Suspicion of Malice (22 page)

"That you don't have it. Not in criminal law. For Bobby's sake, and for Nate Harris, please. Let someone else do this. A lawyer who has experience dealing with the police and the state attorney's office. Someone they know and respect. I can suggest sev
eral names, and you could pick one you approve of. I believe that's a reasonable accommodation."

She thought of Anthony Quintana cartwheeling
down the side of the building. She couldn't decide which was worse—the patronizing insult to her abili
ties or his blatant attempt at manipulation.

"You want me off this case," she said.

As if she had never replied, he went on in the
same superior tone. "Of course you'd be reimbursed
for your time so far, which is
...
I'm guessing . . .
ten hours, at a rate of
...
two hundred an hour?
Two-fifty?"

She nearly latighed. "You're paying me to get off the case."

"No, no. Are you listening to what I'm saying?
Your inexperience could hurt both our clients."

"Oh, bullshit. You want me to go away, that's
what this is about."

His even white teeth were set together. "If I may,
what you should be thinking about—rather than
your own injured pride—is your client."

"I
am,
Mr. Quintana. What if Bobby is arrested? Then what? Are
you
going to pay for a murder defense? How much does it cost these days? A hundred
and fifty grand? Two hundred?"

He was beginning to crack around the edges. "If
this is handled properly, Ms. Connor, it won't get to
trial. But if it did, are you up to it?"

Her temper flared. "I didn't pass the bar exam yesterday. I have been investigating, negotiating, and
trying cases for
eight years,
and I am
not
going to turn
him over to some hand-picked
flunkie!
The only thing
complicating this case is
you."
She pressed the heels
of her hands against her forehead. "I can't stand
this."

Furious, she slid the door open and went back in
side, Anthony behind her. She turned on him. "Do
the right thing, Anthony. Bobby is innocent, and you know it. I want a statement from Nate Harris by five o'clock Monday."

Color had flooded his cheeks. "It can't be kept
quiet," he said. "It would be on CNN in twenty-four hours. Nathan Harris is a good man, a man of moral strength and intellectual courage. I will not—I promise you—allow him to be sabotaged by lies and innuendo."

Gail laughed. "Well, why don't you ask this tower
of moral strength about that joint he was smoking
with Bobby Gonzalez?"

Anthony stared at her.

"He didn't tell you about that, did he? Bobby went down to the water to smoke a joint, and Nate showed
up, so they shared it."

"Impossible." Anthony laughed in disbelief. "That's
insane. Nate Harris doesn't smoke grass, and if he
did, he wouldn't do it at a party with people he
barely knows. It would be professional suicide."

"Ask him. If he's so honest, he'll admit it. Miami
is a weird place, and politicians and judges have
done even stupider things. A few tokes on a joint? That's nothing. People will believe it. And you know
what else? They're going to ask what Judge Harris
was doing with a young male ballet dancer."

Anthony leaned into her face. "Repeat that publicly, I'll see you sued for slander."

"I want his help! I want
you
to stop standing in
the way."

"How would you like to see Bobby Gonzalez fired
from the ballet? It could happen."

"That's a complete bluff. The ballet wouldn't do that."

"No? The Cresswells are on the board. They're
major donors. If they believe that Bobby is responsi
ble for Roger's death, he would be gone. No big deal. He's in the back row. He could be replaced tomorrow." He dusted one hand against the other. "Believe it, Ms. Connor."

Gail stared at him. The claws were out now and Bobby
was caught between them. "Could you really be that
vicious? Oh, of course you could. Why even ask? I
put nothing past you. No underhanded, ruthless act
would be too low."

He came within inches, lowering his head, the whites of his eyes showing under irises dilated to black. "Con
sider your own actions. You allow Nathan Harris
only two disagreeable choices—either to perjure him
self or to say he was smoking grass with a male
dancer half his age. That is not acceptable. Take that road, and your client will suffer the consequences of
your poor judgment."

Gail was nearly tall enough, in her heels, to look him squarely in the eyes. "If Nathan Harris is destroyed, blame yourself. You're turning him into a
coward and a liar."

Anthony's eyes snapped with fire. "Why are you doing this? Why this . . . death grip on an inconse
quential case that you don't have the skill to
handle?"

"Because he's my client. Because I promised him."

"How much is he paying you? Anything?"

"None of your effing business."

"You would do it for free, wouldn't you? Because
you get a chance to say to yourself, oh, goody, now
I can stick it to Anthony Quintana."

"Are you that much of an egotist? If I'd known
you were involved, I'd never have taken this case!"

"So leave it."

"Why don't
you?"

Suddenly he swiveled away, pacing, breathing
through his teeth. She heard him mutter, "Ay,
esa mujer es increible."

Her head throbbed. Afraid she might faint, she
sank onto one end of the sofa, cream-colored leather
squeaking softly. He paced back to her, and with averted eyes she saw his trousers and his gleaming,
unscuffed Italian shoes. She hoped he stepped in dog
shit in the parking lot.

"Well. A standoff," he said. "Which one of us is
going to pull the trigger first?"

"Leave Bobby alone. Dancing is all he has."

