Anthony felt that his head might explode. He lifted his hand from the table. Let it fall. "Perhaps. In the meantime, why don't you review the agreement? Take it to a lawyer if you wish. I think even Charlene Marks would find it generous."
She lifted the end of it and ruffled through the pages. He knew there were seventeen of them, plus a signature page. She turned the draft facedown and pushed it to one side. "I'm sorry you think this is necessary."
Anthony's cheeks burned. He had made a misstep. This was not the reaction he had anticipated. He had been prepared for war, a lawsuit, DNA tests—
He said, "You don't know which it is, do you? Boy, girl?"
"Not yet."
"When is it due?"
"The middle of February."
He had more questions, but swung his chair around and tossed his own copy of the agreement back into its folder. He was close to losing his temper, and could not isolate the source of his anger. His voice betrayed none of this. "We don't have much time before Nate gets here. I need to tell you about Bobby Gonzalez. He called me last night. I went to his apartment on South Beach to talk to him. He didn't call you today, did he? I told him not to."
Gail's eyes widened. "What happened to Bobby?"
"To Bobby, nothing. He held a knife at Sean Cresswell's throat and asked him where the three hundred dollars had come from. Sean told him." Anthony leaned back in his chair. "Out of Roger Cresswell's wallet, which Sean took from Roger's dead body, which he stumbled over on his way into Jack Pascoe's yard from the side gate at approximately eleven-fifteen the night Roger was murdered. But not, I think, by Sean Cresswell."
Gail stared at him. "What?"
"Last night I said to Bobby, "Have you lost your mind? You could go to prison for this.' 'No, don't worry, Mr. Quintana. Sean won't say anything. Besides, my friends will give me an alibi.' "
"Oh, my God. Do I want to hear this?" Elbows on the table, Gail dropped her head into her hands, fingers in her hair. "Go on, tell me."
Anthony could not decide whether Bobby Gonzalez was an idiot who'd been lucky or the most brazenly clever young tough he'd ever met. To have set up his ambush so neatly, every contingency anticipated. And to pull it off!
Where did you get the money? Simple question. And the answer had come quickly. Sean on the ground sweating, defecating in his pants. Bone-grinding fear. Expecting to die on the pitted asphalt behind a boarded-up tire store. One answer, then another.
"What Bobby told me ties in perfectly with the memo you faxed over about Nikki Cresswell. The times, the events. Bobby and I talked for three hours last night, but I think I can summarize it for you. The day Roger died, Duncan Cresswell took about a dozen potential buyers to Bimini and back. Roger went along, and so did Ted Stamos, who is in charge of boat construction. Sean always goes because his parents insist on it. They expect him to work for the company someday. He has to wear a Cresswell Yachts shirt and khaki shorts, and inevitably his cousin Roger made jokes about him. Roger treated Sean like one of the crew, making him bring drinks to the customers and cleaning up after them. You see the reason for this. Sean is the only other male heir and Roger had to establish his dominance. Around seven-thirty the boat docked at the Black Point Marina, where a barbecue dinner was waiting.
"Shortly after nine o'clock, as everyone was preparing to leave, Roger got a call from his wife, Nikki, on his cell phone. Your memo mentioned the call. Roger became angry and said he was coming over there to, quote, 'kick Jack's fucking ass.' His uncle, Duncan, overheard this. He mentioned it to Sean. I imagine there were some winks and nudges. I imagine also that Duncan could have told Porter or Ted Stamos. None of them, obviously, mentioned it later to the police. This family protects its own.
"Claire arrived about nine-fifteen in the Bentley to take Porter home. She'd had dinner with friends. Sean didn't say where, and it doesn't matter. Sean's father and the rest of the men left in a caravan of cars. They were going to the Strip Mine, the very club, in fact, that Sean's father has promised to take him to on his twenty-first birthday. Roger was supposed to go with the others, but he drove out of the marina parking lot in a hurry, and there were a few more jokes about what he would do to Jack Pascoe. As we know, Roger got to Jack's about nine-thirty and left ten minutes later. He bought some liquor at a nearby store and came back. If he knew that Nikki had called from West Palm Beach, he also knew that she was unlikely to arrive before ten-thirty.
