Bum Deal

by Paul Levine

  “What might have been, Victoria goes missing without a trace.”

  “I’m afraid you were right when you said she could still have a thing for him.”

  “I didn’t mean that. I was just pulling your chain.”

  He shot a look at Calvert’s Ferrari that said, I’d like to drag a key the length of the car and then take a dump on those soft leather seats.

  “Do you have enough to indict him?” Solomon asked.

  I decided to tell the truth, which I seldom do with opposing counsel. But Solomon was a friend, even if his principal avocation was irritating me. “Not even close to an indictment. More like a general suspicion without a hard scrap of proof.”

  He glanced toward the house, which would probably be called neoclassical, with its portico supported by sturdy white columns, a gabled roof, and a triangular pediment over the entrance. The place looked new, meaning Calvert might have knocked down an earlier neoclassical house to build this neo-neo one.

  Solomon lowered his voice and said, “If I had anything inculpatory, I’d give it to you.”

  “Whoa, Nellie! I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that.”

  “I mean it, Jake. The guy gives me the creeps, and Victoria just seems entranced by him.”

  “Solomon, you’re overreacting, to say nothing of making an unethical suggestion. If you’re gonna cheat, do it to win.”

  He shook his head wordlessly. Usually Solomon was an upbeat, self-confident guy. Now he looked shaken.

  “Don’t show any jealousy,” I advised. “Victoria will perceive it as weakness.”

  He mulled that over. “Thanks. You’re better at this than I am.”

  “You’re doing fine. When’s the wedding, anyway?”

  “It was going to be September, but with this case, Victoria says we have to move it to late October.”

  “Not a college-football Saturday, Solomon.”

  “Not my call, Jake. Jeez, don’t put me under any pressure.”

  He sulked a moment, then said, “Vic was engaged once before. Bruce Bigby. You know him?”

  “Not personally, but I see his signs on the turnpike extension. Gentleman farmer and real estate developer with a couple thousand acres of avocados down in Homestead.”

  “Yeah. Mr. Guacamole. President of the Kiwanis. A Dudley Do-Right.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “They had a wedding date. Invitations sent out. Church of the Little Flower in Coral Gables. Then she broke it off.”

  “Yeah, because she met you!”

  “I know, I know. It’s just that . . . Calvert’s got me a little unnerved.”

  “Solomon, you gotta toughen up. Victoria loves you. God knows why, but she does.”

  He smacked me on the shoulder a second time, and we started along a flagstone path that ran around the house. I stopped next to a stand of birds-of-paradise and looked into a large bay window. Sidestepping through the plants, I pressed my face to the glass.

  “Hey, Jake. What the hell are you doing?”

  “Snooping. Nice piano.”

  “It’s Calvert’s music room.”

  “Was that him playing when I was on the phone with Victoria?”

  “Yeah, classical stuff, then some show tunes. Do you know Phantom of the Opera?”

  “Sure. I had a girlfriend who dragged me to the Miami Beach production three times.”

  “Calvert was playing the piano and singing ‘Music of the Night’ just before you got here.”

  My eyes were adjusting to the change of light inside the music room. I spotted some photographs on a set of shelves. “Singing to Victoria?”

  “I guess. He was looking at her as he sang.”

  “You know, that’s how the Phantom seduces the young soprano. Puts her in a trance. She faints right into his bed.”

  “Aw, jeez, Jake. Stop.”

  I was squinting now, trying to make out the photos on the shelves. “Are those pictures of Calvert with his wife?”

  “Yeah. Sofia.”

  There were at least a dozen photos of the couple in formal wear. Opera, theater, charity galas, I figured. Sofia Suarez Calvert was a brunette, petite and shapely. Smiled a lot.

  “The one on the top shelf, left side,” I said. “Is Calvert sitting in the cockpit of a plane?”

  “A Marchetti acrobatic plane. Oh, wait. Calvert insists on calling it an ‘aerobatic’ plane. I guess that he doesn’t have enough hobbies, so he picked up flying. Apparently, traveling to the Bahamas isn’t exciting enough without doing some barrel rolls.”

  “Sofia’s not in the picture. Does she go with him?”

  “Only when he promises not to do tricks. But with or without her, he says he flies nearly every weekend.”

