by Paul Levine
"She's detoxed and rehabbed and ready for civilian life."
"You're shitting me."
"I examined her myself for the Corrections Department. Volunteered my services. Janice was quite credible when addressing the commissioners."
"You helped her get out. Why?"
Kreeger smiled. "To see how far you'll go to protect someone you love. Did I mention that your sister's goal is to start over? What did she call it? 'Form a new family unit. Me and my boy.' Not very grammatical, but extremely moving."
"I don't believe this. You helped her so she can come after Bobby."
"Is there anything as powerful as a mother's love?"
"You son-of-a-bitch. You killed Nancy Lamm. You killed Jim Beshears. And you want me to kill my sister to prove I'm just like you. Well, you're nuts! I'm not like you, Kreeger."
"We'll see about that, won't we? And why do you keep bringing up poor Jim Beshears? Is it because you've been looking high and low for that boat captain?"
So he does know!
But if Kreeger was concerned, he didn't show it. A bemused smile played at his lips. "Find Senor De la Fuente yet, Solomon?"
"As a matter of fact, I have. He's signed one hell of an affidavit. Maybe you'll get a chance to see it."
"You'll give it to the State Attorney, I suppose. No statute of limitations on murder. Get him to indict me, that your plan?"
Kreeger slid open a desk drawer, and Steve caught his breath. If he came out with a gun, Steve would fly across the desk. Like sliding into third headfirst.
"If anything happens to me, my office is under strict instructions to deliver that affidavit to Ray Pincher."
"Strict instructions, are they?" Kreeger laughed heartily, like coins ka-chinging out of a slot machine. A second later, he pulled an emery board from the drawer and began filing his nails. "So how is the good captain? I haven't seen him in a long time."
"Retired. Living a quiet life. But he's got a great memory."
Kreeger showed Steve a patient smile. "I'm sure he's retired. And I'm sure it's quite quiet. The 'great memory' bit, not too convincing. Last time I saw Oscar, he wasn't doing that well."
Steve felt a chill, even though it was warm in the small office. Suddenly, he knew exactly where Kreeger was headed.
"Oscar had quite a drinking problem, you know," Kreeger continued. "And when he drank, he talked nonsense. Kept telling tales about these two med students who'd had a fight on his boat and one of them ended up dead. A fight! Oscar must have been drunk that day."
"You say you saw him?"
"Floating facedown. Must have slipped hopping from the rail to his dock. Could happen to anyone."
"And I'll bet he had a dent in his skull, too."
"That'll happen if you hit a concrete dock on the way into the drink."
So there it was, Kreeger delivering a message. Threaten me and I'll kill you. Just like he killed Beshears, Lamm, and De la Fuente. Steve felt his jaw muscles tighten. Yeah, Psycho Therapy was the perfect name for this freak's boat.
"Three bodies in the water," Steve said, shaking his head.
"Is there a better place to die?"
"Meaning what?"
"I've never really believed in ashes to ashes and dust to dust. We all crawled from the swamp, so how fitting to return to a watery grave. From the swamp to the sea, Solomon. That's our journey. From the swamp to the sea."
Twenty
TALKING STUPID
"You kissed a naked woman?" Victoria said.
"No. Yes. Not exactly." Steve realized he was kerflumping. He opened the stainless-steel refrigerator door and looked inside. Empty, but the cool air felt great. They were in the model kitchen of a model townhouse on a model block three hundred yards from the ocean. Casa del Mar. Or Mar Bella. Or El Pollo del Mar, for all Steve knew. He hadn't bothered to read the sign.
"You kissed a naked woman!" Her voice had taken on the accusatory tone of a sentencing judge: "You strangled a helpless kitten."
"You're focusing on that?" Steve couldn't believe it. He had scarcely started telling Victoria about his visit to Kreeger, and she couldn't get past the suntanned nude in the backyard. "What's important is that Kreeger pretty much admitted killing De la Fuente. That makes three!"
"Is she pretty?"
"How many does it take to be serial killer?" Steve mused.
"I'll bet she has a nice body. That night in the restaurant, she looked very fit."
