Solomon vs. Lord

by Paul Levine

“I fudged a little. I was afraid your heart wouldn't be in it if you thought she was a killer.”

  “That's so insulting. I'm a professional.”

  Steve leaned back, his eyes closed. On the radio, Pat Benatar was singing about crimes of passion. “Anyway, back then, she was lying, but only about being faithful. That's what screwed up my polygraph, made me think she was lying about the murder.”

  “But like you said in the house, if she lied about one thing . . .”

  “You gotta trust me on this. She didn't do it.”

  “There's no such thing as a human polygraph.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Call it a gut instinct. My gut tells me she doesn't have it in her.”

  “You can't make decisions like this based on your gut.”

  “That's how I make all the big ones,” Steve said. “You ought to try it sometime.”

  Twenty-eight

  A DEEP, DARK SEA

  “Bigby doesn't mind us going out?” Steve asked.

  “You think this was a date?” Victoria said.

  “We had dinner.”

  “A working dinner.”

  “Some guys wouldn't want their fiancées even doing that.”

  “Bruce isn't the jealous type. And he knows I'd never do anything stupid.”

  Steve didn't like the way that sounded. Like the dumbest thing in the world would be falling for him. He pulled the old Eldo into his driveway, next to Victoria's car. “You want to come in for a drink?”

  She shook her head. “I'm bushed.”

  As they got out of the Eldo, he said: “With Bobby at Teresa's, we've got the place to ourselves.”

  She flashed her prosecutorial look. “Are you putting the moves on me, Solomon?”

  “Me? No. Absolutely not. I just thought . . .”

  In a neighbor's tree, a mockingbird was singing an aria. What was it Bobby had told him about the mockers? Oh, yeah, only the bachelors sing at night. Looking for a mate from sundown until dawn. A song came into Steve's head: Jimmy Buffet's “Why Don't We Get Drunk and Screw.”

  “Just what did you think, Solomon?”

  He wasn't sure. He knew she wasn't going to jump into his arms. In the office, she'd told him with finality, “Chapter closed.” The first kiss was a last kiss. So what the hell was he doing? In the tree, the mockingbird began trilling an octave higher. Was the bachelor bird laughing?

  “What's that?” she said, looking past him toward the house.

  “What?”

  “Did you leave your door open?”

  He walked along the chipped flagstones toward the house. The top hinge was smashed; the door was open and cockeyed.

  “Oh, shit.” He gingerly pulled at the door, but the bottom scraped the flagstone step and stuck.

  “Don't go in.” Victoria was reaching into her purse for a cell phone. “I'll call the police.”

  “Whoever did this is long gone. I just hope they didn't get my autographed Barry Bonds ball.”

  He jiggled the door. The bottom screeched and moved an inch. He thought he heard something—the squeak of rubber soles on tile—and a second later, the door flew off the remaining hinge, striking him across his forehead and the bridge of his nose. A searing pain flashed behind his eyes. As the door fell on top of him, he was vaguely aware of a figure running out of the house, past him.

  He heard Victoria yell: “Hey!”

  He heard the pounding of shoes on pavement.

  He heard boulders bouncing off each other inside his skull.

  A moment later, he was on his feet, wobbling in the direction of an invisible man. In the darkness, all Steve could see were the fluorescent stripes of the man's running shoes. The shoes turned the corner at Solana Road and headed south toward Poinciana. Steve followed.

  “Steve! No, don't!” Victoria was shouting at him. The sounds echoed: he heard every word twice.

  Steve was aware that he was not running in a straight line. He thought he was seeing bright flashes, realized they were thin beams of moonlight speckling the street through a canopy of willow trees. The air smelled of jasmine, and in a few moments, Steve began feeling stronger. The guy was not a great runner, or he would have pulled away by now. By the time Steve reached Malaga, he could see the guy was wearing a dark warm-up suit, and there was something covering his head. What the hell was it?

  Somewhere in the distance, a police siren wailed. Steve was thirty yards behind when they crossed LeJeune, dodging between cars. Horns blared. His head throbbed, but his legs had regained their balance, and his lungs felt strong. It was only a matter of time.

