Stopping down the street from Tom Nolan's cottage, she pulled it out, along with her telephone, and caught Jane Fyfield just as she was getting dressed to leave for the opera house in Glasgow. She would be singing the title role in Norma for another week, then on to Sydney, Australia, to rehearse I Puritani.
She spoke quickly, in a light, clear voice. "I don't have much time. Sorry. I'm in a bit of a rush. Your mother—Irene, was it? Yes. She explained your situation. Good lord. What a bizarre city. I've never been to Miami. Not sure I want to go after hearing this."
Jane Fyfield confirmed the basic facts of the trip to Havana. "Tom decided to go with us, a last-minute replacement, really. . . . No, we didn't get paid, but we had a nice holiday. ... He said I was married? Oh, really."
Then Gail explained the reason for her phone call, and if Ms. Fyfield could indulge her a moment longer—
"Let me think. Lloyd Dixon. Big man, white hair— Yes, of course. I saw him in Dortmund with his wife. It was he who suggested that Tom go with us. . . . You're right, he did appear in Havana, too, but he didn't call himself Dixon. I've forgotten what he called himself, but it was a false name. He said it was the only way he could get into the country. ... I can't recall what they talked about. Wait. He told Tom that he had arranged for him to do Don Giovanni. That made Tom happy. . . .
"Only that one time, yes. . . . Except I seem to recall that Tom left with him. . . . No, not that night, a couple of days later, before our last performance. We were scheduled for the amphitheater on the beach, and we had to rearrange the music. It was rude of him to leave us in the lurch. The baritone had to fill in. . . . Tom said that the American—Dixon, correct?—Mr. Dixon was going to give him a lift in his airplane to . . . oh, where was it? Central America. One of those countries. ... I can't remember. That stuck in my mind because it was so extravagant—his own airplane. He must be quite wealthy.
"I can't remember, it's been so long. . . . Costa Rica! . . . Positive. . . . I've no idea why. . . . I'm sorry, that's all I know about it. Tell Tom I'm still annoyed with him for leaving. ... He didn't call me after that, even to say thanks for the great time. Well, it wasn't so great, actually. . . . Tom was, shall we say, a letdown.
"Oh, God, sorry, I've got to go or I'll be late. . . . Yes, of course, call again if you like."
CHAPTER NINTEEN
A huge fan in a steel cage revolved slowly at the far end of the hangar. One of several doors had been shoved open, sliding along a track in the concrete. Gail walked inside. There were three aircraft, the nearest of which was a cargo jet with a scaffold under one of its engines. The cowling was off, revealing tilted blades and more wiring than she wanted to know about. The mechanic turned around when he heard her footsteps.
"Excuse me. Where can I find Lloyd Dixon?"
"In the office." He tilted his head toward the other end of the hangar. She went around the nose of the plane and crossed the cavernous space toward the glass-enclosed room on the other side.
Dixon was talking to somebody at one of the desks. No leather jacket today. He wore a dark suit, probably for Seth Greer's funeral, which would start in a couple of hours. He saw her through the window and came to the door. His crooked smile showed some puzzlement. "Ms. Connor." He stood aside. The other two men in the room looked back at her.
"Hello, Lloyd." She didn't come in. "I wonder if I could talk to you for a few minutes."
He told the men to finish working up the figures, then said, "Walk outside with me. I have to speak to one of my pilots. It won't take long."
They went out an exit door to the field. Private aircraft were parked in rows extending from the high chain-link fence to the concrete apron that led to the main landing strip. A small passenger jet took off, rattling the air.
Lloyd Dixon strode toward a cargo plane with blue stripes and the Dixon Air insignia on the tail. A truck was backing up, and men waited by the cargo bay. Another started the engine of a forklift. Dixon hauled himself halfway up the ladder to the cockpit and had a conversation through the open door.
When he walked back toward her, Gail asked him how many planes he had.
"Seventeen. Most of them are en route somewhere or other. The operations manager keeps up with them." He looked at her. "What brings you?"
