On the third level a Miami Police patrol car was coming along the ramp from the other direction. Anthony quickly parked and walked toward it. The window slid down, revealing a female officer with her coppery hair in a clip.
"Is there a Quintana here?"
"I'm Anthony Quintana."
The car pulled in diagonally, and both doors opened. The driver was a short woman whose gun belt rode high on her hips. Her partner had massive arms that strained the sleeves of his dark blue shirt.
Brakes squealed, and a blue sedan with tinted windows rolled to a stop behind the patrol car. Two men in sports shirts and ties got out, badges clipped to their gun belts.
The security guard laughed softly. "Man, this is unbelievable." The older man had fading blond hair and a fleshy neck. Deep creases ran from a blunt nose to the drooping corners of his mouth. His eyes swept over the car without particular interest. He was not, Gail thought, happy to be here. "I'm Sergeant Dennis Ladue. This is Detective Novick."
There were introductions but no handshakes.
Ladue walked around the car. "Looks like somebody repainted the girlfriend's Mercedes."
Anthony said, "This isn't a random act of vandalism, Sergeant. We believe it's related to telephone calls that Ms. Connor received at home last week. The calls were anonymous, threatening her life."
The detective tilted his head, reading the word on the windshield. " 'Die.' That's nice." He gestured toward the paint can near the left front wheel. "Is this the culprit?"
"We found it near the car," Gail said. Her shoe had sent something rolling into the wall—an empty quart-size can of high-gloss enamel. Holding it by the rim, Anthony had set it upright, instructing her not to touch it. The lid lay beside it.
He said, "That can should be dusted for fingerprints. I'd like some photos taken of the car as well. Unfortunately, they don't have a video camera to record cars going in and out, but someone might have seen a person loitering near the garage."
One side of Ladue's mouth lifted, exposing the yellowed teeth of a heavy smoker. "Look. I got pulled off a homicide investigation to come over here, so I'm guessing that certain weight has been thrown around. But don't tell me how to do my job."
"Then do it."
"I don't care who you are, buddy, watch your attitude."
"You want to see an attitude?"
Gail dug her fingers into Anthony's arm.
The younger detective said, "Dennis?" He was unwrapping a stick of gum, rolling it into a tight spiral. "There's a camera in the trunk."
"Jesus. Okay, go ahead." Ladue said to Gail, "Tell me about the phone calls." Feet spread, he crossed his arms over his belly and leaned back.
"They came on Thursday and Friday nights from a pay phone—I have caller-ID. The same thing showed up on the screen Saturday too, but I didn't pick up."
"Same number?"
"No, it varied. And the voice was disguised. It sounded metallic, like a robot."
"Leading us to think that it's someone she knows," Anthony said.
"Yes. He called me by name and kept saying . . . 'die, bitch,' things like that."
Detective Novick, who had returned with a camera and flash, murmured for everyone to move aside. Chewing his gum between his front teeth, he went slowly around the car, crouching or standing at different angles. The flashes of light illuminated the red paint and made it look sticky and wet.
"Did you record the calls?" Ladue said.
"No, but I kept the numbers in memory—except the first time. I erased that one."
"Pay phones. That could be anyone."
Anthony said, "But if we could find out which pay phones, we would know where this person was when he placed the calls."
"How long were you away from the car?"
"Around . . . fifteen minutes."
Anthony nodded to Sergeant Ladue. "No more than twenty."
"Ms. Connor, you have any idea who would do this? Got any enemies? Anybody threatening you?"
"She and her ex-husband are in a custody fight," Anthony said.
Ladue made his half smile again. "Mr. Quintana, how about letting her answer the questions? What about it, Ms. Connor? Is the ex a possibility?"
"No, he's with our daughter. I don't know who could have done it. I have no clue." She turned her right hand over, which she had scraped more or less clean in a rest room in the hospital after telling Anthony what had happened. "I tried to wipe that word off my windshield." She laughed. "Enamel paint, half-dried already. When I saw it, I just . . . flipped. All I could think was, my daughter can't see this." Anthony's arm went around her.
