Suspicion of Malice (21 page)

"He's not here. In fact, this isn't his apartment. It
belongs to a client of mine who comes in the winter.
He owed me a little favor. I thought it would be
private. Convenient for both of us." The soft Spanish accent made his words seem intimate, charged with
meaning.

Her heart was still slamming at her ribs. "What did you do, pay off the security guard?"

"Again, my apologies." Anthony gestured toward the long sofa facing the windows. Gold circled his
wrist and shone on his cuff. "Would you care to
sit down?"

She didn't move. "No. I prefer to speak to Judge
Harris."

"With regret, that's impossible. He asked me to
handle this."

"Looks like he picked the wrong lawyer." She
walked toward the door.

A few long strides took Anthony there first. "Nate
won't talk to you. I ordered him not to."

"Get out of my way."

In a smoothly placating tone he said, "Gail, you
made a demand on him this morning. I think we
should discuss it."

She calculated the odds of pushing him aside.
"Kidnaping opposing counsel is a rather extreme method of representing a client, Mr. Quintana."

"Of course you can go." His hands rose level with
his shoulders, palms out, a surrender. "I won't stop
you. But if you do leave, what will you have accomplished for Bobby Gonzalez? If he is arrested, what
will you have gained?" Eyebrows went up, furrow
ing his forehead. "Yes, I admit that neither of us
wants to be here, but let's try to put aside our differ
ences for the sake of our respective clients. That's
reasonable, isn't it?"

She had heard this routine in the courtroom, ask
ing an adverse witness a few innocuous warm-up
questions before the claws came out. She knew he wanted something, and that she wouldn't like it. But
he was right: Leaving now would accomplish noth
ing. She sent him an icy stare. "What do you
suggest?"

Another polite smile. "We'll see what we can work
out. Sit down, please."

Turning her back on him, Gail walked across the living room as if to check the place out, but her vision was so dimmed by rage she barely avoided run
ning into the furniture. She wandered to one of the built-in display cases, where rows of clay figurines
sat on polished glass shelves, as if in a museum. Fat little creatures with oversize heads, stubby arms and
legs, and jutting breasts and bellies.

Anthony's voice said, "They're from Guatemala. Olmec, I think."

She tossed her purse into one of the leather-and-
chrome Eames chairs. "You do have a talent for pick
ing solvent clients."

Another sidelong glance brought more details. He
still wore his hair combed back from his forehead, but now it fell into waves at the nape of his neck. His skin
glowed with a rich tan, and she remembered what Angela had said: Her father had vacationed in Spain.
This annoyed her. She had wanted to see evidence
of dissolution. Of loss and decay. Circles under his eyes. Anything.

"May I offer you something to drink?"

"No, thank you."

"I hope you are well. And Karen? Your mother?"

She mirrored his emotionless smile. "We're wonderful. How kind of you to ask. It must be so dis
tressing, having to see me again, after you ordered
me out of your sight."

Finally a reaction—a tightness in the lips, a little
flare in the nostrils, just a ripple on the surface. "It
would be better—don't you think?—if we agree to leave the past where it is? It's not relevant." •

"Oh, I don't know. It makes this whole thing sort of fun. Maybe we can just agree not to throw each
other off the balcony." She found the latch and
pushed open one of the glass doors. The buildings
downtown, a few miles to the northeast, were vague towers of lights in the rain. The ocean was an endless expanse of gray. Legs still shaking, she pulled in a
deep breath of moist, heavy air. Bougainvillea, potted
palm trees, and hanging baskets had turned the long,
narrow space into a jungle.

Anthony's silhouette appeared, moving across the terra cotta tiles and up the low wall of the balcony. Standing just out of arm's reach, he leaned an elbow on the wall and interlaced his fingers. He obviously
hadn't noticed how damp it was, or the patches of
mildew that would grind themselves into the fine wool-and-silk fabric. She recognized the suit. He'd bought it off the rack at the Hugo Boss store in Bal
Harbour. On sale—$1200.

He said, "How did you come to represent Bobby
Gonzalez?"

The unexpected question surprised her. She remembered the promise made to Bobby not to involve Angela. She shrugged. "I know people at the ballet. One of them told him to call me. Someone in administration."

"Did he mention my daughter?"

"Oh, that's right. Angela's taking classes at the bal
let this summer. Such a coincidence."

"I'm not certain I believe in coincidences."

"What difference does it make where I find my
clients? I certainly didn't ask for this one, knowing it would bring me
here.
Can we get to the point? Bobby Gonzalez is a suspect in a homicide, and he
needs Nathan Harris's help. This isn't complicated. It shouldn't take five minutes."

He replied with a sigh of endurance. "Well, it's
not that easy."

"Why not?"

Turning toward the city, he rested both elbows on the wall. For Anthony Quintana to do that, unaware,
showed a state of extreme mental distraction. His
cool demeanor was a fat lie. But Gail remained tense,
like standing too close to a purring but uncaged pan
ther. Her eyes, now accustomed to the darkness,
glided over his profile, searching for a clue to his thoughts. She studied the planes of his face and the
angles of cheekbone and temple. The long straight
line from brow to the tip of his nose, then the curves
of full
lips and rounded jaw.

