"Not a d.a.m.n thing. You teach Bobby to fish yet?"

"Thought that was your department, Dad."

"Y'all come down to Sugarloaf Sat.u.r.day, we'll chase the wily bonefish."

"We'd like that."

Victoria listened, realizing this strange, coded conversation was the male dance around edges of emotion. Steve was saying thank you, and Herbert was saying he wanted a closer relationship. Underneath it all, she supposed, father and son were each saying: "I love you."

Finally, Herbert reached over and tousled Steve's hair, just as Steve did so often with Bobby. Then Herbert got into his rusty Chrysler and pulled out of the parking lot.

Minutes later, Steve was guiding the old Caddy convertible off the Miami Avenue exit of I-95. Bobby was asleep in the backseat. As they neared Victoria's condo, Steve said: "The way I acted when Dad came in . . ."

"Yeah?"

"I was a real horse's a.s.s, to use one of his expressions."

Which she took to mean he was sorry.

"You really turned the case around," he continued.

A thank-you, she translated. "All I did was call your father. He's the one who turned it around."

"It was good lawyering, Vic. Really good."

They sat quietly another moment before she said: "I need your help with Thigpen and your sister."

"Just wing it."

She looked over at him. The lights from the Brickell Avenue condos shadowed his face. What was he thinking?

"You might be able to wing it," she said, "but I need to prepare for cross."

"You'll be fine." He turned the Caddy into the driveway of her building, pulled to a stop under the portico. "See you tomorrow, Vic."

"Hey, you."

"What?"

"We won a murder trial today." Wanting to talk. Not wanting the night to end.

"How's it feel?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I'm exhausted, emotionally drained. And . . ."

"A little let down?"

"Yeah."

"It's always that way. If you win, the high's not high enough. If you lose, the low is lower than you thought possible."

"We should celebrate." Even as she said it, something struck a dissonant note.

Celebrate how? Just the two of us? Invite Bruce? That didn't sound like much fun.

"Sure thing," Steve said.

"Katrina says she'll have a check for us by Friday. A big one."

"Great."

But he didn't sound great, Victoria thought. "Just what you wanted, Steve. A case to put you in the big leagues."

"Yep."

Since when did he become Mr. Monosyllabic?

"And I almost forgot, Katrina's planning a victory party," Victoria said. "Everyone's supposed to dress as cops and convicts."

"You can be the cop."

"Actually, I'll be away. On . . ."

"Your honeymoon."

"Maui."

"Nice."

"Bruce says they have some avocado-growing techniques he'd like to study."

"A tax-deductible honeymoon. The Bigster is one savvy fellow."

That seemed to drain the juice from the conversation. She wanted to ask him to come up, share some tequila, relive their victories. But Bobby was snoozing in the backseat, and it was late, and-an ever bigger reason-this was not the man whose ring she was wearing. Not the man to whom she was betrothed, the man she'd soon promise to love and to cherish till death did them part . . . and the man whose prenuptial agreement she needed to read before morning.

Steve drove home wishing she had asked him to come in for a while. He could have carried Bobby upstairs and put him on the sofa-the kid could sleep in a bowling alley. Steve wanted to talk to Victoria. Not about the two of them. He'd come to accept the fact that she was gone. No, he wanted to talk about what was gnawing at him like rats in the bas.e.m.e.nt. At first, he had vowed never to tell her that he had bribed Janice to flip her testimony in the guardianship case. Now, guilt-stricken, he felt a need to confess. But how could he?

She wouldn't understand. He barely did himself. Why had he paid off his sister? Did he have so little confidence in the system? Or in Victoria? Or in himself? They were winning Bobby's case without cheating. He should have just let it play out. He'd cut corners before, but never anything like this.

An hour ago, Steve had listened as his father spoke so proudly.

"My son's got integrity."

What would his father say if he knew about the bribe? Steve would never be able to face him if the truth came out.

"He's a fine role model for my grandson."

Right, I teach him baseball and bribery, Steve thought. And what about Bobby's testimony? So strange, seeing his life through his nephew's eyes. Models and mojitos. G.o.d, was he really that shallow and immature?

Dark thoughts were swirling in his mind. By the time he swung the car past the Cocowalk shops for the drive down Grand Avenue, the doubts had morphed into borderline paranoia.

What if Janice is setting me up?

She could have been wearing a wire when he gave her the money, their cars parked side by side on the Rickenbacker Causeway. Maybe Pincher and Zinkavich had him under surveillance. Had there been a white van with darkened windows pulled under the trees near the first bridge? He couldn't remember.

When Steve turned onto k.u.mquat Avenue just before midnight, with a mockingbird hooting in a neighbor's tree, he was certain that disaster would strike tomorrow. A phalanx of police officers would storm the courtroom. He would be led away in handcuffs as Zinkavich gobbled Krispy Kremes and Pincher cackled with laughter.

What was it Pincher had said to him in Judge Gridley's chambers the day of the bird trial? "I'll have the Florida Bar punch your ticket."

Yes, of course, they'd set him up. Pincher and Zinkavich must have arranged to s.n.a.t.c.h Bobby off the street. The whole stinking thing was a setup to entrap him.

He would lose his license.

He'd go to jail.

But worst of all, he'd lose Bobby.

BARKSDALE WIDOW GOES FREE.

Suicide, Not Murder, Pincher Declares

By Joan Fleischman

Herald Staff Writer

In a stunning courtroom reversal, murder charges were dismissed yesterday against Katrina Barksdale, the widow accused of strangling her husband, construction magnate Charles Barksdale.

Following a closed-door hearing, State Attorney Raymond Pincher announced in open court that he was dismissing all charges. "The due diligence of my office has uncovered irrefutable proof that Charles Barksdale's death resulted from suicide, not homicide," Pincher said.

Posing for photos on the courthouse steps, Mrs. Barksdale, 33, said she might write a book about her ordeal, but not until she celebrated with a trip to the Bahamas. "That's the way my husband would have wanted it," said the widow. "He was a good-time Charlie, not a gloomy Gus."

At a posttrial press conference, Pincher shrugged off suggestions that his office acted too hastily in securing a murder indictment against Mrs. Barksdale. "Had defense counsel done their job, the case never would have gotten this far," Pincher said. "Because of our tireless efforts, justice has been served."

Defense lawyers Stephen Solomon and Victoria Lord rushed from the courtroom and could not be reached for comment.

Fifty-one.

THE HUNDRED-THOUSAND-.

DOLLAR QUESTION.

His milky gray complexion tinged with pink spots like a poisoned oyster, Jack Zinkavich said: "We have a serious crisis, Judge."

"Is there any other kind?" Judge Althea Rolle said.

Steve sat quietly at the Pet.i.tioner's table, letting the little drama play out. Next to him, Victoria watched, notepad in hand.

"What now?" the judge said. She wore baby blue robes, the collar of a white silk blouse visible at the neck. It was just after nine A.M. With the Barksdale case over, they were back on a normal schedule.

"Rufus Thigpen, our first witness, is missing," Zinkavich said.

"Then call your second witness."

"But, Judge, that interrupts my order of proof."

"Don't be so a.n.a.l, Z."

"I am concerned there may be foul play afoot."

Foul play afoot? Steve thought.

Like Sherlock-f.u.c.king-Holmes.

"How so?" the judge asked.

Zinkavich shot a look at Steve, who instantly put on his angelic Bar Mitzvah boy face. Victoria cast a sideways glance at him, too.

Does she suspect something? Or is it just my guilty conscience?