Suspicion of Deceit (42 page)

Why had Lloyd Dixon hired Thomas Nolan? A jealous husband, getting rid of his adulterous wife and her lover. No, that didn't fit. Rebecca had said that Lloyd knew about her affair and tolerated it, as long as she was discreet.

Second possibility: Rebecca and Seth had found out too much about the weapons. That made more sense. Or did it? Lloyd hadn't seemed so bothered when Anthony put a stop to the arms deal.
No skin off my nose, buddy.

Octavio knew that Seth was coming to WRCL. Maybe he had hired Nolan. But was Octavio smart enough to orchestrate two murders and blame them on Felix Castillo? Anthony had been certain that Octavio was not a killer. He only wanted to overthrow the regime. But if the CIA were involved—if big American business interests were at stake—

Reaching into her purse, Gail remembered that her portable phone was still being repaired. She found a quarter and told Karen not to move, she'd be right back. The telephone was down two levels outside the ladies' room.

Anthony's secretary told her he was still in court, and she didn't really expect him back in the office, because he was meeting a client for dinner at seven o'clock.

"Oh, yes. He mentioned something about that. Tell, tell him—" Gail looped the steel phone cord around her hand. The party after the dress rehearsal would last until six. "Tell him to call me at home later. Thanks."

She hung up and leaned against the wall.
Anthony, I think Thomas Nolan was hired to shoot Seth Greer and set off the bomb that killed Rebecca.
How insane, to make a statement like that on no evidence whatsoever.

What if she was wrong? As a criminal defense attorney, Anthony Quintana had a funny quirk—he wanted evidence of guilt. She closed her eyes and thought of the argument Anthony might make to a jury on Thomas Nolan's behalf. Ladies and gentlemen, the prosecutor has produced
no
evidence that Rebecca Dixon and Seth Greer knew
anything
about Lloyd Dixon's activities. Second. Do you really believe that Thomas Nolan would have put himself anywhere near a
bomb?
To risk his hearing? His voice? Never. Third point. We know who did it. Felix Castillo. Bomb-making materials were found in his house. His fingerprints were on cartridges matching those at the scene of Seth Greer's murder. What has the prosecutor shown you from Thomas Nolan's house? Nothing.

Gail went back up the stairs.

As she walked along the front row, the curtains parted on a graveyard. Fog drifted among headstones and statues of the departed. Don Giovanni appeared, climbing a tree, then dropping over the wall, another narrow escape. He laughed with his servant about it. Then a deep, hollow voice came from somewhere, and, Giovanni drew his sword.

"Wow," said Karen. "Mom, look!"

One of the statues was moving. Gail said, "That's the Commendatore, the man Giovanni killed at the beginning. He says, 'You'll have your last laugh soon.' But Giovanni's not afraid. He invites him to dinner. 'Will you come or not?' "

"The statue is nodding!" Karen said.

Looking over the rail, Gail could see her mother sitting with some friends. She tugged on Karen's hand. "Come on, let's go back down. Gramma will think we deserted her."

Karen was bored with the next scenes—until the ghost of the Commendatore showed up in the dining room at Giovanni's villa. The statue demanded repentance. Giovanni refused, and the pits of hell opened up. Hunchbacked demons swarmed out with pitchforks. Whatever the set designer had used for flames looked frighteningly real, and steam hissed from hidden vents in the stage. The music reached a crescendo, Giovanni screamed, and an elevator under the stage lowered him down.

Then, in Mozart's odd way of joining frivolity to tragedy, the music was suddenly uptempo, everyone happy again, the remaining characters coming on to deliver the moral of the story—evildoers get what they deserve.

Gail's spirits were not lifted.

She had not intended to stay for the donor party, but Karen wanted to, so they joined the crowd in the rehearsal hall. Gail heard someone say, "If you ask me, Giovanni is the only one with any spunk. Nobody else knows how to have a good time."

The hall buzzed with congratulations. The orchestra had played wonderfully. The cast had been brilliant. The opera would be a smash. Jeffrey Hopkins gave Thomas Nolan a hug, careful not to touch the makeup on his face. Standing closer, Gail could see the fine net of the wig, which had been crafted of real human hair. For the last scene he had worn a loose white shirt with lace at the cuffs and a red embroidered vest over black satin knee pants and white hose. The heels on his shoes gave him another inch in height. He towered.

