Bum Deal

by Paul Levine

  “That person’s relationship to Charlemagne is closer than Sofia’s relationship to the truth.”

  Steve looked across the table and saw Victoria smile. She probably didn’t even realize she was doing it. Admiring Calvert’s wit and intelligence. He imagined her saying something later.

  Isn’t it wonderful to have such a smart client who outfoxes Jake at every turn?

  She caught his gaze and deleted the smile. Gotcha, Vic.

  “How do you accidentally kill a cat?” Lassiter asked.

  “Sofia was in one of her reclusive, can’t-be-seen-in-public moods. I took Escapar to the vet for his shots. On the way home, I put his cage on the seat next to me, but I must not have latched it properly. He was strung out from the procedure, and he leapt at me, screeching. Landed on my shoulder. I swerved into the other lane, but thankfully there were no oncoming cars. I grabbed the little darling by the neck and while still driving, tried to jam him back into the cage.”

  “You broke his neck?”

  “Apparently.”

  “With one of those strong hands.”

  “Is that a question?”

  “I wonder if the same thing happened with Sofia.”

  “That I tried to put her in a cage?”

  “Oh, we already established that. But did you accidentally kill her?”

  “Jake! That’s enough.” Victoria scowled at Lassiter.

  “No, Victoria. Let him go,” Calvert said. “I’d love to hear your theory, Mr. Lassiter, if you have one.”

  Steve looked on, amazed. Just who was running the show, lawyer or client?

  “You frequently choke Sofia during sex, isn’t that right?” Lassiter asked.

  “‘Choke’ is misleading. I never touch her windpipe. I apply pressure to her carotid artery to cut off oxygen to her brain. It enhances her orgasms. The timing is somewhat delicate. Squeeze. Release. Squeeze. Release. Knowing when to stop is essential for safety.”

  “Ever squeeze her neck while not having sex?”

  “Why would I?”

  “As a form of punishment.”

  “Never.”

  Lassiter paused, as if to decide where to go with the denial. Above the Intracoastal, seabirds chirped and swooped toward the mainland. For a moment, Steve wished he were soaring with the birds. Something gnawed at him, made him want to fly away. Then he realized what it was. The unasked question . . . and the answer he dreaded.

  “Doctor, when you and Victoria Lord were involved, did you ever choke her, during sex or otherwise?”

  Old-fashioned chivalry would prevent Lassiter from asking the question. He would never embarrass Victoria. But other sexual-asphyxia episodes could be used in court under pattern evidence. Lassiter knew that, of course, and could ask the question in a neutral way, omitting Victoria’s name.

  “What about other women, Doctor?” Lassiter asked.

  You’re reading my mind, old buddy.

  “Other than Sofia, have you ever choked anyone or applied pressure to the carotid artery during sex or at any other time?” Lassiter continued.

  A prolonged silence except for the clatter of a Boston Whaler heading out the Intracoastal. After a moment, Calvert said, “No.”

  Lassiter stared at him wordlessly. The trial lawyer’s trick of extracting information by staying quiet. The typical witness squirms, aching to fill that quiet space with music and often makes incriminating statements. But Calvert sat there placidly, waiting.

  “No?” Lassiter said. “Or, not that I can remember?”

  Calvert let a small smile crease those ribbon-thin lips. “Wait! I remember now. I strangled three women during sex back in Poughkeepsie. Tossed their bodies into the Hudson.”

  “Clark, please.” Victoria rapped her knuckles on the glass tabletop. “No joking around.”

  He shrugged. “Got it. No, Mr. Lassiter. No other women. And I only engaged in the oxygen-deprivation maneuver with Sofia because she asked me to. Apparently, she was well schooled in its use before we met.”

  “Jake,” Victoria said, “we agreed to a brief interview concerning Clark and Sofia, not Clark’s past. Now, you’ve gone far afield. Either return to the agreed-upon subject matter or we’re terminating the questioning.”

  “Sure thing,” Lassiter said.

  “Counselor, I rather thought you’d want to run through the timeline of the day Sofia disappeared,” Calvert said.

  “If you’re suggesting it, I can probably do without it.”

