computed the remaining balance in her head—just under $8,000. The client in the Zimmerman case expected her money today— $28,650 and change. The doctors would want to be paid also, but they didn't even know the case had been settled. Gail would have to explain the slight delay to Ms. Zimmerman.

The risk, Gail had decided, was negligible. Dave had been right: Business
was
done this way. Never by her until now. Some lawyers did it frequently, flagrantly. Gail would see their names listed in the
Florida Bar News
under "Disciplinary Actions." This lawyer suspended, that one disbarred for using their clients' money. Knowing she wouldn't profit from this made her feel slightly better. She reminded herself that it wasn't even for Dave but for Karen.

Gail put the checkbook into her bottom drawer.

Theresa Zimmerman's number was in the computer. Gail hit the button for automatic dial, then turned on her speaker phone, listening to the ringing on the other end. She shuffled through the mail and saw what she was looking for—an envelope from Harry Lasko. Miriam had slit it open and left the contents inside.

"Oh,
yes!
Harry, I love you." There were letters, most of them in Spanish. Fax numbers showed at the top. There were pages of figures that appeared to be income and expenses from the casino. What appeared to be a disbursement statement was typed in Spanish. She noticed $3,200,000 to Pan-Caribbean Holding Company. Harry had penciled in the initials HL. There was another figure, $1,050,000 to Yellow Rose, Ltd.—who else but a Texan would have named it that? As if confirming Gail's guess, Harry had written Wendell Sweet's initials. The buyer was a company called Inversiones Venezolanos, owned or managed by one Ricardo Molina of Caracas. Gail shuffled back through the faxes. One had been addressed to an R. Molina at the Commodore Club, Miami. Gail knew the building—tall, glitzy, and overpriced, just off Brickell Avenue downtown. Many wealthy South Americans had condos in Miami. Gail wondered if Molina knew Wendell Sweet. She wondered if Molina would be willing to talk. Why not? The deal was over.

With a start, she became aware that Theresa Zimmerman had answered the phone. She took it off the speaker. "Theresa, hello. It's Gail Connor. I wanted to let you know about your settlement. There's been a slight delay." Gail explained that the settlement check had not actually gone into her trust account until two days after she had received it, due to some mixup in her office, for which she took full responsibility.

The mail had slid off a heavy brown bubble envelope on the bottom of the stack. Gail noticed the return address: Ferrer & Quintana, P.A. Miriam had not opened it because someone—Anthony or his secretary—had typed PERSONAL next to her name and underlined it. There was a boxy shape inside.

With the phone tucked under her chin, she turned the envelope over and picked at the zip-release tab. "But I'll mail you a check Monday, if that's acceptable."

Anthony rarely sent gifts to the office, but Gail pulled from the envelope a pound-size box of Godiva chocolates in a gold paper box with a red ribbon. She looked back into the envelope for a note but found none.

Ms. Zimmerman's voice cut into her thoughts. No, mailing the check on Monday would not be acceptable. She would come pick it up. She needed the money immediately.

Gail felt a flutter of anxiety. The check from the Marriott deal would be issued on Monday afternoon. "The money won't actually be available till Tuesday," she said. "If you care to come in then, I'll have the check for you."

Tuesday? Ms. Zimmerman protested that last week Gail had promised her the money
today.

"No, I said it would probably be available, but I'd have to confirm it." Gail slid the ribbon off the box. She interrupted the irate voice on the telephone to say, "I'm so sorry about the mixup. There's no problem, I assure you." She lifted the lid, then frowned, seeing a snapshot of Karen's room. A three-by-five color photo showed the unmade bed and too many clothes strewn on the floor. Gail took it out and found two more pictures taken from different angles, then the white and gold tissue that covered the chocolates.

She heard Theresa asking if Gail was keeping her money to earn a few extra days' interest, and if so, she didn't appreciate it one bit. Gail said, "No, it's just—"

The paper rustled softly between her fingers when she turned it back.

"It's . . ." She felt dizzy and grabbed the edge of the desk for support. "I'm sorry. Tuesday. Call then." She dropped the phone twice before she managed to put it back.

Gail stood up, backing away from the box. Her stomach heaved, and she stumbled for the bathroom.

