Suspicion of Betrayal

by Barbara Parker

  The belt on Anthony's robe swung out when he turned and paced in the other direction. "Wendell Sweet would sell out his mother to avoid prosecution. If he knew—if he even suspected that his interest in the casino could be established, he would run crying to the government for immunity from prosecution. He would spill his guts, and adiós, Harry."

  "You lied to me. You said you never heard of Eagle Beach."

  "Call it a lie if you want. I chose not to discuss a client's business."

  "How self-righteous you are. What conceit." She laughed. "How dare you accuse me of holding back?"

  He pinned her with a fierce look. "That is not the same thing. Cono cara'o, how did we get into this?"

  "Who are you really protecting?" she asked. "Yourself? What did Wendell Sweet mean when he said he knew things to take you down?"

  Anthony stared back at her.

  She said, "The casino was purchased by a Venezuelan named Ricardo Molina. He made his money transshipping Colombian coke through his country, then to the U.S. The DEA knows about him, so do the Miami police. I believe that he bought the casino as a way to launder his profits from the cartel. My question is, did you know before Harry and Wendell sold it to him, or after?"

  "Harry is not involved with the cartel," Anthony said, "and neither am I, if that's your question. And no. I didn't know about the sale in advance. Are you finished?"

  They were circling each other. Gail said, "One more question. Harry has money in an account offshore—a lot of it. He has someone to manage it when he goes to prison, but he didn't say who. Would that be you, by any chance?"

  "Is that strange to you? My helping a client? And his choosing to maintain his privacy—which you are so intent on invading?"

  "Is the money dirty, Anthony?"

  "No."

  "It wasn't from Molina? Or it isn't what Harry Lasko has skimmed off his casinos for years? Did you help him do it?" She took a breath. "Is that what Wendell Sweet was talking about? Tell me that you won't be taken away in handcuffs. Tell me I won't have to worry about that."

  His brows rose, and he said patiently, "My relationship with my clients is none of your business. Wendell Sweet is full of shit. You don't have to worry. Are we finished now?"

  Rage was a tight ball in her chest, pressing outward. "Maybe we are. Tomorrow morning Karen and I are leaving. I'm taking her to her grandparents' house."

  "Is that right? And where will you go, back to Clematis Street? Or home to your mother?"

  "Where I go is none of your business." She held onto the back of the armchair. "And you can stay right here. You and your grandfather are a perfect pair."

  "Maybe you can go live with Dave."

  "I might do that. At least he respected me. He treated me decently. He never lied to me."

  "And you never lied to him. Did you?"

  "No. I didn't."

  Anthony smiled, showing his teeth. "I'll tell you why. You didn't have to. He is too dumb to have known the difference."

  "Really." She smiled back. "When you and I were dating, he came to my house, and I slept with him. But of course you must have known. You asked if I'd ever thought of going back to him. I said no, but that wasn't true either. He asked me again the other day. Maybe I should reconsider."

  "And did you sleep with him the other day? Or this morning in your office?"

  "That's none of your business."

  His right hand lifted, then froze. Anthony's lips were so tight they were bloodless, and anger snapped in his eyes like electrical charges in a black sky. She expected him to strike her, but didn't care. He exhaled and the back of his fingers brushed across her breast, then cupped it gently. "Who do you want?"

  She stepped back. "Don't touch me. Again. Ever." She flung open the closet door and grabbed her robe off a hook.

  "Where are you going?"

  "To Karen's room."

  "Stay here." It was not a request.

  She put her arms into the sleeves. "I am not in the mood, Anthony. I am so far out of the mood that if you touched me, I would probably hit you."

  He was around the end of the bed before she could reach the door. He grabbed her by the waist, and she found herself spun around, her back against his chest, his hand over her mouth.

  "Shhh! Do not scream in this house. Someone will think we are being murdered and call the police. Karen will wake up." When Gail kicked, his voice became a heated whisper in her ear. "You are going to frighten everyone. Stop acting crazy."

  Gail reached for her engagement ring. It was halfway off when Anthony's hand clamped over hers.

  "Don't take that off."

  "Stop it! That hurts!"

