Ben looked at her steadily. "You're certainly calm."
"Focused is a better word. And on two or three hours' sleep last night. The call to arms, I suppose." She rocked back and forth on her toes, her hands still in her pockets. "I want to ask you something."
"Sure, what?"
"It's— It would be hard to talk about this with Mother."
Ben waited.
Last night her thoughts could have marched across the bedroom ceiling in illuminated letters, they were that clear. Gail began slowly, recapturing them.
"What surprises me most is that Frank Britton believes I could have done it. Forget motive or opportunity. He thinks I had the capacity. Why? Does he see something in me that I've missed? I've never been one to doubt myself before. But now— Look. My marriage has fallen apart. I hardly know my own daughter."
"Gail, honey—" Ben scratched the side of his face. "I know you've had your troubles lately—"
"That isn't it. I don't think that's it." She sat down on the edge of the porch. The boards were cracked and dry, the nail heads coming up. She picked at a splinter. "What does he see? That I hated her? I didn't. Truly, I didn't. Okay, I resented her sometimes, but— It was more my fault than hers. I didn't want to hear what she had to say. I didn't care. To learn that about yourself—That there's a willful lack of understanding. That you made things worse."
Ben sat down beside her. He rubbed the heel of his hand down his thigh as if easing a cramp. Gail noticed the lines his tendons made under the skin, the curly white hair on his forearm. “What are you doing, blaming yourself for the way she was?"
"No. Although I probably contributed to it. The point is, I didn't know her. Who is this person that Frank Britton says I— Who was she?"
The dog came over from the feeder and stretched out beside them. Ben scratched its muzzle. After a second or two he said, "Well, I wouldn't worry about it now. You turned out all right, honey. Renee didn't."
Gail stared idly at his knee, the faded denim. A line of tagalong thistles stuck to the laces on his work boot. She knew he would never understand. He couldn't. There was simply a gap between them. No connection.
"Aw, come on." Ben's arm went around her shoulders. He shook her a little. She tensed, feeling awkward and embarrassed. Then she turned her head into his neck and let out a long, slow breath. The scent of soap and sweat was in his shirt.
Gail closed her eyes. "When I was a kid, I was so jealous of her. My pretty sister. The one who always got what she wanted. What I wanted."
His voice vibrated in his chest. "What did you want?"
"Affection, isn't that what every kid wants?" She laughed softly. "It sounds so stupid now. So childish. I wanted to be noticed. I thought nobody liked me as much. Which was probably true, given my attitude. I'd lie on my bed in the dark, listening to the rest of you having a good time. Wishing someone would make me come out. I could have opened the door, couldn't I?"
He shifted a little as if he were about to move away. He didn't. It occurred to Gail that he was being polite; that she was being maudlin. Then she felt him lightly kiss the top of her head.
He said, "Honey, I'm sorry you felt that I—that Irene and I—didn't show you as much affection as we did Renee. I never intended to butt in and take your dad's place, but I got the feeling you resented me because you thought that's what I was trying to do. So I sort of left you alone. Renee was easy to get along with. Well, she knew how to get on Irene's good side, that's for sure. Mine, too. I never knew we made you feel like this. Didn't seem like you wanted anybody."
He patted her cheek, bent down a little to look into her eyes. He smiled, deep lines in his face. How old he looked now, she thought. And as a child she had thought he was so handsome.
Suddenly Gail stood up, his arms sliding away. The knowledge had hit her with an impact that left her dizzy, why she had never told him how she felt, fifteen or twenty years ago. Not because she hadn't wanted to be closer to him, but because she had, too much.
"Gail?" She felt his hand on her back.
She had wanted him. Not knowing, at that age, what it was. She had lain in bed under her pillows, aching, listening to the rumble of his voice. Hearing Renee's laughter. Her silvery, piping songs at the piano. And in the dark behind her eyelids Gail had played elaborate, bloody scenes of her sister's death.
