Lassiter

by Paul Levine

“Maybe it’s in the Lansky genes, but yeah, I’m dirty.”

  “You can’t blame your old man for this. It’s you, Alex.”

  “Okay, I’m corrupt. Through and through. Happy now?”

  “And you admit you beat Krista within an inch of her life?”

  “I was strung out on meth and coke.”

  “So now you’re blaming the drugs?”

  “I nearly killed her. It’s on me, I admit it, okay?”

  “So why would I help you?”

  He spoke through gritted teeth. “Because they used you, Jake. Krista’s grand entrance into the courtroom. Charlie all shocked. The phony alibi. You think that wasn’t planned?”

  “No idea. All I know is that you’re a worthless piece of scum.”

  “But I didn’t kill Max, Jake. I swear to God I didn’t.”

  70 Rough Justice

  Three days after the precipitous end of the murder trial, I was invited to dinner at Ziegler’s house. A foursome. Charlie and Krista. Amy and me. We could have played bridge.

  Earlier that day, the Governor appointed an acting State Attorney, who immediately dismissed all charges against Amy on account of prosecutorial misconduct. I gave her the news by phone, and she whooped with joy. Her tone of voice had become free and uninhibited. A new woman.

  The acting State Attorney immediately announced a Grand Jury would hear evidence against Alex Castiel for Perlow’s murder. Ziegler was delighted with that news. On the home front, Lola had moved out of Casa Ziegler, Krista had moved in, and Amy was set up in the guesthouse.

  A happy family.

  Of murderers, according to Alex Castiel.

  I promised I would take a shot at them. Not because I wanted to help Castiel. I believed what I said in the judge’s chambers. He wasn’t worth the effort. But a piece of Ziegler’s testimony didn’t hold up, and it nagged at me. I would confront him with it. If I had been used to frame a man for murder, I was going to do something about it. Not for Alex Castiel. But for me.

  And so just like old times, I wore a wire.

  We ate squab in a sticky sweet sauce, and Krista told me about her life.

  When she was near death, it was Ziegler who quietly got her to a private hospital, then flew her to New York for facial reconstruction, and finally five months in a rehab facility.

  “Charlie helped me walk again. Worked with me on speech therapy. When I was better, he got me a job in a casino in Tahoe, but I couldn’t stand on my feet all those hours. I got messed up with painkillers and attempted suicide. Charlie put me into therapy, got me straightened out again.”

  Ziegler was her common denominator. He’d been there—for better or worse—since she was seventeen. A few years ago, he’d convinced her to move back to Florida so they could be together.

  All told, she had been in hiding eighteen years. Castiel thought she was dead. A living, breathing Krista Larkin could ruin him. I understood all that. But something puzzled me.

  “Why didn’t you contact your family all these years?”

  “I tried! I called my father when I was still in the hospital. By then, he’d found out what I was doing in Miami. He told me I was a slut who was being punished by God, that I would be better off dead.”

  I remembered the photo from Bozo’s that Sonia Majeski had given Krista’s father. He’d written on the back: “The Whore of Babylon.”

  “He said if I tried to talk to Amy, he’d tell her all about me,” Krista continued. “He made me feel so ashamed. After a while, I told myself Krista Larkin was dead, so I buried her. I was Melody Sanders, a new person with a new life.”

  But that was years ago and raised another question. “When Amy came to town, why did you wait to reach out to her?”

  “Charlie asked me to chill for a few days, so he could figure out the situation. He was worried about Amy’s reaction if I told her the truth about Castiel. What if she went after him with a gun?”

  “But then she comes after Charlie with a gun,” I said. “Or threatened to.”

  “Which is when I contacted Amy without telling Charlie.”

  “After Amy was charged, you could have come forward with your alibi.”

  “I told her not to,” Amy said, “because Charlie said we could win without exposing Krista to the world.”

  “The world” meaning Castiel.

  I didn’t like the story, but so far, I didn’t have any evidence to contradict it. Of course, I still hadn’t questioned Ziegler.

