Have you lost that swagger, the legendary Lassiter cockiness? Is there anything bothering you we should know about?”
“Have no fear, Victoria. Once we’re in trial, the adrenaline starts pumping, and I come out swinging from the opening bell.”
She hoped it was true. That was, after all, the Jake Lassiter everyone talked about.
“I’ve just become more thoughtful as I’ve matured. I’m more open about my feelings. And maybe I just talk too much.”
“No! It’s good. I wish Steve did that.”
“Like I say about a lot of things, give him time.”
With that, she said good night and hung up.
Victoria spent the next twenty minutes trying to will herself to sleep. But her mind was too active. Thoughts of Steve, locked in that jail cell. They’d come so far together since they met as opponents in criminal court. A rookie prosecutor, she had been hoodwinked by Steve in that stupid talking bird case. Well, technically, an illegal importation of wildlife case. Defending the smuggler, Steve tried to call a white cockatoo named Mr. Ruffles to testify. As precedent, he cited The Case of the Perjured Parrot , a Perry Mason novel involving a bird that had witnessed a murder.
Of course, the judge denied Steve’s motion. But then Solomon the Sneak tricked her into getting the bird to talk. The judge declared a mistrial and held them both in contempt for bickering.
“When I checked my calendar this morning,” the judge said, “the case was State versus Pedrosa , not Solomon versus Lord .”
To make matters worse, Mr. Ruffles pooped on her Armani jacket, and State Attorney Ray Pincher fired her. The same guy who would now be prosecuting Steve.
She and Steve then spent a couple of hours in adjacent holding cells behind the courtroom. She was furious. He was flirting. What was it he had said that was so damn infuriating? Oh, yeah . . .
“Cell mates today, soul mates tomorrow.”
How did he know?
As she became drowsy, her thoughts surprisingly drifted to Lassiter. A good man. A complicated man. And something else. ¡Qué bueno está!
-14-
Fed Talk
I hung up the phone with Victoria and realized, I do talk too much!
And what about the rest of it?
“Steve’s luckier than I am. He has you.”
How ass-puckeringly embarrassing. I blame the Jack Daniel’s. Three fingers after shooing Manuel Dominguez off the porch, and another three fingers before calling Victoria. Let’s see: three plus three equals . . . hammered.
Jeez, I should listen to Granny. “Don’t be sniffing after a client’s woman.”
At least I was proud of myself for telling the truth. She’d fed me this lob: Was Steve screwing Nadia? I had every chance in the world to toss a grenade into their relationship. But I did the right thing. I told the truth.
Then, at the end, she’d said she wished Steve were more like me. Okay, not exactly. But she wished he opened up a little more. Showed his pain. Like me. The wounded boar.
Just then, the phone rang.
Holy shit! It had to be Victoria calling back.
She must not be able to sleep. Wanted to talk some more. Or maybe needed me to come over and share my Jack Daniel’s. I was on Poinciana. She was on Kumquat. I could jog up Solana and be there in three minutes.
I picked up the phone, calmed my voice, and said, “Hello again.”
“Again?” A man’s voice.
“Who’s this?”
“George Barrios.”
Just why was the Miami Beach chief of homicide calling me after midnight?
“Who’d you think was calling, Jake?” Detectives have an insatiable curiosity.
“One of your ex-wives, George.”
“Better you than me.”
“Whoever got killed tonight, I assure you I have an alibi.”
“You always do. Listen, Jake, we gotta talk.”
“Now?”
“First thing in the morning.”
“Okay, how about a preview?”
“There are some things I gotta tell you about Nadia Delova.”
I didn’t sleep well. Up at sunrise, I found a tiny frog hopping across the Mexican tile in the kitchen. A
“Have no fear, Victoria. Once we’re in trial, the adrenaline starts pumping, and I come out swinging from the opening bell.”
She hoped it was true. That was, after all, the Jake Lassiter everyone talked about.
“I’ve just become more thoughtful as I’ve matured. I’m more open about my feelings. And maybe I just talk too much.”
“No! It’s good. I wish Steve did that.”
“Like I say about a lot of things, give him time.”
With that, she said good night and hung up.
Victoria spent the next twenty minutes trying to will herself to sleep. But her mind was too active. Thoughts of Steve, locked in that jail cell. They’d come so far together since they met as opponents in criminal court. A rookie prosecutor, she had been hoodwinked by Steve in that stupid talking bird case. Well, technically, an illegal importation of wildlife case. Defending the smuggler, Steve tried to call a white cockatoo named Mr. Ruffles to testify. As precedent, he cited The Case of the Perjured Parrot , a Perry Mason novel involving a bird that had witnessed a murder.
Of course, the judge denied Steve’s motion. But then Solomon the Sneak tricked her into getting the bird to talk. The judge declared a mistrial and held them both in contempt for bickering.
“When I checked my calendar this morning,” the judge said, “the case was State versus Pedrosa , not Solomon versus Lord .”
To make matters worse, Mr. Ruffles pooped on her Armani jacket, and State Attorney Ray Pincher fired her. The same guy who would now be prosecuting Steve.
She and Steve then spent a couple of hours in adjacent holding cells behind the courtroom. She was furious. He was flirting. What was it he had said that was so damn infuriating? Oh, yeah . . .
“Cell mates today, soul mates tomorrow.”
How did he know?
As she became drowsy, her thoughts surprisingly drifted to Lassiter. A good man. A complicated man. And something else. ¡Qué bueno está!
-14-
Fed Talk
I hung up the phone with Victoria and realized, I do talk too much!
And what about the rest of it?
“Steve’s luckier than I am. He has you.”
How ass-puckeringly embarrassing. I blame the Jack Daniel’s. Three fingers after shooing Manuel Dominguez off the porch, and another three fingers before calling Victoria. Let’s see: three plus three equals . . . hammered.
Jeez, I should listen to Granny. “Don’t be sniffing after a client’s woman.”
At least I was proud of myself for telling the truth. She’d fed me this lob: Was Steve screwing Nadia? I had every chance in the world to toss a grenade into their relationship. But I did the right thing. I told the truth.
Then, at the end, she’d said she wished Steve were more like me. Okay, not exactly. But she wished he opened up a little more. Showed his pain. Like me. The wounded boar.
Just then, the phone rang.
Holy shit! It had to be Victoria calling back.
She must not be able to sleep. Wanted to talk some more. Or maybe needed me to come over and share my Jack Daniel’s. I was on Poinciana. She was on Kumquat. I could jog up Solana and be there in three minutes.
I picked up the phone, calmed my voice, and said, “Hello again.”
“Again?” A man’s voice.
“Who’s this?”
“George Barrios.”
Just why was the Miami Beach chief of homicide calling me after midnight?
“Who’d you think was calling, Jake?” Detectives have an insatiable curiosity.
“One of your ex-wives, George.”
“Better you than me.”
“Whoever got killed tonight, I assure you I have an alibi.”
“You always do. Listen, Jake, we gotta talk.”
“Now?”
“First thing in the morning.”
“Okay, how about a preview?”
“There are some things I gotta tell you about Nadia Delova.”
I didn’t sleep well. Up at sunrise, I found a tiny frog hopping across the Mexican tile in the kitchen. A
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