  I scanned the rest of the room. Tasteful midcentury furniture. Leather sofa and chairs, a painting on one wall of a fisherman in a small dinghy looking apprehensively toward stormy skies. It might have been a Winslow Homer. On a facing wall was a life-size portrait of the man himself, Clark Calvert, in green scrubs, his mask dangling around his neck, his surgical gloves bloody.

  Bloody hands, I thought.

  Who does that? Who would want it in a portrait?

  “You’re looking at the painting of the great man,” Solomon said. “What’s it say to you?”

  “He likes to shock people. They come into the music room expecting harpsichord music and petits fours, and see their host with blood on his hands.”

  “Why do it?” Solomon asked. Clearly, my pal was trying to figure out his own client, but not for the case. For personal reasons.

  “Maybe Calvert wants his guests to know that he’s capable of things they’re not,” I ventured.

  “Healing the lame?”

  “Or killing the healthy,” I said.

  “I hadn’t thought of that.” Solomon motioned me away from the window. “C’mon, dude. They’re waiting out back.”

  I stepped out of the bushes, and we continued along the path. We passed a bocce-ball court, a croquet lawn, a red-clay tennis court, and a full-size basketball court. The swimming pool was a no-nonsense twenty-five meters divided into four lanes.

  I spotted Victoria and Calvert sitting at a glass table on the patio—or terrazzo—under what appeared to be a high-pitched silk tent, waving in the breeze. She wore a turquoise sleeveless dress. He wore white linen slacks, no shoes, and a short-sleeve blue cotton shirt with red stripes and a pair of tigers embroidered on the chest. Next to his bare feet lay a soft leather briefcase the color of melted butter.

  “Is Calvert wearing a bowling shirt?” I said.

  “I asked him the same thing,” Solomon said. “It’s a Gucci. Twelve hundred bucks. He said it’s a sardonic commentary on a bowling shirt. Do you know what that means?”

  “Only that he’s a jerk. This is gonna be fun, pal.”

  “You won’t get anything out of him.”

  “Unless his wife’s body floats by in the bay, I don’t expect to. Between you and me, I’m just going through the motions before bailing.”

  Solomon stopped in his tracks, forcing me to also. “The emmis?” he asked. “You being straight with me?”

  “Yeah, Judge Duckworth said she’d let me out if I think Pincher is using me for political purposes.”

  “Do you?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ve got no hard evidence, and Pincher is giving me an unreasonable deadline.”

  “Before you bail, could you cut Calvert down a couple notches in Victoria’s eyes?” he asked hopefully.

  “For you, pal, it would be my pleasure.”

  -17-

  The Doctor and His Verbs

  Victoria made the introductions, and I said howdy to Dr. Clark Calvert, who stood and greeted me. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Lassiter. I’ve heard so much about you from Victoria.”

  “Whereas she won’t tell me a thing about you,” I replied.

  He was a shade under six feet tall, dark hair, expensively trimmed, receding a bit in front. His thin
lips disappeared when he flashed me a smile, or rather, he showed some teeth without any pleasure in those dark, lifeless lizard’s eyes. I held his gaze as we shook hands.

  Well, I shook. He gripped. And having closed the pliers handle first, he got the better of me. My busted-up knuckles ground against each other until I crunched back. I’ve got the bigger paw, and I tip the scale at 235, and in a matter of seconds, I had him stalemated. Then, dipping my shoulder to get a little more leverage, I squeezed harder. He grimaced but didn’t beg for mercy.

  “What’s the prize?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “Does the winner get to take Victoria to the prom?”

  “Boys! Please sit down.” Victoria the schoolmarm looked ready to whack both of us with a ruler.

  “Hey, he started it,” I said in my best sixth-grader whine.

  I released the doc from my death grip. He wouldn’t give me the satisfaction of rubbing his wounded mitt. Instead, he said, “I could beat you left-handed. I can use a bone cutter with either hand. Completely ambidextrous.”

  “Would that be a useful skill for masturbation?” I asked.

  He started to say something, then realized I wasn’t really looking for an answer, so he forced a chuckle that sounded like a frog burping.

  “During my residency,” he said, “I squeezed a tennis ball every night. Three hundred times, each hand. I still do it.”