"More than two killings, for sure. But are three enough?"
"The way she stared at you, I knew something was going on."
"You know what this means, Vic?"
"You're cheating on me."
"What! What are you talking about?"
"You kissed a naked woman."
"Actually," Steve said, wishing there were beer in the model refrigerator, "she kissed me."
"But you didn't resist."
"What was I supposed to do? Clobber her?"
"No. I'll do that."
"She says Kreeger tells her everything. I was working her."
"I bet you were."
Steve kept opening and closing the refrigerator door, just to have something to do with his hands. The kitchen had a thirteen-foot ceiling, black granite countertops, and a teak work island the size of a racing sloop. The townhouse also had a seven-figure price tag that Steve knew they couldn't afford. But Victoria had wanted to look at the place, so here they were. He knew that women often shopped for items they had no intention of buying. He didn't know why this was so, but just last week Victoria had dragged him to Bal Harbour, where he sat patiently while she tried on a variety of exotic outfits by Italian designers. Each flimsy little frock had a price tag somewhat north of a flat-screen TV, and, of course, Victoria didn't buy a thing. Men would never do that, though he could remember once taking a test drive in a Ferrari, just for the hell of it.
"Anyway, it was all business," he said, closing the refrigerator door. And, hopefully, the subject of the naked Amanda.
Victoria studied him a moment, her brow furrowed. Steve had seen the look many times, though usually when she approached a hostile witness on the stand. "For the record," she said, "did you become aroused?"
Man, she just won't let up.
"Nope. It was way too quick for that."
"So, had there been time for a second kiss, you would have become aroused. Isn't that true?"
"Jeez, why did I have to fall for a trial lawyer? Here I am, being honest, telling you everything, and you're like Ken Starr in front of the Grand Jury."
"You must have flirted with her."
"I just stood there, being my irresistible self, but you're missing the point, Vic. This gives me a great chance to try to flip her."
"Your choice of words is absolutely Freudian."
"Maybe she wants to break away from him. If I help her do that, maybe she'll help me nail him."
"So you and your irresistible self will have to spend time with her, I suppose."
"Amanda shares Kreeger's bed. Who better to get close to if I want to bring him down?"
"I liked your first plan better. The one where you get Kreeger to kill you."
"Try to kill me." Steve checked out the built-in microwave. It had more gauges than the control panel of a jet. "C'mon, Vic. I'm gonna need your help with her."
"How many hands does it take to lube a woman with suntan oil?"
"You can give me tips on how to get her to open up."
"What can I tell you?" Victoria said, so airily Steve thought she might float away. "You've already gotten her naked."
"Hiya, lovebirds!" Jackie Tuttle burst into the kitchen from the patio, armed with her BlackBerry and soft leather briefcase. Her shoes and blouse shared something in common, Steve thought. Both were see-through. The shoes seemed to be made of Lucite. The blouse was a flimsy black material. And her gold hoop earrings were so big, you could toss a basketball through them. "Did you see the Jacuzzi, Vic? I can picture the two of you sipping spritzers and watching the sun set
over the ocean."
"The sun sets over the Everglades," Steve said.
"Hot tubs give me yeast infections," Victoria said.
"Ooh. You two are fighting."
"No we're not," they said in unison.
"Great," Jackie replied. "Did you see the his-andher closets?"
Steve ran a hand across the cool granite countertop. "Jackie, we can't afford this place."
Jackie glared at him. "Did I mention the windows exceed the hurricane specs? Won't shatter, even if Tori throws something heavy at you and misses."
"Jackie, Steve's right," Victoria said. "It's too much money."
Shaking a two-tone fingernail in Steve's face, Jackie said: "This is your fault."
"Now what'd I do?"
"If you'd let Tori upgrade the practice, you could buy a place in Gables Estates or at least Cocoplum."
"We're not gonna whore for banks and insurance companies."
"I suppose defending strip clubs is a high calling," Jackie shot back.
"First Amendment issues always are."
"And those sweaty migrant workers and illegal aliens you represent for free?"