  “Don’t you want to see if my story conflicts with what I told the police?”

  “Aw, you’re too gosh darned smart for that.”

  “We’d quarreled that morning. Something stupid, as quarrels usually are. Sofia wanted us to spend the next weekend on Saint Kitts with two other couples. Friends of hers, not mine. People I have nothing in common with. Without even asking me, Sofia had already told them we would go. We had a row about it.”

  “I got all that from the police report.”

  “After she stormed out of the house, cursing at me, I waited awhile, then went looking for her in all the usual places. The beaches she frequents, mostly the topless ones. Glow, the poolside bar at the Fontainebleau. She’s rather fond of their cocktail called Passionate Pepper. Vodka and passion fruit spiked with jalapeño. She’d get the small pitcher for seventy dollars. Passionate Rip-Off might be a better name. The Bal Harbour Shops. Checked the fancy stores where she buys dresses she wears once, then crumples in the back of her closet.”

  “But you waited until the next morning to call the police.”

  “In the evening, I dozed off in the living room, still hoping she’d come home during the night. Maybe join me on the sofa for some makeup sex. That was our routine. When she didn’t appear, I called the police first thing in the morning.”

  “Does that about do it, Jake?” Victoria said.

  “Just a few more questions. Doctor, did you object to Sofia smoking?”

  “Often, both as a physician and a husband.”

  “But she’d still sneak a cigarette now and then, right on this patio, wouldn’t she?”

  “She’d flick the butts into the water, where they’d gather against the seawall, her lipstick quite visible on the filter tips. Russian Red, the shade is called. Quite exotic.”

  “And what would you do, Sherlock Holmes, when you found the evidence?”

  “Jake!” Victoria aimed an index finger at him. “Do I need to remind you that you’re only here because Dr. Calvert graciously agreed to an interview? He didn’t agree to be ridiculed.”

  “Sorry, Victoria. I’ll save my ridicule for court.”

  “Victoria,” Steve said, unable to keep quiet any longer, “I think we’re duty bound to let Jake ask questions his way.”

  “His way is insulting and calculated to irritate and provoke. Our duty is to preserve dignity and protect our client.”

  “The doc’s doing a pretty good job without our mucking it up. I’m just saying, let Jake be Jake. We know his bag of tricks.”

  Victoria’s look could have left bruises, maybe even blood, Steve thought. He knew he shouldn’t disagree with his cocounsel—and fiancée—in front of opposing counsel or the client, for that matter. He just couldn’t help himself. He wanted Lassiter to de-nut this supercilious bastard.

  “Are you two kids done?” Lassiter said. “Because now I’m getting hungry. And I’m sure you’d rather be picking out china patterns than watching this tennis match.”

  -21-

  Let’s Make a Deal

  Victoria Lord . . .

  Victoria cemented a smile into place. Inside she was fuming. Unable to provoke Clark, Jake was trying to sow dissension between Steve and her. And Steve had taken the bait. She vowed to keep her cool now and to set Steve straight later. Just what was wrong with him, anyway? Her long-ago relationship with Clark seemed to have more of an impact on Steve than on her.

  “C’mon, Jake,” Victoria said. “Just wrap it up.”

  “Happi
ly. Doctor, what’d you do when you found all those cigarette butts?”

  “I’d chastise Sofia. Verbally.”

  “She told Dr. Freudenstein you’d choke her as punishment.”

  “As I said, Sofia, dear heart, is capable of fabrication, especially if it garners her sympathy. That’s doubtless one reason for her disappearance. Wanting people to worry about her. To fear for her. Or simply to just talk about her. As we’re doing now.”

  “Did you similarly chastise her about her diet?”

  “I asked her to cut back on sugar and carbs.”

  “Sofia is what, about five foot two, one hundred ten pounds?”

  “One hundred seven.”

  “Hardly obese.”

  “A thin person can be quite unhealthy, Mr. Lassiter.”

  “Did you ever punish her for eating Ben & Jerry’s?”

  Clark showed a sideways smile. “Eating Ben & Jerry’s what?”

