They had decided to sell the house on Clematis Street. Karen didn't want to go back there, Gail did not care for the neighbors, and Anthony could only see years of remodeling. He had broached the idea; Gail had agreed. They would look for something else. And meanwhile they would live here.
"If you have her number, would you mind giving her a call?"
"All right."
"¿Qué pasa, mamita?" Anthony took her hand. "It's not an easy decision. I have mixed feelings too. Should we keep the house?" The look on his face answered the question.
She formed what she hoped would pass as a reassuring smile. "I'll call Mrs. Sanchez. Maybe I can show her the house on Saturday. I'd like to visit Karen on Sunday."
"I'd like to see Karen too. May I go with you?"
"Of course." Gail had wanted time alone with Karen, but she didn't want to disappoint Anthony.
He tipped his head back to take a big breath of morning air. "As a boy I wanted to get out of here. It was a prison to me. You know, at that age, coming from rural Cuba, where I could roam around the countryside barefoot . . ." He laid a hand on Gail's arm. "I want you to think about something. We could live here. Last night Nena said to me, Why do you want to buy a house? We have so much room, and we wouldn't charge you anything. If you want, help with the groceries."
Gail propped her cheek on her fist. "A few cans of black beans now and then."
He laughed, then became serious. "She has a point."
"We wanted our own place." "They're going to leave this house to me in their wills." "They are?"
"Nena told me, but I'm not supposed to know." He squeezed Gail's hand. "Don't think about it now. There's time." He leaned over and kissed her cheek. "When this is over—when Karen comes home, then we'll talk about it."
She held onto his shoulder before he could pull away. "Where are you, Anthony?"
"What do you mean?" He frowned, smiling a little. "I'm right here, as always. Siempre tuyo." He kissed her again, on the mouth, lingering. "Always yours."
A soft electronic ringing noise was coming from the bedroom. He turned his head. "Is that your phone or mine?"
"Yours. I turned mine off."
He got up to answer it.
Of course they would live here, Gail thought. It was inevitable. Not so bad, really. The house had appeared in Architectural Digest, and the grounds had been photographed for a book on South Florida gardens. Meals would be prepared. There would be no cleaning to do, which would make Karen happy. It was quiet— except for the parties and dinners—which occurred two or three times a week and which, living here, she would have no way to avoid— "Gail."
She turned to see Anthony in the open doorway.
"That was Harry Lasko. He's at Jamie Sweet's house. The police are there too. Last night they pulled Wendell out of the Miami River."
"He's dead?"
"Very."
Wendell Sweet had been murdered by drug dealers. Or by someone who wanted it to look that way. His BMW had been found in a park upriver with an empty gym bag in the trunk—empty except for some white residue at the bottom and a few scraps of silver duct tape, the sort commonly used to seal kilos of cocaine. Wendell had been shot in the chest twice at close range with a small-caliber weapon, then once again in the back of the head. His body had been dumped in the river. Gunshots were not unusual in that neighborhood, and no witnesses had turned up. His wallet and car keys were still in his pocket.
On an ebbing tide Wendell Sweet had floated down the dark, narrow river past rusty Haitian freighters tied to docks, past yachts at the Bertram yard, past barnacled wood pilings and small houses with banana trees in the backyards. He had drifted on the brackish, oil-specked water with rotting coconuts, plastic jugs, and sodden wood, and finally had come into the lights of an outdoor seafood restaurant, where one of the patrons had stood up and pointed at the shape bobbing a few yards away.
Miami homicide detectives, using the address on the victim's ID, had arrived at eight-fifteen in the morning to break the news. Mrs. Sweet came to the door. The police discovered that Mr. Sweet had not lived there since a restraining order in his divorce proceedings had ordered him out. Mr. Sweet's demise would leave his wife in full ownership of their jointly held property. They also discovered an overnight guest at the house, a former business associate of the victim.
Five minutes after the phone call from Harry, Anthony's car was accelerating out of the driveway at the Pedrosa house. Five minutes because he had allowed Gail only that much time to get dressed.
Anthony had told Harry Lasko to keep his mouth shut and to tell Jamie Sweet not to say anything else until he got there. With morning rush-hour traffic, they made it by nine o'clock.
"Exactly who do you represent, Mr. Quintana?"
