"Why?"
"Well. You know. It's his deal now."
"His deal? Whatever that means. How did you find out about Reyes and Dixon?" But Castillo straightened up from the window. "Felix, I asked you to look into this, remember? Octavio Reyes is the one causing grief for the opera. My client? I'd like to know what you found out in case I have to lean on him."
"You should talk to Anthony about it."
"I will, Felix. Anything to do with Octavio I run by Anthony, but that doesn't mean you have to leave me in the dark."
"Well, it's not up to me."
"Anthony told you not to tell me anything, didn't he?"
Castillo made a vague salute with his half-prosthetic hand and smiled at her again. "Nice to see you, Gail." He walked back to his van. She watched him open the door and step up to the driver's seat, the hem of his pants rising just enough to show the gun strapped to his left ankle.
CHAPTER TWENTY
A canopy had been erected over the gravesite. Mourners filled the space underneath and spilled out onto the grass in rows six deep. Gusts of wind played with the ribbons on flower arrangements laid across the coffin.
From where she stood with Anthony behind the last row of chairs, Gail estimated that two hundred people had followed the hearse from the funeral chapel to the cemetery. Seth Greer's elderly parents sat weeping between his sister and brother. Friends and associates at his accounting firm stared numbly ahead, unable to accept what had happened. Behind them stood members of every cultural and political organization in the city, as well as a couple of hundred miscellaneous onlookers.
Camera crews had filmed the arrival of city manager Alberto Estrada. Noticing the video cameras, Estrada had gone over to make the expected statement about tragedies bringing the community together. Uniformed police were keeping reporters away from the gravesite itself until the service was over.
Gail held onto Anthony's arm, feeling the tension in his body. Rebecca Dixon stood beside her husband in the crowd on the other side of the coffin. Slightly parted lips gave the impression that behind the dark glasses her eyes were closed.
Lloyd Dixon's aviator-style sunglasses turned slightly in Gail's direction, and she averted her eyes.
Were you really at home with your wife when Seth Greer was shot to death so close to me that I found his blood on my clothes?
If the exiles hadn't killed Seth, and Octavio hadn't done it, and a provocateur was an insane suggestion, then who had? Seth Greer had been well liked, hadn't gambled or done drugs, and the books at his accounting office were in order. But he was having an affair with a married woman. A woman whose husband picked up the extension and heard that her lover would soon be debating Octavio Reyes on the air. The exiles would be blamed if the lover died outside the studios. Men like Lloyd Dixon would know how to have certain things done.
Did he love Rebecca enough to kill for her? Gail wondered if he knew the truth about her past. Rebecca had said that she had told him about Los Pozos. Had she told him about accusing Emily Davis of being a spy for the CIA? Or brushing the mud off Emily's face and closing her eyes? Lloyd could be right: Too much honesty and someone will wind up wanting to choke you.
Gail took another glance at Rebecca. She was leaning against her husband. How many milligrams of what kind of tranquilizer were deadening her response to the sight of her lover's grave?
The burial in Los Pozos had been nothing like this. Not this blue and sunny day, these neat rows of chairs, and a coffin laden with fresh flowers. Here the dirt taken out of the earth was under a green covering made to look like grass. At some distance was a high hedge of glossy green legustrum, and just beyond it, a shed. The backhoe and shovels would be inside. When everyone was gone, cemetery workers would lower the coffin, erect a stone, and lay sod.
Moving her gaze over the crowd, Gail noticed among the people outside the canopy a man in a dark suit and black shirt. He wore sunglasses and a tweed cap with a small bill. The gray mustache gave him away.
Felix Castillo.
She nearly smiled at the awful irony of it. Those who had survived Los Pozos were all here in this cemetery, one of them dead as the girl they had left there.
Felix Castillo had seen Emily die. Anthony had not told her that. Because it would have colored your judgment of him. He didn't want her to know the truth.
