Gail glanced at Irene over her mascara wand, then back at the mirror. "So why did he call you?"
"He knows me. He trusts my opinion," Irene said.
"I don't suppose he suggested you buy it." Gail did the other eye. "You know, pay him five or ten thousand, give it to the museum, then take the tax deduction?"
Irene looked annoyed. "Yes, that did come up, but it was my idea."
"Was it?" Gail tossed the mascara back into the bag.
"You can be so suspicious at times," Irene said.
On her way out of the bathroom Gail bent to kiss her on the cheek. "And you're a nice lady. Do whatever you want to, Mother. There, that's my opinion. Just make sure you get a couple of appraisals first."
Irene followed her down the hall, then into the guest room. The convertible sofa was still folded in, pillows untouched. Irene hadn't complained about Gail's absence last night. She seemed too stunned about Carlos Pedrosa to make a fuss.
Irene said, "I think I can persuade him to donate the mask."
"Great. I doubt Jimmy Panther would have a sudden attack of generosity, but you never know." Gail pulled her black pumps out from under the sewing machine cabinet.
"Yes, I do know," Irene said. "He's looking for some land where they can have a retreat for emotionally disturbed boys. A camp. They could go there and live like the Indians did before the white man. Jimmy says he wants a place that's not poisoned by modem civilization."
"Is he making an exception for mosquito repellent?" Gail put on her shoes.
Irene gave her a look. "For some reason or other they can't use tribal land. Jimmy says it's federal red tape, you know how that goes. Anyway, if he could find some property to rent cheaply, he could save a lot of money, and if he saved money there, he could afford to give the Tequesta mask to the museum."
Gail took an ivory linen blouse off its hanger, hung the hanger back in the closet.
Irene said, "We got to talking about what kind of land he needed, the right location and so forth, and I thought of Ben's property. He said it might do, but he wasn't sure."
"Ben? Renting his property to the Indians?"
"He might, if he were approached the right way," Irene said.
"So fine. Tell Jimmy to talk to Ben about it."
"I did." Irene took a sip from her coffee mug. "But Ben won't be back from his fishing trip for ten days, so I said maybe I'd call Ben myself before he leaves."
"Lucky man, ten days vacation with his best buddies." Gail tucked the blouse into her skirt. At the dresser she put on her earrings, studying her reflection. Neat little suit, conservative jewelry. Her hair looked a bit flat this morning, but she'd had no time to wash it. Makeup hid the circles under her eyes.
She fastened the other earring. "Maybe Ben has the right idea, leaving Miami. A country law practice with a fishing lake out the back door. Walk downtown. Have lunch at the drugstore. Leave your windows open at night."
Irene said, "Do me a favor. Call Ben. Ask him what he thinks of Jimmy's idea. I told Jimmy I'd let him know."
Grabbing her purse, Gail headed for the den, where she had left her files and briefcase last night. "I can't, I'm frantically busy today."
"Five minutes," Irene said. "You know how to put things in legalese."
Gail stacked her files on the desk, tucking papers back inside. "I'd rather not. The last time Ben and I were together, leaving Ray Hammell's office, we practically yelled at each other. I think he's still mad at me."
"What ever for?"
Gail dropped her files into her briefcase and closed the lid. "It's not worth talking about. Same old thing. He has the answers and wants to make sure I know it."
"He's done a great deal for you," Irene said.
"Mother, I'm extremely grateful for Ben's help, I promise you. And yours." Grateful to Ben, but not comfortable about it. She felt a need to keep her distance for a while. Maybe her reaction was irrational, but she didn't care. It was what it was. In the driveway Gail's car crunched over acorns from the oak tree, then whirled through leaves on Seagrape Lane. Gail had explained once to a friend visiting from Boston, in South Florida the leaves fall off the trees in springtime.
How upside down it is here,
the friend had said.
Gail turned left on Biscayne Boulevard as though her car were on automatic pilot.
Again this morning she had looked at the photo of herself and Renee. She remembered now: Their father hadn't taken it after all. He had been on the porch frying hamburgers, the yard teeming with kids and adults. Ben was the one with the camera, taking pictures of everyone. He told Renee to sit in the swing. Smile real big, honey.
Click.
Gail knew now why she had pushed her way onto the swing. Not to have fun with Renee but because she had been seething with jealousy. She had pumped the swing higher and higher to frighten Renee, secretly hoping she would fall out.
Renee must not have realized it. Or she had forgotten, too. She had kept the photo on her desk in a gold frame. Me and my sis, happy times.
The idea was stunning—Gail's emotions had raged, even as a child. Ben had been an innocent magnet realigning the field between herself and Renee. But Renee had died before Gail could tell her any of this. Before Gail could ask to be forgiven. And how much of that rage was still alive, poisoning her thoughts about Anthony, who had slept with both of them?
She made it to the parking garage in fifteen minutes flat. It was nearly eleven o'clock and the only empty spaces left were on the roof, sixth level. It hadn't rained downtown last night but the sky was mottled gray, the air heavy and hot. Her back was moist with sweat by the time she entered the air-conditioned lobby of the Hartwell Building.
In her office, the telephone rang. Gail dropped her briefcase on the desk. It was Ben.
He had heard about Carlos. His secretary had been listening to the radio in the coffee shop. Prominent Latin developer shot to death, body found in the trunk of his car. Execution-style slaying, no suspects.
"I don't know what to think of it," Gail said.
Ben said, "Son of a bitch finally got what he deserved, is what I think. No, better to bring him to trial for Renee, than shoot him. That would've been better. Did you call Ray Hammell yet?"
"I will, but he probably knows already. We have another appointment at four this afternoon. I'm sure we'll talk about it."
