Suspicion of Deceit (6 page)

"No! Jesus. A fight would be glorious. Think of the publicity! Free, and lots of it. As treasurer of the Miami Opera, as Lord High Fiduciary Factotum, I guarantee that if the right-wingers came after us, donations would pour in so fast our adding machines would melt down. Pledges would double. We'd get checks from every opera company in the U.S. and half of those in Europe."

"Why didn't you say so at the meeting?"

"I didn't think of it till I was in the shower the next morning." He laughed, then grew serious again. "Listen, I wanted to talk to you about what the city might do if we stand up for Nolan. That shouldn't influence our decision, but we've got to consider it."

"What do you mean?"

"Who runs the city of Miami? To what ethnic group do most of our councilmen, clerks, and miscellaneous department heads and officials belong? They could claim they're afraid of violence at the performance and sock us for thousands of dollars for extra off-duty police protection."

"Seth, for heaven's sake—they can't do that."

"Wanna bet they'll try? Of course it's illegal. Violation of due process, free speech and assembly,
et cetera.
But do they know this? Do they care? When you applied for the position as the opera's general counsel, we all got a look at your resume. Top ten percent, law review at the U of Florida. For eight years you specialized in complex commercial litigation at one of Miami's best law firms. Impressive. But it's not the same. You'll need some help. I'm offering myself. I'm a lawyer as well as a CPA, and there's nothing I'd like better than to kick some bureaucratic ass."

They paused to let four students cross the sidewalk—Haitian, from the sound of their Creole.

"Yes, Anthony told me you used to be a lawyer. Do you still practice?"

"Not as such, but I still have my license, oiled and ready."

A license did not make a lawyer. Gail knew this, even if Seth Greer preferred to ignore it. "Where did you go to school?"

"Georgetown, 1973." Seth said this with some pride. "I clerked at the Justice Department on civil rights cases, then did some field work in Texas and New Mexico. I came to Miami in 'seventy-six and got a job with Legal Aid. Even after switching careers, I've maintained my interest in constitutional issues. I've talked to some people at the ACLU about Tom Nolan. They'd love to get involved."

Gail glanced sideways at him. "Why did you become a CPA?"

"You find that strange? Me too. I've always had an orderly mind—despite what you see on the outside, right? Figures you can always trust, that's the thing. I go into my office, shut the door, it's like ... a monastery. I even have a collection of plain-song and Gregorian chants. Around tax time, pop those suckers in the CD player—not a care in the world."

They had reached the end of the block. Two lanes of one-way traffic flowed north. A city bus took off in a gray cloud of exhaust.

Gail decided to prod just a little. "Anthony said you and Rebecca used to live together." When Seth stared back at her, she said, "Sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned it."

"No, it's okay, just keep it to yourself. I don't want people talking."

"Of course. I understand."

Seth turned around, and they headed back the way they had come. He kept his eyes on the sidewalk. "We're not involved currently. I mean, in case you were wondering. But damn, she's one hell of a classy woman, isn't she?"

She smiled at him. "You obviously care about her."

He continued walking, hands in his pockets. "Damned if I know what happened. Nicaragua was a bad scene. After that, I went my way, she went hers. Ten years later, when I moved back to Miami again, she was married to Lloyd."

"Nicaragua? I'm sorry, I must have missed something," Gail said.

Seth looked around. "Oops. Tony said he was going to tell you about that. He called me over the weekend and said he would. I guess he forgot."

"Well. This is mysterious." They reached the corner where they had met. Gail said, "I'm dying for an explanation."

"No biggie. We were in Nicaragua doing some volunteer work in the summer of 1978. Sandinista activity was picking up, and we had a hard time getting out. It was pretty grim, off and on. It's not the sort of experience you keep snapshots of in the photo album, if you know what I mean."

"No, I don't, actually." The wind blew her hair across her face, and she tossed it back.

"Well, you should talk to Tony." Seth looked at his watch. "I screwed you up on the time, didn't I?"

"No, it's all right, but I should go."

"What about my helping you out with Tom Nolan?"

"Oh." Gail had to remember what they had been discussing earlier. "I'll keep it in mind."

