Suspicion of Madness Read Online Free Page A

the homeowners under the table, and the case never got to trial. Anthony Quintana is quite the lawyer, isn't he?"
    It took Gail a few seconds to reply. "Yes, he is. But I don't work for him."
    "What do you mean? Aren't you his law partner?"
    "No. I'm a lawyer, but we don't practice together. He's my fiancé."
    "Your... fiancé. Oh." Lois Greenwald managed an apologetic smile. "I'm so sorry, Ms. Connor."
    "It's all right. It's fine. Could you show me to the cottage, please?"  
    "Of course."
    Head still reeling, Gail followed her hostess toward the stairs. She wanted food, a drink, a hot shower. She wanted to ask Anthony what the hell was going on.
     
     

 
    3
     
     
    Still unconscious, with a blood-alcohol level making the meter spin, Billy Fadden had just been put in a private room at Mariner's Hospital. Anthony Quintana stood at the end of the bed watching Billy's mother gently kiss his face and brush his hair off his forehead. The blond streaks in his hair hadn't been there four years ago, nor had the chain tattooed around his left bicep or the dark stubble of beard. An IV line dripped into a vein, and a plastic brace held his head straight. The staff had secured his wrists and ankles to the bed frame in case he woke up and decided to throw himself out a window. Fortunately for Billy, he hadn't put on much weight. He was still too scrawny to snap his own spinal cord.
    Anthony could recall having lost only one client to suicide. The man had written a note confessing to his wife's murder, placed it in an envelope on his desk marked "For my lawyer," then had put the barrel of a shotgun into his mouth and pulled the trigger.
    Billy had not written a note. He had called the police directly.
    Martin Greenwald had announced this mind-bending news fifteen minutes ago, escorting Anthony upstairs from the lobby. Before attempting suicide, Billy had called the Monroe County
    Sheriff's Office and confessed to killing Sandra McCoy. A homicide detective was now waiting at the end of the hall, presumably so that he and Billy could continue the conversation.
    "Teri?" When she looked around, Anthony said, "We have some decisions to make. I need to talk to you and Martin for a few minutes. Not here. I don't want to wake Billy."
    Her large brown eyes were swollen. "I can't leave him. You go, Martin. Is that okay?"
    "Sure, honey." He kissed the top of her head, and she vanished for a second into his ample embrace. "We'll be right outside."
    Teresa Flores had come over on the Mariel boatlift in her teens, had married early and unwisely, then had met Martin Greenwald. Martin had made more money on Wall Street in the 1980s than a man could reasonably use. His first wife was dead, his adult daughter attended university in London, and Martin had nothing to do but play at running a resort and hope his heart held out long enough for him to enjoy it. Teri was a dark-haired beauty; Martin was fourteen years older, bald and nearsighted. While she dazzled the guests, he stayed in the background with his palm trees and solar energy projects. He and Teri were clearly mismatched and completely devoted. Anthony didn't know how they had lasted. The burden of a stepson like Billy would have made most men think twice, no matter how attractive the mother.
    Crossing the hall Anthony noticed that the detective had not moved from his position near the nurses' station. His name was Jack Baylor. They had met on the last occasion Anthony had been called here to extricate Billy Fadden from trouble. The cop stood with a shoulder against the wall, a pistol on his hip.
    Anthony led Martin into the empty room across the hall. They left the door open and the end of Billy's bed in view. The spindly chrome legs of a visitor's chair creaked when Martin sat down. He had lost weight in four years, but he was still a big man. His face sagged, and for a moment he closed his eyes. "Thank you for coming."
    "Martin, are you okay?"
    "Me? Sure. Teri's taking this so hard. We