The phone clicked dead, and Victoria's hopes faded under the glare of the midday sun.

-36-.

Tomahawk Steak for Two I found Manuel Dominguez in the library room with its stained glass windows at The Forge on Arthur Godfrey Road. A few years ago, Shareef Malnik, the owner, gave the fancy old joint a major face-lift. It is still opulent, ornate, and a tad over-the-top. There are still gilt-framed mirrors and exposed brick. But the old mahogany has been replaced with blond woods. There are modern crystal chandeliers, and the whole place is lighter, brighter, and hipper.

Dominguez, in full dress army uniform bedecked with medals and ribbons, was dining with his lady, the presumably pregnant Rose Marie. At their table was a paunchy middle-aged man who wore a madras sport coat and a slippery jet-black toupee.

"Hey, Sarge!" I called out.

Dominguez looked up and, without blinking, greeted me. "Lieutenant Lassiter."

I took the fourth seat at the table without being invited. A gigantic steak covered a plate in front of Dominguez. It had to be the dry-aged prime tomahawk, intended for two. Rose Marie had her own entree, a fish dish-I'd guess grouper-covered with bacon in a creamy broth. A black truffle mac and cheese potpie and a plate of asparagus made up the sides. Mr. Madras Jacket didn't seem to be eating.

"Mr. Torkelson, say hello to Lieutenant Lassiter, my CO in Desert Storm," Dominguez said. "Lieutenant, Mr. Torkelson is a stockbroker from Toledo."

"Proud to meet you, sir," Torkelson the Toupee said.

"Scram," I said.

"I beg your pardon."

Dominguez forced a smile. "Lieutenant's got PTSD," he whispered.

"Sarge, is that a gold trident on your lapel?" I asked. "You a Navy SEAL now, too?"

Dominguez opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

"Hello, Rose Marie," I said. "You look radiant."

"Thank you, Jake. Would you join us for dinner?"

"Depends who's paying." I turned to Torkelson. "Are you still here?"

He eased his chair backward and said, "Perhaps I should join my wife at the bar. Pleased to meet you, Sergeant. Thanks for your service. You, too, Lieutenant."

"Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker," I said in my best Bruce Willis.

He retreated hastily, his toupee sliding a bit to starboard.

"Jeez, Jake. What are you doing?" Dominguez fidgeted in his chair, and his medals jiggled. "He hadn't picked up the check yet."

"Manuel, tell me everything you know about Benny the Jeweler."

"Benny? Ah, jeez. I can't do that."

I pulled out my cell phone, scrolled to the camera function, and took a picture of him.

"Hey, what's that for?" he said.

"I'm gonna e-mail it to a very dear friend of mine. Deborah Scolino. Assistant US Attorney."

"Yeah?"

"Those ribbons and medals. You're violating the Stolen Valor Act."

"Bull! I Googled it, Jake. Supreme Court struck down the law. Violates free speech. I know my rights."

"Well guess what, smart guy? Congress reenacted it, and President Obama signed it. Narrower law. Only applies when the defendant claims the honors to get a fraudulent benefit." I pointed at his plate. "That steak is about forty ounces of benefit, Manuel."

"You wouldn't rat me out. We're pals."

I started punching a phone number into my cell. It wasn't Deborah Scolino's. It was a take-out pizza place in Wynwood, but Dominguez didn't know that.

"Hold on, Jake." He sighed and said, "What do you want to know?"

"His full name, for one thing. His address. And every word he's ever said to you."

While Dominguez talked, I sawed off little pieces of his tomahawk steak. I didn't order anything because I would doubtless be picking up the tab. Within fifteen minutes I had everything I needed, including about eight ounces of medium-rare beef.

Benny the Jeweler was Benjamin Cohen. He had a retail operation in the Seybold Arcade downtown, an old building with several dozen jewelry shops. He ran a wholesale diamond business in the warehouse district near the airport. And he had a splendid waterfront home on Leucadendra in Gables Estates. Lately, the house had been filled with people. Private investigators a few stripes higher than Dominguez. Out-of-town lawyers. Security guards. Warehouse workers. Benny was scared. His employees were being summoned to a federal grand jury. FBI agents were trying to talk to the B-girls, bouncers, and bartenders at Club Anastasia. Some of them-Russians and Estonians-were quitting and flying home because of threats of immigration prosecutions. As best Dominguez could tell, Benny Cohen was the real owner of the club.

Dominguez flipped open his cell phone and gave me Cohen's private numbers.

"Is he still looking for Nadia Delova?" I asked.

"Like 24-7, Jake."

"To hurt her or help her?"