When the detectives arrived a half hour later, Gail led them to her office. She had not been inside since the gruesome discovery. She stood at the door, Miriam and Lynn behind her, as Ladue and Novick went to take a look.

The older man lifted the tissue with the end of his pen. "Holy shit."

"We might as well take it in," Novick said.

Ladue leaned closer, sniffing through his short nose. "He's got a pretty good seal on that bag."

"Clear duct tape," Novick said. He asked Gail if she had a storage box. Miriam brought one, and he put the gold-trimmed box inside and interwove the flaps. "We'll dust for prints, but I don't expect to find any." He set the box by the door, then looked at the three women standing there. "Ms. Connor?" She came in, and he smiled at the others. "If you could hold her calls for a few minutes?"

Gail picked up the envelope. "This isn't from Anthony's office. I should have noticed. The address label is plain white. Theirs is preprinted with the firm name, Ferrer and Quintana. This means something, doesn't it? Whoever sent it knows who Anthony is and where he works."

"Not that hard to figure out, is it?" Sergeant Ladue laid the photographs in a row on the desk. His hands were ruddy and thick. "Take a closer look. Can you tell when these were taken?"

Gail picked up one photograph, then the next. "No. I hate to say it, but her room frequently looks like this. Charlie Jenkins could have taken these two days ago. I went to look for Karen and left him in the house for about a half hour."

Novick said, "But you said that your daughter saw the cat after Jenkins left."

"He could have come back. Did you speak to him yet? I was sure he couldn't have done it, but now—"

"I went by his apartment," Ladue said. "The landlord says he lives alone. He wasn't there at the time, but we'll try again."

Gail remembered something and picked up one of the photos. "No. These weren't taken Wednesday afternoon. Her room was clean that day. I'd told her to straighten it, and she did, then she went out."

The detectives exchanged a look.

"Someone else was in my house taking pictures. My God. I don't know when. How did he get inside? I can't believe this."

Novick asked, "Aside from you and your fiancé, who has a key?"

"A key? My mother." Gail tried to think. "My secretary, Miriam. Karen has one in her book bag. No one else. Wait. Charlie Jenkins has been to my house before. He did a few things for me last month, then he came again last week. Monday. Yes. Lynn Dobbert—my receptionist—-used Miriam's key and let him in because I couldn't be home. I was there the other times, but not last week."

"Could we speak to Ms. Dobbert?" Novick asked.

"Yes, of course." Gail buzzed her on the intercom.

When she came in, Gail reminded her of last Monday, the day that Jamie Sweet had called and Gail needed someone to meet the handyman, Charlie Jenkins, at the house and let him in.

Gray eyes rolling from the detectives to Gail, then back again, Lynn picked at a fingernail and said yes, she remembered.

Sergeant Ladue put himself directly in front of her. "Ms. Dobbert, when you were at Ms. Connor's house, was Charlie Jenkins ever out of your sight?"

She shook her head, and her straight hair swung. "I kept my eye on him, like Ms. Connor asked me to."

Gail said, "Lynn, it's okay. We're not accusing him of anything. Was there a time when he could have gone upstairs without your seeing him? If you were in the bathroom, perhaps?"

"I would've heard him," she said. "The house has wood floors."

Ladue asked, "You were with him the entire time?"

"Well, I ... I remember now that I went to the gazebo, but when I came back he was still in the kitchen."

"Why did you go to the gazebo?"

"Because ... I wanted to see it. I've only seen them in pictures."

"How long were you down there?"

"I don't know. Five minutes. Maybe longer, I don't know."

Ladue nodded. "Okay."

Lynn whispered to Gail, "What did Charlie do?" "We're not sure." Gail opened the door. "Thank you."

Ladue took his hands out of his pockets and wandered back to the desk, where he stacked the photographs. "We need to get going, but to bring you up to date . . ." He gestured toward the sofa. Gail sat on one end, and the detectives took the chairs.

"Exotic Gardens. We called about the flowers you got on Monday. They show a cash payment on Monday in the name of Renee Connor—your sister."

"A woman placed the order?"

