Gail put her file back into her briefcase, giddy with relief. "Shall I draw the order on that?"
Anthony Quintana held the elevator door, his gold bracelet catching the light. He turned to Gail as he pushed the button for the lobby. They were the only occupants. "I'd like to see the order before you send it to be signed."
"Yes. You probably should." Gail added, "I may have to call you so we can get it straight, just what his order was."
Quintana smiled, the lines deepening around his mouth. She wished she knew the name of his cologne. She would buy Dave a bottle. "Welcome to the civil division," she said. "Are you going to handle this case for George from here on in?"
"Why not? I know my way around juries."
"A jury? On this case?"
"We did ask for one in our counterclaim."
"Waive it."
He shook his head slowly. "And trust my clients' fate to Judge Coakley?"
"You've got to be kidding. We won't get a jury trial within our lifetimes. You have no intention of going to a jury on this."
The elevator door opened. "So settle," he said, letting her go out first.
"It's a matter of principle for the Dardens," Gail said. "They don't want to pay for something they didn't get."
"Easy to say, when you pay nothing for your principles."
"What do you mean?"
"I've met Douglas Hartwell and I know who his daughter is." Quintana looked out onto Flagler Street through the glass doors of the courthouse. "I would venture a guess," he said, "that the resources of Hartwell Black are . . . fully committed."
"So settle, Mr. Quintana."
"It isn't that simple."
She waited, watching him smile.
"Pedrosa Development is owned by my grandfather, Ernesto Pedrosa. Carlos is my cousin."
"So that's it. I knew you couldn't be so obsessive for no reason. You're not getting paid either. This is ridiculous, you know."
"I know." He sighed. "Let me buy you a cup of coffee. We'll see what we can do about it."
Gail looked at him, trying to figure this out. She doubted he was coming on to her, not that her wedding ring would stop him. Maybe he truly had nothing better to do than spend an hour dawdling over coffee, which she could not for a moment imagine. Or maybe he was sincerely trying to get the case off square one.
His eyebrows arched. "I must have said something runny."
"No, not at all," she said. "I wouldn't mind a cup of coffee, but at the moment I have to get back to my office." She allowed herself another smile. "Perhaps next time."
He nodded, a single inclination of his head. "I look forward to it."
She watched him go through the revolving door, then trot gracefully down the granite steps, the sun glinting off his sleek brown hair.
Ah, yes, she mused. The letter P embroidered on his cuff. Pedrosa, if Ernesto Pedrosa were his maternal grandfather. Spanish names were confusing that way. Anthony Luis Quintana Pedrosa. His mother's surname at the end.
She dropped a quarter into a pay phone by the elevators and dialed.
"Hartwell Black and Robineau."
"Hi, Gwen. This is Gail. I'm on my way back. Could you—"
"Hold on. Miriam wants to talk to you."
"No, just tell her—" Too late. Annoyed, Gail listened to several bars of canned Mozart.
A click, then Miriam's voice. "Gail, your mother called a little while ago. She wants you to call her back."
"Fine, as soon as I get there. Have the three o'clock people shown up?"
"Not yet. I think you ought to call her. She sounded kind of funny."
Something in Miriam's voice sent a chill skidding across Gail's shoulders. She hung up and dialed her mother's number.
The telephone rang six times before someone picked it up. "Hello."
Gail didn't recognize the woman's voice. "Connor residence?"
"Yes."
"This is Gail Connor. Let me speak to Irene, please."
There was a hesitation. "Just a moment." The silence thickened, as if a palm had been placed over the mouthpiece.
Gail pressed the receiver closer to her ear. A faint buzz came over the line, then the hand must have been removed.
"Honey?" It was her mother's voice now, nearly a whisper. "Can you come? Please."
"What is it? What's wrong?" The sounds of the courthouse lobby echoed dimly in the background. "Mother, what happened?"
"She's killed herself. ... Oh, Gail ... my baby's gone."
Gail would later remember the emotions that raced through her mind, one close upon another, in those seconds after she learned her sister was dead. There was an instant of disbelief in which she closed her eyes and replayed her mother's words. Killed herself. Gone.
Then came a strange burst of anger. Renee had actually done this thing, selfishly not caring about the pain she would inflict.
Then a flash of spite: Renee had gotten exactly what she deserved. And then Gail was aware of her mother's grief.
She heard her sobbing into the phone, and she knew that the tears wouldn't stop easily, because they were for Renee, as they had always been for Renee. Gail would try to comfort her, but there would be more tears. More than if Gail had been the one. . . .
Irene couldn't relate more than the barest details: a park near the Everglades; they found her this morning. Her wrists. A sergeant from the Metro-Dade Police came by the house, a nice man, very kind.
After a glance at her watch, Gail assured her mother that she would be home as soon as she could, please not to worry. Yes, yes, she would come. She would take care of everything.
All this while another part of her mind was frantically trying to figure out who would cover her appointment at three; how in hell she could reschedule every blessed court appearance for the rest of the week; how to pick up Karen from the sitter.
Then she hung up and turned around, leaning unsteadily against the edge of the phone booth, catching her breath. Someone across the lobby laughed. A soda clunked out of the machine near the revolving door.
Finally Gail felt the shame of knowing that her first reaction had not been sorrow.
She had felt all this, but never surprise. Not that. Renee had been heading toward self-destruction for years, and now, she had arrived.
Two
"Poor thing. Such a shock."
The woman glanced past Gail's shoulder across the visitation room. Irene Connor sat on one of the long sofas, a small figure in black. Her sister Patsy was beside her; more people gathered in groups around the room.