Hearing Anthony's story about Los Pozos, Gail had believed him completely. He had said that Pablo took Emily from the house, made her kneel, then shot her in the back of the head. But confronted with what Rebecca had said, and asked the question directly—Who shot Emily?—Anthony had replied, Pablo is responsible. He had not said, Pablo shot her. Then he had forbidden Gail to raise the subject again.
Two days ago at Gail's office, Rebecca had said, You don't know what you think you do.
Felix had come with the Sandinistas, according to Seth. He had come with Pablo, whose weapons cache had been hit by government troops. Some of the rebels had been killed outright. Others had been taken, interrogated, and tortured. Their mutilated bodies had been dumped on a road outside the village.
You don't know what you think you do.
Pablo had come looking for Emily. Twenty years old. A pretty girl with long blond hair and freckles.
Emily in the bedroom on one of the folding cots, crying. The three others waiting for the rain to stop. It falls on the tin roof and drips off the eaves in long silvery streams. They are sitting at the table talking. On the wall is a picture of Jesus with his heart in flames.
Perhaps they are talking about what to do. Anthony was too proud to beg money from his grandfather to send her home. The others were too angry with Emily to care about the consequences of what she did. Or they didn't see the danger. Either way, they have all waited too long.
The rebel soldiers arrive, and Felix is with them, a young man with black hair and all of his fingers. He carries an AK-47. He knows that somebody has screwed up, and his superiors in Havana will ask questions. His friend, the exile, the grandson of a wealthy banker, has a woman who betrayed them.
The men's boots thump on the wooden porch as they come in out of the rain. Their green ponchos are dripping. Under camouflage hats their wide, dark faces show Indian blood. Pablo is in his late twenties, with lank black hair and a thin beard and mustache. He carries a U.S. Army Colt .45 in a holster.
Commotion. The Americans don't know what to do. One of Pablo's men brings Emily out, and Pablo speaks to her gently. She confesses. The man in La Vigia promised her a ticket back to Miami. She wanted to go home.
But it isn't Pablo who shoots her.
Felix doesn't want Pablo to think he is on Anthony's side. He takes Emily into the yard and makes her kneel. It is over quickly. He uses his rifle. One shot into her head. She jerks forward and slumps into the dirt, and her blood swirls down the muddy slope, mixing with the rain. The gunshot echoes, then fades into the thickly forested hills.
Why aren't the other Americans executed? Instead of bullets, they are given shovels. The men dig the hole. Rebecca closes Emily's eyes and brushes the dirt away. Then they lower her body into the grave.
With a sudden tremor, Gail pressed her forehead against Anthony's shoulder and squeezed her eyes shut. If Felix Castillo had shot this girl, had murdered her, how could Anthony bear to speak to him? How could they have remained friends? Felix couldn't have done this. But Anthony had lied about it. Why?
She felt Anthony's hand on her cheek, then his arm went around her.
Recovering herself, she took a breath and opened her eyes.
He said softly, "It's okay."
Some people lingered in conversations, but most drifted toward the cars that lined the road. The funeral home attendants were already folding the chairs. The coffin still lay under its blanket of flowers. Camera crews were beginning to close in on the city officials again.
Gail took her mother's arm, talking as they went. Anthony listened for a while, then said he had to speak to someone, would they excuse him fo
r a moment? Gail watched him go through the dwindling crowd in the direction she had last seen Felix Castillo.
When Gail turned back to her mother, she noticed Rebecca Dixon heading toward them, hips swaying, balancing on her toes to keep her heels from sinking into the grass. Behind Rebecca, her husband stood by their car. He called to her. Still walking, Rebecca turned her head. "I said just a minute!"
She stepped over a border of small white flowers onto the path where Gail and Irene stood waiting. Gail had seen her weeping during the services, but doubted that her tears had really been for Seth.
Rebecca's hand went around Irene's wrist. The heavy diamonds glittered. "Irene, I have to talk to Gail, but don't leave. I can trust you not to say anything, can't I?"
Irene's blue eyes shifted to Gail for a second. "Of course."
"I told Lloyd I wanted to come say hello. Gail, what we were discussing before about a divorce attorney? I'm ready. I'd like to talk to someone as soon as possible."