"Lord. I hope this doesn't mess up your defense," Ben said. "Maybe I ought to call him myself."
Gail heard the question: Did she want him to? She said, "No, Ben, it's okay. Thanks, though. Really."
"All right," he said.
"Have a good time fishing," she said.
"I wonder if I should go."
"Go," she said. "Call me this weekend, I'll let you know what Ray says about Carlos."
After Ben's good-bye, she realized she had forgotten to pass on Irene's message about Jimmy Panther. She thought of calling him back. "The hell with it," she muttered, and dialed Ray Hammell's office.
Alisha came on the line. "We know! I was just about to call you." Her voice was breathy with suppressed excitement. "Ray had to go to court or he'd talk to you himself. He wants me to get the details from the police."
Gail decided not to say, just then, that she had driven to the scene with Anthony Quintana. That she had seen Carlos's body taken away. It would require more explanation than she wanted to give over the telephone. She confirmed her appointment with Hammell and hung up.
Miriam brought her a sandwich and they worked through lunch.
Anthony called shortly after one o'clock.
"I wanted to hear your voice," he said.
"Where are you?"
"At my grandfather's house. The place is
un manicomio.
A madhouse. There must be fifty people here." "How did he take it?"
"Not well. He's sedated now. The doctor is guarding against another stroke. In fact, I called the doctor before I broke the news." Gail could hear only silence in the background and supposed Anthony was in Emesto Pedrosa's study with the heavy door closed, sitting at the big desk that was angled toward Havana.
"And how are you?" she said.
"Frank Britton just left," he said. "He didn't stay long. He wants me to come to headquarters Monday."
Gail forced herself to ask the question. ''Does he think you had something to do with Carlos's death?"
"He asked me where I was for the last two days. He said he had heard relations between me and Carlos were bad. He asked me about my grandfather's properties. He even asked me if it was true Renee had left me to start an affair with Carlos. Where did he get that idea?"
"Probably from looking into my case," she said. "He talked to a lot of people."
Anthony said, "It's strange. I have never been in this position. Frank apologized for having to question me."
"Here's some advice given to me by an excellent criminal attorney," Gail said. "Don't talk to the police. They'll hang you with your words."
She heard the chuckle. "Ah, but I have nothing to hide," he said. Then another sigh. "Gail, I wish I could leave here and go back to sleep with you. We didn't sleep much last night."
Gail closed her eyes, desire surprising her, flowing through her like a sudden throb of pain, and this for a man who could have tied his cousin's hands and shot him through the head.
She said, "I'm tired, too. Trying to get some work done, but the gears are slipping."
"You're seeing Ray Hammell this afternoon?"
"At four."
"I might call him before that and tell him what's going on," Anthony said.
"If you even know," Gail said. "This is so complicated. But what did you tell me once? Murder is a simple act of passion?"
"An intimate act with a simple motive based on passion," Anthony said. "Not always true, but more often than not. And the answer isn't always easy to find. But when we do see it, we say, ah yes, of course. I should have known."
Gail swiveled her chair around to face the window. The sky was still gray, the clouds unmoving. "What if the right answer is the simplest of all?" she said. "What if Renee really did commit suicide? And one of Carlos's questionable friends got rid of him, just like you read all the time in the
Herald?
And we're all going crazy trying to see motives and meanings where there aren't any."
"Ah, Gail." Anthony sounded exhausted.
"I'm sorry," she said. "You called me for some solace and I haven't helped a bit."
"I don't need solace," he said. "I need two or three drinks and a pillow. And you."
Anthony's pillow. He had put it under her hips last night. Lifted her up to him, open. She blinked to clear the image.
He said, "Unfortunately, I will be here for the next two or three nights, until the funeral. Have you been to a Cuban funeral? We stay up all night with the casket before the graveside services, drinking
café
to stay awake. I'll call you when it's over."
"All right."
The sound of a soft kiss came over the line. '
'Cuídate, mi amor. ''
Take care, my love.
"You, too." Gail closed her eyes and heard the click of a disconnect.
Her thoughts were on a silver Mercedes with its trunk open, dripping stagnant water. A gurney and a black body bag.
Anthony had to be innocent. A weird correlation occurred to her: His innocence was linked to Carlos's. If Anthony was fair enough to have read Carlos right, then how could he have been vicious enough to kill him? Anthony had never said Carlos was guilty. He had said it was a plausible theory, useful to her acquittal. At his house last week he had said Carlos might be capable of petty violence, but not murder.
Gail had wanted Carlos Pedrosa to be guilty. Now he was dead, and that awful event made him seem helpless to her, worthy of pity. His death wasn't what she had wanted.
But if Carlos had not killed Renee, who had? Someone close. Close enough to know she had tried to commit suicide with a razor blade.
Loan sharks could have killed Carlos. A business rival. Drug dealers. Maybe a jealous boyfriend. Anyone.
Frank Britton had looked at Gail, standing there in the drizzling rain behind the yellow police tape. She had seen the speculation in his eyes. What is the connection here?
Now Gail felt as though her mind were a computer screen, lines of data flashing past. Combinations, recombinations. Constructing theories out of air, out of scraps, looking for patterns. No conclusions, only the steady flow of bits of information.
Gail jumped a little and turned her chair around when she heard a thud on her desk.
Miriam had come in with a banker's box full of deposition transcripts and a folder crammed with photocopies. She made a little panting noise, her tongue sticking out like a tired dog.
Gail managed a smile.
There was a handwritten letter on top of one box and Miriam handed it to Gail. "This came in the mail a couple days ago from Harold Irving, the client you did the condominium class action thing for last year."