Castillo brought the cigarette to his lips, holding it between thumb and middle finger, the glowing ember out of sight. "Could have been weapons."
"Smuggling weapons
into
the United States?"
He blew smoke toward the water. "A rifle and scope would fit in a suitcase."
Gail looked at him. "Meaning what?"
"How long have Dixon and Thomas Nolan known each other? I'm thinking, Dixon and Nolan in Germany at the same time. Then in Havana. They fly to Costa Rica. Dixon travels a lot. So does Nolan."
"What are you saying, Felix?"
"Where was Nolan the night Seth Greer was shot?"
"I don't know. Rehearsing, probably."
"I called him like you asked me to. I got no answer, and there was no rehearsal that night."
Gail let out a laugh of utter surprise. "Thomas Nolan is a hit man for Lloyd Dixon?"
"For anyone. The CIA. They have people they use."
"Felix, whenever I talk to you I start believing in conspiracy theories. I could believe the Cubans and the Mafia were behind the assassination of President Kennedy."
He smiled and took a last puff of his cigarette. He dug a hole, dropped in the butt, and smoothed the sand over it. "It's time to go." He rose and extended a hand to help her up. When she didn't move, he asked, "Is there something else?"
"A question." She hesitated. "It's about Nicaragua. Los Pozos."
"Why ask me?"
"I have to know about the girl who died. Seth Greer said you were there when it happened, so please don't tell me you weren't. Who killed her, Felix?"
"You don't need to worry yourself with that. It's a long, long time in the past." He began to walk toward the parking lot, following the shoreline rather than the main road.
Gail followed him down the gentle slope, the sand getting firmer. The shallow water rose and fell on the sand as if it were alive, breathing. "Anthony won't talk about it, either. It's a barrier I can't get through. He tries to forget what happened there, but he can't, and it's tearing him apart. Emily Davis's ghost won't leave him alone. Please tell me, or all I can think is the worst."
Castillo stopped walking. "You think he killed her."
This was exactly what she had feared without consciously realizing it. She waited for Castillo to speak. He was a silhouette against a backdrop of stars. "No, it was me that shot her. She didn't suffer any. It was fast."
Gail let out a low moan and hugged her arms to her chest.
Castillo said quietly, "Emily Davis caused the death of eleven men."
"She couldn't have intended that. She didn't know. My God. She was so young."
"The men were young, too. One was fifteen, two others were seventeen. In a war there aren't any kids. They were men." The shore turned gently north, and Gail followed Felix Castillo as he resumed walking. "They wanted justice. A piece of land for their families. The Somozas and their friends owned everything. These people had nothing. You can't imagine how poor they were. This woman betrayed them."
"So she had to die. This
woman,
twenty years old."
Castillo made no response.
"Did Pablo make you do it?"
"No. It was my decision."
"Yours? Was it easy for you?"
"It had to be done."
Her voice broke. "How can Anthony speak to you after what you did?"
Castillo said, "He knows how it was."
They had reached the low wall marking the end of the beach. "How ugly this is. How horrible. I'm sick of thinking about it!"
"People in this country don't have to think about it. You're lucky." His voice was sad beyond measure. "Be seeing you." He disappeared into the darkness.
Fifteen minutes later, halfway across the channel from Fisher Island, Gail reached into her bag for the film that Rebecca had dropped to her.
It was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Listening to Jeffrey Hopkins, watching his face turn pink with indignation, Gail wondered if he was deliberately insulting Thomas Nolan. Provoking him. Expecting him to leap up and scream across the desk,
Who do you think you are, the fucking Metropolitan Opera? I'm out of here.
Replacing the star of an opera to open in two weeks would not be, Hopkins might reason, as difficult as suffering the consequences of keeping him.
Tom Nolan sat impassively, looking back at the general manager from under the sharp ridge of his brows. He seemed perfectly at ease. Legs crossed. Hands clasped loosely on his lap. But Gail could see the vein that pulsed in his hollow temple.
Pausing for breath, Hopkins jerked his chin to one side as if his green paisley bow tie were too tight.
Nolan said quietly, "The answer is yes. Of course I want to stay."