Detective Evaristo Garcia had been assigned to the case, and he asked the question at the door.
Anthony said, "By complete coincidence, I represent both of them. This is my associate, Ms. Connor. We'd like to come in. They're expecting us."
There was another detective inside. Harry Lasko and Jamie Sweet were sitting on the sofa. Anthony nodded to them and smiled. "Good morning, Mrs. Sweet. Mr. Lasko." Anthony held his hand out to Jamie Sweet. "Let's chat for a few minutes."
Jamie glanced at Gail, then led Anthony toward the kitchen. Gail heard a door close. The detectives looked at Gail. She said, "Harry?"
They stood out of earshot in the foyer.
"Where are the kids?" Gail asked.
"Upstairs, still asleep." Harry Lasko's beard had grizzled his face, and his rumpled hair stood on end. His eyes were wide. "How about Wendell? Holy smokes. The guy was dealing."
"You knew him pretty well. You never suspected?"
"It's a surprise to me."
"Who do you think shot him?"
"Come on. It was a drug rip-off. They took the coke, kept the money. Wendell shouldn't have gotten involved with those guys."
"You sold your casino to one of them."
"That's different."
Gail asked, "What were you doing here last night, Harry?"
"It's not how it looks. Jamie called me, feeling blue, and I came over. We talked. I played with the kids for a while—that Bobby kept me up till two in the morning! I fell asleep on the couch in the playroom. My back is killing me." Harry's slanted brows shot up. "Say, did Anthony tell you what I wanted to do for Jamie?"
"This morning he did."
"What a break." His eyes danced with amusement. "I'm trying not to smile around the cops, but it's hard."
Gail continued to look at him.
"Uh-oh. I know what you're thinking, doll." Harry pointed at her. "I remember what I said at my condo when you came over, but I swear, on the heads of my grandchildren, I did not pull that trigger."
Hearing Anthony's voice, Gail took Harry back around the corner. He went with Anthony, and Gail went over to see about Jamie. She had apparently thrown on her clothes this morning in some haste— old jeans and a big T-shirt stained with grape juice or Kool-Aid.
"Hey, Gail." She hugged her, then asked the detectives if they'd like some coffee. "I should've fixed a pot already." They said that sounded like a great idea, and looked at their watches. "Y'all want some pecan Danish? It's leftover from yesterday, but it's still good." They declined.
The kitchen had such a shine on it Gail nearly blinked. The floor had been mopped, dishes put away, and the cabinets were clean.
Jamie smiled and pushed her unruly red hair behind one ear. "Harry did this last night. I was upstairs givin' the kids a bath. Isn't he precious?"
"Too bad he's not thirty years younger."
"Well. He's special to me, and he knows it." Jamie ran water in the coffee maker. "I'm gonna miss that old bird."
Gail pulled out a stool at the counter. "Harry thinks Wendell was dealing cocaine. Did the police ask you about that?"
"They asked, and I don't believe it. Wendell had some friends I knew were in that business, but Wendell swore to me he wouldn't touch
it."
"Not even if he was desperate for money?"
Jamie concentrated on measuring coffee into the filter. She shook her head. "I could tell when Wendell was lyin' to me."
"What did Anthony say to you?"
"Mostly he wanted to know where Harry was last night. And if Harry had anything to do with Wendell." She pressed the button to turn on the coffee maker. "Anthony didn't put it that way, naturally, but that's what he was gettin' at. He's pretty cool. Like . . . I'm not gonna tell you what to say to the police, but they're gonna be looking at Harry for this." Jamie nipped a switch on the machine. "And I told him, Harry didn't do it. We were here all night, talking and playing with the kids. You ask my oldest."
She took mugs from the dishwasher, which was still loaded with clean dishes. "And he didn't hire nobody either." She put the mugs on the counter in a row, five firm thumps, then looked at Gail, daring her to say otherwise.
Gail rested her cheek on her hand. "He told you that?"
"Who, Harry? No, he didn't tell me. He didn't have to. I know what kind of a man Harry is. I know he wouldn't do the kids that way. Wendell was their daddy. Harry wouldn't have taken away their daddy. They loved Wendell. They only saw the good in him, and Harry knows that kids don't have much these days to believe in, and if they don't have their daddy . . ."
