"Rusty Beck," said Anthony.
"SÃ, es seguro."
"That's horrible," Gail said. "Beyond horrible. A family murdered for ten acres of land. Do you think they were buried near their house?" She turned her head to hear his answer.
"Maybe. It's too late now to find them. The shopping center at River Pines was built there."
A sharp laugh hissed through Anthony's teeth.
Hector murmured more softly,
"Van a pagar."
They will pay.
Gail pretended not to have understood. Revenge produced only more violence, but in her current mood, to utter such an opinion would have been the height of hypocrisy.
At a small park on the ocean Anthony turned right, and the narrow road took them through a golf course, deserted so late in the day. Gail turned on the map light. Jupiter Island was a long and narrow strip of land that extended south to Palm Beach County. Dense foliage obscured any view of the water. There were no side roads, only driveways. Small signs of a common design contained a last name or sometimes only a three-digit number. A few indicated the service entrance. Some of the houses came into view, but most were hidden behind gates or the curve of a driveway. There was very little traffic.
McGrath had said he lived on the intracoastal side. Gail had expected another immense set of gates but saw only the name and an opening in a hedge of bougainvillea. The initial impression was misleading. The brick-paved driveway led between a double row of royal palms, then to a house that resembled an Italian villa, whose mahogany-framed windows gave glimpses of beamed ceilings, chandeliers, and a curving staircase. A dozen other cars had found places along the circular drive. As Anthony put on his jacket and straightened his cuffs, he stared at the house, and Gail thought he might be sharing her fantasy: a smoldering heap of rubble.
She checked her lipstick in her compact. "Okay, let's go"
Hector, in his dark business suit, trailed a few paces behind, up the wide steps and across a patio tiled in antique terra-cotta. Anthony pressed a buzzer. The door opened almost immediately, and a woman with a French accent took them through the entrance hall, across an indoor courtyard with a fountain and statuary, then up some stone stairs flanked by carved columns. Voices came from below them: a party. The woman tapped at a door, then opened it and stood aside to let them enter.
The room was obviously McGrath's private lair, overdone with dark paneling and red leather. The floor was parquet, the fireplace stone, and horned animal heads decorated the walls.
Whitney McGrath himself, in tux and black tie, his hair boyishly mussed, rose to his six-foot-plus height from the embrace of a brass-studded leather chair. "Hey, come on in. No trouble finding the place, I hope."
There were handshakes, introductions. Hector, introduced only as "an associate of ours," nodded and remained several paces away. McGrath didn't ask what this odd little man was doing here; perhaps he knew. Drinks were offered and declined.
"What an impressive house," Gail said.
"Taylor gets the creditâmy wife. She's a terrific decorator. We've been here sixteen years, ever since we got married." McGrath explained about the dinner party downstairs. Some friends visiting from New York. Others sailing back north. Couldn't spend too much time away from his guests. An hour, and then Tay would send out the search party.
The muscles along Gail's spine felt like twisted ropes.
McGrath's brow furrowed nicely. "First let me offer my most humble, most sincere apologies. Ms. Connor, I am sorry. Mr. Quintana. I talked to Rusty Beck, who gave you that little scare. He's very sorry. So am I. How much was your jacket? How much? Seriously."
Anthony insisted that it didn't matter. He had others; it wasn't that much. Gail knew how much: the suit had cost over a thousand dollars, useless without the jacket. She hadn't expected Anthony to accept compensation: McGrath's money was toxic.
"Rusty Beck is a friend?" Anthony made a polite smile.
"Yeah, I've known him, jeez, probably twenty-five years. We were in high school together. He takes a sort of vicarious interest in my property, I guess you could say. That's no excuse for what happened, though."
Hector Mesa's black-framed glasses tilted toward the bristled head of a boar mounted on wood over an ornately carved cabinet. Long, yellowing tusks lifted its snout.
McGrath noticed Hector's interest and grinned. "Ugly beast, isn't it? I got it near Pahokee when I was a kid. In fact, Rusty and I were out target shooting, and this baby came charging out of the woods. It headed for Rusty, and I had to kill it."
Hector walked closer to inspect it. "What did you use? A shotgun?" He reached up to touch the bristles on the animal's left cheek.
