Kill All the Lawyers (23 page)

"Carl, this is uncomfortable for me," Steve said.

Drake poured himself a Scotch over ice, walked to a facing sofa and perched on the arm. He wore linen slacks the color of melted butter and a shimmering blue shirt, the fabric so soft, it invited petting. "Did Irene ask you to come?"

"She ordered me not to."

"Do you frequently disregard your clients' instructions?"

"All the time. I figure if they were so smart, they wouldn't need my counsel."

Drake gave him a pleasant smile. It seemed to be a well-practiced gesture from a well-mannered, well-accented smoothie.

Steve took a breath and surveyed the room. A portrait of Sir Francis Drake sat on an easel. A map of the seven seas, circa 1550, was pinned to a display board. A polyurethane block embedded with gold coins— Spanish doubloons, Steve supposed—sat on the desk, a seductive tease for any possible heirs of the sixteenth-century privateer. A calfskin briefcase bulged with papers.

Steve turned back to Drake and said: "What do you have in the pockets of those fancy pants you're wearing?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Wallet? Keys? Take them out."

"Are you robbing me?"

"When I hang you off your balcony by your ankles, I don't want you to lose anything."

Drake laughed, the Scotch jiggling in his glass, a golden whirlpool. "I guess that's called a 'shakedown,' isn't it? But from what I hear, you can't afford any more dates in Criminal Court."

"You're gonna give Irene back her money."

"Oh, would that I could. The money's already gone to pay expenses in the administration of the estate."

"Like room service at the Four Seasons?"

"As a matter of fact, my travel expenses are included. But the payoff to Irene will far exceed—"

"At dinner, you said there were no fees."

"I'm afraid I wasn't totally forthcoming. But I was loath to discuss business on Irene's birthday, and my little deception seemed a good way to short-circuit the conversation."

"You're good, Drake. You're what my father would call 'slick as owl shit.' "

Drake hoisted his glass. "A toast to your father, then."

"Did you know the bank foreclosed on Irene's condo?"

Drake's suntanned face froze momentarily. "The hell you say."

"She's too embarrassed to tell you. Just like you're too embarrassed to tell her you're a con man. There's no estate of Sir Francis Drake. You're just pulling a scam. I'm guessing that ritzy briefcase of yours holds a first-class ticket to wherever scumbags go when the Grand Jury starts issuing subpoenas."

Drake stood, walked to the bar, and poured himself another Scotch. "Foreclosure? I don't understand it. Irene led me to believe she had millions."

"It's a role she plays."

Drake gave a little rueful laugh. "Seems I'm the one who's been conned."

"One difference, Drake. Irene didn't steal your money."

"I never intended to hurt her. She's very special to me."

"I'll bet you say that to all the widows."

"This is different." He took a long pull on his drink. His crisp British accent seemed to have been replaced by flatter tones—Chicago, maybe—and his shoulders slumped. Losing some of his polish, Drake seemed uncomfortable and out of place, like Vice President Cheney in a Speedo.

Drake nodded toward the briefcase. "The plane ticket's there, all right, Solomon. Rio de Janeiro. I'm usually gone by now. I stayed only because of Irene. The damn truth is, I'm in love with her."

"Great. Invite me to the wedding. After you pay her back."

"I wish I could. Truly. But the money's gone."

Steve considered himself a human polygraph machine. Looking at Carl Drake at that moment, the man's mask slipping away, his brow furrowing, his voice choked with regret, the machine said the con artist was telling the truth. For some reason, that only made Steve angrier. "Dammit, Drake. You say you love her, but you stole the roof from over her head."

"Are you going to hang me off the balcony, then?"

"I would, but I sprained my wrist hitting a guy. I'd probably drop you."

"Then what shall we do?"

"Let's have that drink," Steve said. "Bourbon will be just fine."

* * *

Cabanas—tents of flowing white cotton—blossomed like sails in the breeze. At poolside, Steve and Drake sat in the shade of a sabal palm and sipped their drinks, a soft breeze scented with suntan oil wafting over them.

"You could still go to Rio," Steve said. "There's nothing I could do to stop you."

