Suspicion of Vengeance

by Barbara Parker

  The cruise control was set on seventy-five, and the Seville glided along in the flow of traffic. Anthony tapped the end of his small cigar at the crack in the window, and the ashes swirled into the darkness.

  Gail's head was bowed over the files in her lap. A banker's box took up the middle of the front seat, and the five volumes of the trial transcript were stacked on the floor. That woman with CCR had let her borrow them. Anthony was still waiting to hear how Kenny Ray Clark had been wrongfully arrested and convicted for the murder of Amber Dodson. Gail had told him she wanted to put it all in order first. A rainbow of Post-it notes tabbed the transcript. She had done a chronology of the investigation, and a cross-indexed list of evidence and witnesses. It was exhausting to think about. She had barely spoken for the past hour.

  He said, "What do they have to eat in Stuart? Is the food any good?"

  "They have seafood. Steaks. The usual." The map light shone on a newspaper clipping. POLICE CLOSE TO ARREST IN DODSON MURDER.

  "Do they have Cuban coffee?"

  "There must be a Starbuck's."

  "They don't serve Cuban coffee at Starbuck's," he said.

  "They have espresso," she said.

  "It's not the same."

  "Oh, please." She looked up. "I wonder if I should call Jackie."

  "Does she know anything useful about the investigation?"

  "If she does, it's secondhand from Garlan. I really should call, as long as we're in town." Gail got on her knees to find her purse in the backseat. She sat back down with her cell phone and address book. She pressed the numbers, then shook her hair back to put the phone at her ear. Voice mail must have picked up. She said, "Hi, Jackie, it's Gail. Sorry to miss you. Guess where I am? On my way to Stuart. Anthony and I decided to come up for the weekend. We're staying at the Hilton. Give me a call, maybe we can get together for lunch or something. I'd love to introduce you to Anthony. Say hi to Diddy and Garlan." She left her number and hung up.

  "I feel so guilty," Gail said, putting her phone away. "Lunch or something. As if she's an afterthought. But really, we don't have much time to spare, do we?"

  "What's your cousin like?"

  "When you meet her, you might think she's distant, but it's just that she takes everything so seriously, her job most of all. I think even if Garlan weren't a cop, Jackie would be. She's fearless. Garlan gave her a hunting rifle when she was fourteen and taught her how to shoot. And she's Jackie, not Jacqueline."

  "What a woman." Anthony sent some smoke toward the window. "What was the other name you said? Not her father, the other one."

  "Diddy. He's Garlan's dad."

  "Diddy? Cono."

  "I can't remember his real name. He's this little dried up man in blue jeans and a plaid shirt, playing the harmonica. There used to be cowboys in Martin County, did you know that?"

  "Are there any Cubans?"

  "I don't think so."

  "Ah. So this is where all the Anglos went when we took over Miami."

  "No, querido, it's where all the Yankees go to retire and play golf." Gail noticed an exit sign and pointed. "That's where we get off. Martin Highway."

  Anthony guided the car around the ramp, paid the turnpike toll, and turned east. Gail told him to keep going. The road would zigzag through Stuart before reaching Hutchinson Island, the long strip of land running along the intracoastal.

  Gail had the weekend mapped out as carefully as the route. At eight in the morning she would meet the alibi witness,Tina Hopwood, for breakfast. Then she would go to the retirement home where Ruby Smith lived and get a deposit on fees and costs. At four o'clock she would drop by to speak with the eyewitness who had put Kenny Ray Clark at the crime scene. In the time left over, she would try to find the jailhouse snitch who said that Kenny Clark had confessed to him. The snitch's name was Vernon Byrd. Twelve years ago, he had been brought from prison to testify for the state. Where was he now?

  Gail would locate Byrd and as many other witnesses as possible and get affidavits from those willing to give them. She had brought her laptop computer and portable printer. Her notary seal was in her purse. She was a mobile law office.

  Anthony didn't know if she wanted him to accompany her on these interviews. She hadn't said. He thought he might catch up on his sleep or take a long walk. He hoped the beach wasn't overrun with tourists. He liked to gaze at an empty ocean. He had thought seriously of buying a small island in the Keys. He had wondered what it would be like to retire at his age, forty-three. He didn't think that Gail would agree to such a life. She was rarely still for a moment. She burned with energy.

