Kill All the Lawyers (10 page)

Maria's father, Myron Goldberg, was a periodontist with an office on Miracle Mile in Coral Gables. Myron's hybrid Prius sported bumper stickers for Greenpeace and Save the Manatees, and the most dangerous weapon he owned was a titanium root-canal shaft. The Munoz-Goldbergs were Exhibit A in South Florida's paella-filled melting pot of cross-cultural multiethnicity.

Looking at the two kids lounging in the bedroom, Steve was certain he should lecture his nephew about exercising self-control in a time of raging hormones. Another thought, too. A contrary one. Could this little vixen be just using Bobby to pass her courses? As much as Steve adored his nephew, he had to admit the kid was not exactly a candidate for the Abercrombie & Fitch catalog. Basically, Bobby was a skinny, love-able loner in thick glasses who didn't fit into any of the cliques.

"What's this about the high-water mark?" Maria asked, thumbing through the textbook. "It sounds like something that'll be on the test."

"The High-Water Mark of the Confederacy," Bobby said, confidently. "It's where the tide turned the Union's way at Gettysburg."

"Ooh, right." She scribbled a note.

"Pickett's Charge," Bobby continued. "Fifteen thousand Confederate soldiers. Some made it to the Union line, but they were cut to ribbons. A frontal assault moving uphill never works. When the enemy's holding the high ground, you gotta outflank him. Fake an attack on one flank." Bobby threw an imaginary left hook. "But really attack the other flank." With a
whoosh,
he tossed a roundhouse right. "When your enemy zigs, you zag."

"You're so smart." Maria rewarded the boy with another twinkling smile, then turned toward Steve. "We heard you on the radio today, Mr. Solomon."

"Yeah," Bobby added. "Never thought that shrink could school you like that."

"Are you going to jail?" Maria asked Steve.

"Uncle Steve's been to jail lots of times," Bobby declared, a touch of pride in his voice. "Judges make him stay overnight because he gets rowdy."

"Everything's gonna be okay," Steve said. "What I did was only technically illegal."

Bobby snorted. "Yeah, you
technically
beat the shit out of some guy."

"Watch the lingo, kiddo."

"Are you gonna let that shrink keep cracking on you?"

"Nope. I've got a plan to shut him up."

"Ph-a-a-t! How you gonna do it?"

Steve shook his head. What could he say? "
Your uncle and grandfather are trying to nail a killer, but don't worry about it."
No. He wouldn't spook the boy.

"Highly confidential," Steve said.

"Just so you're not doing what that woman in the hot tub did. Because if Dr. Bill killed her . . ."

Bobby let the words hang there, then turned back to his book.

* * *

Half an hour later, Bobby scooted deeper into the beanbag chair. Maria was still sprawled on his bed, leafing through the pages of the history book. Moments earlier, Bobby did a trick with his brain, purposely dividing his conscious thoughts in two. Going split screen, he called it, something that let him think two unrelated thoughts at once.

I want to kiss Maria. And . . .

Why does Uncle Steve treat me like a baby?

It was really Bobby's only complaint.

Most of the time Uncle Steve was really cool. Always spending time with him. Tossing the ball, teaching him to dig in at home plate and not bail out even when the pitch was inside. Taking him to court and even to a couple of autopsies, which was way cool, except for the smell.

But he hides stuff from me, afraid I can't handle it.

Uncle Steve was planning to go after Dr. Bill. Which was scary.

But why can't he tell me?

Above him, on the bed, Maria draped a leg over his shoulder. She wiggled her toes, the nails painted some color that looked like flames.

The brain waves carrying thoughts of Dr. Bill suddenly flatlined. Bobby felt a pleasant buzz in his undershorts. But this was awkward. His butt was sunk into the beanbag chair, his back was toward the bed, and he couldn't even see her. To kiss her, he'd have to scoot around, get to his knees, and crawl onto the bed, and then what? It would take several seconds and would seem premeditated and dorky, instead of casual and cool.

Another problem:
to tongue or not to tongue?

He heard more pages rustling. She couldn't be reading that fast. Could she be getting bored? Was she waiting for him to make a move? He wished he could ask Uncle Steve for advice right now.

