"Excellent." Larry nodded, then stood up. "Well, duty calls. Another damnable staff meeting."
Gail walked with him to the door.
He glanced at someone passing by, lifting a hand in greeting, then looked back at Gail. "I'm having lunch with Jack in the partners' room upstairs at noon. Why don't you join us?"
On the penthouse floor, connected to a four-star continental restaurant, the firm had a private dining room, one area for lowly associates and another, grander space for partners and their guests.
She smiled. "Certainly."
When he had gone she closed the door and leaned against it, grinning to herself.
Three gold-framed oil portraits hung in the main lobby—the men who had founded Hartwell Black & Robineau in the twenties, when the land boom hit Miami. The firm had survived the boom, the bust, hurricanes, depression, and immigration from both north and south that had turned Miami from a sleepy tourist town to the unofficial capital of the Caribbean. Flashier, bigger law firms had formed, died, and reformed, clustered in the sleek glass towers lining Flagler Street or Brickell Avenue, but nobody could match Hartwell Black for longevity or tradition.
She had been with the firm for eight years, ever since the summer before her final year of law school, hired as a clerk against stiff competition. They hadn't mentioned Judge Ben Strickland, but of course they knew. Gail was an honorary member of the club. Since then, she had worked damned hard, and had the clients and the cases to show for it.
There were eleven women attorneys out of sixty-seven, not a bad ratio for a crusty old firm like this one. But only two women partners. Gail intended to be the third.
Back at her desk, she dropped the new tape into her recorder, ready for the stack of legal pleadings which had arrived since Friday. Miriam had already assured her that none of them was vital enough to warrant a same-day reply. Gail worked her way through four of them, then stared at the next.
"I do not believe this. The absolute balls—" It was a motion for recusal on
Darden
v.
Pedrosa Development,
asking that Judge Arlen Coakley disqualify himself and send the case to another division. George Sanchez's signature appeared at the end for Ferrer & Quintana.
Disbelieving, Gail scanned the motion. "... the close business and personal relationship between not only the court and plaintiffs in this case but between the court and said plaintiffs' attorney, prejudicing thereby the rights of the defendants to a fair, just, and equitable result in this matter." She recognized the overblown prose—definitely George. Accompanying the motion was a notice requesting that the court set a special hearing. That alone could take anywhere from three to six weeks.
Of course she knew the judge, but he wouldn't do her any special favors. And it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference to Coakley that he was an old friend of Senator Hartwell. The motion was only going to piss him off.
Then again . . . Coakley might throw the case out of his division if he was that pissed.
"Damn." Gail tossed her pen on the desk. George had written the motion, but was he devious enough to have thought of it?
She picked up the phone and dialed. Anthony Quintana had talked about settlement. He had come to the funeral with that little double-photo frame for Irene. How nice of him. Now this.
After two rings a female voice answered—a bilingual answering machine. Gail waited, tapping her nails on the arm of her chair.
"This is the law firm of Ferrer and Quintana.
Esta es la oficina de Ferrer y Quintana.
You may leave a message at the tone.
Deje su mensaje al sonido electrónico. Gracias." Beep.
"This is Gail Connor, Hartwell Black. Please have Mr. Quintana call me as soon as he gets in." She recited the number, then let the receiver down sharply, glancing at her watch. Eight-fifty.
After dutifully writing point-two in her log, Gail paper-clipped the duplicate time slip to the pleading. As if the firm were going to collect a dime.
"Ms. Connor?" Miriam knocked, then opened the door. "There's somebody in the lobby to see you," she said.
"I don't have any appointments scheduled this morning.
"I know, but Gwen said there's an Indian named Panther, or something like that—"
"Jimmy
Panther?"
"¡Imagínate!
And Gwen says he told her it's important."
"No." Gail laughed tiredly. "Tell him to write me a letter. Or come back next week."
"He says it's about your sister."
"Oh, lord." Gail let her breath out. "I suppose he wants ... I have no idea what he wants."
"Well, if it's about your sister ..."
She rolled her eyes. "All right. Bring him in. Five minutes, I mean it."
Without the dim lights and flickering candles of the funeral home, Jimmy Panther could not pull off his role as mystical shaman quite so neatly. But still, when Miriam showed him into the office, Gail noticed two paralegals walking slowly past her door, watching.
He was dressed in blue work pants and a beige short-sleeved shirt that showed dark, muscled forearms. There was only one strand of beads around his neck, green glass ones with an amulet of some kind that clacked softly when he walked.
Gail automatically extended her hand. "Good morning, Mr. Panther." The name felt strange coming off her tongue. "Sit down."
"Thanks." When he let go of her hand she saw the bone handle of a knife at his side. His belt ran through the sheath. She couldn't see the blade, only a bit of shiny steel before it disappeared into eight or nine inches of hard brown leather.
He glanced down, then up again, smiling slowly, showing slightly crooked teeth. "Miami is a dangerous place. Somebody grabbed me one time in the parking lot outside the Historical Museum."
"Really. I hate to think what you did to him."
"That was before I carried this." Jimmy Panther sat in the chair closer to the window and rested his elbow on the ledge. "I haven't had any trouble lately."
Miriam still hovered. ''Mr. Panther, can I get you a cup of coffee? Some tea? A Danish?"
"I'll pass on the Danish. Tea would be good. Some artificial sweetener. I'm trying to watch my weight." He shifted his long ponytail from between his back and the chair.
Miriam turned to Gail.
"Nothing for me. And Miriam. Would you close the door, please?"
Jimmy Panther was looking around the office, vaguely oriental eyes traveling over the books and files and furniture.
He turned them on Gail. "Renee said you were a lawyer. What kind of law do you do?"
