Paul Levine: Lassiter

He showed me a sloppy smile and bought time by taking a long hit on the cognac. “Landline. Cell phone. What’s the big deal?”

“The cell tower records show that Krista’s phone was in Coconut Grove when she answered. Meaning she was in her car, headed back to her apartment.”

“From where?”

“From your house, where she’d just shot Max Perlow with Amy’s gun.”

It was a bluff. The part about the cell tower was true, but I had no idea where Krista had been a few minutes before taking the call.

Ziegler didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he opened a fancy thermidor and pulled out two fat Cuban cigars. I shook my head, and he put one back inside. He used his guillotine clippers to behead the stogie, French-kissed the tip, and with a wooden match put a blue flame to the tobacco. Finally, he said, “You’ve got Krista all wrong. Murder isn’t in her nature.”

“Don’t attribute your characteristics to her. Murder isn’t in your nature.”

Ziegler had his cigar in one hand, his cognac in the other. “If Krista was gonna kill anyone, it would be Alex for raping and beating her. Or hell, even me, for letting it happen.”

“I’m not a shrink but I think I know how she handled her conflicting feelings about you.”

“Then tell me, ’cause I never figured it out.”

“She loved you when she was still a kid, and you betrayed her. She didn’t want to stop loving you, so she transferred her anger to someone else. Perlow’s the one who coerced you into giving Krista to Castiel. You got the pass, Perlow got the bullet, and Castiel got framed. It fits very nicely.”

“So she waited all these years to kill Perlow?” He blew smoke into the air. “Not buying it, Lassiter.”

“Something new had happened. Perlow had you tailed. He started asking questions about Melody Sanders. I’ll bet you tensed up every time he mentioned her name. The old bastard sensed something, and you knew it. You also knew he’d kill Krista to protect Alex. Hell, he’d already tried.”

“Keep going. This is a good story.”

“I’m betting you told Krista you wish you had the guts to kill the old hood.”

“So what if I did? Idle chat.”

“Not to Krista. She hatches a plan to get rid of Perlow, so you two can live sexily ever after. And I gotta admit, it was a pretty good plan. Best part was not telling you. Krista figured you’d either put the kibosh on it or screw it up.”

Ziegler tapped cigar ashes into a carved glass bowl on his desk and shook his head. “You got a great imagination, Lassiter.”

“I figure Krista parked in the construction site next door, then walked along the seawall onto your property. Once on the pool deck, she purposely knocked over a planter to make a noise. You and Perlow come into the solarium, and Krista plugs him through the window, the same way Bugsy Siegel got his. You reach Krista on her cell to tell her what happened. Only she already knows. And guess what, you did screw it up. You’d already told Castiel that Amy was the shooter, just one sibling away from the truth. But then, you thought it was the truth.”

“A man could sprain his brain, thinking the way you do.”

Ziegler poured himself more cognac and tipped his glass to me. “All this speculation of yours. You gonna take it to Castiel?”

“And let him go free? No way!”

He looked puzzled, so I explained. Castiel can’t be prosecuted for assaulting Krista. The statute of limitations expired years ago. So, unless Castiel took the fall for the murder of Max Perlow, he’d get off scot-free.

“Like you said, Charlie, Castiel is a lowlife. And like I always say, rough justice is better than no justice.”

I could tell from Ziegler’s look that he didn’t know if I was playing him. His voice turned skeptical. “So it doesn’t bother you if Krista gets off, even if she aced Max?”

“I shed no tears for Max Perlow.”

“No?” Studying me.

“Eighteen years ago, Perlow stood in your cabana, looking down at Krista’s naked body. She’d been choked, raped, and beaten into a near-coma. Her face was busted up, her pelvis broken. And Perlow told you to finish her off. Am I right about all that?”

“ ‘Bury her’!” Krista’s voice, coming from behind me. “Perlow told Charlie, ‘Bury her.’ ”

I turned and saw Krista walking into the study. She was barefoot and wore a white terry-cloth robe, her wet hair wrapped in a towel.

“I must have been semi-conscious,” Krista said, “because when I came to, I remembered hearing Perlow’s voice. ‘Goddammit, Charlie! Finish her off. Bury her in the ’Glades.’ ”

Amy followed behind Krista, similarly dressed. They’d come in from the pool by way of the solarium, scene of the crime.

“Helluva memory to carry around all these years, Krista,” I said. “You must have really hated the man.”

Krista’s tone turned suspicious. “Why are you two talking about this, anyway?”

Ziegler straightened in his chair. “No reason, hon. We’re just shooting the shit.” He gave her his you know me smile, with just enough lubrication to prove he was drunk.

“Charlie, I told you not to open up to Jake.”

“Aw, c’mon, hon. He knows you shot Max.”

“He knows shit! Unless you told him.”

“What are you up to, Jake?” Amy demanded. The sisters were flanking me.

I gave my palms-up sign of peaceful coexistence. Three sets of eyes looked back. “Krista, you did what had to be done. I have no beef with that. Like I said to Charlie, rough justice.” I glanced at my watch, got out of my chair, and said, “Well, I’ve got court in the morning.…”

I wanted to get out of there. Slowly and casually and without any fuss. Not that the three of them could stop me.

“I need to frisk you,” Krista said.

“Oh, c’mon, hon,” Ziegler said.

“Jesus, Charlie. You’re the one who told me Lassiter wore a wire for Castiel.”

“Long time ago,” I said. “Got nothing to do with you guys.”

Krista took a step toward me. “Then prove it. Take off your shirt and loosen your belt.”

Getting out of there would not be difficult. I would pivot, grab Ziegler by the scruff of his neck, and slam him, nose-first, into his desk. I would gingerly pick up Krista and deposit her in a chair, and if Amy stepped in my way, I’d knock her aside and head out the door. Who says there are no gentlemen left?

“I don’t have to prove anything, Krista,” I said.

“Charlie!” Krista shouted.

Ziegler popped open his desk drawer, pulled out a handgun, and pointed it at me. “Do what she says, Lassiter.”

Oh, shit .

“Put the gun down, Ziegler, before you blow your dick off.” Trying to sound as if I were in control.

“Keep the gun on Jake while I search him, Charlie,” Krista ordered.

I was glad she wasn’t the one holding the gun. The fabric of Krista’s being was sinewy rawhide. If each of us is the product of the significant events of our past, the sum total of this woman’s life was survival. She’d already shot and killed a man. I had no doubt she could kill me without blinking. But the pistolero was Charlie Ziegler, a guy with a spine made of noodles. Problem was, cowards can pull triggers, too, and even a lousy shot can hit a target five feet away. I felt a sense of dread that turned my legs into iron pilings.

“Ziegler, you’re not gonna shoot me, so just put the damn gun down.” Still trying to sound confident.

The shot-snapping like the crack of a whip-made me jump. Ziegler had fired into a marble sculpture across the room-a ballerina with her left arm above her head, right arm curled around in front, as if playing an imaginary bull fiddle. The slug caught the ballerina squarely between the eyes, splintering her marble head.