Suspicion of Guilt (7 page)

"Half an hour, touching you. It's worth it."

She pulled her foot away, then laughed. "If I thought you were serious—"

"Your face is red."

"I'm sure it is." She put her shoe back on. His eyes moved upward, to a place behind her. At the same moment she heard Larry Black's voice saying her name.

She turned. "Hi, Larry."

He nodded and smiled, then his attention went to Anthony. "Larry Black. We met at the Bar conference in Tampa in July."

Gail became aware of another man. Late forties, a custom-tailored suit and a fifty-dollar haircut. He smiled broadly. And excellent dentistry. She had seen him before. Theater openings. Or the opera. She couldn't remember.

"Yes, of course," Anthony said. The men shook hands. Althea Tillett's will lay facedown on the table. Anthony didn't invite them to pull up chairs—his way of saying he didn't want to be disturbed.

The second man's hand went out. "Tony, good to see you. I said to Larry, look who's here. Got to go over and say hi." The man's voice was a rich bass. He could have announced golden oldies on a wee-hours AM station.

Larry said, "Gail, this is Howard Odell. He's in business in the area. Gail Connor's an associate in our litigation department."

"Gail." Howard Odell gave her a subtle wink when she said hello. Part of his routine with women, no doubt. Like a tic. Somebody ought to tell him, she thought.

Odell braced one hand on the back of Anthony's chair, the other on the table. Some chitchat about the economics in downtown Miami these days. A comment to Gail to make sure she didn't feel left out. Odell said he'd like to get together, how about lunch next, week at his club. Anthony said he would check his schedule. Howard Odell gave him his card, then smiled at Gail. "I'll let you get back to this lovely lady." Wink.

When the two men were out of earshot, she said, "I remember now. The last time I saw Howard Odell, he was in a tux, with the CEO of a cruise line and a bunch of society types."

"What do you downtown attorneys call it? A schmoozer."

Gail saw the door to the partners' room close. "You were being seduced."

"Not me," Anthony said. "He wants one of my grandfather's restaurants."

"And? Ernesto doesn't want to sell it?"

"Ernesto doesn't care for Mr. Odell's friends."

"What friends?"

"One of whom I represented."

"You're kidding. An upstanding businessman like that, consorting with criminals?"

"Gail, you don't become wicked simply by knowing people who have been accused of crimes. What would I be, if that were true?"

"Even wickeder than you are." She made an air kiss.

Smiling, Anthony picked up Odell's card and folded it in half. He started to drop it tented in the ashtray.

"No, let me see that." He gave it to her and she unfolded it, a cream-colored card with the name
G. Howard Odell
embossed in gold

Anthony went back to his lunch. "Do you want his investment advice?'

"No. Look at the address. The same address on Brickell Avenue as the Easton Charitable Trust."

He tapped the will. "Althea Tillett's residuary beneficiary."

"Exactly." Gail flipped the card between her fingers. "I wonder what G. Howard Odell does for the Easton Trust. Tell me more about him."

"I don't know much. We met through my grandfather. When one of Odell's acquaintances—a Cuban—was arrested, he told him to call me."

"Arrested for what?"

"So inquisitive."

"And you're such a tease. What difference does it make if you tell me? Do I know him?" Anthony rarely talked about his clients.

"No. He owns a dry cleaning business in Hialeah, and he was arrested for selling pornography out the back."

"And you represented this man?" Gail asked.

"It's what I do. I defend people accused of crimes."

"Pornographers? Okay, okay. The First and Sixth amendments to the U.S. Constitution. You've told me." She nudged his leg under the table. "You wouldn't be half as much fun if you were a real estate lawyer."

"It's why you love me."

"Was he guilty?"

"Who? The dry cleaner?"

"Yes, Anthony. The dry cleaner."

"Guilty? Not officially. The judge granted my motion to dismiss. The police improperly searched the premises." Smiling, he lifted his glass. "Fourth amendment."

