Kill All the Lawyers

girlfriend, hoping he finds out. At the same time you want him to believe you're building a murder case against him. Why not burn down his house while you're at it?'

'I've got to do something. From the day he stuck that fish on my door, I've been on the defensive. All that trash talk on the radio. Those veiled threats about you and Bobby and my father. Even his showing up at Joe's. He's worming his way into our lives and I want him out. I need to knock him off his stride, force him to make a move he hasn't planned.'

'When Kreeger makes a move,' Victoria reminded him, with an air of exasperation, 'people tend to die.'

Tourists clogged the causeway as Steve neared the Fisher Island Ferry terminal. He wove in and out of lanes, trying to find the quickest route across the bay. His mind drifted back to the dinner at Joe's, the source of the skirmish with Victoria. Okay, he hadn't been on his best behavior, but The Queen was partly to blame. Her very presence brought out his sarcastic side.

The Queen and The Princess.

Guys always say to study a girl's mother to see just what your girlfriend will look like in thirty years or so. Well, no problem there. Even without her artificial enhancements, The Queen was still a dish, to use another one of her expressions.

But what about personality traits? Does a daughter pick up those, too? Victoria seemed to have rejected her mother's values. She had ditched filthy rich Bruce Bigby and she had rejected the advances of lethally handsome and equally rich Junior Griffin. Her devotion and selflessness toward Bobby nearly matched Steve's.

But something troubling had come up in the search for a place to live. Why was Victoria steering him toward seven-figure penthouse condos and mini mansions? If they bought something beyond their means, Solomon amp; Lord would have to start wooing banks and insurance companies and other well-heeled clients.

Is this her secret plan? Maybe in cahoots with The Queen?

Was there some mysterious genetic factor at work here? An invisible time bomb, a materialism gene embedded in her family's DNA. Maybe it went all the way back to Sir Francis Drake, plundering Spanish ships for their gold doubloons.

A minivan with Michigan plates swerved into his lane, cutting him off. Steve banged his horn, then sped around the doofus. In five minutes, he'd be at the office, sidestepping anorexic models and dashing for the stairs. He wondered if Victoria was already there. Usually, she arrived before him, and there'd be coffee brewing and fresh lilies in a vase by the time he arrived.

But the past week, she'd been the tardy one. Not only that, she'd been unusually quiet. She hadn't been giving him grief, another bad sign. The other day, he'd worn an old T-shirt, with the logo 'Please Forgive Me; I Was Raised by Wolves.' No reaction from The Princess. The next day, he wore one reading, 'Oh, No! Not Another Learning Experience.' Still nothing. This morning, he'd actually put on a suit and tie. The suit was friendly brown, not powerhouse navy or gray. The duds were not for Victoria; he was due in Criminal Court later. The arraignment in the case of State v. Solomon.

But now, all his thoughts were stuck on Victoria. Should he be alarmed at her silence? Where were the sparks? Where was the heat? Sound and fury, he could deal with. Stillness and indifference, he could not. In Steve's experience, when a woman was enmeshed in quiet reflection, best be prepared for oceanic change, a reversal of tidal flows. What was going on? Just what the hell was she thinking?

Driving her Mini Cooper across the causeway, Victoria spotted Steve just ahead in his Mustang convertible, hair blowing in the wind. Why was the top down on such a chilly day? Why did he have to be such a contrarian? She heard a horn blare, knew it was his, watched as he cut hard to the left and passed a minivan with Michigan plates.

Here they were, Solomon and Lord, headed the same direction but traveling in different lanes. At different speeds. About to take different routes.

Is this some sort of metaphor for our lives?

She would stay on Fifth Street all the way to the beach and swing right on Ocean Drive. One simple turn and the Les Mannequins building would be two blocks away. Steve would sail south on Alton, hang a left on Fourth Street, a right on Meridian, and a left on Third.

Why does he always choose the serpentine path?

Presumably, their destination was the same …but was it really? She loved Steve, but sometimes she truly wondered why. He could be so aggravating. Ordinarily, his churlishness with her mother wouldn't have bothered her. God knew, Irene brought a lot of it on herself.

And The Queen enjoyed needling Steve as much as he enjoyed returning the favor.

But it was her birthday!

And what about the way he'd treated Carl Drake? Her mother really cared for the guy, and Steve practically called him a crook. As for the booty of Sir Francis Drake, sure, it all sounded a little fanciful. But Drake said he had some confidential paperwork he was going to give The Queen that should resolve any questions. And she wasn't laying out any money. So what was the harm? And maybe it was all real. Some people go to a garage sale and buy a Jackson Pollock for ten bucks.

Just ahead of her, she saw Steve's Mustang swing onto Alton, just as the light turned from yellow to red. Yep, taking his circuitous shortcut. She decided not to go to the office. Instead, she would drive to Lummus Park, walk along the ocean, think for a bit.

Did Steve even understand the problem? Or was he totally unaware of just how precarious their relationship was?

Fifteen

THE CASE OF THE OVERBOOKED RABBI

'Let me get this straight,' Steve said. 'The rabbi was late for your wedding.'

'Causing us emotional distress,' piped up Sheila Minkin.

'And costing us like a thousand bucks in extra liquor charges,' added Max Minkin, newly minted groom. 'We had to start the reception before the wedding. Do you know how much the Ritz-Carlton charges per bottle?'

Steve didn't know and didn't care. He just wanted to get the basic facts of this farshlugginer case, then head to court for his own arraignment. It wouldn't hurt if his lawyer-Victoria Lord, Esq.- showed up so she could go along, too.

Where the hell is she?

In the past two minutes, Steve had learned that Max was a stockbroker downtown, Sheila a personal shopper for Neiman Marcus in Bal Harbour. Bride and groom were in their early thirties and well dressed. Steve figured the case was worth fifteen minutes of his time, twenty if he liked the couple. So far, he didn't.

They were sitting in the interior office of Solomon amp; Lord on this chilly day. A northwest wind had definitely replaced the soft Caribbean breezes, and the windows rattled in their panes. Across the alley, on the balcony of an apartment occupied by a Trinidad steel band, wind chimes banged against one another, loud as cymbals. Still, that was preferable to half a dozen bare-chested men with dreadlocks beating sticks against metal pans. In the reception room, Cece Santiago did her bench presses, her grunts interspersed with the clang of the bar dropping into its brackets.

'Three hours late,' Sheila Minkin was saying. 'Rabbi Finsterman showed up three hours late, and he smelled of liquor.'

'He got our names wrong during the ceremony,' Max Minkin tossed in. 'That's got to be worth something, right?'

Steve tried to pay attention. It was a shit case, no doubt about it. But sometimes you can write a demand letter….

'My clients have suffered grievously as a result of your negligence.'