Jamie watched the coffee drizzling into the pot. "They're gonna wake up in a little while. I don't know what to tell them." She closed her eyes and quickly turned away. Her shoulders began to shake, and she grabbed a paper towel.
Gail moved close and put her arms around her.
Jamie wiped her eyes. "Wendell wasn't a bad man, not in his heart. I'm sorry he's gone. I wished him dead more'n once, but I'm not happy he's gone."
TWENTY
It was nearly eleven o'clock by the time Gail reached her office.
She threw down her purse and found Jeffrey Barlow's number in Dave's file. Barlow was not in, but his secretary said that as far as she knew, the papers would be signed and payment made at two o'clock. Mr. Metzger had called to say he would be there.
Gail thanked her and hung up. "Praise the Lord and all the little angels," she breathed. She pressed the intercom and asked Miriam to come see her. Whatever happened with Dave's deal with Marriott, Gail knew that expenses had to be cut. When Miriam sat down, they discussed options for the office. Turning in the elaborate computer equipment. Breaking the lease and taking a smaller space. Letting Lynn go.
Gail said, "Anthony wants me to come to work for his law firm. You too, of course. I'm considering it."
Distressed, Miriam cried, "But you wanted your own office."
"Don't put that in the past tense yet," Gail said.
With a sigh Miriam sank into her chair. "We've been together for more than three years! If you go with another firm, I'll go too." She added, "I want you to set my hours, though."
A knock came at the open door. Gail told Lynn to come in.
"Theresa Zimmerman just called again. She said she wanted to come by and pick up her check this afternoon, so I said okay. I hope that was all right."
"You what?"
"Well ... I heard you tell her that you'd mail it this afternoon, and so . . . it would be easier if she picked it up."
"You told her to come here?" Gail stood up from her chair. "You don't ever tell a client to pick up money unless you have my approval."
"But if you're going to mail it—"
"Call her back and tell her you were mistaken. Tell her you needed to ask me, and I was in court."
Lynn's brow furrowed. "I don't like to lie."
Gail erupted. "You idiot!" She clapped her hand on her forehead. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
"Don't call me an idiot! I do the best I can, and you yell at me all the time."
"All the time? I am extraordinarily patient."
"You're a terrible person to work for!"
Petite Miriam, long hair bouncing, ran from one of them to the other like an agitated dog. "Calm down! I'll take care of it! Lynn, it's okay, Gail is really stressed because of Karen."
When the office was quiet again, Gail cut a Xanax in half with her letter opener and swallowed it dry. Her heart was doing somersaults, swinging from rib to rib. She noticed how the miniblinds made stripes of light on the carpet. She kept them closed these days against the possibility of a bullet crashing through the glass. They reminded her of bars in a jail cell.
She pulled her stack of files to the center of her desk and reached for a pen. The intercom buzzed. Gail exhaled tiredly. "Yes, Lynn?" It was a Mr. Ferrer from Ferrer & Quintana.
"Raul??"
"Yes, he said he had to speak to you."
Gail gritted her teeth. "I told you, I'm not here."
"Oh. Well, he said it was important, and I thought—"
"Never mind. I'll take it." She picked up the phone. "Raul, this is Gail."
It took a few seconds for her brain to catch up with what she was hearing—a voice, a stuttering, high pitched whisper, like the laughter of a demented child locked in an echo chamber.
Gai-ai-ail Connor-or-or. It's been-en-en a long ti-i-ime.
Slowly she stood up from her chair. "What do you want? Why are you doing this?"
Did you li-i-ike-ke the choco-o-o-lates-s-s?
"Do you want money? You're out of luck. I don't have any. My daughter? No way. She's gone. You'll never find her. You want me? Here I am. Come on, you coward, walk through my door."
The echoing whisper filled her ear. What I wan-n-nt—bitch-ch-ch—is you-u-u .. . dea-e-e-ed. Like the ca-a-at-t-t. I wan-n-nt you to die-ie-ie. Cut off-f-f your lying-ing-ing hea-e-e-ed, you fu-u-ucking-ing-ing bitch-ch-ch.
"Same to you buddy. Tell me. Do you have a name? Can I call you something besides Bozo the Clown?" There was a silence. "Maybe Donald Duck? Dopey? Grumpy? Wheezy? Don't stop now, I'm recording this. Please go on."
