Kill All the Lawyers

bunch of others, scaly and unappetizing.

They sat on a grassy patch, nibbled the fruit, and drank more of the whiskey, kissing between nibbles. The passion fruit was tart, the tiny black seeds crunchy. The jackfruit was spicy hot and the lichees sweet like grapes. None of it went that well with the whiskey. Bobby lay back on the grass, looking at the treetops that seemed to be swaying in the breeze, but there was no wind here.

I'm dizzy. Dizzy from whiskey and kisses that taste like passion fruit.

Maria was talking about a girl at school, a total slut, who after P.E. used a banana to show her posse how to, you know, go down on a guy, but she gagged on it, then spit it up so that it squished out her nose.

'Totally grossed everybody out,' Maria said. The story didn't make Bobby's stomach feel any better.

Maria was giggling, going back over details of the banana episode. Bobby was half listening, when he thought he heard the door to the pavilion squeak open, but maybe not. A moment later, Maria leaned over and kissed him again. Then, he wasn't quite sure how it happened, they were lying on the grass, their legs wrapped around each other, kissing and moaning and rubbing their bodies against each other.

Bobby let a hand slip under Maria's T-shirt, but she latched on to his wrist and pushed him away. A second later, he feinted with that hand, then sneaked the other hand under the shirt-If Pickett had used a similar zigzag, the Battle of Gettysburg would have turned out way differently-and a second later, he had hold of her bra. The fabric was cottony soft, and he could see the top of it peeking out of her shirt.

Pink brassiere. The letters rearranged themselves in his brain. BARE PENIS RISK.

He tugged at the bra.

'Bobby, don't.'

Remembering what Dr. Bill had told him. 'Man is the hunter. Man kills the game and takes the female of his choice.'

'No, Bobby.' She pushed his hand away again. Firmly, the way mothers teach them, Bobby figured.

'C'mon, Maria. You want it. I know you do.'

Hearing the doc's voice now, as if he were right here watching. 'When she says no, she means maybe. When she says maybe, she means yes.'

'Bobby, I like you. I really do. But let's just kiss for now.'

Sweat poured out of him, and his stomach heaved. But his boner was so hard, it had started to hurt. He took her left hand in his right hand and pinned it to her side. Then he slid his left hand around her back and tried to unfasten her pink bra.

'Bobby! No!'

She wriggled left and right, but maybe she just wanted to excite him more.

'The female always yields to the strong man.'

He couldn't unsnap the damn thing, so he yanked the bra, and it slipped halfway around her torso.

'Ouch! Bobby, what are you doing?'

'Be a man, Robert. Take what you want. Maria will love it. Trust me. I know.'

'You'll love it, Maria,' Bobby said, deepening his voice. 'Trust me. I know.'

Thirty-Six

WHAT GIRLS WANT

The air should not smell so sweet on a night like this, Steve thought.

Top down on the Mustang, the scent of jasmine in the moist air, a full moon ducking in and out of clouds, he drove down Old Cutler Road, more worried than he had let on to the others.

With all the chaos swirling around-Janice and Kreeger, Victoria and Irene, Freskin and Goldberg- Steve wondered if he had been spending enough time with Bobby. Had he let his own problems distract him from the number one priority in his life?

Stop worrying. Bobby's okay.

Steve kept telling himself that. The boy hadn't run away from home; he hadn't been kidnapped. Maria's the first girl who showed him the rhinestone in her navel, so he's experimenting. They're probably necking somewhere under a palm tree, and they'll show up at dawn, sweaty and mosquito-bitten. It's normal.

He's okay, dammit. Stop worrying.

Steve had already checked out Cocoplum, driving down to the bay, then coming back up to the circle at the Gables Waterway. Now he hung a left at Matheson Hammock. He passed the deserted picnic area and drove parallel to the bicycle path, which wound through a tangle of black-and-red mangrove trees. He stopped at the saltwater pond. No cars in the parking lot. Bicycle rack empty.

No Bobby. And no Maria.

Steve got out of the car and walked around the pond, just yards from the open bay. The tide was out, and a marshy smell hung in the air. A passel of herons tracked across the wet sand, seeking an early breakfast. Across the bay, a few lights twinkled in the condos of Key Biscayne. To the north, the downtown skyscrapers were dark.

The silence was broken by a Boston Whaler chugging out of the channel, an early start for a day of fishing. Over the ocean at the horizon, flashes of lightning brightened a ribbon of clouds. The wind was kicking up, rippling the water. The full moon was obscured by a growing cloud cover but still bright enough to light the sky, like a lamp through a shade. The forecast was for rain, a band of squalls in advance of a cold front.

Steve got back in the car and drove farther south on Old Cutler, pulling into Fairchild Tropical Garden. He'd brought Bobby there a few times, the boy enjoying the peacefulness of the place. Noises still tightened him up. Tranquillity seemed essential to his therapy.

Steve parked at the gate. Everything locked. He got out of the car, leaving the headlights on. Crouched down on a narrow dirt path that ran up to a perimeter fence near the entrance. Next to a hibiscus hedge, bicycle tracks. Two bikes had been here.

Okay, so what?

Well, for starters, the tracks were fresh. It had rained briefly in late afternoon, and the tracks would have been made after that.

Great. Give yourself a Boy Scout badge, but like I said before, so what?

Well, you couldn't ride past this point. The dirt path dead-ended at the fence. So the bikers must have stopped and parked their bikes here. Maybe they went inside.

Yeah? So. .

Steve didn't know. Except. . in the reddish dirt two sets of tire tracks approached the fence, but only one left. So what the hell happened to the other bike?

Just then, Steve's cell phone rang, the sound jarring in the stillness. On the screen, he recognized his home phone number.

'Yeah, Vic?'

'Bobby just rode up.'

'Great. Maria at her house?'

'No.' He heard the tension in her voice. 'Steve- Bobby doesn't know where she is.'

Just before dawn, Steve slid the Mustang to a stop in his driveway and someone screamed.

He hadn't seen Eva Munoz-Goldberg running toward his front door. She nimbly leapt to one side and the front fender just missed her. In great shape from step class or tai chi, Steve figured. Good thing, or he'd be facing vehicular manslaughter charges.

Eva's momentum carried her toward the flagstone path leading to the house. She hopped over a small shrub, then lost her balance on the dew-slick flagstone. The second scream came when she pitched forward, scraping a knee. Steve admired the way Eva scrambled to her feet and headed for his front door without stopping to curse at him.

Bobby's bike was leaning against the pepper tree. Meaning the boy was inside. Steve heard the shouts before