"Ms. Connor, I realize this is distressing for you, but really there's not much we can do. We'll make a report, that's about it."
"Thank you for coming."
Ladue nodded, then turned to look for his partner. The other detective had picked up the empty paint can with a paper towel. "Mike, I've got to get back. Why don't you finish up here and catch a ride to HQ with the officers?"
"Sure." He dropped the can into a plastic bag. The two uniformed officers waited by their patrol car.
Ladue took a card out of his shirt pocket and gave it to Gail. "If anything else occurs, feel free to call." He got into his unmarked car, made a tight, squealing U-turn, and was gone.
While Anthony made arrangements to have the car towed, Gail took her own telephone out of her bag and dialed Dave's apartment. His voice mail picked up. "Dammit." She disconnected. It was ten after nine. Dave had said he'd have Karen home by nine-thirty.
Detective Novick was writing numbers on the evidence bags. Gail said, "Excuse me. I wonder if we could finish this tomorrow. My daughter will be home soon and no one is there."
"Where do you live, Ms. Connor?"
"Clematis Street in the Grove."
"That's not far. We can do the report at your house, and I can get the phone numbers off caller-ID."
Gail hesitated.
"Is there a problem?"
"No. It's just— My ex-husband and I are having this . . . custody thing, and if the police are there, he'll wonder what happened, and I wouldn't want him to think that somebody is threatening my life, if that's what it is. He might say that our daughter was in danger. You understand."
Behind the glasses, his green-flecked brown eyes had not wavered. "Okay. Tomorrow's fine."
Anthony was arguing with someone over the telephone about towing the car out of here immediately. Gail shook her head. "Never mind. There's no way he's going to let me put it off till tomorrow."
From halfway up the block Gail could see it: a white pickup truck parked along the street, leaving just enough room for Anthony's Eldorado to swerve around it and park in the driveway. No one was in the truck. Lights shone through the windows in the living room and Karen's bedroom upstairs.
Anthony said, "What is he doing here?" "They obviously got here early, and Karen let him in."
"He should wait outside."
"Anthony, for God's sake. Don't make a scene. Don't even open your mouth."
The patrol car parked behind them. Doors slammed. A two-way radio made its low, inarticulate chatter, and streetlights shone on badges and patent leather gun belts. A neighbor out walking his dog stopped to see what was going on. Karen was at the front door before Gail got there. Her eyes grew round. "Mom! Why are the police here?"
"Hi, honey. It's all right, go back in."
"We'll wait out here," Novick said.
Dave appeared behind Karen, his hands on her shoulders. For a second he and Anthony looked at each other through the screen; then Dave stepped back when Anthony opened it.
Gail went in first, and Anthony remained where he was, holding the door open. Dave said, "Gail, no one was here, and I didn't want to leave Karen by herself—" His gaze fell to her dress. "Jesus. What's that?"
"My car was vandalized. Some idiot threw paint on it. The police are outside, and I need to make a report." She crossed the room to put her purse on the small table at the foot of the s
tairs.
Karen followed. "Who did it?"
"I don't know, sweetie."
"That's awful."
"Crazy people in this world." Gail hugged Karen around the neck and kissed her. Karen's hair was silky and warm. "I'm glad to see you."
Anthony was still by the door. "Thank you for bringing Karen home." His tone was polite—for Karen's benefit, Gail thought.
Dave looked at him. "You're welcome." He turned his back and said quietly to Gail, "What is this? You've got three cops outside. For a vandalism complaint?"
"Yes. Why is that strange? You'll have to excuse us, Dave. I need to talk to them." She inclined her head toward the door.
Dave was still trying to figure out what was going on. His eyes lingered on Gail as he pulled Karen close with an arm around her waist—a playful hold that had Karen laughing, her feet off the floor, long hair dangling. "Hey, princess, why don't you come home with Daddy tonight? Looks like Mom is busy, and you have to get up real early."
