Suspicion of Betrayal

by Barbara Parker

  Gail momentarily closed her eyes. "I can't deal with this right now. All right, fine. You take her." When she opened the door, Karen rushed past, leaping into his arms, putting on a show. "Daddy!"

  He whirled her around, bell-bottom jeans and clogs flying. "Hey, princess." He kissed Karen's cheek, then turned her toward his pickup truck, parked along the street. "Go get in the truck, honey. Daddy wants to talk to your mom for a second."

  With a last wary look at both of them, Karen walked through the grass, picking her way around the roof tiles. The kids were still out there. The boys had come closer to the truck, a shiny new white one with double rear wheels and a boat hitch. Payton Cunningham was doing circles on his bike, skidding on the gravel.

  Dave said, "I called Dr. Fischman and set up an appointment for Karen. One o'clock Thursday. I can pick her up from day camp."

  The suddenness of this surprised her. Gail said, "You were going to call me. I can't make it Thursday. We were supposed to do this by mutual agreement."

  "There was a cancellation, and if I didn't take it, we couldn't get in for two weeks."

  "Karen shouldn't be dragged out of summer camp—"

  "I'm not dragging her anywhere—"

  "—to a psychologist, to be interrogated on a choice she is incapable of making—"

  "Interrogated? I talked to Fischman myself on the phone. He's a great guy, very concerned about kids." Dave's face was turning red, making his eyebrows appear even blonder. "I love Karen. If I thought this would be traumatic for her, I wouldn't go near his office."

  "Just don't make her feel it's her fault that she has to be there."

  "None of this is her fault," Dave said.

  "I know that. It's ours."

  "Fischman wants to see us too." He laughed softly. "I don't know what to tell the man. Lay my guts out for him or what. Jesus. If he asks me why, I don't know what to tell him."

  "Tell him you want an all-American lifestyle for your daughter," Gail said.

  Dave's thin mouth drew in, and he shifted his weight to the other hip. His thumbs were hooked over his belt. "I'm taking her Thursday. You make your own arrangements."

  Gail felt a rush of heat up her throat. "She's almost eleven. She's about to go through puberty, and she needs a mother. What you've done is unforgivable. She isn't going to live with you, Dave. I won't allow it."

  The blue eyes grew frosty. "You won't allow it. What Gail Connor wants, well, that's the way it's going to be. Guess what. Karen wants to live with dear old dad. If she wasn't afraid you'd blow up, she'd tell you." "That is such a lie."

  "Yeah? Let's see what Fischman has to say about it." With a phony smile Dave stepped off the porch. "I'll bring her back tonight by nine-thirty. Try to be downstairs instead of in bed with el macho, like last time."

  "Oh, really; Up yours, Dave."

  "Nice language. You talk like that around Karen?"

  He turned around and crossed the yard, got into his truck. The engine started with a deep growl. Karen waved from the passenger side. Gail waved back, smiling. She wanted to fall into one of the wooden chairs on the porch and cry.

  Mercy Hospital had been constructed in a Mediterranean style, with a long portico along the front and a red tile roof. A modern parking garage had been added to one side. This time of day it was jammed with cars, and it took Gail awhile to find a space. The sun was lower but still shining brightly. She walked quickly to the main building under a covered walkway, caught her breath riding the elevator to the fourth floor, then took a right and a left to the end of the hall.

  She glanced at her watch: 7:32. Bad, but not terrible.

  As she had expected, the corridors were full of people, although the rules said only two visitors per patient. Most of the patients were Cuban, which meant that entire families would show up, bringing food and making trips to the cafeteria for espresso to stay awake, because they also paid no attention to the rule about leaving by eight o'clock.

  Ernesto Pedrosa had a private corner room. Gail saw Anthony's cousin Betty in the hall, and they exchanged a kiss on the cheek. Betty said Anthony was inside. Gail peered around an older woman standing in the way. A City of Miami police officer in a dark blue uniform was posted by the door, which Gail found odd. He glanced at Gail without interest as she went through.

