by Paul Levine
"And the reason you're not on the beach at Impanema is that you fell in love?"
Drake tipped his glass forward, the ice cubes clinking, the drinker's signal of affirmation. "I wanted to tell Irene everything. Beg for forgiveness. Promise to go straight so she and I could start a life together."
"Where? In the condo that's being foreclosed?"
"As I have no residence of my own, that was a distinct possibility." Drake emitted a laugh that was more of a sigh. "It's turning out rather like an O. Henry story, isn't it?"
"I wouldn't know. Henry Aaron, I might know."
"Oh, I think you understand me quite well. You're a good deal smarter than you let on. And you're an excellent judge of character."
"When I was a kid, I'd go to my father's courtroom and watch trials. For a while, I'd close my eyes and just listen to witnesses. Then I'd cover my ears and just watch. I'd put everything I'd seen and heard together. It was a game I played to figure out who was lying."
"It serves you well to this day. You saw through me in an instant."
"Wasn't that hard. I'm just surprised Irene came to me for help. I'm not on the list of her five hundred favorite people."
"Oh, you're wrong about that. Irene likes you. Worries about you because of that Dr. Bill character. She thinks you're playing with fire there."
That stopped Steve. "What does she know about that?"
"What you say to Victoria she repeats to Irene, who then tells me."
Of course. Mothers and daughters.
"Jeez, next you'll be telling me the last time we had sex."
"Two weeks, Tuesday. Right after Sports Center."
"During. The hockey highlights gave us a window."
"I've listened to Dr. Bill on the radio," Drake said. "All that psychobabble to sell worthless books and tapes."
"Do you know about his theory of evolutionary psychology? We're all hardwired for murder. We're programmed by millions of years of evolution that favors survival of those who slaughter their enemies."
"And all this time, I thought we were just programmed for larceny."
"It's a pretty simple theory. Our genes carry the same murderous impulses as Paleolithic man."
"Interesting," Drake said. "If our DNA instructs us to kill, why fight it? The ideal rationalization for murder."
They each sipped their drinks, mulling it over. "Kreeger says I'm just as much a killer as he is," Steve said, after a moment. "For a while, I thought he was planting that seed in my brain, trying to set me up to kill my sister."
"And now?"
"Some days, he says we're both killers. And some days, we're both heroes. Kreeger claims he rescued a girl the way I rescued my nephew. But what Kreeger really did was sick and twisted."
"It sounds like a game to him. Putting you through the wringer like that."
"Whenever the bastard mentions Bobby's name, a chill goes up my spine."
"He's found your weakness, then."
"My nephew?"
"Your love for him. If Kreeger wanted to hurt you, he'd go after the child. Isn't that apparent?"
Too much so, Steve thought.
The way to cripple me, the way to inflict pain without end, would be to hurt Bobby.
What kind of man would do such a thing? Bill Kreeger would. The man who sees himself as the product of millions of years of evolution.
But then, so am I.
Kreeger was wrong about most things, but he was right about something. It's an essential truth of human nature that to protect those we love, every one of us will kill.
Thirty
OF NYMPHS AND NUDNIKS
With Bobby riding shotgun and Jimmy Buffet singing about "Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes," Steve drove north on Alhambra in the Gables. The Biltmore golf course peeked out from between the sprawling Mediterranean and Colonial homes. They crossed the bridge over the waterway at Taragona and slowed near at the intersection of Salvatierra Drive.
Kreeger's place was a block away, and Steve was edgy. All his plans had been shot to hell. First, he had tried to simply warn off Kreeger. A tough-guy routine. "If you come after me, I'll land on you like a ton of concrete." Yeah, real impressive. Then he'd tried to spook Kreeger with tales of searching for—and finding—De la Fuente. But with the boat captain dead, Kreeger had nothing to fear. Trying to enlist Amanda as an accomplice hadn't worked, either. She'd been lying in wait for Steve. Naked and flirtatious. Clearly put up to it by Kreeger. Maybe to sabotage his relationship with Victoria. Who knew? The bastard was after him on multiple fronts.