"All right."
Rebecca drew closer. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you the truth about Octavio Reyes. Lloyd said you talked to him about it. God, so many lies. I'm going crazy." She glanced back toward her husband and smiled, holding up one finger to signal she'd be right there. "To hell with that simple life in the country. Reading books. Tending a garden. Did I ever say that?" She turned and made her way back across the grass, long legs in black hose.
After her mother had left, Gail spotted Anthony standing with Felix Castillo in one of the grave sections, headstones going away from them in ragged patterns across the grass. One man taller and slender, the other heavy in the shoulders, dressed in black. Anthony had put his sunglasses on.
She could guess what they were talking about. On the way to the cemetery, she had told Anthony everything she had learned.
Already the sun was slanting westward. Gail checked her watch, then followed the path to the section where they stood. They watched her coming toward them.
Castillo held out an arm. She let him kiss her cheek, and his mustache tickled her skin. "Such a sad day," he said.
"Yes, it is," she replied. "Seth mentioned that you and he were acquainted."
He smiled, showing crooked teeth stained with nicotine. "Well. You know."
Then he looked past her shoulder and made a single nod of his head. Anthony glanced around. Camera crews and reporters were heading their way. Felix said, "I'll be seeing you." He smiled once more at Gail, then maneuvered between two headstones to take another path to the main road.
Anthony took Gail's arm. "Let's go."
The reporters intercepted them halfway to his car. They kept walking slowly as a man in jeans hoisted a video camera to his shoulder. A boom mike was attached to the front of the camera, and a young man in a suit carried another microphone in his hand like a cone of ice cream.
"Gail Connor, you're the attorney for the Miami Opera. What effect will the violent murder of a prominent board member have on the lawsuit you plan to file against the city?" He glanced backward to make sure he wasn't tripping over his cord.
She said she was hopeful that the opera and the city could work out security arrangements. Other than that, she preferred not to comment about the pending lawsuit. They surrounded her, stood in her way.
Anthony said, "Excuse us, please," and gently shouldered through, his hand on Gail's elbow.
She smiled at the next question, then said, "No, this is absolutely not a fight with the exile community."
A woman reporter told her cameraman to get a wide shot. She shouted, "Ms. Connor, you're engaged to Anthony Quintana, one of Miami's top criminal lawyers, a Cuban exile himself. How do you feel about it? Is this a Romeo and Juliet story?"
Gail glanced at Anthony. He kept moving, his slight smile in place and his sunglasses on.
She said, "We're engaged. That's all I have to tell you."
A microphone was shoved at Anthony. "Noted criminal attorney Anthony Quintana is the grandson of Ernesto Pedrosa, a militant anti-Castro exile, and the brother-in-law of WRCL commentator Octavio Reyes, a harsh critic of the Miami Opera—"
"I have no comment."
"—who was about to debate Seth Greer on the air when Mr. Greer was shot to death in the parking lot of the studio. Who do you think is responsible?"
"I don't know."
"Have you discussed this with leaders in the exile community?"
"No."
He opened the passenger door of his Cadillac for Gail. The reporters pursued him around the other side. Anthony got in and closed his door, started the engine, and slowly pulled onto the road leading out of the cemetery.
"What insulting questions," Gail said. "You were amazingly calm. I would have told him to get the hell out of my face."
"No, you wouldn't. They would have put it on the six o'clock news. It's best to say nothing." At a stop sign he unbuttoned his collar and took off his tie. He reached around to lay it across the backseat. He was smiling. "So. Do you feel like Juliet?"
"Much more wicked than Juliet—and twice as old." She leaned over to nuzzle her nose under his ear. He must have shaved in his office before coming to the funeral; his skin was satiny, and he smelled delicious.
He gave her a quick kiss on the mouth, then returned his attention to the road. They would take the expressway south to Coral Gables, where his grandparents would be at home expecting them. Irene had already agreed to pick up Karen from school.
