by Paul Levine
Victoria gave him one of her looks. The one that came with a little shake of the head.
“What?” he asked.
“Did you go through the personal effects from Sanders’ car?”
“Everything on your discovery list. A pre-paid calling card. Some shorts and Hawaiian shirts. A wallet with a bunch of hundred-dollar bills. No credit cards, no receipts from the laundry, no lottery tickets.”
“So you didn’t notice the business card. ‘Charles J. Sanders. Chief Adjuster.’”
“I saw it. Some phony insurance company.”
“You’re sure it’s phony?”
“I could print a card saying I’m king of the world.”
Victoria finished her wine and sighed. “You’re getting sloppy, and you know why? Because I always do the detail work for you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Did you call the number on the card?”
“Of course. I got Sanders’ voice mail. It was his cell phone, not an insurance company.”
“Did you listen to his message?”
“It said he was unavailable. Which was a real understatement.”
“And that’s where you stopped?”
“Yeah. The technical legal term, Vic, is ‘dead end.’”
“But you have his phone number. You could subpoena the carrier and find out the name on the account.”
“Who would do that? No lawyer I know would do that.” He paused a moment. “You did that?”
“I don’t have to tell you anything else. I’ve given you more than the law requires. There’s nothing that says I have to lead you by the hand.”
“Nothing except your sense of justice. If I missed something that might result in an injustice, you’d tell me. And not just because we love each other. You’d do it no matter who was defending the case.”
“Don’t play me, Steve.”
“Okay. Okay. I’ll get a subpoena issued for the phone carrier. I’ll get a process server. I’ll be a real grind.”
“Good.”
“And when I get the records, what am I going to learn?”
“Steve!”
“You’re right. You’ve helped enough. Thanks.”
She sighed, a single breath of exasperation. “The cell phone is registered to an insurance company. Bestia Casualty. They’re headquartered in Denver.”
“They’re real?”
“Sanders worked there. Chief Adjuster.”
“I’m having trouble picturing Chuck Sanders in a white shirt and tie and holding a clipboard.”
“It’s not auto insurance. He wasn’t appraising fender benders.”
Steve seemed to think it over a moment. In the backyard bottlebrush tree, a mockingbird was calling to its mate. “Just what kind of insurance does Bestia sell?”
“Specialized business casualty.”
“Specialized? What’s that mean?”
Victoria poured herself more wine. “In the industry, it’s what they call ‘unusual risks.’”
“Unusual? What the hell’s that mean?”
Her silence forced him to think about it. It took a moment. “Animal attractions?”
“Lots of them. Lion Safari. Monkey Palace. Seaquarius.”
“And Cetacean Park? And Grisby’s other place. In California, the first one ALM raided.”
“Undersea World,” Victoria helped out.
“Bestia insured them, too?”
“I’m putting Grisby on the stand Monday morning. Why don’t you ask him?”
“You’re something else, Vic.”
“I just want to level the playing field.”
“You restore my faith in the justice system.”
“Stop it. You’d do the same for me.”
He didn’t answer.
“Wouldn’t you, Steve?”
An hour later, Steve knocked at the study door and waited.
“Come in,” Victoria said.
The room was dark except for a lamp on an end table. Victoria was propped on two pillows on the convertible sofa, reading. She wore an orange silk camisole over white silk slacks, and somehow reminded Steve of a Creamsicle.
He moved toward the sofa bed, and she raised one hand. “Hold it right there, cowboy. You know the rules.”
“I just want to talk, that’s all.”
“Uh-huh.”
Steve sat on the corner of the sofa bed. “I think you just tanked your own case.”
“How do you figure?”
“When I took Grisby’s depo, he denied ever knowing Sanders. On cross, I’ll prove he lied. His credibility will be shot, and no one will believe his version of the shooting.”
“Grisby says he didn’t know Sanders worked for the insurance company, and I believe him.”
“How’s that possible? Grisby would have filed a claim after Undersea World was hit.”