"Will you? I'd like to help."

"Yes. If the city makes any noise, I'll speak to you about it. But let's be clear about one thing. I'm the opera's attorney. I call the shots. Okay?"

"Yes, ma'am. Whatever you say."

In the lobby of the New World School of the Arts, Gail paused to look back through the glass doors. Seth Greer was gone. If she had seen him, just a glimpse through the crowd, she might have gone after him. Bought him that cup of coffee. Made sure she had heard him correctly.

They had been in Nicaragua. What had happened there? Not three months of summer studies at Managua U, but something so
grim
that Seth wouldn't talk about it. Whatever it was, Anthony had never mentioned it. Why?

"Dammit."

Gail wanted an answer to those questions, but it would have to wait. She asked the receptionist where to find Thomas Nolan.

He was on the second floor. Gail shifted to the back of the elevator to allow a dozen or more students to get on, some carrying instrument cases. She exited into a square lobby with gray carpet and metal lockers. One wall had been painted electric blue. From down the hall to her left, a chorus was singing. From another direction, two pianos played entirely different pieces.

She found the right office and looked through the glass panel beside the door. A man in a white oxford shirt with the cuffs rolled up sat at an upright piano. This had to be Nolan. She had seen him only briefly at the fundraiser, and that from a dozen yards away, but recalled blond hair, wide shoulders, and big hands—which now were dancing lightly over the keys. For a while he hummed wordlessly, then stopped and with a pencil marked something in the book of music he was playing from. His lips moved. He tapped the pencil in rhythm, then dropped it onto the piano and resumed. He sang softly in Italian.

Standing on the other side of the glass, Gail felt an odd sense of familiarity stir in the far corners of her memory. Not the man, surely. The music? She reached and came up with nothing. The piano stopped. He turned a page.

Gail knocked. Nolan's hair, tied at his neck, shifted as he glanced around. He said to come in, and she turned the knob. The room was crammed with books, papers, and magazines. The lid of the piano was stacked with them. It was also draped with a lace mantilla. When he stood up, the room seemed even smaller.

"I'm Gail Connor. I left a message that I'd be here at one o'clock. I'm a little late."

"Yes, of course," he murmured absently, looking around for a place for her to sit. He finally moved a box of music off the desk chair and set it on the floor beside the piano, shoving a gold-painted Roman breastplate aside to make space.

As she put her purse down on the desk, Gail noticed the walls. They were covered with posters, black-and-white photographs, framed reviews of performances, signed programs. So many costumes and singers. With her eyes sweeping across them, she could almost hear music. Distant but distinct, a jumble of instruments and arias.

Nolan picked up a Spanish fan. Snapped it open, then shut it with long pale fingers. "This isn't my office," he said. "It belongs to the head of the department. They say she was an excellent Carmen."

Gail had expected a deep, booming voice, not this slow and quiet speech, pronounced so carefully it seemed scripted.

"What were you playing?"

"Oh. Puccini. 'Vissi d'arte' from
Tosca.
It's a part for a dramatic soprano—not me, obviously. One of my students will sing it today. I have twenty students, and we do five at each class. I have the piano scores so I can go over their selections beforehand."

"You're not teaching just basses and baritones?"

"No, anyone. Sopranos, tenors, it doesn't matter. They choose an aria and we work on it. These kids are quite good."

"High school?"

"A voice that young isn't ready for opera. These are upper-division college, and a couple of grad students. Singers ripen around thirty. The next fifteen, even twenty years, are golden. We hang onto it as long as we can." Thomas Nolan sat on the piano bench, leaning forward, elbows on the thighs of faded jeans.

"I heard you sing last weekend on Fisher Island. You have such talent."

"Thank you." His face was all ridges.and hollows, with a prominent nose and clearly defined jaw. Blue eyes, set deeply under straight brows, fixed on her with complete self-possession.

"You must be used to hearing compliments."

He continued to gaze back at her until Gail wondered if her mascara had run. Then he smiled, just a slight upturn of his lips. "When I was young, I wanted to be a concert pianist. Miss Wells—my teacher—finally said no, you don't have the talent for that. You should sing. Who wants to hear that at fifteen? But I took her advice, and here I am. What if I hadn't listened?" He laughed softly. "I owe everything to her. I would have made a lousy piano player."

