The budding Spielberg turned to me and scowled. 'If you're here about the insurance, it's been taken care of.'
'The insurance?'
'Yes!' he said petulantly. 'The liability policy. Aren't you the hotel risk manager?'
'Is that what I look like?'
Chrissy giggled as the director squinted at me. 'No, not really. I'd cast you as a security guard, maybe an ex- boxer with a broken nose and a checkered past.'
'I'm a lawyer.'
'Maybe in real life, but on the screen, never! Too solid.' He smacked me on my right shoulder, the one with the steel pin inside. 'Not shifty enough. Too All-American.'
'Not even third team,' I told him, but he didn't get it.
Chrissy bounded out of the chair, a strand of blond hair curled across her forehead. The hair stylist put his hands on his hips and glared. 'Don't blame me if you end up with the Hurricane Andrew look.'
'Jake, thanks for coming,' Chrissy said, hugging me. 'Just wait a minute and we can talk.'
A minute.
Maybe it's a modeling term that means 'until we lose the daylight.' Because it took six hours.
They shot video of the two models in the pool, the waterfall pouring over them. Why the fuss about the hair? Don't ask me; it stayed wet most of the day. They took more footage at the cabana, rubbing lotions on each other's backs while a deeply tanned actor in white slacks and a blue blazer said, 'Even our attitude is sunny on a sunny day. Let's see how Chrissy and Sofia enjoy the sun.' Then he said something about aloe, vitamin E, and healthy color. I don't think Brando could have done a better job.
The whole crew moved from the pool deck down to the beach, where the photographer took some footage of the models building sand castles, running into the water, frolicking in the miniature surf, snorkeling, knee boarding, Jet Skiing, playing kadima and Frisbee, and smacking a volleyball with two male models who mysteriously showed up, pecs glistening, pearly teeth grinning.
Generic stuff. It could have been one of those beer commercials with such impossibly beautiful people you hope somebody tears an anterior cruciate ligament diving for a ball or a brew. But this wasn't an ad for one of those piss-weak American beers. It was, pardon me, an advertorial for Pineapple Pete's suntan oil.
I waited a while, then moseyed over to Coconut Willie's for a Grolsch and a six-dollar burger. I had no choice but to chill while Chrissy earned her five-thousand-dollar daily fee, which was precisely five thousand more than I was making today.
By the time I got back to the beach, they were shooting the last segment, which the stopwatch woman told me was called 'hanging out.' Indeed, Chrissy and Sofia simply chatted as they strolled leisurely along the waterline. A few octogenarians toddied by, including one gent wearing a yarmulke and baggy boxer trunks that hung to his knees. He stopped and stared at the two women, a cute shot-the contrast of age and youth, and all that artistic stuff-until he ruined it by scratching himself in a place you'd never use suntan oil.
I hoped Don Shula didn't come walking along the beach. Or Joe Paterno. Or my granny.
I was wearing a fluorescent orange thong that was barely large enough to hold a roll of quarters much less… well, a linebacker's gear. Chrissy had asked one of the male models for a spare so I could get out of my charcoal pinstripes and black wing tips. Usually, on the beach, I wear cutoff jeans or boxer trunks of the Lloyd Bridges/ Sea Hunt era. But here I was, awkward, uncomfortable, exposed.
'Who does your casual attire?' the male model had asked, serious as could be. 'Calvin would seem right for you, though cut perhaps too small in the shoulders.'
'My attire is early locker room,' I'd told him. 'Old jerseys, faded warm-up gear. If I need something new, I call I-8OO-PRO-TEAM.'
Now, as Chrissy and I walked down the beach at the end of the day, I said, 'I listened to the tapes.'
'Do we have to talk about it?' she asked. Her head was down, and she seemed to be watching her toes squishing into the wet sand.
'We do, and then you do. You're going to have to tell the judge and jury.'
'It's very hard for me.'
'I know, but you have to. It's all we've got.'
'It brings back the anger.'
'Prior to the hypnosis, did you have any idea?'
'No. But afterward, it made so much sense.'
'Did you ever confront your father, accuse him of raping you?'
'No. I couldn't face him.'
'Did he ever threaten you as an adult? Were you in fear of him?' Hoping for something, some shred of evidence that could move us closer to the battered-women cases.
'No. Once I learned what really happened, all I had was hate for him. It burned inside me. I wanted to kill him. That's all I thought about.'
Just great. Premeditation and malice all wrapped up together.
'And now, how do you feel? Any regrets, any remorse?'
'No!' Her face reddened. 'I still hate him! He deserved to die. People will understand it.' She raised both hands in front of her, as if holding the little Beretta, and aimed at a tern hovering over our heads. 'Bang!'
The tern took off, and Chrissy turned to me, the imaginary gun still in her hands. 'It wasn't hard to do, Jake. Isn't that eerie?'
Yeah, but not the way she meant. Just now, I wondered about the lack of remorse, the apparent inability to relate to anyone's pain except her own.
'Did Dr. Schein tell you to shoot your father?'
'No. Why would he do that?'
'I don't know. Tell me more about Guy and Schein.'
'Like what?'
'What's their agenda? What's in it for Guy if you get off?'
It was still hot, even though the sun had moved over the city and was headed toward the Everglades. An easterly breeze blew Chrissy's hair across her face. She smoothed it back with a hand and said, 'Nothing, except I'm his sister.'
'No. You're his half sister. You killed his father, and he's busting a gut to help you.'
A dozen ring-billed gulls hovered over the wave crests, dipping down to feed on small fish near the surface. Chickenhearted, they don't dive like the smaller terns.
After a moment, Chrissy said, 'I don't know what you're looking for.'
'Neither do I. This case is so screwy. When someone's been killed and you don't know who did it, Doc Charlie Riggs always asks, Cui bono? Who stands to gain? Here, you did the killing, but what does Guy have to gain from your getting off?'
'If he's helping, what difference does it make?'
'Because if I don't know, I can't tell if he's really helping. I have to know his stake in all of this. Schein's, too.'
We walked another few minutes in silence, leaving two sets of footprints in the wet sand. Sea oats waved in the breeze on the restored dunes. Joggers plodded along the boardwalk. Finally, Chrissy said, 'There's something I didn't tell you.'
Isn't there always?
'What?'
'Larry Schein was in love with my mother.'
'You mean she had an affair with him.'
'I think so. Daddy thought so, too.'
'Did he accuse her?'
'Not exactly. More like, he ridiculed her.' Chrissy let her voice go husky: ' 'Is the good doctor coming over to rub your psyche or your back today, Emily?' That sort of thing.'
'Did Guy know?'
'I think everybody knew.'