  After dinner, the sisters were floating on rafts in the swimming pool, gabbing and laughing and catching up on all those years apart. Ziegler and I sat in his study, my host in a fine mood. I was eyeing the artwork and an impressive gold-plated statuette of a naked woman. It was the People’s Porn award for one of Ziegler’s classics: Driving Miss Daizy Crazy.

  “I’d like to pay Amy’s attorney’s fees,” he offered, agreeably.

  “Nothing to pay. I told her I’d handle her case pro bono.”

  “Doesn’t seem right. I’d feel better if I paid you.”

  “I’d feel better if you didn’t.”

  “Suit yourself. My life’s fine either way.”

  Yes, it surely was. At least until I was through with him tonight.

  Ziegler hauled a bottle of cognac out of a cabinet so we could toast the legal system and justice for all. We’d had frosty martinis before dinner. We’d moved on to that pricey daiginjo sake Ziegler liked so much, and now we were hitting the cognac. I wanted to loosen Ziegler’s tongue, preferably without having to yank it out with my hands.

  “A Léopold Gourmel,” he said, pouring the cognac into a snifter, “aged thirteen years. I think you’ll catch a whiff of almonds and orange zest.”

  He swirled, sniffed, and sipped, quite pleased with himself.

  It seemed to be a good time to start asking questions. “What I still don’t get, Charlie, is why you I.D.’d Amy the night of the shooting.”

  “Told you before, Castiel pressured me.”

  “Yeah, but this is your lover’s sister we’re talking about.”

  “Half sister,” he said. “Someone she hadn’t seen since she was a kid. Besides, I pretty much assumed it was Amy shooting at me, and since she missed, I thought she might come back for a second try.”

  “So you didn’t get a good look?”

  “Well …”

  “Because in court, you I.D.’d Alex Castiel.”

  “It sort of came back to me later.”

  “Really? How’s that work?”

  “I thought it through, afterward. You gotta remember, Max recognized the shooter. He said ‘You?’ sounding real surprised—hurt, even. I looked up, saw this figure I later realized was Alex.”

  “Later?”

  “Yeah. Combining all the factors.”

  “With all due respect to a fine host …”

  “Yeah?”

  “That’s a load of crap.”

  Ziegler held his look for a moment, then burst out with a laugh. “Aw, what do you care, Lassiter? Castiel’s a fucking lowlife.”

  “Agreed.” I laughed, too, rough and hearty. I thought it best to let that issue go for a moment. Our conversation was being recorded. I had a good start and didn’t want to spook him by hitting too hard too fast. “We’ve come a long way, you and me, Charlie.”

  Ziegler’s voice was wet and boozy. “You mean the day you busted into my office and called me a sleazebag.”

  “There was something I didn’t realize back then.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That you really loved Krista.”

  “Damn straight. From day one.”

  “Which made it easier for you to commit perjury for her.”

  His head snapped back as if I’d just stung him with a jab. “Jeez, Lassiter. Just when we were getting along.”

  “Relax, Charlie. I’m trying to help you here. There’s a bit of testimony you might want to fiddle with before you testify to the Grand Jury about Castiel.”

  That
seemed to settle him down. “I’m listening.”

  “You said both sisters were in the apartment when you called to tell Krista about Max getting shot. You gave Amy an alibi, so I wasn’t gonna challenge you on it, but Castiel’s lawyers will.”

  “How?”

  “Castiel will subpoena your phone records just like I did. You called twice. The first one was made to the landline in Krista’s apartment and reached voicemail. I figure Amy was there but was under instructions not to answer the phone. After hanging up, you immediately called Krista’s cell phone. This time, you reached her and spoke for eight minutes.”

  He showed me a sloppy smile and bought time by taking a long hit on the cognac. “Landline. Cell phone. What’s the big deal?”

  “The cell tower records show that Krista’s phone was in Coconut Grove when she answered. Meaning she was in her car, headed back to her apartment.”

  “From where?”

  “From your house, where she’d just shot Max Perlow with Amy’s gun.”

  It was a bluff. The part about the cell tower was true, but I had no idea where Krista had been a few minutes before taking the call.

  Ziegler didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he opened a fancy thermidor and pulled out two fat Cuban cigars. I shook my head, and he put one back inside. He used his guillotine clippers to behead the stogie, French-kissed the tip, and with a wooden match put a blue flame to the tobacco. Finally, he said, “You’ve got Krista all wrong. Murder isn’t in her nature.”

