"All because I was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g Chet?"

"What do you mean, 'was'?" Manko asked.

"Didn't I tell you to shut up?" Steve snarled. "I don't have time for a lovers' spat."

Katrina said: "Was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g, is s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g, might screw again, what's the big deal?"

"Victoria, tell her," Steve commanded. "Spell it out for her."

"Pincher will use your affair to prove motive," Victoria said.

Katrina laughed. "What motive? To be with Chet? To marry him? Please."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Manko said.

"Chet, you're adorable in your own way, but you're just a sport f.u.c.k and we both know it, so don't pull that s.h.i.t."

Katrina had dropped the mask of the Coral Gables socialite, Victoria thought. It hadn't fit very well, anyway. Now she wrinkled her forehead, proof that she was still a few years from her first Botox injection. "Okay, so I lied about being faithful to Charlie, but I didn't kill him."

"Not by yourself," Steve said.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Steve's eyes blazed. There was something wild and dangerous about him, Victoria thought.

"When you were standing at the bar, Charles was doing just fine," Steve said. "If he was making any noise, it was to say 'Hey, untie me already.' You shot a look at him, then turned to the corridor, where Manko was plastered to the wall, out of camera range."

"You're nuts," Katrina said.

Manko shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "You can't pin this on me."

"Of course I can't, Einstein." Steve clenched a handful of Manko's mesh shirt and shoved him backwards. "Naming you only implicates my client in a murder conspiracy. But Pincher can nail you, even if I can't."

"The f.u.c.k he can," Manko snorted.

"Wanna bet? There's a person's shadow on the security video. Pincher's already told me he's sent the tape to his high-tech forensics guys."

No he hasn't, Victoria thought, but kept quiet.

"They'll be able to tell the height and weight of whoever's there," Steve continued. "What do you want to bet it's a guy about six-three and two hundred pounds with a pea-size brain?"

"f.u.c.k you," Manko said.

"Katrina's glance is the signal to the guy. Now he slithers along the wall because he knows just what the camera sees and what it doesn't. He goes over to the bed, tightens Charles' collar, and strangles him."

"This what you lawyers get paid for, making s.h.i.t up?" Manko said.

"Just out of curiosity, Manko," Steve said, "do you have a record? 'Cause I'm laying odds you've done time."

"A couple of bulls.h.i.t A-and-Bs," Manko said. "Bar fights, is all."

"So, welcome to the big time."

Victoria drove and Steve leaned back in the pa.s.senger seat, one foot propped on the dashboard. They were headed north on Old Cutler Road under the banyan trees. Without asking for permission, Steve fiddled with the b.u.t.tons on her radio. He stopped at a station where Loudon Wainwright III was proclaiming himself the last man on earth.

"Was that an act back there?" she asked. "When you looked like you might have a stroke."

"I thought I'd get straighter answers if they were afraid I was going to break some gla.s.sware, so yeah, it was mostly Drama 101. But a part of me was really p.i.s.sed."

"Why'd you lie about Pincher?"

"I needed to gauge Manko's reaction. Katrina's, too."

"And . . . ?"

"Katrina's telling the truth. She didn't kill Charlie. Neither did Manko."

"And you base this on what?" Victoria was astounded.

"They pa.s.sed my human polygraph test."

"Oh, please."

"That first day, I thought she was lying when she denied killing Charles," he said.

"What? You told me you believed her."

"I fudged a little. I was afraid your heart wouldn't be in it if you thought she was a killer."

"That's so insulting. I'm a professional."

Steve leaned back, his eyes closed. On the radio, Pat Benatar was singing about crimes of pa.s.sion. "Anyway, back then, she was lying, but only about being faithful. That's what screwed up my polygraph, made me think she was lying about the murder."

"But like you said in the house, if she lied about one thing . . ."

"You gotta trust me on this. She didn't do it."

"There's no such thing as a human polygraph."

"Okay," he said. "Call it a gut instinct. My gut tells me she doesn't have it in her."

"You can't make decisions like this based on your gut."

"That's how I make all the big ones," Steve said. "You ought to try it sometime."

Twenty-eight.

A DEEP, DARK SEA.

"Bigby doesn't mind us going out?" Steve asked.

"You think this was a date?" Victoria said.

"We had dinner."

"A working dinner."

"Some guys wouldn't want their fiancees even doing that."

"Bruce isn't the jealous type. And he knows I'd never do anything stupid."

Steve didn't like the way that sounded. Like the dumbest thing in the world would be falling for him. He pulled the old Eldo into his driveway, next to Victoria's car. "You want to come in for a drink?"

She shook her head. "I'm bushed."

As they got out of the Eldo, he said: "With Bobby at Teresa's, we've got the place to ourselves."

She flashed her prosecutorial look. "Are you putting the moves on me, Solomon?"

