Kill All the Lawyers (28 page)

The doorbell rang. At this time of night, it was a sound as chilling as a scream. Steve's imagination took flight. He pictured a police cruiser, a young officer gnawing his lip, a sorrowful look on his face.

"Are you the next of kin of a boy named Robert Solomon?"

Steve hurried to the door and threw it open.

Myron Goldberg stood there in his bathrobe and sneakers. His wife was half a step behind him.

"Maria's missing!" Eva shoved her spouse aside.
"Desaparecida!"

Steve's spirits soared. "That's great, Eva!"

"What!"

"Is she here?" Myron asked.

"No. Bobby's missing, too. But that means they're together. It means they're okay."

"But where?" Myron said. "Where could they be?"

Eva pushed through the open door. "If you put them up to this, Solomon—"

"Back off, bitch." Janice walked into the foyer.

"I should have known," Eva said. "Are you behind this?"

"What's the big frigging deal? They'll be back when they're done." Janice gave Eva a double-chinned grin. " 'Course, they ain't gonna be virgins no more."

"Puta,"
Eva snarled.

"Okay, everybody relax," Steve said. "Let's work together on this. Myron, is Maria's bike gone?"

"I don't know. We didn't look."

"I'm betting it is and they're within a couple miles of home. Where does Maria usually ride?"

"The two of us go down Old Cutler," Eva said. "The path to Matheson Hammock."

"Bobby knows the place, too. That's a start. I'll drive down there, but we'll need people at each of our houses."

"Janice and I will stay here," Victoria said.

Meaning the Goldbergs should head home. Smart, Steve thought. Otherwise, Janice and Eva would surely end up mud wrestling before daybreak.

It only took Steve a minute to step into his running shorts and a T-shirt. He was headed to the door when Janice said: "I need a drink, Stevie. You got any liquor?"

"Bottle of Jack Daniel's above the bar."

"Looked there. Didn't see any Jack."

Steve wasn't about to start searching for whiskey for his sister. But as he got into the Mustang, he wondered about it. What happened to that new bottle of Jack Daniel's, the expensive one, Single Barrel?

* * *

"Ooh, that's strong," Maria said, sipping at the golden liquor. She took another swig, then passed the bottle to Bobby. "Bourbon, right? My dad drinks it."

"Sour-mash whiskey," Bobby corrected, "but people call it bourbon." He raised the bottle to his lips, took a gulp. His eyes watered as the liquid seared his throat.

They were walking at the edge of a mini–rain forest inside Fairchild Tropical Garden, navigating a tangle of woody vines thick as high-transmission wires. It was spooky in the dark, especially if you've seen those movies where killers in hockey masks jump out from behind trees.

Bobby screwed the top back on the bottle and they continued through the forest. They wound their way past towering ficus trees, giant ferns brushing against their knees, sneakers sinking into the moist earth. Bobby carried a flashlight, but that only made the shadows deeper and scarier. He slipped and nearly fell. Totally uncool, but Maria didn't laugh. Then, hopping over a slippery log, he lost his grip on the flashlight. The beam skittered off to one side, and for a split second Bobby thought he saw the shape of a person, someone looking their way. But when he picked up the flashlight and pointed in that direction, no one was there.

He shook it off. This was maybe the best night of his life, and it was just beginning. An hour earlier, when they had gotten on their bikes, Maria took the ball cap from Bobby's head and put it on, tucking her hair in. The gesture, so feminine, made Bobby's heart ache. Maria was wearing short-shorts and a pink sleeveless T-shirt that had
"Spoiled"
spelled out in rhinestones with a glittery heart dotting the "i." In the light of the street lamps, her complexion was the color of café Cubano, heavy with cream.

They had ridden their bikes along the Old Cutler path, going airborne where the roots of banyan trees poked up through the asphalt. In the moonlight, Bobby watched the gentle curve of Maria's calves as she pedaled, could see a line of smooth caramel skin above her shorts. She was hot, so totally hot. He couldn't believe he was here.

"The next full moon. The rain forest at Fairchild. You'll score, I promise you."

Dr. Bill had told him that. He knew so much that Uncle Steve didn't. Or maybe Uncle Steve knew but wouldn't tell him. Like girls getting hot at the full moon, even girls who weren't hoochies to start with.

