Kill All the Lawyers

'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 amp; 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.

'I just want to do what's best for you,' Steve said, fighting the urge to yell: 'If I hadn't taken you away from her, you'd be dead by now!'

'I want the two of you to stop fighting.'

'Okay. What else?'

'I want to see my mom, but I want to live with you, Uncle Steve. You and me, we're tight, right?'

Steve felt his muscles unclench. 'Okay, I'll see what I can work out with Janice. I'd rather know where you are than have you sneaking out to see her. But I want some proof she's cleaned up her act. Deal?'

'Deal.' Bobby reached over and they pounded knuckles.

Steve opened his door and had one foot out of it when Bobby added, 'Please be careful, Uncle Steve. If you get in trouble, what will happen to me?'

A Lexus SUV sat in Kreeger's driveway. Steve figured the owner was a patient, midway through a head- shrinking session. Steve walked along the pink flagstone path that followed the hibiscus hedge toward the backyard. For all he knew, Amanda was sunning herself again, all toasty warm and naked in the midday sun. But before rounding the corner of the house, which would have brought him in line of sight from Kreeger's office window, Steve ducked into the vestibule. The side door to the kitchen was open, and he walked in.

The kitchen could use updating, but it was clean and airy. A pot of coffee sat in its place, still warm.

'Just came in looking for a cup of java, Doc.'

Planning his alibi.

An interior door led to a corridor that opened into a living room. Traditional furniture, windows shaded with Bahamas shutters, a seldom-used fireplace. Above the fireplace, a painting. An idealized portrait of Kreeger at the helm of his big boat, Psycho Therapy. The shrink appeared a bit taller and thinner. Tanned and fit, one hand on the wheel, one on the throttles. A man in control.

Steve always thought portraits should be reserved for dead ancestors. Wasn't it an act of unbridled ego to commission a painting of yourself? Maybe Kreeger's boat should be renamed Narcissist.

Steve took a set of stairs to the second floor, stepping lightly.

Now, just what the hell are you looking for, anyway?

He didn't know. He didn't expect to find a framed document on the wall: 'I killed Jim Beshears, Nancy Lamm, and Oscar De la Fuente. Sincerely, Dr. Bill.'

But you never knew. A diary. An unfinished memoir. Steve once defended a case where his client wrote a to-do list reminding himself to buy a mask and listing the address of the bank he intended to rob.

Steve felt he needed to do something. Find something. Not just wait for Kreeger to make another move.

At the top of the stairs, a corridor. A door was open at the end, and he entered the room.

Master bedroom.

King-size bed. A four-poster. Lightweight duvet, silvery color.

He surveyed the room, trying to pick up vibes from the guy who lived here. In the corner, on a pedestal, a bronze sculpture, the torso of a boy. On the walls, Caribbean art. Brightly colored paintings of partially clothed islanders working on boats and tending fields. Young girls carrying produce.

On a credenza, a man's jewelry box. Steve opened it without need of master key or pickaxe. Two men's watches, expensive. Several pairs of cuff links. Gold, onyx, jade. Steve ran a finger across the felt lining of the box. Nothing hidden underneath.

Somewhere in the house, pipes rumbled. Steve checked his watch. Another ten minutes before he would get Bobby from the car.

He had been hoping for a computer. Who knew what would be buried in there? Criminals who would never leave fingerprints at a crime scene drop trails of bread crumbs in the 'history' window of their lap-tops. A guy who tried to kill his wife by dropping a roaring hair dryer into her bathtub was found to have electrocution websites plastered all over his hard drive.

But no computer in Kreeger's bedroom. Steve had to look for clues the old-fashioned way. He opened a drawer in the bedside table. A holstered nine-millimeter Glock. Okay, pretty normal for South Florida. In the lower drawer, an old photo album. Yellowing pictures from college and med school. Steve thumbed through the plasticized pages.

A banging of pipes again from inside the walls.

He stopped at a page of snapshots. A handwritten date on the page, seven years ago. Photos of a woman, late thirties, and a girl who looked to be roughly Bobby's age. On the beach, in swimsuits, smiling at the camera, squinting into the sun. The photographer's shadow crept across the sand toward them. The woman was Nancy Lamm. Steve had seen enough photos during the murder trial to recognize her immediately. The girl was Amanda- Mary Amanda, in those days. Her hips hadn't rounded out, and her bustline was practically invisible, but the features were hers.

Steve sat down on the edge of the bed and turned the page. Six more photos. No Nancy this time. But there was Amanda. On Kreeger's pool deck.

Naked.

Just as naked as Steve had seen her two weeks ago. But these photos were taken when she was perched on the fence between girlhood and womanhood. A variety of poses, a naked nymph stretching this way and that, arching her back in one, jutting out a bony hip in another, throwing her shoulders back, turning sideways to reveal