  “Hey, asshole!” Steve called out. “You can't outrun me.”

  No response.

  They had crossed from Miami into Coral Gables and were on Gerona, in an expensive neighborhood of Mediterranean homes. Not exactly Steve's 'hood. They were headed for a dead end, the Gables Waterway just behind the homes on Riviera. If the guy knew where he was, he'd turn on Riviera. If not, he'd find himself with a channel to swim across.

  “You got no chance, shithead!” Steve yelled out.

  Again, no response, but now Steve was close enough to see that the guy wore a ski mask. He could hear the man's breathing. “You're dying up there, asshole!”

  The man crossed Riviera and hopped the curb, running through the front yard of a sprawling Spanish-style house. He disappeared into a hibiscus hedge.

  He doesn't know where he is. He's gonna be trapped at the water.

  Steve followed.

  Three steps into the darkened yard, he felt his foot catch on something. He flew forward, sliding face-first into the hibiscus hedge.

  Dammit, a sprinkler head.

  He scrambled to his feet, ducked alongside the house, and emerged in the backyard. Where was the guy?

  Spotlights illuminated the tiled patio and cast a yellow glow on the dark water of the channel. A wooden dock extended from a concrete seawall. A thirty-foot sailboat was tied up at the dock. A fiberglass kayak lay near the stern of the sailboat.

  But no guy in bright, shiny sneakers dressed for the ski slopes.

  In the waterway, a Boston Whaler churned toward the bay. A man in a ball cap was at the wheel.

  “Hey, you see anyone out here?” Steve yelled.

  “Hoping to see some snapper,” the man called back.

  At the dock, the Whaler's wake nudged at the sailboat, whose lines strained against the cleats on the dock. Steve studied the boat, partially lit by the spots. The guy could have climbed into the cockpit. He could be hiding there right now.

  Steve reached into the kayak and picked up a paddle. Molded plastic, not much heft. He would have preferred a Louisville Slugger, smash the guy with an uppercut as if swinging for the fences. Wielding the paddle, he walked along the dock, the old wooden planks groaning beneath his feet. Somewhere across the waterway, a dog yipped. Unseen insects cricked and clacked and played their night music.

  Just who the hell was this guy, anyway? Steve didn't think it was your friendly neighborhood burglar. But he had a suspect. Just hours earlier, he'd told Manko a videotape would place him at the murder scene. Steve had been winging it. He didn't think Manko and Katrina had killed Barksdale. And he doubted anyone could turn the gray, shadowy video into a gotcha piece of evidence. Now Steve wondered if his human polygraph had blown a fuse.

  Manko would only want the tape if he was guilty.

  But why, Steve wondered, would Manko break into his home? Why not the office? Weirder still, Steve had taken the tape home to watch on a better VCR. But Manko couldn't have known that. It was all too confusing for Steve to decipher, especially with his head feeling like a bucket of wet cement.

  Now, on the dock, with the water gently lapping against boat hull, Steve tried to see the running figure in his mind's eye. Was this guy as big as Manko? Chasing a man in the dark doesn't give you much chance for a description. Hell, people in broad daylight have a hard time describing their attackers.

  With one hand on the stern rail and
the paddle in the other hand, he squinted into the darkened cockpit.

  “You in there, Manko?”

  Nothing.

  “C'mon out. Let's talk this over.”

  Still nothing.

  Then the faintest sensation of a plank yielding beneath his feet. Steve wheeled around, saw the glint of metal and ducked. Something whooshed over his head. The man in the ski mask was swinging a heavy chrome winch handle that nearly parted Steve's hair. The momentum of the swing threw the man off balance, and he stutter-stepped. Steve pivoted his hips and swung the paddle, aiming for the man's head, but from a crouch, he couldn't get the angle. The paddle caught the man's shoulder, knocking him back but not bringing him down.

  “Fucker,” the man breathed. He regained his footing and feinted with the winch handle.