Gail had once asked Anthony Quintana why he practiced criminal law, where almost everyone was guilty as charged. He had told her there was no more guilt in criminal law than in civil practice. Civil practice was taken up with lawyers who didn't like to associate with semiliterate persons of another social class. Anthony said he didn't mind this. His clients could come from the most sordid conditions; at least they weren't hypocrites. In civil practice, he said, both lawyers and clients claim perfect innocence.

She tucked Howard Odell's business card into her purse. "Howard isn't going to like me very much when I tell him Patrick is going to get the money meant for the Easton Trust. Speaking of which—" She tapped the will Anthony had left upside down on the table. "You still have to earn your lunch."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Not much. Tell me how to go about investigating a case like this. Felonies are your territory. I could use one of the P.I.'s we hire for insurance defense work, but who pays? The firm isn't going to authorize an advance, not on these facts. Not with this list of well-connected beneficiaries."

"Start with your mother," Anthony said. "She and Althea Tillett were friends. Maybe they discussed her will."

"I'd thought of that."

"And talk to the witnesses. You said you knew them."

"Could you recommend an investigator, if I need one?"

"Yes, several."

"Another question. If Patrick is right that the will was forged, what about the people who did it? What would they be charged with? Grand theft? Fraud? What would the State Attorney's Office do to them?"

"Probably nothing."

"Nothing?" Gail asked, hardly believing this. "Why? Because of who they are?"

"No, because the State Attorney doesn't usually care about civil matters. Who is the victim? Patrick Norris? They have their hands full prosecuting thieves who carry guns." He added wryly. "My clients."

"But I could use threat of prosecution to make them nervous."

"Be careful." Anthony folded the will and handed it to her. "You could get burned."

"I don't see how, just by asking a few questions." She put the will back into her purse. "Maybe Althea Tillett did sign this, all witnessed and notarized right in Alan Weissman's conference room. Patrick can accept that, if it's the truth. I owe him my best shot at finding out."

Anthony frowned slightly. "You owe him? Why?"

"Because ... he's a friend. Or because of what he represents."

"Which is?"

Gail thought for a minute. "I'd say commitment. Patrick might be a little extreme at times, but at least he knows where he stands. I admire him for that. I always have. In law school, he made me ask myself, What am I really doing with my life? What's the purpose? You know—typical first-year law school idealism. When you are dying to do something great and wonderful. But then you graduate and go into practice. You find out what a muddle the law really is. You're just there to push and shove, and whoever can push harder wins. The times where you've really got something to fight for are so rare."

Anthony looked at her for a while, then said, "Whenever you have a client, you have something to fight for."

"Of course. But why? Because you get paid? Or—as Patrick might say—for a greater good?"

'Ten million dollars is pretty good." Anthony picked up his fork and cut a piece of asparagus. "I've learned one thing: It's not wise to represent friends. Send him to someone else."

"No. He wants me. And frankly, I need a case like this."

Anthony gave a short laugh. "This is the last thing you need."

"I'd appreciate your not telling me how to run my own law practice. Please?" She smiled.

"Ah-ha." He patted his mouth with his napkin. "And you expect Hartwell Black will take this case?"

"Yes, if I find evidence of forgery. If we can prove—"

"Gail, they won't let you. They can't. How would it look, trying to break a will where a woman left most of her estate to charity? Very bad. And here's another point. Patrick Norris, from what you tell me, is a socialist, and in Miami—"

"Oh, for God's sake," She had to laugh. "What an outdated concept. Like one of those Little Havana radio hosts, calling everyone to the left of Ronald Reagan a Communist."

"I don't care if the man is a flaming Marxist, but other people might. There could be publicity."

Gail said, "Look. Hartwell Black is more interested in fees than in anyone's pohtical persuasion."

"Only if you can win,"

"Well, that depends on what I find out, doesn't it? I told Patrick I'd help him, and I will."

For a few seconds Anthony said nothing. Then he sat back in bis chair. He smiled. "Did you sleep with him?"

She tilted her head. The words had made no sense. "What?"

Lifting an eyebrow, he restated them. "Did you sleep with Patrick Norris? When you were in law school?"

"Oh, I see. If a woman feels any sense of loyalty at all for a man, it must be because she slept with him."

"Did you?" His eyes fixed on her.

"No, I did not."