Or Mom. Yesterday, she told me she first had sex at twelve. My age!

Now his brain opened another screen. There was Maria on the bed, her flame-toed foot dangling in his face. And there was Mom, talking about sex.

Bobby could never tell Uncle Steve what Mom said. Or even that he'd seen her. Uncle Steve thought Mom was still in prison.

She had shown up at the park, picked him up, just like a regular mother, not an ex-con. They'd gone to Whip 'N Dip for pistachio ice cream. She started talking about her life, the stuff just spilling out, and a lot was pretty icky. The guys—sometimes, she didn't even know their names. The drugs—they'd messed her up bad, and that's why she stole and got in trouble, but now she'd kicked the habit. She thanked Jesus for his help, the Son of God being the true messiah and all, and maybe it was time for Bobby to be baptized.

Sure, Mom. Right after my bar mitzvah.

Bobby had told her about Maria and how much he liked her. She seemed interested, especially in Maria's family, the mother being Catholic and the father Jewish.

"She sounds like a good candidate for Jews for Jesus,"
his mother had said.

Now Maria draped a second leg over his other shoulder. She pressed her thighs together, squeezing his ears, knocking his glasses sideways. He could smell her perfume, orange and vanilla, like a Creamsicle. He wanted to lick her face.

"I'm tired of studying," she whispered.

All right!

Time for action. But how?

If he could turn around and somehow stand up, his crotch would be at her eye level. Ordinarily, no big deal, but right now, he had a world-class boner. What if she didn't want to kiss him? Would she tell everyone at school he was a horn-dog perv?

A third screen opened in his brain, and Uncle Steve was saying:
"Always show respect for girls. Sometimes you even have to show more respect for them than they have for themselves."

And Mom was saying:
"Like Jesus said, if you look at a girl with lust, you've committed a sin. But the cool thing about the Savior, Bobby, is that he's very forgiving. So my motto is to do what feels right at the time. You can always repent later."

Twelve

REPORT AND RAPPORT

Why is Steve so quiet?

Victoria pondered the question as they drove across the causeway on their way to The Queen's birthday dinner. Of course, Steve wasn't exactly crazy about her mother, who treated him as she did so many people: like hired help.

The thought of Steve marrying into the family really curdled the cream in The Queen's demitasse.

"Steve has many qualities, dear, but is he
really
the one for you?"

Translation:
"I hate him, and you can do better."

It probably didn't help his cause that Steve would sometimes wear a T-shirt with the logo:
"If It's Not One Thing, It's Your Mother."

Irene Lord considered Steve déclassé. Steve considered Irene Lord a gold digger. Victoria loved them both but, like the lion tamer at the circus, had to occasionally crack the whip to keep them apart.

Taking The Queen and her new beau, Carl, to dinner—and getting stuck with the check—probably wasn't high on Steve's list of favorite things. But still, Victoria wondered, why did he seem so distant? Okay, so getting humiliated on the radio and arrested for assault might throw a guy off his game. But Steve was used to verbal combat and was no stranger to jail, so what was really bothering him?

Thinking back over recent events, it seemed as if Steve had been out of sorts for a while. When they'd looked at the condo, he'd been almost hostile to the idea of moving in together. They were supposed to see other properties with Jackie, but did Steve really want to do it? In his typical male fashion, he wasn't talking, so she had no choice but to ask.

"So what's your plan?" she said as they passed Fisher Island.

The question seemed to startle him. "Wow, that's something." With one hand on the steering wheel, he playfully shook a finger at her. "You're reading my mind."

"Good. Tell me about it."

"I'm not sure I can."

"Who would you tell if not me?"

"It's dangerous," he said, "and I don't want you to worry."

She was lost. "Moving in together is dangerous?"

"What? Who's talking about moving in together?"

"We are. Or at least I am. I'm trying to figure out what you're planning. House or condo? Move in together now or maybe wait a bit?"

"Oh."

"So what are you talking about?"

"Kreeger. How I'm gonna nail him."