  She saw the end of the bed, but Pedrosa was blocked from view by Aunt Gracida, fixing the pillow. Digna Pedrosa sat with other relatives on the sofa. Across the room a group of men were conversing in low tones. Most stood; a few were sitting. She saw a neatly creased trouser leg, a dark sock, and an expensive laced shoe of Italian design. She recognized the shoe. One of the men moved, revealing Anthony in profile—the long nose and full lips, the brown hair that waved back from his forehead. The collar of his shirt was open, his tie loosened. One elbow rested on the arm of the chair, and he gestured slowly as he spoke. The light caught the emerald on his last finger.

  He looked up when another man in a dark business suit came over to see him. Then the quick smile that showed his lovely teeth. The handshake. But he didn't bother to stand, even for the mayor of Miami. The men spoke in rapid, colloquial Spanish. Gail understood now the presence of the police officer. The mayor, a fellow Cuban, had come to say good luck to Ernesto Pedrosa and, as long as he was here, to pay his respects to the heir to the throne.

  Gail suddenly felt queasy. The aspirin, she thought. Bad to take it on an empty stomach.

  A pair of dark-framed glasses that she hadn't noticed before suddenly gleamed with reflected light, and Hector Mesa leaned over to whisper to Anthony.

  It took only a second for Anthony to locate Gail by the door. No smile. No indication that he wanted her to join them. He looked at her for only an instant—not even long enough for anyone to notice that his attention had been momentarily drawn away—before he resumed his conversation with the mayor.

  The shock of this dismissal stunned her, and she was suddenly aware that she had not moved for several seconds, and that the other people in the room were behaving quite normally.

  Hector Mesa seemed to be watching her, though it was impossible to tell. Gail abruptly turned her back on him and maneuvered through the visitors to Pedrosa's bedside.

  Sitting nearly upright, the old man saw her and lifted one pale, spotted hand. She took it and bent to kiss his cheek. He had been shaved, and his lined face was smooth and soft. His pajamas had a design of fleur-de-lis and blue piping—not hospital-issue.

  "Señor, ¿cómo está? I'm so sorry to be late. A client of mine called, and I thought she might kill herself, she was so upset. Her husband had just left after beating her up, and I had to make sure she was all right. She has three children." As Gail babbled on, she realized that it wasn't really Pedrosa she was explaining this to.

  "You were on a mission of mercy." Pedrosa spoke as if it was an effort to do so, and Gail noticed how carefully he formed the words. "No te preocupes por— Don't worry about being late." He swallowed and took a breath. "I will be here tomorrow."

  "Is that a promise?"

  "Oh, yes."

  "Don't you need some rest? There are so many people here."

  Digna Pedrosa, who had rejoined her husband, smiled at Gail across his bed. "The nurses will come and chase them all out very soon."

  A slender hand went around Gail's elbow, and Elena Godoy lightly pressed their cheeks together. "There you are, Gail. We were starting to worry about you. How does he look? Very strong, no?"

  "A tiger," Gail said.

  "Did you get my message today about Lola Benitez?"

  "Yes. I didn't have a chance to call you back. Saturday morning would be fine, if you still want to go." Gail managed a smile, although she was in no mood to think of wedding dresses.

  "Nena wants to come too. Is that all right?" Without waiting for an answer, Elena asked her grandmother, "Nena, usted quiere ir con nosotras el sábado, ¿verdad?'"

  "SÍ, si, I would love to go with you. Gail, why don't you ask Irene to come too?
I like her so much, but we don't see each other."

  "Yes, she said she wanted to come," Gail replied.

  She felt the light pressure of an arm against hers an instant before Elena said, "Anthony, we're going with Gail to look at wedding dresses on Saturday. But you can't come, of course. It would be bad luck to see the dress before the wedding."

  He made a slight shrug. "Then I'll have to wait."

  Pedrosa's grin was sly. "Women always make us wait. Para ponernos deseosos en la noche de boda." To make us eager on the wedding night.

  "¡Abuelo!" Elena lightly slapped his wrist.

  Anthony was looking at Gail. "Where is Karen?" "With her father."

  "Ah." He nodded toward the door. "Come with me for a moment?"

  "Oh, dear." Gail said to the faces around the bed, "Will you excuse us? I think Anthony wants to scream at me. And I'm trying so hard to be cubana"

  She heard him exhale through his teeth.

