Nineteen
Ten minutes later, Steve was settling into a brown leather chair in Dr. William Kreeger's home office. The floor was Dade County pine, the stucco walls painted a grayish-green color Steve didn't care for. He once read that shrinks used earth colors to calm their troubled patients. But no beige walls, no corn plant in the corner, no gurgling fish tank with parrotfish and lionfish frolicking through coral caves.
The only personal items were several framed photos on a credenza. Kreeger on a power boat, a big-ass sport fisherman in the fifty-foot range. Best Steve could tell, there were no bodies floating in the water. Then there were a couple of grainy shots taken from videotape: Kreeger on CNN, opining why husbands kill their wives or mothers kill their children, or maybe even why clients kill their lawyers.
"Did you see Amanda on your way in?" Kreeger sat in his own leather chair.
"All of her." Steve looked toward the wood-slatted windows. Now he was sure Kreeger had been watching them, had planned the whole thing.
"She's a remarkable young woman," Kreeger said.
"Tell me about her."
"We're here to talk about you, Solomon. Not her."
"Hey, you brought it up."
"All I'll say is this: When I was in prison, Amanda was the only one who wrote me, the only one who cared. And when I got out, she was waiting for me."
"Seems a little young to be one of those wackos who fall for murderers."
"You have much to learn, Solomon. And so little time to learn it." He used a handheld sharpener to grind a fine point on a pencil, then continued. "Now, what should we discuss first? Your violent temper or your sleazy ethics?"
"That's sweet, Kreeger. You lecturing on ethics is like the Donner Party talking about table manners."
"I detect antagonism in your voice. Still having difficulty controlling your anger?"
"Aw, shit."
Kreeger crossed his legs and balanced a leather-bound notebook on his knee. An open leather briefcase, the old-fashioned doctor-bag variety, was at his feet. A rattan table with a green marble ashtray sat between the two men, and a paddle fan whirred silently overhead. They had barely started, and already Steve felt like bolting. If the bastard asked if he'd ever wanted to kill his father and sleep with his mother. . well, there'd be a second assault-and-battery charge in his file.
"Tell me about your childhood," Kreeger instructed, his voice clinical and distant. "Were you a happy child?"
"Screw you, Kreeger."
"Did you have a good relationship with your father?"
"And the horse your rode in on."
Kreeger scribbled something in his notebook.
"Let me guess," Steve said. " 'Patient is obstreperous, uncooperative, manifests antisocial tendencies.' "
"Let's get something straight, Solomon. You're not my patient. I'm not here to treat you. I'm here to teach you how to manage your anger. It's up to you whether you take my advice. My report to the court will state whether your penchant for violence is under control or whether you should be incarcerated as a danger to the community. Understand?"
"Yeah."
"Splendid. Now, you still want to fuck with me?"
Steve took a breath and tried to relax. This wasn't going the way he had planned. He'd intended to be cooperative, maybe drop a comment or two about Nancy Lamm, maybe something about Jim Beshears, see if Kreeger brought up Oscar De la Fuente.
"Okay, Doc. Let's get this over with."
Kreeger reached into the open briefcase. He pulled out a photograph and slid it across the rattan table. "When you look at that, how do you feel?"
Steve picked up the photo and laughed. It was black-and-white and grainy, but there he was, in his U.M. baseball uniform, bareheaded. He'd already tossed his cap to the ground. His arms were thrown out to the sides, frozen in an awkward position as if he were attempting to fly. His face was contorted into an expression that seemed to be equal parts anguish and anger. A vein in his throat stood out, thick as a copperhead. He was screaming at an umpire, whose face was just inches from his own.
"Championship game of the College World Series," Steve said. "Bottom of the ninth. Two outs. I was on third, the potential tying run, and I got picked off. At least, the ump said I did, but I got in under the tag." He shook his head. "How do you think I felt?"
Kreeger scribbled something on his pad. "You tell me."
"Angry. Cheated. Humiliated. Angry."
"You already said that."
"I was really angry, but I didn't hit anyone. Write that down."
"What about this?"
Kreeger slid a photocopied newspaper clipping toward Steve, who immediately recognized the story from the Miami Herald. The headline read: "Judge Quits Bench, Dodges Indictment." A photo-a prizewinning photo, as it turned out-showed Herbert T. Solomon, in shirtsleeves, carrying a cardboard box down the steps of the Criminal Justice Building. Clearly visible in the box were miniature scales of justice, tilted to one side, the chains tangled. The look on Herbert's face: abject shame.
"Dad on the worst day of his life. What about it?"
"How does that picture make you feel?"
"It hurts. A lot. Happy now?"
"Let's analyze your pain. Which was greater? Pulling a bonehead play and losing the championship? Or seeing your father disgraced?"
"That's easy. Watching Dad go down was way worse."
"Why do you suppose you hurt so much, when the disgrace wasn't your own?"
"Because I love my father. Is that concept a little tough for you to understand, Kreeger?"
"And if he were guilty, if your father had taken those bribes, would you still love him?"
"Sure. But Dad was innocent. He was falsely accused."
"Then why didn't the Honorable Judge Solomon fight the charges?"
"Maybe he was afraid of a bad call from the umpire, too."
"Fair enough. He'd lost his faith in the system. Like father, like son-of-a-gun."
"What are you getting at, Kreeger?"
Again Kreeger reached into his briefcase. Another photo. A police mug shot. The woman was in her thirties. Round, pasty face. The tattoo of a snake peeked out of her tank top. Greasy ringlets of hair seemed to be glued to her forehead. And the eyes, glassy and staring into some distant universe.
How long ago must it have been, Steve wondered, that she was a pretty, well-mannered girl living in an upscale house on Pine Tree Drive? With a posse of girlfriends that elicited remarkable electrochemical reactions in a fifth grader named Steve Solomon.
"My sister Janice. What's she have to do with this?"
"Your sister the thief. The drug abuser. The abusive mother."
"All of the above."
"Do you love her, too, Solomon?"
"I'm not doing this, Kreeger." Steve got up and walked to the windows. With an index finger, he lifted one of the wooden shades. Clear view of the pool, the hot tub, and the chaise lounge, now empty. Not a nude young woman in sight.
"I'm afraid you don't have a choice. You kidnapped your nephew from your sister, didn't you?"
"I rescued Bobby."
"You hit a man, crushed his skull with a stick of some kind. What was it?"
"A piece of oak. A shepherd's staff."
"Not quite as heavy as a gaff, I would think."
Ah, so there it was, Steve thought. The boat in the Keys. Beshears overboard. De la Fuente at the wheel. Okay, now we're getting somewhere. "We talking about my hitting a guy named Thigpen or you hitting a guy named Beshears?"
"You'd agree there is some similarity. Except, of course, I was trying to rescue poor Jim Beshears."
"Funny. I didn't kill Thigpen. But you killed Beshears."
"Tell me about Thigpen, and I'll tell you about Beshears. Nancy, too."