Suspicion of Malice by Barbara Parker Page A

favors for anyone not on a time sheet." Charlene stood at her desk shuffling through papers. "There is no such thing as a five-min ute phone consultation, don't you know that? It's like five-minute sex. They always want another one, and they never respect you for it."
    Gail had caught Charlene Marks just as she was preparing to leave for a hearing downtown. Charlene handled divorces for sports figures, entertainers, poli ticians, or anyone else with enough money to fight over. Before that, she'd been a prosecutor, slamming prison doors on murderers, rapists, and assorted armed thugs. Gail specialized in civil trial practice. Of criminal law, she had a fairly good grasp of where to find the county jail. She assumed that Charlene would be able to supply the guidance needed to field a simple telephone call from Angela Quintana's boyfriend.
    "Come on, Charlene. What do I tell him?" Sliding files into a slim leather portfolio, Charlene looked over her glasses. The silver frames repeated the strands in her salt-and-pepper hair. "You don't need five minutes. It takes five seconds. 'Bobby, if the police contact you, tell them to call me. Tell them you are so sorry, but your mean, nasty lawyer has ordered you not to say a word.' See how easy that is?"
    "For him. What do I tell the police?"
    "What you should do," Charlene said, "is to send this kid to a criminal lawyer. But since you've already promised to give him a quickie— Who's the victim, by the way?"
    "Roger Cresswell. It's been in the news. Have you heard about it?"
    "Good God. Yes, I have heard about it. I've been particularly interested because about two months ago, Roger Cresswell came to see me. He sat right in that chair. He thought his wife was cheating on him. Then he called a week later and said never mind, so I never minded." Charlene folded her glasses. "They're quite wealthy—his family, I mean. Roger would have inherited everything if someone hadn't pulled his plug. May I ask you a question? What are you think ing? This isn't just any old murder case. The media are all over it. This kid—Bobby, right?—if there's even a chance he could be arrested, leave it alone. You don't have the experience."
    "All right. If it gets sticky, I'll refer it out. You know, Charlene, this isn't just any kid, either. Robert Gonzalez dances for the Miami City Ballet. They have scads of donors and board members with business contacts, and if it gets around that I've done a credit able job with one of their dancers, well . . ."
    "Ahhhh. I see. Assuming he's innocent." Charlene lifted a slate gray, raw silk jacket off its hanger be hind the door. "Not to throw ants on your picnic, but I was in the system for fifteen years, and believe me, ninety percent of them are guilty as hell."
    "But he hasn't even been arrested, much less indicted. If I can show that Bobby couldn't have done it, they'll leave him alone. He'll be happy, the ballet will be happy, and I might pick up a few clients."
    '"You mean represent him solely for purposes of striking him off the list of suspects. Yes, you could do that, but be prepared to dump him the moment you hear the words 'arrest warrant.’ Not to worry. I have a referral list of criminal lawyers." Charlene put the narrow strap of a black Gucci bag over her shoul der. "Follow me out, we'll talk."
    Charlene's skirts were hemmed several inches above her knees, and the slit in the back revealed an incredible pair of legs. Even with her mane of gray hair, men thirty years younger would stare. She waved goodbye to the receptionist, and pushed through the heavy paneled door.
    "Okay, here's what you do. Debrief him on every thing he did for several hours either side of when Roger Cresswell was last seen, and when they found his body. Where was your client during all this time? Who'saw him? Witnesses, witnesses. And have him tell you what he knows about Roger Cresswell to sniff out a reason somebody else might have whacked him—but a gold Rolex