Suspicion of Deceit (35 page)

"Where's Karen?" Gail whispered.

"With Molly's family. She's waiting for you to call her. Are you in pain, darling?"

Gail nodded. "Everything hurts. My ears feel like I'm underwater." Then she remembered the flash, the hideous noise. "Rebecca's dead, isn't she? And Tom."

"She's gone. Tom's going to be all right. The security guard found you in time." Irene grabbed for a tissue. "Oh, I'm getting weepy again."

In the chair Anthony shifted, getting comfortable. His eyes opened, then focused on Gail. He pushed himself out of the chair. "How long has she been awake?"

"Just now," Irene said.

Gail tried to smile. "Yay. I'm alive." She held up her arms and grimaced at the pain of being embraced, but held on tightly.

The nurse had told them to notify her when Gail woke up. She came in and went through the routine of blood pressure and temperature check, then gave her a couple of high-octane Tylenols. It would be up to the doctor when Gail could leave, she said, and he would come by shortly. Other than some bruises and minor burns, she was all right.

Anthony helped Gail stand up, and her stomach heaved. Irene got behind her and held her gown closed. In the bathroom she told them both to leave, please. She took a look in the mirror, squinting. "Oh, Jesus." The flash of heat had crinkled her hair and eyebrows, her eyelashes were stumps. Her nose and cheeks looked like she had stayed out in the sun too long.

When the toilet finished flushing, she cracked open the door. "Mom, where's my purse?"

Irene brought it—the paramedics had given it to the hospital staff, who had put it in Gail's room. Looking for her brush, Gail found four small-size mailing envelopes. She had to concentrate to remember what they were. Tensing against the pain, she brushed her teeth and did what she could with lipstick and powder. Out of breath, she leaned against the sink and called for Anthony.

Once she was in bed again, Anthony told her what he knew about the bombing, most of which he had read in the paper at five o'clock this morning or watched on television. A pipe bomb had been placed along an inner wall of the lobby, probably under a small table between two chairs. Rebecca Dixon had been sitting in one of them. The blast killed her instantly and destroyed the lobby and boardroom. Standing in the corridor, Gail had escaped the major force of the explosion. Thomas Nolan had gone to the next room to make a phone call and was likewise protected. He and Gail had been rushed to Jackson Memorial.

All the national networks had shown footage of shattered glass doors, overturned furniture, and blackened ceiling and walls. Everyone interviewed in Miami, from whatever group, expressed disbelief and outrage. There were no suspects. No one had claimed responsibility. Even so, CNN had made the usual assumption:
In Miami last night, opera star Thomas Nolan, recently criticized by the Cuban exile community for a performance in Havana two years ago, was injured in what police say could have been a terrorist bomb attack—

The telephone in Gail's room rang, and Irene picked it up. "No, Ms. Connor is not available. . . . Yes, she is going to be fine.... This is her mother.... No, I don't think that's possible." Hanging up, Irene said, "That was a reporter for Channel Seven."

"I don't want to see
anyone,"
Gail said.

The doctor came in, a small dark man named Mohammad Patel, one of the staff residents at Jackson, and had Gail sit up so he could put a stethoscope on her back and hear her breathe. She had been lucky as hell, he said. Any closer to the lobby, they would be picking shrapnel out of her skull. He wrote in the chart. "I'm going to come by again about two o'clock. You can probably go after that."

Gail asked about Thomas Nolan.

"He's getting out, too." The doctor put away his pen, "Damned bad luck for a singer. The smoke got to his lungs. He sounds like a frog. Take care of yourself, Ms. Connor. By the way, the police want to talk to you. I think they're on their way."

Then Irene called the Perlmutter house and handed Gail the telephone so she could speak to Karen. Molly's mother had let her stay out of school today. Karen demanded to be brought to the hospital, but Gail promised her she was all right. She would be home this afternoon, and Karen could be her nurse.

Gail managed to eat half a blueberry muffin before feeling sick again and letting her head fall to the pillow. Irene left to bring back some clothes Gail could wear home. Her own smelled of smoke and something else that Gail couldn't place. Cordite, Anthony said. Gunpowder.

The telephone rang. Another reporter. Anthony said no. After the third inquiry, he unplugged the line.

He closed the door. Finally the room was quiet. He stood by her bed. They looked at each other without speaking. Too much had to be said.

She touched his arm. He wore a business shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He might have had it on since yesterday morning, she thought. He was rarely this rumpled. She looked up at him and his image wavered. "Anthony, I'm so sorry." The tears spilled over, hot on her burned skin. "I shouldn't have pushed you to tell me about Nicaragua. Not after what happened at your grandfather's house. How thoughtless—"

"No." He leaned over her. The light from the window dimmed, and she could feel the warmth of his body. "Don't blame yourself. I went crazy." He kissed her, and his lips trembled. "When I saw you here, lying so still—If you had died—And the last thing you believed was that I didn't love you—"

She put an arm around his neck and pulled him closer. How familiar and compelling, the textures and weight, his taste and his scent. His kisses were soft and quenching as rain.

She knew that the hands that touched her so gently might have ended a young woman's life. Might have. Rebecca could have been mistaken. Or lying. And Felix Castillo had confessed.

With Anthony lifting her close to him, and his tears on her neck, Gail was aware that her mind was simultaneously erasing possibilities of his guilt and rationalizing his reasons for pulling the trigger, if he was guilty. An odd sensation, like watching footprints obliterated by a wave sheeting across the sand. She observed, unable to stop. She wanted only to feel his arms around her. To hear him say he loved her.
Te quiero, te amo, no puedo vivir sin ti.
He could not live without her. She held his face, kissed his mouth, and finally, weak from even this exertion, had to he down again.

As he poured her some water from the plastic pitcher on the bedside table, she said, "Anthony, I need to talk to you before the police get here. Did Felix tell you about Saturday night?"

"He told me he saw you on Fisher Island in a disguise, playing detective, taking pictures of Octavio." Anthony put a straw in the cup. "Very foolish,
bonboncita."

"Did he give you the film he stole from me?"

"No. What do you mean, 'stole'?"

"Rebecca was on her terrace taking photos of your brother-in-law with Lloyd Dixon and his guests. Tom Nolan was there, too. She threw the film down to me. Felix was watching. He distracted me, then stole it out of my bag. Where is he? I've left messages."

"I don't know." Anthony was puzzled. "Why was Tom Nolan there?"

"He was hired to sing, and Octavio didn't know he was coming. Lloyd Dixon's idea of a joke. Did Felix tell you what we talked about?"

Anthony sat on the edge of the bed with one foot on the floor. "Cuba, you mean. Yes. I have to tell you, Gail, this is very improbable. Lloyd Dixon has been to Cuba. He has to know that the regime is thoroughly entrenched. Fidel is an icon. If Dixon thinks he can get weapons into Cuba and start an uprising, he's out of touch. The people don't want to revolt. They're waiting for Fidel to die, then they want to make some slow changes."

"You told me there's a Cuban underground," Gail said.

"Very small and very underground," he said. "You get the death penalty for that."

"But if they had enough weapons to make a statement? Dixon likes to take risks. If he and his group— Octavio included—could disrupt the tourist industry, changes might come more quickly. One push. A little bit of C-4 at a big hotel."

"Mmmnnn." Anthony took another minute to think about it. "It's impossible to get weapons there in sufficient quantities. There isn't one group that hasn't been infiltrated."

"Dixon isn't Cuban," Gail said, "and his dinner guests aren't your garden-variety militant exiles. Go get my purse." She pointed at the counter next to the sink, then dropped her arm, too tired to hold it up. "Look inside. There are four envelopes. Rebecca gave me those last night."

Anthony slid some folded papers out of one of the envelopes. His eyes moved quickly over the lines. "Memorandum of understanding . . . Octavio Reyes and DSA Corporation . . . ten million dollars?" He stared at the pages.
"Ay, Dios. Octavio, ¿qué haces?"

She took a breath and shifted to ease a pain in her back. "Rebecca saw a divorce lawyer. She copied all Lloyd's financial records, and if there was anything relating to Octavio, she made another copy for me. It's to show that Octavio and Lloyd are planning to do business in Cuba. I was going to use it to embarrass Octavio if he kept causing us problems."

Anthony shuffled through pages and opened more envelopes. "Anything in here about weapons? Sabotage?"

"I don't know. I didn't have time to look."

"My grandfather can't be involved in this. It's impossible." Anthony made a short laugh. "I also said it was impossible that Octavio would be involved with Lloyd Dixon."

