Kill All the Lawyers (27 page)

"So, suddenly, you think Steve is right for me?"

"Trust me where men are concerned, dear. Despite that thorny exterior, deep inside, Stephen is a loving, caring man who adores you."

Just what were they putting in the sparkling water, anyway?

But the more Victoria thought about Steve, the more she thought her mother was right.

Meaning
I've
been right, all along. Beginning that night in the avocado grove—Bruce's avocado grove— when I sneaked off with Steve.

He had so many good qualities. His love for Bobby. His quest for justice, even if the road he took was usually off the beaten path. His quirky sense of humor. And, of course, one more thing, something her mother nailed as she sipped her after-dinner cognac.

"May I assume Stephen's good in the sack?"

"You may assume anything you wish, Mother."

"I always liked lanky, wiry men. Stephen looks pretty limber to me."

Right now, Mr. Limber was in the backyard, squirting fluid on the charcoal, lighting a fire for the steaks. T-bones, sweet potatoes, tossed salad, followed by a discussion of feelings, along with Key lime pie. Yes, this was going to be a special night.

Five minutes later, Steve came into the kitchen and headed straight for the refrigerator. What shoes and purses were to women, Victoria thought, the fridge and the TV were to men. He poked around a second and pulled out a cold Sam Adams.

He liked cold beer and rare steak. She liked white wine and grilled salmon. But tonight none of that mattered. Tonight they would get closer than ever. She just knew it.

"How long until you put the steaks on?" she asked.

"A while. You know I like the coals to be glowing. The secret to a great steak—"

"Is the hottest possible fire. Sear the outside, keep the inside juicy. I know, I know. Make mine well done?"

He made a face. "If you say so. Where's the Bobster?"

"In his room, studying."

"Alone?"

She gave him a bittersweet smile. Bobby had been moping around ever since he'd been exiled from the Goldberg house, and Maria had been forbidden from even setting foot on Kumquat Avenue. All by royal decree of the Munoz-Goldbergs.

Complicating the situation was Janice. Steve had begun allowing her to visit Bobby at home, but so far refusing to let her take him anywhere alone. He'd been afraid Janice would snatch him and run.

Now Steve picked up the salad bowl and shook it, shuffling the lettuce, tomatoes, and cucumbers, everything sliced thin, the way he liked it.

"You make a great salad," he said.

"Thanks." She sipped at the wine to let him go on without interruption. When a witness is ready to talk, best to keep quiet.

"You're really terrific in the kitchen," he continued. "A lot of women these days just don't take the time. But the way you balance work and everything else— well, it's pretty impressive."

She picked up the cheese grater and went to work. In truth, her culinary skills were limited to a couple of dishes, but she sensed this was just a warm-up, Steve taking a few practice swings. He looked a little nervous. Apparently, stalking a serial killer was not as scary a task as plumbing his own emotional depths.

"You're good at so many things," Steve went on. "You're amazing with Bobby; the kid adores you."

"It's mutual."

Okay, now we're moving in the right direction, though at the speed of a manatee. C'mon, Steve. Let's go from the nephew's feelings to the uncle's feelings.

"Maybe you and I can talk a bit while Bobby's still in his room," Steve said. "About personal stuff."

She stopped grating the cheese in midstroke. "Sure."

"There are things I've wanted to say to you for a long time, but you know how it is. . . ."

He plucked a tomato slice out of the bowl and let the words dangle in the air. Tongue-tied. Not his usual state. His dark hair was messed, and there was a smudge of charcoal on his cheek. He looked like a kid, she thought, in part perhaps because of his T-shirt:
"I Am Not Infantile, You Stinky Butt Poophead."

"Go ahead, Steve. It won't hurt."

"So why does it feel like opening a vein?"

"When you're in a relationship, you've got to trust the other person. You can share feelings, expose your fears, your weaknesses." She reached over and wiped the smudge from his face.

He took a breath and sighed, as if to say,
"Here goes."