"That's above my pay grade, Lieutenant." Dominguez took a forkful of his mac and cheese and between bites said, "What are you gonna do, Jake?"

"Visit Benny, of course."

"He's a nice old guy. But he's surrounded himself with muscle, and he's nervous, so don't piss him off."

"I'll try to keep my PTSD under control."

"I'm serious, Jake. Don't cross him."

"You think he's capable of ordering a hit?"

Dominguez patted his lips with a napkin. "You're talking about that B-girl on the beach the other night?"

I nodded.

"Benny had nothing to do with it."

"And you know this how?"

"'Cause he had me following her off and on."

"Why?"

"Benny was thinking maybe she'd lead me to the other one, Natasha."

"Nadia."

"Yeah. The friend was his path to Nadia, so no way he would have her killed."

"If you were really following Elena, Manuel, you'd know where she was last Wednesday night. Late. After work."

"I wasn't following her that night. But I know where she was."

"How?"

"I was following you. That's the night you and the lady lawyer met with her in the Russian church."

That rocked me. Manuel was telling the truth, almost a first for the con man. "The gray Range Rover?"

"That's me. When I wasn't following her, I was tailing you."

"Damn, I should have known. You tell Benny about the meeting at the church?"

"Nah."

"Why not? You're working for him."

"'Cause me and you are pals. You never did wrong by me. Till tonight, anyway. I didn't tell Benny because I didn't want you to get messed up."

"Thanks, Manuel."

I peeled three hundred-dollar bills out of my wallet and put them on the table. Dominguez frowned. "Will barely cover the wine, Jake."

I emptied my wallet and headed home, happy I'd parked at a meter, because I couldn't afford the valet.

-37-.

Let's Make a Deal I was sitting in my office the next morning, speed-reading the state's discovery documents. Skimming the autopsy report on Nicolai Gorev, I could nearly hear the bored, matter-of-fact voice of the medical examiner dictating his notes: "The missile proceeded through the frontal pole of the brain, perforated the cerebral peduncle, then impacted with the occipital bone."

All the while, I was planning my visit to Benny the Jeweler.

Benjamin Cohen.

The true owner of Club Anastasia. Boss of the Gorev brothers. Target of the federal investigation. Someone I would not be able to intimidate with my in-your-face tactics. Which is why I would take Victoria along. She had a talent for getting people to talk, winning them over with sincerity and trust.

Victoria.

My gut was still tied in knots when I thought how close she had come to being killed. I could not have lived with that. In the aftermath of Elena's death, my feelings were all jumbled. I'd pushed Victoria to the back of my mind, telling myself for the umpteenth time that she was my client's lady.

We'd formed a bond through a shared, horrific experience. The bond was steeped in emotion and dipped in blood. A danger there. The emotional connection transitioning to the sensual. No way! Friends, yes. Possibly close friends. Even that, I sensed, would not be a happy prospect for Solomon.

The phone rang. My secretary, Cindy-she had not yet graduated to "assistant"-told me it was the State Attorney.

"You mean an assistant state attorney?" I said.

"Nope. The one and only Raymond Pincher."

I picked up the phone and cried out, "Sugar Ray! Sugar Ray! Who'd you frame today?"

It was my imitation of his very own singsong, preacher's voice.

"Wrong Way! Wrong Way! Who'd you score for today?"

Damn, he was good.

"The Jakester, my man!" he continued. "The mouthpiece who took the shy out of shyster and put the fog into pettifogger."

I should never have let him get started.

That Ray Pincher became chief prosecutor of Miami-Dade County was something of an upset. He had fought his way out of the Liberty City projects. Literally. He boxed middleweight in the Police Athletic League and won a bunch of Golden Gloves fights. Then, a U-turn to a Baptist seminary for a year, but that didn't seem to be his destiny.

Quick with the quip as well as his fists, he set his eyes on lawyering. Scholarships to Florida State and Stetson Law School followed. He was a decent young prosecutor with spellbinding closing arguments. He ran for state attorney while still in his thirties. His slogan, of course, was "Elect a Real Crime Fighter." Billboards featured Pincher, in shaved head, bare chest, and boxing gloves. He won easily and these days never even faced opposition for re-election.

We were friendly but hardly friends. I used to see him in the gym. Once he invited me to spar, wearing puffy gloves and headgear. I outweighed him by seventy-five pounds, and I've never lost a bout against the heavy bag, but he had this pop-pop jab that blackened both my eyes. Quick sneaky hands.

He also caught me with a left hook to the groin that bent me double.

"Too tall, too tall, gets whacked in balls."

His explanation.

"You calling to apologize for indicting my client?" I said now.