“A junior adjuster handled everything on-site. All Sanders did was approve the paperwork back at the home office. Bestia’s records confirm it.”
“So you’re saying this is just a big coincidence. The guy who approved the insurance payment after the first raid accidentally turns out to be the thief the second time.”
“No coincidence at all. Sanders knew the location of every single trained dolphin in the country. Once Hardcastle hired him, he knew exactly where he could steal the best.”
“I’m not buying it. I don’t care what the paperwork shows. Grisby had to know Sanders and he had to want him dead.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s the only way my client goes free.”
SOLOMON’S LAWS
10. Never sleep with a medical examiner, unless you’re dead.
Thirty-two
SATURDAYS AT THE MORGUE
Steve flicked his wrist and jiggled the frying pan a foot above the burner. He prided himself on his ability to make a perfectly symmetrical apple-cheddar omelette, the cheese melting right to the edge without slopping over.
“Smells good,” Victoria said, checking out the kitchen table. Toasted English muffins, freshly brewed coffee, and sliced papayas. “Someone wants something.”
“Don’t be so cynical, Vic. You know I like to make you breakfast on Saturday mornings.”
“Only when you’ve been bad Friday night.”
Bobby walked in, barefoot and wearing a Miami Heat jersey that hung to his knees. “Yum. Is it makeup time, Uncle Steve?”
“Hey, cut it out, you two.” Steve served Victoria her omelette and started up another one. “Can’t a guy do something nice for the people he loves?”
“Most people can. Bobby, why do you think your uncle’s being so thoughtful?”
“No idea, but I’m cool with it.” The boy speared a slice of papaya. “Can I pitch to you today, Uncle Steve?”
“As soon as we get back from the morgue.”
“Great. Can I watch an autopsy?”
“Nope. We’re just gonna meet with Dr. Ling.”
“So, that’s it,” Victoria said. “You’re witness-tampering today.”
“Hey, I’m entitled to talk to your witnesses.”
“You don’t want me to tell Dr. Ling to stonewall you, is that it?”
“Dr. Ling won’t talk to Uncle Steve, anyway,” Bobby said. “Dr. Ling hates him.”
Steve flipped the second omelette, his motion herky-jerky, the cheese slopping onto the pan. “No she doesn’t, kiddo.”
“I heard her say she’d like to cut your heart out.”
“She’s a medical examiner. It was a professional statement.”
Not long before Steve met Victoria, he’d had a brief relationship with Dr. Mai Ling. He’d known her for several years from court, but they’d only got together after a marathon night of Texas Hold ’Em with a rowdy group of homicide detectives, ER doctors, and deputy medical examiners. Steve admired Mai’s ability to keep her poker face whether bluffing, folding, or removing bullet fragments from a spleen. She was committed to her work, and would often cancel dinner
dates after a drive-by shooting in Liberty City.
Mai was blatantly pro-prosecution. She was constantly irritated by Steve’s courtroom antics on behalf of defendants. The tipping point came when he cross-examined her in a murder case, pointing out that she’d performed the autopsy the morning after consuming two bottles of Sauvignon Blanc and spending the night in a bed not her own. Steve didn’t need a private investigator to ferret out the information, as he had provided both the wine and the bed. On her way out of the courtroom, Mai announced that she would, indeed, be pleased to perform an autopsy on Steve while he was still breathing.
“I could always tell when Dr. Ling slept over,” Bobby said. “The house smelled like formaldehyde.”
“She called it ‘le parfum de la mort,’” Steve said, “but to her, it smelled like roses.”
“Uncle Steve, you sure dated a lot of weirdos, B.V.”
Meaning “Before Victoria,” Steve knew.
Victoria poured herself a cup of coffee. “You don’t expect Dr. Ling to contradict her autopsy report, do you, Steve?”
“I just need her to refine a point or two.”
“If she’s holding a scalpel,” Bobby said, “I know what she’d like to refine.”
