Lassiter 08 - Lassiter (32 page)

Ziegler’s voice was wet and boozy. “You mean the day you busted into my office and called me a sleazebag.”

“There was something I didn’t realize back then.”

“What’s that?”

“That you really loved Krista.”

“Damn straight. From day one.”

“Which made it easier for you to commit perjury for her.”

His head snapped back as if I’d just stung him with a jab. “Jeez, Lassiter. Just when we were getting along.”

“Relax, Charlie. I’m trying to help you here. There’s a bit of testimony you might want to fiddle with before you testify to the Grand Jury about Castiel.”

That seemed to settle him down. “I’m listening.”

“You said both sisters were in the apartment when you called to tell Krista about Max getting shot. You gave Amy an alibi, so I wasn’t gonna challenge you on it, but Castiel’s lawyers will.”

“How?”

“Castiel will subpoena your phone records just like I did. You called twice. The first one was made to the landline in Krista’s apartment and reached voicemail. I figure Amy was there but was under instructions not to answer the phone. After hanging up, you immediately called Krista’s cell phone. This time, you reached her and spoke for eight minutes.”

He showed me a sloppy smile and bought time by taking a long hit on the cognac. “Landline. Cell phone. What’s the big deal?”

“The cell tower records show that Krista’s phone was in Coconut Grove when she answered. Meaning she was in her car, headed back to her apartment.”

“From where?”

“From your house, where she’d just shot Max Perlow with Amy’s gun.”

It was a bluff. The part about the cell tower was true, but I had no idea where Krista had been a few minutes before taking the call.

Ziegler didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he opened a fancy thermidor and pulled out two fat Cuban cigars. I shook my head, and he put one back inside. He used his guillotine clippers to behead the stogie, French-kissed the tip, and with a wooden match put a blue flame to the tobacco. Finally, he said, “You’ve got Krista all wrong. Murder isn’t in her nature.”

“Don’t attribute your characteristics to her. Murder isn’t in
your
nature.”

Ziegler had his cigar in one hand, his cognac in the other. “If Krista was gonna kill anyone, it would be Alex for raping and beating her. Or hell, even me, for letting it happen.”

“I’m not a shrink but I think I know how she handled her conflicting feelings about you.”

“Then tell me, ’cause I never figured it out.”

“She loved you when she was still a kid, and you betrayed her. She didn’t want to stop loving you, so she transferred her anger to someone else. Perlow’s the one who coerced you into giving Krista to Castiel. You got the pass, Perlow got the bullet, and Castiel got framed. It fits very nicely.”

“So she waited all these years to kill Perlow?” He blew smoke into the air. “Not buying it, Lassiter.”

“Something new had happened. Perlow had you tailed. He started asking questions about Melody Sanders. I’ll bet you tensed up every time he mentioned her name. The old bastard sensed something, and you knew it. You also knew he’d kill Krista to protect Alex. Hell, he’d already tried.”

“Keep going. This is a good story.”

“I’m betting you told Krista you wish you had the guts to kill the old hood.”

“So what if I did? Idle chat.”

“Not to Krista. She hatches a plan to get rid of Perlow, so you two can live sexily ever after. And I gotta admit, it was a pretty good plan. Best part was not telling you. Krista figured you’d either put the kibosh on it or screw it up.”

Ziegler tapped cigar ashes into a carved glass bowl on his desk and shook his head. “You got a great imagination, Lassiter.”

“I figure Krista parked in the construction site next door, then walked along the seawall onto your property. Once on the pool deck, she purposely knocked over a planter to make a noise. You and Perlow come into the solarium, and Krista plugs him through the window, the same way Bugsy Siegel got his. You reach Krista on her cell to tell her what happened. Only she already knows. And guess what, you
did
screw it up. You’d already told Castiel that Amy was the shooter, just one sibling away from the truth. But then, you thought it
was
the truth.”

“A man could sprain his brain, thinking the way you do.”

Ziegler poured himself more cognac and tipped his glass to me. “All this speculation of yours. You gonna take it to Castiel?”

“And let him go free? No way!”

He looked puzzled, so I explained. Castiel can’t be prosecuted for assaulting Krista. The statute of limitations expired years ago. So, unless Castiel took the fall for the murder of Max Perlow, he’d get off scot-free.

“Like you said, Charlie, Castiel is a lowlife. And like I always say, rough justice is better than no justice.”