  "¡Déjalo!"

  She swung at him blindly, connecting with solid flesh. He pinned her arms. She found herself facedown on the floor, able to see the shimmering silk of his robe, a bare leg, and a foot on the carpet.

  When she stopped struggling he let her sit up, and she shook her hair off her face. He remained crouched beside her, poised. They were both breathing hard. She leaned over, her stomach queasy from rage. Her body shook from it. "I have never hated anyone in my life as much as I hate you."

  He stared back at her.

  She couldn't look at him anymore and turned away.

  "Gail. Perdóname. I lost my temper. I swore I wouldn't." He put his hand on her shoulder, and she jerked away. "I can't let you do this. Take Karen to Delray Beach? That's insane. What this has done to you . . . You aren't thinking clearly. I knew that and still I lost my temper." Anthony's arms went around her, holding tightly. "Sweetheart, don't. Deja de pelear conmigo." He scattered kisses across her face. "If you sent Karen away and he got to her, it would destroy you. If it's in my power to prevent it, I will. You aren't yourself these days, and I shouldn't have become angry. Maybe I don't know the right things to say, but I can't let you take this risk."

  "Let her go." Gail wept. "I'll stay here."

  "Ay, Dios. You aren't my prisoner. That's not what I want. Shhhh." He held her tightly. "All right. We'll talk about it tomorrow. Tomorrow. Not now." He pressed his cheek to hers.

  Utterly exhausted, Gail fell against him. When she began to cry, he put an arm around her back and lifted her up. He carried her to bed and took off her robe, then pulled the sheet up. He came back with some tissues from the bathroom, then turned off the light.

  "Go to sleep."

  Gail heard the slide of silk, then the rustle of sheets. The mattress shifted. He let out a heavy breath and crossed his forearms over his eyes.

  She put her back to him. Her body was like a piece of twisted steel. Her throat ached, and she sobbed into the pillow until she gradually stopped. Past the French doors, stars seemed to dance between the shifting fronds of a palm tree. Cool air came through the ceiling vent for a while, then went off.

  Anthony rolled onto his back. She tensed.

  He took a breath. Then another. "Gail?"

  She didn't answer.

  He said, "Harry Lasko became a client about eight years ago, some trouble with the IRS. I advised him how to avoid future problems, but a client doesn't always listen. Harry likes people. He trusts them. Like Wendell Sweet. Harry didn't know about Molina. He just wanted a buyer so he could retire, and Wendell found Molina. I only found out when Harry did. The deal was underway. I told him not to go through with it, but he said, No, you don't back out on a guy like Molina. Meanwhile the government was on to Harry about some other matters. He says he was creative with his accounting, they said he was doing it with criminal intent, and I was trying to save him from prison. The prosecutors offered a deal. No time if he'd give them Molina. They didn't know about Harry's interest in the casino, but knew that Harry and Molina were acquainted. They wanted him to wear a wire. Harry wouldn't do it, although I argued with him, at great length. My grandkids would be shark bait. That's what he told me. So I'm doing what I can with his sentence, and there isn't much anyone can do—except not to let it get any worse for him."

  Anthony shifted
on the mattress. His voice came from another place, as if he had turned toward her and propped himself on his elbow.

  "After eight years of knowing Harry, I became more than his lawyer. This happens, you become friends with a client. He asked me for help. He was worried about his wife when he went to prison. Who would take care of her? How could he be sure she was treated properly? And the grandchildren—he is crazy on that subject. He wants them to go to college. If he gave the money directly to his son and daughter to handle these things, the government would seize it, and Harry doesn't think either can be trusted not to loot the account. So I said yes. And I could be disbarred for unethical, not to mention illegal, acts, even though I'm not receiving any payment beyond expenses. But I said yes, and I would do it again. I think Harry must have told Wendell I was helping him, and that's what Wendell meant when he talked to you. Wendell could make trouble for me, and part of my reluctance to talk was because of the risk to myself. And because ... I didn't want to disappoint you.

  "I wish you didn't know about this, but I don't apologize for what I do for my clients either, just as you don't. I ask you—I hope for your understanding."