  The others exchanged glances. Digna raised her silvery eyebrows and made a slight nod. Gail turned around and walked through the door, not waiting to see if Anthony was behind her.

  He was. In the corridor he took hold of her arm and pulled her close so no one could hear them. "Why did you say that to my grandparents? It was inconsiderate. It was embarrassing—for everyone."

  "Was it? As rude as the way you treated me when I came in?" She took a ragged breath to ease the tension. "I should probably leave."

  "Not yet." He led her down the hall, smiling at a couple of people but not stopping. It went through Gail's mind to jerk her arm away and leave him staring at her back as she stalked toward the elevator. Around the corner was a vacant room with two neatly made beds, both empty. They went inside, leaving the door open.

  She threw her purse onto a chair and pushed her hair back with both hands. "What do you want me to do? Apologize to them? I will if you—"

  "Harry Lasko called me." Anthony let that sink in, then added, "Would you like to know what he said?"

  Gail dropped her hands by her side. "So that's why you're so mad. I was going to tell you."

  "Were you?"

  "Of course I was! Did you expect me to bring it up in there? Why are you making such a big deal out of it?"

  "Big deal?" Anthony's voice was still soft, but the words were clipped, and his Spanish accent became more evident. "I told you I am in the middle of plea negotiations with the U.S. attorney's office. I told you not to contact Harry Lasko."

  "I didn't! You weren't there, Anthony. Don't tell me what happened."

  "Why didn't you call me? You have a telephone."

  She laughed. "Call you? He just started talking! I didn't ask him to!"

  Anthony tensed his mouth, and shadows undercut his cheekbones. "You didn't arrange a meeting at Jamie Sweet's house for the purpose of speaking to Harry?"

  "If he told you that, it's a lie. No, Jamie called both of us this afternoon, and we independently came to see if she was all right. Wendell had just attacked her."

  "Did you know Harry would be there?"

  "Stop it, Anthony." Her voice rose. "Stop it. I hate it when you get like this."

  He looked past her, and she sensed a presence at the door, knowing who it was before she turned around.

  Hector Mesa made his customary little bow. "Señora." Then to Anthony, "El señor Gutierrez está aquí."

  "Momento," Anthony replied.

  Mesa vanished.

  Gail was shaking with rage.

  Anthony said, "I can't go to dinner with you to night. My grandfather's lawyer—Jose Gutierrez—is here to draw up a power of attorney in case Ernesto is . . . temporarily incapacitated by the operation. The doctors don't expect that, but we want to cover all eventualities."

  Gail took a slow breath. "And you will be the one appointed to take over. In case."

  "Yes."

  "You aren't going to ask me what I think?"

  He frowned. "What do you mean?"

  "I'm sure it doesn't matter, but I'll tell you anyway." Gail held onto the railing of one of the beds. "I think you should tell Mr. Mesa—because as chief court conspirator, he's no doubt behind this—that Bernardo can do it, or Elena, or one of the others."

  "Ernesto asked for me to handle it. How can I refuse, when he's facing an operation in the morning?"

  She could only laugh. "My God. You want this so badly, don't you? You told me you didn't, but I saw you with the mayor. You were eating it up."

  "Gail, what is the matter with you?"

  "You don't even see it. You're becoming something you said you'd never be—a puppet of Ernesto Pedrosa."

  They stared at each other, Anthony's gaze going through her like a shard of ice. He said softly, "Why don't you go home? We can discuss this later."

  "Later. Sure. When would that be? Tonight? Tomorrow?"

  "Expect me around nine o'clock."

  "Fine." Gail picked up her purse and walked out.

  Mesa was standing outside the door, waiting for Anthony. His hands were loosely clasped, and he inclined his head. "Señora."

  Through her teeth she said, "Go to hell."

  He was still smiling under his neat gray mustache.

  On the way down in the elevator she was barely in control. The tears started to come when the automatic doors in the lobby hissed open. She wiped her cheeks and walked faster, retracing her steps under the covered walkway, then to the parking garage. The last rays of the sun had faded to gray. She pounded up three flights of concrete stairs, footsteps echoing in the stairwell.