"I know, bad choice of weapon, but it was all I had." McGrath opened the cabinet, which lit up when the double doors swung back. The red velour interior shone with the barrels and gleaming wood of a dozen or more large guns.
Gail glanced at Anthony, who shrugged slightly. McGrath showing off his toys. He rummaged through a drawer at the bottom. "Oh, here it is. A Remington auto. I got off one good shot, and that stopped him, then I let him have a couple more. That's why his face is messed up. Most people don't notice that."
"You were lucky to have a five-shot magazine." Hector raised the gun easily, planted it against his shoulder, and sighted down the barrel.
"This one you'd like better." McGrath pointed to another gun standing upright in the cabinet. "It's an Arrieta side-by-side. I picked it up in Spain. Or this. A Piotti, sixteen-gauge, Italian. I had it custom-made."
"Beautiful." Hector murmured something about automatic ejectors and slid his fingers along the satiny, burled wood stock.
Gail wandered to the open French doors, and Anthony followed. Beyond was a balcony, a view of the intracoastal and the mainland a couple of hundred yards away. Landscaping lights illuminated a pool, a dock, a fifty-foot sailboat. The sky had darkened.
His arm pressed against hers, and she felt the warmth of it. Her hands were icy. Softly he said, "Do you want me to talk to him?"
"I think I'm okay." She took a breath. "But if I start screaming, take over."
His lips formed a little kiss. Then he turned to say, "Mr. McGrath, we don't want to keep you from your guests."
Leaving Hector Mesa to continue gazing at the guns, McGrath brought his drink across the room. They sat in three red leather chairs facing the balcony, Gail in the center. A slab of marble rested on the tops of three Doric columns, probably hauled in from Greece.
McGrath put his elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. Onyx studs marched down his pleated shirt. "I think you're like me, you don't like to waste time, so I'm going to get right to the point. You're in Martin County to appeal a conviction in a capital murder case. Kenneth Ray Clark. He murdered an employee of mine twelve years ago, and you say he didn't do it. I happen to disagree with you, but never mind that. I believe that your strategy is to create doubt, and that means creating a doubt about somebody else. I believe you've decided to throw suspicion on me. It isn't fair, and it isn't right. I had nothing to do with Amber Dodson's death. Nothing."
McGrath let out a breath and lowered his eyes. "I'm going to be honest with you. Amber and I had a fling at one time. I don't know how you found out, but you did. I swear to you, it was over, long over by the time she died."
He picked up a framed photograph. Did he usually keep it there on the table? Gail didn't think so. He held it for a while before turning it around. "This is my family. Tay, Melissa, Billy. I love them very much. In the past, I've done some things I regret, but these three people mean the world to me. My wife and kids. I think about what they'd go through, if people started gossiping and pointing fingers, and let me tell you, it scares hell out of me."
Gail glanced over at Anthony, whose dark eyes were steady, as calm as deep water. Certainty flooded through her as though transmitted by a touch.
"Mr. McGrath, I'm sure you care about your family," Gail said, "but let me guess that you're also worried about the vote in the county commission next month. It's going to be close. A couple of the commissioners are looking for any excuse to vote against Phase Two of River Pines."
He set the framed portrait back on the table and looked at Anthony. "I have a question. Who's in charge? Ms. Connor is the attorney of record. What's the deal here?"
"The deal is, it's her case," Anthony said quietly, "but I filed a notice of appearance this morning as co-counsel."
"Okay." McGrath leaned back in his chair. "You don't like bullshit. I don't either. I asked a lawyer about the odds of winning this case. Not good. You know that. At least you do, Quintana. Ms. Connor here is a civil practice lawyer, but
you.
Come on. You know this case is a loser, no matter what tricks you pull, and that includes trying to make me into a scapegoat. You could get disciplined by the bar, trying shit like that, and I would be forced to sue you for slander. But what do I gain? The publicity will already have killed me. You have me in a bad spot, you see? I'm willing to pay to get out of it."
Anthony's casual posture in the chair was the same, but his interlaced fingers tapped slowly on his chin. "What do we do in exchange?"