Gail had already decided to get straight to it. "I talked to Jane Fyfield by telephone an hour ago. She's the soprano who sang Lucia in Germany, then went to Cuba with Tom Nolan. She saw you there. Tom says the same thing, but don't blame him for telling me. It came up in conversation. I thought I'd ask you about it."
"What do you want me to do, admit I went? The answer's yes. Cuba is one of the few places you can go that's not overrun with American tourists."
She said, "Why am I only now finding out about this?"
"You sound pissed off, Gail."
"Annoyed. I'd say I'm annoyed. Did you attend the international investment conference at the Hotel Las Americas that week?"
He crossed heavy arms over his chest, which had the effect of making his neck seem even thicker. "Isn't this a little outside the scope of your duties as our lawyer?"
"On Tuesday morning," she said, "unless the permitting department of the city of Miami cuts us some slack, I'm going to file a federal lawsuit. The opera is going to be in the spotlight. I hate to think what would happen if somebody finds out that one of our major donors is making—even contemplating—investments in Cuba."
With a barely audible chuckle, Lloyd Dixon watched his men load crates through the cargo bay of his airplane. "My name was not on the attendee list, so don't worry about it."
"Did you use another name?" When Dixon looked at her, she added, "Jane Fyfield said you used a false name in Havana."
"Isn't she a fountain of information," Dixon said. "Am I investing in Cuba? No. It can be done if a person is creative, but it's just not a good risk right now. Soon as the embargo is lifted it'll be a different story. When Fidel falls, you're going to hear this big sucking sound—all the money in Miami flowing south. Construction, transportation, health care, tourism— name it."
"Air freight," she said.
He smiled. "There you go."
She asked, "Are you working with Octavio Reyes?"
The sunlight made Dixon squint, closing his eyes to slits through which showed a glimmer of gray. "In 1994 the University of Miami sponsored a weekend seminar called 'Investing in a Post-Castro Economy.' That was an optimistic year. Forty thousand rafters floated across the straits, and it really seemed that the regime was going belly-up. Didn't happen, but there was a bunch of activity on this side of the water. Reyes attended the seminar, and we got to talking. His company was already shipping on Dixon Air, and we'd met a couple of times. I know several people who are seriously looking at possibilities in Cuba. He's one of them. And I'm asking you, what's the problem?"
"You denied knowing him."
"Imagine that."
Gail laughed. "This is such massive hypocrisy. Both of you! He singlehandedly made Thomas Nolan into a flashpoint in this town, and you let him get away with it."
"I didn't expect the Cubans to make a big deal out of it," Dixon said. "Who pays attention to opera? I had a talk with Reyes. He's got a new enemy now— provocateurs. Don't worry about it, Gail. The city's going to drag this decision out to the last minute, but they'll come around. They don't want another black eye."
"Don't worry," she repeated. A four-engine propeller aircraft thundered past them and angled upward. Some high cirrus clouds were moving in from the north. When the roar had diminished, she said, "Seth Greer is dead. I keep thinking, maybe the person who did it was after me, too, but I fell and rolled under the car. He was afraid to show himself, so he's saving me for another time. This goes through my mind. I replay it at night in my sleep."
"I've been shot at," Dixon said. "It gives you a new perspective on things, doesn't it?"
"Yes. You put up with less bullshit."
He laughed. "This is true. Very true."
Gail said, "Maybe something Seth knew got him killed. I wonder about Octavio Reyes. He was the only one who knew far enough in advance that Seth would be at the radio station."
"What did Seth know?" The amusement on Lloyd Dixon's face said he liked playing games.
"That Reyes was involved with you."
"Involved? We talked. That's it."
"The exile community thrives on rumors. Reyes could be ruined if they so much as thought he was putting money into the Castro regime. When Seth called to say he would go on the air to debate him, Reyes was upstairs in the studio, but he could have made a phone call to one of his extremist friends and told him God knows what."
Dixon eyed her steadily. "Extremist friends?"
"He has them," Gail said. "He probably goes target-shooting on weekends with Alpha 66."
