"But that's not the way it is."

"Exactly. We're gladiators, you and I. We go into an arena where there's a winner and a loser."

"I just sharpen the sword of the state attorney. He's the gladiator."

"Either way, blood will be shed. The strong will win. Not necessarily the one with the just cause or pure heart."

"And you're not about to change the system. Is that your point?"

"Not tonight. I'm too damn tired."

"Then good luck, Jake. And vaya con Dios. To you and your client."

"That's the other thing, George. Solomon didn't hire me to do justice. He hired me to win."

-19-.

The Other B-Girl Five minutes after the cops dropped me at my car, I headed north on Alton Road, pulling into an all-night gas station. Traffic in the southbound lane was gridlocked all the way from Fifth Street to Lincoln Road, thanks to the DUI checkpoint on the MacArthur Causeway and the construction on Alton. The city had torn up the street to install a water drainage system. It was about time. When a full moon coincides with high tide, the stores haul out the sandbags, and you could surf down the street. Global warming and rising seas are causing Miami Beach-equal parts mangrove, barrier island, sandbar, and man-made fill-to sink into the ocean.

Horns were blaring and drivers-drunk and sober-were pissed off. Some stood outside their cars, yelling at each other or just cursing at nothing in particular.

I parked next to the air hose machine and kept the car running, just for the AC. I grabbed my cell from the glove compartment and called the number on the Club Anastasia napkin.

"Allo?"

"It's Lassiter. Can you talk?"

"Da."

"You're the blonde, right?"

"Elena Turcina. Friend of Nadia."

"You know where she is, don't you?"

"Da. She is a good person. Sweet. Maybe too-what is the word?-naive."

"Will you tell me where she is?"

"How do I know I can trust you?"

"I have a feeling she's in big trouble with the federal government."

"She told me that, yes."

"I know people in the US Attorney's office. I can help."

That was at least half true. I knew people. But I left out the part that the US Attorney, his assistants, and his investigators pretty much hated me. The FBI and US Marshals Service weren't crazy about me, either. That's what happens when you win a case or two in federal court. The feds are zealots, and they're not happy winning 97 percent of their trials. So, if you happen to nail them with an illegal search and seizure and get the evidence suppressed, they treat you like a public enemy. I know one guy in the Justice Department who, if he could, would order a drone strike on my little coral rock house just as I walked outside to get the morning paper.

Sure, I would help Nadia, if I could. But what I really wanted was for her to help Solomon.

"I will meet you in one hour," Elena said.

"Where?"

"Not on the Beach. Do you know the Russian Orthodox Church?"

I'd been thinking an all-night diner, but church was fine.

"I can find it."

"Saint Vladimir's. Just off Flagler Street. There we can talk."

"One hour," I said. "I'll be there."

Yes! This was the best news since I'd agreed to represent Solomon. Nadia held the key to his acquittal. Elena had access to the key. I was going to church and maybe I'd even say a little prayer and a "thank you" to the Big Guy.

I pulled out of the gas station and headed north on Alton. Smart guys stuck on the other side of the street were pulling U-turns and heading for the Venetian Causeway, which crosses several man-made islands on the way to the mainland. The Venetian is pocked with dangerous potholes, but when it's not closed for repairs, it will bring you out on Fifteenth Street next to what used to be the Miami Herald. That bayside building-like so much in Miami-has recently been torn down. The newspaper, to the extent it continues to exist, is now located somewhere on the edge of the Everglades.

Problem was, the backup on the MacArthur caused the Venetian to be clogged, too, so I headed farther north on Alton, passing the golf course and hanging a left onto the Julia Tuttle Causeway. I noticed a gray Range Rover behind me. There'd been one two pumps over at the gas station. It probably meant nothing-a lot of Range Rovers in Miami-but I kept an eye on my rearview mirror.

Traffic was blessedly clear on the Julia Tuttle. Sailing over Biscayne Bay, I dialed a number on my cell that I now knew by heart. I was calling Victoria Lord.

-20-.

Lassiter, Solomon & Lord Victoria simply could not fall asleep.

She'd been lying there all night. Fearful. For Jake.

