Kill All the Lawyers (18 page)

"What did Kreeger say, exactly?" Victoria asked, breaking her silence.

Great. She can't resist a mental challenge.

"Best I remember, he said, 'Who could blame you if you resorted to deadly force to protect an innocent child? To protect the one you love?' "

"He's talking about you and him both. You see that, right?"

"Sure, he's saying I would kill to protect Bobby. But who's his kid? Kreeger doesn't have any children."

"Technically, neither do you."

"I have a nephew I love, and Kreeger knows that."

The light turned green and Victoria said: "You really don't see it?"

"No. That's why I'm asking for your help."

"If you'd stop looking for serpentine paths, you'd see how simple and straightforward it is."

"Okay, already. Tell me before the Everglades disappear."

"You're Bobby's uncle."

"Yeah?"

"So who calls Kreeger 'Uncle Bill'?"

"Amanda!"

"She'd have been what, about thirteen when Nancy Lamm was killed. A child."

Questions flashed through his mind, and he spoke them aloud. "But why'd Amanda need protecting? Who is she, anyway? And is Kreeger even telling the truth?"

"I'm sure you'll figure it out, Steve." She motioned toward the curb. "Drop me off on Lincoln Road."

"What! We're finally cracking this case here."

"I need new shoes."

"C'mon. This isn't about shoes. What's going on?"

"I choose to go shopping. Just the way you choose to reject a beautiful condo on Brickell and a beautiful townhouse in Bal Harbour."

"So you're pissed at me? That's why you're buying shoes?"

"Let's just say the Jimmy Choos are on the other foot now."

Twenty-One

A WOMAN'S RIGHT TO SHOES

Victoria didn't really need new shoes. What woman really
needs
hot pink Jimmy Choo strappies or black patent leather Dolce & Gabbanas? Or even gunmetal Via Spiga slides and a pair of beige snakeskin Miu Mius?

But
need
is a relative term, Victoria knew. Maybe she didn't require shoes the way she required oxygen. But just now, she needed to get away from Steve for a few hours to think. And trying on purple velvet Manolo Blahniks was free, even if the shoes themselves were not. She had no intention of buying something she couldn't afford, but just why the hell couldn't she afford them?

Was Jackie right? Was Steve holding her back? Jackie didn't put it that way, exactly. But isn't that what she'd meant?

After Steve dropped her off, Victoria began walking west along Lincoln Road, passing the shops and cafés. Tall, willowy young women sat with suntanned men, sipping lattes and whiling away the afternoon.

Who are these people? Don't they ever work?

The more she thought about the current state of her relationship with Steve, the more upset she became. Moving in together now seemed like an idiotic idea. Where would it lead? Steve hadn't even mentioned marriage. And was that even what she wanted? Could they get along over the long haul? Was love enough to carry a relationship? Didn't there have to be some commonality in personalities?

So many questions.

Her thoughts returned to the house they couldn't afford and the shoes that were ridiculously expensive.

Why shouldn't I be able to splurge on some wafery Italian footwear that costs nine hundred bucks?

She thought about it a minute. Wasn't there a constitutional right involved here? A Woman's Right to Shoes. Ha!

Her thoughts kept returning to Steve. Right now, he was so embroiled with Kreeger, he'd let the practice slide. The key in any law firm is to keep the faucets flowing. It's not enough to just work on the cases already in-house. You have to prime the pump, constantly bringing in new clients. And what was Steve, the self-appointed rainmaker, hustling up these days?

City of Coral Gables
v.
Fiore.
Defending a homeowner who, having been ordered to cut his lawn, mowed "FUCK YOU" into the three-foot-tall grass. Then there was the DUI case for the Zamboni driver at the Florida Panthers hockey games. And let's not forget Sheila and Max Minkin, suing their rabbi for showing up late to their wedding. Steve tried one of his old tricks with those two whiners.

He brings in a lousy case with obnoxious clients, then tries to palm it off on me.

