Suspicion of Malice (2 page)

Ah, yes. Nate Harris had asked him to.

The deejay on the doo-wop show spun another
one.
Oooo-wah-wah, bop-bop-aaaahhhh.
Nate's lips moved,
and he tapped the beat on the steering wheel. He
watched the road through round tortoiseshell glasses.

Cono cara'o.
Ten-forty-five in the morning, listen
ing to that idiot music, sailing along in Nate's white
Ford Taurus sedan toward the far northeast corner
of the county—an area Anthony detested for its
glutted roads, endless malls, and pretentious con
dominiums elbowing each other for a view of the
Atlantic.

Porter and Claire Cresswell lived in one of them.
Porter's company built boats, and he had money. Boatloads of it, Anthony assumed. Porter had been
in and out of the hospital, and he'd put his son,
Roger, in charge. A close call with cancer had rattled Porter's brain, or so Nate had explained to Anthony.
Porter was sure that his son was embezzling money
or secretly selling off assets or—God only knew—
plotting to turn the company over to a multinational
that would start making lawnmowers. Porter feared the IRS would freeze his bank accounts. He feared
FBI agents at his door. Porter had begged Nate to
find him a good criminal lawyer.

Anthony knew little about Porter and Claire, ex
cept that Nate had remained close to his in-laws since
his wife had died three years ago. He was especially
fond of Claire, Maggie's mother. Nate was a judge
on the criminal bench. A good man, a scholar, a rare
light in the courtrooms of this county. He liked to hand out special projects to the lawyers who practiced before him. Programs for community awareness, for immigrants, for battered women. It had
always been hard to say no to Nathan Harris.

Nate turned down the radio. "What's the matter? You have a headache?"

Blinking, Anthony dropped his elbow from the armrest. "What? No." He unbuttoned his collar and
loosened his tie. "I don't need this, do I?"

"I don't know, Porter and Claire are pretty formal.
Where are your gloves?"

"No
me jodas.
Do I take off the tie or not?"

"You see me wearing one?" Nate asked. "What
does that phrase mean, exactly?"

"It means . . . 'Don't play games.'" Anthony
folded his tie.

"No, the precise meaning."

" 'Don't fuck around with me.' You know what
it means."

"You ought to write a book," Nate said. " 'How
to Cuss in Spanish.' I want an unexpurgated edition.
I'd like to know for sure what the defendants are
saying about me at sentencing hearings."

"I hope you told Porter Cresswell, when you vol
unteered me to handle this, that if it becomes drawn
out, he may have to find another lawyer."

"What are you talking about?"

"I might not stay in the area. I mentioned that,
no?"

"In passing. Don't tell me you were serious about
New York."

"Why not? I was a federal public defender there
for several years, and I still have contacts. My son is
in New Jersey with his mother. I could easily move to New York."

"And your daughter just moved here to start college." Nate's round glasses made him look like a gray-haired owl. "What is this? Nobody moves from Florida to New York, it's unnatural. You're leaving because of Gail."

"Who?"

"No me jodas,"
Nate said.

"It has nothing to do with her."

"You and she break up, then you disappear to
Spain. Now you're thinking of relocating to New York. And it has nothing to do with Gail."

"No."

After a moment Nate returned his gaze to the road. He sighed. "Let it go, my friend. God knows, it hurts
and you grieve, but this too shall pass."

Anthony might have laughed but for Nate's dole
ful expression. "Nate
...
no one died. I got my ring
handed back to me.
Que lastima.
Too bad. I was saved
from my own stupidity, marrying that woman. Be
lieve me, I am not crying about it."

"Listen to that. You can't even say her name."

"Gail. All right?"

"A little snappy this morning, aren't we? Out partying last night?"

"Yes, with a box of files from my office."

"Was it fun?"

"No."

Rain streaked the passenger window. Through it Anthony gazed out at U.S. 1, which had been widened and prettified with palm trees and flowers. Wel
come to Aventura. The cars were expensive, the faces
were white, and the conversations would all be in
English. The Taurus turned at a massive shopping
mall and headed east toward the water.

"Listen," Nate said. "If I get the appointment to
federal court, there's going to be a vacancy in the circuit court. You should run for judge."

"I don't have the patience to put up with that
shit."

"Sure you do. Don't underestimate yourself. You'd
have no problem getting elected. Good connections
in the Cuban community, an excellent reputation in
the bar. You know the law. On the bench you have
a chance to do some good. The job doesn't pay what
you're used to, but I suspect you've accumulated
enough not to worry about it."

"I have accumulated enough not to worry about
anything." Anthony leaned against the headrest and closed his eyes. "When I was in Spain, I considered not coming back. It's different there, Nate. Not so rushed, so nervous. They don't have a federal regula
tion for every damned problem, and you can smoke your cigar in a restaurant or compliment a woman
without being accused of harassment. It's a beautiful
country. The people are polite. They have pride in themselves, in their history, not like Miami. Hot as
hell this time of year, but I'm used to that.”

''You're kidding."

"Am I?" Anthony gazed out at the low hills of a
golf course, which once had been mangrove swamp. "Sixteen years as a lawyer. Maybe it's enough. I'll be
forty-three next month. Incredible. Even so, it's not
too late to start over. I could do anything. Go
anywhere."