He was out there somewhere in the dark, trying to scam the Bar girls, who were maybe the best scammers on the planet. Likely, he would come up empty. Or he could somehow make things worse. She was worried about the case but even more worried about Jake. What would happen to him if he got inside Club Anastasia and started shooting off his big mouth?

Jake had a ton of confidence in himself, but she wondered if he fully appreciated just how dangerous Russian mobsters were. Obviously, Steve hadn't.

I was right when I said the two of them didn't know how alike they are.

Maybe when this was over, if it ended well, the three of them could hang out together. Get grilled snapper sandwiches at Scotty's Landing on the bay before they tore the old fish joint down to build another shopping center. Maybe even team up to try a case together, if it was big enough and the money wasn't too thin. Wouldn't that be something?

Lassiter, Solomon & Lord.

Wouldn't look bad on a shingle, either. Steve would have to get used to second billing, but Jake had seniority.

With those thoughts, she drifted off to sleep. Dreaming. A sweet, sexy dream. A Caribbean island, hotel room on the beach, windows open, breeze swirling diaphanous curtains across the bed. Locked in passionate, rhythmic lovemaking with Steve. Her breaths coming faster, harder, feeling that hot stirring below.

The ringing phone jolted her awake with a startling revelation.

The dream!

It wasn't Steve. It was Jake.

Lassiter! Oh God.

Well, it meant nothing, she told herself. Just the brain playing nighttime tricks.

The LED lights on the night stand clock read 4:12 a.m.

The phone was still ringing. When she finally answered, she heard Lassiter's voice, a bit slurred, "Howdy, pardner."

"Jake, where are you? What's happened?"

"I'm on the Tuttle, headed toward the mainland. Do you know how beautiful the city looks at night?"

"Jesus, have you been drinking?"

"All those buildings on the bay, the lights twinkling like Christmas trees. And the downtown office skyscrapers. I wouldn't want to work there, but there's something so peaceful at night."

"How much have you been drinking?"

"There's no traffic. I'll be at your place in fifteen minutes."

"Why?"

"Are you dressed?"

"It's four in the morning! I'm in my Victoria's Secrets."

"Make that ten minutes."

"C'mon, Jake. What's happened?"

"I need a woman."

"Go home!"

"No, not for that. Well, for that, too. But I need help with one of the B-girls, and you've got that feminine thing."

"What thing?"

"You know. That empathy shit."

"And you have such a way with words."

"Elena. That's the B-girl. She doesn't entirely trust me, so we'll tag team her. Good cop, bad cop. You're the good cop, by the way."

"No kidding."

"Okay, I'm almost at the I-95 flyover, and I'm cruising. I love the night, don't you?"

"I can't wait to hear about yours."

"Gotta warn you, I don't look tip-top."

"Why? What happened?"

"When I broke this guy's nose, his blood spurted all over my suit. Shirt, too. My shoulder's throbbing, both forearms ache, my knuckles are flaring up, and I might have tweaked an ankle rolling down a set of stairs."

"Oh, Jesus. Should you go to the hospital?"

"No way! I never felt better. I can sense it when a case turns, Victoria. I can feel it. The blood pumps a little faster and there's a buzz in the air."

Must have been a hell of a night, she thought. Something had lit a fire under Lassiter. She remembered their first phone call when he was drowning in angst about all the injustice and all the losing. Now, at four o'clock in the morning, he was invigorated.

"Gotta get dressed now, Jake."

"Say, that Victoria's Secret you're wearing. We talking a baby doll or teddy, maybe something see-through?"

"I'll have coffee brewing, Jake."

-21-.

Saint Vladimir When I headed south on I-95, I could no longer see the gray Range Rover in the rearview mirror, so I put it out of my mind. A few minutes later, Victoria met me at the front door of her house-the Solomon-Lord house-a cup of black coffee in her hand. She was wearing jeans, rope sandals, and a denim shirt tied at the waist, exposing just a flash of bare, flat midriff.

She took one look at me and nearly fainted. "Oh, my God, Jake."

"You ought to see the other guy. Three guys, actually. Plus two women, which explains the scratches on my face."