"They aren't hit men, Gail. All right. Say that Seth was going to run his mouth. How would Reyes have known this in advance?"
"Seth could have told him when he called the station."
"Then Reyes would've been crazy to let him go on the air!"
"He lured him there and had someone waiting for him," Gail suggested.
"No. If you want somebody eliminated, you don't have it done in your own parking lot—unless you think it's going to make you look innocent." Dixon chuckled. "I'll show you how crazy this gets. I listen to the Spanish stations. Some people are saying the job was done by a Castro agent who knew that if he made it look like an exile act no one would believe it, so he intentionally made it not to look like the exiles did it, so the police would wonder if they did. If you follow that logic. Provocateurs have the wits of a fox."
Gail shook her head. "The police believe he was killed for personal, not political reasons."
"You'd like to nail Reyes, wouldn't you?" Dixon gave her a conspirator's grin. "He's in a good place, married to old man Pedrosa's granddaughter. He thinks your fiance is the black-sheep commie in the Pedrosa clan. I'd watch my back."
Angrily Gail said, "How can you associate yourself with him?"
The grin grew wider. "We're not pals. Besides, it's interesting to watch events unfold." He said, "I've got a bone to pick with you, lady. What was the meaning of that advice you gave Seth Greer, he should talk Rebecca into leaving me?"
Gail could only stare back at him.
"The night he died, you were at his house. So was my wife. She came home in a taxi, too drunk to drive her own car home. Seth called to see if she was okay. He thought I was out of town. I happened to pick up the extension in the kitchen. Oh, Becky, marry me. It was meant to be. Gail Connor says so. We can start over, roll back the years—"
"I never told him that!"
"—be happy together. You should have married me twenty years ago."
"I did not say that." Gail took a breath, staying calm. "I said he should be honest with her about how he felt. Look, I don't want to get involved in your marital problems."
"Be honest about his feelings. Jesus. That kind of talk makes me queasy. People start being totally honest with each other, they wind up wanting to choke somebody. And then you show up playing Dear Abby."
"That's enough," she said.
They looked at each other.
Lloyd Dixon's smile lifted one side of his mouth. "You think I shot him?" "You had a motive."
"Uh-uh. She wasn't in love with Seth—so she said, and I believe her. Don't speak ill of the dead, but Seth Greer couldn't have kept up with Rebecca. She's an expensive lady. I'm not complaining about it. I knew that when I married her."
"Another motive," Gail said. "You knew Rebecca was talking to Seth. Maybe she told him too much."
Dixon was enjoying this. "The police asked me about Seth. They found my wife's car in his driveway. I told them to check with the ferry master. I didn't leave the island. They keep a list of names, people going in and out."
"Unless a person leaves by boat."
"Takes too long. And the dock master keeps a list, too. I was home with my wife."
Gail made a slight shrug. "To answer your question—No. I don't think you shot him."-
They turned to walk back toward the hangar. On the way out they had passed a sleek little twin-engine jet with a long nose and swept-back wings. This one had no markings other than its FAA numbers on the tail.
Gail said, "Did you fly to Cuba in this?"
"Jesus, no. U.S. Customs and the Navy track the position of every airplane in the Caribbean. I leave it in Mexico or Jamaica, then go from there."
"With your false identity papers. You aren't afraid of getting arrested or shot?"
"That's what makes it fun."
Without saying so, Gail began to see how Rebecca Dixon had grown tired of her husband's adventures— if that's what they were. She stopped walking. "One more question?"
A few paces past her, Dixon checked his watch. "One more."
"Why did you and Thomas Nolan go to Costa Rica?"
There was a brief moment of puzzlement, then it hit him. "And where did you get that?"
"Jane Fyfield. Tom was explaining to her why he had to leave Havana ahead of schedule."
"I gave him a ride," Dixon said. "He asked if I could take him to Costa Rica. He'd been there the year before on vacation and inadvertently left a suitcase. A friend was keeping it for him. So we went over to Mexico, picked up the plane, then headed south."
