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

"Okay, is that the uncle-gram for today?"

"Not just that. One time, on the practice field at Penn State, a row of thunderheads moved into the valley. Big steel-gray clouds were just hanging over the field, but toward the mountains, it was clear and sunny. It started raining, pouring on us, and in the distance was the brightest rainbow I've ever seen."

"Yeah?"

"It brought tears to my eyes."

"Why?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe because it made me think of my father. I wished he could have seen it. He loved natural beauty. Dolphins jumping together, a waterspout on the bay, sunset in the gulf."

"What's your point, Uncle Jake?"

"It's okay to cry. It's okay to show your emotions." I tried to think of an example. "Let's say you're watching a sad movie—"

"Like Terms of Endearment where Debra Winger dies."

"Yeah. It's okay to bawl your eyes out if you want to."

"Uh-huh."

"Or if something makes you sad, you can talk about it with your uncle Jake."

It was all he could do to keep from rolling his eyes. "Sure."

"Anything you want to talk about right now?"

"No thanks, Uncle Jake, but I'm glad we had this little talk."

My ancient convertible navigated the interstate, exited in downtown Miami, then picked up the MacArthur Causeway to Miami Beach. As I sped north on Alton Road, passing kosher delis, funeral homes, and Rollerblade shops, the wind finally dried my tears. I turned right on Eleventh Street, passed Flamingo Park, and headed toward Ocean Drive.

The apartment building had rounded corners, porthole windows, a porch with terrazzo floors, and decorative nautical pipe railings. The walls had recently been painted a color I would call Pepto-Bismol pink but the renovation artist probably described in more decorous terms. Concrete eyebrows hung over the casement windows, and a spire stuck out of the roof like the mast of a fine sailing ship. Tour guides would call the place Art Deco, or Streamline Moderne, but to us locals, it's just an old stucco building with a fresh coat of paint.

I pounded on the door for a full minute before a light came on. "Chrissy, it's me, Jake."

She opened the door and peered at me, sleepy-eyed. "Do you know what time it is?"

"Why do people always say that when you wake them up? Why not 'It's three-thirty-seven A.M. Do you know where your brains are?' "

"Jake, aren't we due in court this morning?"

I pushed through the door and grabbed her. She was wearing a Dolphins jersey and nothing else. Number 13. I was relatively certain that Dan Marino, a solid family man, was not hiding in the closet. I had her by the shoulders and pulled her close. She had lied to me. Maybe Schein had implanted false memories or maybe the memories were real. It didn't matter. She had lied to me, her lawyer and her lover.

Now I wanted to look into those flinty green eyes. I wanted to see her blink when she lied again. I wanted to see her cry.

"Your eyes are bloodshot," she said. "Have you been drinking?" She looked frightened. Good.

"We have about five hours," I said. "I want the truth." I thought about Jack Nicholson and Tom Cruise. Could I handle the truth?

"What do you mean?"

"I want to know why you killed your father and what that slimy half brother of yours had to do with it. I want to know everything about Schein."

"Guy's not involved in this. Neither is Larry."

I squeezed her upper arms and pulled her close.

"Jake, you're hurting me."

"I've never hit a woman. I hate the cowardly cretins that do. But if you were a man, right now I'd knock you through that wall and kick your ass across Ocean Drive."

"Jake, you're acting crazy!"

I let her go and she pulled away.

"You thought you were being so smart," I said. "Well, your pal Schein taped you when you thought he wasn't. He's got proof you planned to kill your father. No blackouts, no irresistible impulses. No nothing but a life behind bars."

She blinked but she didn't cry.

"And here's another little surprise. Two characters named Faviola and Kent are getting expenses-paid vacations to Miami."

"Luciano doesn't need the money," she said quietly. "Martin would do anything for a dollar."

My look asked the question, which she quickly answered. "Luciano Faviola is an Italian playboy. He tried to rape me at a party when I was stoned." She shook her head and said bitterly, "I wish I'd killed him."

"Perfect trial demeanor," I said sarcastically, "showing your tender, remorseful side. I'm sure the jury will have a lot of sympathy for a coke-snorting, spoiled bitch princess who carries a gun and cries rape at every opportunity."

"Is that what you think I am?"

"It doesn't matter what I think."

"It does to me," she said, her eyes tearing. She walked to the window and stared out at Ocean Drive. "Martin Kent was a playboy without a bankroll. He stole from me. He was just another one of my incredibly poor choices where men are concerned."

She was talking about Kent, but was she thinking about me?

"Can they really testify?" she asked.

"It's up to the judge. I'm more concerned about the tape. It's clearly admissible, and it's damning."

For a moment she was silent. Then, speaking softly, she said, "If I tell you the truth, will you still help me?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't. I didn't know.

"My father did rape me, Jake. You must believe that." We sat at her kitchen table. Chrissy reached for a cigarette and lit it. "I had blocked it out and couldn't remember it. I always had these vague feelings of uneasiness around my father. I knew he'd done something, but I didn't know what. Larry Schein brought it out under hypnosis. It's all true. All I lied about—left out, really—was that I planned to kill him. I planned it, and I told Larry."

"Who has it on tape," I said. "He's the one who can send you away. If you'd told me, maybe there's something I could have done."

"What would you have done?"