Lassiter 07 - Flesh and Bones (10 page)

"Nobody did, Loretta," Guy interrupted.

"Your daddy never touched that girl," she continued, now looking across the table at me. "Harry was a dear man, never once got out of line with me or anyone else I heard of. That girl's got you all fooled. I'll bet she planned to kill Harry and cooked up all that abuse talk after seeing some TV show."

"Why?" I asked.

Loretta looked at me. "Why what?"

The Nicaraguan woman was clearing away the soup bowls, while another served grilled yellowtail snapper covered with mango salsa. At the head of the table, Guy was digging into a platter of fried sweet plantains.

"Why would she want to kill her father?" I asked. "What was her motive?"

"Money, honey. Ain't it always?"

"What about the estate?" I asked, turning to Guy. "What did the will provide?"

"Fifty-fifty," he said. "Chrissy and I split everything."

"But if she's convicted of murder, she forfeits the inheritance," I said, munching a bite of tender white snapper. "Everything would go to you if she takes the fall."

"That's why she cooked up that cockamamy story," Loretta announced triumphantly. "You're supposed to get her off, and my bleeding-heart husband's helping you, though for the life of me, I don't know why. She killed his father, for goodness' sake. And if she gets away with it, Guy has to share the estate with her. It doesn't seem right."

"Actually, I don't even have to get her off," I said. "If Chrissy is convicted of manslaughter instead of murder, she'll get her share of the estate."

"Why?" Loretta demanded.

"It's the law," I said. "If someone pulls a Menendez, acing his parents to hurry up the inheritance, he'll go directly to jail, without collecting the two hundred bucks."

"Not in California," Dr. Schein said. "At least not without a circus."

"Send in the clowns," I said in partial agreement. "But manslaughter is different than murder. It's almost considered an accident."

Loretta scrunched up her face in a look of inebriated contemplation. "So, why help her at all?" She shot a look at her husband. "What kind of man would be so damned . . ."

She let it hang there, so I said, "Giving?"

"More like stupid!" Loretta gave a helpless shrug and looked toward her husband. "I'm sorry, darlin'. I love you to death. I just don't understand you. If it was me, I'd turn the first spadeful of dirt to bury her."

Guy placidly sliced his snapper and gave no indication of wanting to engage his wife in conversation. Married men have a surefire way of changing the subject: Simply ignore the wife. After a moment, Guy gestured toward me with his fork. "The food okay, Jake?"

"Great. The snapper's good, the salsa even better."

Guy smiled. "It's my own recipe."

"Quite a combination: sweet mangoes, mild onions—Vidalias, I'd guess—then the strong jalapeño."

"You got it."

"There's another taste I can't quite identify."

"Cilantro."

"Right. And a little olive oil?"

"Very good," Guy said. "You pay attention. That's a fine attribute in a man."

"And a lawyer," Lawrence Schein said.

I nodded and finished eating, damn proud to be a culinary sleuth. Now if I could only figure out these characters.

After the servants cleared the plates, they brought mango sorbet to clear the palate, followed by a small course of barbecued mango chicken, where I easily identified the brown sugar and vinegar but completely missed the chopped chipotle chiles in adobo sauce. Then came the mango-passionfruit crème brûlée, and finally espresso, which, best I could tell, did not have a trace of mango.

Loretta was right. Guy had mangoes on the brain.

And Guy was right about something. I
do
pay attention. I had been wondering the same thing as sweetly drunk Loretta. Just why was Guy Bernhardt helping a half sister he hadn't even known the first seventeen years of his life? Why help this spoiled, pampered favorite child when anything less than a murder conviction would cut his inheritance in half?

But I didn't agree with Loretta.

Guy Bernhardt wasn't stupid.

So why didn't I think he was giving either?

I was shoulder to shoulder with Dr. Schein in the back of a Jeep Wrangler. Guy Bernhardt sat in the passenger seat, and a uniformed security guard was driving. A second Wrangler was in front of us, and a third one was right behind. A guard with a shotgun sat in each of our two escort Jeeps . . . well, riding shotgun.

