Yesterday, he'd given his trial team-as he'd come to think of Victoria, Bobby, and Cece-his old key-to-the-jailhouse-door speech. That was true; they had a duty to set Katrina free if they could. But he hadn't revealed how he felt on the ultimate question: Did she kill her husband?

When he was skimming through the magazine, he was replaying those moments alone with Katrina before Victoria arrived. He had tried to rattle Katrina to shake out the truth. It's always a good idea to give your client a dose of cross-examination before the prosecutor has a chance to do it.

Sitting at the table in the courtyard, Katrina's smile had been teasing, her eyes sparkling, her laugh tinkling. As he watched the slit on her skirt slide up her thigh, he wondered: Why so frisky for such a recent widow?

Steve had told her his ground rules for the attorneyclient relationship. "Lie to your priest, your spouse, and the IRS, but not to your lawyer. I don't want any surprises at trial, so if there are any skeletons in the cabana . . ."

"Meaning?" Katrina asked, guileless as a child bride.

"Any men in your life besides your husband?"

"Only my ma.s.seur, my Pilates instructor, and my plastic surgeon." She laughed and tossed layers of raven hair his way.

"I guess that's a no."

"On the ice tour, we were all young and in great shape. A different hotel every other night, lots of parties, guys with great b.u.t.ts. Some of the guys were even straight, and boy, did they make out like bandits. But when I met Charlie, I quit that scene. I've been faithful to him since the day he proposed."

"And vice versa?"

"Charlie would never stray, I can guarantee you that."

Boasting more about her own abilities than her husband's fidelity, Steve thought. "Anything out there that can embarra.s.s you?"

"There was a party once with about half the Detroit Red Wings, but that's ancient history. And Charlie knew all that stuff, anyway. He liked hearing about the other men, the group s.e.x, the girl-on-girl. Give Charlie a hot story and leather restraints, he'd be sailing over v.i.a.g.r.a Falls."

"Any old boyfriends who are gonna post X-rated video on the Internet?"

Her eyes were clear and cool as a winter rain. "I had lots of X-rated moments, but I didn't let anyone tape them."

"Good."

"I worked a Vegas ice show in a thong and skates. That a problem?"

"Don't think so."

"When you're in a sit spin, the breeze off the ice can really freeze your beav."

For a moment, the only sound in the courtyard was the gurgling fountain of spitting cherubs.

Her tongue seemed to flick across her lips, but she might have just been moistening her gloss. "You unattached, Steve?"

"Like a piece of driftwood."

"Maybe when this is over . . ."

She let the bait play in the water, but he didn't leap for it.

"Any prenup?" he asked, getting back to business.

"You know a rich old guy who doesn't demand one?"

"I'll need a copy."

"Sure, but I can tell you what it says. If we got divorced, I'd keep what I brought into the marriage."

"Which is what, other than your skates and thongs?"

"What difference does it make? We weren't getting divorced. We were planning a trip to Tuscany in the spring. We were going fishing off Bimini next week. We had a good life."

"It might matter to the State Attorney, so I have to ask."

"Besides my skates and thongs," she said, eyes wary, "if we got divorced, I'd keep my wits. They've always been good to me. As for money, I wouldn't get a dime."

"And if you were married when your husband died, you'd get . . . ?"

"One-third of his estate, the rest goes to his kids from his first marriage."

"If you were unhappy, that might be a motive for murder."

"I wasn't unhappy."

"Or if Charlie planned to divorce you . . ."

"And lose the best b.l.o.w. .j.o.bs of his life? Look, we got along. He had his business and his poetry seminars, and I had the club and my friends. Charlie gave me everything I wanted. Why would I risk all that by killing him?"

"Spouses kill each other all the time for the darnedest reasons."

"If I'd killed Charlie," she said, her voice as sharp as a skate blade, "I'd have a better alibi than 'I was sucking his c.o.c.k and then he strangled.'"

"I wonder if there's a way we might rephrase that for the jury. . . ."

The hazel eyes, which had been sparkling with flirty invitations, had gone cold. "Are you on my side or not?"

"I'm your best friend in the world. I'm here to carry your spear into battle. I just need your help."

"Then hear this, spear carrier: I wasn't f.u.c.king around and I didn't kill Charlie. Got it?"

"The way you're looking at me right now . . ."

"What about it?"

"If you're on the witness stand, don't ever look at the jury that way."

"Why not?"

"Because you look angry enough to kill somebody."

Watching Victoria sift through the autopsy and toxicology reports, Steve knew she was wasting her time. Having cross-examined hundreds of witnesses over the years, he'd put his money on his built-in polygraph. It wasn't a matter of respiration, perspiration, or blood pressure. Just a gut feeling.

