Beyond Suspicion

7

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Theo slammed the V-8 into fifth gear. The car almost seemed to levitate. Jack smiled from the passenger seat. No one could get his thirty-year-old Mustang to hum the way Theo could. Not even Jack.

“When you gonna give me this car?” asked Theo.

“When you gonna buy me a Ferrari?”

“I can get you a sweet deal on a slightly used one. You won’t even need a key to start it.”

Jack gave him a look, not sure he was kidding. “Some things I don’t need to know about you, all right?”

Theo just smiled and downshifted as they turned off the highway and into Coconut Grove. Jack held on, trying not to land in Theo’s lap as he dug his ringing cell phone from his pocket. He checked the display and recognized the incoming number. He wasn’t in the mood to talk, but this was one call he never refused.

“Hello, Abuela.”

It was his grandmother, an eighty-two-year-old Cuban immigrant who, once or twice a week, would drop by his office unannounced to deliver excellent guava-and-cream-cheese pastries or little tazas of espresso straight from Little Havana. Her specialty was a moist dessert cake called tres leches. Not many people expected a guy named Jack Swyteck to have an abuela. It was especially interesting when Anglos would confide in him and say they were moving out of Miami to get away from all the Cubans. Funny, Jack would tell them, but my abuela never complained about too many Cubans when she was growing up in Havana.

He listened for nearly a solid minute, then finally cut in. “Abuela, for the last time, you did not invent tres leches. It’s Nicaraguan. We’re Cuban. Cubano: C-U-B-A-N-O. Comprende?… We’ll talk about this later, okay?… I love you. Bye, mi vida.”

The car stopped at a traffic light. Jack switched off the phone only to find Theo staring at him. “You and Julia Child going at it again?”

“My grandmother is the laughingstock of Spanish talk radio. She’s been phoning in every afternoon to tell the world how she invented tres leches.”

“Tres leches?”

“It’s a cake made with three kinds of milk. White frosting on top. Very moist, very sweet.”

“I know what it is. It’s fucking great. Your grandmother invented that?”

“Hardly.”

“Except I hate when they put those maraschino cherries on top. I bet that’s not part of the original recipe. Call your abuela, let’s ask her.”

“She did not invent it, okay? It’s Nicaraguan.”

The light turned green. Theo punched the Mustang through the intersection. “You know, I think I read somewhere that maybe tres leches isn’t from Nicaragua. Some people say it was invented by a Cuban lady in Miami.”

“Don’t start with me.”

“I’m serious. It might even have been in the Herald. Long time ago.”

“Since when do you read the food section?”

“Try spending four years on death row. You’ll read the TV Guide in Chinese if they’ll give it to you.”

Jack massaged his temples, then tucked the phone back into his pocket. “Why do I even try to argue with you?”

After two minutes on Bayshore Drive they made a quick turn toward the bay and crossed the short bridge to Grove Isle condominiums. Grove Isle wasn’t quite as chic as it was in its heyday, back when beautiful young women used to crash at poolside to meet rich young men or even richer old men. But it was still an exclusive address in an unbeatable setting. A short walk or bike ride to shops and restaurants in Coconut Grove, balconies with killer views of Biscayne Bay and downtown Miami in the distance.

Sandra Marsh lived alone in the penthouse apartment in Building 3. It was one of the many things she stood to acquire in the impending divorce from her husband of twenty-four years, Dr. Joseph Marsh. It had taken Theo just twenty-four hours to get through to her. It had taken all of thirty seconds on the phone to talk her into a meeting.

All he had to do was mention money and her soon-to-be-ex-husband.

They valeted the car and checked in with the security guard, who found their names on the guest list and directed them to the pool area. It was two-thirty in the afternoon. Palm fronds rustled in the warm breezes off the bay. As promised, Mrs. Marsh was dressed in a red terry-cloth robe and a big Kaminski sun hat, reclining on deck in a chaise lounge that faced the water, recovering from her two-o’clock deep-tissue massage.

“Mrs. Marsh?” said Jack.

She opened her eyes, tilted back her hat, and looked up from beneath the broad brim. She checked her Rolex and said, “My, you boys are prompt. Please, have a seat.”

Jack sat on the chaise lounge facing Mrs. Marsh. Theo remained standing, his eye having caught an attractive sunbather in a thong bikini with a rose tattoo on her left buttock. Jack started without him.

