Suspicion of Malice by Barbara Parker Page B

is motive enough."
    "So is getting rid of your husband before he can file for divorce." At the elevators Gail pressed the down arrow. "You wouldn't mind sharing your notes, would you? The prospective divorce client is now dead."
    "What a waste. He was so blond and buff, with pretty blue eyes. He gave me distinctly unmaternal urges. I'm such a bad girl. What was his wife's name? Something silly. Nikki, that's it. He paid for her breast implants, and she was nagging for lipo on her butt."
    The doors opened and the women went inside, facing their own images in bronze-tinted mirrors. Light jazz played on hidden speakers.
    Charlene leaned closer to the mirror to check her makeup, pinching a piece of mascara off her lashes. "Ask Bobby what he told the cops. Defendants al ways run off at the mouth. They just have to explain themselves. That tendency was of great help to me as a prosecutor, but it can screw up the defense. How's my hair?"
    "Fine."
    At the lobby the doors slid open, and Charlene put a foot across the track. "I'll be back from court by eleven-thirty. We'll leave at noon. Are you okay? Did you bring everything you need? You're still spending the night at my place, aren't you?"
    "Got my toothbrush and jammies," Gail said.
    "Good. We'll bring home some takeout and a bottle of Dom Perignon and get smashed. Tomorrow's Saturday; you can sleep as late as you want." Charlene smiled and gently squeezed Gail's hand. "It's going to be all right."

    Sitting at her desk, Gail worked through the corre spondence and pleadings and assorted junk that seemed to sprout like weeds on her desk every night. She typed notes into her computer, pausing every now and then to nibble a soda cracker. The nausea was easing, but mornings were still iffy.
    Calls came in during the morning but none from Robert Gonzalez. By 11:15, Gail had given up on him. Then Miriam buzzed her that he had arrived.
    "He's here? As in, standing on the other side of my door?" She looked at her watch and quietly cursed.
    Miriam brought him in. Bobby Gonzalez did not walk—he moved in a combination of lope and glide. A baggy green T-shirt hung from square shoulders. He wore loose cargo shorts, and the muscles in his legs were so sharply defined they looked chiseled.
    "I know I was supposed to call, but I wanted to meet you, so I took the bus—my car's got a radiator leak—and you have to make like two transfers, then get on the Metrorail, and by the time I got to the Dadeland Station I said, well, I'm here now, no point calling." He sounded as if he'd just stepped off the subway from the Bronx.
    Gail gestured toward a chair. "Yes. Well, we have a little time. I'm sorry, but I absolutely must leave at noon."
    "No problem. I can't stay too long, either." He dropped his backpack on the floor and set a Yankees ball cap on top of it. Black curls fell onto his forehead. "It's very nice of you to talk to me, Ms. Connor." Thick eyebrows arched, and his wide mouth hovered in the smile of a person who wasn't quite sure what to expect. He sat forward, then back, then on the edge of his chair, glancing around the room, taking in the plants on the windowsill, the maple wood furniture, the certificates and licenses on the wall.
    Gail said, "I enjoyed you last night in Tarantella."
    "Yeah? Thanks. I'm hoping to do it in the season, if they make me a soloist. It's a gut-buster. That's what Edward calls it."
    "Edward . . ."
    "Edward Villella. He's the director. He started the Miami City Ballet."
    "Of course. He's from New York."
    "Right, so am I. East Harlem. He's Italian, from Queens. I'm the same height as him, and we have the same body type. What I really want"—Bobby knocked his knuckles on the arm of the chair—"is to dance Rubies someday. It was choreographed for Edward by Balanchine. You know who he is, right?"
    "Of course. Well, I should come see you. When does the season start?"
    "Our first performance is in late October. Hey, anytime you want tickets, you let