Steve wondered if he’d been spending enough time with Bobby. The boy’s moods fluctuated wildly. First he was angry with Steve for not finding the dolphins. Maybe some guilt there, too, the kid blaming himself for not stopping the kidnapping. As if he could have done anything about it. Lately, and even more troubling, Bobby seemed to be in a state of mourning. Staying in his room, refusing to go to baseball practice. Damn few wisecracks or anagrams. Steve had been desperately trying to engage Bobby on how he felt, but the boy seemed to be repressing his emotions.
The door to Bobby’s room was shut.
A closed door and a twelve-year-old boy.
Bobby could be doing his homework. Or he could be thumbing through the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, pausing over Veronica Varekova or Angela Lindvall. Pausing a long time.
He felt for the kid. Bobby was a loner. Steve had been popular all through school. An athlete. A wise guy with a ton of friends. Good for the self-confidence. It was only as an adult that he started to piss people off.
Valuing the boy’s privacy, remembering his own mother breezing into his room at the least opportune times, Steve knocked on the door. “Hey, kiddo.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay if I come in?”
“Yeah.”
Steve entered cautiously. Bobby sat in front of his computer at the desk near the window.
“You okay, kiddo?”
“Yeah.”
“Everything all right at school?”
“Yeah.”
Monosyllables were clearly the order of the day.
Steve decided to confront the issue head-on. “Want to talk about Spunky and Misty?”
Bobby seemed to be caught off guard. After a moment, he said, “I think they’re close by.”
“Really? How do you know?”
“At first, I was sure they crossed the Gulf Stream and were in the islands somewhere. But now, it’s like I can sense them. They’re not that far away.”
Steve tried not to show his skepticism. “So, do you still want to take a boat out, go looking for them?”
“Not till they tell me exactly where they are.”
“Okay, then. When they give you the word, you give me the word.”
Bobby turned back to his computer.
“What’s up now, kiddo? Homework?”
“I’m researching ways to kill Rich Shactman.”
“Great idea.” Steve believed in encouraging his nephew’s creative urges.
“At first I thought about plastique. A little wad of C-4 in his electric toothbrush.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“But the Shactman house has security cameras at every door.”
“Of course. Good thinking.”
“Then I considered poisons.”
“A lot of deadly ones out there,” Steve agreed.
“But the tox labs are so good these days, it’s pretty risky. Now I’m thinking drowning would be best. Make it look like a swimming accident.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“I’m researching how long I gotta keep Shactman underwater.”
“Three or four minutes ought to do it,” Steve advised.
“You have to take bradycardia into account. The body will slow down the heart to try to save itself. Drowning takes longer than you think.”
Steve wanted to sneak a peak at the monitor. He didn’t believe Bobby, but it wouldn’t hurt to check. Steve hoped the boy was on GirlsGoneWild.com, not something like homicide.com.
Bobby exited out of the program before Steve got close enough to see.
“What do you say we go outside and toss the ball? I’ll teach you how to throw a curve.”
“Coach Kreindler won’t let us throw breaking pitches.”
“If your elbow gets sore, we’ll stop.”
“You think I can really throw a curveball?”
Getting interested now, his eyes showing some spark. Steve smiled and tousled Bobby’s hair. Nothing gave him more pleasure than making the kid happy. “You bet you can.”
“Will it drop, too?”
“Like a dead pigeon. C’mon, let’s go before it gets dark.”
“Coach Kreindler will never let me pitch.” The boy’s mood dipped, his voice as heavy as a sack of Louisville Sluggers.
“I’ll talk to Kreindler.”
“What are you gonna say?”
“I’ll appeal to his logic.”
After I jack him up against the batting cage and suggest it’s hard to eat matzo with a broken jaw.
Steve heard a car pull up to the house. Victoria. “Give me a minute, kiddo. I’ve got to make nice with Vic.”
“Why? Did you do something stupid again, Uncle Steve?”
“I tried to get sanctions against her for unethical conduct.”
“Was she? Unethical, I mean.”
“Of course not.”
“And you’re going to try to apologize?”
“Exactly.”
The boy’s shoulders sagged again. “I don’t think we’re gonna get out of the house before dark, Uncle Steve.”
SOLOMON’S LAWS
7. A shark who can’t bite is nothing but a mermaid.
Twenty-four
Victoria stood at the kitchen counter, uncorking a bottle of Chardonnay. Usually, she didn’t touch wine until dinner. Steve didn’t know if this was a good sign or a bad sign.
“Hey, Vic.” He went for the welcome home hug, but she turned away.
Bad sign.
She poured herself a glass of wine. Didn’t return his hello. Didn’t offer him a glass. It was okay. He preferred beer.
“Vic, I want to talk to you about the case. I think we should be looking for those guys who jumped me today.”
“We?”
“You. The state. You have all the resources. Those two guys hold the key to the case.”
She took a sip, a big enough sip to be called a gulp. “Not to my case.”
“Don’t you want to find the truth?”
“Here’s the truth: Your client committed a felony. Someone got killed in the course of the crime. Felony murder. Case closed.”
“Why are you putting blinders on? You’re a law enforcement official, at least temporarily.”
“You want it to become permanent, Steve?”
“Ouch.”
“Just what is it you want from me, other than making me look bad in front of Judge Gridley?”
“Two guys snatched me off the street. I want to file a complaint.”
“Right. Your alleged kidnapping.”
“Alleged?”
“Those stunts you pull, Steve, who knows? You want to file a complaint, go downtown tomorrow and see someone in Intake.”
“The least you could do is run the plates for me. I got a partial.”
“The car’s probably stolen.”
“There could still be a lead. Where’d they steal it? Were there any witnesses? You just never know until you look into things.”
“Not my job, Steve.”
“S-3-J-1. Black Lincoln. That’s all I got. Hillsborough County.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“But there’s a puzzle that-”
“We’re on opposite sides.”
“Only technically.”
“Right. And you don’t care about technicalities. Like the ethical canons. The codes of conduct. The statutes and procedures everyone else follows. You have no respect for the majesty of the law. The beauty of the law. The law itself.”
“Okay, I can see you’re a little upset….”
“You’re as bad as your clients. Worse, maybe. You’re too undisciplined to be a lawyer. Maybe too undisciplined to be a criminal. You should have taken up another profession. Anarchist might suit you.”
“Did you say, ‘Antichrist’?”
Her cheeks colored to a high fever. “Dammit, Steve. You knew I wasn’t withholding evidence. Why did you say those things in court?”
“I was making a record for appeal.”
“A false record.”
“That’s called ‘lawyering.’”
“It’s called ‘lying’!”