I could tell from Ziegler’s look that he didn’t know if I was playing him. His voice turned skeptical. “So it doesn’t bother you if Krista gets off, even if she aced Max?”

“I shed no tears for Max Perlow.”

“No?” Studying me.

“Eighteen years ago, Perlow stood in your cabana, looking down at Krista’s naked body. She’d been choked, raped, and beaten into a near-coma. Her face was busted up, her pelvis broken. And Perlow told you to finish her off. Am I right about all that?”

“ ‘Bury her’!” Krista’s voice, coming from behind me. “Perlow told Charlie, ‘Bury her.’ ”

I turned and saw Krista walking into the study. She was barefoot and wore a white terry-cloth robe, her wet hair wrapped in a towel.

“I must have been semi-conscious,” Krista said, “because when I came to, I remembered hearing Perlow’s voice. ‘Goddammit, Charlie! Finish her off. Bury her in the ’Glades.’ ”

Amy followed behind Krista, similarly dressed. They’d come in from the pool by way of the solarium, scene of the crime.

“Helluva memory to carry around all these years, Krista,” I said. “You must have really hated the man.”

Krista’s tone turned suspicious. “Why are you two talking about this, anyway?”

Ziegler straightened in his chair. “No reason, hon. We’re just shooting the shit.” He gave her his
you know me
smile, with just enough lubrication to prove he was drunk.

“Charlie, I told you not to open up to Jake.”

“Aw, c’mon, hon. He knows you shot Max.”

“He knows shit! Unless you told him.”

“What are you up to, Jake?” Amy demanded. The sisters were flanking me.

I gave my palms-up sign of peaceful coexistence. Three sets of eyes looked back. “Krista, you did what had to be done. I have no beef with that. Like I said to Charlie, rough justice.” I glanced at my watch, got out of my chair, and said, “Well, I’ve got court in the morning.…”

I wanted to get out of there. Slowly and casually and without any fuss. Not that the three of them could stop me.

“I need to frisk you,” Krista said.

“Oh, c’mon, hon,” Ziegler said.

“Jesus, Charlie. You’re the one who told me Lassiter wore a wire for Castiel.”

“Long time ago,” I said. “Got nothing to do with you guys.”

Krista took a step toward me. “Then prove it. Take off your shirt and loosen your belt.”

Getting out of there would not be difficult. I would pivot, grab Ziegler by the scruff of his neck, and slam him, nose-first, into his desk. I would gingerly pick up Krista and deposit her in a chair, and if Amy stepped in my way, I’d knock her aside and head out the door. Who says there are no gentlemen left?

“I don’t have to prove anything, Krista,” I said.

“Charlie!” Krista shouted.

Ziegler popped open his desk drawer, pulled out a handgun, and pointed it at me. “Do what she says, Lassiter.”

Oh, shit
.

“Put the gun down, Ziegler, before you blow your dick off.” Trying to sound as if I were in control.

“Keep the gun on Jake while I search him, Charlie,” Krista ordered.

I was glad she wasn’t the one holding the gun. The fabric of Krista’s being was sinewy rawhide. If each of us is the product of the significant events of our past, the sum total of this woman’s life was survival. She’d already shot and killed a man. I had no doubt she could kill me without blinking. But the
pistolero
was Charlie Ziegler, a guy with a spine made of noodles. Problem was, cowards can pull triggers, too, and even a lousy shot can hit a target five feet away. I felt a sense of dread that turned my legs into iron pilings.

“Ziegler, you’re not gonna shoot me, so just put the damn gun down.” Still trying to sound confident.

The shot—snapping like the crack of a whip—made me jump. Ziegler had fired into a marble sculpture across the room—a ballerina with her left arm above her head, right arm curled around in front, as if playing an imaginary bull fiddle. The slug caught the ballerina squarely between the eyes, splintering her marble head.

“Strip, Lassiter,” Krista said.

“Do as she says,” Ziegler ordered, “or I’ll put the next one in your thick skull.”

“Don’t think so,” I said. “It’s not in you, Ziegler.”

Krista walked over and faced me squarely, standing so close I could feel her breath. Her jaw was set, her greenish eyes colder than ice. I could see the power of the woman’s will. Doctors say broken bones heal even stronger. The woman before me had been forged, like molten steel, from her own crushed bones. She looked at me, not with hatred, but with fearless determination.

“Start with your shirt,” she said.