"Too depressing," Drake said. "That's where Charles Ponzi went."

"The Ponzi pyramid scheme?"

"That's him. Fled to Italy, then Rio. Became a smuggler."

"Must be your hero. Like me following Rickey Henderson. A's to Yankees to Padres to Mets. Stealing bases wherever he went."

"Charles Ponzi died in the charity ward of a Brazilian hospital." There was a touch of sadness in Drake's voice. "I don't want to end like that."

Steve took a second to admire two sun-worshipping young women in bikinis. "Rickey Henderson ended up back in the minors."

"The shame is, I'm quite good at my work," Drake told him. "When I find a mark, I always look for the weakness that lets me pry loose the money."

"Greed, I would think."

"Sure, with the traditional cons. But I was always drawn to people who yearned to be something larger than themselves. You tell people they're descended from Sir Francis Drake, all their defenses evaporate. They dream that their current lives were destined to be greater or more meaningful. Then I turn a seemingly harmless conceit into a way to relieve them of their money."

"You don't sound particularly sorry about being a thief."

Drake shrugged. "We are who we are."

Echoing Irene's words. An incontrovertible fact of human nature.

"So what happened to the money, Drake?"

"I paid off debts. Gambling losses. A real estate investment trust that went belly-up. Even a gold mine that tapped out. I'm broke."

"Why not stay until you rip off enough people to get ahead?"

Drake sniffed at the suggestion. "That's what an amateur would do. A professional knows that it's better to bail out a month early than a day late. I had my usual story ready. Complications with the estate. Must fly to London. That buys a few weeks, and by then, I'm setting up shop in South America."

"And the reason you're not on the beach at Impanema is that you fell in love?"

Drake tipped his glass forward, the ice cubes clinking, the drinker's signal of affirmation. "I wanted to tell Irene everything. Beg for forgiveness. Promise to go straight so she and I could start a life together."

"Where? In the condo that's being foreclosed?"

"As I have no residence of my own, that was a distinct possibility." Drake emitted a laugh that was more of a sigh. "It's turning out rather like an O. Henry story, isn't it?"

"I wouldn't know. Henry Aaron, I might know."

"Oh, I think you understand me quite well. You're a good deal smarter than you let on. And you're an excellent judge of character."

"When I was a kid, I'd go to my father's courtroom and watch trials. For a while, I'd close my eyes and just listen to witnesses. Then I'd cover my ears and just watch. I'd put everything I'd seen and heard together. It was a game I played to figure out who was lying."

"It serves you well to this day. You saw through me in an instant."

"Wasn't that hard. I'm just surprised Irene came to me for help. I'm not on the list of her five hundred favorite people."

"Oh, you're wrong about that. Irene likes you. Worries about you because of that Dr. Bill character. She thinks you're playing with fire there."

That stopped Steve. "What does she know about that?"

"What you say to Victoria she repeats to Irene, who then tells me."

Of course. Mothers and daughters.

"Jeez, next you'll be telling me the last time we had sex."

"Two weeks, Tuesday. Right after
Sports Center.
"

"During. The hockey highlights gave us a window."

"I've listened to Dr. Bill on the radio," Drake said. "All that psychobabble to sell worthless books and tapes."

"Do you know about his theory of evolutionary psychology? We're all hardwired for murder. We're programmed by millions of years of evolution that favors survival of those who slaughter their enemies."

"And all this time, I thought we were just programmed for larceny."

"It's a pretty simple theory. Our genes carry the same murderous impulses as Paleolithic man."

"Interesting," Drake said. "If our DNA instructs us to kill, why fight it? The ideal rationalization for murder."

They each sipped their drinks, mulling it over. "Kreeger says I'm just as much a killer as he is," Steve said, after a moment. "For a while, I thought he was planting that seed in my brain, trying to set me up to kill my sister."

"And now?"

"Some days, he says we're both killers. And some days, we're both heroes. Kreeger claims he rescued a girl the way I rescued my nephew. But what Kreeger really did was sick and twisted."

"It sounds like a game to him. Putting you through the wringer like that."

"Whenever the bastard mentions Bobby's name, a chill goes up my spine."

"He's found your weakness, then."

