Suspicion of Deceit by Barbara Parker Page B

her, then went to join a group of his friends. "No, I dropped by on some other matter and thought I'd take a look at the-rehearsal."
    "They don't like visitors," Dixon said.
    "You're here."
    "I'm taking off."
    Gail gestured toward Dixon's jacket. "I didn't see a biplane in the parking lot."
    "Uh-uh. A Cessna Citation Five jet out at Tamiami Airport. My new toy. I'm taking her out for a spin. You ought to come along sometime."
    There was something sexy about this man, Gail decided, surprising herself. He was up in his fifties, with a thick neck and heavy shoulders. His white hair was clipped short. But such a guy. She had heard that Dixon had been a helicopter pilot in Vietnam. Gail imagined him in a scene from Apocalypse Now. Flight helmet and sunglasses. Rockets streaking into the jungle. The rattle of a machine gun in the open doorway. He had stolen Rebecca away from her first husband, the banker. The poor man had fled rather than fight for her, so the story went.
    Gail turned her back on the room and spoke quietly. "Lloyd, let me ask you something. Did you speak with Tom before I went to see him? Maybe offer him some ideas on how to respond to my questions?"
    His smile lifted one side of his mouth. "No, Gail, I didn't. Why are you making a big deal out of this? Let me clue you in. The Cubans I know think it's a joke. The others—the so-called hard-liners—they don't really give a shit. It's a pose they have to take, or they can't belong to the club. They got here all pissed off because they didn't have the power anymore. Now they do. They're older, they'd rather go about their business. My advice is, don't push it. What happens, happens."
    "Maybe you should tell that to Octavio Reyes."
    He continued to look at her. "Who is Octavio Reyes?"
    Gail said, "The Cuban radio commentator on WRCL."
    "A member of the club. Don't worry about it." From his back pocket Dixon took a billed cap, dropped it on his head, and smoothed it down. The words DIXON AIR TRANSPORT made a circle around a small jet.
    "You might worry," Gail said, "when the receptionist out there starts getting death threats. I'm going to recommend that the opera hire a full-time security guard."
    "Tell the receptionist to hang up the goddamn phone."
    "If anything happened to one of the employees or musicians and we had not taken precautions, the opera could be held liable."
    "Lawyers." Dixon shook his head. "Hell, I don't care. If a security guard makes you sleep at night, hire one." He grabbed the door's metal push bar in a meaty hand. The smile reappeared. Then he winked. "Some fun, huh?"
    Not wanting to follow him through the corridor, Gail crossed the rehearsal room and looked out the window. The vertical blinds were open, giving a view of the parking lot.
    Who, he had asked, is Octavio Reyes?
    There had been at Gail's former law firm a partner so elderly he had clerked at the Supreme Court during the Depression. He would often drop a quote from Cicero or Virgil into his oral arguments—in Latin, making Miami juries squint in confusion. He was finally exiled to a tiny office, where he wrote convoluted, increasingly philosophical legal briefs, which clerks in their twenties would rewrite, then laugh about over lunch. Gail had been among them. She rode down in an elevator with him one night and talked about the trial she would do the next day—her first. How do you tell, she asked, if a witness is lying? Easy. If he's lying, he either looks at you or he doesn't.
    It had taken a long time, but the meaning had finally clicked. Sometimes the eyes drift away. Sometimes they stay right on you, not a blink.
    A blue Ford pickup truck was parked among the cars and vans out there. Not a new one, but the kind a man could toss engine parts into and not worry about scratching the paint. The windows were tinted. There was a trailer hitch. A CB antenna. A bumper sticker with an American flag. Dixon appeared, keys in his hand.
    Just as he opened his door, a silver