His gut told him two things. He was fairly certain Katrina Barksdale had been s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around. As for the other question, he figured it was 7525 that she'd aced good old contented Charlie. He couldn't articulate exactly why; his gut just told him so.

But that's okay, he thought. If your client is truly innocent, the pressure to win is overwhelming. But a guilty client? Hey, if you lose, justice is done.

He was more troubled about having just lied to his junior partner.

"Okay, so you believe her," Victoria said. "Shouldn't you be working on the case instead of just reading magazines and daydreaming?"

"Relax, Victoria. I'm working even when it doesn't look like it."

"What's your plan? Where's your to-do list?"

"It's all right here." He pointed to his head. "Prep for the bail hearing, interview our client, talk to the boat captain, get discovery from Pincher, and come up with the theme of our case."

"Where do we start?"

Steve looked at his watch. "Lunch."

Sixteen.

HOOCHIE-COOCHIE MAN.

"Anybody hungry?" a deep voice rumbled, as the door to Steve's office opened. An elderly black man in rimless gla.s.ses and a rainbow-colored dashiki walked in, carrying three grocery bags. At his side, Bobby lugged a thermos bottle. Cece Santiago brought up the rear, carrying a Styrofoam cooler.

At her desk, Victoria smelled the sweet, spicy aroma of barbecue sauce.

"Cadillac," Steve said. "Right on time."

"Baby back ribs, Uncle Steve," Bobby said. "Your favorite."

"Plus conch fritters," the old man said. "Bimini bread, ham croquettes, oxtail soup, and my sweet potato pie."

"That's it?" Steve said. "What is this, the South Beach diet?" He grabbed the grocery bags. "Victoria, say h.e.l.lo to Cadillac Johnson. Cook, musician, and friend."

"h.e.l.lo, Mr. Johnson. I've seen you at the courthouse lunch wagon."

"The Sweet Potato Pie," Cadillac said, smiling. "My kids run it now, but the recipes are still mine." Thick through the chest, he had a round face with chubby cheeks and a full head of salt-and-pepper hair.

The smells were tantalizing, and Victoria was famished, but if she ate her share, she'd have to take a siesta. Not only that, almost everything violated her vegan principles. Actually, Bruce's vegan principles, she rationalized, thinking . . . Maybe just one little rib.

"The Pie wouldn't be there at all, 'cept for Steve," Cadillac told her. "You know about that new zoning ordinance?"

She ran a finger along a baby back rib and sucked off the sauce, tart with vinegar, sweet with brown sugar. "No vendors on public property. How'd you get a variance?"

"Legal quiz, Vic." Steve pa.s.sed around open cartons, unleashing a mixture of aromas. "Cadillac's been cooking on the courthouse steps for twenty years and the county tries to evict him. How would you argue the case?"

Here we go again, she thought. Solomon the teacher. Treating me like a schoolgirl. She nibbled at a rib, the meat falling off the bone, melting in her mouth. "I'd go for a declaratory judgment and an injunction under Section 1983. I'd argue estoppel, due process, equal protection."

"El bicho," Cece said. "Steve don't know that s.h.i.t."

"Federal litigation?" Steve said, spearing a croquette. "That might work, after about ten years of motions and hearings."

"So what'd you do?" Victoria asked. "Bribe the mayor?"

"And the commissioners," Steve said.

"You didn't!"

"A dozen pulled pork sandwiches and some sweet potato pie."

"You're making this up."

"The law doesn't win cases, Vic. Emotions do. Feelings. The key to every case is finding those emotions and hitting those notes."

"Do I get continuing education credits for your lecture?"

"You get seconds."

Without realizing it, Victoria had wolfed down half a slab of ribs. Okay, Bruce didn't have to know. "Mr. Johnson, these are delicious."

"Thank you, missy," Cadillac said. "Now try some fritters." He sliced a crisp, golden ball. Juicy pieces of conch oozed from the thin fried crust.

"Maybe just one." She dipped the fritter in mango salsa, tasted it, closed her eyes with pleasure.

"Steve's my man," Cadillac said. "He's a fighter. And the price is right."

"Lunch?" she asked, taking a second bite.

"h.e.l.l, no. He pays for lunch."

"Guitar lessons." Steve was slicing the pie with a plastic knife. "Cadillac's a h.e.l.luva musician. Rhythm and blues, early rock."

"Played fish fries, juke joints, bars where you could get your throat sliced for looking at somebody cross-eyed," Cadillac said.

"When you gonna teach me the blues with a shuffle feel?"

"Same day people stop calling you 'Last Out.'"

"Why do they?" Victoria asked.

"Because I'm always the last one out of the library," Steve said.

"Eso es mentira," Cece said. "That's a lie."