Suspicion of Guilt

by Barbara Parker

  She fidgeted on the hard lab stool. "Can you tell if it's her signature?"

  His nose was six inches from the table. "Give me a minute." Brody matched the lab: smooth-surfaced, precise. Graying hair clipped military style. Short-sleeved white shirt, no tie. Gail supposed he played with computers when he got home at night.

  She spotted Karen adjusting the focus on a microscope. "Karen, don't touch that."

  Brody didn't look up. "She won't break it. Now, the electron microscope I would worry about."

  Karen said, "I know how to do it. We have microscopes at school."

  "Go get some sugar crystals. Or a bug. There's a roach trap under the coffee machine."

  "Cool." She vanished into the other room.

  "Karen—" But she was gone.

  Brody looked up at Gail. "Roach traps aren't toxic to humans, unless you eat them."

  "Well. That's good to know." She glanced around the lab. "So. Did you get a degree in this? Examining documents, I mean."

  "Not really." He moved another of Althea Tillett's letters under the magnifier and peered at it. "You learn as you go." His eyes moved to her for a second, then back to the paper. He smiled. "Degree in chemical engineering from Georgia Tech. Six years Naval Intelligence, fourteen with the Miami P.D. crime lab, then five as chief document examiner for Metro-Dade. Now I'm over there three days a week, the rest of the time here. I've taught at the FBI, the Treasury Department, the Florida Department of Law Enforcement. Member, American Academy of Forensic Scientists, Southern Association of—"

  "Okay." Gail laughed. "I submit the witness as qualified, your honor."

  He settled the glasses back down on his nose. "Now then. About this will. What I usually do is submit a written report. However, my buddy Anthony Quintana said to be nice to you."

  "Thank you for doing this," Gail said.

  "He's good people," Brody said. "One of the few criminal attorneys I have any respect for, to tell you the truth." He set the magnifier aside and leaned an elbow on the table, loosely clasping his hands. "Got a few questions about Mrs. Tillett. Age?"

  "Fifty-eight."

  "How was her health as of August third?"

  "Fine, as far as I know."

  "No drugs, no medication?"

  "I don't think so," Gail said.

  "Did she drink?"

  "A social drinker. She was drinking the night she died."

  He turned the papers around so Gail could see them. "These memos and letters are in Mrs. Tillett's own handwriting, so they're our standards. Likewise the signatures on the prior wills. Notice the variation in the memos and the wills. That's because people sign their names differently, depending on what they're signing. For example, you zip through a check, and you take more time with a business letter. Now, if you're signing a will, that's an important occasion." Brody smiled. "Although maybe not for Mrs. Tillett, since she wrote a will every other year."

  "Three in the last year alone," said Gail. "Assuming the August will is genuine."

  "The point being," Brody said, "the memos aren't going to look like the wills, but you expect that, so you don't get thrown off. You look for the subtleties, like the angles and the distance between letters. Or the height ratio—height of capitals compared to lower-case letters."

  He laid half a dozen memos side by side. "These standards are originals, not copies. You can see that Mrs. Tillett had her own characteristic way of writing, as we all do. The angle, the amount of pressure we use, where we lift the pen, and so forth. It's automatic. We write and we don't even think about it. Mrs. Tillett took more time with her wills, but that ingrained way of moving the pen across the paper is still going to be there."

  He nodded to the papers within Gail's reach. "Let me have the three most recent wills, but not the August will. Not yet." Each copy was already flipped to Althea Tillett's signature, and Brody put them in a row. "Look at the angle of the capital letters—the T particularly. You get some variation, but not much. The memos are signed faster—see how the pen lifts?— but there's that same angle, still more or less the same height ratio. Now hand me the August will."

  Gail put it to the right of the others. "I don't see much difference."

  "If we had the original in front of us, we could look for variations in pen pressure and speed. You'd see the actual indentations in the paper. But you're right. This signature on page six—rather, a copy of the signature on page six—is consistent with the standards. However—" He flipped to the beginning. "She also signed the bottom of every page. The usual practice with wills, right?"