  “Don’t attribute your characteristics to her. Murder isn’t in your nature.”

  Ziegler had his cigar in one hand, his cognac in the other. “If Krista was gonna kill anyone, it would be Alex for raping and beating her. Or hell, even me, for letting it happen.”

  “I’m not a shrink but I think I know how she handled her conflicting feelings about you.”

  “Then tell me, ’cause I never figured it out.”

  “She loved you when she was still a kid, and you betrayed her. She didn’t want to stop loving you, so she transferred her anger to someone else. Perlow’s the one who coerced you into giving Krista to Castiel. You got the pass, Perlow got the bullet, and Castiel got framed. It fits very nicely.”

  “So she waited all these years to kill Perlow?” He blew smoke into the air. “Not buying it, Lassiter.”

  “Something new had happened. Perlow had you tailed. He started asking questions about Melody Sanders. I’ll bet you tensed up every time he mentioned her name. The old bastard sensed something, and you knew it. You also knew he’d kill Krista to protect Alex. Hell, he’d already tried.”

  “Keep going. This is a good story.”

  “I’m betting you told Krista you wish you had the guts to kill the old hood.”

  “So what if I did? Idle chat.”

  “Not to Krista. She hatches a plan to get rid of Perlow, so you two can live sexily ever after. And I gotta admit, it was a pretty good plan. Best part was not telling you. Krista figured you’d either put the kibosh on it or screw it up.”

  Ziegler tapped cigar ashes into a carved glass bowl on his desk and shook his head. “You got a great imagination, Lassiter.”

  “I figure Krista parked in the construction site next door, then walked along the seawall onto your property. Once on the pool deck, she purposely knocked over a planter to make a noise. You and Perlow come into the solarium, and Krista plugs him through the window, the same way Bugsy Siegel got his. You reach Krista on her cell to tell her what happened. Only she already knows. And guess what, you did screw it up. You’d already told Castiel that Amy was the shooter, just one sibling away from the truth. But then, you thought it was the truth.”

  “A man could sprain his brain, thinking the way you do.”

  Ziegler poured himself more cognac and tipped his glass to me. “All this speculation of yours. You gonna take it to Castiel?”

  “And let him go free? No way!”

  He looked puzzled, so I explained. Castiel can’t be prosecuted for assaulting Krista. The statute of limitations expired years ago. So, unless Castiel took the fall for the murder of Max Perlow, he’d get off scot-free.

  “Like you said, Charlie, Castiel is a lowlife. And like I always say, rough justice is better than no justice.”

  I could tell from Ziegler’s look that he didn’t know if I was playing him. His voice turned skeptical. “So it doesn’t bother you if Krista gets off, even if she aced Max?”

  “I shed no tears for Max Perlow.”

  “No?” Studying me.

  “Eighteen years ago, Perlow stood in your cabana, looking down at Krista’s naked body. She’d been choked, raped, and beaten into a near-coma. Her face was busted up, her pelvis broken. And Perlow told you to finish her off. Am I right about all that?”

  “ ‘Bury her’!” Krista’s voice, coming from behind me. “Perlow told Charlie, ‘Bury her.’ ”

  I turned and saw Krista walking into the study. She was barefoot and wore a white terry-cloth robe, her wet hair wrapped in a towel.

  “I must have been semi-conscious,” Krista said, “because when I came to, I remembered hearing Perlow’s voice. ‘Goddammit, Charlie! Finish her off. Bury her in the ’Glades.’ ”

  Amy followed behind Krista, similarly dressed. They’d come in from the pool by way of the solarium, scene of the crime.

  “Helluva memory to carry around all these years, Krista,” I said. “You must have really hated the man.”

  Krista’s tone turned suspicious. “Why are you two talking about this, anyway?”

  Ziegler straightened in his chair. “No reason, hon. We’re just shooting the shit.” He gave her his you know me smile, with just enough lubrication to prove he was drunk.

  “Charlie, I told you not to open up to Jake.”

  “Aw, c’mon, hon. He knows you shot Max.”