“Mrs. Marsh, I’m Jack Swyteck. I was the lawyer for a woman named Jessie Merrill.”

“I know you and your case. I have plenty of friends who keep me abreast of my husband’s going-ons.”

“Then you also know he was a witness.”

“I know he was the doctor for that woman.”

“Do you know that woman?” he asked, pronouncing the words the same way she had.

“What does that have to do with anything? Your friend told me this was about some financial dealings of my husband.”

“It could be. But it depends, in part, on the nature of his relationship with Ms. Merrill.”

“She was his little slut, if you call that a relationship.”

“I do,” said Theo.

Jack shot him a look that said, Get serious. “How long was that relationship going on?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did it start before or after she started seeing him as a patient?”

“I didn’t find out about it until sometime after. But I can’t say it wasn’t going on longer.”

“Did Jessie have anything to do with the two of you splitting up?”

She stiffened. “These questions are getting way too personal.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Well, I’m not,” said Theo. “Look, lady, here’s the bottom line. Mr. Swyteck here has to dance around the issue like a fly on horseshit because he thinks he still owes some loyalty to Jessie Merrill. Well, you and I don’t have the same worries, so can we talk straight?”

“That depends on what you want to know.”

“Let’s say your husband suddenly came into a pile of money-say a million and a half bucks, or some share of it. Isn’t that something you’d like to know about?”

“Surely. Our divorce isn’t final yet. I’d have my lawyer adjust the property settlement immediately.”

“You’d want a cut, naturally.”

“I’d want more than a cut. After four kids and twenty-four years of marriage, I’m leaving that bastard broke. He’ll be working till he’s ninety-five just to pay my bar tab.”

Jack and Theo exchanged glances, and she suddenly seemed to realize that perhaps she was giving two perfect strangers too much of what they wanted to hear.

“I think it’s time I referred you gentlemen to my lawyer,” she said.

“Just a few more questions.”

“No, I’m not comfortable with this. I’ll tell her to expect your call. She’s in the book. Phoebe Martin.”

Jack started to say something, but she extended her hand, ending it. Jack shook her hand, and Theo gave her a mock salute.

“Thank you for your time, ma’am.”

“You’re welcome.”

She reclined into her chaise lounge, retreating into silence. Jack and Theo turned and walked across the pool deck toward the valet stand. As soon as they were out of Mrs. Marsh’s earshot Jack asked, “What do you think?”

“Hell with tending bar, I’m opening a tattoo parlor,” he said as he gathered one more eyeful of the woman with the pink rose on her tanned and firm buttock.

“Be serious,” said Jack.

They stopped at the valet stand. Jack handed over his claim ticket, and the kid with the pressed white uniform and monster thighs took off running.

Theo lit a cigarette. “I think you got a middle-aged doctor, a hot new girlfriend with her hand on his balls, and a pissed off wife with two hands on his wallet.”

“She’s definitely not going to go easy on him.”

“The ex gets at least half of everything he has. Probably more.”

“Much more,” said Jack. “If her lawyer is Phoebe Martin, our doctor friend really might be broke. I’ll bet she gets eighty percent of every dime.”

“You mean every dime she can find.”

“Nothing like a million and a half bucks to keep a new girlfriend happy. Especially when the Wicked Witch of the West doesn’t even know about it.”

“True, true,” said Theo. “Scam those investors and send that money right off to a Swedish bank account.”

“You mean Swiss bank account.”

“That’s what I said. Swiss.”

“No, you said Swedish.”

“You think I don’t know the difference between a bank and a fucking meatball?”

“Okay, forget it. You said Swiss.”

Theo let out a cloud of smoke. “Hate them fucking Swiss anyway.”

“What’s to hate about the Swiss?”

“Cheese with holes in it. What’s with that shit, anyway? Stinking thieves selling us all a bunch of fucking air.”

“God, you really do hate everyone.”

“Except you, Jack, baby.” He grinned and pinched Jack’s cheek so hard it turned red. The Mustang rumbled up to the valet stand, and Theo jumped ahead of Jack on his way to the driver’s side. “Except you!”

Jack rubbed the welt on his face and retreated to the passenger side, smiling as he shook his head. “God help me.”