We were bouncing through ruts and drainage ditches between rows of gnarly mango trees, and Guy Bernhardt was lecturing on the fertilizers, yields per acre, and every other damned bit of minutia you probably didn't want to know about
Mangifera indica
, including the fact that the fruit is related to the cashew.

I was inhaling the musky aroma of the field, half listening to Guy, half wondering what the hell was going on with the odd couple of Guy Bernhardt and Larry Schein. I couldn't shake the feeling that Guy was more complicated than a good-ole-boy mango grower and Schein had more secrets than Freud's Wolf Man.

"You have a problem with varmints?" I asked, and Guy seemed puzzled for a moment, then saw I was looking at a 12-gauge mounted between the front seats.

"Oh, that? Yeah, the two-legged kind. It's to protect the water, which is more valuable than the fruit—hell, more valuable than oil. We've got our own well fields out here, and some of the neighboring farmers claim we're sucking their wells dry. Then the state cited us for supposedly lowering Little Bass Lake a foot or so."

We passed under a forty-foot irrigation tower that resembled an oil derrick, and I watched a rainbow form in the parabola of a giant stream of water that shot from the gun assembly at its peak. Mist drifted into the Jeep, cooling us.

"You do any environmental law, Jake?" Guy asked.

Seducing me with the hint of future business.

"Don't know the first thing about it."

"You oughta learn. It's a real lawyers' relief act, all those regulations. They want to fine us ten thousand dollars a day, can you believe that horse crap? I told them it's the drought, go sue God."

"What about your neighbors?"

"Hell, when their wells went dry, I sold them water. Got a special act through the legislature—Pop had some clout up in Tallahassee—so they treated us like a mini-utility. Some of the locals, the lime and avocado growers, didn't like my price and didn't like me, so the bastards complained to the state, to the Department of Environmental Resources Management, to the Army Corps of Engineers, to their congressmen, who wouldn't know a well field from . . ."

"A hole in the ground," I helped out.

"Yeah. So I said, screw you. No more water for you at any price, and we'll pump as much as the Water Management District lets us, and maybe a little more." He laughed, and we crossed a wooden bridge into a different section of the field. "Now we have some hardcases who sneak out here at night and cut our irrigation pipes."

After about fifteen minutes, we turned onto a road of crushed seashells and into the tree farm, where palms of a dozen different varieties were growing from seed. Here, too, irrigation towers shot long graceful arcs into the air, which misted into kaleidoscopes of color.

"Pop loved to grow things," Guy said. "Jake, you ought to come up to Palm Beach sometime, see Pop's work at the house on A1A. Shouldn't he, Larry?"

Next to me, Dr. Schein's ball cap nodded in assent.

"Flowering trees were Pop's favorites. Jacaranda, mahogany, pigeon plum, wild tamarind. Planted some for old man Castleberry, kept planting them after he owned the place. Liked to dig the holes himself, get his hands dirty."

"Like father, like son," Dr. Schein said, taking off his cap and running a hand over his gleaming scalp.

"It's true," Guy said, laughing. "The mango doesn't fall far from the tree."

"I'd like to see the place someday," I allowed.

"Anytime," Guy said, fiddling with his gold earring.

It seemed out of place on him, this husky son of a farmer. I don't wear an earring, carry a purse, or say "ciao," so men with pierced ears seem as out of place to me as a nun shooting the bird.

The Jeeps crossed a narrow irrigation stream where water rippled through a shallow gully. Guy said something in Spanish to the driver, and I turned to Schein. "You're pretty close to the family, aren't you?"

"Oh, I've been making house calls—to all their houses—for twenty years. I'm more of a friend than a doctor."

To Guy Bernhardt, he meant. To Chrissy, he was still a doctor, I figured. And despite Guy's apparent attempts to help Chrissy, I couldn't help but wonder which was stronger, Schein's relationship with his patient or that with his friend.

"I need to ask both of you some questions about Chrissy's case."

"Shoot," Guy said. Then he laughed. "No pun intended."

I sat there a moment, trying to keep from looking startled. A trial lawyer never wants to appear surprised, in or out of court. The man's father had been shot dead two weeks ago, and he was making a little joke. Okay, we all react to loss differently, but it just struck me as a discordant note.