"We can all be grateful to Miss Wells." Gail smiled, then said, "I should explain why I'm here."

"I think I know. When I saw your message I was curious. The attorney for the Miami Opera. I called my manager. He had heard nothing. The opera's general director is out of town, but the grapevine says I might be fired for having been to Cuba. I said no, that's insane. There must be some mistake. Do you have bad news for me?" His brows lifted.

Gail said she did not, but spent a few minutes telling him what the opera had to worry about. She went over various choices, not stressing any of them more than the next.

"Incredible. Only in Miami. Are they going to shoot at me? I'll be famous."

"You're famous already."

"Hardly. Tenors are famous. Basses are usually ignored. Well, I can't leave the cast, that's out of the question. This is my debut in the title role in
Don Giovanni.
Did you know that Luciano Pavarotti had his American debut in Miami? It's one of the top companies in the U.S., and continued good reviews mean a lot to my career." He propped his chin on knitted fingers. "Could I be prosecuted?"

"That's highly unlikely. Thousands of Americans travel to Cuba every year, and unless someone is provocative about it, the federal authorities don't press the point. For the opera, however, it's not quite so easy. I need to know about your trip—at whose invitation you went, what you did there, and so on. Do you mind?"

He assented with a slight lifting of shoulders. "It wasn't sponsored by the Cuban government. I was in Dortmund, Germany. The weather had been cold and wet for weeks, and I had just done . . .
Lucia di Lammermoor?
Yes. Some of my friends in the cast said let's go to Cuba. That sounded like fun. I had to start rehearsals in Houston within a month, so it made a nice detour. I came back through Mexico."

"Were they Americans, your friends?"

"Three Germans and one Englishwoman. We stayed... where was it? The Tropicoco on Varadero Beach. There were loads of Canadians and Brits—and Americans, too. I wasn't the only one. There were a lot of international musicians around that week for a music festival—mostly jazz, as you would guess. One of the guys told me he'd gotten us on the program. I can't remember what I sang. We didn't get paid. It was to have something to do, that's all. They took us into Havana, to an old theater downtown. Such a heartbreaking city. You can see how beautiful it must have been years ago."

"Who did you sing for?"

"Just . . . people. I believe there was a large group of students from the university. I doubt they had ever heard music from opera performed live. I was glad to show them a small part of the outside world. All the events were listed in the newspaper, but this wasn't a major event. I didn't see any cameras."

"I don't suppose you noticed a tall, gray-bearded gentleman in the audience."

That brought a smile. "No."

"Who paid for your hotel room?"

"My English friend."

"Who was she?"

"A soprano in the cast."

"Does she have a name?"

"Lucia." With a smile he shook his head. "I'd rather not say. She was married."

Gail glanced again at the photographs crowding the walls. Silent, all of them. Carmen, Salome, Lady Macbeth. Bearded men in cloaks, their arms spread. Everyone in makeup and costume. High drama.

"So you went to Cuba at no cost to yourself, the government didn't pay you, and you sang on the spur of the moment for ordinary people, including a group of students. Is that about it?"

"Yes."

As she looked at him, there was another flicker of something familiar, but again it swerved out of reach. "May I call you Gail?"

"Please."

"And I'm Tom. What do you think, Gail? What will they do with me?"

"At this point, I don't know. It's not my decision."

"Convey this to the board: If they ask me to leave, I will take legal action."

"I'm certain you would," she said.

He made his slow smile. "Nothing against you."

"I know."

Nolan glanced at his watch. "Follow me upstairs. We can continue our conversation on the way." He stood at the piano and picked up a stack of scores. "This is so ridiculous."

"Yes, I agree."

"Would you like to sit in on the class? They're used to singing in front of visitors." Nolan shuffled through the books as if looking for one in particular. "You'd be impressed by how good they are."

"Today? I don't think I—"

"Ah!" He pulled one out of the stack. "This is for a senior I'm working with. I love this part. Leporello, the servant to Don Giovanni. I've done this aria scads of times. It's great for a bass. Great fun."