Suspicion of Deceit (21 page)

"What about?"

She shook her head. "I don't want to talk about it now." She stared at the telephone. "I should call my mother. If I don't, she'll never speak to me again. Then I want to go to sleep. Can you wait for me in my room?"

She found Anthony watching the news. He was fully dressed on top of the comforter, legs crossed at the ankles. His shoes were by the bed. When Gail came in, he aimed the remote and the TV went dark.

"Did they mention me?" she asked.

"No." He swung his feet to the floor and sat with his hands loosely clasped, looking up at her. His eyes were dark and shadowed. "Do you want me to stay?"

Gail set her refilled brandy glass on the nightstand. It caught the edge of the clock radio and nearly overturned. "Of course I want you to stay." She dropped her robe on the floor and got into bed in her nightgown. Careful not to jostle her left hand, she moved over to make room for him on her right. She lay flat and closed her eyes.

"My mother wanted to know every last damned detail. She cried. She was going to come over, but I told her you were here. Yes, Mother, I'm fine. Anthony, hand me my drink, would you?"

"No, you've had enough."

She looked up at him, but he was opening her door. "I'll be right back." Then she heard Karen's door close softly down the hall. When he returned, he closed her door and turned the lock, then turned off the reading lamp on the nightstand. Dots of color swam in the darkness, then faded.

Moonlight shone faintly through the curtains. Anthony pulled his sweater over his head. Then there was the sound of a zipper, the shifting of cloth. He laid his clothes on the armchair.

Cool air when he lifted the blankets, then the heat of his body. She turned on her side away from him. He curled around her back, only her thin cotton nightgown between them. His hand slid down her stomach, pressed for a moment between her legs, then went under her gown.

"Anthony, I can't."

He turned her over.

"I can't. I'm so numb."

His warm breath in her ear was so soft she barely heard him. His lips moved on her skin. Speaking Spanish. The words he said to her sometimes. She had never asked—had never wanted—to know what they meant.

She wept soundlessly. He kissed the corners of her eyes—gently, not to scratch her skin. When he kissed her mouth she tasted salt on his tongue.

He knew how to touch her, taking his time. As if from the depths of a lake she rose slowly to the surface into a burst of heat and light that swept away everything else. She knew that this was what she needed from him—what he was now. Here and now. Whatever had happened before didn't matter.

Several times through the night she heard the sound of gunfire. Saw Seth hanging on, trying to stay upright, blood exploding from his throat, the clatter of his glasses hitting the pavement, Then the deeper thud of his body—

Whenever her eyes flew open and she woke up trembling, Anthony's arms tightened around her.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Eleven a.m. found Gail at her desk. Her body ached, but staying home would have been worse. She had sent Karen off on the school bus with a hug, then had let Anthony drive her to a car rental agency. At some point her Buick would be towed to a body shop for repair—or possibly sold. Gail did not think she could bear to see it again.

Her first task was to phone the city manager's office to postpone the meeting until tomorrow. Before she dared to argue the unlikelihood of protesters on opening night of
Don Giovanni,
Gail wanted to know who might have murdered Seth Greer. The police would show up in the early afternoon to talk to her. She would ask them for an opinion. Had this been an act of political terrorism? Or were they following some other lead?

She knew what was being said in the media. She had turned on the television at home while getting dressed. The story had been briefly mentioned on NBC as "possibly related to Cuban exile violence, which has tapered off in recent years." Local stations covered it more extensively. Gail saw her own car, then nipped the channel before they zoomed in on the pool of blood and the tarp covering the body. She scanned the newspaper over coffee and toast.
OPERA SPOKESMAN
KILLED OUTSIDE EXILE RADIO STAION.
Subhead:
CUBAN COMMUNITY DISMAYED
: In the body of the article, a quote:
WRCL commentator Octavio Reyes said, "This act of barbarity was not perpetrated by any of us. We should look to Havana for answers. "

Her name had been mentioned.
Miami Opera attorney Gail A. Connor, 34, was talking to Greer outside the station when the shooting took place. According to police, Connor was attempting to dissuade Greer from appearing on the air.
A
related story detailed other incidents in the past few years having to do with exile protests against musicians who had appeared in Cuba before coming to perform in Miami.

