Kill All the Lawyers (12 page)

"It started as a hobby," Carl confessed. "Once I learned I was related to Captain Drake, I started constructing the family tree. It's quite a task, mind you. All those generations. I didn't even know about the money until the trustees contacted me and offered quite a tidy sum for my research."

"A tidy sum," Steve repeated. "I always wondered what an untidy sum might be."

"My work could save them years of going through musty documents in libraries and museums."

"Why do they want the family tree?" Victoria asked.

"To locate the heirs," Irene answered. "Isn't that right, Carl?"

"Precisely. By a secret ballot, the trustees recently voted to disburse the monies to all known blood relatives of Captain Drake. They want to close the estate."

"I know probate takes a long time, but four hundred years?" Steve questioned.

"It's quite unprecedented; but then, there's never been a case like this," Drake said. "I've located two thousand nine hundred and twelve descendants. The trustees estimate there are another six hundred or so. Thirty billion dollars going to thirty-five hundred heirs. As the kids say, do the math."

"I don't know, Drake. You tell me." Steve's eyes were closed as he savored a huge bite of the tart pie.

"About eight and a half million for each heir," Drake said.

Steve's eyes popped open. "You're saying Irene is going to get
eight million bucks
?"

"Give or take, once she's a certified descendant."

"Irene, have I told you how exceptionally lovely you look tonight?" Steve said.

The Queen rolled her eyes.

"And how much I've always admired you for your . . ." He seemed stumped. "Poise and porpoise," he finished triumphantly.

"Stop being so silly, Stephen," Irene said. "What do you think of my good fortune?"

Steve turned back to Drake. "What's it gonna cost her?"

"Cost?" Drake seemed bewildered. "What do you mean?"

"All these heirs. They've gotta fill out forms, right? Affidavits. Birth certificates. Lots of clerical work before you get your slice of the pie."

"Of course there's paperwork."

"So what are you charging these lucky souls? Ten thousand? Twenty thousand apiece? That's the scam, isn't it? People will gladly pay that if they think they're getting millions. Because I gotta tell you, Carl, this is what my old man would call a
bubbe meise,
a grandmother's story. And it's what I would call a load of crap."

"Ste-phen!" The Queen hissed his name.

"Steve, that's very insulting," Victoria said. "Apologize this instant."

Drake smiled and waved off their protests. "No problem. A savvy attorney should be skeptical. There are no fees, Steve. No charges. I'll help Irene fill out the forms, and if it is her desire, I hope to be by her side the day the trustees disburse the money to all of us."

Three sets of eyes bored into Steve, who was licking the last of the graham cracker crust from his fork. "Perhaps I misspoke."

"That's not much of an apology, Stephen," Irene said.

He gave his lopsided grin, and Victoria tensed; Steve was preparing to misspeak again.

"So, if it's not a big con," he said, "there must be public records in England that'll back up your story."

Drake shook his head as he stirred his coffee. "It's a private trust and is quite confidential. You see, there is no lawful requirement that the trustees disburse these monies to the descendants. They could have just as easily escheated the money to the government or conveyed it to charity. And to prevent phony claimants from climbing out of the woodwork, there's to be no public announcement at all. It's to be all extremely hush-hush."

"If I were you, Irene," Steve advised, "I wouldn't spend that money yet."

"Oh, don't be such a spoilsport," The Queen snapped.

* * *

They were waiting for the check when a voice sounded: "What a surprise. Hello, Solomon!"

Steve didn't have to turn around. He recognized the resonant tones at once. Now, what the hell was
he
doing here?

Dr. Bill Kreeger sidled up to the table. He wore a dark, tailored suit with a yellow silk shirt, open at the neck. A handkerchief the same color as the shirt blossomed from his jacket pocket like a daffodil. Standing a half step behind him was a young woman wearing a stretchy pink top with holes cut out to reveal the contours of her breasts. The top stopped a foot above her hip-hugging slacks, giving a view of a nice set of washboard abs. Strawberry blond hair, wavy and shoulder length. She couldn't have been more than twenty.

"Solomon, this is my niece, Amanda."

Niece?