"Commercial litigation. Some real estate. Whatever they hand me."
He leaned to his left to look through the window, which faced north. Gail knew what he would see: air conditioning fans on the silver-painted roofs of run-down stores and offices, the downtown college, the federal courthouse, and to the east a small slice of Biscayne Bay, as much as could be seen from this angle. The partners had a better view, all the way to the Atlantic.
Jimmy Panther pushed lightly on the bottom of the metal frame. "Doesn't open."
Gail said, "Mr. Panther. You wanted to see me about Renee?"
"You can call me Jimmy, okay? First, I'm sorry about what happened. I liked Renee. We got to be good friends. I never thought she'd do something like that. I'm glad it was me that found her, though, not a stranger."
Gail had to let this sink in.
"You
found her?"
"I run an airboat off the Trail. I went out early that day with some tourists." He let a second or two go by, as if wondering how much more Gail might want to know. Then he said, ' 'Renee liked the boat. I took her out a few times, down around Shark Valley."
"I see."
He nodded. ''We met at the Museum. I did lectures on Indian life. She supervised the kids' tours. She was good with the kids."
"Renee?"
"Yeah. We talked a lot about history. She was really into it. I guess because your family has been here a while." He smiled again, his black eyes pushed into slits. "I had to tell her, my family was here longer."
There was a soft knock on the door, then Miriam came in with a styrofoam cup. She set it down on a napkin, along with a blue packet and a stir stick.
"Thanks a lot," he said.
Behind his back, Miriam raised her eyebrows at Gail before she pulled the door closed.
Jimmy Panther poured the sweetener in, then dropped the corner he had torn off inside the little bag, and folded it neatly. His hands were heavy with calluses and nicked with scars.
Gail rocked back and forth in her chair.
"Anyway," he said. "Why I'm here. I called your mother yesterday and she said I should talk to you."
"Mr. Panther. Before you even ask. If this is about a contribution in Renee's name—"
"No." He looked surprised. "No, it's not. Renee had something of mine and I need to get it back."
"Oh?"
"I lent Renee this mask my grandmother made." "A mask?"
"Right. Made out of clay."
"By the same grandmother who made the beads?"
"Yes. She had a kiln outside in the chickee. Used to make ashtrays and ceramic alligators and stuff for the tourists." Jimmy paused, then said, "Renee liked the mask, so I let her borrow it. It's in the shape of a deer head." He spread his hands about eight inches apart. "About so tall. Reddish color. It has lines carved around the eyes, big ears. You might have seen it at her apartment."
Renee had owned a condominium in Coconut Grove on a shady street where the buildings were half hidden behind oaks and banyan trees. Gail had been there only once, to find something for Renee to wear in her casket.
"No," Gail said. "I don't remember anything like that. But I could have missed it."
"Your mother said you hadn't cleared Renee's things out yet. I could meet you over there." He blew across the surface of the tea, then took a swallow.
"Well, I doubt that I'll be going again personally," Gail said. "Forgive me for asking, but do you have some proof it's yours?"
"Only what I tell you." Jimmy Panther's eyes showed no readable emotion. He said, "My grandmother is dead now, and I don't have much of hers left."
Gail continued to look at him.
Panther said, "Irene told me she didn't mind if I looked around, but I should talk to you first."
"She said that?"
"Yes." He smiled. "I told her it's like a piece of the old woman's spirit is wandering, and needs to come back home. And anyway, Renee promised to bring the mask back to me last week. Then this happened." He drank his tea.
Gail pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, glancing away to hide her annoyance. She had no reason not to give Jimmy Panther the deer mask. Maybe his grandmother had made it.
"Why did you lend it to Renee?"
"She thought Indian masks might go good in the shops in the Grove, so she took it around to a few places, like a sample. We don't have many ways to make money, except with our hands." Jimmy Panther paused. "I'm telling you this in confidence. I don't want the idea to get out."
"I won't tell a soul, trust me." After a moment, Gail nodded. "All right. As far as I know, my mother is going over to Renee's condo next weekend. I might go along, I'm not sure. Either way, we'll look for the mask."
"I appreciate it."
"Please do one thing, though. Call me if you have any further questions. My mother shouldn't be disturbed."
He put his empty cup on the window ledge, then pulled a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket and gave it to her. "You can leave a message at this number. It's the gift shop where I park the boat."
Gail walked Jimmy Panther to the corridor, and Miriam took him back to the lobby.
The Indians had a few tourist shops along the two-lane highway, but Gail didn't know what they did to earn a living. She had seen the trailers and shabby concrete block houses on the Tarmami Trail—U.S. 41—near the Miccosukee Reservation. Further east, toward the city, at the intersection of Krome Avenue, in the middle of a flat nowhere, the tribe had leased out some land for a bingo hall, a building as big as a football field. Gail had been there out of curiosity. It was managed by people with Italian names, and the staff wore black vests and ruffled shirts. Not an Indian in sight, except the occasional one at a bingo table, marking the numbers off just like the tourists or the older people bussed in from their retirement communities.
The idea of Renee on an airboat, or hobnobbing with a Miccosukee Indian, was incredible.
Gail sat down again with her cassette recorder and a stack of correspondence to answer. She had almost finished when the intercom buzzed. She marked her place and picked up the phone.
"Yes, Miriam."
"Anthony Quintana said you called him?"
"Indeed I did." Gail lifted papers to find the motion for recusal. "By the way, if you've got the Darden file out there, bring it in, will you?"
Before lunch—before Jack Warner looked at her over his prime rib and Caesar salad—this had to be straightened out. Gail hit the button and leaned back in her chair. "Mr. Quintana. Guess what I found on my desk this morning."