  “Lifting the liter bottle of Jack Daniel’s works for me,” I replied. “As the night goes on, the bottle gets lighter, if you catch my drift.”

  We settled into sling patio chairs and stared at each other across the table. Victoria was to my right, a legal pad in front of her, a pen in her hand. Solomon was to my left, padless and penless, his eyes darting from Calvert to me. My pal looked out of sorts. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. After a moment, he pulled a pack of chewing gum from his inside suit pocket, unwrapped a piece, and popped it into his mouth. I caught the distinctive aroma of Juicy Fruit.

  I let the silence play out and looked toward the smooth bay. Calvert’s property had more than a hundred feet of seawall. A Bertram Sport Fisherman in the sixty-foot range sat in the quiet water at the dock.

  “Well, then, Mr. Lassiter,” Calvert said, “what would you like to know?”

  “What’s the meaning of life? Is there more to it than just this?” I spread my arms, as if to take in his bay-front estate.

  “You’d like to discuss existential philosophies?”

  “Maybe later. Let’s start with this. Which of those strong hands did you use to strangle your wife?”

  “Ha!” He exhaled a burst of a laugh, but his eyes were not amused. “That’s not the way it’s done, Mr. Lassiter. You’re supposed to toss some softballs, lull me into a sense of security, then trap me with my inconsistencies.”

  “I’m not much for softballs.”

  “What makes you think I strangled Sofia? Why not drowning in the bathtub, Mr. Lassiter? Or poison in her egg-white omelet?”

  “I’m just following the evidence. You told the paramedics about choking her during sex. You told Dr. Freudenstein, too.”

  “That quack! I’m going to sue him for violation of doctor-patient privilege and defamation. I’ll see to it his ticket is pulled.”

  “He’s not a big fan of yours, either. Thinks you’re psychotic.”

  “Based on what? An hour’s chat? If a patient comes to me complaining of knee pain, I don’t tell him, ‘That’s awful. We have to amputate your leg.’ Dr. Fraud-en-stein is the most incompetent shrink in Miami, and believe me, that’s saying a lot.”

  “Maybe we’ll just leave it up to judge and jury to evaluate his qualifications.”

  I wanted that to sound threatening. As if I were ready to tighten the knot on my necktie, stand at attention, point an accusatory finger at the defense table, and announce, “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this man, Clark Calvert, is a murderer.”

  Calvert didn’t break out in a cold sweat or curl up in a fetal position. He just snorted an indifferent laugh and said, “Oh, how I would love to see my Victoria cross-examine that pompous gasbag.”

  My Victoria.

  I shot a glance at Solomon, who squirmed in his patio chair and chewed his gum so hard I could hear his jawbones clacking. I felt for the guy. And I was starting to despise Clark Calvert. I didn’t want Solomon’s unethical help in prosecuting the arrogant prick. But I wouldn’t mind making Calvert’s life miserable for a while. Right now he was having too damn much fun. There’s a lot of gamesmanship—strategy and tactics—in interrogation, and so far, Calvert was winning.

  “Dr. Freudenstein might surprise you in court,” I said. “Jurors like experts with strong opinions.” It was a lame counterpunch—a weak, looping roundhouse that hit nothing but air.

  “If, as that quack claims, I were psychotic . . .” Calvert cocked his head and gave me his thin-lipped smile. “Is that the right verb, Mr. Lassiter? Is it were or was?”

  “Depends. If you’re not psychotic, it’s were. If you are psychotic, it’s was.”

  “Bravo! You know your subjunctive form, Counselor.”

  “If I were you,” I said in my best smart-alecky voice, “I wouldn’t be enjoying this. But you are. This is a game to you, isn’t it?”

  “I’ll admit that verbal sparring relieves the tedium.”

  “How nice for you. Your wife is missing and presumed dead, and you play around with verbs and make jokes about her manner of death.” I imitated his supercilious tone. “Why not drowning in the bathtub, Mr. Lassiter? Or poison in her egg-white omelet?”

  He stayed quiet, appraising me. I held his gaze. I could hear Victoria tapping her pen against the glass tabletop. Either she was nervous, which I doubted, or this was a trick I’d taught her, a prearranged signal to her client: Stay quiet. Across from her, Solomon cleared his throat. That could be a signal, too, but more likely it was postnasal drip.