"Then you will make a statement to the media." Hopkins planted an elbow on his desk and counted off his fingers. "First, you will apologize to the Cuban exile community for your insensitive remarks. You will confess your ignorance of their history and their current political situation. You will beg forgiveness. You will have noâabsolutely noâfurther contact with any reporter whatsoever outside my presence."
A chuckle resonated in Tom Nolan's chest. "Are you serious?"
"It's your decision. We can use the understudy."
"He isn't good enough for this role."
"At this point, Mr. Nolan, I do not care." Hopkins's eyes narrowed. "Ms. Connor, explain our legal position."
With no more than a shift of deep-set blue eyes, Thomas Nolan looked at her.
Gail said, "You have exposed us to potential losses of thousands of dollars per performance in additional security costs. Before your interview on television, I was confident that the controversy had died down. This morning I received a phone call from the city manager, who said that in view of your remarks the city of Miami cannot waive its demands. Radio commentators are calling for a mass demonstration on opening night. It's my opinion that we have grounds to fire you for cause. However, we hope that some intensive PR will mitigate the damage. We're willing to try, but unless you assure us of your cooperation, we have no choice but to replace you." She added, "One point your attorney should consider. If you sue us, the lawsuit would be filed in Miamiâwith a Miami judge and jury."
Jeffrey Hopkins made an elaborate nod.
Nolan shifted in the chair. Pulled his fingers through his ponytail. Let out a breath. "I've never made a statement to the press. What do you want me to say?"
"That's up to you," Hopkins said. "Jot down some ideas over your lunch hour and let me see them. The reporters and cameramen will be here at five o'clock."
"Rehearsal isn't over till six."
"I've spoken to the director. You'll finish early and come straight here. Do we understand each other?"
"Yes. All right." At the door Tom Nolan turned stiffly around. "This is so damned unprofessional. You could have worked this out with my manager. The tension is going to affect my voice."
Hopkins gave him a mean little smile. "Be a trooper, Tom."
Hurrying after Thomas Nolan in the corridor that led to the theater, Gail heard him before she saw him. He was vocalizing, the sound coming through his nose.
Ying-yang-ying-ing-ing.
Then his voice dropped to the bottom. He sucked in some long breaths, hands on his hips. Then arpeggios.
Ah-ah-ah-AH-ah-ah-ahhh.
Up an octave, then down in a different series of notes, then another, then down again, then a change of key, going faster. His voice leaped and soared and reverberated on the concrete walls and against metal doors.
"Tom!"
Still walking, he glanced at her. "What is it? I have to get to rehearsal." He dug his fingers into the back of his neck and rotated his head.
"I'm sorry we had to do this," she said.
"Please do not preach at me."
"No, Jeffrey did that already. I thought you might want some help deciding what to say to the media."
"Probably. Yes."
"They'll ask questions, too, and we should discuss some responses. When you break for lunch, call me at my office."
"Thanks." He pinched his nose.
Waa-waa-waaaa.
Gail waited for two men to pass carrying a sheet of plywood. "Tell me, how was the party last night at Lloyd Dixon's place?"
"Oh!" Nolan abruptly stopped walking and pulled her away from an open door. He leaned closer. "You won't guess in a million years who was there. Octavio Reyes."
"What?" Gail let her eyes go wide.
"As God is my witness. I didn't want to say anything in front of Jeffrey back there, because Lloyd Dixon said he would talk to him today. Reyes is a customer of Lloyd's." When Gail nodded, Nolan made a small laugh of surprise. "You're aware of this? What is going on?"
"I don't know, Tom. Tell me what happened. Did you speak to Reyes yourself?"
"No, he and Lloyd went into another room to talk, and five minutes later Lloyd came back in and said Octavio Reyes had gone. He was, quote, insulted by my presence. I didn't take offense because it was funny, in context. Reyes came expecting a business dinner, and he got me. Lloyd said that Reyes had promised to take it easy on us from now on, though, so it turned out all right. His commentary today didn't mention me or the opera. We're not in such bad shape as Jeffrey makes out."
"Except for the other four or five radio commentators that want to lynch you," Gail said. "What do you mean, Reyes expected a business dinner? Who were those men you sang for? What did they talk about?"
"They were . . . businesspeople. They have money. I don't know who they were."