When she turned around Ben was still looking at her, probably trying to figure out what the hell was going on.
"You want to sit back down? Are you okay?"
"No. Yes, I'm fine."
"Maybe you need to get a good night's sleep," he said.
"I guess so." She rolled a rock under her sandal, glanced toward her car. "Well. I need to get home. Make sure Karen's ready. Dave's going to pick her up. I think they're going to a movie."
"You said already."
When she looked back, Ben was still watching her. "We're going to take care of this, Gail, this thing with the police. First thing, I'm calling Ray Hammell. Best criminal lawyer in Miami."
She pushed her hair off her forehead, raking her fingers through several times. "No. I can't— Let's talk about this later. I want to go on home."
"I'm not going to let you hire some Cubano who thinks he can score a big fee off you."
"We didn't even talk about money!" She held up her hands, aware how sharp her voice had been. She started over. "This is my problem. I'm not asking you to get involved."
Ben petted the dog, his hand moving quickly over its glossy fur. ' 'Quintana represented Renee once, did he tell you that?"
Gail numbly shook her head.
"No, I guess he forgot to mention it," Ben said. "Your sister got herself into trouble last year. Again. She hired this Quintana fellow. I didn't even know she had been arrested until after the bond hearing. She called me, crying. Ben, Ben, what am I going to do? I've fucked up my life. You've got to—"
"This was for trafficking in cocaine."
He stopped, puzzled that she knew.
"Frank Britton told me," Gail said.
Ben nodded. "Big trouble this time for Little Sister. Fifteen years, minimum mandatory sentence. No possibility of parole. I wanted to get her the best, not some guy she met at the office. I suggested to Quintana that he withdraw. He didn't want to."
"You told me at Irene's you had never heard of him."
"I didn't want to get into it with you. Having to explain all this. Anyway, the case was dismissed, so he had no client. I guess you could say the case withdrew from him."
Gail stood silently, then said, "Drug cases don't just vanish from the system. Britton told me that's what happened. Did you have anything to do with it?"
His mouth was a thin line.
"Ben?"
"I'm going to tell you this, but I don't ever want to hear it mentioned again. I talked to the judge in her division. He spoke to the prosecutor. Renee had no idea what was on the boat. They understood that. We take care of our own, or try to, when we can. But the administrative judge didn't see it that way. He found out and wanted my resignation."
Stunned, Gail couldn't decide if what he had done was noble or reprehensible. He had saved Renee, but at the cost of his career.
Ben sat back down and patted the dog's neck. "I have no regrets, except that it didn't do any good. Renee fell back into her old ways soon enough." He glanced at her. "I'll tell you one more thing, though maybe I shouldn't. She was expecting a child when she killed herself. I think that's why she did it."
"I know," Gail said. "I read the M.E.'s report."
"I called him up. Wanted to know what happened to her. Figured she was full of drugs or something, but no. Another surprise. I didn't tell Irene."
"I did."
He tossed a stray twig into the yard. "You shouldn't have."
"I think it was Carlos Pedrosa's. I'm pretty sure they were involved."
"That son of a bitch." Ben looked at her sharply. ''Now you see how dumb it is, having Quintana for your lawyer? A blood relative of the man sleeping with your sister."
"Carlos and Anthony aren't exactly on the best of terms."
"Oh, come on. Say Carlos caught her with somebody else and killed her. Latinos are hot-blooded like that. And say Quintana knows he did it. You think he's going to turn him in? Family? Not likely, not if he has you on the hook. Maybe he's using you to find out what kind of a case they have."
"That is so farfetched."
"Okay, let's see how smart you are. Did you go to him or did he approach you?" He must have read the answer in her eyes. "Case closed."
She sat down heavily on the porch. "Nothing makes sense to me today."
"Only today?" Laughing, Ben let his gaze drift across the weedy yard to the trees beyond. "I feel like that all the time. All the damn time. It's not us, honey. It's this place."