  "What was your house like, the one on Sewall's Point?" he asked. Most of his own childhood—until Ernesto Pedrosa had kidnapped him out of Cuba—had been spent in his father's shabby, poured-concrete house in Camagüey province. "Was it like the houses in Palm Beach?"

  "God, no, it was just an ordinary house." She bent over to pick up some papers from the floor. "Three bedrooms. A screened porch with rattan furniture. A wooden dock with a boathouse. We were on the intra-coastal, not on the beach, so we didn't get waves."

  "You had a boat?"

  "My parents had a boat. Daddy loved to fish."

  Anthony smiled at the word. Daddy.

  "He named it the Irene Marie, after my mother. Her big thing was decorating. She went wild on Sewall's Point. One summer she and Aunt Lou made these enormous wooden flowers and stuck them all over the yard. They'd been drinking. It's funny now, but at the time, I nearly died of embarrassment when my friends saw it."

  The soft curves of her face formed a pale silhouette against the window. "Aunt Louise. She was so beautiful and funny. My favorite aunt. My God, she was just two years older than I am now when she died. Mom still misses her. I'm terrible for not keeping in touch with Jackie."

  Anthony reached across the file box and pulled Gail toward him. "Que mala eres." He took his eyes off the road long enough to give her a kiss that ignited into desire. He wanted a bed, a room by the ocean. He wanted her. He wanted to throw these papers into the trunk and lock it. "Te quiero tanto, mujer."

  She murmured against his lips, "Te quiero más." And then she was shoving him away, still smiling. "Later. I have plans for you." She picked up her pen and went back to her notes.

  Anthony had met Gail Connor two years ago, and in that time he had constructed an outline of her life. Names, places, dates. He had heard about the class trip to London, ballet lessons, a debutante ball, private schools. She was the great-granddaughter of original settlers, as much of an aristocracy as could exist in Miami. Gail's mother had inherited their wealth, and her father had squandered most of it. Even so, the imprint of privilege remained.

  Not knowing why, Anthony found all this intensely engaging. Perhaps because it was her life, and he wanted to possess even her memories. Or perhaps because it was so different from his own confused, even violent, heritage. His mother, a Pedrosa, carried the blood of Spanish royalty. His father, the descendant of slaves, had fought with Fidel in the revolution. Anthony's family had been shattered and torn apart. At times he could put his hand on his chest and feel his soul in pieces. But never when Gail was with him.

  "Sweetheart, where am I supposed to turn?"

  She consulted her map. "Just follow the road till I tell you. Look at this. We're going right through Palm City."

  Hardly a city. Anthony glanced about to see only the usual ragtag assortment of suburban gas stations and strip malls, similar to those in any other small town.

  "It's where Amber Dodson was murdered," Gail said, studying the map. "Here's White Heron Way. The eyewitness still lives there. I've never talked to an eyewitness in a criminal case. You can give me some ideas, okay? Tomorrow, after we talk to her, let's take pictures of the Dodson house. All right?"

  "We?"

  She looked at him. "Silly me. I forgot you don't want to get involved. I'll borrow your car and go by myself."

  "No, I'll come with you."

  "You don't have to,"
she said. "It's my case."

  "Bueno, I'll go for a swim." What a difficult woman she was.

  She told him to take the bridge across the river and bear right. Going through town, their progress was slowed by the car ahead of them. A New Jersey license plate, a gray-haired driver. Anthony accelerated around it, then shot past two other sluggish sedans. The road took them past a small airport, then curved north. Most of the traffic had cleared out.

  "When are you going to see your client?" Anthony asked.

  "I don't know. I haven't had time to think about it."

  "You have to talk to him. Get his side of the story. Get to know him. Have you ever been to Florida State Prison?"

  "You know I haven't."

  "Don't worry about being overheard. They will put you in a little room with him, very private. You'll probably be safe. They leave them in leg irons. Be sure to wear something plain. He hasn't seen a woman in a long time."