Gail pulled back the hand that automatically reached for her daughter. She would not start a tug-of-war. "Dave, this won't take long. Karen's already here."
"And I don't like what she's seeing."
"Daddy!" Karen squirmed till he let her down. She flipped her hair out of her face. "I want to stay here and help Mom."
"Looks like she has plenty of help."
"I want to stay here." Her square jaw was set, and her high voice was emphatic. Gail had to hold herself back from smothering Karen in a tight embrace.
"Okay. I'll see you on Thursday. Don't forget. Lunch with Dad." Dave kissed Karen, then said quietly to Gail, "Dr. Fischman. One o'clock."
As Dave left, the brief look between him and Anthony could have frozen molten steel. Anthony watched through the screen until the sound of a truck engine came across the yard.
The police came in. Karen stared at them. Detective Novick smiled at her. "Hi. I'm Michael Novick. These are officers Hernandez and Robinson. We're going to try to find out who damaged your mom's car."
Gail put an arm around her. "You know, sweetie, I missed dinner, and I'm so hungry I could faint. Could you bring me some juice?" Clearly seeing that she was being made to leave, Karen gave a theatrical sigh. She nevertheless went off to the kitchen without complaint, hair swinging on her back.
The female officer was carrying a clipboard. "I guess I can get your full names and addresses. Do you live here as well, Mr. Quintana?"
"Yes."
Gail was surprised by this but did not contradict him.
Novick said, "Mr. Quintana, if you'd give the officers the pertinent information, I'll get the phone numbers from Ms. Connor." The detective's manner was courteous and business-like. Gail did not think he was faking it to please Anthony Quintana.
The caller-ID was in the master bedroom, Gail explained, leading the way. She flipped a switch, lighting the old brass sconces in the upper hall. "I'm sorry if you feel that Anthony twisted your arm. He's very worried."
"Well, I'd do the same," Novick said. "I heard his grandfather is Ernesto Pedrosa. I didn't know Pedrosa was in the hospital. What for?"
"He's getting a pacemaker in the morning." Gail had left a light on in the bedroom. The bed was unmade, file boxes and papers took up space on the dresser, and the shoes she had worn earlier were kicked off at the open door to the closet. "Sorry for the mess."
"No problem." He gave her a quick, boyish smile— the complicity of those who do not care about untidy bedrooms. He had brown hair so short he might have trimmed it himself with electric clippers in front of his bathroom mirror.
Gail bent over the nightstand. Her caller-ID was separate from the telephone, and she pushed the button to go back through the incoming calls. She looked more closely. "That's odd."
Novick tilted his head to see the screen. "It says 'no calls.' "
"Why isn't it—" Gail noticed that her clock radio was off by several hours. "Of course. The electrician. I had someone working on the kitchen wiring today. He must have cut the power."
"Those things are supposed to have battery backups," Novick said.
"Are they?" Gail turned it over. "Oh, I see. Well, no batteries, no memory. The first three digits were 4-4-3 on at least two of the calls."
"That's this area—Coconut Grove and Coral Gables."
"I should have written them down."
He was silent for a moment, then said, "You mentioned a 'custody thing' with your former husband. Have you had any trouble with him?"
"Not like that. I explained to Sergeant Ladue while you were taking pictures—-Dave was with Karen tonight. Besides, he wouldn't do something so juvenile. If he wanted to get back at me, he would do just what he's doing—try to take my daughter."
"His also."
"Yes. His also."
"Get back at you for what? Leaving him?"
Gail shook her head. "The divorce was his idea."
"Because of Quintana?"
"Is that relevant?"
"If I knew in advance what was relevant or not," he said, "I wouldn't ask."
She could see neither idle curiosity nor judgment in the detective's face. His glasses made him look more like a teacher than a cop. "Dave left me before I was involved with Anthony. Then he changed his mind and wanted to come back. I refused."
"And by then you were involved."
"Yes. But Dave never threatened me. I mean, he'd be the last person to throw paint on my car."