  “Ha!” Lassiter gave a mock laugh. “I get it. A little salacious humor. Who knew?” Jake’s smile disappeared, and he pointed a finger at Clark. “Did you ever squeeze Sofia’s neck to the point of unconsciousness because she ate ice cream?”

  “No.”

  “That only occurred in bed?”

  “Correct. And only once. The night I called 9-1-1.”

  Jake turned to Victoria. “My theory is it happened twice.”

  “I only care about the evidence,” Victoria said, “not your theories or what you wish the evidence showed.”

  “But I’d love to hear it,” Clark said.

  “Me, too,” Steve said. “You’re outvoted, Victoria.”

  She looked at Steve in disbelief. What the hell was he doing, disagreeing with her in an adversarial setting? What a Sonny Corleone stunt!

  And what does he mean ‘outvoted’?

  This isn’t a democracy. I’m lead counsel! Steve has become a pouting whiner who needs to assert his manly authority. But I’m trapped. I can’t squabble with Steve in front of our client and opposing counsel.

  “Go ahead, Jake,” she said. “Give it your best shot.”

  Jake looked straight across the table at Clark. Each man held the other’s gaze. “My theory is that this was a tragic mistake. You strangled Sofia into unconsciousness during sex or while chastising her for pigging out on Chunky Monkey. This time, you squeezed too hard or too long. When you realized she was dead, you panicked.”

  “I never panic.”

  “You disposed of her body.”

  “Preposterous! How and where?”

  “Video security shows you driving away from this house at 11:17 a.m. the day of her supposed disappearance. I presume you picked up her hundred-and-seven-pound body and put it in the trunk of your Ferrari while it was still in the garage. I don’t know where you dumped it.”

  “Detective Barrios and his team of community-college techies combed through the car and the house and never found any evidence to support that,” Clark said. “Not a hair or a fiber or a drop of my beloved’s precious bodily fluids.”

  Clark, Clark, Clark! Why do you try so hard to be creepy?

  Victoria imagined the impression he would make in court, the jurors not understanding this was merely the persona Clark presented to the world. His shtick was shocking people. It was just an act, she believed, but would a dozen strangers agree?

  Jake turned to Victoria. “Involuntary manslaughter. A reckless but not intentional killing. With full confession, seven- to ten-year sentence. Actual time to be served, I don’t know. We’ll work out the numbers.”

  “In other words, Jake, you have nothing. Zilch. Zero.”

  She turned to her client. “Clark, if the state had anything, they wouldn’t offer you a deal. But they can’t even prove that Sofia is dead, much less that you killed her.”

  Jake stayed silent. What could he say? Victoria wagged a finger at him. “I let you do this today because we had an arrangement. If you walked out of here with nothing but lint in your pockets, you wouldn’t proceed. Are you going to honor our agreement?”

  “I’m not done with the interview.”

  “Really? Do you have more word-association games? Because I do. How about the term prosecutorial misconduct?”

  “Motive,” Jake said. “I ought to be able to inquire about motive.”

  “You explored infidelity, and Clark was very forthcoming. He knew all about it. He lived with it.”

  “I’m talking about money, not sex,” Jake said.

  “What money?”

  “Life insurance. Three million dollars. Let’s talk about that.”

  -22-

  Three Million Buckaroos

  Jake Lassiter . . .

  Victoria was right. I had nada. There’s a tired old legal expression: “If you have the facts, hammer the facts. If you have the law, hammer the law. If you have nothing, hammer the table.”

  Well, I didn’t even have a hammer. I did have an insurance policy, however.

  “The two of you had mutual insurance policies,” I said. “Three million dollars.”

  “Do you know how much I’m worth?” Calvert said.

  “From your inheritance and your own earnings and investments, we think conservatively eighteen to twenty million.”

  “Close enough for government work. Do you think I’d kill my wife for a lousy three million?”

  “No. I already told you. I think it was an accident and then a cover-up. But maybe the best way to nail you is first-degree murder with a profit motive. Possible death penalty.”

  “Jesus, Jake!” Solomon’s eyes went wide. “I was wrong about you. You are a true prosecutor. Trying to extort a plea by overcharging.”