"Congratulations," Gail said. "A terrific performance."

He made a slight bow.

"Your voice seems to have recovered."

He spoke softly. "I was lucky. So were you." He smiled at a woman handing him a glass of champagne. The woman started to speak, but Gail beat her to it and said she needed to borrow Mr. Nolan for a minute. She maneuvered him so their backs were to the crowd.

"So your piano teacher's first name is Elvira. What a coincidence. Does Miss Wells really exist, or did you make her up, too?" Gail looked straight at him.

The makeup gave him such odd eyes, pale blue outlined in dark brown. One black eyebrow was painted higher than the other in permanent ironic jest. His face was several shades darker than normal. "All the world's a stage, Gail, and reality is what you think it is."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

He saluted with his champagne. "Whatever you want it to mean. Excuse me, I've got to get cleaned up, then make happy talk for an hour. It comes with the job."

She watched him go toward the dressing rooms, having to stop several times, people smiling up at him. She heard his deep laughter, his modest expression of thanks. She tried to imagine him standing in the shadows of the building next door to WRCL. Pulling out his sniper's rifle, sighting the laser on Seth Greer's chest.

If Lloyd or Octavio had not hired Thomas Nolan, then who had? Some group that knew about Castillo's background as a spy, and was powerful enough to convince local police he was responsible for two murders,

The same people would want to know why the shipment of weapons to Cuba had never been made. Lloyd Dixon, whereabouts unknown, would give up Anthony Quintana in a heartbeat.

Gail wanted out of here. Too many people and too much noise. Too many mouths open in laughter. She looked around for Karen and found her in serious conversation with one of the little horned demons, a woman not much taller than Karen. "Go already? Mom!"

Irene agreed to take Karen home with her after the party. She looked at her watch. "Well, I suppose we'll be here till six or so. Where are you going?"

"I have to deliver something for a client."

"You look so pale. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. I'll meet you at your house. We'll go out to dinner, my treat."

Curtains were drawn in the mansion at the front of the property. Gail hoped the owners were still out of town. She looked both ways, then turned quickly into the driveway, stopping her car behind some hedges where it could not be seen from the street. She got out and walked to the rear entrance of Tom Nolan's cottage. The green grass, dappled with shade, stretched to the bay.

She had tried to call Anthony again before leaving the theater, but he had still not returned to his office. She could not afford to wait by the pay phone in the lobby.

Gail shaded a glass pane in the French door and looked through, seeing the evidence of a musician's life. Grand piano, scores, sheet music, and classical CDs by the dozens. How irrational it seemed, thinking of Thomas Nolan as anything more than an opera singer or that a sniper's rifle was being aimed at Anthony because of what he knew.
Reality is what you think it is.

There was only one way to find out.

Gail checked her watch. 5:20. She did not expect to be here longer than ten minutes. On her previous visit, she had not noticed a burglar alarm. No security company stickers in the window, no wires. Her hand was poised over the doorknob on one of the French doors. She hoped there was not a deadbolt requiring a key from the other side.

Behind her, water splashed in the coral rock fountain.

She stared at the glass. She looked at her watch again. 5:24.

"Oh, just do it and get it over with." She spotted a piece of scalloped edging stone in the flowerbed. After a glance toward both sides of the property, she picked it up. Touched it to the glass pane beside the doorknob. Swung it back, then forward. The glass shattered like a sonic boom passing over. Gail flung away the stone, sat in one of the metal chairs, and crossed her legs. She waited for barking dogs or someone wanting to know what the hell that noise was.

After a minute she patted the stone back into the flowerbed. The lock did not need a key. She turned the bolt and went inside.

A dish towel hung from the oven, and she borrowed it to wipe off her fingerprints. There were dishes in the sink. Carry out containers in the trash. A big ice chest on the counter, which seemed odd. She opened it and saw milk, orange juice, Swiss cheese, and three bottles of beer. She looked in all the cabinets, seeing nothing out of the ordinary.

She made a quick tour of the living room. Nothing behind the sofa but dust. Nothing under the sofa cushions, in the piano bench, or in the closet by the front door. The dining area near the kitchen had an oak table and four chairs.