McGrath spread his arms. "Forget I exist. Don't mention my name. I didn't kill Amber Dodson. I had nothing to do with it, and if you imply I did, everyone will be hurt. I don't want to come after you. I don't. Let's work something out. I can be generous, as long as you keep it within reason."
Gail had learned Anthony's moods. His anger was often signaled by utter stillness, and he was barely breathing. He looked at her. "What do you think?"
"I think he should keep his money."
"Do you? Yes, so do I."
"Show him the deed," Gail said.
Anthony withdrew a copy of the Mendoza deed from his inside pocket and handed it across the low table to McGrath, who unfolded it.
"On June 28,1988," Gail said, "Ignacio and Celestina Mendoza supposedly sold ten acres to your corporation, JWM. The deed was recorded on July 7. We believe it's a forgery."
McGrath's face had reddened. "What are you talking about? I don't know what this is."
"You needed the property because it sat right in the middle of River Pines, but the Mendozas wouldn't sell. And then they disappeared. There are no traces of them after July 1988, and their family in Guatemala haven't heard from them. Gary Dodson had this deed recorded for you. He was fired from Hadley and Morgan because of it, and the law firm ended its relationship with you, but you continued giving Dodson scraps of legal work. Was it to insure his silence? We believe that Gary told Amber everything. What she learned about the Mendozas made her dangerous to anyone with an interest in River Pines."
"Are you out of your fucking mind?"
Gail's mouth was dry. She wished she had accepted the offer of a drink. "We believe we know who killed Amber Dodson, and so do you. The morning Amber died, the woman across the street saw a man with long hair and a denim jacket going behind Amber's house. A fisherman at a park nearby saw a dark-colored pickup truck with fender damage. Rusty Beck owned a dark blue truck at the time that had been in a minor accident about the same period. Amber was stabbed to death with a hunting knife, and he carried one on his belt. He still does."
The image of Vivian Baker on the floor of the cabin came into her mind, but she had sworn not to mention her name. "Rusty Beck is a violent man. We had wondered if you had sent him to threaten Amber, make her back off. You had bought Gary Dodson's silence by giving him legal work to do. Amber was planning to leave Gary, and she could have been a problem for you. But her word would have been nothing against yours, and besides, you're too smart to have someone murdered in the middle of the day, in her own neighborhood. Rusty Beck isn't that smart or that careful. If it came out that the deed was forged and the Mendozas were dead he had a lot to lose. So do you. The police would assume that you were somehow involved not only in Amber's murder, but the murder of the Mendozas. You have two choices: Give us Rusty Beck or go down with him."
McGrath stood up, looming over her. "You bitch. Get out of my house. All of you." He suddenly focused past Gail's shoulder, and she glanced around to see Hector Mesa standing a short distance away. His hands were loosely clasped at the front of his open jacket. The lamplight reflected off his glasses, obscuring his eyes.
"Let her finish," Anthony said.
The blood in Gail's head pounded against the bone. "We're willing to forget about the Mendozas. We're willing to forget that you benefited from their deaths. What we want from you is a phone call to Governor Ward. He's a friend of yours. He'll talk to you. Tell him that Kenny Clark is innocent. Tell him that you believe Rusty Beck killed her. Say whatever you like. Say that Rusty Beck confessed, or that you've just figured it out. Say you can't live with yourself if you let an innocent . man be put to death. I don't care what you say, as long as the governor issues a stay of execution for as long as it takes to do a proper investigation."
McGrath was breathing as if he had just run up the stairs.
"If you refuse, we will make everything public. Everything. The Mendoza deed, the disappearance of four people, and your connection to Amber Dodson. People will say you ordered Rusty Beck to kill her. The vote in favor of Phase Two will probably be as dead as she is. Think about it, Mr. McGrath." She stood up, and Anthony rose with her. "You don't have to give us an answer now. You know my number. Call before the weekend is out."
A light rain was falling, silvering the windshield. Gail trembled, and her jaw was so tight her teeth chattered. She dropped her forehead into her hands.
As Anthony closed her door and went around, Hector's voice from the backseat said, "That was very good,
señora."
She laughed weakly.
Anthony got in, started the engine, then leaned over and kissed her. "You were beautiful. Let's get out of here." At the road he waited for a car to pass, then pulled out, heading north. "I want a drink. And a steak, very rare."