Suspicion of Deceit (20 page)

"My fan club is here," he said, reaching through to pinch her cheek.

"Is Rebecca still at your house?" Gail asked.

"No, she left a couple of hours ago, not long after you did. She took a cab. I'll get her car back to her tomorrow."

"God, Seth. Does she know what you're doing?"

"Sure. I called her." Seth laughed. "She told me to have a good time. Come on, lady. Smile." He had just shaved and put on cologne. His face glowed.

"Get in," she said. "I need to talk to you."

Seth planted his hands on the open window. "I have to go upstairs."

"You promised you'd talk to me first," she said.

He checked his watch, looked over at the building, then back at Gail. "Okay, give me the short version."

"Listen, Seth. You say you're not representing the opera, but Reyes won't see it that way. I heard your remarks on the radio. People will assume you're a spokesman, even if you deny it."

"I'll make it clear to him—"

"Nobody will believe you. Whatever you say—and what I heard was pretty damned inflammatory—will reflect on the Miami Opera and everyone connected to it."

"All right, it was a little strong." He shrugged. "You watch. I'll be a model of reasoned debate."

"Reyes will goad you into losing your temper."

"Not a chance." Grinning, he said, "I plan to be on the air long enough to point out that his company does business with a big fan of Thomas Nolan."

"It's not exactly a secret."

"Oh, but it's so sweet. I want to hear him explain why he's involved with Lloyd Dixon." When Seth backed away from the window, Gail quickly got out of the car.

"Would you
listen?''
Gail slammed her door. "It doesn't matter what you say to Octavio Reyes, he'll twist it around. Tomorrow morning I have to try to persuade the city manager that we don't have a problem. If you go on the air, I guarantee another concrete block through the door. Or worse. What might happen to Tom Nolan? Or the other cast members, or the employees? Or to you?"

His eyes were closed. "Gail—Gail, please. Somebody has to take a stand. Reyes is using mob tactics to control who can and can't perform or speak out in this city. It's wrong. It's not democratic. They're doing what they say they're against."

"But you're going to make it
worse."

"Everybody is afraid to stand up for what's right. That's the problem—"

"Who are you doing this for, Seth?" Gail was his height, looking straight into his eyes. "It's for Rebecca, isn't it? You want to prove something to Rebecca. This isn't the way to do it! Not by putting her and everyone in the opera in danger."

He looked around at the building. "I have to go. They're expecting me."

She grabbed at his coat and got hold of his cuff. "Screw Reyes. If you don't go on, he'll be embarrassed. He can call you a coward, but you're not. Seth, you're not."

He was wavering.

"Come with me to the city manager's office tomorrow. Say what you have to there, where it might do some good."

As she spoke, Gail noticed an odd flash of light on the dark lapel of his jacket, a small red dot. It moved sideways, brightening for an instant on his white shirt. Seth looked past her toward the parking lot next door. He frowned in puzzlement.

There was a muffled pop. Gail felt the fabric of Seth's sleeve pull from her grasp, and at the same moment the breath whooshed out of his mouth as if he'd been punched. An instant later a star appeared in the windshield. More pops. Seth stumbled and hung onto the side mirror.

The ground shifted and Gail put her hands out to stop her fall. Seth's shirt was turning red. Then his throat seemed to explode, and blood sprayed in the air like mist. His glasses clattered onto the pavement.

Gail heard screams—her own. She rolled underneath the rear of her car. Time seemed to drag out, and she observed her body reacting as if it were a separate being, calculating what had happened and how to get away, dragging her along, no thought to it, only motion and instinct. On hands and knees, crawling into the space between her car and Seth's. Rolling through the hedge, then scrambling to the sidewalk, tripping on the curb. The pavement rushing up to meet her.

Lights in her face. The scream of tires. A door opening.

People running toward her.

"Please help," she gasped. "Someone's been shot."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The paramedics let Gail sit on the back bumper of their truck to tape her left hand and wrist. She leaned numbly against the open door. The knee of her jeans had been ripped on a rebar sticking out of a parking bumper, luckily missing the flesh underneath. Blue and red lights flashed everywhere, moving in regular pulses across the building. A crowd stared from the sidewalk, kept back by crime scene tape and uniformed officers. People had come downstairs from the radio station as well.

