Suspicion of Malice (43 page)

"Yes, I'll call you tonight."

Gail stood up, and she and Nate shook hands.
"Good luck with the nomination, Judge Harris."

"Oh, well, we won't know for a long time. And
call me Nate."

Anthony escorted him out. They talked for a few
minutes in the empty lobby. Everyone had gone
home. Nate said he hoped for the best with Gail.
Maybe they could work it out. A terrific girl, wasn't
she? Anthony nodded.

He went back to the conference room and found
Gail standing by the window, looking out. "What a
bloodless man. How did you ever become friends?"

Her words contained more than a hint of accusation. He searched for a reply. "We never talked about his life. Only about the law. He's a good judge. A brilliant legal scholar." Anthony shrugged. "I don't know."

"I would have killed myself, too." She pushed
away from the window and went to the table to sort
through her papers.

"Where did you learn about Margaret Cresswell
becoming pregnant at fifteen?"

"It's a rumor my mother unearthed. We don't
know whether she had the baby or not. I imagine it
was taken care of—one way or the other—at the
mental hospital. If it was a mental hospital. Wherever
this alleged institution was."

"Why are you pursuing this?"

"I can't even say anymore. It seems to have less
and less to do with her brother's death, and yet I
can't leave it alone." She waved it all away. ""I need
to get home."

Anthony wanted to keep her there, to make some
excuse. There was more to say, too much more. Mag
gie and Nate went through his mind. Bloodless.
Dead.

"I talked to Angela again. We had breakfast together. I told her about the baby. She took it better
than I had expected." Anthony remembered his
daughter's sudden smile, the arms thrown around
his waist. And the question he'd had no answer for:
What next?

"What will you tell Karen?" he asked.

Gail laughed. “I have noooo idea.”

The top edge of the paternity and support
agreement protruded from her leather-bound folder, which she held loosely in one hand. Anthony slid it
out. "You're right. This is too complicated. Why
don't you tell me what you want? That would make
it easier."

She picked up her bag. "I'll ask Charlene to handle
it, if you don't mind. I don't want to think about it.
But you should know that this may all be for noth
ing. I have a history of miscarriages."

"No." His breath stopped. "What does your doc
tor say?"

"I don't have one yet."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I—I've been . . . too busy."

Anthony put a hand on her arm. "Well, get one
immediately. The best, I don't care what it costs. Will
you do that?"

Eyes averted, she made a quick nod and went toward the door. "Let me know what you find out
at the company tomorrow."

"Gail?"

She stopped and looked over her shoulder.

"Why were you afraid to tell me about the child?"

"Probably because
...
I needed to be free of you."

It was said with regret, not rancor, but no words
could have injured him more, a final thrust into a
heart already bleeding.

Chapter 21

Porter Cresswell growled, "Ask me what you need to, but make it quick. Claire's running me to the doctor's office for a little checkup. I had a close call a few months ago. I'm okay now, but she keeps me
on the straight and narrow. Don't you, honey?"

Her eyes looked over the top of her magazine, then
back to the page.

Anthony said, "I'm not an accountant, Porter. I'll have to send a team to go over the records. They'll need full access to anything Roger was working on.
Will I get cooperation from your brother and his
wife?"

"I told them to give you whatever you need. Open the books, show you around. I said, 'If Roger was
screwing with the accounts, I want to know before
the IRS does.' You shouldn't have any problems."

"Good. I understand that Roger's wife, Nikki, is unhappy about distribution of shares. She's accusing
you of fraud. Is that anything we should worry
about?"

"Jesus, no. I tried to tell her. The shares reverted to me when Roger passed. That was my dad's idea.
He and his first wife went through a bad divorce, so when he set up the corporation, he made it so shares
stay in the family. We can't sell them or give them
away unless everybody consents to it, and spouses
don't inherit, only kids. I told Nikki that. She's a
nitwit."

"I'd like to review the original documents," Anthony said.

"What for? That was set up over fifty years ago."

A voice came from the corner. "Porter? If Anthony
says he needs it, I'm sure he does. He's trying to
help."

"Okay, okay." Porter was leaning sideways in his chair with his weight on an elbow. He waved a hand. "Tell my secretary I said to give you a copy. It's out
there because I was about to write a letter to the
lawyer handling Roger's estate, show him what I'm talking about."

"Why did you give Roger ten percent?"

"I was being a good father, bringing him into the company. Shit, it was going to be his anyway, wasn't
it? Then he turned around and bit my hand. I think
of that cretin out there running it someday, I get sick.
Dub's boy. I'll sell the goddamn company before I
see that happen. This is sad. Very sad. A fine company, falling apart. I told Roger to marry some nice
girl and have a couple of kids, but they kept putting
it off. Selfish, both of them. Having too much fun, to
hell with the family. My son was the biggest disap
pointment of my life."

Anthony wondered what Claire had thought of her
husband's outburst, but he didn't want to turn and
look. He said, "Dub and Roger could have pooled
their shares, correct? Did they?"