It was said before she could think, as quick as ducking a rock. For an instant she considered taking it back. But how would that appear to him? And what was there to tell? An event so many years ago that it didn't matter anymore? Or the reality of what they had here, now? One thing she had learned was that complete honesty between men and women was dangerous, unless you had nothing to lose.

She whispered across the table. "You're jealous. This is incredible. You don't want me to represent Patrick because you're jealous. I've heard about Latin men, thinking they can—"

"This is not because I am Latin! Don't make me into a stereotype."

"Then stop acting like one. My God."

He turned sideways in his chair and glared out the window.

The waiter came men, asking if they wanted anything else. Only the check, Gail told him. He took their plates and went away.

Through the rain-streaked glass she could see that the cruise ship was gone, its berth empty. In a moment Anthony would thank her for lunch and offer to escort her back to the fourteenth floor, not wanting to make her late for her clients. Impeccable manners.

Close to despair, she slid her hand across the table to touch his wrist. "I should have been glad you care, instead of yelling at you."

Anthony's head turned slightly. He let out a breath. "Why do we do this?"

"I don't know." He wore a ring with a curve of jade set into it. She traced the curve with her thumb.

"Gail."

She raised her eyes.

He had turned back around, and took both her hands. "There's a handwriting expert you should see. I'll have my secretary give you his phone number. He's expensive, but I think as a favor to me he'll give you a preliminary opinion."

"Thank you." She entwined their fingers.

He tightened his grip. "Let me take you to dinner after work tomorrow."

"I'd love it. Oh, wait. No. I have a hearing early Wednesday."

"This law firm takes your life."

"Not forever," she said. "How about this weekend? Saturday. I promised to take Karen to the Museum of Science. Come with us."

"I have a client to see in Fort Lauderdale. What about dinner on Saturday night, the three of us, at my house."

"Karen too?"

He shrugged. "Why not?"

"I can't stay over," she said. "You know. Not with Karen."

"I know."

"But she has a birthday party to attend on Sunday afternoon."

"Good. Come back on Sunday."

"Very good. But I'll have to leave by four."

He laughed softly. "Then we have whatever time there is." Standing up, he went around to pull out Gail's chair, then put his back to the room and lifted her hand from the table. She felt the moist warmth of his lips on her fingertips.

"Anthony." She glanced past his sleeve. "What are you doing?"

He bent close to her ear.
"Esta noche, quiero que pongas tu mono donde yo quisiera poner mi boca ahora."

Her mind worked to translate: Tonight, put your hand where I would like to put my mouth right now.

She whispered, "You are so bad."

Chapter Five

Gail's mother, Irene Connor, did volunteer work for a few of the charities around Miami, including Friends of the Opera. On Saturday Gail took Karen along to the new performing arts center downtown. They stopped to look inside the auditorium. Onstage, bits of Egyptian backdrop leaned against bare walls. From the wings came the whine of a power saw.
Aida
would open in two weeks.

Karen craned her neck around to see up in the ceiling, where a man crawled along a catwalk, unrolling cables. "What are they doing?"

"Looks like they're working on the sound system."

"Mom, I want to stay and watch." Karen faced Gail squarely, the bill of her Miami Hurricanes baseball cap low and level.

"No, come with me. I don't think they want people watching."

"It's okay. If anybody tries to kick me out, I'll tell them my grandmother Irene Connor works here." She pushed a seat down and sat on the edge of it.

Gail glanced around. Two stagehands were carrying a wall painted to look like the inside of a temple. "All right. But don't run up and
down the aisles or go into the balcony."

Karen sighed. "I won't." She scooted back, the toes of her ragged sneakers touching the slanted floor. For ten years old, she had long legs. Karen would be tall one day, like Gail. She pulled her purse around so it lay in her lap. It was a small alligator handbag that she had found in a cedar chest at her grandmother's house. Irene had let her have it, perhaps in an attempt—useless, so far—to encourage some femininity in the girl. Gail remembered Irene carrying the bag years ago. Alligator purse and shoes, mink stole, gloves. The strap was short, so Karen had made a new one with a snakeskin belt, and now wore the purse crossways over her chest.