  Steve brought up the paddle to block the swing that never came. The man laughed, feinted twice more, then swung at Steve's face. Steve blocked the handle with the paddle. Ouch. He'd jammed his wrist as if he'd broken his bat against a split-fingered fastball. The paddle flew from his hand.

  Shit.

  “I owe you, fucker,” the man said, the winch handle cocked in his right hand.

  “Why don't you take off your mask and we'll resolve this amicably,” Steve said, as if they were in mediation on an insurance claim.

  “Fuck you, fucker.”

  Fuck you, fucker? With such a limited vocabulary, no wonder the guy turned to crime.

  The man took a step toward Steve, who backpedaled. One foot slipped off the dock and dangled in space. His arms flailing, trying to regain his balance, he fell backward. He heard glass shatter as his head smashed the stern light of the sailboat, and he tumbled into the black water. He was sure he must have made a splash, but strangely, he never heard the sound and never felt himself go under.

  For a moment, all went black, and Steve wondered: If I'm unconscious, how can I be conscious of it?

  Sinking into the deep channel, enveloped by the cool water, he was in that grayish state between day and night, consciousness and unconsciousness. Woozy but still coherent enough to be in fear.

  Fear of drowning.

  Fear of alligators.

  Fear that the guy would leap into the water and bash in his skull.

  Steve opened his eyes and was surprised to find everything was still black.

  Of course it's black. I'm at the bottom of a deep, dark sea.

  He was suddenly aware of wanting to take a breath. Wanting it more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life. He felt his feet touch bottom, flexed his knees, and shot upward.

  It took an impossibly long time to break the surface. When he finally felt the cool air strike his head, he sucked in a long, sweet breath, then swam to a ladder at the dock. Holding on to a barnacle-encrusted rung, he paused a moment, listening. He didn't want to stick his head above the dock and have his brains splattered.

  Silence.

  He climbed one rung. Waited. Climbed another.

  Peeked his head over the planks of the dock. No one was there.

  No one calling him “fucker.”

  Then a glass door slid open at the rear of the house and a man yelled: “Hey, there's no swimming out here, buddy.”

  IN THE CIRCUIT COURT OF THE ELEVENTH JUDICIAL CIRCUIT IN AND FOR

  MIAMI-DADE COUNTY, FLORIDA

  JUVENILE DIVISION

  In re: R.A.S.,

  A minor child Case No. 05–09375 (Dependency)

  CHILD PROTECTION REPORT

  1. This report is made in accordance with Chapter 39 of the Florida Statutes, by Doris Kranchick, MD, duly appointed by the Division of Family Services.

  2. R.A.S., an eleven-year-old male, is a developmentally challenged child who manifests traits of both autism and profound savant syndrome. The child is in need of specialized testing, treatment, therapy, and an individually tailored educational program.

  3. R.A.S. is currently in the temporary custody of his uncle, Stephen Solomon, who has failed to reveal the precise circumstances under which R.A.S. came to reside with him.

  4. The boy's mother, Janice Solomon, was recently released from state custody, having been convicted of multiple drug and theft offenses. The identity and whereabouts of the boy's biological father are unknown.

  5. Stephen Solomon has petitioned the court for long-term licensed custody of the minor child, pursuant to Section 39.623. The undersigned finds that:

  (A) The homeschooling provided by Mr. Solomon consists mainly of unsupervised reading, including criminal court files and autopsy reports unsuitable for a child.

  (B) Mr. Solomon has denied the undersigned an opportunity to perform medical tests on the child, including repetitive transcranial magnetic stimulation (RTMS). He further has prevented the child from taking part in therapy programs of the Pilot Autism Project at Rockland State Hospital.

  (C) Mr. Solomon maintains a professional life that can best be described as chaotic. An attorney, he has been jailed for contempt of court on numerous occasions and has earned a reputation for bizarre behavior in the courtroom. Additionally, although he demonstrates obvious affection for R.A.S., Mr. Solomon is ill-equipped to serve as custodian for a child of such special needs.

  RECOMMENDATION

  The undersigned recommends that Stephen Solomon's petition for custody be denied and that R.A.S. be adjudged a ward of the state and placed in a licensed shelter with mandatory testing and treatment under the auspices of the Division of Family Services.