"Sean went home. He was still on curfew, part of his court-ordered probation for stealing Roger's car. Sean's mother and his older sister, Patty, were watching television. Sean sat in his bedroom drinking beer and playing video games until eleven o'clock. He heard his mother go into her room and close the door. She had his car keys, but he had a spare.
"It took him five minutes to drive to Jack Pascoe's house. He knew about the party from Bobby. Jack intercepted him at the front door and told him he couldn't come in. Bobby never saw Sean. Nor did he see Nikki, who had just arrived. Jack had sent her upstairs. We can probably assume that Roger saw her arrive and went around the side of the property to come in through the gate—you remember the one. Meanwhile, Sean got in his own car and started out for South Beach. A few miles up Old Cutler Road he realized he didn't have any money. He drove back to Jack's house and parked along, the side street. He knew that Diane kept cash in the cottage. The music from the main house was loud, and he thought he could break a window without arousing attention.
"He came in through the gate, went around the fountain, and tripped over Roger's legs. He didn't know who it was until he turned on his cigarette lighter. He saw the shirt from Cresswell Yachts. He saw the Rolex. He took that and the wallet, which contained a little over fifteen hundred dollars. He went to a club on South Beach—the Apocalypse, I believe. He remembers wearing the watch when he went inside, but he isn't sure what happened to it. He thinks he gave it to the girl who crawled under the table and unzipped his pants. He was very drunk at this point. Bobby didn't ask what Sean did with the wallet. Maybe he still has it, but if he isn't totally brainless, he got rid of it."
Anthony had sat listening to this until nearly three o'clock in the morning. The roommates gone. The place cleaner than he'd expected. He had accepted a cafecito to get him home. Leaving, he had asked, How do you know Sean was telling you the truth? Softly, and with certainty, Bobby had replied, I just know.
Bobby Gonzalez had laid the knowledge at Anthony's feet like a young wolf with a fresh kill. An offering.
"Sean thought Bobby had killed Roger. He says he never told the police or his parents because he was trying to protect him. I don't agree. A boy like Sean is motivated by fear, not loyalty."
When Anthony glanced at Gail, she was looking at him with both amusement and wonder. "You approve of what Bobby did," she said. "Go ahead, admit it."
He waved away the thought. "It was foolish. I told him that. He's lucky not to be in jail. Sean could still file a report. I don't think he will."
"What are you going to do now? Talk to Frank Britton?"
"Not yet. Sean would deny it. He'd say Bobby confessed, or that he saw Bobby run from the scene. No, we aren't in the clear."
Gail looked at her notes. "Well. Where was everyone else between eleven and eleven-thirty? Nikki was supposedly in bed waiting for Jack. Jack was with his guests. Porter was at home with Claire. Dub and Ted Stamos were at the strip club. Elizabeth was watching television with her older daughter. Everyone has an alibi."
Anthony smiled. "Everyone claims to have an alibi. Tomorrow morning I'll be at Cresswell Yachts. Claire arranged it. She says she was able to sell them on my cover story. Mr. Quintana has been retained to examine the books for evidence of Roger's financial crimes. Would you believe that?"
"It sounds plausible," Gail said. "We're lucky to have Claire's help. She agreed to meet me at the ballet on Thursday. I'd like to speak to Nikki again, but she probably won't let me come as close a second time."
The intercom buzzed. Anthony pushed his c
hair back to reach the telephone on the credenza. Extending an arm, he asked Gail, "How did you persuade her to tell you so much already?"
"She hates the Cresswells. Nikki may be as shallow as a saucer, but she doesn't like to have her feelings hurt."
He picked up the phone. "Yes?" Nate Harris had arrived.
Anthony went to get him, and when they came back into the conference room, Gail stood up and extended her hand. "Judge Harris, I am so sorry for everything you've had to go through. I had a client to protect, and I never intended—"
"No, no, don't apologize for doing your duty." He took her hand in both of his. "I understand completely." Looking around, Nate included Anthony in his next remark. "Are we ready for the latest, folks? Senator McCaffrey's office called. I have the nomination. They'll announce it tomorrow morning."