Turning to the doctor, I said, "The tape recorder you use on your office sessions, does it take batteries?"

"Well, it can. But I use the jack to a wall outlet, or else I'd be changing batteries twice a week."

"Uh-huh. There seemed to be a gap on the tape of the hypnotic regression session when Chrissy remembered the abuse."

"A gap?" Sounding innocent enough. "I could have run out of tape and inserted a new one."

"No. The tape was about two thirds of the way through. You had just asked Chrissy about her father, and the tape went dead. Then it picked up again, but of course I can't tell how long it was off."

The doctor shrugged. "Sometimes my secretary buzzes me if there's an emergency call I have to take, and I'll hit the Stop button. Or maybe I had to sign for a package. Who knows?"

Not me, that's for sure. I hadn't heard a secretary buzzing or a UPS driver toting packages into the room. All I'd heard was the
click
, and next thing I knew, Chrissy was recovering lost memories.

"Then on the last tape, June fourteenth, she was going to tell you something, some decision she made, but you turned off the recorder."

"No. I wouldn't do that. Did you look at my office notes of the session?"

"Yeah. They just say Chrissy's agitated and anxious. She's to continue medication and see you on the seventeenth."

"But on the night of the sixteenth . . ." he said, and he didn't have to finish.

"Do you have any idea how long Chrissy was in your office on June fourteenth?"

"Not offhand."

"But your appointment book would tell us."

"Yes. I mean, it could. But if there wasn't an appointment right after hers, it might appear she was there longer than she was."

"Uh-huh. How long was she usually there?"

"It varied. The hypnosis sessions could last two or three hours, some even longer."

"Three hours," I repeated.

The team's orthopedic surgeon hadn't taken that long rebuilding my knee. Five days a week. Chrissy wasn't a patient; she was a career.

"Hey, Jake, what's the big deal?" Guy Bernhardt broke in. "If it took an hour or a year, Chrissy came up with it. I didn't want to accept it, but Larry says that Sis is telling the truth, so I have to live with the knowledge that my old man was a miserable letch, and you can make hay with it in court."

"Yeah, maybe. Let me ask you something, Guy. In court the other day, you mentioned an insanity plea. But our defense is lack of intent due to posttraumatic stress disorder, and that's not insanity."

We passed over another road and into a stand of tropical fruit trees. Surinam cherry, carambola, and banana. The air was sweet with ripening fruit.

"I was just giving you another option," Guy Bernhardt said. "Larry and I talked about insanity as another way to go."

Great, the inmates were running the asylum. And trying to send my client there.

"Thanks for the help," I said evenly.

"According to Larry, you weren't jumping for joy over the defense he handed you."

He handed me? Funny, that was the same term Schein had used the other day. These guys did talk a lot. Now what were they handing me? Manure for the mangoes?

The doctor cleared his throat. "We're not trying to interfere. You're the lawyer. We're just members of your team."

"You're the captain," Guy Bernhardt said.

They seemed so sincere. Why couldn't I just take what they were offering? Why did my Dream Team have nightmare written all over it?

"You don't do much forensic work, do you, Doctor?" I asked.

"No. I have a private practice, and thankfully, my patients don't often end up in court. A divorce once in a while, but nothing like this."

"Then let me clue you in, so you can give me informed advice, teammate to teammate. I filed a written not-guilty plea yesterday. If we're going to rely on insanity, I have two weeks to notify the state. Then the judge will appoint three psychiatrists to examine Chrissy. I have no control over who the judge picks or what they'll say at trial. So even if you're willing to venture an opinion that Chrissy was insane at the time of the shooting— which I've yet to hear you say—you might be outvoted three to one."

"Oh, we wouldn't want that, would we?" Schein asked rhetorically.

"Hell, no," Guy said. "Don't let any other shrinks go poking around."

Why not? I wondered. What might they find?

"I won't, at least not any the state can call to testify," I said. "I was thinking about hiring my own, though, as backup."

"Is that necessary?" Schein said. "I mean, I'm the treating physician. I don't know what anyone could add who's just coming in cold."