Lassiter 07 - Flesh and Bones by Levine, Paul (ebook reader web .txt) 📕

"Did she look intense?"

"Objection!" Socolow called out. "Calls for speculation."

"Overruled," the judge said. "The witness can testify as to her observations."

I shot Socolow a dirty look. He was just trying to break the staccato rhythm of my cross.

"Did Ms. Bernhardt appear to be intense, to be focused on what she was doing?"

"Not really," Michelle Schiff said.

"Then what was her expression?" I asked.

Michelle Schiff ran a hand through her hair, which was tinted the color of a copper penny. "I don't know. Her eyes seemed blank. Her face was kind of dreamy. Her mouth was just a tiny bit open. I remember she wasn't wearing lip gloss, and in that light—"

"Blank," I repeated, interrupting her before we sped off in another direction. "Blank and dreamy. As if she were in a daze?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Or a trance?"

"Sort of."

"Or hypnotized?"

"Your Honor!" Socolow stood so quickly he jostled a file, which crashed to the floor. "Unless the witness is an expert on hypnosis—"

"Sustained. Move it along, Mr. Lassiter."

I paused long enough for the jurors to turn and look at me. "So, in summary, Ms. Bernhardt seemed to be in a daze or a trance when she walked by your table?"

"Yes. I said that."

Actually, I had said that. But I wanted the jury to think she had. "Nothing further," I concluded.

24

Flashbacks

There is nothing worth stealing in my little coral-rock house in the South Grove. Oh, there is the dinged sailboard propped on concrete blocks. It doubles as a coffee table, though the rings on the fiberglass come from beer bottles, not coffee cups. There is a table lamp made from a Miami Dolphins helmet. There is a sofa of Haitian cotton that was once off-white and is now a jaundiced shade of yellow. There are two potted palms, a rusted scuba tank, and an old stack of magazines and football programs.

Which is why I don't lock my front door.

Not that you could open it unless you have hit a blocking sled or two. The wood is humidity swollen, so the door stays jammed shut. My friends know how to get in, but few are willing to suffer shoulder separations.

When I came home that night, there was a red Corvette parked under the jacaranda tree. The downstairs smelled of cigars. The sound of a cabinet door closing came from the kitchen. Then a voice. "Where do you keep the single-malt Scotch, old buddy?"

"I don't drink it except when you're paying, Rusty."

He poked his head out of the kitchen, and I dropped my briefcase on the floor. He was wearing pleated Italian slacks that billowed at the hips and a black silk shirt with an open-mouthed shark crawling up the front. His long red hair was tied back in a ponytail. To my unbiased eye, he looked like a trainee in an executive program for drug dealers.

"And you got shit in your refrigerator," he complained. "Salami and beer."

"The building blocks of life," I said. "As essential to civilization as Monday Night Football."

"Nobody eats salami anymore."

"That's why I like it."

"Tofu is in, Jake. Bean sprouts are in. Sushi is in. Salami is so far out, it may come back in."

"When it does, I'll stop eating it."

I sat down on the sofa, kicking off my black oxfords. I hate those shoes. Lace them up tight, feel uptight. Of all my shoes, my favorites were those old black hightops from Penn State. Loved the feel of spikes biting into solid ground, a satisfying thwomp you both heard and felt.

Rusty emerged from the kitchen carrying two 16-ounce Grolsches. "Can I buy you a beer?"

"You can tell me why you lied to me."

"Jake!" Sounding wounded.

"You set me up because Guy Bernhardt paid you to. Then you lied to me about it. Now you're going to testify for the state." I took the beer but didn't open it. "Old buddy."

"I'm sorry, Jake. Guy asked me a lot of questions about you, and yeah, he got me to bring you to Paranoia that night. But I didn't know Chrissy was gonna off her old man, and that's the truth."

"Then what did you think was going on?"

He sat down in a chair within a short left hook of the sofa. "I just believed what Guy said. He told me he'd be coming by to see his pop. Chrissy, too. There was some family dispute. Maybe my old friend Jake could help out, be the family lawyer, but I wasn't to say a word to you. Look, if it helps, I'll testify to that."

"It doesn't help. Your conversations with Guy are hearsay. Besides, Guy could say, 'Sure, I wanted to bring Pop together with Chrissy, but she spoiled everything by killing him.' "

"It freaked me out, Jake, when she came in and started shooting. But I never figured Guy had a hand in it."

"And now you do?"

"No. You do. If Guy was gonna kill his pop, there'd be easier ways."

I popped the porcelain stopper on the bottle. "Not that would get Chrissy out of the way at the same time."

Rusty swallowed a few glugs of his beer but didn't answer me. I was still wondering why he'd shown up. The offer to testify didn't impress me one bit.

"Here's how I see it, Rusty. You got in over your head, and now you're scared. I figure you're part of some conspiracy without really knowing it. You're not really a bad guy. Dishonest, sleazy, and disloyal to your friends, but in the scheme of things, you're just another guy on the make."

He looked as if I'd just peed on his shoes. "Jake, I'm willing to make it right. I'll do anything you want."

"What do you suggest?"

"Put me on the stand."

That was the second time he had offered his services. "What for?"

"I'll tell how Guy paid me to go the club, told me Chrissy was coming, and wanted you there. I'll tell—"

"No, you won't! Guy would say Chrissy had been making threats against their father. That's an admission by a party, admissible at trial.