Angela said, "What did Gail want?"
His mouth was tight. "Sean sold me out." Bobby started toward the studios, and Angela had to hurry to keep up, clattering in her pointe shoes. Bobby looked to see if anyone was around before saying, "He told the cops I asked him to lie. I can't believe he would do that. Gail wanted to know if your dad talked to you last night, and I said I didn't think so, because you didn't say anything to me."
"Bobby, slow down."
He pulled open the door to Studio Six and let her go in. The music was still playing. He went over and punched a button. Silence.
"They met last night—your dad and Ms. Connor. He's the lawyer for Judge Harris. They're friends, would you believe? That's how your dad got into it. He's supposed to call Ms. Connor this morning, so she wanted to talk to me first. She guessed I was with you, Angie. She said if I wasn't with Sean, where was I? Damn Sean. Why'd he do it? I'd never have ratted him out like that."
"Oh, my God. She's going to tell my father?"
"She has to. They're working together, and she has to explain where I was after midnight. But she won't tell him today. I made her promise. That gives you time to talk to him yourself."
Angela pressed her hands against her cheeks, which were burning. "I can't."
"You have to. You want him to find out from her?"
"If he finds out I was with you till three o'clock in the morning—Oh, God."
"People stay out all the time. Jesus. You're in college, not junior high. Tell him we were at Denny's."
"He wouldn't believe that. He'll send me back to New Jersey."
"How? Tie you up and put you on the plane like a piece of luggage? There's nothing he can do. If he breaks anybody's neck, it's gonna be mine. If he cuts you off, so what? Get a job. I told you, you can live with me."
Angela sank to the floor and sat with her legs straight out, face in her hands. "Oh, my God."
Bobby stood over her. "You said you would."
"You don't understand!"
"Sure I do. I'm not good enough for your papi, the big important lawyer, and all your stuck-up relatives. I never even seen that house you're always talking about. Every time your dad comes over here, you tell me to get lost. You're ashamed to be seen with me, aren't you?" He pulled her hands away from her face. "Aren't you?"
"No! Bobby, don't say that. I love you."
"Yeah? You don't know what that means. You love somebody, you stand up for them. If you can't do that for me, then leave. Go on. Be his baby girl the rest of your life."
Hands falling limply into her lap, Angela started to cry. Through the shifting light of her tears she could see a pair of white socks and worn practice shoes, gray at the toe and heel. They moved away, then came back. He stood on one foot, then the other.
"Hey. Would you stop it?"
She drew in a breath that tore at her throat. "I do love you, I'm just scared. Please don't be mad at me."
Bobby dropped down cross-legged beside her and pulled her head against his chest. "I'm not mad at you, mamita. I'm tired of it, you always taking shit from your old man." He stroked her hair and kissed her. "You have to decide, girl."
Angela wiped her eyes on the hem of his T-shirt. "Okay. I'll talk to him." Bobby hugged her tightly. She said, "I'm moving to the dorms tomorrow anyway. I might call him from UM. I can hang up when he starts yelling at me."
"Angie, listen. Your father has no right to judge you. How to live your life, what to do. Like he was so perfect. I'm going to tell you something I noticed, okay? About Ms. Connor. I could be wrong, but I don't think so. Yesterday at my apartment, she's eating Turns and drinking a Sprite, you remember that?"
"Yes."
"Same thing last week. I go to her office, and she's eating saltines and a soda for lunch. Plus the Turns. I know what that is, because I've seen my sisters and their girlfriends do it. And while I was there? I overheard her talking to a doctor's office, canceling her appointment because she had a client—me—and she couldn't go that day. So tell me. What does that mean?"
"She's sick?"
Bobby smiled at Angela as if she had said something funny. He kissed her forehead. "Mi angelita. You're too sweet. She's pregnant."
Gail was driving slowly down the ramp in the parking garage when she saw a girl running toward her from the other direction. She waved for Gail to stop.
Pulling to one side, Gail pressed the button to lower the window.
"Ms. Connor? I almost couldn't find you." She took a breath. "I'm Diane Cresswell. I apologize if you're in a hurry. . . ."