  Respectfully submitted,

  Doris Kranchick, MD

  Twenty-nine

  ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE

  “What bullshit! What total bullshit!”

  Clutching a copy of Kranchick's report in one hand, an ice bag pressed to his temple with the other, Steve paced his office. Tie at half-mast, face flushed, a doorknob-size lump on his forehead. Purplish bruises circled his eyes. He looked like an angry raccoon. Victoria sat at her desk, watching and worrying. Bobby crouched cross-legged in a chair, his head buried in a book.

  “Just wait till I get Kranchick in court,” Steve said.

  “I feel terrible,” Victoria said. “Maybe if I hadn't run from the table—”

  “Nothing to do with it. She likes you. She says my life's ‘chaotic.' Unless you're in a coma, whose life isn't?”

  “Maybe you should calm down before you start planning trial strategy.”

  “I'm calm!”

  “Shouldn't we talk about the burglary? Do you really think it was Manko?”

  He tossed the ice bag onto his desk. “Who else would it be?”

  They'd been over this for hours last night after a soggy and bruised Steve had squished back to the house. The intruder had been in the study. Steve's briefcase had been moved, but nothing was taken from the house. The security video was in the VCR, just where he'd left it. What had the burglar been after? So far, nothing made sense. What good would it do to steal the tape when Pincher had a copy?

  “Are you going to confront Manko?” she asked.

  “Not without proof.”

  “Yesterday you accused him of murder even though you thought he was innocent, but today you won't accuse him of a burglary you think he committed?”

  “Let's see what happens when the forensics guy goes over the tape.” A fly buzzed into the office from the window above the Dumpster, and Steve swung at it with the report. Strike one. He opened the report again and read aloud: “‘A reputation for bizarre behavior in the courtroom.' Kranchick's hated me from day one.”

  “Because you wouldn't do her,” Bobby said, without looking up from his book. “You wouldn't stick your screwdriver in her tool shed.”

  “Bobby, that's really inappropriate,” Victoria said.

  “Yeah, stow that shit,” Steve said.

  “No guy will ride her tunnel of love,” Bobby said. “I'm gonna tell the judge that.”

  “The hell you are,” Steve said.

  “Dive for a pearl in her bearded clam.”

&
nbsp; “Bobby, chill!”

  “Chomp her carpet burger.”

  “Cut it out, kiddo. And what's that you're reading?”

  Holding up a tattered book, Bobby spoke in perfect French: “La Pendaison, la Strangulation, la Suffocation, la Submersion.”

  “If that's porno, get rid of it.”

  “Coroner's textbook from the nineteenth century,” Bobby said.

  “Put it away. It's not suitable for a child.”

  “Yes it is.”

  “Kranchick wouldn't agree. You want her to take you away?”

  “No!” Bobby yelled, then fell into a chant, “No, no, no, no, no, no, no . . .”

  “Aw, jeez, I'm sorry.”

  The boy was rocking in his chair. Victoria remembered that first night at Steve's house. Bobby had blasted her with the squirt gun, then dashed inside, where he buried himself in the sofa and swayed back and forth, locked into some dark cellar of his mind.

  “No, no, no, no, no, no . . .”

  The boy was a wreck, she thought. If he acted this way in court, Steve wouldn't have a chance. “Bobby, do you want to play the anagram game?” she asked. Anything to calm him down.

  “No, no, no, no, no, no . . .”

  Steve walked over to Bobby and tousled his hair. The boy twisted his head so the palm of his uncle's hand caressed his cheek. After a moment Bobby rubbed his face against Steve's hand like a contented kitten. Then he picked up the old French coroner's book and, just like that, started calmly reading again.

  Steve resumed pacing, swinging the rolled-up report at an imaginary baseball or an imaginary Kranchick, Victoria didn't know which. She was worried about both Solomon boys. Bobby was regressing, and Steve was far too hair-trigger. Bobby's case required logic and reason, strategy and finesse, but Steve was planning an artillery attack.