Finally he said, "The situation for Nate Harris
is
...
delicate, even dangerous. You understand that. The morality police on the committee would kill his nomination if there were the least suggestion of im
propriety, regardless of truth."

"If it's handled discreetly, I don't see why they'd find out."

Anthony went on, "Nathan Harris is a good man.
A fine judge. You've talked to him. You said you
admired him."

"Yes. I did say that."

"He has done nothing wrong. He's completely blameless. It would be a loss to the federal judiciary
if he were kept off the bench. To Miami as well,
because if this turns into a scandal, he could be
forced to resign."

"I doubt that. A judge in this circuit can do any
thing but insult the Cubans."

Anthony let that pass. "What you want—if I under
stand fully—is a statement from Nate Harris that he was with Bobby Gonzalez for a period of about forty
minutes during a certain party on the night Roger Cresswell was shot to death. Yes?"

She nodded. "Not necessarily a formal statement,
as long as he makes it clear to the police that Bobby
couldn't have done it."

"But Gail, he can't make that assurance. He might recall a conversation with Bobby at some point during the evening. He might recall where it took place. But when? He isn't certain. Nor could he vouch for what Bobby did before or after the alleged conversa
tion. You see the problem."

The pushing was still at the subtle stage, but Gail
had felt a distinct bump. She looked at him, then
said, "Alleged?"

"Until we reach an agreement on the facts, I can't
allow my client to admit anything."

"Fine. The
alleged
conversation took place between
eleven and eleven-forty on the seawall behind the
home of Jack Pascoe, who hosted a party that your
client and mine both attended. Witnesses saw when
Bobby left the house and when he returned. Bobby
says that Judge Harris appeared within a minute of his having sat down on the seawall, and that Nate
remained there when Bobby went back to the house.
Forty minutes. Or thirty-nine, if you want to be
picky. Judge Harris had been drinking, but was he
so drunk that he doesn't remember any of this?
Bobby has an alibi for the entire night except for that
period. That gap is what we need to eliminate."

Anthony leaned forward as if she might say some
thing more. He prompted, "And after those forty
minutes?"

"Bobby left the party at eleven-forty-five and drove
to his apartment on South Beach, where he met a
friend, Sean Cresswell, Roger's nephew, at twelve-
thirty—the travel time checks out. They went to a night club, and Bobby got home at three o'clock, which his roommates can verify."

"Ah. Then you haven't heard. Sean Cresswell's parents took him by police headquarters this morning. Sean admitted that Bobby asked him to lie. Sean was at home the night of the murder, and his mother
confirms it." Anthony made a slight shrug—palms
out as if asking her to drop into them some explanation for this discrepancy.

All she could think to say was, "That can't be
right."

"I'm afraid it is. Bobby was lying."

"Where did you get this alleged information?"

"From someone who knows." Anthony went on quietly, "It doesn't make much sense, does it, to demand an affidavit from Judge Harris when the truth
is, Bobby could have killed Roger Cresswell after
midnight, not before."

A hip against the wall kept Gail steady. If Bobby hadn't been with his friend, then who— Gail closed
her eyes for an instant, seeing a slender girl with
long, dark hair. A girl he'd want to protect, and who
would be in deep caca if her father ever found out.

She crossed her arms. "I'll talk to him. There has
to be an explanation. There is no way he killed Roger
Cresswell. I would never believe that."

"You know he was in a gang? That he was arrested
for stabbing another boy with a knife?"

"That was years ago! He grew up."

Anthony leaned closer. "This morning the police seized a .22-caliber pistol from his apartment."

"From his roommates' bedroom. It isn't his, and
he didn't use it. Let them test it. There won't be a
match."

"They also found a bloodstained shirt in the trash outside Bobby's apartment. The blood is the same type as Roger's. Explain that."

"It's Roger's blood. It got there because on the day
that Roger falsely accused Bobby of stealing tools
from the boat yard, Bobby hit him in the nose. He
finally threw the shirt out, and the police found it. He was wearing a different shirt entirely the night
of the murder. There are witnesses."

"What about Sean Cresswell?" Anthony de
manded. "The false alibi."

"I don't know, but I'm going to find out. Mean
while, forty minutes or four hours, I need to establish
where he was. I need Judge Harris."

There was no reply as Anthony gazed back at her, eyes black in the shadows. When he spoke, his voice was controlled. Polite again. "This isn't the kind of
case you usually handle," he said. "I think you'd
prefer—if you had a choice—not to be involved."

"How insightful," she said.

"You're a commercial litigation attorney—an excel
lent one, I would be the first to say it—but in criminal law . . . well, most lawyers in your position might feel. . . uncertain. Criminal law is constantly shifting,
and procedure can be a trap. But you want to do
your best for Bobby. Don't you?"

"Of course."

"As I do for my client," he said. "Yes. I think we agree that both our clients deserve effective represen
tation." He waited.

Gail exhaled. "Yes. And?"

"And you would probably agree that a lawyer
with more experience and more . . . how can I say
it? Recognition in the field. Someone with clout. That
person is more likely to do a good job for his—or
her—client."

When his eyebrows lifted again, she said, "All right, a lawyer with clout. What's your point?"