Suspicion of Deceit (45 page)

If Anthony had asked her to, Gail would have told the police that she had no idea whose remains were in the suitcase or why Thomas Nolan had turned homicidal, but Anthony was determined that Emily be buried properly. Gail had countered that revealing every last detail would accomplish nothing but to turn Anthony Quintana into an object of curiosity. They had finally agreed on what to say: With all his teenage passion, Thomas Nolan had loved Emily Davis, his young piano teacher. She and three friends had gone to Los Pozos as volunteers. She decided to stay and never came back. Nolan found her grave, then got it into his head that her friends were responsible for her death. Nolan killed Felix Castillo, who had become suspicious. Daisy had been in the way. Anthony was to have been the last victim, but for some reason or other Nolan changed his mind and committed suicide.

Later, Gail told Anthony the elaborate story she had spun for Tom Nolan—which in its way held more truth for him than the actual events. Nolan had wanted a story of passion and self-sacrifice. Gail had taken a chance, asking him to put on the last scene in
Aída,
the story of an Ethiopian princess forced into slavery in the Egyptian court, beloved by Radames, himself betrothed to Amneris. He betrayed his country to save Aída, but rather than escape, she chose to die with him. Amneris wanted vengeance, but as the lovers slowly suffocated, she stood outside the tomb praying for peace.
Pace t'imploro.
At the end Thomas Nolan may have seen himself as Amneris. He had said, "There is no forgiveness." He meant none for himself. All he could ask for was mercy and peace.

These things went through Gail's mind as she stood with Anthony at the site of Emily's grave. She glanced at him. He had not spoken for several minutes, lost in his own thoughts.

He crossed himself, then leaned down to place the flowers on the grave. He looked at them for another moment, then turned and smiled at Gail. Hand in hand, they left the cemetery,

The Pedrosa house was not precisely on the way home, but Gail suggested they drop in to say hello. Until recently Anthony would never have considered such a thing, at least not without calling first.

Turning through the iron gates into the circular driveway, he put on his brakes. Gail saw a dark red Lexus parked near the front entrance. As far as she knew, Octavio Reyes had decided to move to Texas, taking the family with him.

"Did you know Octavio would be here?" she asked.

"No." His face wore that cool, impenetrable expression that she recognized as a mask for anger.

Gail said, "Let's not go in."

But he finished the turn and parked behind the Lexus.

Octavio Reyes had not been seen in public lately. He had been fired from WRCL, and his furniture business was up for sale. Bricks had been thrown through the plate glass windows of the showroom. It was said that Reyes had tricked Ernesto Pedrosa—a respected but elderly man—into supplying money and arms for a Cuban underground that did not in fact exist. Even worse, Reyes had already skimmed hundreds of thousands of dollars from Pedrosa's businesses to invest in the Cuban tourist industry.

Gail had been as shocked as anyone else, but Lloyd Dixon, in an interview with the
Miami Herald,
had sworn it was true. She had worried that someone might kill Octavio, but Anthony had said no, Octavio would be all right—as long as he stayed out of Miami. Feeling bad for Anthony's sister, Alicia, Gail had called to talk, but Alicia had refused to come to the telephone.

When the old aunt who served as housekeeper opened the door, Anthony asked if his grandfather was at home. His aunt said yes, his grandfather was in the study with
los
Reyes, and
la dama
was upstairs resting.
Los
Reyes. Meaning more than one. Gail assumed both Octavio and Alicia were speaking with Ernesto Pedrosa about some family matter.

When the aunt had left them, Gail said to Anthony, "What do you think?"

"I don't know." Stony-faced, he walked out of the foyer into the wide tiled hall that would take him to his grandfather's study. Gail followed, knowing that it was probably Alicia's presence that had prevented Anthony from asking her to wait in the living room.

Heavy wood muffled Octavio's angry voice. Anthony knocked, then opened the door. Gail saw past him—Ernesto Pedrosa seated on one end of the leather sofa, Alicia beside him crying, Octavio standing over both of them. They all looked around at Anthony, still in the hall.

In Spanish, Anthony asked his grandfather if everything was all right. The old man seemed tired, Gail thought. He leaned on the arm of the sofa, and his eyes were shadowed. Gail could guess what was going on. Octavio had asked Alicia to come plead his case. The old man was caught in the middle.