"A little out of the way for you, wasn't it?"
"Not cruising at five hundred knots."
"The friend couldn't ship the suitcase back?"
"Tom said no."
"What was in there?" Gail asked.
Dixon grinned at her. "I think we're on question four already. I waited at the bar in the airport in San José for a couple of hours till Tom came back. He didn't say, I didn't ask. We refueled and got back to Miami the same day we left Havana. He said thank you, goodbye, see you for Don Giovanni, and that was that."
"You helped him smuggle something into the U.S.," Gail said.
"That implies contraband. I don't know what was in there, and I respected the man's privacy." "How do you know it wasn't drugs?"
"He's not the type."
"What about Customs? Don't they usually ask?"
"If they see it."
"What does that mean?"
"It means nothing. I took him to Costa Rica as a favor, and he brought back something that belonged to him. I don't inquire into private matters that are none of my business." Dixon raised his white eyebrows at her, then glanced at his watch. "I've got to pick up Rebecca. We have a funeral to go to."
Gail sat in her car in the parking lot of the Miami Opera wondering if Thomas Nolan would arrive before she had to leave. The funeral home was less than ten minutes away, and she had planned to meet Anthony there.
She sat in her car because she hadn't decided yet what she would say, or if she would speak to him at all.
It was not, technically, her car but the Ford sedan she was renting while her own car was in the body shop. She had decided to fix it, then buy something else. Even if a new windshield were installed and the bullet holes were puttied up and painted over, she still wouldn't be able to get into it without seeing Seth Greer hanging for one hideous moment on the outside mirror, his breath wheezing through a bloody and shattered throat.
Gail scooted further down in the seat and rested her head on the headrest.
Lloyd Dixon had just handed her a suitcase full of BS, she was sure of it. And by now, more likely than not, he would have called Tom Nolan and told him to lie, just as he had told Tom Nolan to lie the first time Gail had spoken to him. Speaking to Nolan might not produce any answers, but Gail wanted to look in his face and see how he responded.
She did not know if the suitcase had been real or fictitious. If real, Lloyd Dixon would have insisted on knowing what it contained. He was not stupid. Customs would have confiscated his airplane for smuggling. But only if the contents had been contraband. Which meant that they weren't.
Unless Lloyd Dixon ha
d done it for fun. Quite possible.
The more Gail thought about it, the more certain she became of not getting an answer. What she wanted from Tom Nolan was not to know what was in the damned suitcase, but what Lloyd Dixon had really been doing in Cuba, and whether Octavio Reyes had been there, too.
She saw a gray van come across the parking lot. They went through the drill. Van pulling up to the side door of the rehearsal hall, driver's side toward the street. Bodyguard getting out, going around. Only the top of the rehearsal hall door was showing. It opened. Then closed. Felix Castillo reappeared. He was dressed for the role—dark suit, a black collarless shirt, and rubber-soled black shoes.
He did not, however, get back inside the van, but started coming across the parking lot toward Gail. It took her a minute to realize what was different about his left hand—there were five fingers on it. As he got closer, she could see that it was some kind of prosthetic device worn like a glove.
He leaned down to her window to see in. His heavy gray mustache had been trimmed, showing more of his crooked teeth when he smiled at her.
"Hello, Gail. Are you looking for me?"
"Not really. I was going to speak to Tom Nolan, but I chickened out." She told him where she had just come from, the Dixon Air Transport hangar at Tarmami Airport. "I just found out from Lloyd Dixon that he and Octavio Reyes are planning to do business in Cuba—when the regime falls. That could be next week or beyond our lifetimes. I don't know how patient they are. It might be a good idea to find out if they're doing more than talking about it."
"Did he give you any details?"
"They attended a University of Miami seminar on the topic, and Dixon was in Cuba during the investment conference two years ago." Gail paused, then said, "This isn't news to you, is it?"
He shrugged a little. "I might have heard something."
"Where?"
"You know. Around."
"What else have you found out from . . . around?" Castillo shrugged. "You should probably talk to Tony about that."
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