"No, it's fine. Wait. Let me park the car." She pulled into another space and turned off the engine. When she got out, Diane Cresswell extended one finely boned hand. Her yellow tank top hung loose outside a miniskirt that showed off her legs. The muscles were slim and smooth, but Gail thought a tuning fork might make a nice ringing noise if tapped on her thigh.
Gail said, "I'm glad to meet you. I saw you dance on Lincoln Road last week. It was lovely. And please accept my condolences for your cousin. I know it's hard to lose someone in your family."
"Thank you. We didn't know each other that well, Roger and I. He was a lot older. I feel so sorry for his mom and dad."
"I think my mother might know your aunt Claire,” Gail said. "She belongs to the Ballet Guild."
"Mmmm. Then I may have met her. Aunt Claire is in the Guild, too."
Waiting for whatever would come next, Gail studied the girl who had found Roger Cresswell's bullet-riddled body. She was different from the ballerina at the theater, but there she had danced in full makeup. Her platinum hair was tied with a bow at the nape of her long neck, and her brows were delicate curves.
She said, "It's good I saw you, because I was thinking I might need a lawyer. Not for anything major, just a question—if you have a minute?" Her words were soft and perfectly enunciated.
"Yes, of course. We could find some coffee if you like."
"That would be nice, but unfortunately, I have a costume fitting at nine o'clock."
"Well, then. How can I help you?"
"It's about a painting my cousin Maggie did—a portrait of me when I was twelve years old." Diane paused. "You know who she is, right?" When Gail nodded, she went on, "It was at my parents' house. My uncle Porter gave it to them, but they didn't like it. They only wanted it because Maggie was famous, so I took it to my cousin's gallery. That's Jack Pascoe. Well, he's not really my cousin, but—"
"Yes, I know who Jack Pascoe is," Gail said.
"Okay. Jack says if I can establish ownership I could sell it and buy an apartment on the beach. I don't think I want to sell it because I'm sure my cousin Maggie meant it for me. Anyway, my mother says if I don't bring the painting back, she'll call the police. I don't know what to do. Jack says I should get some legal advice."
"Surely your own mother wouldn't have you arrested."
A smile played at the corner of her mouth. "You don't know my mother."
"No, I don't." Gail wanted to pull this girl by the elbow to the nearest bench. Tell me about your mother, your father, your aunt and uncle. Tell me about Jack Pascoe. And tell me about Roger. Who wanted him dead?
Gail said, "Well, I'd need to have the facts before I give you an opinion. We should talk about it. Would you like to come by my office?"
"Angela Quintana said you might not charge. I have to be careful with money."
"There's no charge for a consultation." Gail smiled at her. "I'd love to see the portrait sometime. Where do you keep it?"
The answer was what Gail had hoped for. "At my place. I live in a cottage behind Jack Pascoe's house. Where the party was."
There was a quick intelligence behind Diane Cresswell's cool blue eyes. Gail said, "Maybe we could talk there. Save you a trip?"
"Today?"
"This weekend. I can't on Saturday, but maybe Sunday. Would that be convenient?"
"Sure. What time?"
"Give me your phone number. I'll check my schedule and let you know." She went back into
her car for a pen and notepad. As Diane was writing, Gail said, "Bobby must have told you quite a bit. He really should be careful about that."
"We're very good friends." Diane lifted one shoulder in a small shrug. "Discretion is a virtue, they say."
"Yes, it is. We should all practice it."
"I agree."
After another moment or two, Gail said, "I'll call you."
"Thanks."
Diane Cresswell shouldered her dance bag and hurried toward the exit.
Traffic in Miami, barely tolerable in off-hours, was so snarled at nine, even heading south, that it took an hour for Gail to get from the beach to her office. Jammed behind a landscaper's truck with a flapping load of palm trees, Gail reached for her portable phone. With one eye on the road and a knee bracing the steering wheel, Gail quickly punched in Charlene Marks's number.
The receptionist said Charlene was on her way to court.
Gail disconnected and tried her cell phone, and Charlene answered. She said, "My God, I'm on U.S. One, too! Wave as you go past. What's up?"
Gail filled her in.
A laugh came over the line. "I don't believe this!"