"My nephew?"

"Your
love
for him. If Kreeger wanted to hurt you, he'd go after the child. Isn't that apparent?"

Too much so, Steve thought.

The way to cripple me, the way to inflict pain without end, would be to hurt Bobby.

What kind of man would do such a thing? Bill Kreeger would. The man who sees himself as the product of millions of years of evolution.

But then, so am I.

Kreeger was wrong about most things, but he was right about something. It's an essential truth of human nature that to protect those we love, every one of us will kill.

Thirty

OF NYMPHS AND NUDNIKS

With Bobby riding shotgun and Jimmy Buffet singing about "Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes," Steve drove north on Alhambra in the Gables. The Biltmore golf course peeked out from between the sprawling Mediterranean and Colonial homes. They crossed the bridge over the waterway at Taragona and slowed near at the intersection of Salvatierra Drive.

Kreeger's place was a block away, and Steve was edgy. All his plans had been shot to hell. First, he had tried to simply warn off Kreeger. A tough-guy routine.
"If you come after me, I'll land on you like a ton of concrete."
Yeah, real impressive. Then he'd tried to spook Kreeger with tales of searching for—and finding—De la Fuente. But with the boat captain dead, Kreeger had nothing to fear. Trying to enlist Amanda as an accomplice hadn't worked, either. She'd been lying in wait for Steve. Naked and flirtatious. Clearly put up to it by Kreeger. Maybe to sabotage his relationship with Victoria. Who knew? The bastard was after him on multiple fronts.

And today's plan? A speck of an idea, totally lacking in sophistication.

Illegal, yes. Dangerous, yes. But sophisticated, no.

Judge Schwartz had ordered him to bring Bobby to Kreeger for evaluation. As long as they had to be in Kreeger's house, why not snoop around? Why not burgle the place and see what he could find?

"We're early," Bobby said. "Twenty-one minutes and thirty-four seconds early."

Steve pulled up to the curb and stopped. "I want you to wait in the car. I have something to do."

"What?"

"Can't tell you. And when we see Kreeger, don't mention our showing up early, okay?"

Bobby took off his glasses and cleaned them on the front of his Florida Marlins jersey, his lips pursed. His Solomon & Lord baseball cap was turned around backwards. "Are you gonna get in trouble, Uncle Steve?"

"Why would you say that?"

"Because you're wearing a tool belt and you're not a carpenter."

"It's a jogger's fanny pack, not a tool belt."

"Then why'd you put those lock picks and master keys in it?"

"You ask a lot of questions, squirt."

"Florida Statute eight-ten-point-zero-six," Bobby said. "It's a crime to possess burglary tools with intent to trespass or steal."

That damn echolalia, Steve thought. Bobby had been hanging around the office the day Steve signed up Omar Ortega, a kid charged with possessing a metal ruler suitable for breaking into parking meters. Ortega professed his innocence, even while paying his retainer in quarters and dimes.

"We're invited into Kreeger's house, right, Bobby?"

"Yeah, the judge says we gotta go."

"So I'm not trespassing. I'm just arriving early. If there are any locked doors or cabinets, I might just want to poke around a bit."

"Mom says if you go to jail, I can come live with her."

"Very hospitable of her."

"She said even if you don't go to jail, she's gonna get a judge to give her custody."

"How do you feel about that, kiddo?"

"I know she treated me really bad, but she was so messed up then, I don't think she could help it. I don't hate her or anything, and she kind of needs me because she's all alone. I mean, she doesn't even have any friends."

They sat in silence a moment and Steve felt his stomach knot with fear. In a few moments, he'd be sneaking through Kreeger's house like a cat burglar, but the only thing frightening him was that his nephew seemed ready to desert him. "What are you saying, Bobby? You want to live with your mom because you feel sorry for her?"

Tears formed in the boy's eyes "I know you hate her because of what she did to me."

"I don't hate her. She's still my sister, so somewhere deep inside, I suppose I still have feelings for her."

"And she's still my mom."

That again.

There was a river of sweetness that ran through Bobby that Steve didn't share. Truth be told, those
feelings
he claimed to still have for his sister were mostly homicidal in nature.