"Maybe, maybe not." He held up a hand. "You could go in there and say you're placing an order for Joe Blow. We don't know who the clerk is that took the order, and they said they were too busy to look it up. We could get a photo of Charlie Jenkins from the DMV and take it in, but frankly, due to the homicides we're working, other things tend to get stacked up."

"I understand." Gail wondered if the FBI could be called in to help with the investigation. "They have jurisdiction, don't they? The U.S. Postal Service was used."

"Technically, yes. But let me tell you. They don't come in on something like this unless (a) your daughter was kidnapped, or (b) the case has a high publicity value for the Bureau." He spread his hands, then dropped them on the arms of the chair. "Novick, what was that thing you had to show her?"

"Simon Yancey." He reached into the breast pocket of his sports shirt and withdrew a single sheet of paper, which he unfolded. "Last year Yancey moved to Winter Springs, just outside Orlando. I called up there, and the department is small, so they remembered the case." Novick gave Gail a copy of a newspaper clipping from the Orlando
Gazette.
He sat forward, as seemed his habit, with his forearms on his thighs. "This is from last December. Yancey was intoxicated and got into an argument with his wife. He shot her and their two boys, then himself. The children died, but the mother survived, although the clipping doesn't indicate that. Apparently he had lost his job just before Christmas."

Horrified, Gail scanned the body of the article, which ran two and a half columns.

FAMILY TRAGEDY: MAN SHOOTS WIFE, KIDS, SELF.
Winter Springs . . . late Tuesday night neighbors heard gunshots . . . Yancey had been employed as a drywall worker . . . Rita D. Yancey, 28 . . . sons Timothy and Jason, 3 and 5 . . . each shot twice in the chest ... Yancey's mother said her son had been depressed since the couple lost their home in Miami to a foreclosure action—

"Oh, my God." Gail let the clipping fall to her lap.

Novick said, "It isn't your fault."

"You said everything has a cause."

His eyes were gentle behind his glasses. "This was a chain of events. You didn't cause it."

"Well." She slowly folded the sheet of paper. "At least we can scratch one person off our list."

Ladue looked at his watch, then pushed himself out of the chair. "We need to get going."

Gail stood up. "Thank you for coming."

Novick held up the photos. "Do you want these?" Gail said she didn't. He dropped them into the empty bubble envelope, then said to Ladue, "Dennis, I'll carry this, and you take the box. You're bigger than I am."

"Guy's a comedian." Ladue went over and picked it up.

Gail walked out with them. In the corridor she said to Detective Novick, "Karen's father wants to send her out of town for a while-—to his parents' place in Delray. Do you think I should be that worried? Anthony is going to hire a guard when we go back to Clematis Street."

Ladue turned around. "Someone chopped the head off your daughter's cat and mailed it to you in a Zip-Loc bag. The photographs are his way of saying he could get to her too."

"Hey," Novick said.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Connor," Ladue said. "You didn't ask me, but if I were in your shoes, and my girl had a place to go, I'd send her there—for my own peace of mind, if nothing else. When we have an arrest, you can bring her back, safe and sound."

Novick looked at Gail. "It's a thought."

"Considered and decided," she said.

"And you will change your locks, won't you?"

"Absolutely." She opened the entrance door for them, then went out into the hall. "I have another question."

They turned to look at her. Ladue had the box under one arm.

"Ricardo Molina. He's a Venezuelan with a condo on Brickell. I believe he also owns a casino on Aruba. Does that name mean anything to you?"

EIGHTEEN

The Pedrosa house was as still as a museum when the relatives were gone and the old people were there. Ernesto and Digna. The aunts. Uncle Humberto.

The maid was mopping the floor when Gail came into the kitchen. She explained what she wanted.
Leche en un . . . una copa. No frio.
Warm milk in a cup.
Por favor.
The woman found a mug in the high, glass-fronted cabinets and rattled on in Spanish about Karen's state of mind.

"Karen's feeling better—" Gail started over in Spanish.
"Ella está mejor." "Gracias a Diós. Pobrecita."

The milk was warmed in the microwave and put on a tray with a napkin and a slice of chocolate cake.
"Para la niña."
The wrinkled face smiled.

"Muchas gracias."