In its day, the car would have been considered a pimpmobile, but it was actually owned by Strings Hendricks, a Key West piano tuner and occasional marijuana smuggler. I walked him out of criminal court because of a faulty search, and the car was my fee. I saw no reason to upgrade to a Lexus or Mercedes or any of the other showy wheels my fellow trial lawyers seem to favor.

Traffic was its usual mess on Dixie Highway. It hadn't started raining yet. Of course, at 3:17 p.m., give or take ten minutes, it would pour. It does nearly every day in the summer.

Once on the causeway, I passed the mansions of Palm and Star Islands on my left and admired the gleaming cruise ships lined up in Government Cut to my right. The ships were poised for their Friday departures to the Caribbean. Fun-filled, prepackaged, all-you-can-eat floating hotels, complete with evening entertainment from bands and comedians too lame to make it in Vegas.

Detective Barrios had told me to meet him at a Cuban cafe on Sixth Street between Meridian and Washington on South Beach. He didn't want me in the city cop shop. Maybe he was afraid I would spread my defense lawyer cooties. Or maybe he was just more comfortable not having his colleagues see him consorting with the enemy.

Of course, I'd get to question him under oath, both at a pretrial deposition and at trial. But then, he'd have the state attorney protecting him from my insidiously clever questions, which usually start: "Then what happened?"

Barrios and I had a decent relationship both before and after I'd been wrongfully accused of killing Pamela Baylins, a serial seductress and looter of my trust accounts. This was something I intended to teach Solomon. Make friends with cops, or at least try not to give them the burning desire to shoot you in the kneecap.

Solomon. So damn brash. So much like my earlier self.

I found Barrios sitting at a two-person table in a corner of the cafe drinking an espresso and nibbling a guava pastelito. His back was to the wall so he could see all the patrons enter and, if necessary, plug anyone who jumped the cafe con leche line. He was a burly man nearing retirement age, with suntanned, muscular arms poking out of an orange polo shirt. His shaved head looked as if it had been stained a dark walnut. I eased into the chair facing him and ordered an American coffee.

"Que pasa, George? Why'd you drag me over here?"

"In my opinion, we both want the same thing."

"Justice in an imperfect world. Not to mention the love of a fine woman."

"We both want to find Nadia Delova."

"Ah, yes."

"If the state finds her, she'll testify that your guy pulled the trigger, and it's lights out for Solomon."

"That's one possibility. Or maybe she'll testify she pulled the trigger standing her ground, then hightailed it with Gorev's gun. As my guy says."

"Why should she do that? She'll risk being prosecuted for the robbery."

I laughed my big-time know-it-all trial lawyer laugh. "Meaning that if she testifies for the prosecution, it's only because the state gives her immunity for both the shooting and the robbery. Which is fine with me. I love cross-examining immunized witnesses. 'Isn't it true you robbed the safe, Ms. Delova, and that the state agreed to drop those charges if you would identify my client as the gunman?'"

"What I really called you for is this. State Attorney Pincher wants you to know there's a rumor around town that someone's put out a hit on Nadia."

"Why tell me?"

Barrios was silent.

"You saying Pincher thinks I'm behind it? What bullshit!"

Barrios shrugged. "I told him that was crap. But he thinks you don't want to find her and you really don't want us to find her. That you're afraid she'll torpedo your defense . . . if she's alive to do it. He wanted to warn you to keep clear of that sort of thing."

"If Ray Pincher wasn't such an asshole, I'd be insulted."

"I told him that wasn't your style, Jake. But you know . . ."

Yeah, I did. Pincher had that disease prevalent among prosecutors. He thought defense lawyers were pond scum.

"Appreciate the warning, George, and I got something for you in return."

"I'm listening."

"Some guy named Benny is looking for Nadia. Maybe he's your man."

"Benny? That's all you've got."

"Hey, this ain't NCIS. In real life, evidence comes in dribs and drabs. Whoever he is, Benny's offering fifty thousand to whoever can deliver Nadia."

That raised Barrios's eyebrows. He took out his little cop notebook and wrote, BENNY. Then he polished off his guava pastelito, which made me hungry, so I ordered one of my own, along with a beef empanada that had just come out of the oven; the aroma of the pastry filled the small cafe. Pastry and meat. Breakfast of champions.

"In return, George, I got a couple questions for you."

"Ah, what you shysters call a quid pro quo."

"What can you tell me about the gun used to shoot Gorev?"

"File your discovery papers with Pincher's office. He'll tell you all about it."

"You just did, George. If the gun had any connection to Solomon, you'd be dancing on the table."

He shrugged. "It's a Glock 17, older-model nine-millimeter semiautomatic. Solomon could have concealed it inside his suit coat."

"Or his purse," I said. "Oh, wait. That would be Nadia's purse."

"The Glock was purchased lawfully from a shop in Houston by a guy from South Orange, New Jersey. Name of Littlejohn. Guy owns a courier business. No criminal record. Told us one of his drivers lost the gun on a trip to Kentucky."

