Lassiter 07 - Flesh and Bones by Levine, Paul (best fiction books to read TXT) 📗

was wearing a fluorescent orange thong that was barely large enough to hold a roll of quarters much less . . . well, a linebacker's gear. Chrissy had asked one of the male models for a spare so I could get out of my charcoal pinstripes and black wing tips. Usually, on the beach, I wear cutoff jeans or boxer trunks of the Lloyd Bridges/Sea Hunt era. But here I was, awkward, uncomfortable, exposed.

"Who does your casual attire?" the male model had asked, serious as could be. "Calvin would seem right for you, though cut perhaps too small in the shoulders."

"My attire is early locker room," I'd told him. "Old jerseys, faded warm-up gear. If I need something new, I call I-8OO-PRO-TEAM."

Now, as Chrissy and I walked down the beach at the end of the day, I said, "I listened to the tapes."

"Do we have to talk about it?" she asked. Her head was down, and she seemed to be watching her toes squishing into the wet sand.

"We do, and then you do. You're going to have to tell the judge and jury."

"It's very hard for me."

"I know, but you have to. It's all we've got."

"It brings back the anger."

"Prior to the hypnosis, did you have any idea?"

"No. But afterward, it made so much sense."

"Did you ever confront your father, accuse him of raping you?"

"No. I couldn't face him."

"Did he ever threaten you as an adult? Were you in fear of him?" Hoping for something, some shred of evidence that could move us closer to the battered-women cases.

"No. Once I learned what really happened, all I had was hate for him. It burned inside me. I wanted to kill him. That's all I thought about."

Just great. Premeditation and malice all wrapped up together.

"And now, how do you feel? Any regrets, any remorse?"

"No!" Her face reddened. "I still hate him! He deserved to die. People will understand it." She raised both hands in front of her, as if holding the little Beretta, and aimed at a tern hovering over our heads. "Bang!"

The tern took off, and Chrissy turned to me, the imaginary gun still in her hands. "It wasn't hard to do, Jake. Isn't that eerie?"

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,