"My na-a-a-ame is Dea-e-eath-eth-eth."
"Oh, really. How original. Is that Mr. Death? Do you carry a scythe and wear a black robe?"
"Sa-ay-ay your prayer-er-ers. He-ell-ell-ell is waiting-ing-ing." There was a click on the other end.
Gail slammed down the telephone, then screamed at it. "Son of a bitch! I will find you and rip out your heart!"
She heard running footsteps. Miriam stopped herself on the door frame, swinging then hanging on. "Gail! What happened?" A second set of footsteps followed. Lynn stared, open-mouthed.
Gail shouted, "Lynn! Who was that on the phone?" She came around her desk.
"What—the one that—it was—it was Mr. Quintana's law partner—"
"No, it wasn't. It was our favorite psycho, Bozo the Clown, aka Mr. Death. He asked if I liked the chocolates."
Lynn's eyes widened to gray circles in her white face. "But he said—he said—"
Gail put her forehead in her hands. "Lynn, I didn't mean to yell at you. It isn't your fault: Listen to me. What did he sound like? When you answered the phone, what did he say?"
"He—he—"
"What did he say?”
"Uhhh . . . Hello. This is Raul Ferrer from Ferrer and Quintana, I'm Anthony Quintana's law partner. Could I speak to Ms. Connor, please? It's important. Something like that." Lynn took a breath. "I don't remember what he said exactly."
"Did he have a slight Spanish accent?"
"I—I don't think so."
"Well, the genuine Raul Ferrer does." Gail paced. "Okay, think, Lynn. You've heard Charlie Jenkins speak, haven't you?"
"Who? Oh, the man who worked on your house." Lynn shook her head. "No, it didn't sound like him. The voice on the phone was . . . sort of . . . deep? Oh, Ms. Connor, I don't know!”
"It's okay." She patted Lynn's shoulder. "From now on, I don't care if God is on the phone, get his number and I'll call back. I will not take any more phone calls."
"What about Karen or Anthony or your mother?"
"Of course I'll take their calls. I meant, I won't take any calls from people you don't person
ally know. All right?"
Lynn nodded.
"Miriam, go buy a recorder for this telephone, and order caller-ID immediately."
"It's a good thing you sent Karen away," Lynn said.
"Well, she's staying away till we catch this freak."
"What if you never catch him? What if he doesn't stop?" Lynn swallowed. "He could come after Miriam and me. Or our kids. We have a tabby cat that's been with us for ten years, and if she died, my boys would go crazy."
Gail looked at her, then nodded. "Yes, well, let's all get back to work. I'll report this to the police, for what it's worth."
Without interruption, Gail worked steadily on the computer, composing six letters, drafting two complaints for damages in commercial cases, and preparing interrogatories she had meant to get to for weeks. Around noon Miriam brought the tape recorder in and hooked it up to Gail's telephone. The economy model—forty dollars from the security shop at the mall across the street.
Just after one o'clock, Gail gave Lynn ten dollars and told her to go downstairs and get her a chicken sandwich from the deli. Lynn stuck the bill into the pocket of her slacks and rolled her chair under her desk.
On the desktop Gail noticed the message slip, a piece of pink paper, one in a neat row of them. 11:35 a.m. To: Ms. Connor. From: Mr. Jeff Barlow. Message: Transaction canceled for today. Please call.
"Oh, my God."
"Ms. Connor?"
"Why didn't you give me this?"
"You said you didn't want any phone calls."
"The message. Why didn't you give me the damned message?" Gail leaned against the side of Lynn's cubicle. Lynn stared back at her blankly.
"Okay, that's it," Gail said. "You're leaving."
"What?"
"I'm sorry, but I've had more than I can take."
"Are you firing me?"
"Yes. I can't stand this anymore."
"Why? What did I do?"
"Look, For one thing, I can't afford your salary anymore."
"You pay me peanuts!"
"Which you agreed to take, for the experience. Remember?"
Lynn's eyes narrowed. "Well, I'm not surprised. All you care about is money. You and your rich la-de-dah boyfriend. I know what you did. You used Ms. Zimmerman's money for yourself, and now you can't pay her back."
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