"Like I said, you can't tie the gun to Solomon."

"Solomon had it in his hand when the cops broke in, and he admits shooting into the door with it. His prints are on it. I'm pretty happy with the connection."

"We'll fight about that in court."

"You said you had two questions."

"Right. I subpoenaed the city for all police records on Nadia Delova, and I haven't gotten a document of any kind. Not even a parking ticket or a reply that you don't have anything."

"City's written reply is being vetted by Pincher's office."

"Bad sign. C'mon, George. You can't stonewall on discovery."

He reached into a slim briefcase and took out a single piece of paper, which he slid across the table.

A booking photo of Nadia Delova.

Date of birth, January 16, 1986, Saint Petersburg, Russia.

Charge: grand larceny, to wit, one Rolex Submariner, black matte limited edition. The photo showed a very attractive, very pouty brunette. Lots of hair and lots of lips. No smile, but for a mug shot, it was striking. The date of the arrest was five weeks before the shooting.

"Another charge you can immunize her for," I said. "So where's the rest of the file?"

"That's the thing."

"Oh, boy. Let's hear it."

"There's no file. It's missing."

"On the computer, then?"

"Nada."

"George, this stinks, and you know it. You talk to the arresting officer?"

Barrios motioned for another espresso, which he took straight. The only Cuban-American in Miami not to pour a cup of sugar into his morning brew.

"Scott Kornspan. One year out of the Academy. Clean record. Took a complaint from a middle-aged guy staying at the Delano. The Russian girl picked him up at the bar in the lobby, took him to Club Anastasia, got him drunk, and had him sign for a few thousand in champagne on his AmEx card. Then when he passed out, she took his Rolex. Kornspan arrested the girl, who claimed the guy gave her the watch as a gift. She bailed herself out with a cash bond. Four thousand dollars."

"And Kornspan's written report?"

"Says he filed it. No explanation for what happened."

"It's gotta be on the computer. Everything's on the computer."

"Not there. Apparently deleted in a slick way that can't be undone."

"I'm guessing you have an idea what happened to it, George."

He shrugged his old cop shoulders. "I start with the proposition that Solomon claims Gorev accused Nadia Delova of wearing a wire."

"And you know for sure she wasn't an informant for the City of Miami Beach?"

Barrios nodded. "I checked. No investigations she's involved in."

"And I'm guessing Pincher says the state wasn't handling her."

"So he says."

"And the language Nadia used that spooked Gorev. 'Wire fraud.' 'Money laundering.' 'Racketeering.'"

"Fed talk. FBI US Attorney. Justice Department."

"But the feds can't just walk into your building and expunge a file. You have a liaison with the US Attorney?"

"I have a chief of police."

"So? What's he say?"

"Says he was advised by the powers that be that he can't talk about it."

"The 'powers that be?' That's all he said?"

"That. And, 'the Patriot Act is a bitch.'"

"You ever read the so-called Patriot Act, George?"

"No. Why would I?"

"I tried. It's nearly four hundred pages. Basically, it gives the feds the right to come into my house and perform a rectal exam if they don't like the cut of my jib."

"You haven't become one of those antigovernment nut jobs, have you Jake?"

"No way. I love the military. I love the government inspecting slaughterhouses so I don't get poisoned by my rib eye. I don't even mind paying taxes for your salary. I just wonder what's left of the Bill of Rights."

"Everyone's got their pet peeves," Barrios said. "With me, it's murder."

That shut me up a second.

"So what do you glean from the chief's comment, Jake?"

"Doesn't take a rocket scientist. The feds were handling Nadia Delova. Someone in the US Attorney's office was running an investigation of Gorev's operation." I tapped a finger on Nadia Delova's mug shot. "And that someone sends this naive waif of a B-girl into harm's way, wearing a wire."

"The feds would never have given her a gun," Barrios said. "Meaning Solomon brought it and used it."

"Not so fast. It's equally likely that Nadia brought it without either her handler's knowledge or Solomon's. And it was the fed's responsibility. They're the ones who apparently wired her and sent her on her mission. Meaning that someone in the employ of the United States government screwed the pooch. If Nadia testifies for the state or the defense, that screwup will be on the front page of the Herald." I took the last bite of my empanada and drained my coffee. "You know what I'm thinking, George?"

"I have a pretty good idea."

"You want Nadia Delova to testify and so do I," I said. "But the federal government sure as hell doesn't."

-15-.

Nadia and the Feds (Part Three) One week before the Gorev shooting . . .

Office of the United States Attorney for the Southern District of Florida In Re: Investigation of South Beach Champagne Clubs and one "John Doe"

File No. 2014-73-B Statement of Nadia Delova (Continuation) July 7, 2014 (CONFIDENTIAL).

Q: [By AUSA Deborah Scolino] So it's agreed then? You will work with us.

A: [By Nadia Delova] Do I have a choice? You will send me to jail otherwise.