  Gail bent closer. Brody overlapped the pages of the August will so that all the signatures showed. Six of them.

  "Let's say you're going to forge a will," he said. "You spend time on the last page. In fact, with these laser printers now, you can spit out fifty copies of page six and sign until it looks perfect. But say you get a little lazy with the other pages."

  His forefinger landed beside Althea Norris Tillett on page three.

  "Ahhhh. The double R's. No loops at the top."

  "Not just that. The angle is different." His finger moved to page five. "Here the spacing is off. And there are a few other points I could mention."

  Gail straightened slowly. "It's a forgery. Is that what you mean?"

  "No, I never say that. What I can tell you is that one of the signatures on the August third will is consistent with the decedent's standards, two are indeterminate, and three are not consistent."

  "Mr. Brody. You sound like you're testifying for the defendants."

  "Ms. Connor, only God almighty or the people in that room could testify that Mrs. Tillett did not sign this will."

  "All right, then. I'll rephrase the question. Mr. Brody, as a document examiner qualified as an expert by this court, do you have an opinion as to whether Althea Tillett signed this will?"

  He fell into the game. "Yes, counselor, I do."

  "And what is that opinion, sir?"

  "My opinion is that she did not." He raised a hand. "Given that I haven't examined the original August will, you understand."

  Gail leaned against the edge of the table, the implications of this beginning to hit her. "Could that change your opinion, sir?"

  He dropped the persona of expert witness. "Between you and me? I doubt it."

  Across the room Karen stood on her knees in a chair, squinting through the microscope. Brody called to her. "What have you got there, assistant crime tech? Find any bugs?"

  She grinned at him. Her lips were still red from the cherry snow cone she had bought outside the Science Museum. "Roach legs."

  "Some kid you got there," Brody said.

  Gail rested her forearms on the work table and stared at the will. "They did a good job, didn't they? Signed, sealed, and notarized. How hard is it to forge a notary seal, by the way?"

  "Don't do that. Pay the notary, it's easier."

  "And the attorney?"

  Brody shook his head. "Mine is not to reason why, counselor."

  She ran her finger along the name of the law firm printed at the bottom of the pages. "I suppose it's possible Rudy and Monica Tillett stole the paper from Alan Weissman's office."

  "So why isn't Weissman screaming?"

  After another moment, Gail said, "Maybe it wasn't Rudy and Monica at all. Maybe it was one of the other beneficiaries. Maybe it was Jessica Simms. What do you think?"

  "I don't like to speculate, but—" He shook his head. "I'd start with the stepkids."

  Gail asked, "Have you ever seen anything like this before?"

  "In twenty-seven years? You bet. And good luck getting these folks to admit what day it is." Brady's stool creaked a little when he reached over to turn the light on his magnifier off. "Another question for you. Mrs. Tillett alone when she died?"

  "Alone? Yes. My mother and the two other women had already left. The housekeeper found her body in the morning."

  "Is Miami Beach P.D. investigating?"

  "They did at one point. My
mother said they questioned everybody who was there that night. They told her it was routine. They even took her fingerprints."

  "Uh-huh. For ehmination, matching against others they might have found in the house. What does the death certificate have for cause of death?" "Well ... accidental, I suppose."

  "You suppose? See if it says 'pending.' That means they haven't made up their mind yet if she fell or if somebody helped her down the stairs." When Gail only looked at him, he added, "Well, it's a big estate. You know. Makes you think."

  Finally she said, "No. I didn't think of that."

  "One thing I've noticed about people with money. The more they have, the more other people will do to get their hands on it."

  "You mean Rudy and Monica Tillett—"

  "Or whoever stood to benefit. Could be anybody. I'm a frustrated detective, what can I tell you?" He gathered the papers. "Let's fire up the copy machine. You want the originals back or do I keep them?"

  "I'll keep them for now," Gail said. She followed him across the room, mulling over the thought of someone shoving Althea Tillett down her stairs. Unlikely. If the police thought that, it would have hit the news by now. If Patrick had been questioned, he would have told her.

  Brody pushed a button, and the copier began to whirr. "So Gail. What do I do, wait to hear from you?"