She was so angry at Steve right now, she wished she knew one of Herbert's Yiddish curses. The one about having an onion grow in your navel. Yes, that would do quite nicely. Lacking that, she silently cursed her lover and partner in English, conjuring up the most wicked voodoo she knew:

Dearest Steve. May you have to spend the afternoon with Max and Sheila Minkin.

Then she said the hell with it and whipped out her American Express card. She was going to buy some damn shoes.

Twenty-Two

MOTIVE FOR MURDER

Steve walked into his reception room to find the Minkins waiting.

Oh, shit. They didn't have an appointment.

What lousy luck is this?

Cece Santiago was there, in Lycra shorts and halter top, lying on her back, bench-pressing a buck fifty-five, the bar
clank
ing into its brackets. And here were the Minkins, thumbing through copies of
Coastal Living
and
Architectural Digest
that had been a year old when Steve pilfered them from a doctor's office.

"Hey, Max! Hey, Sheila!" Steve pumped as much pleasure into his voice as he could fake. "How are my favorite newlyweds?"

"How's our case?" Sheila shot back. Max kept his face buried in a magazine.

"Rabbi Finsterman won't settle, at least not yet. His lawyer filed an answer to the complaint, so the issue is joined."

The issue is joined.

Trying to sound like a lawyer. Trying to justify his fee. It was not entirely bad news that Finsterman refused to settle. Now that they were in court, Steve's fee had just been hiked up from one-third of the recovery to forty percent.

"When do we go to trial?" Sheila demanded.

"There are pleadings to file and discovery to take," Steve said, trying to justify whatever fee might be at the end of this faded rainbow. "And it's no slam dunk. Finsterman's lawyer has filed several affirmative defenses."

"What the hell are they?"

"The usual. Assumption of the risk. Comparative negligence. Plus he claims the rabbi was delayed because a thunderstorm snarled traffic. Says it was an act of God."

"It was August! It rains every frigging day," Sheila said.

"I'll probably have to go to the expense of hiring an expert witness."

"Like who?"

"A Talmudic scholar." Thinking Herbert might be up for it, now that he'd started going to synagogue.

The phone rang, and Cece picked it up. "Solomon and Lord. Felonies and misdemeanors. Torts of all sorts." She listened a moment, then said, "
Jefe,
it's for you."

"Ah, probably Justice Brandeis returning my call." Steve gave Cece a sideways glance so she wouldn't say:
"No, it's the collection agency for the rented copier."
Then he headed for his inner office, thanking the Minkins for dropping by.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Steve sat cross-legged on the floor, pawing through the file of
State of Florida
v.
William Kreeger.
The death of Nancy Lamm. He'd had the criminal file pulled out of storage and started by going through the autopsy report and medical records. So far, he hadn't found anything relevant. The witness statements didn't help, either. He plowed back in time, poring over the notes of his first meeting with Kreeger.

It all started with a divorce and child custody case.
In re the Marriage of Leonard and Nancy Lamm.
Leonard claimed that Nancy abused cocaine and was an unfit mother. The judge appointed Kreeger to serve as court-appointed psychiatrist. He was to interview both parents and their child and file a report with the court.

Some details started coming back to Steve. The Lamms had a single child. A daughter. He remembered her name.
Mary.
Steve recalled Kreeger saying he'd told Nancy her daughter better not have a child out of wedlock or she'd be teased: "Mary had a little Lamm." Steve didn't think it was funny at the time, and it hadn't gotten funnier with age.

Riffling through the files, Steve found a copy of Kreeger's written report. The doc soft-pedaled Nancy's addictions and seemed to blame Leonard for her problems. Her husband was cold and distant and uncommunicative. Nancy was sensitive and lacked self-esteem, a problem exacerbated by Leonard's verbally abusive conduct. There was even a hint of abuse toward Mary. Kreeger phrased this part very carefully. Without ever accusing the father of making sexual overtures, he referred to the man entering the bathroom while Mary was showering. Another episode involved Leonard asking his daughter to sit on his lap, something Kreeger deemed "age inappropriate."

