"Uncle Bill likes the old me better." Her tone one of mock sadness. "When I was thirteen, I could lock my ankles behind my head."
"You should have tried out for the Olympics."
"Uncle Bill says my boobs are too big now, but I mean, I'm not exactly a cow, right?" She moved her shoulders from side to side, her breasts barely jiggling just inches from his nose.
"Your breasts are fine, Amanda."
"Uncle Bill likes them small. Little tulips, he calls them." She plopped into his lap, her legs spread, facing him, straddling his thighs. "You sure you like mine?"
"What's not to like?" Sounding like his father. Feeling like a schmuck, a real nudnik.
"So why don't you touch them?" A whiny child's voice. "You can, you know. You can kiss my boobies and do anything you want."
He didn't move.
She turned sideways so that one breast slid across his cheek, smooth and warm against his skin. She made a humming sound and said, "You need a shave, but it feels good."
"You're a bad girl."
"So spank me." She slid sideways across his lap and flipped over, arching her back so that her bottom was hoisted just above his knees. He saw the jellyfish tattoo again, tentacles streaming down each buttock.
"If I spank you, will you be good?"
"I'll be so-o-o good." Another girlish giggle. "Unless you want me to be so-o-o bad."
He hesitated, weighing the options.
"What are you waiting for, Uncle Steve?"
Uncle Steve.
The name sounded repulsive on her lips.
He drew back his arm and slapped her butt as hard as he could with an open palm. A one-handed smack as loud as a marlin hitting the water.
"Ow! What the fuck!" She leapt off him, yelping, all traces of jailbait vanished from her voice. "You bastard! That hurt like hell!"
"Sorry, Amanda, but I'm not your Uncle Steve." He got to his feet and started for the door.
"I'm gonna tell Uncle Bill what you did."
"What'd I do?"
"Raped me."
"Right. Gave you a candy bar and had my way with you."
"He'll believe me. And then you know what he'll do?"
"Hit me on the head and dump me into the Jacuzzi? Like he did to your mother."
A laugh came from her mouth, but her eyes were hard, narrow slits. "Is that what you think happened?"
"The jury called it manslaughter. But you and I know better, don't we, Amanda? We both know Bill killed your mother so he could be with you."
"That's crazy." Another laugh, sharp as barbed wire. "You've got everything backwards."
Steve longed to ask the question: "So what happened, Amanda? What happened the night your mother drowned?" But sometimes the best cross-examination is silence-the best question, the one unasked. Leave a moment of dead calm, and the witness might just fill in the gap.
"Uncle Bill didn't kill my mom, silly," Amanda Lamm said. "I did!"
Jogging toward the car, Steve played back what Amanda had told him. She and her mother were spending the weekend at Kreeger's house. Her mother found her on the pool patio, smoking some weed. They had a blistering argument, Mom screaming she'd lose custody if Amanda didn't clean up her act, the girl screaming back that she gave Bill more pleasure than Mom did, and the only reason he kept the old lady around was to be close to Amanda. Her mother slapped her. Amanda picked up a skimmer pole-the "pool thingie," she called it-and hit back. Somehow, her mother ended up in the hot tub and drowned. Later that night, after the paramedics had carted Mom away, with the police investigating, good old Uncle Bill tucked Amanda into bed with warm milk, a handful of pills, and the promise that he would cover for her.
But that's not what really happened. Amanda was lying.
No. Lying is the wrong word, Steve thought. Amanda could pass a polygraph exam because she believed her own story.
But Steve felt sure she hadn't killed her mother: Kreeger simply convinced her that she had. How hard could it have been for him? Amanda was a thirteen-year-old with a drug problem. Her parents were going through a horrific divorce. An older man had started paying attention to her. A devious and manipulative man who preyed on her insecurities and took her to his bed.
Steve tried to picture the end of that horrific night, Kreeger leaning over Amanda's bed. What did he whisper to her? How did he shape her memories?
"I took care of everything, Amanda. Don't worry."
"What happened, Uncle Bill?"
"I told them your mother slipped and hit her head. It'll be all right."
"What will?"
"You never intended to hit her."
"I hit my mother?"
That was the only version of events that made sense to Steve. Nancy Lamm, who had her own addiction problems, discovered Kreeger was drugging her daughter and having sex with her. Nancy argued with Kreeger, threatening to blow the whistle on him. Kreeger killed Nancy, then convinced Amanda that she'd done it.
But there was no way to prove it.
Now Steve slowed to a walk. The morning air was heavy with humidity. The golf course was quiet. Not even a "fore." Steve approached his Mustang, parked in the shade of a banyan tree. No one inside.
Where's Bobby!
Had he wandered off? He could have sneaked over to the golf course to watch duffers flail away in the scrubby roughs.
Janice! Where the hell's my worthless sister? She could have followed us here. She could have waited, and-
No. No need to do that. All she had to do was call, and the little stinker would sneak out and get ice cream with her.
Kreeger!
Steve whirled and ran back toward the house.
Thirty-One
Laughter was coming from the ground-floor office. Bobby's laugh. Childlike and innocent, a bird's song on a summer breeze. Steve threw the door open. Kreeger was behind his desk, Bobby sitting cross-legged on a leather chair.
"Hey, Uncle Steve. We started without you."
"Come in, Solomon." Kreeger's smile seemed sincere, as sincere as a wolf smiling at a lamb.
"What the hell's going on?"
"Your nephew is regaling me with his wizardry powers. Shall we try another one, Robert?"
"Go for it, Doc."
"How about my name? 'William Kreeger.' "
"Easy, 'cause it's got so many vowels, and I can make four words." The kid thought a second, then boomed: "WIRE ME RAGE KILL."
"Utterly delightful." Kreeger turned to Steve. "Robert was just telling me about the lovely Maria and the unfortunate incident that led to his coming here."
"She's a fox," Bobby said.
"Indeed, she is." Kreeger picked a wallet-size photo from his desk. "Lovely, isn't she, Solomon?"
"Where'd you get that?" It was a shot of Maria Munoz-Goldberg preening for the camera. Shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt that stopped north of her navel. Her back was arched in a way that showed off her small butt. Except for the clothing, she could have been Amanda, posing for Kreeger seven years earlier.
"I gave it to Dr. Bill," Bobby said. "He's giving me advice on bagging Maria."
"Great. I'll come visit you in Youth Hall."
"Nothing bad or anything. The doc says to just be myself. Don't try to be cool or imitate the guys on the football team, because it won't work. We all have to be ourselves, because if we fake it, smart people see right through it, anyway."