Kill All the Lawyers

Fourteen

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 amp; 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 amp; 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.

A minivan with Michigan plates swerved into his lane, cutting him off. Steve banged his horn, then sped around the doofus. In five minutes, he'd be at the office, sidestepping anorexic models and dashing for the stairs. He wondered if Victoria was already there. Usually, she arrived before him, and there'd be coffee brewing and fresh lilies in a vase by the time he arrived.

But the past week, she'd been the tardy one. Not only that, she'd been unusually quiet. She hadn't been giving him grief, another bad sign. The other day, he'd worn an old T-shirt, with the logo "Please Forgive Me; I Was Raised by Wolves." No reaction from The Princess. The next day, he wore one reading, "Oh, No! Not Another Learning Experience." Still nothing. This morning, he'd actually put on a suit and tie. The suit was friendly brown, not powerhouse navy or gray. The duds were not for Victoria; he was due in Criminal Court later. The arraignment in the case of State v. Solomon.

But now, all his thoughts were stuck on Victoria. Should he be alarmed at her silence? Where were the sparks? Where was the heat? Sound and fury, he could deal with. Stillness and indifference, he could not. In Steve's experience, when a woman was enmeshed in quiet reflection, best be prepared for oceanic change, a reversal of tidal flows. What was going on? Just what the hell was she thinking?

Driving her Mini Cooper across the causeway, Victoria spotted Steve just ahead in his Mustang convertible, hair blowing in the wind. Why was the top down on such a chilly day? Why did he have to be such a contrarian? She heard a horn blare, knew it was his, watched as he cut hard to the left and passed a minivan with Michigan plates.

Here they were, Solomon and Lord, headed the same direction but traveling in different lanes. At different speeds. About to take different routes.

Is this some sort of metaphor for our lives?

She would stay on Fifth Street all the way to the beach and swing right on Ocean Drive. One simple turn and the Les Mannequins building would be two blocks away. Steve would sail south on Alton, hang a left on Fourth Street, a right on Meridian, and a left on Third.

Why does he always choose the serpentine path?

Presumably, their destination was the same …but was it really? She loved Steve, but sometimes she truly wondered why. He could be so aggravating. Ordinarily, his churlishness with her mother wouldn't have bothered her. God knew, Irene brought a lot of it on herself.

And The Queen enjoyed needling Steve as much as he enjoyed returning the favor.

But it was her birthday!

And what about the way he'd treated Carl Drake? Her mother really cared for the guy, and Steve practically called him a crook. As for the booty of Sir Francis Drake, sure, it all sounded a little fanciful. But Drake said he had some confidential paperwork he was going to give The Queen that should resolve any questions. And she wasn't laying out any money. So what was the harm? And maybe it was all real. Some people go to a garage sale and buy a Jackson Pollock for ten bucks.

Just ahead of her, she saw Steve's Mustang swing onto Alton, just as the light turned from yellow to red. Yep, taking his circuitous shortcut. She decided not to go to the office. Instead, she would drive to Lummus Park, walk along the ocean, think for a bit.

Did Steve even understand the problem? Or was he totally unaware of just how precarious their relationship was?