"Sure, but Spain—"

"Why not? I speak the language. Where do you think Cubans came from? Look at this." He pushed
his coat sleeve up his forearm. "Three weeks on the
Costa del Sol, I look like a gypsy. I could buy a house
on a cliff and lie in the sun. Come over and visit me.
The women are gorgeous. You live like a monk, that's your problem."

Nate put on his turn signal and waited for traffic to
clear. "I could use a little debauchery. Sign me up."

They were nearing the ocean, marked by a line
of condominiums that completely obscured the view. Beyond them, patches of blue showed through white-
topped clouds.

"Tell me about Cresswell Yachts. What they do.
Who runs it. I want to pretend I know something."

The Cresswells' condo had a view from twenty-six
floors up of the winding intracoastal, the curve of
the Atlantic, and the skyscrapers of downtown
Miami. The housekeeper led Anthony and Nate Harris over antique oriental rugs on tile floors, past silk-
upholstered chairs and gilded tables on which sat
orchids in porcelain pots. Finally they were taken
into a wickered and rattaned sitting area that opened onto a glassed-in terrace. Ceiling fans twirled, and
green plants cast tropical shade.

A slender blond woman in casual slacks and a pastel blue blouse hurried toward them. Smiling, she pressed her cheek to Nate's. "Hello, you sweet thing. I haven't seen you in
weeks!"
Her bright smile swept around. Anthony knew her age—sixty-one—but she dazzled. Her hair was cut youthfully, feathering on her cheeks. If there were tucks at her ears and jaw-
line, they were too discreet to be noticed.

"Mr. Quintana, I'm so pleased you're with us. I'm
Claire." She took his hands.

He smiled down at her. "No, no, call me Anthony. Will you?"

Her cheeks went pink. "All right—Anthony. My
goodness. Porter? Come meet our guest."

Her husband studied the newcomer with gray eyes set in a square, sunburned face. A cleft divided his
chin.

Driving the last half-mile, Anthony had learned
that Porter Cresswell owned the company with his brother, Duncan, whom everyone called Dub. Porter was president, and Dub was in charge of sales. Dub's wife, Elizabeth, who had risen from within the company, oversaw scheduling and production. The three of them had maintained a fairly good balance until Porter's illness. Porter persuaded his son, who ran a related yacht leasing business, to sit in the president's
chair for a while. He had made him a ten-percent owner. This new arrangement had not pleased Dub
and Liz, but Porter was used to having his way. Now
Porter was well again, but Roger refused to step
down.

Porter's handshake was strong. One corner of his
thin mouth rose. "Nate tells me you're a pretty good
lawyer, Quintana."

"I wouldn't want to argue with a judge,” An
thony said.

Claire was closing in on Nate, who had come in
carrying a flat package about two feet by three.
"Now what can
that
be? You said you were bringing
us a little surprise, but what is
this?"

"It's to say thank you. You and Porter suggested
I apply for the federal bench. You pushed me and cajoled and wouldn't let me say no. If I get the job,
well, a lot of the credit goes to you."

Porter shook his head. "Come on, Nate. This isn't necessary."

Nate held the package and Claire pulled off the
tape. The brown paper fell away, revealing a canvas
framed in gold. "Maggie painted this," Nate said.
"It's from before we were married, so I'd never seen
it before. I mentioned to Jack that I was looking for
something, and he showed me this. He says it's the only portrait Maggie ever did."

Anthony came closer. Nate had told him he was
bringing his in-laws a painting. A young ballerina with silvery hair stood alone in her tutu in the darkened wings of a stage. Her body was flat-chested,
very long and thin, almost sexless, and yet compel
lingly beautiful. An odd blue light made her skin
glow.

Claire stared down at the girl. "Why, it's Diane. She's just a little girl here, isn't she?" Claire looked
at Anthony, explaining, "Diane is Porter's niece, Dub
and Lizzie's daughter. She's twenty now, a soloist
with the Miami City Ballet."

"Is that so?" Anthony said, "My daughter, Angela,
is taking classes with them this summer."

"Then they might know each other. What a small
world." Claire smiled at Nate. "You're giving us this.
Oh, it's too
much.
We can't."

"No, no, Claire, it's my sincerest pleasure."

"Why, aren't you the sweetest thing?" Claire set
the painting upright on the rattan sofa and came back to kiss his cheek. "Porter? Don't you want to thank Nate?"

"Damn nice of you, Nate." Porter clapped him on the back. "Hey, who wants a drink? Claire won't let me have any, but I like to play bartender. What about you, Quintana? Got some rum. You're Cuban. I make
a damn good daiquiri."

"Ahh
...
a Bloody Mary? Skip the celery."

"Good choice. I make an even better Bloody Mary.
Nate?" Nate said to make it two, and Porter Cresswell crossed the sisal rug and went around a carved
mahogany coffee table to get to the bar.

Anthony walked over to the windows to gaze
down at the intracoastal waterway. "An impressive view."

"They were going to put in another building over there." Porter Cresswell indicated the spot with a jerk of his chin. "We had to file a lawsuit. You know
anything about condo law?"

"No, I specialize in crime."

A chuckle rasped out of Cresswell's throat. He
came around the bar with the drinks in tall crystal
glasses. "Here you go, gentlemen." He growled near
Anthony's ear, "You and I can go in the study after we eat. Leave Nate and Claire to gab."