"I should have predicted it," Gail said. "He and Nate Harris are friends. If the judge gets himself into a little problem, of course he's going to go to the one man devious enough to pull him out of it."
"Can you trust him?"
"Of course not, but it's the best alternative for Bobby. He gets the benefit of an investigator on the case. It could work." Gail adjusted the vent on the air conditioner to blow more directly on her neck.
"Are you going to tell him about seeing Diane Cresswell?"
"Why not? I won't let him go with me, but we need to share information. Charlene, I need a favor."
"Oh, dear."
"Your notes on Roger Cresswell. Por favor."
Charlene promised to call her secretary and have the copies waiting when Gail came to get them.
There wasn't much—a client intake form and two handwritten pages torn from a legal pad. Gail scanned them in the elevator, trying to puzzle out cryptic symbols and nearly illegible handwriting. Charlene had not been happy to give up her notes, but Gail had pointed out that a dead client was not likely to raise the issue of attorney-client privilege.
Gail found her door unlocked, meaning that her secretary had arrived. Before she could cross the small waiting area, the inner door opened, and Miriam Ruiz's wide-eyed face appeared.
"Ay, Gail! Guess who just called."
"Who?"
She trotted after Gail into her office. At twenty-two, Miriam still had the enthusiasm of a teenager, and her corkscrew hair bounced on her shoulders. "No, you have to guess."
Gail tossed her purse to her desk. "Anthony Quintana?"
Large brown eyes blinked. "Yes! How did you know?"
"We sort of ... ran into each other last night on opposite sides of a case. He's representing Judge Harris."
"No!"
"Que si," Gail replied. "What did he say?" She put a hand on her telephone.
"He asked if you were here, and I said no, and he said call as soon as you get in." Miriam twisted her fingers together. "What are you going to do?"
"Call him back?"
"Do you need the number?"
"I seem to remember it."
At the door Miriam said, "He sounded exactly the same. He asked how I was. And if I got my degree yet in my accounting program. He asked about the baby. He remembered Berto's broken tooth!"
Gail picked up the handset and smiled at her. "Yes, isn't he just charming? Go on. Let me call him. I'll tell you all about it."
"Oh, sure. Sorry."
The door clicked shut. Gail looked at the handset for a moment, then dropped it back on the telephone. It was still early, only 10:15. Better to read Charlene's notes first. Then write a memo, which could be e-mailed to him. But before anything, some coffee, lots of it. She'd had a bad night. The window had lightened to pale gray before she had finally slept.
A month ago Gail had leased a larger suite upstairs, which had its own compact kitchen. Now the coffeepot sat on a small refrigerator in the secretarial area, and they got their water from the ladies' room down the hall. But Gail bypassed the pot in favor of the Styrofoam cup of cafe cubano that Miriam had bought in the cafeteria. She lifted the lid and poured some into a one-ounce plastic cup.
Miriam was watching her from behind her computer. "Did you call him?"
"I'm fortifying my nerves."
"Was it okay last night?" Miriam was looking at her like a puppy left out in the rain. "Did you . . . talk about things?"
Gail sipped the cafe. "No, and I don't plan to." She gave Miriam a quick smile. "The man is a complete asshole. My only regret is that it took me so long to see it."
"Wow. You're in a mood."
"Rotten," Gail cheerfully agreed. "If he calls again, I'm not here." She tossed the empty cup into the trash. "I'll call when I'm ready."
At her desk she kicked off her shoes and sat with one leg under her, reading. Most of Charlene's notes had to do with money. Making a joke—or maybe not—she had once told Gail, The first two questions for any potential client are How big a check can you write me? and Will it clear the bank? Gail didn't particularly wonder why he hadn't come back. Charlene's initial retainers started at $10,000, and Roger could have been shopping around.
Roger Charles Cresswell. Only son of Claire and Porter Cresswell. Age thirty-two. Worked at Cresswell Yachts, executive V.P., making $250,000 a year. Before that, he ran the company's leasing operation. An entire page was devoted to assets and liabilities. Stocks, bonds, mutual funds—all highly margined. Condo in the Grove, owned by Roger and Nikki— big mortgage. His Porsche and her BMW were leased. They had a few thousand dollars in a savings account. They owed a staggering amount on their charge cards. Charlene had written, Wife a spendthrift. Gail wanted to add, What about you, Roger?