Gail looked away, thinking, then said, "Have you seen Felix Castillo?"
"No. Why?"
"I'm trying to find him. He hasn't returned my calls."
"Mine either. Where is he? I could be shot dead on my way home tonight. Come on, they're
expecting me in the theater."
Opening his mouth as if in a yawn, then setting his teeth together, he let his voice drop to a dark rumble. He glanced at Gail. "That was about an E. I can't do it in performance. My bottom note is a G. It's the high register that kills you, but I've got good technique."
They walked down an incline, the corridor opening up to the backstage area. The double metal doors were propped open, and beyond them Gail could see scaffolding and lights, everything painted black. The lights were on, harsh white illumination coming straight down. A woman with a clipboard backtracked and came out. "Tom! Where've you been? Martin's looking for you."
He waved a hand at her. "Be right there." To Gail he said, "Martin's the director. Do you want to watch for a while? I'll take you out front." He led her along a narrow passage to a carpeted area, then to a door that opened noiselessly into the auditorium.
The red-upholstered seats seemed to stretch upward to infinity, with boxes on the sides and an immense spiraling chandelier in the ceiling. The house lights were on. About halfway back a table had been set up over the seats to hold a computer and microphones. There was no orchestra, only a pianist in the pit talking to a chubby woman in black jeans leaning over the edge of the stage.
The woman looked at Tom Nolan and tapped her watch.
"Coming!"
Onstage the lights brightened, then dimmed. A bluish spotlight illuminated a two-story set with a red tile roof and an ornate balcony outside someone's window.
Gail asked what they would be rehearsing.
"We'll skip around, but we'll start with act one, scene one." Thomas Nolan extended his arm toward the stage. "Nighttime, outside the house of Donna Anna. Giovanni is inside, and his manservant, Leporello, is pacing back and forth with a lantern, waiting for him. Suddenly Giovanni appears at the door, pursued by Donna Anna, screaming that he has seduced her by force.
Traditore!
Betrayer! The lady's father, a commandant in the army, comes out and demands that Giovanni defend himself. They draw their swords. They fight. The old man dies. So the opera begins with a rape and a murder."
"Murder or self-defense?"
Tom Nolan smiled. "Spoken like a lawyer. Whatever it was, the Commendatore comes back from the dead to give Giovanni one last chance to repent. Giovanni refuses and demons drag him down to hell."
Gail said, "I remember. You sang that part with one of your students in the stairwell at the School of the Arts."
"A good memory." Nolan glanced toward the stage. "Well, if you'll excuse meâ"
"Wait. I have one more question."
"If it's fast."
Gail came closer, speaking quietly. "You told me you saw Lloyd Dixon in Havana." Nolan nodded. "It wasn't just that one time at the Hotel Las Americas, was it? Dixon says that you and he flew to Costa Rica. What's the story on that?"
"The story?"
"Why did you and Dixon go to Costa Rica?" She got a blank stare. Nolan said, "What's that got to do with anything?" "I don't know. And that's my problem with it. If you'd told me everything from the beginning, we wouldn't be in this mess."
He smiled. "Gail, this isn't your concern."
"Lloyd Dixon says you picked up a suitcase in San José that you didn't take through Customs on the way back." Gail dropped her voice further. "What were you doing, Tom? I have a right to know. I'm not likely to tell anyone, am I?"
His cheeks became concave when he pursed his lips. "It wasn't mine. It belonged to a friend."
"Who?"
She counted off four long seconds before he said, "Miss Wells. My former piano teacher. She'd been in Costa Rica a few years ago doing missionary work, and she accidentally left it there. I called her and asked if she'd like me to pick it up for her."
"Really. Who paid for the jet fuel to Costa Rica and back?"
"I did. It was extravagant, but I had the money."
Gail closed her eyes. "That is such BS."
Someone shouted from the stage, "Places, Tom!"
"All right!" He looked back at Gail. "I'll call you at your office at noon." He strode toward the stage door, discernible in the wood paneling only by virtue of its hinges and doorknob.
Gail followed. "What was in the suitcase?"
"Oh, a few kilos of cocaine." He opened the door, then stopped and looked around at her. "It was clothing. What did you expect?" The door closed behind him.