And today's plan? A speck of an idea, totally lacking in sophistication.
Illegal, yes. Dangerous, yes. But sophisticated, no.
Judge Schwartz had ordered him to bring Bobby to Kreeger for evaluation. As long as they had to be in Kreeger's house, why not snoop around? Why not burgle the place and see what he could find?
"We're early," Bobby said. "Twenty-one minutes and thirty-four seconds early."
Steve pulled up to the curb and stopped. "I want you to wait in the car. I have something to do."
"What?"
"Can't tell you. And when we see Kreeger, don't mention our showing up early, okay?"
Bobby took off his glasses and cleaned them on the front of his Florida Marlins jersey, his lips pursed. His Solomon & Lord baseball cap was turned around backwards. "Are you gonna get in trouble, Uncle Steve?"
"Why would you say that?"
"Because you're wearing a tool belt and you're not a carpenter."
"It's a jogger's fanny pack, not a tool belt."
"Then why'd you put those lock picks and master keys in it?"
"You ask a lot of questions, squirt."
"Florida Statute eight-ten-point-zero-six," Bobby said. "It's a crime to possess burglary tools with intent to trespass or steal."
That damn echolalia, Steve thought. Bobby had been hanging around the office the day Steve signed up Omar Ortega, a kid charged with possessing a metal ruler suitable for breaking into parking meters. Ortega professed his innocence, even while paying his retainer in quarters and dimes.
"We're invited into Kreeger's house, right, Bobby?"
"Yeah, the judge says we gotta go."
"So I'm not trespassing. I'm just arriving early. If there are any locked doors or cabinets, I might just want to poke around a bit."
"Mom says if you go to jail, I can come live with her."
"Very hospitable of her."
"She said even if you don't go to jail, she's gonna get a judge to give her custody."
"How do you feel about that, kiddo?"
"I know she treated me really bad, but she was so messed up then, I don't think she could help it. I don't hate her or anything, and she kind of needs me because she's all alone. I mean, she doesn't even have any friends."
They sat in silence a moment and Steve felt his stomach knot with fear. In a few moments, he'd be sneaking through Kreeger's house like a cat burglar, but the only thing frightening him was that his nephew seemed ready to desert him. "What are you saying, Bobby? You want to live with your mom because you feel sorry for her?"
Tears formed in the boy's eyes "I know you hate her because of what she did to me."
"I don't hate her. She's still my sister, so somewhere deep inside, I suppose I still have feelings for her."
"And she's still my mom."
That again.
There was a river of sweetness that ran through Bobby that Steve didn't share. Truth be told, those feelings he claimed to still have for his sister were mostly homicidal in nature.
"I just want to do what's best for you," Steve said, fighting the urge to yell: "If I hadn't taken you away from her, you'd be dead by now!"
"I want the two of you to stop fighting."
"Okay. What else?"
"I want to see my mom, but I want to live with you, Uncle Steve. You and me, we're tight, right?"
Steve felt his muscles unclench. "Okay, I'll see what I can work out with
Janice. I'd rather know where you are than have you sneaking out to see her. But I want some proof she's cleaned up her act. Deal?"
"Deal." Bobby reached over and they pounded knuckles.
Steve opened his door and had one foot out of it when Bobby added, "Please be careful, Uncle Steve. If you get in trouble, what will happen to me?"
* * *
A Lexus SUV sat in Kreeger's driveway. Steve figured the owner was a patient, midway through a head-shrinking session. Steve walked along the pink flagstone path that followed the hibiscus hedge toward the backyard. For all he knew, Amanda was sunning herself again, all toasty warm and naked in the midday sun. But before rounding the corner of the house, which would have brought him in line of sight from Kreeger's office window, Steve ducked into the vestibule. The side door to the kitchen was open, and he walked in.
The kitchen could use updating, but it was clean and airy. A pot of coffee sat in its place, still warm.
"Just came in looking for a cup of java, Doc."
Planning his alibi.