  Calvert followed Victoria’s cue and didn’t say a word.

  “I interrupted you, Doctor. You started to say, ‘If I were psychotic . . .”

  “I wouldn’t have spent the better part of five years trying to help Sofia with her many problems. Additionally, as to my sardonic manner, which may be off-putting to you, I disagree with your major premise. I’m not making light of Sofia’s death, because I don’t for a moment think she’s dead. This is just one of her histrionic games, her pathetic attempts to garner sympathy and to be the center of attention. She ran away from home as a teenager several times. Or didn’t my dear father-in-law tell you that?”

  “Pepe Suarez says Sofia would always call home within twenty-four hours of hitting the road. Didn’t want her parents to worry. This time, radio silence.”

  “If you ask me, the little drama queen is on the beach in Buenos Aires or perhaps Maui. With a boyfriend. Or maybe just looking for one.”

  That perked me up. “You suspect she’s been unfaithful?”

  Solomon, who’d been quiet, stirred and said, “Jake, that’s not an area we’re comfortable with.”

  Calvert brushed him off with a theatrical wave of the hand. “Nonsense, Stephen. I’m not embarrassed to have been a world-class cuckold.”

  “It isn’t that. It’s that the state will use—”

  “Please, Stephen!” Calvert’s dark eyes looked toward Victoria for support.

  She hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “Steve, it’s okay. Go ahead, Clark.”

  Solomon looked deflated, as if his fiancée had just dumped him for another man, and maybe she had. In a normal case, where my opponents weren’t my pals, I would exploit the situation. I’d let Calvert drive a spike between Solomon and Lord, then give it a couple hammer blows myself. That’s what we do. Search for any weakness in the opposition, like an infantry commander probing for the soft spot in the enemy’s front line. But I felt empathy for Solomon. Aggravating as he could be, he was still a friend. As for Victoria, bless her saintly heart, it’s difficult for me to p
lay shyster tricks on her.

  “To answer your question,” Calvert said, “I didn’t suspect Sofia of being unfaithful. I knew she was. So what?”

  “Motive,” I said. “That gives you the motive to kill your wife.”

  Solomon grimaced. Of course, he knew that’s where I was headed, and that’s why he didn’t want Calvert to answer. Victoria knew, too, but she was letting Calvert call the shots. Probably just as she did when they were dating so long ago and he was the sage older man.

  “How bourgeois,” Calvert said. “Jealousy as a motive for murder.”

  “Human nature, Doctor. Jealousy over the betrayal. Anger that leads to a thirst for vengeance.”

  “Not emotions that I’m familiar with, Counselor.”

  I tried to think of my next question, knowing I was getting nowhere.

  Wearing her poker face, Victoria scribbled notes on her pad.

  Stirring in his chair, Solomon said, “How much more do you have, Jake? I’m not sure you’re getting anywhere with this. Besides, I’m getting hungry.”

  -18-

  Uxoricidal Rage

  Steve Solomon . . .

  Solomon wasn’t hungry. He just wanted to end the questioning. Not that he feared Calvert would incriminate himself. That, he wished for. Rather, he felt useless. A spectator, the kid in the corner with the water bottle while Lassiter and Calvert traded punches in the boxing ring.

  So far Lassiter hadn’t laid a glove on the bastard. And just look at the cockiness of the guy. As if being suspected of murder juiced him. Taunting Lassiter, challenging him to come up with something—anything—to prove it.

  Victoria’s attitude disturbed Solomon. With clients, she always ran the show. She would never let a defendant wander off track. As usual, she had laid out the rules for Calvert before Lassiter arrived.

  You don’t have to prove anything, so just answer the question. Volunteer nothing. Don’t try to score points and show you’re smarter than Lassiter.

  “But I am smarter.”

  “We know that,” Victoria replied. “No need to prove it, Clark.”

  But Calvert couldn’t help himself. Ignoring Victoria’s instructions, baiting Lassiter, dissing Freudenstein. The “my Victoria” reference had not gone unnoticed. A totally different meaning than “my lawyer.” Or how about “my lawyers”?