  The heat and humidity bore down. Sweating freely, she hurried past car after car, looking for her light blue Mercedes. On the point of screaming with frustration, she went up another flight of stairs. Nothing there. Cars passed her, tires squealing on the turns. Her nose filled with the stench of exhaust. She took the stairs back down a level, certain she had not driven as far as the fourth.

  On the third level again she pivoted slowly, looking downline row of cars, one end to the other. Just as she became convinced that her car had been stolen, she saw it.

  She could see now why she had walked past it before. The color was wrong.

  Red. There were stripes of red on the trunk that dripped slowly onto the slick concrete floor of the parking garage. She walked closer, staring. Almost without knowing it, she reached out and touched the liquid, then studied the smear on her forefinger.

  Stunned, she walked along the driver's side between her car and the one next to it. More red flowed over the hood and dripped down the sides and into the air vents. Not my car, she said to herself. Someone else's. No one would do this to my car. Then she recognized the bamboo handle of an umbrella on the floor inside. "Oh, no. Oh, my God."

  She could see a word scrawled at an angle across the windshield.

  DIE.

  Written in vivid scarlet, the color and consistency of blood.

  NINE

  “The police won't come out for a vandalism complaint." The security guard shook his head. "They say to send people to the station to make a report."

  He sat in his golf cart with one black sneaker propped on the dashboard, waiting to see what would happen. Several yards away, Anthony paced back and forth, shouting in Spanish into his portable telephone. Gail waited in the car, trying to be inconspicuous.

  The garage was clearing out, cars slowly circling down the levels. Faces at the windows turned to look at the Mercedes C280 covered with paint, and at the woman in the yellow dress stained with red.

  People had stared at Gail when she'd gone back inside the hospital. They had seen her wild hair, the mascara under her eyes, and the smears of red on her hands. Someone asked if she had been injured. Shaking her head, she had hurried into the elevator, wanting only to find Anthony. Their argument didn't matter anymore, or the cold manner of their parting. One of Pedrosa's nurses brought Anthony out. When he saw her, his eyes widened. He rushed to her, touching her face and arms as if she might break. He had gone back inside his grandfathe
r's room for a moment and how he had explained his abrupt departure Gail did not know. Or care. Anthony had taken charge. When security said they were extremely sorry, but there was nothing they could do, he demanded that the Miami police send a detective to the scene.

  "We don't get much vandalism," the guard said. "We had some cars keyed or antennas snapped off, stuff like that. It usually happens to nice cars. That's true. I drive a Camaro, but it needs body work. I never have no problems." The security guard was somewhere in his thirties, with a tan uniform and a matching billed cap. His only weapons were a flashlight and a two-way radio.

  Anthony folded his telephone. "They're on their way."

  The guard sat up straight. "Who, the Miami PD? No lie? You must know somebody down there."

  Ignoring the guard, Anthony told Gail he had parked on the second level and wanted to bring his car up. She went with him. He carried his jacket and put his arm around her waist. A humid breeze drifted through the garage, bringing the smell of decaying seaweed. He located his car and opened the passenger door for her, then went around. When the engine started, cool air came through the vents, and Gail felt her body sinking into the soft leather of the seat.

  His hand touched her cheek. "Are you all right, sweetheart?"

  "I thought you might not come."

  "What? No. Oh, no." He reached for her across the console, and his arms went around her tightly. He was solid and warm, and the scent of his cologne was still in his clothes. "Gail, please forgive me for what I said to you earlier. I had no right to be angry."

  She held on. "Who is doing this to me, Anthony?"

  He lifted her face. His eyes seemed black in the dim interior of the car. "I swear to you, I will find him. Gail, you should have told me about the telephone calls. It wouldn't have been a bother—that's a crazy reason not to tell me."

  "I thought it was just a kid. Payton Cunningham. That's what I thought at first."

  "We'll change the phone number. I'll hire a private investigator." Anthony kissed her softly. "Don't worry anymore." Weak with relief, she began to cry. "No. Deja de llorar, cielito." He reached for his handkerchief, leaving his arm around her while she wiped her eyes. After she had assured him at least three times that she was fine, Anthony put the car into gear and backed it out of the parking space.