Anthony had barely glanced at the newspaper. He had held his coffee mug and stared grimly out the kitchen window, his face a mask of fatigue and frustration. The assumptions had already been made: The exiles had done this. Whether an organized group or one lunatic inspired by twisted notions of patriotism, the Miami Cubans were at it again.

Other motives would be proposed. The talk stations, both English and Spanish, would crackle with rumors: As a CPA, Seth Greer had been laundering money for the mob. He'd been killed by drug dealers, loan sharks, a jealous husband, a gay lover, a client. But always the talk would come back to the exiles.

When Gail arrived at her office, Miriam handed her a stack of new messages from the media, none of which Gail planned to return, and another stack from friends, which she might get to later. There were a few others from clients or fellow lawyers—ordinary matters related to their cases, which Gail gratefully set about dealing with. "If anyone outside of my mother, Karen, Anthony, or God Almighty asks for me," she had told Miriam, "I am
not here."

Sometimes between phone calls, Seth Greer's face would appear in her mind—the curly gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses, and the eyes that had suddenly lit up with such fire. She tried to keep that image. That, and not the other—the bloody horror of his death.

Gail looked up from a file when Miriam came in with a cardboard banker's box, her thin arms extended by the weight. Swinging it back for a good start, she heaved it onto the desk. Her corkscrew hair bounced on her shoulders.

"My God, what's that? More phone messages?"

"You don't remember? You wanted me to research exile terrorism. There's also stuff on Cuba—history, politics, involvement in other revolutions—"

"So much?" Gail came around to peer into the box.

Miriam lifted out a dozen library books and a foot-high stack of photocopies from magazines and newspapers. "Well, a lot of it is redundant," she explained. "You know, like, two or three articles on the same topic? Oh, Gail." Miriam's eyes glimmered with tears. "Why do people do this? You were almost killed. My mother was crying on the phone this morning. She said Papi is so angry, and she feels so . . .
ashamed.
Whoever did this, I pray to God he was American. Is that a horrible thing to wish for?"

Gail put an arm around her. "Yes, but I understand." Miriam, who had been born here, had never before talked about
us
and
them.
Gail was at a loss, not knowing what to say.

The phone rang in the outer office; Gail had turned off her ringer. Miriam snatched up the extension on her desk. In one quick breath—she must have said it fifty times this morning—Miriam said, "Law offices of Gail Connor, may I help you? .. . I'm sorry, she's not in . . . Well, she still isn't in—" Miriam glared at the receiver, then hung up.
"That
was rude. Rebecca Dixon said she knows you're here, and she wants to talk to you. She's on her way."

Hidden behind her gold-trimmed tortoiseshell sunglasses, Rebecca walked slowly alongside Gail toward her office at the end of the hall. Her voice was low and calm, not a tremor. "The funeral will be on Thursday. All of us from the opera will be there. The other major cultural organizations will be represented, too. You'll come, won't you?"

"Of course I will." Gail closed the door. "How are you, Rebecca? I called last night. Lloyd said you were asleep."

"He woke me up to tell me. I couldn't believe it. Poor, poor Seth. Poor, brave, foolish man."

"Please. Sit down." Gail gestured toward the loveseat.

Rebecca seemed to float across the room. She turned and sat in one smooth motion, tucking the hem of her short black shirt under her thighs, a rustle of fabric, a whisper of sheer black hose as one leg slid over the other. Her jewelry was simple today, only a circle of gold at her neck, matching gold earrings, a lizard-strap Cartier tank watch, and her wedding band, but not the flashy diamond that went with it. She pressed a tissue to the outer corners of her eyes without removing her sunglasses.

Gail sat beside her. "I'm so sorry, Rebecca. You've lost a wonderful friend."

"I know. He called me last night to see if I'd made it home okay. He told me what he wanted to do. Just before he hung up he said, 'Becky, I love you.' He'd never said it like that before. I couldn't say anything. Lloyd was home. I just said . . . 'Bye, Seth.' And he'll never know ... that I loved him, too."

"Lloyd was home? You told me he was in Cuba."

"He was. He came home."

"Does he know about you and Seth?"

She lifted one hand and dropped it on Gail's arm. "You know, the oddest thing happened this morning. Juanita brought me my breakfast, and opened the curtains, and the sunlight just poured into the room. My bedroom is white and yellow, so the light was intense. I put on my robe and walked out on the patio with my juice, and the colors were so amazing, with the sun just coming up, and pink clouds way out over the ocean. I saw a seagull flying past—just one—and I knew, all of a sudden, that Seth was free. Not only Seth, both of us. We were so trapped in the past. He was a very sad man, Gail. You don't know. But then, to leave the world when he did, in a moment of hope. When he called me he sounded ... so happy."