Wasn't that just like Steve? Or any man, she decided. Your guy is sitting there, quietly stewing, and you think he's worried about the relationship. Turns out he's wondering if the Dolphins can cover the spread against the Jets. And when men do talk, it's like dispensing the news on CNN. Hurricane in Gulf. Dow Jones up twenty. I-95 gridlocked. Just the facts, ma'am.

She had studied psychology and linguistics at Princeton, and she knew that men and women communicate differently. It sounded clichéd, but it was true. Women talk about feelings, what academics called "rapport talk." Men dispense information, what's called "report talk." When they talk at all.

"Both Dad and Bobby asked me about my plan for Kreeger," Steve told her, "so when you asked 'What's your plan?' I just naturally thought—"

"It's okay, Steve. But maybe you should just let Kreeger go. It didn't work out that great on the radio."

Her feminine mode of communication. She could have said:
"You really got your ass handed to you today, partner."
But with a lover, it was best to cloak your criticism in lamb's wool, not lash it with barbed wire.

"I was just getting warmed up when the cops came in."

"It seemed like he enjoyed tormenting you. And if he's as dangerous as you say . . ."

"Exactly. That's why my plan will work."

Steve swung the car off the causeway and onto Alton Road. They'd be at Joe's in three minutes. There'd be a line of tourists snaking through the bar and into the courtyard. But between Dennis the mâitre d' and Bones the captain, Steve would manage to have his party seated within ninety seconds.

"I'm almost afraid to ask," Victoria said.

"Kreeger killed two people, right?"

"Two you know about."

"Right. Each one posed a threat. Jim Beshears was gonna blow the whistle on his phony research. Nancy Lamm was gonna report Kreeger's ethical violations. Suppose someone else poses a threat to him now?"

"What kind of threat?"

Victoria listened as Steve told her about Herbert trying to track down the charter boat captain who would have seen Kreeger brain Jim Beshears with the gaff.

As he went over the details, she began analyzing the plan in her logical way. Then she said, "Even if you found the captain, even if he says, 'Yeah, I think Kreeger shoved the guy overboard, then purposely hit him,' a defense lawyer would slice him up. Why'd it take you all these years to come forward? Why doesn't the other witness, the girlfriend, corroborate your story? And all this assumes you can get an indictment, and the chances of that are—"

"Slim to none."

"Right. So why do it?"

"If I tell you, take a deep breath and think it over before unloading on me."

"So it's got to be illegal."

"I told Dad to make sure he handed out my card everywhere he went, from Key Largo to Key West. Tell every drinker and fisherman and old salt that Stephen Solomon, Esquire, of Miami Beach, will pay a reward for finding Oscar De la Fuente, missing charter captain. Then I took an ad in the
Key West Citizen
and posted some notices on websites, saying the same thing."

It only took her a second. "You don't care if you find the guy! You just want Kreeger to know you're looking for him."

"You're getting warmer. Keep going."

"You're going to tell Kreeger you found De la Fuente, whether you do or not. You're going to say you have solid eyewitness evidence against him. You might even come up with a phony affidavit, De la Fuente swearing he heard Kreeger threaten Beshears, then saw Kreeger push him overboard before clobbering him."

"Hadn't thought of the affidavit. Nice touch."

"So this is your brilliant plan? To use yourself as bait. To get that psycho to try to kill you."

He had a grin on his face that managed to be both childish and clueless. Like a boy who catches a viper and shows it to a girl in the misguided belief she will immediately want to start necking. "I can't get him for either of the two murders he's committed, Vic. But I can get him for attempting a third."

"Has it occurred to you that Kreeger might be better at committing murder than you are at preventing it?"

"I'll have an advantage Beshears and Lamm didn't have. I'll be sober, and I'll know what's coming."

This time, she didn't try to cushion her words. "You are utterly irresponsible. Even worse, you don't care about the people who love you."

"Don't see how you can say that."

"What about Bobby? What about your father? What about me? If you get hurt or killed, what about us?"

"Vic, I'm not scared of Kreeger. The guy's a coward who murdered a stoned woman in a hot tub and a drunk on a boat."

They were the fifth car in line as they pulled up to valet parking in front of the restaurant. Patrons spilled out the doors and clogged the patio. On the outdoor speakers, they heard Dennis the mâitre d' announce: