"Chill, Ray. I'll drive straight to the jail and call you later."

"Tell you what we can throw in. Solomon can choose the facility. I hear Sumter up in Bushnell has decent food. Plus classes in auto mechanics and masonry."

I hadn't finished my meatballs and anchovies, but my hunger was gone. I remembered my first conversation with Victoria, expressing my frustration about the system. Well, after all these years, I just realized there's not a damn thing wrong with the system. It's just the flawed human beings who run it. People like Pincher. Scolino. Barrios. And me.

"Like I said, Ray, I'll pass it along."

"That's my Jake, playing it close to the vest. Like a peekaboo boxer."

I slid back my chair and stood. "Ray, if we do this deal, you'll get some headlines for convicting an international criminal of murder. Scolino here dodges a bullet, and Barrios has solved yet another major crime."

"Not just us, Jake," Pincher said. "Word gets around that you and I have a close working relationship-it'll be great for your business. Clients will ask, 'How'd you get that great deal?' And you'll just smile that crooked smile of yours. They'll be crawling all over each other to pay your fees."

"Something for everybody," I said, leaving without saying good-bye.

-38-.

Jailhouse Lawyers I drove west across Biscayne Bay on the Julia Tuttle, headed for the jail. While waiting for the valet to deliver my car, I had called Victoria to meet me for our sit-down with Solomon. I left out all the details of my lunch date, wanting to tell the story only once.

Feeling cruddy. It's my own damn fault they offered a dirty deal. Hell, I'd practically invited it when I taunted Scolino that day in my office.

"Feel free to give Pincher a preview of my closing argument. Maybe the two of you will come up with something that won't cost you your job."

I planned to keep the jailhouse meeting brief. I figured Solomon would turn down the deal, probably angrily, but I wasn't going to push him one way or the other. If he didn't take it, Victoria and I would pay a visit to Benny Cohen. International criminal and pal of Putin.

On the phone, Victoria had said she would take the Metrorail to the jail, so we could travel in one car to Benny's place. Which would not have been a problem, except it started to rain.

Not rain, as in an afternoon shower.

Rain, as in summer in Miami. Monsoon rain. Amazon rain. Noah, finish-the-damn-ark rain. Great gray sheets pouring from a black sky, pounding my windshield, disabling my wipers, and tattooing my roof like Max Weinberg on the drums. A lightning bolt zigzagged out of the death clouds and struck one of the little islands south of the causeway; the thunderclap rattled my windows. My old canvas top wasn't exactly leaking, but little droplets appeared along one seam.

Victoria had planned to walk from the Civic Center Metrorail station to the jail. It's only a couple of blocks, but today a person could drown. I tried calling her cell. Under the low-hanging ceiling of otherworldly clouds, no service.

My big, fat Caddy tires were hydroplaning, so I slowed down. Either that, or risk flying over the guardrail and turning the old Eldo into a boat. Years ago, I'd had a CD player installed, so now I slipped my favorite Leonard Cohen into the device. In his distinctive gravelly voice, Leonard was half singing, half talking: "Everybody knows that the dice are loaded, Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed."

Well, I knew that, but thanks for reminding me.

Once on the mainland, I took I-95 south, then west on 836, exiting on Northwest Twelfth Avenue. Instead of going to the jail, I headed toward the Metrorail station, next to Jackson Memorial Hospital. I found Victoria huddled under an overhang, waiting for me. Somehow she knew I'd come get her, knew I wouldn't let her walk through the storm. So far today, that was the only thing that I felt good about.

Solomon had lost more weight, appeared even paler, and seemed depressed. Well, he wasn't staying at the Four Seasons. Victoria looked away, maybe thinking she might cry if she kept her eyes on the man she loved.

"Can you make another run at getting bail?" Solomon asked. "This damn place is getting to me."

"It won't work," I said. "Judge has ruled."

Solomon didn't curse at me or tell me what a lousy lawyer I was. I would have preferred that. Instead, he seemed to just shrink into himself. He'd lost the spark that defined him.

We have some mutual friends from the courthouse. One is Marvin the Maven, a retired guy in his eighties who drifts from courtroom to courtroom, looking for the best action and dispensing advice on picking juries. A few months ago, I ran into Marvin in the corridor. He'd just left a courtroom where Solomon was defending a pair of six-foot-two-inch South Beach models, identical twins named Lexy and Rexy, who were fighting several thousand dollars in fines for parking in handicapped spaces.

"You know how the son of a gun won?" Marvin asked me.

"Bribed the jury," I guessed.

"Claimed the girls had anorexia, so they get to park in the handicapped spots. Now, that's chutzpah. Solomon's like Barnum and Bailey. Whenever he tries a case, there's always a dozen clowns crawling out of a little car."

But Solomon didn't look like a ringmaster now. More like one of the circus cats, gone mangy and lazy from being kept too long in a cage.

I shot a look at Victoria, who nodded, her signal for me to start talking. Then I told them about my meeting with our dedicated public servants who wanted Solomon to lie to make their case against Benny Cohen. A case that was part criminal and part political.

"That's despicable," Victoria said.

"Did Pincher tell you how long the offer was open?" Solomon said.

"No, but I promised to call him today. If you want, I can ask for more time."

"What!" Victoria's eyes flashed from me to Solomon and back again. "You two aren't seriously considering this."

"Not my call," I said. "I wouldn't take it, and I wouldn't advise a client to take it. But your partner is sophisticated. If he determines it's in his best interest to plead, you won't hear me yelling about truth, justice, and the American way."

Her head whipped toward her lover. "Steve! What are you thinking?"

"Life without parole. Losing you forever. There'd be nothing to live for." He looked at me. "Is there any play in the numbers?"

"Pincher would never open with his best deal, so I'm thinking there's some. They want Benny Cohen so badly, they might give you the key to the city and a ticker-tape parade to rat him out."

"Realistically, Lassiter. What can you get me?"

"Pincher offered ten. I can counter with eight. With gain time, that's six years and . . ."

I was still doing the math when Solomon said, "Nine months. Six years and nine months. I can do that."

"Steve!" Victoria gestured with both hands, palms turned upward. "What the hell?"

He didn't respond.

"Jake!"

I didn't respond. Communication with her two men wasn't going well today.

Solomon was clear-eyed and focused as he said, "Lassiter, the only way I can make this decision is for you to give me an accurate assessment of my chances at trial."

Unlike most clients, he was taking an analytical approach. I admired that.

"I don't know yet. Everything's fluid and changing daily. I want to meet with Benny Cohen."

"He'll talk to you?"

"He's had me followed. I think he'll want to have a few words."

"About what?" Solomon said.

"He's wondering if we know where Nadia is. I'm wondering if he knows anything that can help our defense. We'll play some cat and mouse with him. I'd sit down with the devil himself to keep you from getting convicted of murder."

"Or copping to a phony plea," Victoria said.

"That, too," I agreed. "And right now, Benny Cohen is the only avenue we've got."

-39-.

All You Need Is Love I made two phone calls from the jail parking lot. First I danced with Ray Pincher to buy more time.

A counteroffer of eight years in the can was "within the realm of possibility," he allowed. And sure, Solomon could take a couple of days to think it over. Big decision, after all.

Then my cold call to the cell number Manuel Dominguez gave me. Benny Cohen answered with a languid, "Mr. Lassiter, I've been expecting to hear from you."

With Victoria riding shotgun, we took I-95 to the end where it dumped us onto South Dixie Highway. Also called US 1. Or Useless 1, if you prefer. Turned left at LeJeune, rounded the circle where Granny did her fishing in the Gables Waterway, and continued south along Old Cutler Road under its canopy of Japanese banyans.

The rain had stopped, and by the time we hung a left on Arvida Parkway, the sun was blazing, steam rising from the pavement. It's an everyday occurrence in Miami and possibly in hell, if that's not redundant.

The rent-a-cop in the guardhouse waved us through. We took a left onto Leucadendra and found Benny Cohen's place on 450 feet of waterfront. You could have docked a cruise ship behind the house.

The place was your typical two-story Miami mansion. Orange barrel-tile roof. Towering royal palms framing a circular tile driveway that could handle parking for a hundred of your closest friends. Pillars out front to either hold up the second floor or just make the place look more stately than it was.

Also out front were two large men in dark suits on this scorching-hot day. They stood in the shade of a portico, waiting for us to get out of the Eldo.

"Let's do this," I said to Victoria.

"What's our game plan?"

"Not sure I have one. Just play it by ear."

"I knew it!" She leveled me with that Victoria Lord glare. "I just knew it."

"Sorry I don't have all my questions typed on color-coded cards."

"Men!" she said, opening the car door and stepping out.

Apparently, Solomon and I had similar failings, I figured.

Once we were on the portico, the two men frisked us for weapons, then used a magic wand to check for wires. One of them ushered us into a two-story foyer. Spiral staircases peeled off from either side to the second floor.

"Mr. C is on the patio." The Dark Suit led us through a room the size of a football field toward a set of French doors. The floor tiles were beige. The walls were a muted neutral color in the same family. The crystal chandeliers were large but without all the doodads you often see in these houses. Despite its size, the house tended toward the understated. You might even call it boring.

The French doors had a splendid view of the infinity pool, a tanning ledge, and the wide expanse of waterway that led to the Bay. The Dark Suit politely held the door, and we exited the house onto a covered patio with ceiling fans and a long granite table.

"I'm Benjamin Cohen." The little man got up from the table, bowed toward Victoria, and extended a soft, pudgy hand for me to shake. "People call me Benny the Jeweler."

"Jake Lassiter," I said. "And this is Victoria Lord."

He smiled as if we were old friends overdue for a visit. He wore a cream-colored silk guayabera with buttons that looked like gray pearls. His dressy slacks had a houndstooth pattern, black with that same cream color as his shirt. His shoes were loafers in a soft black leather with those silver buckles that resemble a horse's bit. I'd guess Ferragamo or Gucci. If he stood on his tippy-toes, he might be about five feet five.

He looked to be somewhere between fifty and eighty. It was impossible to tell. Smooth, tight skin. Not a wrinkle on the forehead and the eyes with just a bit more slant than you might expect. He'd had some work done. Lots of work.

"May I offer you anything?" A lot of New York in his voice. "Lemonade. Something stronger? A little bite to nosh on?"

We both declined.

"So. How do you like my house?"

"To tell you the truth, the colors are a little bland," I said.

"Jake! That's impolite," Victoria admonished me.

"Better resale value," Benny explained.

"Me, I like to live in the present," I said.

"Understandable. Who knows when tragedy will befall any of us?"

Maybe it was a threat. Maybe just chitchat.

"Do you know how I got into my business, Mr. Lassiter?"

I shook my head.

"Started as a diamond polisher in New York. For old man Slutsk. An orthodox Jew, of course. Do you know why the Jews got into the diamond business?"

I said I did not.

"Let's say you were a Jew in Lisbon in the fifteenth century. You could be in the cattle business or the diamond business. But if there came a time when Portugal decided to expel the Jews, as they did in 1497, it's a helluva lot easier to travel with diamonds than with cows."

"Makes sense," I agreed.