Anthony said quietly to Octavio, "You should go."

The look that passed between them was acid. Then Octavio made a stiff bow to Ernesto Pedrosa. He said that he and Alicia had to leave now, but wished both him and Digna good health.

"Gracias"
Pedrosa said. He held out an arm to Alicia. She kissed him goodbye.

Anthony told his grandfather he would be only a moment escorting Octavio to the door. Gail would wait with him.

The Reyeses came out, but before Gail could go in, Alicia closed the door. She brushed past Gail without acknowledging that she was there. She walked over to her brother and tried to slap him. Anthony jerked aside and caught her wrist in time.

She sobbed, "How? How could you do this?"

Anthony said nothing.

But Alicia continued to weep angry tears. "We lost our home, everything! We have to leave Miami!"

Anthony said, "No one is going to let you and the children starve, Alicia. You can stay here if you want. You don't have to go with him."

She drew in a ragged breath. "He's my husband!"

Octavio turned her away and told her to forget it. "Alicia,
olvídalo."

Gail looked from one to the other in confusion. Alicia grabbed her arm. "Do you know what my brother is? Do you know the kind of man you want to marry?"

Anthony said, "Alicia—"

"No! Let me tell her. He's a liar! He's doing this because he hates my husband. Lloyd Dixon's mechanic told Octavio the truth. Anthony blackmailed Lloyd Dixon. He threatened to show photographs to the FBI unless Dixon told lies about Octavio. He never stole money from my grandfather. Never! He would never put money into Cuba. Anthony has turned everyone against us. My children are taunted at school."

Alicia brought her fists down on Anthony's chest. "How could you?" He tried to embrace her. She sobbed for a moment into his shoulder, then pushed him away. Quietly Anthony said to Octavio, "Take her out of here. She's upset."

In the foyer, Anthony stood by the front door until they had gone through it. He pushed the door shut, then stared at the dark carved wood.

Gail said, "Did you do that? Did you do what she said?"

Fiercely Anthony said, "He would have destroyed this family, Gail. He would have brought the FBI here. They've been looking for a way to get to my grandfather for years. One of the men working at Sun Fashions is an FBI informant."

"What will happen to Alicia?"

"She made her choice." Then took a breath, no longer angry. "I won't let anything happen to her. Whatever she and the children need, they can have it."

Gail continued to look at him. "You didn't tell me."

"No, I didn't." He offered no apology.

There were shuffling footsteps in the hall. The soft thud of a cane. Ernesto Pedrosa had come out of his study.

The two men looked at each other. Anthony said formally,
"Señor, ¿cómo está?"

Pedrosa lifted ah arm and Anthony stepped forward to embrace him.
Un abrazo fuerte
—the embrace of respect and affection.

He knows,
Gail thought to herself. The old man knew exactly what Anthony had done. He approved. Gail herself was not really surprised that Anthony's actions had been so devious, brutal, and complete. At the crude burial site in Los Pozos, he had killed a rebel soldier with a shovel to save himself and two friends.

Watching Anthony gently kiss his grandfather, she realized that she had barely begun to learn who he was.

Then Ernesto Pedrosa smiled at her and held out his arms.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

This house was built in 1927, very strong construction of coral rock and Dade County pine, which will last forever. It came through Hurricane Andrew perfectly—only some roof tiles blew off. Look at this beautiful porch, so shady. The house is on the historic register."

The realtor unlocked the front door and led them inside. Their footsteps echoed on wood floors. Gail and Anthony looked around at the fireplace, the Art Deco curves, the beamed ceiling. Karen ran for the stairs to see what was up there.

Silvia Sanchez was still talking. "Three bedrooms, three baths, and a study downstairs. The kitchen is charming."

Gail smiled at her. "You mean it's small?"

"No,
charming"
She led the way through the dining room. "You must see it. Look. Room for a big table. An eat-in kitchen, perfect for a family. Don't you love the wood windows? They crank out, very historical."

Anthony muttered, "They stick in humid weather."

