where all the Yankees go to retire and play golf." Gail noticed an exit sign and pointed. "That's where we get off. Martin Highway."
Anthony guided the car around the ramp, paid the turnpike toll, and turned east. Gail told him to keep going. The road would zigzag through Stuart before reaching Hutchinson Island, the long strip of land running along the intracoastal.
Gail had the weekend mapped out as carefully as the route. At eight in the morning she would meet the alibi witness,Tina Hopwood, for breakfast. Then she would go to the retirement home where Ruby Smith lived and get a deposit on fees and costs. At four o'clock she would drop by to speak with the eyewitness who had put Kenny Ray Clark at the crime scene. In the time left over, she would try to find the jailhouse snitch who said that Kenny Clark had confessed to him. The snitch's name was Vernon Byrd. Twelve years ago, he had been brought from prison to testify for the state. Where was he now?
Gail would locate Byrd and as many other witnesses as possible and get affidavits from those willing to give them. She had brought her laptop computer and portable printer. Her notary seal was in her purse. She was a mobile law office.
Anthony didn't know if she wanted him to accompany her on these interviews. She hadn't said. He thought he might catch up on his sleep or take a long walk. He hoped the beach wasn't overrun with tourists. He liked to gaze at an empty ocean. He had thought seriously of buying a small island in the Keys. He had wondered what it would be like to retire at his age, forty-three. He didn't think that Gail would agree to such a life. She was rarely still for a moment. She burned with energy.
"What was your house like, the one on Sewall's Point?" he asked. Most of his own childhoodâuntil Ernesto Pedrosa had kidnapped him out of Cubaâhad been spent in his father's shabby, poured-concrete house in Camagüey province. "Was it like the houses in Palm Beach?"
"God, no, it was just an ordinary house." She bent over to pick up some papers from the floor. "Three bedrooms. A screened porch with rattan furniture. A wooden dock with a boathouse. We were on the intra-coastal, not on the beach, so we didn't get waves."
"You had a boat?"
"My parents had a boat. Daddy loved to fish."
Anthony smiled at the word. Daddy.
"He named it the Irene Marie, after my mother. Her big thing was decorating. She went wild on Sewall's Point. One summer she and Aunt Lou made these enormous wooden flowers and stuck them all over the yard. They'd been drinking. It's funny now, but at the time, I nearly died of embarrassment when my friends saw it."
The soft curves of her face formed a pale silhouette against the window. "Aunt Louise. She was so beautiful and funny. My favorite aunt. My God, she was just two years older than I am now when she died. Mom still misses her. I'm terrible for not keeping in touch with Jackie."
Anthony reached across the file box and pulled Gail toward him. "Que mala eres." He took his eyes off the road long enough to give her a kiss that ignited into desire. He wanted a bed, a room by the ocean. He wanted her. He wanted to throw these papers into the trunk and lock it. "Te quiero tanto, mujer."
She murmured against his lips, "Te quiero más." And then she was shoving him away, still smiling. "Later. I have plans for you." She picked up her pen and went back to her notes.
Anthony had met Gail Connor two years ago, and in that time he had constructed an outline of her life. Names, places, dates. He had heard about the class trip to London, ballet lessons, a debutante ball, private schools. She was the great-granddaughter of original settlers, as much of an aristocracy as could exist in Miami. Gail's mother had inherited their wealth, and her father had squandered most of it. Even so, the imprint of privilege remained.
Not knowing why, Anthony found all this intensely engaging. Perhaps because it was her life, and he wanted to
Anthony guided the car around the ramp, paid the turnpike toll, and turned east. Gail told him to keep going. The road would zigzag through Stuart before reaching Hutchinson Island, the long strip of land running along the intracoastal.
Gail had the weekend mapped out as carefully as the route. At eight in the morning she would meet the alibi witness,Tina Hopwood, for breakfast. Then she would go to the retirement home where Ruby Smith lived and get a deposit on fees and costs. At four o'clock she would drop by to speak with the eyewitness who had put Kenny Ray Clark at the crime scene. In the time left over, she would try to find the jailhouse snitch who said that Kenny Clark had confessed to him. The snitch's name was Vernon Byrd. Twelve years ago, he had been brought from prison to testify for the state. Where was he now?
Gail would locate Byrd and as many other witnesses as possible and get affidavits from those willing to give them. She had brought her laptop computer and portable printer. Her notary seal was in her purse. She was a mobile law office.
Anthony didn't know if she wanted him to accompany her on these interviews. She hadn't said. He thought he might catch up on his sleep or take a long walk. He hoped the beach wasn't overrun with tourists. He liked to gaze at an empty ocean. He had thought seriously of buying a small island in the Keys. He had wondered what it would be like to retire at his age, forty-three. He didn't think that Gail would agree to such a life. She was rarely still for a moment. She burned with energy.
"What was your house like, the one on Sewall's Point?" he asked. Most of his own childhoodâuntil Ernesto Pedrosa had kidnapped him out of Cubaâhad been spent in his father's shabby, poured-concrete house in Camagüey province. "Was it like the houses in Palm Beach?"
"God, no, it was just an ordinary house." She bent over to pick up some papers from the floor. "Three bedrooms. A screened porch with rattan furniture. A wooden dock with a boathouse. We were on the intra-coastal, not on the beach, so we didn't get waves."
"You had a boat?"
"My parents had a boat. Daddy loved to fish."
Anthony smiled at the word. Daddy.
"He named it the Irene Marie, after my mother. Her big thing was decorating. She went wild on Sewall's Point. One summer she and Aunt Lou made these enormous wooden flowers and stuck them all over the yard. They'd been drinking. It's funny now, but at the time, I nearly died of embarrassment when my friends saw it."
The soft curves of her face formed a pale silhouette against the window. "Aunt Louise. She was so beautiful and funny. My favorite aunt. My God, she was just two years older than I am now when she died. Mom still misses her. I'm terrible for not keeping in touch with Jackie."
Anthony reached across the file box and pulled Gail toward him. "Que mala eres." He took his eyes off the road long enough to give her a kiss that ignited into desire. He wanted a bed, a room by the ocean. He wanted her. He wanted to throw these papers into the trunk and lock it. "Te quiero tanto, mujer."
She murmured against his lips, "Te quiero más." And then she was shoving him away, still smiling. "Later. I have plans for you." She picked up her pen and went back to her notes.
Anthony had met Gail Connor two years ago, and in that time he had constructed an outline of her life. Names, places, dates. He had heard about the class trip to London, ballet lessons, a debutante ball, private schools. She was the great-granddaughter of original settlers, as much of an aristocracy as could exist in Miami. Gail's mother had inherited their wealth, and her father had squandered most of it. Even so, the imprint of privilege remained.
Not knowing why, Anthony found all this intensely engaging. Perhaps because it was her life, and he wanted to
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