They'd ridden down Old Cutler to Matheson, crossing a marshy hammock, inhaling the salty smells, listening to the croaking frogs and the creaking insects. Then, standing alongside a tidal pool, a full moon dangling over the bay, they'd kissed.

The kiss was tentative, Bobby leaning in, waiting for Maria, hoping she'd join the action. She did, smelling of oranges and vanilla, her mother's perfume. The second kiss was softer, slower, wetter, deeper. He'd gotten a raging boner.

Slammin' idea, Dr. Bill.

They'd started hitting the Jack Daniel's then. Rocket fuel, ninety-four proof, according to the label. Bobby's stomach was a little queasy, and his forehead felt sweaty. What they needed was something to eat.

"Bring along something to drink. Vodka or rum or bourbon. The higher the proof, the better. Loosen her up."

But Dr. Bill hadn't said anything about food. Pretzels and chips would have been good. Maybe a blanket, too. And condoms?

But where would he get condoms, anyway? Uncle Steve didn't use them. Bobby had seen Victoria's birth control pills in the bathroom, looking like little candies in a Pez dispenser.

After three swigs of bourbon, two hiccups, and five wet kisses, Bobby and Maria got back on their bikes, rode back through the hammock, then down the path to Fairchild. The gates were locked, so they hid their bikes in a hibiscus hedge and climbed over a fence. Now they were headed through the rain forest toward the tropical fruit pavilion to find something to eat.

The pavilion was a giant greenhouse with a roof shaped like a pyramid to accommodate large trees.

The door was unlocked, and once inside, Bobby set about picking fruit. The lichees and passion fruit he recognized, but he needed to read the little signs stuck in the ground for the rest: jackfruit, langsat, sapodilla, and a bunch of others, scaly and unappetizing.

They sat on a grassy patch, nibbled the fruit, and drank more of the whiskey, kissing between nibbles. The passion fruit was tart, the tiny black seeds crunchy. The jackfruit was spicy hot and the lichees sweet like grapes. None of it went that well with the whiskey. Bobby lay back on the grass, looking at the treetops that seemed to be swaying in the breeze, but there was no wind here.

I'm dizzy. Dizzy from whiskey and kisses that taste like passion fruit.

Maria was talking about a girl at school, a total slut, who after P.E. used a banana to show her posse how to, you know, go down on a guy, but she gagged on it, then spit it up so that it squished out her nose.

"Totally grossed everybody out," Maria said. The story didn't make Bobby's stomach feel any better.

Maria was giggling, going back over details of the banana episode. Bobby was half listening, when he thought he heard the door to the pavilion squeak open, but maybe not. A moment later, Maria leaned over and kissed him again. Then, he wasn't quite sure how it happened, they were lying on the grass, their legs wrapped around each other, kissing and moaning and rubbing their bodies against each other.

Bobby let a hand slip under Maria's T-shirt, but she latched on to his wrist and pushed him away. A second later, he feinted with that hand, then sneaked the other hand under the shirt—
If Pickett had used a similar zigzag, the Battle of Gettysburg would have turned out way differently
—and a second later, he had hold of her bra. The fabric was cottony soft, and he could see the top of it peeking out of her shirt.

Pink brassiere. The letters rearranged themselves in his brain. BARE PENIS RISK.

He tugged at the bra.

"Bobby, don't."

Remembering what Dr. Bill had told him.
"Man is the hunter. Man kills the game and takes the female of his choice."

"No, Bobby." She pushed his hand away again. Firmly, the way mothers teach them, Bobby figured.

"C'mon, Maria. You want it. I know you do."

Hearing the doc's voice now, as if he were right here watching.
"When she says no, she means maybe. When she says maybe, she means yes."

"Bobby, I like you. I really do. But let's just kiss for now."

Sweat poured out of him, and his stomach heaved. But his boner was so hard, it had started to hurt. He took her left hand in his right hand and pinned it to her side. Then he slid his left hand around her back and tried to unfasten her pink bra.

"Bobby! No!"

She wriggled left and right, but maybe she just wanted to excite him more.

"The female always yields to the strong man."

He couldn't unsnap the damn thing, so he yanked the bra, and it slipped halfway around her torso.