A Miami police sergeant had taken Gail's statement, then told her to wait there for the lead homicide detective. From where she sat, Gail could not see past the walkway that divided the parking lot in half. Seth still lay on the other side, next to her car. He had been hit three times. One of the bullets, perhaps the one that had gone through his hand, had angled through the open driver's-side window and hit the windshield.

The security guard at the desk inside the lobby had a view of only the walkway. A passerby across the Street had seen Seth fall. The bullets had come from the tree-shaded darkness of the parking lot next door. No one had seen the shooter.

The paramedic, a young woman in a gray uniform, smoothed some tape over the gauze to hold it. "You can get this cut looked at tomorrow. The wrist is sprained, but I'm pretty sure it's not broken." She smiled at Gail gently, then started putting the equipment away.

"Thank you. Could I have some water?" Gail took the paper cup and swallowed painfully. Her screams had made her voice husky. "What time is it?"

The woman checked her watch. "Nine-forty."

"I have to call home."

She saw out of the corner of her eye a man's gray suit coat and turned her head. Octavio Reyes had separated himself from the knot of people standing in the lobby. She had noticed him over there a while ago and had pretended not to see him.

He bent down a little to look more closely at her. "Ms. Connor—Gail—Are you all right?"

"Bruises and a sprained wrist. Otherwise, yes."

"This is terrible. A terrible thing. I don't know who could have done this."

"Oh, you don't."

Blue and red lights flashed in his glasses. "I assure you, it wasn't an exile act. It couldn't have been."

"Who, then?" she demanded. "A provocateur from Havana?"

He made no answer to that, only turned and signaled to one of the people behind him. A woman hurried over. Reyes asked Gail if she wanted anything. Coffee, a soda? Maybe she would like to clean up in the ladies' room, to have help to wash her face and hands—

"I need to call home ... my daughter." She coughed and swallowed. Her phone was still in her car, along with her purse and keys.

Octavio Reyes was in the middle of telling the woman to bring a telephone when he stopped and focused on someone sprinting toward them.

"Gail!"

Anthony was there. His eyes were wide, his face pale. His hands slowly went out, touching her face, then taking her upper arms. Gail stood up and leaned against him, felt him shaking.

"I'm okay," she said. "I wasn't hurt."

With one arm around Gail, Anthony turned his back on his brother-in-law. "I spoke to the police, and they let me through. Did you make a statement? Can you leave?" Despite the tension in his body, his voice was calm and steady.

"I spoke to a sergeant. He said to wait for the homicide detective."

Anthony looked around. "Let me see what I can do."

It took him five minutes. He knew the lead detective and arranged for Gail to speak to them tomorrow. He retrieved her purse and her house keys. The police would return her car keys later, as the technicians had not finished with the crime scene.

Anthony told her to wait with the police until she saw his car come to the curb. Two minutes later he was there, flashers on. He opened the passenger door, put her inside, then went around. Gail noticed his pistol on the seat between them, out of its holster. He checked the rearview mirror, then accelerated. Gail felt herself being pressed back into soft leather. She let her head fall against the headrest.

"Thank you."

He reached for her hand. She pulled her left one away and he took the other. He raised it briefly to his lips, then held it on her thigh. He must have come from home, she thought. He was dressed for home— soft khaki pants and an old cashmere sweater without a shirt underneath. Slip-on shoes but no socks. Not the sort of thing he would ever wear in public.

A few blocks away from the area, he looked in the mirror again before pulling into a well-lighted lot in front of a supermarket. He cut the engine and took her in his arms. He murmured words in Spanish that she didn't understand, then pulled back far enough to look at her closely, to kiss her, to touch her face again, and the bandage on her injured hand.

At the scene he had been calm. Now the relief took over. "You're all right. You're certain?"

Gail nodded. "I'm so glad you're here. Anthony, how did you know?"

"You left a message with Felix and he called me at home as soon "as he could. He was on a job and couldn't get to his phone right away. He said you were on your way to the radio station, trying to stop Seth Greer from going on the air. I asked him to see about it, but he was too far away, so I came as fast as I could. Then I saw the police lights. Oh, my God, what I thought." He kissed her again, three hard kisses, holding onto her face. The day's stubble around his mouth scratched her skin.