She picked up her wineglass and waited. It was a two-sip wait. There was so much she wanted to hear. Words like "love" and "plans" and "future," and even "marriage" and "children." Sure, she knew he was conflicted. Men were like that. They yearn for the love of a woman, and then when they get it, they break into a cold sweat.

"You remember how I always told you about the College World Series?" Steve said.

That puzzled her, but she went with it. "U.M. down by a run in the ninth inning. You got picked off third base to end the game."

"What else? What do I always say?"

This must be some sort of metaphor, she thought, but what could it be? Steve was bringing back the most humiliating day of his life. He'd let his teammates down. So maybe he wanted to say:
"I want us to be a team forever, Vic, and I'll never let you down."

"You always say you got in under the tag," she replied. "The ump blew the call."

"Yeah, maybe the photos make it look that way. But the thing is, I felt the third baseman's glove swipe my hand when I dived for the base. All this time, Vic, I've been lying to myself and everybody else. The damn truth is, I was out."

Okay, Steve, you were picked off. Your team lost. What's it have to do with us?

But she didn't want to appear critical. What was it her mother had said?

"A woman must support her man."

She wrapped both arms around his neck and moved so close, their noses nearly touched. "I understand, sweetheart. You feel your life has been a lie."

"Well, not my whole life. But I feel so much better telling you what really happened."

"So that our relationship can move to a new level?" Prompting him, trying to make it easier.

"What level is that?"

"I thought you wanted to open up, discuss feelings, remember?"

"Yeah. I was feeling bad and now that I told you the truth, I feel better."

"
You
feel better?" She took a step back, astonished. "What about us? What about words like 'love' and 'plans' and 'future'? Where do I fit into your life now that we know you were picked off fair and square?"

Steve seemed startled. He took a gulp of his beer, then moved toward the window. In the yard, white smoke billowed from the hibachi. Either a new pope had been selected, or it was time to put on the steaks.

He turned to face her. "Vic, all these years, I never told anyone else what really happened in that game. I couldn't have told you if I didn't love you."

"Keep going, partner. What else?"

"I'm sorry I've been such a jerk about moving in together. I figured everything was good the way it was. We each had our own space, and I was afraid that if something changed, we'd be headed for the great unknown. So I guess I was scared."

"And now?"

"Life is the great unknown, isn't it? If we shy away from risks, we're running from life."

"So you do have plans? For us, I mean."

"My mind's full of plans, except I call them 'hopes.' When we met, I didn't dare
plan
you'd want to be with me. But sure, I hoped you would. Even when we got together, my hopes all came with fears. The biggest one, you'd wake up one morning and realize you'd made a gigantic mistake. So I couldn't talk about any of this. Even now it's hard for me to believe you want to live with me and help me raise Bobby. As for the future—well, I've got hopes there, too."

She didn't know how far to push him, but she couldn't leave that hanging. "What sort of hopes?"

"You know, permanent stuff."

"Yeah?"

"Marriage. Kids." His voice a whisper.

"Is that what you really want, Steve?" Asking ever so gently, trying not to frighten him.

"Someday," he said quickly. "If all goes well."

Okay, a tiny retreat. But he'd moved a mile forward and only one step backward. Once you say "marriage," the word can't be erased.

Victoria took both Steve's arms and wrapped them around her waist, because the poor guy seemed incapable of movement. Then she cupped his face in her hands and kissed him. As their lips touched, she murmured, "Those are my hopes, too."

She kissed him again and their bodies folded into each other, the contours fitting perfectly, a yin and yang of man and woman. "And by the way, I've studied those photos from the game. You did get in under the tag."

"No, Vic. I remember the glove hitting my hand."

"You remember wrong, lover. You were safe. You've always been safe."

Thirty-Four

A THUMP IN THE NIGHT

Several hours after the words "marriage" and "kids" tumbled from his mouth like skydivers leaping from a plane, Steve Solomon took stock of his life.

I'm a happy man.

Strike that, Madam Court Reporter. "Happy" doesn't quite say it. I'm a living beer commercial. I'm playing volleyball on the beach with the woman I love.