"They planned to. They were going to vote me out
of office. I wasn't going to go gently into the night,
as the old saying goes. I should've left it the way my dad set it up. Doesn't pay to be nice." One corner of his mouth rose. "My dad gave me seventy-five per
cent. You know why? Because he knew I had the
brains to run this corporation, goddammit, not that lazy ass in the next office."

From the corner of the room came the rustle of a
magazine page turning.

Anthony pulled some facts from his memory.
"And now you have fifty-one percent. Dub has
forty-nine."

"And that's as far as it goes. It stops right here.
You put two heads on one body, you're asking for
trouble." He pushed himself out of his chair. "You
tell my secretary to give you whatever you need."

Anthony stood up. "Porter, one question. Why did
you make Dub half owner? Rather, a forty-nine-
percent owner?"

Porter straightened his lapels. "That's between my
brother and me."

"The accountants will want to know."

"Fuck the accountants. Claire? Put that magazine
away. Let's go."

The sign on the half-open door said DUNCAN CRESSWELL, EXECUTIVE VICE PRESIDENT, SALES
.

The executive VP himself was on the telephone,
leaning back in his chair and passing one hand
slowly over his head, again and again. Discussing a boat show in Savannah. A steak house on the wharf. Best fuckin' ribs outside of Memphis.

Anthony knocked. The big executive chair swiv
eled around. Still talking, Dub Cresswell motioned
for Anthony to come in. The walls were paneled in
maple halfway up, then covered with vinyl printed
with regatta flags. An immense swordfish took up
the wall opposite the desk, the shelves were lined
with fishing trophies, and under the windows were
a series of glass cases containing scale models of
Cresswell boats. Anthony spent some time reading
the labels, certain that the conversation would have
ended already if he were not there.

To prod it along, he took a card from his wallet
and laid it in the center of Dub Cresswell's desk. A minute later the handset dropped onto the telephone.
"Quintana. How's it going? Porter said you'd be dropping by."

Not having been asked to sit, Anthony remained
standing. "A favor for Claire. If I may be candid?
She's afraid for Porter's health. Their son's death has put stress on him, physically and mentally. You understand. On Monday the accountants will come to look into Roger's transactions with the company. A simple matter."

"Yeah."

The faces of the Cresswell brothers were similar in
the square shape and cleft chin, although the younger
man's features were heavier, more flushed with
blood. He didn't get out of his chair, and his navy
sports coat rode up on his shoulders.

"If Porter wants you to look at the operations side,
that's fine," Dub said. "Sales and marketing is a
whole 'nother department. Roger didn't have any
thing to do with it, and I can't give out sales figures
willy-nilly."

Anthony acknowledged that with a nod, but said, "Your business secrets would remain confidential. I
can assure you of my complete discretion."

"I don't see the point to this. Roger's dead."

"But the IRS is alive. Roger owned ten percent of
the company. He had a direct connection, in that
way, to everything that goes on here."

"Yeah, well, I'll talk to Porter."

"I'm confused about one thing," Anthony said. "Your ownership. You have forty-nine percent,
correct?"

“That's right.”

"How much was your share originally? I infer
from your brother that it was less at some point."

The man was politely being asked to say what
value his father placed on him. "Twenty-five percent.
Porter had the MBA, and he showed an interest. I
wasn't sure I even
wanted
into this business, but Dad
twisted my arm."

"Ah. And when did you acquire the other . . . twenty-four percent from Porter?"

"Oh, it's been quite a while. Twenty years, maybe
more. The IRS won't care about that, will they?"

"Probably not. I was simply trying to get it straight
in my own mind. And . . . why was this done? Why
did Porter nearly double your interest in the
company?"

Heavy hands rose for a moment from the arms of the chair. Then he laughed, his cheeks making ruddy
circles. "I'm a damn good salesman."

Anthony knew it would be useless to ask further questions. He expected to have a report from his ac
countants within ten days. Excellent men. Former
FBI. He expected it to reveal that Duncan Cresswell had been looting the sales accounts. The next prob
lem would be proving that Roger had known about
it. Nikki Cresswell had alleged this, but did she have evidence? Or had she only repeated to Gail Connor
what her husband had told her?

Hands in his pockets, Anthony walked over to the
swordfish, which took up eight feet of wall space. The creature had been turned into blue plastic. One glass eye looked back at him. "You're a fisherman."

"I pulled him in, but my wife hooked him and fought him for two hours. Lizzie insists that this is
her fish. Big sucker, isn't he?" As if in testimony, a
framed photograph on a shelf underneath showed a woman in fishing hat and sunglasses grinning up at
the fish hanging by its tail from a crossbeam, boat in the background.

Anthony turned around. "Where could I find her?"

"Probably out in the yard somewhere. Get someone to page her."

Porter Cresswell's secretary pressed the appropriate button on her telephone and spoke into it. "Elizabeth,
call the main office, please. Liz, main office." While
Anthony waited, the secretary made a copy of the original articles of incorporation and the resolution
regarding distribution of shares, which Anthony
folded and put into the breast pocket of his suit coat.