Steve refrained from laughing. Sure, the girl was Kreeger's niece. And Irene was the heir of Sir Francis Drake. And Steve was a direct descendant of King Solomon.

Hellos were exchanged and Kreeger flashed his smile toward Victoria. "You must be the lovely Ms. Lord." He swept his gaze toward The Queen. "And I'll bet you're her sister."

Irene beamed. "People are always saying that."

"Where?" Steve asked. "At the Lighthouse for the Blind?"

More introductions, a shaking of hands, The Queen saying she listened to Dr. Bill every day and found herself agreeing with him, especially about Steve. The young woman—niece Amanda—stood shyly in place, her eyes darting across the restaurant.

Bored, maybe. Or ill at ease. Steve couldn't tell which. Just who was she, anyway?

"Whoops, that's mine," Steve said, reaching into a pocket for his cell phone.

"That's so rude," Irene said.

"I didn't hear anything," Victoria said.

"It's on vibrate." Steve flipped the phone open and punched a button. "Hey, Bobby. No, Maria may not spend the night. Why not? Because her mother owns automatic weapons."

Steve noticed Victoria staring at him. Was there just a hint of suspicion in those green eyes? Man, he couldn't get anything past her.

"See you later, kiddo." Steve flipped the phone closed.

Bobby had not called. No one had. But Steve had clicked three photos of Amanda, from her strawberry blond hair to her six-pack abs.

SOLOMON'S LAWS

5. When a woman is quiet and reflective, rather than combative and quarrelsome, watch out. She's likely picturing the bathroom without your boxers hanging on the showerhead.

Fourteen

THE SERPENTINE PATH

One week after the birthday bash, a cold front was pushing down from Canada. The orange groves upstate braced for freezing temperatures. The TV reporters wore their colorful parkas and warned people to bring their dogs and cats and ferrets indoors. And an even deeper chill settled over the offices of Solomon & Lord.

Driving to the office, Steve reviewed the events of the past week. The deep freeze started on the way home from dinner with The Queen. They had just passed the port where the cruise ships were lined up in a neat row like the fleet at Pearl Harbor. Then, out of the blue, a sneak attack. "You were absolutely horrid to my mother," Victoria said.

"Not once I learned she's gonna be rich."

"You promised to be nice. Then you went out of your way to be horrid."

"Horrid" being the word of the day, Steve figured. A word doubtless passed down from The Queen to The Princess like an heirloom necklace.

"And you were monstrous to Carl Drake," she continued.

" 'Monstrous' is a little strong, Vic."

"All right. Ill-mannered and boorish."

"Often boorish. Seldom a bore. That's me. As for Drake, I don't trust a guy with polished nails and a phony accent."

She glared at Steve long enough for him to stage a strategic retreat.

"Okay. Okay. If I offended anyone, I'm sorry."

Even a semi-apology didn't placate Victoria, so now, a week later, he waited for both cold fronts—the Canadian and the Episcopalian—to pass.

Driving the old Mustang solo across the causeway with the top down despite the chill, listening to Jimmy Buffet ask "Jamaica Mistaica," Steve took further inventory of the past seven days. He and Victoria had spent the time running back and forth to court, going through the motions of looking for a new abode . . . and not making love. Victoria hadn't slept over once, a world record
schnide
. Steve had dropped a few casual mentions about having a quiet dinner, and got shot down three nights in a row. Victoria had other things to do—dinner with Jackie Tuttle, shopping with her mother, even legal research, of all the lousy excuses.

He had called his father for company, but the old man was in the Keys on his fruitless search for the missing boat captain, Oscar De la Fuente. Steve just hoped Herbert was making a fuss everywhere he went so word would get back to Kreeger.

Feeling lonely, Steve wanted to spend time with Bobby. Maybe they'd rent a pitching machine at the park, hit some balls. But the kid was hanging out with Maria. Girls will do that, split up guys and keep them from taking their practice swings. At least Bobby had helped download the photos of Amanda-the-Niece from Steve's cell phone.

"A hottie," Bobby had proclaimed as he printed out the pictures.

"How old, you think?"

"Old. Twenty, maybe."