"Maybe Octavio didn't tell your grandfather." Gail closed her eyes, wanting to go back to sleep. "If I were Octavio, I'd tell him about overthrowing Castro, but I wouldn't tell him that Dixon was helping. Maybe it's all crap. I'm probably wrong."

There was a knock at the door. The papers were spread out on Gail's lap. Anthony folded them quickly. "If that's the police, I don't want them to hear about this. Let me review these first. If they ask, you went to speak to Rebecca concerning opera business—and you did." Anthony put the pages into the inside pocket of his suit coat, which hung on the back of a chair. "Gail, if by some remote possibility, knowingly or otherwise, my grandfather is financing the purchase of weapons to send to Cuba, he could be prosecuted for conspiracy. It would kill him. I can't allow that to happen." He stood calmly beside the bed, looking down at her with his dark, fathomless eyes. "Please."

The knock came again.

She nodded.

He went to the door. Thomas Nolan was turning away when it opened. He glanced at Anthony, then past him toward the bed where Gail lay. "I came to see how you are." He spoke in a husky whisper.

Gail said to come in, and he limped into the room. There was a bandage around his left forearm. She did the introductions. The men shook hands.

Nolan looked at Gail. He whispered, "Wow. You okay?"

"Bruises and some singed hair. I get paroled this afternoon."

"You were at the office when the bomb went off? Thought you'd gone."

"I came back for some papers I left in the boardroom. I was in the hall. How are you, Tom?"

"Not too bad. Twisted knee and some cuts. My ears are still ringing." He coughed, wincing. "Shit. My throat—" He coughed again. "My throat is trashed."

Gail reached for his hand. "Oh, Tom, your voice."

"Yeah. Bad luck."

Anthony said, "It's not permanent, is it?"

"They say not. Rebecca ... got it worse." He closed his eyes for a second. There was a bruise on his cheekbone. "She was too close. Making notes for the party. I went to make a copy.* The explosion knocked me down. So much smoke. No lights. I couldn't see. I got out through a window." He tensed against another cough. "It's my fault. What I said to the TV reporter. I wanted to tell you . . . I'm sorry."

"It isn't your fault,'
^?
Gail said.

"Should I leave the opera? I don't want to give in to the bastards that did this, but if I'm putting everyone in danger . . . maybe I should go."

"Can you sing?"

"Maybe. We've got two weeks. Did you see Felix last night in the parking lot?"

"Felix? No."

"His van." Nolan shrugged his wide, bony shoulders, which were tilted as if he had a stitch in his side. "Maybe it wasn't his. I beeped him. I thought he finally showed up. Guess not." He squeezed her hand. "Take care. I promise. No more interviews."

"Do you have some help getting home?"

"About a dozen people downstairs. No problem." He nodded to Anthony. "See you."

The police detectives were the same men who had come to her office after Seth Greer's murder. Fernandez and Delgado, the latter being the older cop who had spent twenty-six years on the anti-terrorist task force.

Anthony introduced himself. Both men had heard of him. "Gail and I are engaged," he said, explaining his presence.

"Congratulations."

The detectives remained standing. Anthony took a chair near the foot of the bed. He had hung his jacket on a hanger behind the door.

The bomb, Delgado said, had been made with about a pound of black powder packed into a two-inch pipe, six inches long, with end caps screwed on. Wires came out a small hole, went to an electric match of the type used for model rockets, then to a digital timer and double-A battery. Components available anywhere. Black powder could be purchased without proof of ID in quantities up to five pounds. The bomb had gone off at 7:37 p.m., according to most witnesses.

It seemed unlikely that anyone in particular had been targeted. Thomas Nolan and Rebecca Dixon had been there by chance, and the board meeting had been called just hours before. At Nolan's press conference, dozens of people had wandered around. Anyone could have planted a small box under the table, half-hidden by an armchair. Staff members who locked up around six o'clock didn't see anything unusual, but they hadn't been looking for anything.

Detective Fernandez asked Gail what she remembered.

She felt Anthony's eyes on her. She spoke slowly, fatigue dragging on her words. "I arrived about seven-fifteen. Tom went to see the conductor while Rebecca and I talked for about ten or fifteen minutes in the boardroom, then I left. In the parking lot I remembered I'd left some papers, and I went back to get them. I heard Tom and Rebecca in the lobby, but I didn't see them. I came out of the boardroom and the bomb went off."