Novick seemed to be studying his shoes—brown leather with heavy soles. He scuffed one along the carpet, which needed vacuuming. "What I've learned about people is that they don't always act in ways you can predict. It's good to keep an open mind. Is there anyone you can think of who might have less than friendly feelings toward you?"
She smiled at the euphemism. "I have a divorce case where my client's husband probably hates my guts. He's a violent man, but he had no way of knowing where I'd be tonight. I can't think of anyone. That's what makes this so infuriating. It comes out of nowhere."
"No, there's always a cause." Lifting an arm toward the hall, Novick let her precede him. "You should make a list of people who have shown any hostility, for whatever far-fetched reason. You're a lawyer, right?"
Following him down the stairs, she allowed a small laugh. "You mean I should list all my opponents? And my clients too?"
He smiled over his shoulder. "Only those you might have had a dispute with. I noticed that you're doing some work on the house. Maybe you've had disagreements with the contractor or one of the workers."
"All the time."
Pausing on the landing, he said, "It could be anyone. Neighbors, family, ex-lovers, business associates. A person from your past. If something suddenly reminds them of you, it could set them off. People get obsessed, and there's not much you can do, except find out who they are and what they want."
"I've been hanging up. Should I talk to him if he calls again?"
"I would. Don't show any emotion. Try to find out why he—or it could be a she—is doing this. That would help to know. Motive is everything."
When they reached the bottom, Anthony saw them and stood up. He told Karen to wait there, then crossed the room. "Did you get the numbers?"
Gail shook her head. "The electrician cut the power today, and the numbers were erased."
"What electrician?"
She let out a weary breath. "Later."
Novick spoke too softly for Karen to hear. "Mr. Quintana, I was about to tell Ms. Connor that since there has been no physical violence, she shouldn't become too agitated at this point. Usually the people who want to hurt you don't advertise it first—if that's of some comfort."
"It is," Gail said. "Thank you." She took the card he gave her. Michael C. Novick, Homicide Bureau.
"Let me know what happens. And get some batteries for that caller-ID."
Gail lay on her side, encircled by Anthony's arms, her spine curled into his belly. He wore nothing at all, and she could feel his skin radiating he
at through her thin cotton nightgown. She knew by his breathing that he was awake. She had told him she didn't feel like making love tonight. That had surprised him—annoyed him—but he quickly let it go.
She watched the sky through the bunds, horizontal slices of dark blue.
Earlier she had fallen asleep in Karen's room while Anthony took a shower. In her nightgown and robe, she had sat on the bed to read Karen a story, but instead they watched the kitten go after Karen's toes, wiggling under the blanket. The kitten stared with its big green eyes, adjusted its rear legs, switched its tail, and pounced. Gail told Karen about the car. Probably some kids having fun. Nothing to worry about. Gail did not tell her about the word written in red across the windshield. Karen pulled the kitten onto her chest, scratching under its chin, where white fur made a bib. The kitten closed its eyes and purred. Gail said she wanted to explain about the phone calls. She had never actually accused Payton Cunningham of making them, and his mother was wrong to have said so. Karen asked who had called. Gail shrugged. Oh, who knows? But don't answer the phone till we change the number.
Gail pressed Karen's hand to her cheek. Her short nails were painted with pink glitter polish. There was a woven bracelet on her wrist, a scrape on one knuckle. Love you, sweetie. Karen wanted Gail to stay with her. Read me a story. Gail opened the book, and Karen cuddled closer. After a while Gail found it difficult for her lips to form the words. She heard Karen's steady breathing. Gail's eyes closed.
And then Anthony was whispering for her to wake up and come to bed.
He shifted his arm out from under her neck and rotated his fist, getting the numbness out, then propped himself on his elbow. He nudged aside a strand of hair and kissed the back of her neck. "Gail. You're not asleep."
"I was."
He slid his hand under the neckline of her gown, finding her breast, gently caressing. The nipple began to harden. He knew how to touch her.
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