Gail opened a door and found a pantry. "This is nice. You don't see pantries anymore. Where are the washer and dryer?" When Mrs. Sanchez told her they were in the garage, which one could get to by going outside, Gail rolled her eyes.

The realtor only waved a hand. "This is no problem! You put them in the pantry. Remodeling is so easy."

Gail and Anthony glanced at each other. They obediently followed Mrs. Sanchez through the rear door of the kitchen onto an enclosed patio with a terra cotta floor. The floor had settled, and the tiles were cracked with age. They could not see through the windows for the untrimmed plants pressing against the glass, which was clouded with mildew and algae.

"Historical," whispered Anthony, "means you don't repaint even a closet without permission from bureaucrats on three different preservation boards."

Karen's clogs thudded across the living room, then she herself appeared, pushing open the French doors. Her face was flushed. "Mom! Anthony! Come upstairs! You have to see my room! There's a window that sticks out over the roof—"

"Dormer windows," said the realtor. "Four of them."

"And your and Anthony's room has a fireplace!"

Gail glanced at Mrs. Sanchez, then said quietly to Karen, "Sweetie, we're just looking right now."

"We've seen five houses today! This one is so cute."

The realtor was shoving against the back door with a shoulder, but it was stuck. Anthony said he would do it. The wood creaked, then the door flew open. Gail whispered, "There would be so much to do to this house."

"Mom, there's a park down the street."

"We'll see."

Karen gave her a look. "That means no."

When Gail turned around, she saw Anthony staring into the backyard as if the door had snapped back and hit him in the head. He slowly moved down the steps into the sparse and weedy grass. Wind sighed in the trees, and birds chirped.

A brick walkway led to a gazebo on one side, an overgrown rose garden on the other. Decades ago someone with a sense of harmony and balance had laid out the backyard. The wide, shady lawn sloped gently to an inlet that lapped at the seawall. The realtor's brochure had said the property backed up to a canal, but this was no canal. Gail could see how the land curved out to the bay.

"I told you," Karen said. She flew off the steps and ran toward the gazebo, where she tried out the glider.

Anthony kept walking until he stood on the seawall.

Mrs. Sanchez folded her hands at her waist. She smiled at Gail.

Gail said, "I don't think so."

"It's a very nice property."

"Yes, well . . ." She sighed. "Let me go talk to him."

At the seawall Gail slid her hand into his. He had lost that stunned look, and now a smile had worked its way onto his lips. She said, "You like it, don't you?"

The smile disappeared. "It's an old house. They require a lot of work. On the other hand, it has character. It's not like the others we've seen. With a few touches here and there, I think it has possibility. But if you don't agree, we'll keep looking."

Gail shaded her eyes. "You can see Camaguey from here."

He made a soft laugh. "Do you think I want to go back?"

She raised a shoulder.

"Gail, I would never go back. I told you that."

"Maybe not being able to have something makes people want it more," she said.

"No. Everything I have—everything I want is here."

"I'll never be Cuban," she said. "Prepare yourself. I can't cook and I don't even want to learn. I like making my own living. And I have a rotten temper— which I promise to work on."

"Gail, one reason I love you is because you
aren't
Cuban. When I was married before—I don't mean to bring that up, but—she was so traditional I lost a sense of myself. With you, I feel . . ."His hands moved as if he could find words in the air.

"Confused?" Gail tugged on the lapels of his jacket. The diamond on her finger sparkled. It had looked good on his hand. She liked it better on hers.

"I feel . . . like myself." He laughed. "Whatever that is. My grandfather accuses me of being too American. Your relatives think of me as one hundred percent
cubano.
But I'm neither. Or maybe I'm both."

Gail lightly kissed him on the lips. "You still haven't told me what you said to your grandfather about Nicaragua. Not now. It's just a reminder."

Anthony had spent an evening with Ernesto Pedrosa last week, coming home past midnight. He had been too sleepy to talk about it then, and Gail had not wanted to push him.

He shrugged. "There isn't much to report. I said that I had something to tell him, a story that started when I was a kid living in Camagüey with my father. I told him things I'd forgotten I knew about. Then I told him what happened in Los Pozos. Everything, Gail. I didn't leave out any of it. I talked for more than three hours. I thought now and then that he might be asleep, but he would open his eyes and tell me to go on."