"When the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock, they were illegal aliens."
Jackie scowled at him. "You don't get it, Steve. Unless you two start making some real money, you'll never be able to afford a decent pup tent. Not in this market."
"I won't compromise my principles. Vic knows the rules."
"Rules?" Victoria pounced. "Like you're laying down the law? Like you're the Chief Justice of this relationship?"
"I didn't mean it that way, Vic. But it's Solomon and Lord, not the other way around."
Victoria folded her arms across her chest. "Maybe it would be better if it was just Steve Solomon, flying solo."
"C'mon. I'm senior to you. You have to acknowledge that. I've tried more cases in more courts and-"
"Been held in contempt more times."
"But we're equal partners in everything else," he said.
Jackie Tuttle gathered up her briefcase and started for the door, pausing only for one last shot. "Steve, let me tell you what Tori won't. You've got a very thick skull."
"You're wrong, Jackie. She's already told me."
"Has she told you this? Sometimes you're a real jerk, and if you don't watch it, you're gonna lose the best woman in the world."
Steve turned to Victoria, waiting for her to disagree. He waited five seconds, or was it five years? Nothing. Then he said something stupid. No, stupid wouldn't begin to describe it, he thought later. Maybe it was that idiotic male need to appear cool and unconcerned. He didn't know the reason. But instead of professing his love and care for Victoria, he said, "Hey, we're all free agents. Vic can do whatever she wants."
Jackie headed straight for the door, and Victoria turned her back on him.
Victoria stayed silent on the drive down Collins Avenue. Steve tuned the radio to the Margaritaville station, all that annoying island music he loved and she found so juvenile. When Jimmy Buffet began singing, "Beach House on the Moon," Victoria leaned forward and turned the volume down. She'd been processing their latest conversations, starting with the other day when Mr. Sensitivity had basically told her to butt out, that he would decide what was right for Bobby, and if he wanted to go down to the Goldberg house and swing on the chandelier like a deranged chimpanzee, then by God, he would. Then, just now, Steve's "rules" for "his" firm. Followed by his invitation to take a hike. Even though she knew he didn't mean it, she was fuming. His interest-professional or otherwise-in Amanda the Naked Tramp wasn't helping, either.
So irritating. So aggravating. So condescending.
And he doesn't even know it.
He can hurt my feelings and put distance between us without even realizing what he's done.
As they passed through the dingy burg of Surfside, she shot a look at him. "Steve, are you sure you really want to move in together?"
"Sure. Haven't we discussed this already?"
Shutting off discussion again.
"What are you saying? The court has ruled?"
"Still with that? I'm not ruling on anything. We made a mutual decision, and-"
"Face it, Steve. You're not ready for a real relationship." Then she was silent again.
Steve figured the best way to get out of the personal relationship funk was to talk business. With Victoria staring straight ahead, he summarized his session with Kreeger. Back at the townhouse, Victoria had gotten so hung up on Amanda, he hadn't fully debriefed her. Now he told her about the doc's hypothetical admission that if he'd murdered Nancy Lamm, he did it only to protect someone else. And then the news that Steve's larcenous and drug-addled sister Janice, a shoo-in for Worst Mother of the Century, was a free woman, thanks to Kreeger's intervention.
"Kreeger tried to bait me about Janice. Said I'd kill my own sister if she was a threat to Bobby. You think that's what he wants? To set me up to kill Janice?"
No response.
"Or maybe he kills Janice and pins it on me. That would appeal to the freak."
They passed the Eden Roc and the Fontainebleau, both undergoing major renovations, neither Frank Sinatra nor Sammy Davis, Jr., anywhere in sight. Traffic was backed up at the bridge leading to Arthur Godfrey Road, and Steve eased to a stop.
"What I can't figure," Steve rambled on, "is who was Kreeger supposedly protecting when he killed Nancy Lamm? He doesn't have any kids. Who's this mythical person who's analogous to Bobby?"
"What did Kreeger say, exactly?" Victoria asked, breaking her silence.
Great. She can't resist a mental challenge.