Just yesterday, Steve had tried to engage Victoria in a discussion about Kreeger and Amanda. "So what do you think? Niece or girlfriend or something else?"

"What difference does it make?"

"I need to gather everything I can on Kreeger. Knowledge is power."

"Uh-huh."

"C'mon, Vic. I'm asking for help here. You're really good at sizing up people. The way you pick juries, it's amazing."

"Oh, please. You're so transparent."

"See what I mean? You knew I was gaming you. But it's still true. You're better in voir dire than I am. So tell me, when you looked at Amanda, what did you see?"

She sighed and seemed to give it some thought. "The top she was wearing. It's right off the rack at The Gap or Victoria's Secret. But the jeans were True Religion. Expensive. And did you notice her shoulder bag?"

"Should I have?"

"I don't know how you could miss it. Kiwi green. Alligator skin. Probably a Nancy Gonzalez. At least fifteen hundred dollars."

"I know a poacher who'll get you the whole gator for a hundred bucks."

"And those sandals with the hundred-millimeter heels ...?"

"You measured them?"

"I can tell. They're Blahniks. You don't want to know the price."

"This is good, Vic. Very good."

"Why?"

"Because all those dollars add up to a girlfriend of a guy with money."

"What an unbelievably sexist statement. Maybe Amanda earned the money. She could be a model. Or a personal shopper at Saks, where she gets a discount. Or she could work for her uncle Bill."

"Bill Kreeger has one sister with two sons. And he's never been married. He doesn't have a niece."

"So if you already knew . . ."

"I needed to know what you picked up. I've been looking for a way to get inside Kreeger's head."

"And you think his girlfriend will help you?" Sounding skeptical.

"What if I proved to her that he was a killer?"

"She'll never believe you."

"Maybe I can get close to her, establish my credibility."

"How?

He gave her his best lounge lizard smile. "Using all my charm."

"That and a baseball bat ought to do it."

"Have a better idea?"

"All I'm saying, Steve, even assuming you can find Amanda, and you start trying to hang out with her, the first thing she'd do would be tell Kreeger."

"Maybe that's not such a bad thing. Especially if it puts more heat on him."

Victoria gave Steve one of those looks that would wilt petunias. "So, now you're going to hit on Kreeger's girlfriend, hoping he finds out. At the same time you want him to believe you're building a murder case against him. Why not burn down his house while you're at it?"

"I've got to do something. From the day he stuck that fish on my door, I've been on the defensive. All that trash talk on the radio. Those veiled threats about you and Bobby and my father. Even his showing up at Joe's. He's worming his way into our lives and I want him out. I need to knock him off his stride, force him to make a move he hasn't planned."

"When Kreeger makes a move," Victoria reminded him, with an air of exasperation, "people tend to die."

* * *

Tourists clogged the causeway as Steve neared the Fisher Island Ferry terminal. He wove in and out of lanes, trying to find the quickest route across the bay. His mind drifted back to the dinner at Joe's, the source of the skirmish with Victoria. Okay, he hadn't been on his best behavior, but The Queen was partly to blame. Her very presence brought out his sarcastic side.

The Queen and The Princess.

Guys always say to study a girl's mother to see just what your girlfriend will look like in thirty years or so. Well, no problem there. Even without her artificial enhancements, The Queen was still a dish, to use another one of her expressions.

But what about personality traits? Does a daughter pick up those, too? Victoria seemed to have rejected her mother's values. She had ditched filthy rich Bruce Bigby and she had rejected the advances of lethally handsome and equally rich Junior Griffin. Her devotion and selflessness toward Bobby nearly matched Steve's.

But something troubling had come up in the search for a place to live. Why was Victoria steering him toward seven-figure penthouse condos and mini mansions? If they bought something beyond their means, Solomon & Lord would have to start wooing banks and insurance companies and other well-heeled clients.

Is this her secret plan? Maybe in cahoots with The Queen?

Was there some mysterious genetic factor at work here? An invisible time bomb, a materialism gene embedded in her family's DNA. Maybe it went all the way back to Sir Francis Drake, plundering Spanish ships for their gold doubloons.