He paced away, then back again. "You don't want
a drink? Some water? You look a little—I don't
know—pale."

"I'm fine. You can bring me a glass of water. I'll
drown myself in it."

"Do you want it or not?"

"I said yes!"

"All right, then."

He went to the wet bar on the wall near the dining table. A cabinet opened, then slammed. Water gur
gled from a bottle. He came back with a heavy Bacca
rat tumbler tinkling with ice cubes, which he put on
a coaster on the immense coffee table. On the table. Not in her hand. Maybe his flesh would fall off if he touched her.

Gail lifted the glass carefully and sipped while he stood watching.

His jacket was pushed back, and his hands rested on narrow hips. A better manicure than she had. No
clear nail polish—no, he was too macho for that.
Brown alligator belt, gold buckle. He would be wear
ing his twenty-dollar briefs. She tried to imagine they
were pink, and failed.

"I have a suggestion about what to do," he said.

"I didn't like your last one.”

"Listen. What you want is not so difficult. You want the police to leave Bobby Gonzalez alone. If
they do that, you don't go after Nate Harris."

"Must you put it that way? 'Going after' him."

He was thinking aloud. "If we could find an alternate suspect. If the police had a better case against someone else."

"Great. Just find out who shot Roger Cresswell."

"That's not necessary. We don't have to prove it."

"What if the police arrest Bobby Gonzalez before
we give them an alternative?"

"No, I don't think they will, not on what they have now. It isn't enough. They'll wait for the DNA results
on the bloodstained shirt. That could take eight
weeks."

"But the blood wasn't from the night Roger was killed."

"You told me that, but I need the names of witnesses who can prove it. Meanwhile, we investigate everyone involved, and if we're lucky, there will be someone else for them to look at besides Bobby. We
have an advantage: Nate knows the Cresswell family.
He was married to Roger's sister, Margaret."

"I know."

Surprised, Anthony said, "How?"

"Small world. Charlene Marks has met Nate Har
ris." The tension between them had dissipated, but Gail's hands were still trembling. "And a couple of
months ago Charlene talked to Roger Cresswell
about a divorce. He thought his wife was cheating on him. I don't think the police know about it."

"Good. Follow up on that." Anthony went to slide
shut the terrace door. "I've met Roger's parents and his uncle. Nate and I were at the Cresswells' house
the morning the news came of Roger's death. I went because Porter Cresswell wanted advice from a criminal lawyer. I think he may be mentally unstable, but
he knew there were problems. When he became ill
early this year, he let Roger take over. Porter's
brother, Duncan, is part owner, and Duncan's wife, Elizabeth, is in management. They didn't agree with Roger on most issues, and the operations were para
lyzed with jealousy and power struggles. Porter
wanted Roger to step down, but he refused. Motives
already, you see?"

"You think his murder came from inside the family," Gail concluded.

"I do. Roger wasn't involved with drugs, and he
didn't gamble. He'd had no arguments with his
friends." Anthony smiled. "We have a good chance
of success."

Gail looked at him. "I still want a written statement from Judge Harris."

"Why?"

"If you want to play private eye, fine. But if the police come after Bobby, I'll have something."

"You didn't hear what I told you," Anthony said.
"A statement covering forty minutes won't help you,
if Bobby can't prove where he was after midnight."

She rested her forehead on extended fingers. "This
won't work."

"I have a good investigator. We could use him."

"Who's going to pay for that? Bobby can't afford
it."

"I will. I can't ask Nate. It would be improper."

"But it's proper if his lawyer pays?"

"I have no choice." An edge sharpened his words. "You should be grateful and stop complaining. Giv
ing Nate Harris's name to the police at this point
would be reckless. You'd destroy him for nothing. If
you do that, I will take action. Trust me."

For a long moment she returned the intensity of
his unblinking stare. The pulse beat in her neck. She said, "I'll give it a week. Then we'll see. And I want
to know what's going on. Everything you find out."

He made a single nod of his head. "Of course, you
should be informed."

"Involved,
Anthony. I will be
involved."

He made an exaggerated lift of his hands. "Fine.
All right. Involved."

"Thank you."

Turning his back, he muttered,
"Jesucristo, me
vuelve loco."

Gail set the glass back on the table. The crystal
sparkled as she turned it around on the coaster.
"Let's talk about logistics. How do we handle this?
Where do we meet? Not your office. Or mine. Does
it have to be in person?"

"You want to do it by video-conference? Then we
don't have to be in the same room."

She laughed softly. "Sure. Why not?"

His steps slowed as he approached the sofa, where she sat playing with the glass. He was silent so long
she looked up at him. He said, "You despise me, don't you?"

Their eyes held. Then she couldn't bear it any longer and turned her head. "As you said . . . leave
the past where it is. Don't mention it. Ever. I won't
either."

"Bueno.
That will make it easier for us to work together."

Silence stretched out. Gail could see that his cat's-
eye ring was back on Anthony's left hand. He had
taken it off, waiting for a wedding band. The faintest hint of his cologne reached her consciousness, and a
memory burst into her mind. How he'd smelled the
first time she had pressed her mouth to his bare
chest.