  She looked around. "Will you come with me?"

  "Why?" He laughed. "It's your case."

  "Anthony, I'm not going alone. And you can help me talk to the witnesses tomorrow. Okay?"

  "Say please."

  Gail gave him a playful shove. "Oh, stop it."

  At the next intersection he went past a car going thirty in the left lane. Old people. He saw the tops of four white heads and the driver's knuckles on the steering wheel.

  Gail looked up from her map. "Take a right on Ocean Drive. That leads to the bridge over the intracoastal."

  He glanced into the mirror. "Ay, cara'o."

  Bright lights flashed into the car. There was a police car behind them.

  Gail turned around. "What did you do?"

  "Nothing. I was going the speed Emit." Anthony pulled into the parking lot of a bank and hit the button to lower his window. He turned off the engine and waited.

  Blue and red lights pulsed in the darkness, headlights were on high beam, and a spotlight went on. He squinted into the side mirror. A figure in a dark uniform approached, then moved to a position behind the open window. All he could see was a navy blue shoulder. A slender arm.

  "Sir, your driver's license and registration, please." A woman's voice, low and steady.

  Anthony shifted to get to his wallet. "I wasn't speeding, officer. I am sure of that."

  "No, sir. You ran through that red light back there."

  "Red light?"

  "Your driver's license, sir."

  Gail leaned over his lap from the passenger seat. "Oh, my God. It's Jackie!"

  The officer's face appeared as she came nearer to look around him. "Gail?"

  Unbuckling her belt, Gail shoved the door open. She went around the front of the car, and they met at his window, where Gail held out her arms. "I don't believe it! This is so funny!"

  Her cousin allowed a quick hug, then glanced at the passing traffic. "Hang on a second." She went back and turned off the flashers and spotlight. Anthony got out and Gail made the introductions.

  In Miami, and if this woman had not been in uniform, Anthony might have politely kissed her cheek. They shook hands. Her face was young and smooth. A little makeup would have made it pretty. She wore her hair in a single braid. Brown eyes moved over him in a neutral way. "Glad to meet you. So. You guys just got in?"

  "We were on our way to the hotel," Anthony said with an innocent lift of his brows. "I was a little lost, and if I didn't see the light—"

  Gail hugged her arm. "Jackie, you look amazing. How are you?"

  "Good, good."

  "Your dad?"

  "He's fine. Busy over at the sheriff's office. You know. Hey, I got your message, but I was in the middle of a DUI."

  Gail laughed, delighted. "I remember when you were six years old you said you wanted to be a cop. I never doubted for a moment you would. I bet you're wonderful."

  "Well. I like it." To Anthony's astonishment, she blushed.

  Fingers linked together, the two women smiled at each other. Gail tall and slender, with delicate hands and a small waist. Her cousin in a bulletproof vest. There was no way to tell what was underneath. Pepper spray and a Glock 19 rode on one hip, a radio and collapsible baton on the other. Light gleamed on the badge over her left pocket, an American flag was sewn on the right, and patches decorated her sleeves. The silver name tag said J. Bryce. Anthony wondered how long it would take her to put him on the ground with a knee in his back.

  She said, "Are you busy tomorrow afternoon? Diddy's having his birthday party out at the ranch. He just turned eighty years old, can you believe that? The historical society is putting it on. They're having barbecue, a band, games for the kids, a roping demonstration. See, Diddy hangs out a lot at the museum, telling stories about the way it used to be." She laughed and made quotation marks with her fingers. " 'Diddy Bryce, Martin County Treasure.' It'll be fun. I mean, if you're not busy."

  "We'd love to come," Gail said. "What time?"

  "It's on from noon till five. Drop by anytime." She pulled a pen and notebook from her left shirt pocket and wrote directions, then ripped the sheet out and gave it to Gail. "Call me if you get lost. I always keep my cell phone on."

  The two women embraced again. "It's good to see you, Jackie."

  "You too." She gripped Anthony's hand firmly, then let go. "See you tomorrow."