It was time to act. It would take only a second for me to grab her by the shoulders, toss her into Ziegler, and make my way to the door.

We were standing so close I never saw her good leg jerk upward.

She kneed me in the groin.

A solid hit. The pain pitched me sideways. I gasped for breath, my eyes tearing. Amy joined the fray. She caught me alongside an ear with a karate kick and I staggered sideways. Women nowadays, with their pilates and kickboxing and martial arts, are all aggression and attitude.

A second kick caught me just above the knee, and I toppled to the floor.

Amy hopped onto my back, raked her fingernails across my forehead, then reached under my shirt and grabbed for the wire. Her fleecy robe had come open, and underneath, she was naked and still wet from the pool. I turned and grabbed at her, but it was like trying to catch a fish in my bare hands. She kept wriggling and I couldn’t get a grip.

“You bastard!” she shouted at eardrum-breaking decibels.

I struggled to my feet and tried to shake her off. She bit my right ear. Chomped down hard and drew blood. I was already bleeding from the gouges in my forehead. Krista grabbed the front of my shirt and yanked, popping most of the buttons. Then she reached into my pants, searching for the recorder, finding something else.

“Ouch!” I yelled, twisting away.

Ziegler vaulted from behind his desk, screaming, “I’ll shoot you, I’ll shoot you!”

Amy was still riding my back, the shell to my tortoise. “I’ve got it!” she shouted.

Her hand came out with the battery pack that had been taped to the small of my back. The recorder was still on my thigh. I shook from side to side, like a wet dog, and she flew off me.

“I’ll shoot!” Ziegler repeated, in case I’d forgotten.

Blood flowed into my eyes from my forehead, and I could barely see. I wheeled toward Krista and saw the blur of movement. The People’s Porn statuette, coming at my head. Krista with a death grip on the naked woman’s torso. I raised an arm and caught the blow, the statuette breaking in two at the woman’s hips. An electric jolt, a stinger, shot through my shoulder.

Krista tried to slash me with the jagged bottom half of the statuette. I slid to one side, dodging her. She came at me again, but I grabbed the collar of her robe and tossed her to the floor. “Shoot him!” she yelled.

Amy came at me, arms flailing. I caught her wrist in one paw and twisted until she cried, “Ow,” then spun her into the credenza.

Ziegler moved between the door and me, holding the gun in two hands.

“I’m out of here, Ziegler.”

“Give it up and I’ll let you go.”

“You’ll let me go now.”

I took two steps toward him and he raised the gun to chest level. “Don’t make me.”

“Kill him!” Krista screamed, from the floor.

“I’ll do it. I swear I will!” Ziegler’s arms trembled.

“You’re a better man than that, Charlie. That’s the damn irony. Compared to these two, you’re the Humanitarian of the Year.”

I wrenched the gun from his hand. A Sig Sauer .380.

Amy’s gun? The murder weapon? I’d bet on it
.

The next morning, my forehead was stitched, my knee wrapped, and my ear bandaged. Other than a crushing headache, I felt damn good.

As I swung the old Eldo into the Justice Building lot, I listened to Johnny Cash sing about that old “ring of fire.”

“And it burns, burns, burns …”

The acting State Attorney was a silver-haired woman in her fifties named Cheryl Halpern. A lifer in the U.S. Attorney’s Office, she ran the Public Corruption Unit and had earned a reputation as a smart, tough prosecutor. Today, having been convinced by the Governor to give up her federal paycheck, she sat in Alex Castiel’s old high-back leather chair.

She hadn’t had time to either unpack her boxes or move Castiel’s possessions out. The photograph of Bernard Castiel, Meyer Lansky, and Rosa Castiel looked at us from the credenza.

Seated next to me were Castiel and his lawyer, a silver-haired Brooks Brothers mouthpiece from Palm Beach. His wingtips were highly polished, and he eyed me with outright hostility. He didn’t offer his name and I didn’t take it.

I had asked for the meeting, so State Attorney Halpern told me to say my piece. I spent ten minutes telling them everything I knew. I handed
over the Sig Sauer, which I’d put in a kitchen plastic bag and labeled, as if I were a crime-scene tech. Then I asked if they’d like to hear the audiotape.

“You wore a wire?” Cheryl Halpern said. “Again?”

I shrugged. I’ve lived in South Florida practically my entire life, yet was known for only two things. I’d once toted a football to the wrong end zone, and I’d once blown the whistle on my own client. Okay, make that twice.