In the hall she opened a door, saw linens and cleaning supplies. Nothing under the towels or behind the vacuum cleaner.

5:28. The bathroom. Blond hair in the shower stall. A dozen kinds of shampoo and conditioner. Cleaning supplies under the cabinet. The usual razor, aftershave, dental floss, et cetera behind the mirror. She opened the hamper and found dirty clothes.

Then to the bedroom. Light flooded in through the closed windows, which faced west. The room felt hot and short of oxygen, but Gail knew it was only her nervousness beginning to bite. Plenty of time, she told herself. Bed unmade, pillows askew at the head. Blue sheets, matching duvet. Nightstand with telephone, score to
Boris Gudonov,
several colored markers, and a Russian dictionary. Drawer contained porno videos. Gail pushed it shut.

She looked at her watch again. Only 5:30. The closet contained clothing—big surprise. Two tuxedos in garment bags. Likewise pleated shirts. Leather shoes, running shoes, boots, sandals. An empty suit bag. And a suitcase. Gail stared up at it. She could hear her breath rushing in and out of her lungs. She reached up carefully and poked it to see if anything was inside. It felt light. She brought it down and unzipped it anyway. No rifle. No scope or silencer. No bomb parts.

The realization was starting to dawn that she had committed a felony with nothing to show for it. She went to the bureau and opened drawers. Shirts, sweaters, workout clothes. Nothing. She looked at her watch. Told herself to relax.

To the dresser. A television and VCR sat on one corner. Top drawer. Bills, envelopes, checkbook, some cash. A few personal photos. Friends skiing. A postcard from Milan, someone named Fredericka. A small frame that opened up to show a three-by-five color snapshot, teenaged Tom Nolan at a piano with a blond girl standing behind him, probably another student. Gail knew it was Nolan only because she had seen the same face in her high school yearbook. She looked through some bills. Letters from friends. Nothing with Dixon's or Reyes's name on it. She glanced through his checkbook. No unusual deposits. Neat handwriting. Balance $4,389.18. Found an appointment book, flipped through it. Rehearsal schedules. Phone numbers. Dixon or Reyes not listed.

She pushed the drawer shut. She had been wrong. Glanced at her watch. 5:35.

With one last look around, she wiped the doorknob and went back down the hall, wanting only to get the hell out. She hung the dish towel back on the oven handle.

Shards of glass glittered on the wood floor in the living room. Through the broken pane she heard the fountain. Water splashed into the basin below.

What a weird feeling, she thought. As if suddenly she were standing by the seawall looking back at the cottage. Seeing a woman at the door, a grand piano behind her. The woman looking through broken glass at a fountain, the water gushing out.

She heard Anthony's voice.
Los Pozos is a small village in the hills . . . covered in mist and rain, and the earth is red. ... We lived . . . in a house that belonged to the church . . . no plumbing, but there was a well. "Pozos" means "wells," so at least we had plenty of fresh water.

Gail could see the woman in the doorway backing up, disappearing into the cottage.

Moving down the hallway again, hurrying before the thought disappeared. As if coming out of a dream, wanting to hang onto it before it vanished like mist.

To the bedroom, open the top dresser drawer. And lift out the frame with the snapshot. Unfold it.

Gail stared down at Tommy Nolan, then the blond girl. The freckles on her face had thrown Gail off at first, but the girl was not a teenager.
When I was young, I wanted to be a concert pianist. Miss Wells— my teacher—said no. You should sing. I owe everything to her.

Rebecca had said,
Emily was a scholarship student. She gave piano lessons to earn spending money.

How had Seth described Emily Davis?
A pretty girl, loads of freckles.

Gail heard her own low moan as she put the picture back. "Oh, no. Oh, my God." She closed the drawer with the tip of her finger. She felt a chill so intense the hair on her arms stood up.

She looked in the mirror, seeing the woman again, such a pale face, then behind her the mussed bed with the duvet hanging off the end of it. She turned slowly around.

Kneeling on the carpet, she lifted the hem of the duvet, and bent over to peer underneath the bed.

It was as if she had known all along it would be there. No surprise.

She slid it out. An expensive Hartmann, tweed with brown leather trim. Not new. There was something inside, but not a great deal of weight. She ran her hand over the surface.