Kill All the Lawyers

Eighteen

Halloween had come and gone, Thanksgiving was around the corner, but the air was washcloth thick with heat and humidity. The palm fronds hung limply on the trees, no ocean breezes drifted inland. Driving through the winding streets of Coral Gables, Steve wore green Hurricanes shorts and a T-shirt with the logo "I'm Hung Like Einstein and Smart as a Horse." On the Margaritaville station, Jimmy Buffet was singing "Off to See the Lizard."

Steve parked next to a pile of yard clippings in a culde-sac off Alhambra, next to the Biltmore golf course. Halfway down the block was the home and office of Dr. William Kreeger.

Steve hopped out and headed down the street on foot. He could hear a power mower churning away behind one of the houses, could smell the fresh-cut grass. Around the corner, on Trevino, the sounds of sawing and chopping, a city crew cutting back the limbs on neighborhood banyan trees.

He wasn't quite sure why he parked so far away. Kreeger's place had a driveway, and there was parking at the curb, too. Maybe it was the embarrassment, going to visit a shrink. Or was Steve more like a burglar, stashing the getaway car out of sight? Didn't matter. The walk through the neighborhood of Mediterranean homes with barrel-tile roofs gave him a chance to plan. Should he bring up the subject of the boat captain? He could try bluffing, tell a big, fat lie.

"Say, Kreeger. I found the guy who was driving the boat when you killed your pal Beshears. Oscar De la Fuente. He's got some interesting things to say."

No. Too obvious. Let Kreeger bring it up. By now, he should know that Steve had been looking for the guy. Herbert had dropped off Steve's business card at every saloon and boat-repair yard in the Keys, lingering longer in the saloons, no doubt. Steve had placed ads in newspapers and on the Internet, promising a reward for anyone finding De la Fuente. No one came forward.

Kreeger lived in a stucco house that dated from the 1920s. The walls had been sandblasted, giving them the pallor of a dead man. Kreeger's office was around back. Steve followed a path of pink flagstones between hibiscus bushes and emerged in a yard surrounded by a ficus hedge. A waterfall gurgled between coral rock boulders and spilled into a rectangular swimming pool.

Steve had been here before. A lawyer always visits the scene of the crime. At the far end of the pool was the hot tub where Nancy Lamm had drowned.

Nothing had changed since Steve was here seven years ago, except that day, best he could recall, there was no naked woman on a chaise lounge. But today, reclining on a redwood chaise with thick patterned cushions was a very lithe young woman wearing sunglasses and nothing else. Her body was slick with oil, and the scent of coconut was in the air.

"Hello there," he said jauntily.

She sleepily turned her head toward him. "You don't recognize me, do you?"

"Sure I do." In truth, he hadn't been looking at her face. "Amanda, right? The niece. But I don't know your last name."

"Is that important?"

"I was just wondering how Dr. Bill is your uncle."

She rolled onto her side. "It's an honorary title. But I think that makes Bill even more special, don't you?"

The random fortuity of life struck Steve just then. One sunny day, you're walking on the beach and a bird shits on your head. Or if you're really unlucky, a tsunami swamps you and drags you out to sea. But another day, you're going to see a homicidal guy who hates you, and poof, a naked woman appears directly in your path. A woman who could alter the course of several lives. Could do justice where justice has failed. And there she is, like the gatekeeper at a bridge in a Greek myth.

It's almost too coincidental. Okay, strike the "almost."

Kreeger always seemed to be one step ahead of him. If Steve had plans for Amanda, surely Kreeger did, too. Steve just wasn't sure what they were.

"Wanna go for a swim?" Amanda asked.

The question threw him.

"Uncle Bill's still with a patient," she continued. "We've got time."

She cocked her head in the direction of Kreeger's office, a converted Florida room facing the yard. Slatted wooden shades appeared to be closed, but it was possible someone on the inside was watching them.

"I don't have a swimsuit."

"Me, either."

"I see that."

Dumb. "I see that." Of course you see it, schmuck.

"Nice day for a swim, though," he said. "Hot."

"I love hot days," Amanda purred.

"I see that."

Again? "I see that"? Act natural. Act like you've seen a naked woman or two.

She stretched her arms over her head, yawned, and pointed her toes. The motion was graceful and catlike. Her breasts were small, round, and tan, the nipples the color of copper. She was thin but strong, with developed calves that flexed as she straightened her legs. Carved abs. Farther south, a thin triangular strip of pubic hair ran between two small tattoos, but he couldn't make them out from this distance.

"An arrow and a heart," she said.

"What?"

"The tats you're staring at."

"Oh. Well. I wasn't. Staring, I mean. Exactly."

In retrospect, "I see that" sounded more intelligent.

"I mean, I was looking at your …uh… landing strip. That's what you call it, right? My girlfriend asked me if she should get one. I guess, technically, you don't 'get one.' It's not like buying a purse, right?"

He was aware he was babbling. What was it about a naked woman that discombobulated a man?

Her nakedness, idiot! Right. I see that.

What happened to his plans? He had wanted to find out everything about Amanda. How long had she known Kreeger? Did he ever talk about Nancy Lamm or Jim Beshears? Would she help Steve? But confronted with a naked woman, logical questions tend to evaporate faster than coconut oil.

"You were Uncle Bill's lawyer, weren't you?" Amanda asked.

"Right."

Wait a second. I'm supposed to be asking the questions.

"You double-crossed him."

"He tell you that?"

"Uncle Bill tells me everything."

"I thought he might. Maybe we can get together and swap stories."

"Uncle Bill wouldn't like that."

"Not a date or anything. I just want to talk."

Amanda gave him a patronizing smile with just a hint of an eyebrow raised above the sunglasses. "That's what he wouldn't like. Talking about private stuff. Having sex with you he wouldn't mind. If that's what I wanted."

Oh.

"But I haven't made up my mind about you yet," she said. She swung her legs out of the chaise and walked toward him. It wasn't a seductive walk. More bouncy and athletic, like a cheerleader, her small breasts not even jiggling. She came up to Steve, as if daring him not to move out of the way. He took the dare, and she stopped six inches in front of him. She took off the sunglasses. Her eyes were a greenish gold. "I don't know if you'd be as good to me as Uncle Bill. He always puts me first. My pleasures. My desires. That's how he got his honorary title."

"That's some uncle," Steve allowed.

"Uncle Bill loves me. And he has for a long time."

She took a half step toward him, stood on her tippytoes, and kissed Steve lightly on the lips. He didn't kiss back, but he didn't pull away, either. "But a girl can always have two uncles," she whispered.

She moved past him, one breast brushing his arm, giving him a last look at her from behind. Bouncing toward the house, calves undulating, her butt high and firm. And just above the crack between her cheeks, another tattoo: an iridescent jellyfish, beautiful and deadly, its tentacles streaming down each buttock.