They had been living large, but it was all show, except for the shares of Cresswell Yachts, a ten percent ownership, which Roger had acquired along with his new job as company V.P. Charlene had lovingly written, and underlined several times, the figure of $20,000,000.
Gail mentally filled in the blanks left by Charlene's abbreviated style. Daddy had drawn Roger back to the family fold by giving him ten percent of the business. Roger had alienated Uncle Duncan and Aunt Elizabeth. Daddy had wanted his job back. Charlene had written, Old man going mental? Roger's opinion, anyway. Had the old man been crazy enough to shoot his own son?
The juicier details were on the other page. Nikki Cresswell, age twenty-six. Married four years. They'd met when the ad agency she'd worked for had done Roger's boat leasing ads. Possible adultery? Gail wished Charlene hadn't put a question mark after the word. She wished Roger had said with whom.
Roger's first Christmas present to Nikki had been a set of breast implants. Then the other enticements— cosmetic dentistry, ladies' Rolex, Caribbean cruise (first-class cabin), set of Ping golf clubs, weekends in New York, membership at a health spa. Then the diamond engagement ring. Wife refuses to work full time. Well, duh.
What if Nikki had found out that Roger had seen a divorce lawyer? Had she looked in the Yellow Pages under HIT MEN?
Gail pushed aside the notes and came out of her office for a follow-up mug of American coffee. She avoided Miriam's inquisitive glances. She went back inside, closed the door, and stared at the telephone. Buzzing on caffeine, back in control of her confidence, she punched in Anthony's private line. She did not want to speak to his secretary.
"iQuien habla?"
"This is Gail. I just got in. Miriam said you'd called?"
"Gail, hello. I didn't expect you on this line. How are you today? Better?"
"I'm fine. I was fine last night." Realizing she'd begun pacing, she said, "Well, how do we do this? I suppose we could discuss strategy, but first, it might be a good idea to pool our information. That would save time. Each of us could do a detailed memorandum bringi
ng the other up to date."
"You're still angry."
Momentarily confused, Gail stopped walking. "What?"
"If I made you angry last night, I'm very sorry. It was all ... maybe a little intense. I was thinking of my client first, as you were. I promise you, we aren't enemies. We have to work together for this to succeed, and anything I can do, I will."
He had never been able to erase the soft Spanish accent, and it gave his words a quiet intimacy that told Gail immediately how bitchy she'd sounded. She leaned against the edge of the desk. "You're right. And I'm sorry for being so ... uncivil just then. Let me start over. I just picked up copies of Charlene Marks's notes from her consultation with Roger Cresswell. Should I fax them over with a memo?"
The little exhalation on the other end of the line might have been a chuckle. He said, "No memos. Just tell me what Charlene says. Roger Cresswell's wife had a lover. Do we know who it was?"
"Unfortunately, no. I'll double-check with Charlene, but Roger may not have known either. Maybe he was suspicious for nothing."
"How long had they been having marital problems?" Anthony asked.
"Let me see. . . . Her notes don't say. They'd been married four years. Nikki was twenty-two at the time. He was twenty-eight. Oh, get this. He bought her a set of boobs for Christmas, before they got married."
"What? Some books? I didn't—"
"Boobs. Implants. Fake tetas."
"Feliz navidad," Anthony said.
"He gave her whatever she wanted, then complained she expected too much." Gail read from the previous page. "They had the usual condo, cars, boat. Stocks, mutual funds, et cetera, but liabilities exceeded assets, except for Roger's stock in the family company, worth about twenty million dollars. I don't know if that's gross, net or wishful thinking."
"Not much for a company of that size. There must be some debt."
"Don't make Roger sound so poverty-stricken. His parents were loaded. Okay, how do we do this?" Gail asked. "We can't send out subpoenas for depositions. We aren't the police. We can't make anyone talk."
"Neither can they," he said, "but people do talk. If you go after them in the right way, they open up to you. My investigator can do background checks, but he can't get close to the family. I can. Nate is my contact, and I hope to be able to talk to them personally."
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