“Charlie?”
Perlow’s voice pleading, his eyes showing his fear.
Ziegler calmed, feeling a clarity of purpose. He caught sight of a vanilla orchid, its petals streaked obscenely with blood. Perlow was going to die, Ziegler thought.
There is a God, after all.
A God who looks after porn producers, lousy husbands, and tax cheats. Okay, so maybe it’s not God with a capital “G.” Maybe it’s just a cloud of cosmic gases that floats across the Milky Way and settles over the earth, bringing joy to the wicked and Mammon to the greedy. But it’s still a force that evens the score, though it might take decades.
“You want CPR, Max?”
“Huh? Huh?” Wheezing but hanging on. Harder to kill than a cockroach.
“Chrissakes, help me.”
Perlow propped himself up on one elbow, fumbled for his cell phone. Ziegler kicked Perlow’s arm out from under him and the phone skittered away. The old man toppled backwards. Ziegler slipped off a soft leather loafer.
“Hey, Max. Got something for you.”
He stepped on Perlow’s rib cage. Careful not to leave bruises. He heard a blast of air, like a farting balloon. Or … a punctured lung.
Perlow cried in pain. “Charlie. Whaaaa …?”
“That’s for Krista, Max. Remember her?”
“Char …”
“You didn’t call the paramedics for Krista, did you, Max?”
Ziegler adjusted his foot and pressed harder. Blood exploded from Perlow’s chest like a whale spouting.
Perlow didn’t say another word.
“And that lifetime deal of ours, Max,” Ziegler said. “It just expired.”
43 Going Biblical
“Sorry, Uncle Jake. I should have gotten a license plate.”
“No problem, Kip. Your description was great. I’ve seen the guy.”
“Really?” The boy’s spirits were picking up.
“The tattoos nailed it.”
We sat at the kitchen table, Kip sipping a mango shake. His mood had roller-coastered ever since he had pedaled home in record time. Hyper-excitement, then a spiral downward, and now he was rallying. The boy didn’t realize just how shell-shocked he was at nearly being kidnapped. For her part, Granny was baking maple bacon brittle, her salty-sweet antidote to any childhood ailment.
“I kicked the poop out of the guy,” Kip said.
“He underestimated you. Happens to me in court sometimes.” I tousled the boy’s hair and said, “Proud of you, kiddo.”
“I wasn’t scared, Uncle Jake.”
Right.
“It’s okay to be scared, as long as you still do the right thing.”
“Are you gonna whomp the guy?” Kip asked.
That had been my first inclination. But Nestor was Perlow’s bodyguard and would have been following his boss’s orders. Raising lots of questions. Did Perlow intend to snatch Kip or just show me he could get to someone I loved? Did Ziegler know what was going on? What about Castiel? Was there a larger game plan?
Something else had just become apparent. It must have been Nestor in the Hummer, following Ziegler to Lighthouse Point. Meaning there was a rift between Perlow and Ziegler. But why? And, more important, how could I take advantage of it?
Too many questions needed answering before I punched anyone out.
Perlow didn’t have a listed phone number, so I asked Kip to use his computer skills to find out where the old hood lived. Two minutes later, my nephew showed me an aerial shot of a 1930s Spanish-style house just off Andalusia in Coral Gables. A ficus hedge shielded an alley behind the place. It would be a good way to get onto the porch undetected.
“I’m gonna go talk to Nestor and the guy he works for,” I told Kip.
“Talk, Uncle Jake?”
“Yeah. But if either of them gives me any shit, I’ll go biblical on their asses.”
Kip looked at me, waiting for an explanation.
“I’ll bring the walls down on their heads like Samson at the Temple of Dagon.”
44 Eyeball Witness
A circus, Ziegler thought, watching from the pool deck.
His house, the big tent.
Uniformed cops, plainclothes detectives, crime scene investigators, medical examiners, techs in plastic gloves with tweezers and flashlights. Cameras popping off photos in the solarium, on the deck, up against the windows, and deep in the bayonet bushes.
A moment before he was to give his statement to homicide detectives, Ziegler caught sight of a distraught Alex Castiel jogging toward him. Ziegler tried to arrange his features into a reasonable facsimile of grief. “Alex, it was awful. I know how much you loved the old guy.”
Castiel pulled him aside, out of earshot of the cops. “Was it her, Charlie? Was it the Larkin woman?”
“Couldn’t really tell. Too dark. And I was scared shitless.”
“Who else could it be?”
“Shit, I don’t know, Alex. Wish we could ask Max.”
They were quiet a moment as a police helicopter flew overhead, its searchlight sweeping across the seawall.
“What do you mean?” Castiel asked.
“Max saw the shooter.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he said something.”
“What, exactly?”
“He said, ‘You?’ ”
Castiel ran a hand through his dark hair. “That’s all, Charlie? ‘You?’ ”
“Like he recognized the shooter. But Max never saw Amy Larkin, so I’m thinking maybe it was someone else.”
“You’re reading a helluva lot into one word, Charlie.”
“I don’t know what you expect me to say.”
Police radios squawked. A tech walked by carrying several plastic evidence bags.
Castiel lowered his voice. “Step up to the plate. I need an eyeball witness.”
“C’mon, Alex. You asked if I saw her, and I’m saying I can’t swear to it.”
Eyes wild, Castiel jammed a finger into his chest. “Didn’t you ever learn anything from Max? Do what’s gotta be done!”
“What the hell does that mean?”
With a plainclothes cop approaching, Castiel hissed in his ear, “There are only two people who could have killed Max. Amy Larkin and you, Charlie. It’s up to you who goes down for it.”
45 No Alibi
Drained from his near-kidnapping and stuffed with maple bacon brittle, Kip had conked out on the sofa. I carried him into his bedroom and tucked him into bed. Then I went through his backpack and found a note from Commodore Perkins at Tuttle-Biscayne.
Would I please select which date was convenient for Kip’s disciplinary hearing?
The Commodore thoughtfully provided nine different days. I decided to choose the last one, then, at the last moment, ask for a continuance. If I did this often enough, maybe Kip could graduate before he was expelled.
An hour later, I was lying in bed watching television. Csonka was sleeping in the corner of the room, snoring and farting. I flipped through the channels, found an old L.A. Law episode just starting. The opening credits rolled, soaring horns and banging drums inviting me to spend time with some lawyers who had a helluva lot more time for bed-hopping than I did.
My phone rang. Too late for good news. Caller I.D. told me it was our esteemed State Attorney.
“What’s up, Alex? One of my clients steal your purse?”
“What are you doing right now, Jake?” Castiel said.
“Whatever I want. I’m in the privacy of my own bedroom.”
“Let me speak to Amy Larkin.”
“Why would she be in my bedroom?”
“I thought maybe you were nailing her. What time did she leave?”
“What are you talking about? She wasn’t here tonight.”
Castiel sounded brusque, but smug. “Thanks, Jake. You haven’t been this much help since you wore the wire.”
Damn. I’d let my guard down. It happens sometimes after three fingers of Jack Daniel’s. “Wanna tell me what just happened?”
“You just ruled yourself out as an alibi.”
Oh, shit.