The county morgue was a red brick building that resembled a schoolhouse. It was located, not so humorously, on Bob Hope Road. Usually, Dr. Mai Ling spent Saturday mornings doing the paperwork that had piled up along with the bodies. But today she was perched on a stool in a spotless lab, gently brushing specks of tissue off a skull under a magnifying lens.
“Hey, Mai,” Steve called out.
She turned and stared at him with the same poker face she used when pushing all-in on the river. Mai was a petite woman with short dark hair and a face with sharp planes and small features. She wore eye shadow the color of an eggplant. This, with her dark eyes, tended to give her a raccoon look. Her white lab coat was crisply starched.
“How’s my favorite canoe maker?” Steve tried again.
No smile. No nothing.
“Bobby,” he continued, “did I ever tell you that Dr. Ling never had a patient who lived?”
Bobby rolled his eyes.
Still ignoring Steve, Mai smiled at the boy and held up the skull. “Bobby, do you know what I’m doing right now?”
“The skull has two different spiderweb fractures. You want to see which one caused the death because—and just guessing here—two different guys hit the dead guy.”
“You’re a very smart boy.” Mai set the skull on the counter and turned toward Steve. “What brings you here on a Saturday, Counselor?”
“Same as you. Pursuing justice.”
“If it’s the Nash case, my autopsy report speaks for itself. I have nothing to add.”
“I’m going to cross-examine you next week. Don’t you want a preview?”
“Sure. Preferably without wine.”
Steve spent a few minutes explaining what he wanted. Illustrations on the autopsy report showed the location of Sanders’ wounds. Pellets from the first shotgun blast peppered the gluteus medius muscle of the hip and lodged in the iliac crest. But the femoral artery wasn’t severed. Steve’s question was simple and direct.
“Would that first shot have killed Sanders?”
“I know what you’re getting at,” Mai replied. “You want me to say the first shot disabled Sanders but wouldn’t have killed him. Then you’ll argue to the jury that Grisby’s responsible for Sanders’ death by firing the second shot needlessly.”
“I want the truth, Mai. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Ha.”
“C’mon. You’re supposed to be impartial. You’re a public employee, and my client’s a member of that public.”
“You want impartial? Here it is. I can’t tell to a reasonable medical probability whether the first hit was a kill shot.”
“I don’t believe that. You’re helping the home team, Mai, just like always.”
“And just like always, you’re being a total shit.”
“Please. No profanity in front of the child,” Steve said, with a straight face.
Bobby tossed off a laugh. “That’s whacked, Uncle Steve.”
“Mai, I’m gonna move to strike your testimony on account of bias and prejudice.”
Mai’s eyes blazed from beneath her purple eye shadow. “Dammit. I’m telling you the same thing I told the FBI agent. There’s no way to know for certain whether—”
“What FBI agent? This is a state case.”
“Great. Go tell it to Washington.”
“C’mon, Mai. Who came to see you?”
“A female agent. I don’t remember her name.”
“I need to know who’s mucking around in my case.”
“Oh, you have needs? Well, guess what, Steve? So do I.”
“Jeez, don’t make this personal. Now, I know you, Mai. Anytime you talk to someone, you make a note in the file. Those files are public records. If I have to get a court order, I will.”
“Bobby,” Mai said. “Will you promise me that when you grow up, you won’t be a defense lawyer?”
“I’m going to be a major league pitcher,” the boy promised.
Six minutes later, Dr. Mai Ling reached into a file cabinet and handed Steve the file. It didn’t take long for him to find what he wanted. Stapled inside the cover was a business card.
Constance Parsons. Special Agent. Federal Bureau of Investigation.
“Happy now?” Mai asked.
“Did she tell you why the FBI was involved in a state murder case?”
“She told me she was investigating. That’s all.”
“Constance Parsons,” Steve said, as if the name might conjure up something. “What else can you tell me about her?”
“She’s one of the young ones. You know how they are. Gung ho, until they get transferred to Missoula or Rapid City.”