He looked back at Gail. "You know, last week I took a drive up the state a bit. Said to myself maybe I could find a few acres. Arcadia, Zolfo Springs. It's so quiet up there. Green and quiet. You can still leave your doors unlocked. People go to church on Sundays. If we were smart, we'd all get the hell out. Damn county's full of crazies. Irene's afraid to drive around at night. I keep expecting to hear about you getting mugged or raped. Now look what's happened. Even the police are crazy. We haven't changed, everything else has gone nuts. This isn't Miami anymore. It's moving right out from under us. Twenty percent black, over half Spanish, more of them pouring in. We're a minority. A minority in our own country."
"Ben, stop it. Don't be like that."
"I'm so goddamn sick of having to mince my words. People get pissed off if you speak the bald truth. Why in hell bother anymore?"
Suddenly he pulled the dog off the porch by its collar. "Get down. Go on, Barney. Scram." He patted Gail's arm. "You stand over there by your car."
"Why?"
"Just do it." He motioned her away, then stepped up on the porch, grabbed his shotgun, and lightly jumped back to the ground. "And stick your fingers in your ears."
By the time he braced the shotgun on his hip, aiming at the cabin, Gail was behind her car. He fired. The middle section on the wooden screen door shattered. He pumped the gun, the red plastic shell spinning out to one side. The next blast hit a window. Glass exploded into the house.
Her mouth open, Gail let her hands fall from her ears. The echo was still reverberating. The dog was howling behind her, circling.
Ben looked over his shoulder. "Gail, come here. I can rack one more into the chamber. I'll let you do the other window. Pretend it's Frank Britton. But watch out for my dog feeder."
He pumped the shotgun. Another shell flew out.
She screamed at him. "Ben, what the hell are you doing?"
After a moment he crossed the yard and lay the gun on the porch. He stood with his back to her, looking at the ragged hole in his screen door.
Fifteen
Miriam waved the file in Gail's direction as she came in. "The foreclosure case for one-thirty." Gail looked up from her desk. "Thanks. Just throw it in my briefcase. That is the Yancey file, correct?" In her state of mind, Gail was double-checking everything.
Miriam held it up. "And all the documents are inside. With copies."
"Good girl."
While Miriam unloaded more files on the desk, Gail noticed the chicken salad sandwich still sitting in its deli paper on her appointment book. She had eaten a quarter of it and that had tasted like cardboard. Nerves, she supposed. Breakfast had been no better. Wrapping up the sandwich, she aimed it at her trash can and returned to the notes she had been reviewing.
There were twenty-three pages of neat, handwritten notes on paper from a yellow legal pad, accumulated over the past three days for Anthony Quintana. He had told her on Saturday what he needed to know. She had not written in one continuous stream, but had divided her thoughts into sections and subsections on separate pages. Her background—educational, personal, and so on. Dave. Karen. Family history and financial matters. Conversations with Frank Britton. The night of Irene's party. Details about Renee—as far as she knew them.
Gail had not numbered the pages, aware as she came to the end of each section, laying them out on her desk or kitchen table, that they might be shuffled or rearranged. She had tried to write only facts and dates and times, but it wasn't easy. If she wrote about Britton's showing her the cards Dave had sent to Renee, she would have to explain why Dave had sent them. That would require her to admit the failures of their marriage. Gail could not write that she and Renee had argued the night of Irene's party without revealing her own resentments. As the stack of pages grew, she saw herself more clearly, with faults she hadn't known were there. Gritting her teeth, she had kept writing.
She had set an appointment with Anthony Quintana for five o'clock this afternoon, which now she couldn't keep. Larry Black had just dragooned her into covering a deposition in Fort Lauderdale. Perhaps she would put the notes for Anthony in an envelope and drop them off at Ferrer & Quintana on her way home tonight. But first, she had a question of her own: Why hadn't he told her he had represented Renee?