  “He knows shit! Unless you told him.”

  “What are you up to, Jake?” Amy demanded. The sisters were flanking me.

  I gave my palms-up sign of peaceful coexistence. Three sets of eyes looked back. “Krista, you did what had to be done. I have no beef with that. Like I said to Charlie, rough justice.” I glanced at my watch, got out of my chair, and said, “Well, I’ve got court in the morning.…”

  I wanted to get out of there. Slowly and casually and without any fuss. Not that the three of them could stop me.

  “I need to frisk you,” Krista said.

  “Oh, c’mon, hon,” Ziegler said.

  “Jesus, Charlie. You’re the one who told me Lassiter wore a wire for Castiel.”

  “Long time ago,” I said. “Got nothing to do with you guys.”

  Krista took a step toward me. “Then prove it. Take off your shirt and loosen your belt.”

  Getting out of there would not be difficult. I would pivot, grab Ziegler by the scruff of his neck, and slam him, nose-first, into his desk. I would gingerly pick up Krista and deposit her in a chair, and if Amy stepped in my way, I’d knock her aside and head out the door. Who says there are no gentlemen left?

  “I don’t have to prove anything, Krista,” I said.

  “Charlie!” Krista shouted.

  Ziegler popped open his desk drawer, pulled out a handgun, and pointed it at me. “Do what she says, Lassiter.”

  Oh, shit.

  “Put the gun down, Ziegler, before you blow your dick off.” Trying to sound as if I were in control.

  “Keep the gun on Jake while I search him, Charlie,” Krista ordered.

  I was glad she wasn’t the one holding the gun. The fabric of Krista’s being was sinewy rawhide. If each of us is the product of the significant events of our past, the sum total of this woman’s life was survival. She’d already shot and killed a man. I had no doubt she could kill me without blinking. But the pistolero was Charlie Ziegler, a guy with a spine made of noodles. Problem was, cowards can pull triggers, too, and even a lousy shot can hit a target five feet away. I felt a sense of dread that turned my legs into iron pilings.


  “Ziegler, you’re not gonna shoot me, so just put the damn gun down.” Still trying to sound confident.

  The shot—snapping like the crack of a whip—made me jump. Ziegler had fired into a marble sculpture across the room—a ballerina with her left arm above her head, right arm curled around in front, as if playing an imaginary bull fiddle. The slug caught the ballerina squarely between the eyes, splintering her marble head.

  “Strip, Lassiter,” Krista said.

  “Do as she says,” Ziegler ordered, “or I’ll put the next one in your thick skull.”

  “Don’t think so,” I said. “It’s not in you, Ziegler.”

  Krista walked over and faced me squarely, standing so close I could feel her breath. Her jaw was set, her greenish eyes colder than ice. I could see the power of the woman’s will. Doctors say broken bones heal even stronger. The woman before me had been forged, like molten steel, from her own crushed bones. She looked at me, not with hatred, but with fearless determination.

  “Start with your shirt,” she said.

  It was time to act. It would take only a second for me to grab her by the shoulders, toss her into Ziegler, and make my way to the door.

  We were standing so close I never saw her good leg jerk upward.

  She kneed me in the groin.

  A solid hit. The pain pitched me sideways. I gasped for breath, my eyes tearing. Amy joined the fray. She caught me alongside an ear with a karate kick and I staggered sideways. Women nowadays, with their pilates and kickboxing and martial arts, are all aggression and attitude.

  A second kick caught me just above the knee, and I toppled to the floor.

  Amy hopped onto my back, raked her fingernails across my forehead, then reached under my shirt and grabbed for the wire. Her fleecy robe had come open, and underneath, she was naked and still wet from the pool. I turned and grabbed at her, but it was like trying to catch a fish in my bare hands. She kept wriggling and I couldn’t get a grip.

  “You bastard!” she shouted at eardrum-breaking decibels.

  I struggled to my feet and tried to shake her off. She bit my right ear. Chomped down hard and drew blood. I was already bleeding from the gouges in my forehead. Krista grabbed the front of my shirt and yanked, popping most of the buttons. Then she reached into my pants, searching for the recorder, finding something else.