Suspicion of Malice Read Online Free PDF Page B

yours—"
    "Bobby Gonzalez. He wants to talk to a lawyer, and I saw you in line, and I'm like, wow, it's Gail. Could you see him after the show? He needs some advice."
    "I can't stay afterward, I'm afraid." Gail picked up her soda and threaded her way toward the windows through the crowd. "What's this about?"
    Angela glanced around before saying in a low voice, "You know the man that was killed? Roger Cresswell? Bobby was at that same party. The police are talking to everybody, and they came around to Bobby's apartment, and he told them he doesn't know anything, and now they want to ask him more questions."
    "He was there when Roger Cresswell was murdered?"
    "He didn't see it. Nobody did. He doesn't know anything about it."
    Gail angled her straw into her soda. "Then why— if I might ask—is he reluctant to talk to the police?"
    "Bobby says they don't have any suspects, so they're after him because they know where he came from. He grew up on the streets in East Harlem. Well, not on the streets, but in a tough neighborhood, mostly Puerto Rican, you know? I promised I'd help him, and then I saw you right there. It's fate."
    "Angie, this is a criminal investigation. You know who to ask."
    "Mv dad? Well . . . he's busy."
    "Not too busy for you. He can't be."
    "Okay. The thing is, he doesn't like Bobby. I went out with him once, and Dad totally freaked. He's like, no, you're not going out with him again ever, he's nobody. Wait till you're in college, find some nice guy from a good family." She rolled her eyes. "He doesn't approve of anyone."
    "So . . . you don't want him to know you're still seeing Bobby."
    "We see each other at the studio. We're friends."
    Gail knew that lie when she heard it. "How old is he? Just curious."
    "Twenty-one." Angela gazed up at Gail. Two gold barrettes held her center-parted hair back from her face. "Can you help him? It wouldn't take much time. And he'd pay you. I know he has some money saved." Delicate brows drew together, making a small crease in smooth skin. Seventeen years old. Gail could see Anthony in the straight nose and full lips. His eyes were darker, hers a soft velvet brown with long lashes.
    "Please? You could talk to him, couldn't you? On the phone, even. I won't tell my dad I spoke to you. You don't have to see me again."
    "Oh, Angie, it isn't that. I've done a few criminal cases, but when it comes to a murder investigation, well. . . Bobby should find someone who specializes. The ballet has lawyers, surely, who could recommend someone?"
    "He doesn't want to tell them about this." Such desperation on that face. In a small voice she said, "Do you know anybody else?"
    Gail glanced away, a hand on her hip. So. Anthony Quintana would toss this kid overboard, not a second thought. A poor Puerto Rican, not good enough for his daughter. Ballet dancer? Even worse. Gail set her cup on the windowsill and opened her bag. "All right. This is my card. Give it to Bobby and tell him to call me tomorrow morning. I'll be in the office till noon."
    "How much do you think it will cost? He'll want to know."
    Gail smiled and shook her head. "Nothing. It's on me. He does a great Tarantella."
    "Oh, thank you! He'll be so relieved." Angela pressed the card to her small bosom. She kissed Gail's cheek again before running back through the lobby to her girlfriends. Her dark hair swung on her shoulders, and she moved as lightly as a bird.

    Before the fiery crash of their engagement, Gail and Anthony had bought a house in Coconut Grove. Now that it was on the market, both sets of keys had been given to Anthony's law partner, who was handling the details so the owners wouldn't have to speak to each other. Gail would get nothing from the sale because, by her reckoning, what she owed to Anthony exceeded her share of the equity. He hadn't asked for repayment, but she—in a gesture of pride that she had almost come to regret—told his partner that she didn't want Mr. Quintana's money, and if he