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."
"Did Schein ever talk about it?"
"Not in so many words. But I remember at the funeral, he cried as much as I did. Daddy didn't cry at all, but he was dead drunk most of the week."
We kept walking, passing a family picnic on the beach. The aroma of grilled chicken floated on the sea breeze. "Jake, I'm famished," Chrissy said. "We worked right through lunch."
"All right. Dinner's on me. Let's head back."
I looked at her in the pink glow of the setting sun, the makeup scrubbed off, her hair flying free. She had picked up some color during the day. For the first time, I noticed a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose. A young and innocent look. Beauty takes so many forms. The beauty of nature, the beauty of the spirit, and, just now, the utter physical beauty of this woman.
But I was looking at the superficial, and as Doc Riggs says, things are seldom what they seem; skim milk masquerades as cream. What was there below the surface? I already had seen Chrissy with a gun in her hand. Twice, if you count here on the beach with the make-believe pistol.
And now, so icy. Cold-blooded revenge is not a defense to murder. If it was revenge at all. She sounded so convincing on the tapes. The tears, the wrenching sobs. I remembered going over Chrissy's card and one-sheet at Rusty's modeling agency. Three years of acting lessons. Okay, I heard an imaginary teacher tell the class, you've just learned that you were sexually abused by your father as a child. What emotions can you bring up from your gut?
It would not be the first time I had confused beauty with innocence. Now I wondered if I could be the pawn in an elaborate conspiracy. Murder and cover-up by Guy Bernhardt, Larry Schein, and Chrissy. Could that be it? Arranged from the start, with fabricated tales of abuse. But why?
I looked back at Chrissy and chased the ugly thought.
"I respect you, Jake," she said, suddenly.
"What?"
"You're really trying to help me, aren't you?"
"Of course; it's my job."
"Uh-huh. You're a very attractive man, Jake."
"I'm your lawyer," I said stiffly.
"Are the two mutually exclusive?"
I watched a tiny four-eyed horseshoe crab scuttle along the shore break, then burrow into the sand. "Actually, they are. At least while the case is pending. Afterward…"
I let it hang there. Afterward, barring a miracle, she'd be in prison.
"So you're just doing your job?"
Teasing me.
"Okay, it's more than that. I like you. A lot. I'm not going to stand here and tell you how beautiful you are, because every man you've ever met has told you that. I'm not going to make a pass at you, because that would only foul me up and it wouldn't help the case any."
"Are you going to win for me?"
"I'm going to try to win."
Don't ask me how, I thought. I don't know.
"Do you believe me, Jake?"
"I believe you think your father abused you, and I'm going to use it because it's all I've got. But it's more complicated than that. Life always is. I've got to pick up some rocks and look underneath."
"What do you expect to find?"
"Same as always. Snakes."
"Snakes," she repeated.
I thought about the therapy sessions and her nightmares. Perhaps she did, too.
We walked several more minutes before the Eden Roc and Fontainebleau came back into view. Chrissy turned to me, leaned over, and gave me a peck on the cheek.
"What's that for?" I asked.
"For being a man I can look up to without lying on my back."
"It's a deal," I said. "For now."
"Good. Now, feed me before I starve to death."
She took off running, her heels kicking up sand. I watched a second, then headed after her. Her motion was smooth, her calf muscles undulating at every step, her bottom rolling with each stride. I was never the fastest linebacker in the AFC East, but I could still catch a beach bunny model.
If I wanted to.
At the moment, I was happy to be right where I was. Okay, okay, I know. The modern man is not supposed to react like he's just descended from tree apes. I try, I really do. But I'm a throwback in lots of ways. Obsolete by today's standards. I still hold the elevator door for women, say "Thank you, ma'am" to waitresses, and pick up the check when I take a lady (yeah, I still use the term) to lunch. I prefer Tony Bennett to Tupac Shakur, Norman Rockwell to Andy Warhol, and Gene Kelly to Michael Jackson. I wasn't around at the time, but I am plagued by the notion that the 1940s, war and all, were somehow better than the 1990s.
We were no more than fifty yards from the rows of hooded chaise lounges that marked the Fontainebleau property when Chrissy seemed to stumble. I caught up with her as she stopped and turned, her body going limp.
Deja vu. Only this time, she hadn't shot anybody.
I caught her just as I had before, sweeping her up in my arms. She breathed my name as I held her against me. Then, for a long moment, the only sound was the familiar slap of waves against the shore.
Chrissy came to, tired, disoriented, and hungry. We were in my Olds 442, headed toward Coconut Grove. She dozed off, and I made a call on the cellular, one of my few concessions to modern technology. My friend, legendary trial lawyer Stuart Z. Grossman, once said the cellular is the greatest advance of the twentieth century. No way, I told him. Not greater than the Wonderbra.
By the time we got to my little coral-rock house, my brain trust was there. I carried Chrissy inside, banging open the humidity-swollen door with my good shoulder. Waiting in the kitchen was everyone in the world I loved: my granny, my nephew, and my mentor.
Granny took a look and said, "That gal needs some meat on her bones."
Doc Riggs measured Chrissy's pulse, temperature, and blood pressure and pronounced her vital signs strong.