He had shared his feelings with Victoria and it hadn't hurt. They loved each other and had recommitted. They were about to take the giant step of buying a place and moving in together. Steve, Victoria, and Bobby. A ready-made family.

Bobby seemed happier at dinner, too. Steve made him laugh, and the kid worked up his first anagram in a week. Who knew that "President George Bush" could be rearranged to spell "The person is buggered"?

Now Victoria lay alongside Steve in bed. They had eaten their steaks and polished off an entire pie. They had talked some more in the bedroom, had made love, talked some more, made love again, and talked even more.

Steve was just drifting off to sleep, thinking he wouldn't trade places with anyone else in the world, when he heard the
thump.
There was a steady breeze, and sometimes a giant palm frond would break loose from the tree and sideswipe the house on the way to the ground. But that sound was different. He felt too tired and content to get up, but he did, anyway.

The house was dark, and he was naked. He reached under the bed, grabbed an aluminum softball bat, and padded out of the bedroom. In the kitchen, he peered through the sliding glass door. The backyard was an ominous greenish black, the foliage backlit by a neighbor's powerful anticrime spotlights. Something seemed different, but what was it?

It only took a second. The grill cover was on the ground. A metal lid, it should have been leaning against the house, where he'd left it. But it had been moved, maybe two feet, as if someone walking along the house in the dark had stumbled over it.

Steve unlocked the glass door, slid it open, and slipped outside, gripping the bat in his right hand. It was light and whippy. He could crush someone's skull with it, no problem.

He smelled something burning. What the hell?

Cigarette smoke.

Then a woman's voice, out of the darkness. "You've gotten bigger since you were nine."

Heart racing, Steve wheeled around, ready to swing the bat.

"Over here, Stevie."

He wheeled the other way and saw the glow of the cigarette and a heavyset figure reclining on the chaise lounge.

"Jesus, Janice! What are you doing here?"

"Here. Take this." She sat up in the chaise and tossed a towel at him. "You remember how Mom always made me give you a bath when you were little? You hated it."

Steve wrapped the towel—wet and cold—around his waist. "You stoned, Janice? What the hell's going on?"

"Clean and sober. I came to see Bobby."

"In the middle of the night?"

"It's the only time we can talk without you hovering over us like a wicked stepmother. Or stepuncle, or whatever the hell you are."

"I'm his caregiver. I'm his father and his mother, and I'd rather see him raised by wolves than by you."

"You're so great at it, where the hell is he?"

"In bed. Sleeping."

"Yeah, well, I just rapped on his window for ten minutes and he ain't there."

Steve's first thought was that Bobby was sleeping so soundly, he didn't hear Janice at the window. But no, the kid was a nervous sleeper. A car door slamming down the block, a police siren on Douglas Road, a teakettle whistling . . . everything woke him up.

A second later, Steve raced into the house and down the corridor. He threw open the door to Bobby's room and flicked on the lights. The bed was messed. And empty.

"Bobby!" Steve yelled. "Bobby! Where are you? Bobby!"

Thirty-Five

ON BEING A MAN

Steve paced in the living room. Victoria made coffee. Janice smoked.

"Here's what we know," Steve said, straining to be analytical, fighting the fear. "Bobby's bike is gone. That's a good sign. If he'd been snatched, he wouldn't be on his bike."

Steve wanted to believe he was right. When he'd seen the empty bed, his first searing thought was that Kreeger had kidnapped the boy. But no, the bike changed all that.

"That Juban princess," Janice said. "Maybe he went over to her house, and we'll find him up a tree."

"The Goldbergs live a block away," Steve said. "He wouldn't ride his bike. But we gotta check it out anyway. I'll walk over there."

"Not with the restraining order." Victoria came out of the kitchen, carrying a pot of coffee on a tray. "You can't go near their property. I'll do it."

"I'll go along," Janice said.

"No. You'll just start a fight," Steve said.

"Me? You're the one who busted the guy in the mouth."

"Stop it, both of you!" Victoria said it with such authority that they both clammed up. "Time's wasting. I'll go alone. Call me on the cell if anything—"