  He was silent for a moment, then said, "You are angry now, and you have a right to be angry, but I think that whatever happens, we will be together because we have . . .we have passion for each other. To say love or want or even need isn't enough. I don't know the right words to say. I want so much to touch you. Not to make love. It would be enough only to touch you."

  There was a sigh. He turned over, plumped his pillow, and lay quietly. Gradually his breathing became slower and deeper, and occasionally there was a soft snore.

  Gail knew that she could, if she wanted, creep out of bed, open the door, and go across the hall. He might wake up, but he wouldn't stop her.

  She turned her head and saw the curve of his hips, a bare shoulder, his dark hair on the pillow. He was leaving her alone. Letting her decide. As if there was a choice.

  The satin nightgown slid easily, and she nestled beside him, curled against his back. Her open mouth pressed against the smooth skin of his shoulder, and her leg went around him. He caught her knee and held it, then turned toward her.

  She held his face and kissed him. "Anthony. I'll always want you. Always."

  He was ready and entered her quickly in a single thrust. She clawed to get closer, finally moving on top of him, bracing her hands on his, entwining their fingers.

  NINETEEN

  Gail sent Karen to stay with her grandparents after all. Even with Anthony's assurances, she could not dismiss her fears, and he agreed, finally, to allow Karen to leave—if. If the Metzgers would allow a private security company to keep an eye on the building, at his expense. Dave complained to Gail that Anthony Quintana had no right to set conditions on Karen's going any damn where her parents wanted her to go, but Gail begged him not to make an issue of it. She delivered Karen to Dave's apartment on Sunday morning, and Karen was in Delray Beach by noon. Anthony was pleased that Karen had taken Señor Bear along.

  Three days without Karen had sent Gail across the hall to gaze at the empty bed. She had curled up in the armchair, and Anthony had found her there one evening, asleep. Telephone calls were of some consolation, and Gail called at least twice a day. Karen sounded happy, but said she would be glad to come home again. Then she had asked, "Where do we live now, Mom?" Gail had not been able to answer.

  Gail had called Dave a few times, but not to discuss Karen. She wanted to know about the Old Island Club. What in hell was going on?

  The deal with Marriott had been canceled for Monday and reset to Wednesday. Dave wasn't sure why— some mixup at the head office—but he wasn't worried. "Give their lawyer a call," he had told her. Jeffrey Barlow, apologizing for the confusion, said that the general counsel had wanted to review the documents, but by two o'clock on Wednesday afternoon—barring some event he could not imagine—a cashier's check for $125,000 would be hand-delivered to Ms. Connor's office.

  Gail had spent all day Tuesday attempting to placate the increasingly shrill and suspicious Theresa Zimmerman. Her excuses had been so lame she herself had blushed to hear them come out of her mouth. I need to go over the figures one last time. The check was inadvertently mailed to the wrong address. She had stopped taking Ms. Zimmerman's calls. Ms. Zimmerman had left a message: If I don't get my money, I'm calling the police.

  The Pedrosa family physician had prescribed Xanax the night Karen's kitten had been killed, and Gail was still taking it. Otherwise, she said to herself, the situation with Zimmerman would have finished off what little of her sanity remained.

  In late June the weather was too oppressive to sit outdoors in the sun, even in the morning, but the terrace outside their bedroom was shady, and the French doors were open to let the cooler air drift out. Gail could hear the shower going. Still wearing a pink cotton nightie, she nibbled on toast. Fermina had just brought breakfast—toast, juice, and café con leche, along with this morning's Miami Herald. Gail had read the sports section. Fermina would come back later to collect the dishes and wipe off the little glass-topped table. Softly singing gospel songs in Spanish, she would change the sheets, scrub the bathroom, and straighten the towels.

  Just as Gail lifted the little silver pot to pour espresso, a leaf fluttered into her cup. She frowned, shook it out, then poured an inch or so into her cup and Anthony's, then filled the cups with hot milk. Added sugar. Stirred. After breakfast, she decided, she would get dressed and try to make it to work by ten o'clock.