"Ouch! Bobby, what are you doing?"

"Be a man, Robert. Take what you want. Maria will love it. Trust me. I know."

"You'll love it, Maria," Bobby said, deepening his voice. "Trust me. I know."

Thirty-Six

WHAT GIRLS WANT

The air should not smell so sweet on a night like this, Steve thought.

Top down on the Mustang, the scent of jasmine in the moist air, a full moon ducking in and out of clouds, he drove down Old Cutler Road, more worried than he had let on to the others.

With all the chaos swirling around—Janice and Kreeger, Victoria and Irene, Freskin and Goldberg— Steve wondered if he had been spending enough time with Bobby. Had he let his own problems distract him from the number one priority in his life?

Stop worrying. Bobby's okay.

Steve kept telling himself that. The boy hadn't run away from home; he hadn't been kidnapped. Maria's the first girl who showed him the rhinestone in her navel, so he's experimenting. They're probably necking somewhere under a palm tree, and they'll show up at dawn, sweaty and mosquito-bitten. It's normal.

He's okay, dammit. Stop worrying.

Steve had already checked out Cocoplum, driving down to the bay, then coming back up to the circle at the Gables Waterway. Now he hung a left at Matheson Hammock. He passed the deserted picnic area and drove parallel to the bicycle path, which wound through a tangle of black-and-red mangrove trees. He stopped at the saltwater pond. No cars in the parking lot. Bicycle rack empty.

No Bobby. And no Maria.

Steve got out of the car and walked around the pond, just yards from the open bay. The tide was out, and a marshy smell hung in the air. A passel of herons tracked across the wet sand, seeking an early breakfast. Across the bay, a few lights twinkled in the condos of Key Biscayne. To the north, the downtown skyscrapers were dark.

The silence was broken by a Boston Whaler chugging out of the channel, an early start for a day of fishing. Over the ocean at the horizon, flashes of lightning brightened a ribbon of clouds. The wind was kicking up, rippling the water. The full moon was obscured by a growing cloud cover but still bright enough to light the sky, like a lamp through a shade. The forecast was for rain, a band of squalls in advance of a cold front.

Steve got back in the car and drove farther south on Old Cutler, pulling into Fairchild Tropical Garden. He'd brought Bobby there a few times, the boy enjoying the peacefulness of the place. Noises still tightened him up. Tranquillity seemed essential to his therapy.

Steve parked at the gate. Everything locked. He got out of the car, leaving the headlights on. Crouched down on a narrow dirt path that ran up to a perimeter fence near the entrance. Next to a hibiscus hedge, bicycle tracks. Two bikes had been here.

Okay, so what?

Well, for starters, the tracks were fresh. It had rained briefly in late afternoon, and the tracks would have been made after that.

Great. Give yourself a Boy Scout badge, but like I said before, so what?

Well, you couldn't ride past this point. The dirt path dead-ended at the fence. So the bikers must have stopped and parked their bikes here. Maybe they went inside.

Yeah? So. . .

Steve didn't know. Except . . . in the reddish dirt two sets of tire tracks approached the fence, but only one left. So what the hell happened to the other bike?

Just then, Steve's cell phone rang, the sound jarring in the stillness. On the screen, he recognized his home phone number.

"Yeah, Vic?"

"Bobby just rode up."

"Great. Maria at her house?"

"No." He heard the tension in her voice. "Steve— Bobby doesn't know where she is."

* * *

Just before dawn, Steve slid the Mustang to a stop in his driveway and someone screamed.

He hadn't seen Eva Munoz-Goldberg running toward his front door. She nimbly leapt to one side and the front fender just missed her. In great shape from step class or tai chi, Steve figured. Good thing, or he'd be facing vehicular manslaughter charges.

Eva's momentum carried her toward the flagstone path leading to the house. She hopped over a small shrub, then lost her balance on the dew-slick flagstone. The second scream came when she pitched forward, scraping a knee. Steve admired the way Eva scrambled to her feet and headed for his front door without stopping to curse at him.

Bobby's bike was leaning against the pepper tree. Meaning the boy was inside. Steve heard the shouts before he made it to the front door. He found Eva in the living room, her knee bleeding, hair a mess, shrieking at Bobby. "Where is she! Where's my daughter!"