"Best I remember, he said, 'Who could blame you if you resorted to deadly force to protect an innocent child? To protect the one you love?' "
"He's talking about you and him both. You see that, right?"
"Sure, he's saying I would kill to protect Bobby. But who's his kid? Kreeger doesn't have any children."
"Technically, neither do you."
"I have a nephew I love, and Kreeger knows that."
The light turned green and Victoria said: "You really don't see it?"
"No. That's why I'm asking for your help."
"If you'd stop looking for serpentine paths, you'd see how simple and straightforward it is."
"Okay, already. Tell me before the Everglades disappear."
"You're Bobby's uncle."
"Yeah?"
"So who calls Kreeger 'Uncle Bill'?"
"Amanda!"
"She'd have been what, about thirteen when Nancy Lamm was killed. A child."
Questions flashed through his mind, and he spoke them aloud. "But why'd Amanda need protecting? Who is she, anyway? And is Kreeger even telling the truth?"
"I'm sure you'll figure it out, Steve." She motioned toward the curb. "Drop me off on Lincoln Road."
"What! We're finally cracking this case here."
"I need new shoes."
"C'mon. This isn't about shoes. What's going on?"
"I choose to go shopping. Just the way you choose to reject a beautiful condo on Brickell and a beautiful townhouse in Bal Harbour."
"So you're pissed at me? That's why you're buying shoes?"
"Let's just say the Jimmy Choos are on the other foot now."
Twenty-One
A WOMAN'S RIGHT TO SHOES
Victoria didn't really need new shoes. What woman really needs hot pink Jimmy Choo strappies or black patent leather Dolce amp; Gabbanas? Or even gunmetal Via Spiga slides and a pair of beige snakeskin Miu Mius?
But need is a relative term, Victoria knew. Maybe she didn't require shoes the way she required oxygen. But just now, she needed to get away from Steve for a few hours to think. And trying on purple velvet Manolo Blahniks was free, even if the shoes themselves were not. She had no intention of buying something she couldn't afford, but just why the hell couldn't she afford them?
Was Jackie right? Was Steve holding her back? Jackie didn't put it that way, exactly. But isn't that what
she'd meant?
After Steve dropped her off, Victoria began walking west along Lincoln Road, passing the shops and cafes. Tall, willowy young women sat with suntanned men, sipping lattes and whiling away the afternoon.
Who are these people? Don't they ever work?
The more she thought about the current state of her relationship with Steve, the more upset she became. Moving in together now seemed like an idiotic idea. Where would it lead? Steve hadn't even mentioned marriage. And was that even what she wanted? Could they get along over the long haul? Was love enough to carry a relationship? Didn't there have to be some commonality in personalities?
So many questions.
Her thoughts returned to the house they couldn't afford and the shoes that were ridiculously expensive.
Why shouldn't I be able to splurge on some wafery Italian footwear that costs nine hundred bucks?
She thought about it a minute. Wasn't there a constitutional right involved here? A Woman's Right to Shoes. Ha!
Her thoughts kept returning to Steve. Right now, he was so embroiled with Kreeger, he'd let the practice slide. The key in any law firm is to keep the faucets flowing. It's not enough to just work on the cases already in-house. You have to prime the pump, constantly bringing in new clients. And what was Steve, the self-appointed rainmaker, hustling up these days?
City of Coral Gables v. Fiore. Defending a homeowner who, having been ordered to cut his lawn, mowed "FUCK YOU" into the three-foot-tall grass. Then there was the DUI case for the Zamboni driver at the Florida Panthers hockey games. And let's not forget Sheila and Max Minkin, suing their rabbi for showing up late to their wedding. Steve tried one of his old tricks with those two whiners.
He brings in a lousy case with obnoxious clients, then tries to palm it off on me.
She was so angry at Steve right now, she wished she knew one of Herbert's Yiddish curses. The one about having an onion grow in your navel. Yes, that would do quite nicely. Lacking that, she silently cursed her lover and partner in English, conjuring up the most wicked voodoo she knew:
Dearest Steve. May you have to spend the afternoon with Max and Sheila Minkin.