  There was a situation to be taken care of with the bank. Last Friday, computing her trust account balance in her head, she'd made a mistake. She didn't have $8,000 left in the account, but a $12,000 deficit. Other checks would have bounced, but the bank had cleared them for payment. The bank officer had called: Ms. Connor, could you drop in and see me tomorrow morning? Gail had been forced to confess everything to Miriam, who was covering for her.

  Today—unless a disaster occurred—Gail would deposit a cashier's check for $125,000, which Jeff Barlow would send to her office by two o'clock. And then she would mail Ms. Zimmerman a check for $28,650.27, the amount due from the insurance company as payment for one bad knee.

  Gail was filling glasses with orange juice when Anthony came out and kissed the back of her neck. She inhaled spicy cologne. He sat down, adjusting the knee of his trousers. The sunlight fell through the trees like bright coins in his lap. His hair was polished mahogany, and his hands would have made a sculptor weep.

  Full lips turned upward in a little smile. "What are you thinking about, chulita?"

  Gail hesitated. "My wedding gown. Lola Benitez left another message that I need to come in for a fitting."

  "I can't wait to see you in it." He kissed her mouth, then turned his attention to the newspaper. "¡Ño! The Marlins lost to Cincinnati, six to four. I owe Raul twenty bucks."

  "Poor baby."

  Anthony picked up the section and scanned the story. "I talked to Harry Lasko last night. We have a proposal on the Sweet case we want you to consider— you and your client."

  Gail stopped her cup on its way to her lips.

  He flipped the paper to the bottom half. "Harry is worried about Jamie. Aside from that, the divorce proceedings could drag out for months, and we are concerned what Wendell might do—as you and I have already discussed. So it would be to everyone's benefit, your client's most of all, if Harry takes care of her expenses—hers and the children's—minus what Wendell would probably pay without protest. I would make sure that money gets to her on a regular basis. Of course, we need to arrange a way to do this, not to draw attention, but if it's handled properly, Jamie will be free of Wendell, Wendell can do as he pleases, and Harry will have no reason to worry. So if you could prepare a list of her expenses"—Anthony tapped the refolded section on his thigh—"and your fees. What is it—twenty-something? Twenty-two?"

  "Twenty-two thousand, five hundred," said Gail. "Less my retainer, which Harry already gave me.
"

  "Harry will take care of your fees as well, since Wendell is making a big deal out of having to pay opposing counsel." Anthony smiled. "Well?"

  Gail was astonished. "I don't know how Jamie could refuse. That's extremely generous."

  Harry is fond of her."

  "Yes. And of the idea of not spending any more time in prison than he has to." The sun twinkled on the juice glasses. "I'll call Jamie today."

  "Good. Harry's sentencing is in two weeks. I would like to have this settled before then, if possible." Anthony lifted the napkin that covered the basket of toast. He picked up a piece and bit a corner off with perfect white teeth. His tongue darted out to catch a crumb, and he brushed something off his tie. The pattern was intricate Moorish swirls, green on gold, and the color matched the subtle stripes in his socks. His attention went to the newspaper that Gail had dropped in disarrayed sections between their chairs.

  She was aware suddenly that a dismal mood had settled over her, but she didn't know why. The Sweet case was finished, or would be within days. Anthony had tied the solution up in a package, and all she had to do was carry it to Jamie. What bothered her, she decided, was that she hadn't thought of it herself. She had been too insistent that Wendell pay," and maybe it was her own pride that had jammed up the case. She had been beating against an iron door with her fists, when all the time Anthony had been twirling the key around his finger.

  What kind of a lawyer was she, anyway? Still in her nightclothes at eight-thirty in the morning. Fuzzy on Xanax. Avoiding her office, with a lease payment she couldn't afford. Avoiding the paperwork stacking up on her desk. And avoiding the client whose money Gail had borrowed for one day to save her ex-husband's sweet ass on a deal he had promised would be no risk to you, Gail. None. She felt herself sliding toward catastrophe, a sickening, swirling rush—

  Anthony broke into her thoughts, and she realized he had been talking for a while. ". . . might as well call the same sales agent we used when we bought it. What was her name?"

  "Silvia Sanchez." Gail sipped her coffee, but it was too sticky sweet. She put it back on the table.