  Jackie Bryce took a few steps toward her cruiser, then stopped, pivoted in her thick-soled black shoes, and came back, standing squarely in front of him. "You need to be careful on the road. Yellow means slow down, not speed up and get through it like down in Miami, okay? I'm going to let it go this time."

  He made a slight inclination of his head. "Thank you."

  "Sure. Y'all have a nice evening. Don't forget your seat belts."

  She got back into her patrol car and pulled around the Cadillac. At the street a rear tire caught the curb, squealing.

  Gail said, "Jackie really isn't as humorless as she seems."

  "It's the rookie cop syndrome," Anthony said. "Did you notice the police department patch on her sleeve?"

  "No, what about it?"

  "City of Stuart. Sailfish Capital of the World. Cono. What a place."

  CHAPTER 5

  "Bonboncita, let's not ruin dinner talking about this case. Where are your notes? Read them to me on the way to the hotel Tell me how the police came to arrest an innocent man for murder. "

  "It's complicated."

  "I'll stop you if I have any questions."

  Monday, February 6,1989

  The city of Stuart is surrounded on three sides by the St. Lucie River, which curves up and over, then flows south to the intracoastal waterway. In the late 1800s roads were so few and the scrub palmetto so thick that pioneers built their houses facing the river and visited their neighbors by boat. When the railroad pushed through, commerce followed, and the main highway has become a multilaned corridor of shopping malls, branch banks, fast-food franchises, and car dealerships. But those who control things keep development reined in, and Martin County remains green on a coast increasingly buried in concrete. Trains still run through the old section of Stuart. The narrow streets and small shops have been preserved. The county courthouse is still downtown. There is only one felony judge, P. R. "Pat" Willis. He is the same judge who in 1990 sentenced Kenneth Ray Clark to death for the murder of Amber Lynn Dodson.

  Amber's senior portrait from Atlantic Christian Academy, which appeared in news stories, shows a pretty girl with long blond hair. The thin chain of a crucifix gleams on her skin. She was married at twenty-two in her family's church. Her husband, Gary, seven years older, practiced law in Stuart. After the wedding they bought a house in an area called Palm City, across the south fork of the river. It was a typical 1960s ranch style, and pine trees shaded the yard. There weren't many young people on their street, but the neighborhood was safe and quiet, a good place for a family.

  A murder was unthinkable.

  Then the call came in to 911. Within half an hour, the street was cordoned off. Blue and
red lights flashed in the darkness, and people poured out of their houses to see what was going on.

  Several backup units followed, then a lieutenant and six detectives. The crime scene technicians arrived with their equipment. Brass from the city of Stuart police department came by to see if assistance was needed. The Martin County sheriff would have been there, but he was in the hospital with a bleeding ulcer. By 7:30 p.m., the crime scene roster noted over thirty law enforcement personnel at the scene. The captain in charge of the criminal investigations division, Garlan Bryce, rushed back from a meeting in Vero Beach. He parked his unmarked Jeep Cherokee across the street, requested permission to enter the scene, then ordered anyone not essential to the investigation to clear out. Bryce went by the book and demanded that his officers do likewise. On the radio Bryce had already assigned the investigation to Sergeant Ronald Kemp, thirty-six, who had an unmatched success rate in closing cases.

  The victim's husband had been put in the command van to keep him away from the scene, the neighbors, and the press. Bryce would speak to him, but he wanted to see Mrs. Dodson's body first.

  It appeared that the attack had begun in the kitchen. Blood had fallen and dried on the white tile floor. There was part of a print made by a bare foot. Blood droplets. Swipes and smears. Then another footprint toward the hall, and drops leading away.

  A crime scene technician stood back as Kemp led Bryce down the hall. The men stepped carefully on the beige shag carpet to avoid the blood. Kemp stopped at the baby's room. He explained that Dodson had been in the front yard holding the dead child in his arms when the first deputy had arrived. The child had no visible bruises. There were two bottles in the crib, one of them empty. In a corner of the mattress was a pool of soured milk. The paramedics had found vomit in the child's nose and mouth.

  "He died of positional asphyxia," Gail explained. "The ME said the baby got stuck between the mattress and the bars of his crib. He couldn't get enough air when he threw up his milk. "