"Nope." Another sip, another giggle. "Unless you want to know a big secret."

He wasn't sure. He wasn't sure if he wanted to hear that his edible and incredible self had cleared a guilty woman of murder. But he had to know. "Go ahead. Tell me a secret."

"No," she said with a little-girl pout. "I shouldn't."

"Let's play a game, Katrina. I'll confess something if you will."

"I like games," she said with a t.i.tter. "You first."

"Okay. Remember that security tape?"

"Sure. First you thought there was a shadow of somebody out in the hall. But then your expert said it was nothing."

"That's what I told you. Victoria, too."

"Yeah?"

"I lied."

"Whadaya mean?"

"It was a simple photogrammetry problem, solved with a trig equation. The shadow was a person about six-foot-three, probably over two hundred pounds. Who does that sound like?"

"My Chet," she cooed. She put down her winegla.s.s, c.o.c.ked her head coquettishly. "So you knew Chet was there?"

"I knew."

"Why didn't you tell Victoria?"

"I wanted her to work as hard for you as I would."

"Why work so hard if you thought I was guilty?"

"It's my job."

"That's all?"

"That's a lot."

"You still think I killed the old perv?" She seemed to be sobering up.

"You tell me."

"C'mon, you proved Charlie committed suicide."

"I proved Charlie wrote a suicide note. There's a difference. I figure you and Manko killed Charlie before he had a chance to do the job himself."

"You've got it backward, silly. Sure, Chet was gonna kill him, but Charlie beat him to it."

"Is that the truth? You might as well tell me. They can't try you twice for Charlie's death."

"Final jeopardy, right? But it's the truth, I swear. Charlie committed suicide by strangling himself. You should have seen it. His eyes nearly popped out of his head. Gross!"

She seemed totally guileless, and Steve felt a mixture of relief and revulsion. Okay, maybe, she wasn't guilty, but she wasn't exactly innocent, either. Had justice been served? He supposed it had. Katrina had wanted to kill Charlie, but we punish people for what they do, not what they wish. If every woman who wanted to strangle her husband was indicted, criminal defense lawyers would all drive Ferraris. Katrina was morally guilty, of course. If there truly were a judge on a heavenly throne, a real Court of Last Resort, Steve figured she'd face some ultimate justice. But as far as earthly law was concerned, Katrina had been rightfully acquitted. He'd done his job well.

She downed the rest of her champagne. "So, congratulate me."

"For not killing your husband?"

"For marrying Chet."

"Thought you said Chet was just a sport f.u.c.k."

"But a good one." She laughed. "We're getting hitched in Bimini."

"Congratulations." Two scorpions on a yacht, he thought. He wondered how long it would take one to sting the other.

"Before we go, there's something I need you to do."

"Yeah?"

"Can you make me one of those prenups?" Katrina asked.

The Caddy was just pa.s.sing Parrot Jungle when Steve's cell phone rang.

"Althea Rolle called me this morning." Herbert Solomon sounded peeved.

"Oh, s.h.i.t. I was so drained last night . . ."

"You forgot to tell me some big news."

"I'm sorry, Dad. Really."

Herbert harrumphed into the phone. "Anyway, ah'm glad for you. And Bobby."

It sounded as if forgiveness was forthcoming, so Steve relaxed a bit.

"So if we're on for the weekend, ah'll gas up the boat," Herbert said.

"We're on. Thanks, Dad. For everything."

"You don't know the half of it."

"What's that mean?"

"Where's mah hundred thousand?"

A Saab convertible with its radio blaring salsa pa.s.sed the Caddy, and Steve wasn't sure he'd heard his father correctly. "What'd you say, Dad?"

"When Marvin paid me a visit, ah was steamed. Hurt, too. Mah own son wouldn't ask me for help."

What the h.e.l.l? He'd heard right, after all. He just couldn't believe it. "It wasn't Teresa's money?"

"Sweet lady, but she was mah courier, that's all. Ah cashed in mah pension. It's what a man does for his son."

Steve was so astonished he nearly rear-ended an SUV hauling a little runabout on a rickety trailer.

"You still there, son?"

"You gave me all that money without even knowing what it was for?"

"Ah didn't know then. But your sister paid me a visit on her way out of town. Now ah know."

Steve felt a wave of heat roll over him. So this is what shame feels like.

"Ah was surprised," Herbert continued.

"I don't know what to say, Dad."

"It was generous of you, son."

"Generous?"

"Paying for Janice's drug rehab like that. A d.a.m.n fancy place, too."

Drug rehab? Is that what Janice told him the hundred K was for? Or is he just making this easier for me?

"You did the right thing, Stephen. You took care of family. Your sister and your nephew."

Steve couldn't be sure, but he sensed his father knew the truth. What a strange way for the two of them to come together, enmeshed in a family conspiracy. "We gonna catch some fish this weekend, Dad?"

Herbert laughed. "You bring the beer, I'll bring the bait."

Steve slowed the Caddy as a giant Hummer pulled in front of him from the adjacent lane. They were five minutes from the office. The radio was tuned to a sports talk station, a caller complaining that the Dolphin Dolls didn't shake their booties the way the Cowboys' cheerleaders did. Bobby was on his second pastelito and had just popped the top on a Jupia pineapple soda. Sugar overload any second.

"Will Victoria still come over to the house?" Bobby said. "You know, after . . ."

"Doubt it, kiddo. Married women hang out with their husbands, at least for a year or so."

Bobby seemed dejected. Which made two of them.

After a moment, Bobby said: "I could light a stink bomb in the church."

There'd been a message on the phone yesterday. Bigby calling to remind him of the rehearsal next Friday. The groom's cheery voice depressed Solomon even more. Why had he agreed to be an usher? He could already hear the comments, could antic.i.p.ate the torturous death by a thousand compliments.

"Don't they make a lovely couple?"

"She's found herself a real catch."

"Steve, make a toast to the bride and groom."

He'd never get through the reception and dinner. By the time they served avocado vichyssoise, he'd feel like someone was scooping out his vital organs with a soup spoon.

"Turn it up!" Bobby yelled, reaching for the radio.

"What?"

"Hammering Hank's sports quiz."

Their hands both hit the volume at the same time, boosting Hammering Hank Goldberg's bellow into the red zone: "Next. Bernie in Surfside. Do you know your U of M sports?"

"Yeah, Hank. Shoot."

"Didja hear about that murder trial, the rich babe from Gables Estates?"

"I seen it on TV."

"Defense lawyer's a n.o.body named Steve Solomon. For a lechon asado dinner at La Hacienda, what infamous sporting event was Solomon involved in at U of M?"

"Oh, s.h.i.t," Steve said.

"Shh," Bobby said.

"Uh, was he the guy called for pa.s.s interference in the end zone against Ohio State?"

"Wake up, Bernie! How many Jewish cornerbacks you know?"

"Wait a second. Was he that kid got picked off in the College World Series? Last Out Solomon?"

"Bernie wins dinner! You eat pork, Bernie?"

"Gives me gas, but I eat it."

"Bottom of the ninth, the 'Canes trailing Texas by a run. Two out, Steve Solomon gets picked off third! What a dipstick!"

"At least he won the murder trial, Hank."

"Wrong, Bernie. This Solomon couldn't find his b.u.t.t with both hands. The prosecutor solved the case, dismissed the charges. What a loser, that lawyer."

Steve punched a b.u.t.ton, picked up the reggae station where Bob Marley was singing "No Woman, No Cry."

"I don't know why, kiddo," Steve said, "but I have a feeling this is gonna be a really bizarre day."

Fifty-four.