  She knew her next step: persuade the management committee at Hartwell Black to give her the green light. She said, "I'll be back in touch next week. What's the procedure if we hire you?"

  "We charge one seventy-five an hour, four hour minimum, plus costs. Is that acceptable?"

  "Certainly." If the firm let her take this case.

  "Usually we require an advance, but since Quintana thinks you're okay, I'll send a bill." Brody stood by the copier, one hand on his hip. A narrow belt ran through the loops of his brown polyester slacks, and he had the girth of a man over fifty. But not sloppy. Solid.

  He seemed to be thinking, then said, "I'll photograph the original with a macro lens so we can blow it up for demonstrative evidence in court. And I may ask you to get a subpoena so we can snip a tiny piece of the paper, to see if it matches paper from Mrs. Tillett's lawyer. You'll need to subpoena some samples from Weissman too. Doubt he'd give them to you voluntarily."

  Brody laid the will facedown and hit the button.

  "Who do you think the other side will hire?" she asked.

  "Don't know. There aren't too many qualified people in the area. Three or four in Dade County, a couple up in Broward. Excuse the way this sounds, but most guys, they know my partner and me are on one side, they don't like to get on the other. So maybe your defendants will get somebody from out of state." His hands had become like machines, flipping pages, pushing buttons, an effortless rhythm.

  "But it says something to the judge when they can't find someone local. One thing you can be sure of. With this amount of money, they'll keep looking till they find somebody who'll say what they want to hear."

  "I'm lucky I got you before they did," she said.

  "Doesn't matter who calls me first. That won't change my opinion."

  "Unlike hiring an attorney?"

  He laughed. "Hate to say it, but you're right about that."

  Chapter Seven

  By the time they arrived at Anthony Quintana's townhouse on Key Biscayne, it was nearly six o'clock. Karen had dawdled in the bathtub, then complained of a stomachache. Finally Gail had lost her temper and yelled at her. They had hardly spoken on the drive.

  Gail kissed Anthony's cheek at the door. "Sorry we're late. You know. Traffic on the causeway."

  "You should have a phone in your car."

  "Oh, stop. You and my mother."

  Karen had gone past them and now stood at the edge of the living room, looking around. The house was immaculate, with a dark green, L-shaped leather sofa, area rugs on Mexican tile, and track lighting over the bookcases. Karen wore a fresh T-shirt and shorts, but her usual grungy, unlaced white sneakers. The alligator purse was slung across her chest, and her green and orange Hurricanes baseball cap sat squarely on her head, the ponytail hanging out the back.

  Anthony walked over to her, his hand out. "Ah, Karen. Bienvenida, mi cielo. Como estas?" After a second, she shook his hand. He smiled.

  "It means welcome, and how are you? Your mother says you are studying Spanish in school."

  Gail gave her a hug around the shoulders. "And getting an A, too."

  "Que bueno."

  "But I prefer to speak English," Karen said.

  He glanced at Gail. "All right. English." Another smile at Karen. He gestured at the purse. "You are a young lady now, I see, carrying a handbag."

  She only looked at him.

  "Ah ... ha. Well." He clapped his hands together, as if he had remembered something. "I have a surprise for you. And for your mother, of course. We're going to have dinner at Biscayne Billy's and tie up at the dock. Look." He moved to the French doors at the other end of his living room, gesturing as he walked. "A boat."

  Gail followed him. "So this is why you told us to wear something casual." She could see past the screened patio to the inlet behind his house, where a sleek red and white speedboat waited at the sea wall. Not just a speedboat. A Cigarette offshore racer with a radar arch over the stern. "My God. You didn't buy that, did you?"

  "No, no. It belongs to Raul." His law partner had a waterfront home near Coconut Grove. Gail had met Raul Ferrer. He was married and middle aged, with four kids. She would never have expected a boat like this.

  "What do you think?" he asked.

  "It looks awfully fast. He showed you how to handle it, didn't he?" "Gail, please. Of course."