"She's lucky to have you, Gail," the woman whispered. "Someone has to be strong. My brother Kenny died last year, you know. Cancer. A blessing, really, but our father fell apart. Just devastated. I was the only one who could manage."
Gail had no idea who this person was. She forced herself to smile. "We're so glad you could come." Pretending to see someone else in the crowd, she excused herself and slipped away. They had been here since five, in this dimly lit visitation room with its cold, sweet florist's-shop smell. Gail supposed some of the flowers were from Renee's friends, but she wouldn't have recognized the names. There were the expected arrangements from family friends and out-of-town relations. But she knew most of the flowers weren't for Renee at all. They were for her mother. Irene Strickland Connor, a piece of local history, granddaughter of one of Miami's pioneer families. Even the mayor had sent a wreath.
It had been years since Gail had seen some of the people who had shown up. They had taken Irene's hand, dredging their memories or imaginations for something nice to say about Renee. Then they had walked between the rows of chairs to the recessed niche where the casket lay, gleaming wood and brass. More flowers. A crucifix on a mahogany stand had been placed behind it, and at each end candles flickered in tall, red glass holders. Gail had seen the puzzlement on their faces. They had probably expected to see Renee herself, returned to virginal innocence with paint and glue. Blonde hair laid in perfect curls on a satin pillow; lips set into a sad little smile. They might have expected to look at the bouquet of lilies and find that it didn't quite hide the black sutures on her wrists.
No one had asked Gail why the casket was closed. Maybe they knew.
Now she busied herself straightening a box of Kleenex on a table. Her watch seemed to have stopped at six-thirty. She wondered if she ought to call again to check on Karen. They had left her at Irene's with a neighbor's teenage daughter.
Gail glanced up at a movement at the door. Ben Strickland, Irene's favorite cousin, was coming in. He smoothed his white hair, looking around as if lost. When Gail crossed the room he held out his arms. "Hey, honey. You okay?"
"Fine. I suppose." Gail let herself lean against him for a moment. She rested her forehead on his shoulder, then pulled away. "Ben, would you do me a favor?"
"Sure. Anything."
"I'd like you to handle Renee's estate." Ben had retired early from the circuit court bench six months ago, joining a small law firm on Flagler Street.
"You want me to be the attorney? Gail, honey, I wasn't in the probate division. I figured Irene would ask you."
"We haven't discussed it. And I don't do probate either, you know."
"That's true. But you've got people in your law firm who could guide you through it." He saw her shake her head. "What's the matter? You don't want to?"
Gail looked across the room at Irene. "You know how she and I were about Renee. We agreed a long time ago that we'd be better off not talking about her."
"Damn shame you girls didn't get along."
"Well. Too late now. I'd feel strange getting involved, and I don't think Mother would really want me to."
Ben thought about it. "I'd have to get one of the other attorneys in my office to write up the paperwork." His gaze moved to the casket. "My god, my god," he said softly. As Gail watched, his lips trembled. Then he laughed a little, embarrassed, and took a breath. "I'm sorry. I didn't think I was going to get this way. Lord have mercy. All right, I'll talk to her about it, if you want."
She squeezed his hand. "Thanks, Ben."
Irene was walking a friend away from the casket, their arms linked. Her sister Patsy laughed at something, and Irene gave half a smile. Irene was still pretty, a petite redhead with clear blue eyes. Today her eyes were swollen. Today she moved as though something inside her was broken.
When she saw Ben she put her arms around him. They stood silently for a while, her head under his chin. Her words were muffled against his shoulder. "Oh, Ben. Why did she do this? Would somebody just tell me why?"
He awkwardly patted her back. "Shhh. I don't know. I don't know." He turned her toward the first row of chairs. "Come on. Sit down for a while."
Her lips pressed tightly together, Gail glared at the casket. Renee could have had the decency to leave a note.
Dear Mom, Life is just too hard. Besides, I'm pregnant and I don't know who the father is. Forgive me. It isn't your fault.
Gail had been the one to identify the body at the morgue—what was left of it. The one to hear the M.E. say that Renee was nearly two months pregnant. Not that this would have bothered Renee unduly. She was hardly a blushing Catholic schoolgirl. Even so, Gail didn't intend to tell her mother about the baby.
She grabbed a water pitcher from a nearby table and shook it. Empty. When she peered into the funeral director's office, his young assistant came out, hands clasped in front of him. Owen Finney wore a dark suit and a striped tie five years out of fashion.
"Yes, ma'am?"
She gave him the pitcher. "I wonder if we could get some more ice water."
"Certainly," he said quietly, as if she had handed him a dead kitten. "I'll take care of it. And more paper cups?"
"Thank you."
"No problem."
On her way back through the lobby Gail spotted Dave in an armchair in the corner, his eyes focused on the turquoise carpet. Above his head hung a mediocre landscape painting of snow-topped mountains. An odd choice for Florida. Gail supposed the shafts of light parting the clouds were meant to be inspirational.
She stood beside his chair. "Dave?"
He glanced up.
"Doesn't it look a little odd, your sitting out here? You should be with the rest of the family."
"Oh, my. Whatever will Aunt Patsy say?"
Gail sat in the other chair. "Don't, Dave."
"Sorry." Her hand lay on the small table between them, and Dave entwined their fingers. He said, "How's Irene?"
"Glued together with Patsy's Valiums."
He nodded. "I was thinking we ought to go get Karen."
"A nine-year-old has no business at a funeral."
"I went to my first funeral when I was five." He withdrew his hand.