She pushed away a little. "I need to call Karen. She's probably at Molly's house wondering why in the world I haven't shown up."

Anthony dialed the number on his car phone, and Gail explained to Molly's mother that she'd been involved in an accident, but she was all right. They would pick up Karen on the way home.

When she hung up, Anthony turned to face her. "They said he got away, whoever it was. They don't have any witnesses. They found some cartridge casings beside the building next door."

"How many? I remember hearing pops. I don't know how many shots there were. They asked me and I couldn't tell them." Her laugh came out as a sigh. "Before you get into a situation like this, you think you'll be a good witness, but right now I can hardly remember anything."

"There were five shots fired.
Five.
The police think someone was waiting for him."

"Waiting?"

"That's what they told me." Anthony stared at her disbelievingly. "Why did you go after him? It didn't occur to you that he could be a target?"

"No. He hadn't been on the air yet. I was going to talk him out of it."

"But he had been announced. People knew he was coming to the station. Seth Greer from the Miami Opera is going to appear to debate Octavio Reyes. Maybe he wasn't the only target. You're the lawyer for the opera." Anthony's voice was rising. "Maybe one of those bullets was for you, Gail."

She closed her eyes, feeling suddenly sick.

"You remember what we were talking about? That you never think first?"

Her eyes burned. She sobbed and the pain already in her throat made it worse.

"Ay, Diós mio."
Anthony reached for her, stroked her head. "Sweetheart, don't cry. I'm sorry. I was so afraid for you."

When Karen had gone to bed, Anthony taped a plastic bag around Gail's injured hand so she could take a shower. He helped her undress, and Gail got a look at herself in the bathroom mirror. Her face was all right, but bruises darkened her skin in odd places, as if she had rolled down a rocky hillside. Anthony pointed them out. Embarrassed, she told him to please leave her alone. Go fix her a double brandy and find the pain reliever in the kitchen, if he wanted to be helpful.

She came out in a robe and found Anthony sitting on a stool at the counter. She rested her head on his for a moment, a mute apology. He slid a brandy glass and a couple of pills toward her and patted her back.

"I should call Rebecca. It's almost eleven o'clock. Maybe she knows already, but if not, I don't want her to hear about it on the news." Gail downed half the brandy, then coughed slightly and pressed her fingers to the notch in her collarbone, breathing out through an open mouth.

"Rebecca was at Seth's house tonight. I went by there around six o'clock to pick up some legal papers—which he didn't have ready for me—and she was there. Barefoot and drunk. I didn't mention this to the police. I'd rather not. She consulted me about a divorce."

"They were having an affair," Anthony concluded.

"That's a reasonable assumption." Gail stopped the brandy on its way to her lips. "Oh, no. Rebecca left her car in Seth's driveway. He told me she took a cab home."

"Then the police will find her car where she left it," Anthony said. "What they think about it—or what her husband thinks—is another matter. You don't have any control over that."

The telephone hung on the wall by the counter. Gail looked at it. "I don't know what to say to her." She finished her brandy, poured herself some more, and sipped it while finding Rebecca's number in her address book. She dialed. Waited. The voice on the other end of the line startled her. Gail had expected Rebecca or at least the housekeeper. It was Lloyd Dixon.

When he boomed out hello for the second time, Gail looked at Anthony, then said, "Lloyd, this is Gail Connor. I'm sorry to be calling so late. I have some bad news. Seth Greer was killed tonight, shot outside the studios of WRCL. Is Rebecca in? ... They don't know who did it. ... I really don't have many details, Lloyd. Could I talk to Rebecca? ... I see. Will you tell her? ... Good night."

Gail hung up. "Rebecca was asleep. Lloyd was there."

"Where else would he be?"

"In Cuba. Rebecca told me that he was in Cuba."

"Why?"

"I don't know." Gail took another sip of brandy and found that her hand was shaking. She laughed and her voice shook, too. "Seth and Rebecca and I had some pretty interesting conversations tonight."