Leonard's lawyer filed a blistering set of objections to Kreeger's report. The lawyer called the claims fabricated and scandalous and asked that they be stricken. There was one objection—a huge one—that could have been made but wasn't because Leonard was unaware of it at the time. Kreeger had become Nancy Lamm's lover and should have been disqualified from the case on that ground.

The custody hearing was two weeks away when Nancy Lamm drowned in Kreeger's hot tub. At virtually the same time a Grand Jury was indicting Kreeger for murder, the family judge granted Leonard custody of the girl.

Steve went through the Family Court pleadings one at a time. With Nancy Lamm dead, the custody hearing had been moved to the uncontested calendar. Nothing fancy. Just a form order: "It is therefore ordered and adjudged that the Respondent Leonard Lamm be hereby granted permanent custody of the minor child, Mary Amanda Lamm."

Mary Amanda Lamm.

Amanda.

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

Suddenly, it all became clear. The state had gotten the motive wrong. Pincher had told the jury that Kreeger murdered Nancy Lamm because she threatened to file a complaint about the shrink seducing her. But shrinks get involved with their patients all the time. Sure, it was unethical, but it was slap-on-thewrist material, hardly a reason to kill the accuser.

The truth—the secret, ugly truth—was far worse. Nancy must have found out that Kreeger had seduced her daughter, Mary Amanda.
That
was what she threatened to disclose, maybe to the State Attorney as well as the medical board. Kreeger was facing prison time for statutory rape. He couldn't let that happen.

He
didn't
let that happen. He killed Nancy Lamm and kept her daughter for himself. Even if he had to wait a while. Amanda went to live with her father, and Kreeger went off to prison.

"Amanda was the only one who wrote me, the only one who cared. And when I got out, she was waiting for me."

When Kreeger told him that, Steve thought Amanda was one of those wacko pen pals murderers sometimes attract. But that wasn't it. They had a history.

Steve tried to picture what went on during the years Kreeger was in prison. Amanda Lamm should have been hanging out at the mall, going to cheerleader practice, and buying a prom dress. But her development had been stunted at age thirteen by the half man, half goat named Kreeger.

Steve imagined the girl sitting at home, writing notes on pink stationery, carefully folding them into scented envelopes, sealed with lipsticked kisses. Dreaming sweet thoughts of the man who stole her childhood and replaced it with whispered lies. Living in some perverted fairy tale where two lovers are pried apart by the dragons of fate.

Sure, Kreeger loved her. Loved her in a way both twisted and vile. And she loved him right back. Loved the man who had murdered her mother. And that, Steve thought, seemed as sad and tragic as the murder itself.

SOLOMON'S LAWS

8. Love is chemistry and mystery, not logic and reason.

Twenty-Three

WE ARE WHO WE ARE

Women don't sweep into a room anymore, Steve thought. There are no more Scarlett O'Haras, their dresses hoisted by hoops and petticoats, whooshing into a room, putting on airs.

But then there was Irene Lord.

The Queen burst through the door of his office, her eyes taking in the police-auction furniture, her glossy, collagened lips pursing as she contemplated whether it would be safe to sit down, lest a palmetto bug crawl up her panty hose.

"We must talk," Irene breathed, those puffy lips barely moving.

"Vic's not here," Steve said.

"I'm not blind, Stephen. Old and decrepit perhaps, but not blind."

Steve knew the remark was intended to elicit the obligatory denials, and he semi-complied. "Irene, you're not decrepit or blind."

"And ...?"

"And you're not old. You're gorgeous and vibrant and men still come sniffing after you like skunks after sunflowers."

"Thank you, Stephen. I've always been quite fond of you."

That stopped him. "A little early in the day for your gin and tonic, Irene."

"I haven't been drinking. I've come to see you, not my daughter, and I'm making pleasant small talk. Haven't you one iota of decorum?"

"Now, there's the Irene I love."

"And the truth is, I am somewhat fond of you, despite how damned aggravating you can be."

"Thank you."

"I know you say things just to get a rise out of me, but sometimes you're so aggressive and pushy."

"Pushy? Dammit, Irene, that's an anti-Semitic slur."