“Connie Parsons,” Bobby said.
Steve gave him a look. “Constance. Connie. What difference does it make, kiddo?”
“Nothing much. Except her friends probably call her Connie.”
“Yeah, probably. So?”
“‘Connie Parsons’ is an anagram for ‘Passion Conner,’” Bobby said.
Thirty-three
PITCHING PRACTICE
“Does this mean I can’t pitch to you today?” Bobby asked.
“No way. We’re gonna work on the circle change-up,” Steve told him. “You’ve got to follow through all the way, make ’em think a fastball’s coming.”
They were in Steve’s Mustang, headed down South Dixie Highway toward Coconut Grove.
“What about finding the FBI agent?” Bobby asked.
“A fastball’s all about power. A change-up is about deception. I like the change-up.”
“Uncle Steve. What about Connie Parsons?”
“Gonna take care of that right now.”
Steve picked up his cell phone. It took a while to work through the automated menu of the local FBI office, but finally he reached a real person, the weekend operator.
“Agent Constance Parsons, please,” Steve said.
“The office is closed today, sir.”
“Do kidnappers and bank robbers know that?”
“Would you like to leave a message, sir?”
“My name’s Steve Solomon. I know you have emergency contact numbers for all the agents. So please contact Agent Parsons immediately. Tell her to meet me for drinks at six o’clock at the Rusty Pelican on the causeway. I’m buying.”
“Are you asking Agent Parsons out on a date, sir?”
“More or less. Please also tell her if she doesn’t show, I’ll subpoena her to testify in open court in the Nash case, and she’ll never work undercover in this town again.”
“Is there anything else, sir?”
“Only that I have her wig and sunglasses.”
Steve clicked the phone off and winked at Bobby.
“Can I come along, Uncle Steve?”
“Nope. After
we work out, I want you off your feet. You have a game tomorrow.”
“It doesn’t take much energy to stand in right field.”
“You’re pitching tomorrow, kiddo.”
“Does Coach Kreindler know that?”
“Not yet. But I’ll talk to him.”
“Riii-ght.”
“You gotta trust me, Bobby. On everything. At six o’clock today, I’m gonna solve the Nash case. And tomorrow, when the First Baptist Bashers come to the plate, you’ll be pitching.”
Thirty-four
THE PROVOCATEUR
The sun dipped toward the Everglades and painted a ribbon of clouds the color of pomegranates. The still water of Biscayne Bay sparkled with diamonds. It would have been a beautiful evening, Steve thought, if he didn’t have to threaten an FBI agent over cocktails.
The Rusty Pelican sat on the north side of the Rickenbacker Causeway, halfway between the mainland and the island of Key Biscayne. Arriving early, Steve had parked his Mustang in the restaurant lot, walked across a tropical walkway over a man-made waterfall, and entered the place, a tourist trap with average food but a stunning view of Miami’s skyline across the Bay. The Pelican had burned down once, and been blown away a couple of times by hurricanes. But like a chopped-down melaleuca tree, it kept coming back to life.
Steve chose the meeting spot both for the view and the fact that Agent Parsons would be unlikely to shoot him in such a public place. Now he sat under a wicker paddle fan, nursing a Clase Azul tequila, watching a triangular sailboat race just outside the floor-to-ceiling windows.
He wondered if she would show up.
Passion Conner.
Animal rights activist. Girlfriend of the terminally dim Gerald Nash.
Constance Parsons.
FBI agent. Undercover operative. Instigator. And…
What’s the word I’m looking for?
Provocateur.
Steve was on his second tequila when someone came up behind him. “Mr. Solomon.”
Tall, great posture, athletic build. Brunette with a cute, Dorothy Hamill haircut. A blue canvas skirt with white stripes and a white cotton top with blue stripes. A sailor look. The handbag was made of straw and big enough to carry a gun, but not so big as to slow her down in a chase. She eased into the seat across from him at the small table.