An interior door led to a corridor that opened into a living room. Traditional furniture, windows shaded with Bahamas shutters, a seldom-used fireplace. Above the fireplace, a painting. An idealized portrait of Kreeger at the helm of his big boat, Psycho Therapy. The shrink appeared a bit taller and thinner. Tanned and fit, one hand on the wheel, one on the throttles. A man in control.
Steve always thought portraits should be reserved for dead ancestors. Wasn't it an act of unbridled ego to commission a painting of yourself? Maybe Kreeger's boat should be renamed Narcissist.
Steve took a set of stairs to the second floor, stepping lightly.
Now, just what the hell are you looking for, anyway?
He didn't know. He didn't expect to find a framed document on the wall: "I killed Jim Beshears, Nancy Lamm, and Oscar De la Fuente. Sincerely, Dr. Bill."
But you never knew. A diary. An unfinished memoir. Steve once defended a case where his client wrote a to-do list reminding himself to buy a mask and listing the address of the bank he intended to rob.
Steve felt he needed to do something. Find something. Not just wait for Kreeger to make another move.
At the top of the stairs, a corridor. A door was open at the end, and he entered the room.
Master bedroom.
King-size bed. A four-poster. Lightweight duvet, silvery color.
He surveyed the room, trying to pick up vibes from the guy who lived here. In the corner, on a pedestal, a bronze sculpture, the torso of a boy. On the walls, Caribbean art. Brightly colored paintings of partially clothed islanders working on boats and tending fields. Young girls carrying produce.
On a credenza, a man's jewelry box. Steve opened it without need of master key or pickaxe. Two men's watches, expensive. Several pairs of cuff links. Gold, onyx, jade. Steve ran a finger across the felt lining of the box. Nothing hidden underneath.
Somewhere in the house, pipes rumbled. Steve checked his watch. Another ten minutes before he would get Bobby from the car.
He had been hoping for a computer. Who knew what would be buried in there? Criminals who would never leave fingerprints at a crime scene drop trails of bread crumbs in the "history" window of their lap-tops. A guy who tried to kill his wife by dropping a roaring hair dryer into her bathtub was found to have electrocution websites plastered all over his hard drive.
But no computer in Kreeger's bedroom. Steve had to look for clues the old-fashioned way. He opened a drawer in the bedside table. A holstered nine-millimeter Glock. Okay, pretty normal for South Florida. In the lower drawer, an old photo album. Yellowing pictures from college and med school. Steve thumbed through the plasticized pages.
A banging of pipes again from inside the walls.
He stopped at a page of snapshots. A handwritten date on the page, seven years ago. Photos of a woman, late thirties, and a girl who looked to be roughly Bobby's age. On the beach, in swimsuits, smiling at the camera, squinting into the sun. The photographer's shadow crept across the sand toward them. The woman was Nancy Lamm. Steve had seen enough photos during the murder trial to recognize her immediately. The girl was Amanda—Mary Amanda, in those days. Her hips hadn't rounded out, and her bustline was practically invisible, but the features were hers.
Steve sat down on the edge of the bed and turned the page. Six more photos. No Nancy this time. But there was Amanda. On Kreeger's pool deck.
Naked.
Just as naked as Steve had seen her two weeks ago. But these photos were taken when she was perched on the fence between girlhood and womanhood. A variety of poses, a naked nymph stretching this way and that, arching her back in one, jutting out a bony hip in another, throwing her shoulders back, turning sideways to reveal breasts that were barely buds, then facing the camera head-on, legs spread, unashamedly showing a small tuft of hair, strawberry blond in the sun. Smiling goofily in one shot, seemingly innocent. Pouting seductively in another, a child's parody of pornography. A close-up, just a head shot, showed something else. A glassy-eyed stare.
Stoned. She was high on something.
Twelve or thirteen. Naked and stoned. There was something both sad and horrifying about it. As for Kreeger, could there be any doubt? He was both a killer and a pedophile. For a moment, Steve imagined himself as Amanda's father. What would he have done? Beaten Kreeger with a baseball bat. For starters. Crushed every bone in his body, starting with the ankles, working his way up to his demented skull.
Yeah, Kreeger, we're all capable of killing. And maybe we're all capable of justifying it, too.