Gail watched traffic for a while, then said, "I have a question. How did Felix find out about Lloyd Dixon?"
The car accelerated around a semitrailer. "He talked to one of Lloyd Dixon's employees."
"You mean bribed him?" When Anthony nodded, Gail said, "How much did it cost you?"
"A thousand dollars."
"I hope it's worth it."
"Not yet." When Gail asked why not, he said, "What's it worth to know that someday, maybe, if things change in Cuba, my brother-in-law might have a chain of furniture stores from Pinar del Rio to Santiago de Cuba?" Anthony held up his thumb and forefinger in a circle. "No vale nada. Zip."
"Why did you tell Felix not to talk to me?"
He laughed softly. "It's not like that. I don't want you to get information from Felix, then you come ask me, then you talk to Felix again. It's simpler this way, if I tell you."
"If in fact you do tell me," Gail said.
"What do you mean, I don't keep you informed?"
"Would you have told me about Dixon and your brother-in-law if I hadn't found out for myself?"
"Of course I would have." He reached for her hand, then turned it palm up. "How is this? Did you see a doctor?"
"Don't change the subject. It's fine. I want to know these things because it could have some bearing on my negotiations with the city. Think about it. If Octavio Reyes—our major critic—is involved with somebody on the opera board—"
"Where is the evidence of that?" Anthony said. "All we know is that they have talked about doing business in Cuba. That's it."
"All right, but say that Lloyd Dixon is currently investing in Cuba. I don't mean planning to, but doing it now through an offshore corporation or financial manipulations, of which he is manifestly capable. And let's assume that Octavio is in with him—"
"Gail, that is not possible."
"Why not?"
"Because—" He exhaled. "Octavio would never do that! Not only would he be cutting his own throat if someone found out, he wouldn't do it because he despises the Cuban regime. He's too much of a patriot. He and my grandfather think alike in that regard. La causa above everything."
"You called him a two-headed snake."
"He is. But on the question of Cuba, he's a patriot. I don't agree with his brand of patriotism. I think he's wrong, but Gail, he is sincere about it." Then Anthony added, "That's what makes him dangerous. People who like easy solutions believe what he tells them on the radio."
Gail sat sideways to look at him. "If it isn't possible that Octavio and Lloyd Dixon are doing
business, so to speak, why did you spend a thousand dollars to bribe one of Lloyd Dixon's employees?"
The answer took time coming. "Felix thinks you could be right. Not that there is a conspiracy or a business arrangement between Octavio and Lloyd Dixon, as such, but perhaps . . ." The speculation ended in a shrug. "I don't know. We'll see." Anthony guided the car off the expressway and sped through a left turn under a yellow light. They headed east toward Coral Gables.
Gail said, "Will you tell me what Felix finds out?"
"Sure."
"Will you?"
"I said yes."
She made a weary laugh. "You tell me what you want to tell me."
The sunglasses turned toward her. "What do you mean?"
"I mean you hide things."
"Nothing important," he said.
She said quietly, "You didn't tell me about your affair with Rebecca."
He laughed. "Is that why you're mad?"
"It's an example, Anthony."
"More than twenty years ago! How is it important now? I didn't lie. I admitted it when you asked. Stupid thing to do." He added under his breath, "Women never forgive old affairs."
"Are you trying to miss the point, or can't you see it? I don't care if you slept with Rebecca, but you gave me such a bullshit reason for not telling me. You didn't want to hurt me? No, you were covering your butt."
His voice rose. "What are you doing, picking a fight on the way to my grandparents' house?"
With an elbow on the window frame, she pushed her fingers into her hair and watched the road.
The car slowed down. He pulled onto a shady side street and turned off the engine. Under the heavy foliage, the sunlight faded. Anthony pulled off his sunglasses and tossed them onto the dashboard.
But when he turned to her, there was no anger in his face. "I'm not going to fight with you, Gail. If we have disagreements, we'll work them out, but not that way." He looked at her awhile, his dark eyes moving back and forth to meet hers. "Okay?"
She nodded. "You're right."
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