No one broke out in a cheer. This had come sooner than expected, putting more pressure on. Anthony gave Nate a one-armed hug and a slap on the back. "That's great." Gail smiled and shook his hand again.
Nate had left his jacket and tie in his car, and he wore a plain, long-sleeved white shirt and dark slacks. His gray hair looked windblown, and his eyes blinked behind his tortoiseshell glasses as if he were still trying to assimilate this news.
"It won't be easy. Jesus, the forms to submit— stacks of them. Every tax return since I was a paperboy. It will take them six months to a year to decide if I'm acceptable, and then the White House has to agree. Then the Senate. They'll want to know what brand of shorts I wear." He gripped the back of a chair. "This Cresswell thing could blow up in my face. If you think there's going to be a problem, tell me. How are we coming?"
Anthony exchanged a look with Gail. "It's coming along faster than we'd thought."
"Good, good. Where do you want me to sit, Gail? Here?" He sat at the head of the table, Anthony and Gail across from each other. "Okay. You have some questions?"
Gail glanced at some notes she had brought with her. Anthony was prepared to break in if she steered the conversation onto forbidden ground—smoking dope with a young ballet dancer. Nate had told him there was no question off limits, but Gail didn't ask. There were a few general questions about the party, nothing awkward, no mention of a transvestite samba dancer, or the drunks, or the raucous music. She asked about times, places, who was there and who wasn't.
Her voice was soft and warm, and she had an easy rhythm to her speech. She was back from the table far enough for Anthony to see her stomach. It looked the same. Child due in mid-February. He counted backward. Conceived sometime in May? Perhaps in the house on Clematis Street. She and Karen had lived there, and he had planned to move in after the wedding. It was an old house with wood floors and a rarely used fireplace in the master bedroom upstairs. King-size bed. Ceiling fan over her head going around, around. Hands on his shoulders. The points of her breasts moving, hair bouncing on her forehead. Lower lip caught between her teeth. Eyes squeezed shut. Breathing in time with their rhythm. Huhh. Huhh. Huhh.
"How did you happen to choose this particular painting?"
"Jack suggested it."
Startled out of his reveries, Anthony said, "I must have missed something. What are we talking about?"
Gail lifted her brows. "The portrait of Diane. I asked Nate how he came to choose it for Porter and Claire, and he just said that it was Jack's suggestion."
Anthony spread his hands, assuring her: a slight lapse of attention.
She turned back to Nate. "A generous thank-you gift.”
Nate said, "They deserve it. After my marriage to Maggie, they financed my reelection campaign. Porter used his political connections to make my name known, and it was he who suggested I apply for the federal bench."
"Really. May I ask how much you paid for the portrait?"
"Twenty thousand. Rather, I put down a deposit of five thousand when I picked it up at Jack's house. Jack tells me not to worry about the other fifteen, and that he hopes to get my five back to me when he sells the painting again."
Gail looked at him. With a touch of surprise in her voice, she asked, "Sells it to whom?"
"To whoever pays the price, I suppose. Jack's in the business of selling art. He said that title to the portrait is up in the air at the moment, but he hopes to get everything straightened out." A half smile creased Nate's cheek. "He tried to explain how he reacquired the thing, but it was too much for me to follow."
"Hmm." Gail tapped her pen on her notepad. Anthony could see the thoughts whirling around in her head like a cage full of birds. "Well, actually, Diane has it. Frankly, I hope she can keep it." She returned to her notes. "Tell me. Did you know that Porter and Claire had already owned the portrait once, and that they gave it to Roger, and that he sold it to Jack two months ago for ten thousand dollars?"
"Good God, no. Are you sure?" He looked around at Anthony, who nodded gravely. Nate sat back in his chair. "I knew none of this. I wish Jack had told me."
Gail said, "He was using you to cause trouble for Roger and double his money at the same time. Do you think so?"
The answer took a long while to arrive. "I don't want to think that of Jack." Nate's face bore an expression of chagrin. Disappointment. A friendship had just ended. Releasing a long breath, he adjusted his glasses on his beak of a nose.
"Did you ask Claire why they gave it away?"