One of the photos jogged something in Steve's mind, but what was it? He studied the shot. Amanda, her arms thrown back and shoulders leaning forward, like a swimmer, on the blocks at the start of a race.
The bronze statue in the corner of the bedroom.
It wasn't a boy at all. It was Amanda, cast in bronze, her thin torso boylike. Kreeger had chosen to freeze his memory of her at her prepubescent stage. And those paintings on the walls. The Caribbean islanders. Those young girls carrying the produce. Naked from the waist up.
Getting creepy in here.
He heard a sound, and an interior door opened. The bathroom.
Out walked Amanda, her hair wringing wet, a white towel wrapped around her body. Her startled look melted instantly into a playful smile. "Good morning, sir. You must be the handyman."
He had expected a scream. Not role-playing.
"My mommy and daddy aren't home," she continued in a little-girl voice. "But you can fix anything you want."
Was the childlike tone the way she spoke to Kreeger? Then and now. In this very room, on this very bed. Creepy had just become downright base and vile.
"Nothing here I could fix." Steve dropped the album back in the drawer. "Too big a job."
"Don't you like my pictures?" She giggled. When he didn't answer, she unwrapped the towel and dropped it to the floor. "Which do you like better, the old me or the new me?"
Steve hadn't moved from the corner of the bed. She stepped closer, spreading her legs, pressing her inner thighs against his knees, pinning him in place. Her skin was burnished red from the hot shower, her breasts at eye level, nipples taut. If she moved any closer, he could suffer a detached retina.
"Uncle Bill likes the old me better." Her tone one of mock sadness. "When I was thirteen, I could lock my ankles behind my head."
"You should have tried out for the Olympics."
"Uncle Bill says my boobs are too big now, but I mean, I'm not exactly a cow, right?" She moved her shoulders from side to side, her breasts barely jiggling just inches from his nose.
"Your breasts are fine, Amanda."
"Uncle Bill likes them small. Little tulips, he calls them." She plopped into his lap, her legs spread, facing him, straddling his thighs. "You sure you like mine?"
"What's not to like?" Sounding like his father. Feeling like a schmuck, a real nudnik.
"So why don't you touch them?" A whiny child's voice. "You
can, you know. You can kiss my boobies and do anything you want."
He didn't move.
She turned sideways so that one breast slid across his cheek, smooth and warm against his skin. She made a humming sound and said, "You need a shave, but it feels good."
"You're a bad girl."
"So spank me." She slid sideways across his lap and flipped over, arching her back so that her bottom was hoisted just above his knees. He saw the jellyfish tattoo again, tentacles streaming down each buttock.
"If I spank you, will you be good?"
"I'll be so-o-o good." Another girlish giggle. "Unless you want me to be so-o-o bad."
He hesitated, weighing the options.
"What are you waiting for, Uncle Steve?"
Uncle Steve.
The name sounded repulsive on her lips.
He drew back his arm and slapped her butt as hard as he could with an open palm. A one-handed smack as loud as a marlin hitting the water.
"Ow! What the fuck!" She leapt off him, yelping, all traces of jailbait vanished from her voice. "You bastard! That hurt like hell!"
"Sorry, Amanda, but I'm not your Uncle Steve." He got to his feet and started for the door.
"I'm gonna tell Uncle Bill what you did."
"What'd I do?"
"Raped me."
"Right. Gave you a candy bar and had my way with you."
"He'll believe me. And then you know what he'll do?"
"Hit me on the head and dump me into the Jacuzzi? Like he did to your mother."
A laugh came from her mouth, but her eyes were hard, narrow slits. "Is that what you think happened?"
"The jury called it manslaughter. But you and I know better, don't we, Amanda? We both know Bill killed your mother so he could be with you."
"That's crazy." Another laugh, sharp as barbed wire. "You've got everything backwards."
Steve longed to ask the question: "So what happened, Amanda? What happened the night your mother drowned?" But sometimes the best cross-examination is silence—the best question, the one unasked. Leave a moment of dead calm, and the witness might just fill in the gap.