  Karen was still standing by the sofa. Anthony walked back to her. "Would you like to see the house? I'll take you on a tour when we come back. I rented three videos in case we want to watch a movie later. Beauty and the Beast. And two more they gave me, I can't remember which. But we should leave now, so we can watch the sun set while we eat."

  Gail bit her lip to keep from smiling. She had never seen Anthony Quintana remotely nervous, ever.

  Karen turned to her. "May I use the rest room, please?"

  Gail took her to the one in the hall, closed the door and lectured her about her manners, then left her there. She found Anthony in his kitchen packing a zippered bag: cookies, sodas, a Thermos, cups and napkins. All this for a two-mile boat trip. He wiped a smudge of something off the counter and hung the towel neatly by the sink. He had Belgian cookware, spices she had never heard of, tiled countertops, and solid oak cabinets. An espresso maker gleamed from one corner. There were no spatters on the stainless steel stove, no drips of jelly on the floor, and no dust kittens under the refrigerator.

  Gail leaned against the end of the counter, which had four chairs at precise right angles to the other side. She watched him zip the bag.

  "Sorry Karen's being so bratty," she said.

  He turned around. "Ah, well. This is new for her. And for me, having a child here." His own children, teenagers, had both moved to New Jersey with their mother four years ago. He saw them when he could.

  "You're a grand host," she said.

  He shrugged. "I hope she has a good time tonight. By the way, what does she keep in that purse?"

  "I have no idea." Gail smiled. "Why, Antonio, your rodillas are showing."

  Puzzled, he looked down. He was wearing a white pullover and crisply pressed, navy-blue shorts, revealing pale skin and a fuzz of dark hair down to his boat shoes. "My knees?"

  "I thought Cuban men didn't wear shorts," she said.

  He shook his head slowly. "Where do you hear such things?" His eyes came back to hers, deepest brown, shadowed with black lashes. He had just shaved; his skin glowed.

  She felt a flutter low in her belly and let out a breath.

  They met halfway across the kitchen, diving into each other. She locked her arms around his neck, and he slid his hands down to cup her backside. He squeezed and her heart rate shot up. His lips
found her ear, then her mouth. They broke from another kiss then noticed Karen standing by the refrigerator with her eyes narrowed.

  Anthony took a step backward. "Well. Are we ready to go?" He smoothed his hair and put on a turquoise Florida Marlins baseball cap. He patted her on the head as he walked by. "The 'Canes aren't bad for a college team."

  Karen glared at him behind his back. Gail whispered, "Don't say a word. I mean it."

  After setting the burglar alarm and locking the doors, he led them down the rear steps and across the thick grass. His townhouse was one of a dozen that curved around a quiet inlet in a canal that led west to Biscayne Bay. Two sailboats and a sportfisher were tied at other docks. Raul Ferrer's boat had a stiletto prow, two form-fitting white seats in front, a padded bench just behind, a dashboard like an airplane, and four chrome exhausts at the stern. A hatch led to a small cabin below. The boat seemed to crouch by the dock like a feral cat, ready to leap.

  When Karen jumped aboard Anthony handed her a bright orange life vest. "Here. This should fit. Raul has a daughter about your size."

  Karen didn't take it. "Are you and Mom wearing one?"

  "No. We're adults and we can swim."

  "So can I."

  "Look, it's the color of the Miami Hurricanes."

  "I don't want to if nobody else is."

  He turned his face to Gail, eyes shaded by his cap. Gail said, "Put it on, Karen. I'll wear one too."

  For a few seconds Anthony said nothing, then announced he would go below to find one more. Gail took Karen's hat off, dropped the vest over her head, and helped her adjust the buckles.

  "How come he doesn't have to wear a life vest?"

  "Because it's his boat."

  "No, it's not."

  "Stop it, will you?" Gail fluffed Karen's bangs. She hadn't meant to cut them so short, halfway between eyebrows and hairline. "Please? For me?" She handed back the hat.

  Anthony gave Gail a life vest, then stepped back to the dock to untie the lines at bow and stem and flip the ropes onto the boat. Gail wanted to tell him somebody else should do it while he started the engine, or they would drift away, but he was already coming back aboard, sliding into the captain's seat on the right.