Suspicion of Betrayal (37 page)

Jamie watched the coffee drizzling into the pot. "They're gonna wake up in a little while. I don't know what to tell them." She closed her eyes and quickly turned away. Her shoulders began to shake, and she grabbed a paper towel.

Gail moved close and put her arms around her.

Jamie wiped her eyes. "Wendell wasn't a bad man, not in his heart. I'm sorry he's gone. I wished him dead more'n once, but I'm not happy he's gone."

TWENTY

It was nearly eleven o'clock by the time Gail reached her office.

She threw down her purse and found Jeffrey Barlow's number in Dave's file. Barlow was not in, but his secretary said that as far as she knew, the papers would be signed and payment made at two o'clock. Mr. Metzger had called to say he would be there.

Gail thanked her and hung up. "Praise the Lord and all the little angels," she breathed. She pressed the intercom and asked Miriam to come see her. Whatever happened with Dave's deal with Marriott, Gail knew that expenses had to be cut. When Miriam sat down, they discussed options for the office. Turning in the elaborate computer equipment. Breaking the lease and taking a smaller space. Letting Lynn go.

Gail said, "Anthony wants me to come to work for his law firm. You too, of course. I'm considering it."

Distressed, Miriam cried, "But you wanted your own office."

"Don't put that in the past tense yet," Gail said.

With a sigh Miriam sank into her chair. "We've been together for more than three years! If you go with another firm, I'll go too." She added, "I want
you
to set my hours, though."

A knock came at the open door. Gail told Lynn to come in.

"Theresa Zimmerman just called again. She said she wanted to come by and pick up her check this afternoon, so I said okay. I hope that was all right."

"You
what?"

"Well ... I heard you tell her that you'd mail it this afternoon, and so . . . it would be easier if she picked it up."

"You told her to come here?" Gail stood up from her chair. "You don't
ever
tell a client to pick up money unless you have my approval."

"But if you're going to mail it—"

"Call her back and tell her you were mistaken. Tell her you needed to ask me, and I was in court."

Lynn's brow furrowed. "I don't like to lie."

Gail erupted. "You
idiot!"
She clapped her hand on her forehead. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"Don't call me an idiot! I do the best I can, and you yell at me all the time."

"All the
time?
I am extraordinarily patient."

"You're a terrible person to work for!"

Petite Miriam, long hair bouncing, ran from one of them to the other like an agitated dog. "Calm down! I'll take care of it! Lynn, it's okay, Gail is really stressed because of Karen."

When the office was quiet again, Gail cut a Xanax in half with her letter opener and swallowed it dry. Her heart was doing somersaults, swinging from rib to rib. She noticed how the miniblinds made stripes of light on the carpet. She kept them closed these days against the possibility of a bullet crashing through the
glass. They reminded her of bars in a jail cell.

She pulled her stack of files to the center of her desk and reached for a pen. The intercom buzzed. Gail exhaled tiredly. "Yes, Lynn?" It was a Mr. Ferrer from Ferrer & Quintana.

"Raul??"

"Yes, he said he had to speak to you."

Gail gritted her teeth. "I told you, I'm not here."

"Oh. Well, he said it was important, and I thought—"

"Never mind. I'll take it." She picked up the phone. "Raul, this is Gail."

It took a few seconds for her brain to catch up with what she was hearing—a voice, a stuttering, high pitched whisper, like the laughter of a demented child locked in an echo chamber.

Gai-ai-ail Connor-or-or. It's been-en-en a long ti-i-ime.

Slowly she stood up from her chair. "What do you want? Why are you doing this?"

Did you li-i-ike-ke the choco-o-o-lates-s-s?

"Do you want money? You're out of luck. I don't have any. My daughter? No way. She's gone. You'll never find her. You want me? Here I am. Come on, you coward, walk through my door."

The echoing whisper filled her ear.
What I wan-n-nt—bitch-ch-ch—is you-u-u .. . dea-e-e-ed. Like the ca-a-at-t-t. I wan-n-nt you to die-ie-ie. Cut off-f-f your lying-ing-ing hea-e-e-ed, you fu-u-ucking-ing-ing bitch-ch-ch.

"Same to you buddy. Tell me. Do you have a name? Can I call you something besides Bozo the Clown?" There was a silence. "Maybe Donald Duck? Dopey? Grumpy? Wheezy? Don't stop now, I'm recording this. Please go on."

