Suspicion of Deceit by Barbara Parker

the street?" Castillo seemed to smile. "No."
    "What do you think might happen, if they want to make trouble?"
    "Who are you talking about?" He looked back at her with patient brown eyes. "Who do you mean?"
    After a moment, she said, "I see. 'They' don't exist."
    "Nobody wants to make trouble. That's not the reason. See, Gail, these are people whose relatives were executed or tortured or maybe died in prison. People who lost everything they had, not that most of them had so much. You know? I'm not saying it's right or it's wrong, but I can understand where they're coming from. What do I think will happen? A lot of noise. The radio hosts go on the air, then people v»ith nothing better to do will make nasty phone calls to the opera. You don't worry about that. You worry about the ones who use this for their own purposes."
    Gail repeated a word she had heard Anthony use. "Oportunismo. "
    "Yes. The opportunists."
    "What do they gain by stirring it up?"
    "They feel big. Important. Maybe they want to get elected. Or they've got a business and they want publicity. Or there could be personal reasons."
    Referring, possibly, to Octavio Reyes. Anthony could have told Castillo about his brother-in-law during that long phone conversation. There were currents flowing in this room that she couldn't tap into. She felt impatient with the oblique conversation.
    "Do you expect violence?"
    Castillo sipped his rum, then with a knuckle dabbed at his droopy gray mustache. "No, I don't think you'll see much of that. If you do, it's probably coming from the other side."
    "Other side?"
    "Cuba."
    She looked at him steadily. He did not elaborate. "What do you mean?"
    "They have people up here."
    "Who does? The Cuban government?" There was no reply. "You're telling me the Cubans would send spies or terrorists to Miami to . . . what? Set off a bomb at the opera, then blame it on the exiles?"
    Anthony tapped some loose ashes into the ashtray, then turned toward Gail to say, "No. They don't set bombs. They keep an eye on what's going on. If the opportunity presents itself, they might push others to violence. The exiles are aware of this. They know they can be used, so they're careful."
    "What if there's someone out there who doesn't get it?"
    His hand rested on his knee, and smoke drifted from the cigar. "That's an unfortunate possibility."
    For no reason Gail could see, the birds began chirping again, flying wildly in the confined space, their wings beating on the cage. She had the odd impression of having wandered into a flick from the forties. Film noir. And nobody had given her a script.
    Castillo picked a flake of tobacco off his tongue. "A lot easier if this singer decided to go away, you know?"
    This at least was real: She had no doubt at all that if Anthony asked him to, Felix Castillo would take care of the problem. One neat chop to the larynx would do it.

CHAPTER EIGHT

    On Wednesday, the soonest she could make it downtown, Gail went by the opera building on Biscayne Boulevard. Rebecca Dixon was expected in at two o'clock.
    Gail arrived early to speak to her mother first. Irene Connor was one of the volunteers, and Gail found her in the anteroom of the general director's office talking on the phone. She looked unusually businesslike in a bright green dress and her size-five faux alligator pumps. Gail came closer. Her earrings were tiny frogs on lily pads, just visible beneath her auburn curls.
    Irene finished the call, which had to do with a tour for high school students, then retrieved a lit cigarette from a potted philodendron on the window sill. The window was open, drawing out the smoke. "Hello, darling." She took a last puff and crushed it out in the pot. "When the cat's away—" She dropped the butt into a piece of paper, which she wadded and threw into the trash. "Don't worry. Next week I'll have to be a good girl. Jeffrey Hopkins will be back. How nice to see you. What's up?"
    Gail closed the door and told her about Felix