Her mouth trembled, and she pressed the handkerchief to her eyes again.

Gail stared at her, trying to decide how she felt. Sympathetic, bewildered, or horrified? As for Rebecca— the woman was undeniably, without a doubt, medicated.

"Oh!" Rebecca lightly touched Gail's left wrist. "You're injured. Is it from last night?"

"It's nothing—a cut and a slightly sprained wrist."

"That's awful. You were there. Oh, Gail. I hope they catch this person and give him the electric chair." Rebecca finally took off her sunglasses and folded them in slow motion. "Have you talked to the police yet?"

"Just a brief statement at the scene. They're coming this afternoon."

"They were at my door at nine-thirty this morning. Security didn't even alert me. Lloyd had just left, thank heaven. They said they found my car at Seth's."

"What did you tell Lloyd?"

"That it wouldn't start," Rebecca said. "That's what I told the police, too. And I told them that I was at Seth's house for a meeting about opera business, and that you were there."

Gail said, "That's . . . not entirely accurate."

"Well, it isn't a
lie.
We had a meeting. Seth and I discussed the opera. And you came by for some papers. All true." Rebecca's eyes drifted up to Gail's. "I don't want people to think we were having an
affair."

"Weren't you?"

"No. Not . . . whoopee and good times. We hardly ever had sex. We were friends. Basically, that's what we had. I went to Seth for companionship and comfort."

"Hhhmmmm," was the only response Gail trusted herself to make. She doubted that Seth Greer had understood the nature of his relationship with Rebecca. Smoothing the elastic bandage on her wrist, Gail asked, "Did you tell Lloyd that Seth was going on WRCL?"

"Yes. I told him. He wanted to know why Seth had called." "What time did Seth call?"

"I'd just walked in the door. The police asked me that. It was about seven-thirty."

"And what time did you go to bed?"

The only irritation allowed by whatever chemical might be floating through her bloodstream was the appearance of two small creases between Rebecca's artfully penciled brows. "I know what you're thinking. Lloyd never left the house. Seth was murdered by a Cuban exile."

"You're sure about that."

"Yes. Who else? You don't want to believe it because you're engaged to Anthony Quintana. Yes, yes, yes," Rebecca said when Gail began to object. "You want to believe it's anybody but a Cuban. But they did it." She clasped her hands under her chin as if in prayer. "You know, I just thought of something. Seth died for us. He was a martyr. That's so like Seth."

"I doubt that's what he intended." Gail dropped her forehead into her palm. "Seth said he was going to go on the air and tell everyone that Reyes was one of Lloyd's customers. Is there anything else, Rebecca? You're sure they don't know each other?"

"They don't. They're business acquaintances." Rebecca let her head fall back, and her hair swung away from her face. "Oh. I also told the police that I met Seth through the opera. I would appreciate it if you didn't contradict me. Why bring it up. Right?"

"Bring what up? Nicaragua?"

The brown eyes turned to Gail. "Reporters like to poke around in your past, especially if you've got money or status. If they find out that Seth and I were members of socialist organizations in college—I can't believe I ever did that. And Anthony—he was a Marxist head to toe. How would that look for any of us, Gail? Not good. And not good for the opera in the present situation. You have to agree."

Too agitated to sit any longer, Gail got up and paced across her office. She noticed the box of material about political terrorism on her desk and came back a few steps. "Nobody's going to ask about Nicaragua. Why should they?"

"But if they do, they might ask about the girl who went with us. Her aunt might be alive. What if she contacts an investigative reporter? Oh, my little Emily went to Nicaragua with that woman, and she never came back. Then the reporter asks me, and I say, oh, she fell in love with one of the men in the village, and we couldn't talk her into coming with us." Rebecca smiled. "I used to dream about her when it rained. She would be at my window tapping on the glass. You know. Lightning flashes, and you can see her face sort of rotted away, and her hair hanging in her eyes. Oooooo. Why did you leave me?" Rebecca laughed, but her placid mannequin's expression did not change. "Silly dreams. Gail, please. As a friend, don't say how Seth and I knew each other."