"My na-a-a-ame is Dea-e-eath-eth-eth."

"Oh, really. How original. Is that Mr. Death? Do you carry a scythe and wear a black robe?"

"Sa-ay-ay your prayer-er-ers. He-ell-ell-ell is waiting-ing-ing."
There was a click on the other end.

Gail slammed down the telephone, then screamed at it. "Son of a bitch! I will find you and rip out your heart!"

She heard running footsteps. Miriam stopped herself on the door frame, swinging then hanging on. "Gail! What happened?" A second set of footsteps followed. Lynn stared, open-mouthed.

Gail shouted, "Lynn! Who was that on the phone?" She came around her desk.

"What—the one that—it was—it was Mr. Quintana's law partner—"

"No, it wasn't. It was our favorite psycho, Bozo the Clown,
aka
Mr. Death. He asked if I liked the chocolates."

Lynn's eyes widened to gray circles in her white face. "But he said—he said—"

Gail put her forehead in her hands. "Lynn, I didn't mean to yell at you. It isn't your fault: Listen to me. What did he sound like? When you answered the phone, what did he say?"

"He—he—"

"What did he
say
?”

"Uhhh . . . Hello. This is Raul Ferrer from Ferrer and Quintana, I'm Anthony Quintana's law partner. Could I speak to Ms. Connor, please? It's important. Something like that." Lynn took a breath. "I don't remember what he said exactly."

"Did he have a slight Spanish accent?"

"I—I don't think so."

"Well, the genuine Raul Ferrer does." Gail paced. "Okay, think, Lynn. You've heard Charlie Jenkins speak, haven't you?"

"Who? Oh, the man who worked on
your house." Lynn shook her head. "No, it didn't sound like him. The voice on the phone was . . . sort of . . . deep? Oh, Ms. Connor, I don't
know
!”

"It's okay." She patted Lynn's shoulder. "From now on, I don't care if God is on the phone, get his number and I'll call back. I will not take any more phone calls."

"What about Karen or Anthony or your mother?"

"Of course I'll take their calls. I meant, I won't take any calls from people you don't personally know. All right?"

Lynn nodded.

"Miriam, go buy a recorder for this telephone, and order caller-ID immediately."

"It's a good thing you sent Karen away," Lynn said.

"Well, she's staying away till we catch this freak."

"What if you never catch him? What if he doesn't stop?" Lynn swallowed. "He could come after Miriam and me. Or our kids. We have a tabby cat that's been with us for ten years, and if she died, my boys would go crazy."

Gail looked at her, then nodded. "Yes, well, let's all get back to work. I'll report this to the police, for what it's worth."

Without interruption, Gail worked steadily on the computer, composing six letters, drafting two complaints for damages in commercial cases, and preparing interrogatories she had meant to get to for weeks. Around noon Miriam brought the tape recorder in and hooked it up to Gail's telephone. The economy model—forty dollars from the security shop at the mall across the street.

Just after one o'clock, Gail gave Lynn ten dollars and told her to go downstairs and get her a chicken sandwich from the deli. Lynn stuck the bill into the pocket of her slacks and rolled her chair under her desk.

On the desktop Gail noticed the message slip,
a piece of pink paper, one in a neat row of them.
11:35 a.m. To: Ms. Connor. From: Mr. Jeff Barlow. Message: Transaction canceled for today. Please call.

"Oh, my God."

"Ms. Connor?"

"Why didn't you give me this?"

"You said you didn't want any phone calls."

"The
message.
Why didn't you give me the damned
message?"
Gail leaned against the side of Lynn's cubicle. Lynn stared back at her blankly.

"Okay, that's it," Gail said. "You're leaving."

"What?"

"I'm sorry, but I've had more than I can take."

"Are you firing me?"

"Yes. I can't stand this anymore."

"Why?
What did I do?"

"Look, For one thing, I can't afford your salary anymore."

"You pay me
peanuts!"

"Which you agreed to take, for the experience. Remember?"

Lynn's eyes narrowed. "Well, I'm not surprised. All you care about is money. You and your rich la-de-dah boyfriend. I know what you did. You used Ms. Zimmerman's money for yourself, and now you can't pay her back."

Gail called out for Miriam, who stuck her head out of the extra office, where she had been working on the books. "I want you to write a check to Lynn for whatever her salary is for the week, and give her two extra weeks'severance pay."