"Yes, after Anthony told me about it. I was afraid I'd committed some faux pas, and she said no, Porter went into a senior moment and took it to the office to his brother and sister-in-law. She could only guess that he'd wanted Diane's parents to have it. I'm sorry for all this trouble Diane is going through with her mother."
Gail's pen was tapping on her notepad. "Roger originally got the portrait from his parents a year or so after his sister died. Do you know where Porter and Claire got it?"
He shook his head. "No. I'd never seen it at their house, neither where they live now nor their previous place in Miami Shores. I'm going to guess they bought it from a gallery or a collector. Perhaps . . . from Jack."
While Nate mulled this over, still stunned by his sudden glimpse into Jack Pascoe's nature, Gail glanced across the table at Anthony. He could see from her expression that she was moving in on something, and that he should stay out of it.
She cleared her throat and sat up in her chair. "Judge Harris, how much do you know about Maggie's childhood?"
"Her childhood?"
"Yes. Jack told me that at fifteen, Maggie tried to kill herself. Did you know?"
Anthony had to protest. "Gail, what is the relevance—"
"Did you know?" she asked again, ignoring him.
"Yes. Maggie mentioned it in an offhand way."
Gail smiled and tilted her head. "Offhand?"
"She didn't like to talk about it, and I didn't press her. But if you're curious?"
"Yes, I am, actually."
Giving up, Anthony leaned back in his chair and waited to see what Gail would do with this.
"Maggie said she'd had a crush on a boy, and it hadn't worked out. Porter and Claire hadn't approved, and Maggie had taken it badly."
"Apparently. Who was the boy?"
"Goodness, I don't know. A kid doing some fixup work at her parents' house. I think his father worked for the company. If she ever said his name, I've forgotten."
"Please forgive me if this seems like a strange line of inquiry," Gail said. "Did Maggie say she'd been pregnant? I think that might have been the case."
Another surprise. Anthony had to clamp his teeth together to keep from asking her where in hell she'd come up with that information. His eyes went to Nate.
"No, Maggie never mentioned a child. Are you certain? Well, you know, that makes sense now. She was only thirty years old when I met her, and she said she didn't want children. I thought it was funny, you know, a woman so young, but it was okay with me. I preferred it, in fact. We both had full careers. I sensed that something had happened in her past, and I asked her, but she didn't want to tell me. I said, whatever it w
as, I could overlook it. It wouldn't be an issue between us. But she never said, so I assumed it was of no importance. I don't think she actually gave birth. Knowing her parents, I'd say a termination would have been more likely. They're very practical people. So was Maggie."
"And your marriage was.. . . happy?"
"I'd say so. We never had a serious argument. We were sexually compatible. Kind to each other. She respected my priorities, I respected hers. Her life was her art. Mine was the law. It worked out quite well."
"She traveled, didn't she?"
"Oh, yes, she spent most of her summers on the Cape, and she had a small place in Manhattan. I was often buried in trials for weeks on end, or I'd be off to this or that judge's conference. When we were home, she'd go out to the cottage to work, and I'd write my opinions. You know, being a judge is a sort of monastic existence, but she was great about it, and I understood her need to paint. Maggie was a genius. The last thing I ever wanted to do was hold her back from her calling."
"Do you have any idea why she ended her life?"
"Not to this day, I don't. Toward the end she became more depressed and remote. I'm sorry I couldn't save her. Nothing could have."
Gail laid her pen on her legal pad. Silence stretched out. Finally she said, "I have no more questions. Thank you."
Nate stood up, stretching a little. "Well, if there is anything else, just ask. Anything I can do. I'm grateful to both of you. Anthony, you're going to give me an update on everything so far?"
"Yes, I'll call you tonight."
Gail stood up, and she and Nate shook hands. "Good luck with the nomination, Judge Harris."
"Oh, well, we won't know for a long time. And call me Nate."
Anthony escorted him out. They talked for a few minutes in the empty lobby. Everyone had gone home. Nate said he hoped for the best with Gail. Maybe they could work it out. A terrific girl, wasn't she? Anthony nodded.
He went back to the conference room and found Gail standing by the window, looking out. "What a bloodless man. How did you ever become friends?"
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