  “I echo Steve’s sentiments,” Victoria said, ganging up on me. “This is beneath you.”

  “Not if we reach a fair result. As I’ve always said, rough justice is better than none.”

  Calvert regarded the three of us squabbling with a detached indifference. Then he said, “Now that I think of it, three million dollars is quite a sum of money.”

  Victoria’s head swiveled toward him. “Clark, what are you saying?”

  “To some men—most men—three million dollars is quite significant. Let’s say you make sixty thousand a year. Sixty-five, tops. You lease a BMW convertible that you can’t afford. You live in a crappy apartment west of the Palmetto Expressway. You’re a so-called tennis pro, which is a fancy name for a guy who gives lessons to rich-bitch housewives who are so spoiled and lazy they won’t bend over to pick up their own tennis balls. Now there’s a man for whom three million buckaroos would be an answered prayer.”

  “You’re talking about Billy Burnside at your country club,” I said.

  “Indeed. Billy the Kid Burnside. Master of the backhand. A suntanned Lothario of the clay courts who will soon age out of the seduction biz if multiple melanomas don’t slay him first.”

  “What’s Burnside have to do with Sofia’s life insurance policy?”

  Calvert reached into the briefcase at his feet and pulled out a blue-backed document, which he slid across the table to me. I looked at Victoria and then Solomon. From their expressions, they didn’t know what it was. Calvert obviously liked being the quarterback and calling audibles that his teammates didn’t expect. I hoped it would come back to haunt him. I let the document sit there a moment. Calvert watched me with an enigmatic smile.

  “Why don’t you just tell me what it is,” I said. From Calvert’s preamble, I figured I knew, but I’d rather study Calvert while he told me.

  “Amended assignment of benefits,” Calvert said. “Two months ago, roughly four weeks before Sofia disappeared, she named Billy Burnside as beneficiary of her life insurance. Cut me out completely. As you have admitted, Mr. Lassiter, three million dollars can easily be a motive for murder. Certainly, more so for Bad Boy Billy than for me, don’t you think?”

  “When did you learn of the change of beneficiary?”

  “A couple days after she disappeared, I went through Sofi
a’s closet, found it hidden under some lacy black panties. Little more than thongs, so they really didn’t cover the document that well.”

  “There goes another of your theories, Jake,” Victoria said.

  “Not if your client is lying about when he found the document. What if he found it before Sofia disappeared? Now he’s got proof of the affair that he might only have suspected. Even worse, it’s proof she’s in love with Billy Burnside. That’s too much to take for a man of your client’s towering ego. He kills Sofia, knowing the life insurance could be a motive used against Burnside.”

  Unruffled, Victoria smiled. “Nice attempt to recover your own fumble. But that’s rank speculation without a shred of evidence.”

  “Gotta agree with my partner,” Solomon said. “If I were you, I’d go talk to Billy Burnside and shine that flashlight of yours up his ass.”

  “I plan to talk to him, though probably without the proctology. I’d love to know just what Sofia told him about your client.”

  Even though I was talking to Solomon, I kept my eyes on Calvert. He didn’t blink. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t smile. He didn’t frown. He didn’t look scared. With an air of indifference, he regarded me with those dark, bottomless eyes, as if I were no more or less interesting than the chair under my butt.

  -23-

  The Happiness Quotient

  Victoria Lord . . .

  After leaving Calvert’s house, Steve and Victoria drove in silence down Pinetree Drive, hung a left on Twenty-Third Street and a right on Collins Avenue.

  Finally, Victoria said, “Do you want to stop at the Raleigh for a drink?”

  “Nah.”

  “The Delano, then? You like the starkness of the white lobby.”

  Steve shook his head. “Feels like a mental ward to me.”

  Another moment of silence, and she said, “We haven’t registered yet.”

  “What?”

  “Our wedding registry. For gifts.”

  “Do people still do that?”

  “Of course they do.”

  “We already have a blender, Vic.”

  It could have been a joke, but Steve didn’t put any humor in his voice. Victoria knew he was in one of his moods and decided to let it be.