“The woman thinks you’re scum, Charlie. I applaud her good taste.”
“Fuck you twice.”
Most of the crew were paying attention now. A topless Lolita type in a plaid cheerleader’s skirt put down her book-Sudoku for Dummies-and watched the two men.
“Maybe I should have told her what I know,” Gifford said, in a teasing tone.
“You don’t know shit.”
Gifford moved closer and whispered, his breath smelling of coffee and peppermints. “I was at your house that night, Ziegler. I know exactly what happened to Krista Larkin.”
29 Boy Meets Punching Bag
Granny was preparing chicken-fried steaks and yammering about the money I owed her for posting my bail. I was not hungry. Maybe because I’m not partial to beef dipped in milk and eggs and then fried. Maybe because I was worried about Amy.
“Exactly what did she say to you?” I asked.
“Told you three times. I bailed her out of the Women’s Annex before I got you. Figured you’re more used to jail than she is. She said she’d be over for dinner because she favored my cooking.”
“That’s it?”
“She said to thank you for everything.”
“Jeez, Granny. You didn’t tell me that before.”
“So?”
“It sounds like good-bye.”
I tried calling Amy, got her voicemail.
“You gonna mash those taters, or do I have to do everything around here?” Granny said.
I picked up the masher and went to work. I heard the front door open and called out Amy’s name. But it was Kip, shuffling into the kitchen, sniffing around the stove. “Chicken-fried steak again. Jeez.”
“Wash up,” Granny said.
“I’d rather have meat loaf wrapped in bacon.”
“And hush up.” Granny never took backtalk from me and wasn’t going to start with my nephew.
“You make a rhubarb pie, Granny?”
“Didn’t have time, and if you want to know why, ask your jailbird uncle.”
Kip turned to me, and I saw the shiner, a purple welt under his eye.
Shit. Not again.
“Carl Kountz?” I asked him.
“Baseball practice. He clocked me at second base on a force out.”
“Clean play?”
“Not really. He didn’t bother to slide.”
“You have words with him?”
“I told him to lay off, and when the coach wasn’t looking, he hit me again. Hard.”
“Granny, don’t put those beefsteaks in the frying pan just yet,” I said. “Kip and I are gonna hit the bag for a bit.”
It was the third time we’d worked on kickboxing. For a skinny kid, Kip had a snappy left, and his right cross was coming along. I gave him an up-from-under bolo punch because he thought it was fun. Then we worked on front and side kicks. He was a quick learner. Coordinating the punches and kicks into a smooth rhythm would take longer.
Csonka lay in the grass, licking his balls, then watching us a moment, then licking his balls again. Priorities.
I told Kip to speed up his combinations. Sweat dribbled down his face, and the pop-pop of leather against bag became louder, the timing more consistent. We were twenty minutes into it when my cell phone rang. It had to be Amy.
But it wasn’t.
“Lassiter, you like sushi?” Charlie Ziegler said.
“More than chicken-fried steak. Why you asking?”
“I’m inviting you to dinner. The gentlemanly way. No Ray Decker, no armed escort. Just come on over for sake and sushi.”
Thunder boomed to the west, and the first flashes of lightning crackled the night sky. The wind picked up. Kip kept on punching and kicking.
“Why?”
“Castiel told me what happened today outside the Grand Jury. If a reporter had been there, it would be bad publicity for both of us.”
“For you, maybe. A lawyer who goes to jail for his clients is a hot commodity.”
“Don’t be a dick, Lassiter. I’m making peace here.”
“Yeah?”
“I haven’t been totally honest with you.”
Fat, warm raindrops pelted me.
“I want to make this right,” Ziegler said. “I want to tell you everything.”
30 Plan One, the Gun
Wind gusts drove the rain sideways, stinging Amy’s face. She retreated from the pallet of rebar into the unfinished house. From there, she could still keep watch on Charlie Ziegler’s mansion next door. A modernistic three-story structure of interconnected tubes with a metallic skin, the mansion resembled a ship at sea. How many millions did he spend on the place, money grubbed from the oppression of young women? God, how she hated the man.
She had come here as soon as she’d been released from jail. Two nights ago, she had sneaked onto his patio and crept right up to the windows, checking out the security. No cameras, no dogs, no guards. She had peered through the floor-to-ceiling glass of the solarium and watched Ziegler watering his flowers.
Orchids!
Orchids and Ziegler. Like a diamond necklace on a hog.
She pressed her face to the window. She was so close to the man who murdered her sister she could hear him whistling to himself. His day of reckoning was near, she thought. She sneaked back through a row of shrubs, razor-sharp leaves piercing her unitard and drawing blood from her thigh.
Amy knew she had gone off the deep end today. Snapped. She hadn’t planned the stunt at the Grand Jury chambers. The actions just exploded from her without premeditation or planning.
Out of control. So not me.
When Lassiter seemed to be making progress, she’d put away the pistol. She had let him try to work the system. But the State Attorney, supposedly his friend, was in Charlie Ziegler’s pocket. Sure, Lassiter had fought for her and had been Tasered, cuffed, and arrested for his effort. He’d proved his valor but also his weakness. He was outmanned and outgunned. Ziegler was too well connected.
And he’s guilty! Why else would he be going to these lengths to stop us?
Lassiter had been leaving messages all afternoon on her cell. A new strategy, something about a statewide police agency. She should give him one more chance. If he failed-finally and unequivocally-she could always go back to Plan One.
The gun.
The Sig Sauer lay waiting, deep in her suitcase, back at the motel. She had fantasized about walking straight up to Ziegler and jamming the barrel into his forehead. Turn his skull into splinters, his brain into mush. Then maybe-she wasn’t sure yet-taking a second shot, into her own temple.
Yes, Dr. Blasingame, I do have suicidal ideations.
A lightning bolt crackled the sky and hit the bay, the boom echoing across the open water. She was soaked through to the skin, but not cold. The rain was warm as blood. She dug into her straw bag, found a pack of Winstons and lit up. Smoking again. What would her shrink say?
“You have an addictive personality, Amy.”
Yeah, just like Krista. Addicted to drugs and danger.
“At some level, you blame your sister for your own troubles,” Dr. Blasingame had told her. “But you love her and that causes dissonance.”
The shrink said she suffered from post-traumatic embitterment disorder with paranoid tendencies. It was similar to a stress disorder, but instead of fears and anxiety, she burned with anger and hatred.
“You’re seething with thoughts of revenge, Amy.”
So? Someone kills your sister, embitterment and revenge sound pretty damn rational.
Another lightning bolt struck, this one over land. The thunderclap shook the unfinished walls. She heard car tires squishing on the street, saw the glow of headlights cutting through the rain. There had been no traffic for the last half hour, except a big gray Hummer. A mammoth gas-guzzler, but maybe perfect for a night like this. The Hummer had gone around the block twice, then disappeared. She squinted through the rain and saw this was a different car, slowing as it approached Ziegler’s house. For a moment, it looked like Lassiter’s ridiculous old Cadillac convertible.