Free Running from the Law by Lisa Scottoline Page A

added.
    Mack laughed. “We’re on a roll with this, Rita. I even hired a public relations firm to manage it. It’s a gold mine.”
    Wait a minute. The unsayable needed saying. “But what if Fiske really is the killer?”
    They both looked at me blankly. “So what?” Tobin said, and Mack nodded.
    I was dumbfounded. “It cuts both ways, boys. It could be bad publicity.”
    Mack laughed. “Ain’t no such thing, kid.”
    “I second that emotion,” Tobin said.
    I looked at them and realized that as long as lawyers like this were around, I would always be second-best.
    And I’d never even been to Cincinnati.

10
     
    T he tiny, cluttered kitchenette in back of the butcher shop filled with the smell of cholesterol as my father shook a crackling pan of homemade sausage. He was wearing his I’M ITALIAN AND YOU’RE NOT apron, but I couldn’t read the front. All I could see was his thick back, which ended in a white ribbon tied over baggy white pants. The silent treatment again.
    “So, Dad, explain this to me. You’re pissed when I decide to represent the judge, then you’re pissed when I want out? What is it? My aftershave?”
    LeVonne, who had been rocking his fork by pressing on the tines, laughed softly. He ate with my father every morning at this ancient white drop-leaf, where they both pretended that LeVonne had eaten already and was just keeping my father company.
    “You laughin’, Professor?” my father said, without turning around. “I hope not, because it’s not funny. Everything’s a big joke with her.”
    “Who, me? Aren’t you going to call me Miss Fresh?”
    The only response was the sausage’s. It sputtered, releasing an aromatic smoke of olive oil, fresh garlic, and green pepper.
    “Come on, Dad, I like it when you call me Miss Fresh. Then I know it’s you and not some Vito impersonator.” I turned to LeVonne. “LeVonne, what do you think? Is it really him? It must be, who else would wear that apron?”
    LeVonne’s smooth lips tightened to hold back his smile. He looked fresh this morning in an oversized T-shirt with a faded picture of Kriss Kross on it. A gentle crease between the twins told me the shirt had been ironed. I wondered who had ironed it, for his parents were long gone and it was all his grandmother could do to get him to my father’s. It occurred to me there was a lot I didn’t know about LeVonne.
    “LeVonne, will you talk to me at least? What grade are you in now? Tenth?”
    He nodded and looked down at his heavy white plate. Being totally empty, the plate couldn’t have held his interest for more than a moment, but he stared at it, saying nothing, while the sausage sizzled along with my father.
    “You like school, LeVonne?”
    He shrugged.
    “Are you going to take a language next year?”
    He shook his head.
    I’m usually a better conversationalist than this. “LeVonne, I’ve been meaning to tell you I like your … uh, what do you call that, a beard? Are you growing a beard?”
    He touched his chin, self-conscious.
    “Do you call it a beard? Or what?” Just to see if he’d talk.
    “S’whatever,” LeVonne said.
    “It’s a goatee,” snapped my father. “A beard goes all the way around.”
    Thanks, Dad. “Well, whatever it’s called, I like it.”
    LeVonne hung his head even farther, until his chin was practically buried between Kriss Kross’s steam-ironed, backward baseball caps.
    “I like it, too,” my father said.
    “I said it first, Pop. So that makes me a nicer person than you.”
    “Hmph.” He jiggled the pan.
    “In fact, I’m such a good person that when I have a guest to breakfast I do not turn my back on them until I get my own way.” The sausage popped loudly. “Hear that, Dad? The meat gods agree.”
    LeVonne laughed, almost a child’s giggle. He covered his mouth but the giggle persisted. My father pivoted and speared the air between us with the tines of the cooking fork. “It’s not my own way, it’s the right