Miriam's eyes widened.

"She's firing me," Lynn said with a tight smile. She continued to glare back at Gail as she followed Miriam into the office. She came out again a minute later, folding a check. Her feet thudded on the carpet in their flat, laced shoes, and her hair swung side to side. Passing Gail, she said, "My husband is going to have something to say about this. We might hire a lawyer and sue you."

Seated at the other desk, Gail watched her from under the hand arched over her forehead. She watched Lynn take down her children's crayon drawings, the snapshots, the clippings. Lynn cleaned out the drawers in her desk and put everything into a box. Her lips moved, but Gail could not hear what she was saying.

"Lynn, I'm sorry about this."

"No, you aren't. You're such a bitch. You really are. You don't care what you do to people. I've got two kids at home to feed and clothe, but you couldn't care less."

The door slammed behind her.

Miriam looked around. "Oh, my God."

Gail said, "Miriam, I need to make a phone call. Then I might be out the rest of the day. Can you handle it?"

"Of course. Gail?" She caught up to her in the hall. "I didn't know about the message from Mr. Barlow. It's not good news, is it?" Gail shook her head, then felt Miriam's small hand grip her wrist. Miriam said, "Should I call Ms. Zimmerman and say not to expect the check? Or . . . wait till she calls?"

Gail opened her mouth, then said, "I don't know. If she cans—and she will—tell her tomorrow. She'll get it tomorrow."

Rain was spitting on Gail's windshield when she reached Coconut Grove, and coming down in fat, intermittent drops when she pulled into the parking lot of the Old Island Club. At nearly two o'clock, the lunchtime crowd was gone, but locals still were lingering with their beer under the umbrellas on the deck, ignoring the rain.

Gail went inside and shivered in a blast of chilled air. Busboys were clearing the wooden tables, and reggae pounded from the speakers. Stuffed parrots in fake banana trees jerkily turned their heads and squawked at random intervals. An overhang made to look like a tin roof ran along the food-prep area, and Gail spotted someone she knew behind the cash register—Vicki, wearing her usual little shorts and flowered Island Club shirt. She was tapping at the multicolored squares on a computer screen.

"Hi. I need to speak to Dave. Could you tell me where I can find him?"

Vicki looked around, and her tilted, black-penciled eyes flicked over Gail in a quick, dismissive appraisal. "And you are—oh, hi. Is he expecting you?"

Gail wanted to slap her. "Just tell him I'm here." She smiled. "Thank you."

"I'll be right with you." Vicki finished what she was doing. "Would you mind waiting over there? I'll see if he's available." She turned and walked into the back, the muscles in her calves bunching under sleekly tanned skin.

The rain was falling harder, obscuring the mangrove islands around the marina. It seemed to move in a curtain across the parking lot, finally reaching the deck, where it coursed off the umbrellas and made people pick up their feet to keep dry. A few of them ran inside, laughing and brushing the rain out of their hair.

"Gail?" She turned around. Dave had called to her from a doorway behind the phony storefront of a Caribbean market. When she got there, he said, "I tried to call your office just now. Miriam said you'd left."

"We need to talk."

The grimness of her expression took the smile off his face. "Sure. Come on." He led her down a short hallway stacked with boxes of napkins, cups, and toilet paper, then into his office, a small room just as cluttered. He closed the door.

"I know what you're going to say, and I'm sorry, I don't know exactly what's going on, but Jeff Barlow says it's just a matter of a few days. The general counsel at the head office wants to look at it again." He extended his arm toward a chair. "Do you want something to drink?"

"No. I talked to Jeff. He is not nearly as optimistic as you are."

Dave held up his hands. "I talked to the man too. It's fine. Would you relax?"

"Where's the money I gave you?"

"Where? Gail, I wire-transferred it on Friday to Armand Dubois." He tugged on her arm. "Honey, come on, sit down. You look like you're about to snap into pieces."

"Do not call me honey."

"Okay. Sorry."

"What is going on, Dave? Jeff was in the middle of a meeting and he couldn't talk."

"It's just. . . some crap about the name. They want to make sure Armand had the right to sell it to me, something like that. And he did. We signed a contract." Dave's hand smacked his palm, accenting his words. "Armand's lawyer drew it up, Armand signed it, I paid the money, and I own the name, the logo, the look—everything. It's like . . . owning the name 'Hard Rock Cafe.'"