"Me? No. Absolutely not. I just thought . . ."

In a neighbor's tree, a mockingbird was singing an aria. What was it Bobby had told him about the mockers? Oh, yeah, only the bachelors sing at night. Looking for a mate from sundown until dawn. A song came into Steve's head: Jimmy Buffet's "Why Don't We Get Drunk and Screw."

"Just what did you think, Solomon?"

He wasn't sure. He knew she wasn't going to jump into his arms. In the office, she'd told him with finality, "Chapter closed." The first kiss was a last kiss. So what the h.e.l.l was he doing? In the tree, the mockingbird began trilling an octave higher. Was the bachelor bird laughing?

"What's that?" she said, looking past him toward the house.

"What?"

"Did you leave your door open?"

He walked along the chipped flagstones toward the house. The top hinge was smashed; the door was open and c.o.c.keyed.

"Oh, s.h.i.t." He gingerly pulled at the door, but the bottom sc.r.a.ped the flagstone step and stuck.

"Don't go in." Victoria was reaching into her purse for a cell phone. "I'll call the police."

"Whoever did this is long gone. I just hope they didn't get my autographed Barry Bonds ball."

He jiggled the door. The bottom screeched and moved an inch. He thought he heard something-the squeak of rubber soles on tile-and a second later, the door flew off the remaining hinge, striking him across his forehead and the bridge of his nose. A searing pain flashed behind his eyes. As the door fell on top of him, he was vaguely aware of a figure running out of the house, past him.

He heard Victoria yell: "Hey!"

He heard the pounding of shoes on pavement.

He heard boulders bouncing off each other inside his skull.

A moment later, he was on his feet, wobbling in the direction of an invisible man. In the darkness, all Steve could see were the fluorescent stripes of the man's running shoes. The shoes turned the corner at Solana Road and headed south toward Poinciana. Steve followed.

"Steve! No, don't!" Victoria was shouting at him. The sounds echoed: he heard every word twice.

Steve was aware that he was not running in a straight line. He thought he was seeing bright flashes, realized they were thin beams of moonlight speckling the street through a canopy of willow trees. The air smelled of jasmine, and in a few moments, Steve began feeling stronger. The guy was not a great runner, or he would have pulled away by now. By the time Steve reached Malaga, he could see the guy was wearing a dark warm-up suit, and there was something covering his head. What the h.e.l.l was it?

Somewhere in the distance, a police siren wailed. Steve was thirty yards behind when they crossed LeJeune, dodging between cars. Horns blared. His head throbbed, but his legs had regained their balance, and his lungs felt strong. It was only a matter of time.

"Hey, a.s.shole!" Steve called out. "You can't outrun me."

No response.

They had crossed from Miami into Coral Gables and were on Gerona, in an expensive neighborhood of Mediterranean homes. Not exactly Steve's 'hood. They were headed for a dead end, the Gables Waterway just behind the homes on Riviera. If the guy knew where he was, he'd turn on Riviera. If not, he'd find himself with a channel to swim across.

"You got no chance, s.h.i.thead!" Steve yelled out.

Again, no response, but now Steve was close enough to see that the guy wore a ski mask. He could hear the man's breathing. "You're dying up there, a.s.shole!"

The man crossed Riviera and hopped the curb, running through the front yard of a sprawling Spanish-style house. He disappeared into a hibiscus hedge.

He doesn't know where he is. He's gonna be trapped at the water.

Steve followed.

Three steps into the darkened yard, he felt his foot catch on something. He flew forward, sliding face-first into the hibiscus hedge.

Dammit, a sprinkler head.

He scrambled to his feet, ducked alongside the house, and emerged in the backyard. Where was the guy?

Spotlights illuminated the tiled patio and cast a yellow glow on the dark water of the channel. A wooden dock extended from a concrete seawall. A thirty-foot sailboat was tied up at the dock. A fibergla.s.s kayak lay near the stern of the sailboat.

But no guy in bright, shiny sneakers dressed for the ski slopes.

In the waterway, a Boston Whaler churned toward the bay. A man in a ball cap was at the wheel.

"Hey, you see anyone out here?" Steve yelled.

"Hoping to see some snapper," the man called back.

At the dock, the Whaler's wake nudged at the sailboat, whose lines strained against the cleats on the dock. Steve studied the boat, partially lit by the spots. The guy could have climbed into the c.o.c.kpit. He could be hiding there right now.

Steve reached into the kayak and picked up a paddle. Molded plastic, not much heft. He would have preferred a Louisville Slugger, smash the guy with an uppercut as if swinging for the fences. Wielding the paddle, he walked along the dock, the old wooden planks groaning beneath his feet. Somewhere across the waterway, a dog yipped. Unseen insects cricked and clacked and played their night music.