by Paul Levine
***
“That is so in the past,” Gina said.
“The past clings to us like mud on football cleats.”
She rolled her eyes. “Jake Lassiter. Poet laureate of the gridiron.”
I straightened up, stuffing a pillow behind my back. Time to start earning my fee. “Gina, tell me everything you know about the late Peter Tupton.”
“Ugh! No more talk about business.”
“If I’m going to win the lawsuit, we gotta talk.”
She sat up, stretched her long legs across the bed, and hefted one bare breast. “Do I need a boob job?”
“Gina!”
She widened her deep blue eyes. “Am I starting to sag?”
“Not a millimeter. C’mon now, tell me about Tupton.”
She sighed and pouted. “We invited him to the pool party to soften him up. Nicky’s bright idea. Why fight the guy, waste thousands on legal fees defending the environmental lawsuits?”
“Who else was there?”
“The usual. Friends of the Philharmonic, the opera and ballet groups. I haven’t seen so many bobbed noses and tummy tucks since the Mount Sinai Founders Ball.”
“A society crowd.”
“Business, too. With Nicky, a party can’t just be a party. Some of the big growers plus a Micanopy Indian chief or two. Nicky always says if you want to do business in the Everglades, you’ve got to make friends with the Indians and the sugar barons.”
“The Herald said Tupton was executive director of the Everglades Society. I assume he wasn’t fond of real estate developers.”
She placed a hand on my stomach. “Tupton got his panties in a twist because Nicky sent surveyors onto the Micanopy Reservation.”
“The reservation’s in the Big Cypress Swamp, so Tupton doubtless thought that—”
“Who cares! The Indians have seventy thousand acres out there. It’s all mucky. Yuk! Who would want it?”
“Obviously, your husband. My client. I’m sure he’ll improve the environment by draining the groundwater, chasing out the birds, and building ticky-tacky condos on rotten pilings.”
“Don’t let your feelings about Nicky interfere with your good judgment, Jake.” She slipped her hand under the sheet and let it move southward along my abdomen. “Anyway, Tupton files a suit against Nicky’s company for not having all the permits. But Nicky wasn’t dredging or anything, just surveying, Tupton’s a real gator-loving eco-nut. I’ll bet the dipshit makes forty K a year, tops.”
“Made,” I said. “He’s not cashing any more checks. And I remember when you shook your booty for twenty bucks a game at the Orange Bowl.”
She withdrew her hand and studied me. “You disapprove of me, don’t you, Jake? You never say it, but I disappoint you.”
I listened to fat raindrops plopping against the window. “Nothing and nobody ever turns out the way you think.”
She turned away from me, either to express her displeasure or to show off her profile. “And what did you think, Jake, that I’d be doing brain surgery now? I just count my blessings that I’m not dancing tabletops in one of those dives near the airport.”
In the distance, a police siren sang against the wind. “Maybe I’m just jealous that you’re with Nicky, and this is the way I show it.”
“You? Jealous?” She laughed a throaty laugh. “You never cared. You never once said you loved me.”
“When should I have mentioned it? Before or after you left with Goldfinger for Grand Cayman?”
She wheeled around and slammed an elbow into my stomach. Not hard, but not soft either. I let out a whoosh. “Jeez, what’s that for?”
“You big, dumb jock jerk! You never asked me to stay. You think I wouldn’t have stayed? You never cared!”
“Who says I didn’t care?”
“Me! I say it. You didn’t care.”
“I cared,” I said softly.
“Then you’re a double dumb jerk for never saying so.”
***
A few moments later, Gina was sitting on the edge of the bed, craning her long neck and blowing cigarette smoke into the air. She’d been quitting smoking ever since we met. Self-discipline was not her strong suit. Once again, I asked her to tell me everything she knew about Peter Tupton. It took her another half hour to tell me the rest of the story about the party.
She had served Tupton a pitcher of mimosas to loosen him up. Nicky lent him a swimsuit – fluorescent orange Speedos – and there was Tupton frolicking in the pool with a couple of Junior Leaguers from Old Cutler Road.
“Is there a Mrs. Tupton?” I asked. Without a wife and kids, the value of the wrongful-death case would plummet.
“There is, but he didn’t bring her. Sundays she volunteers at Mercy, working with pediatric cancer patients.”
Oh brother. When the surviving spouse is an angel, tack another digit onto the verdict form.
“Any little Tuptettes?”
“No. They’d only been married a couple of years.”
No crying kids in the courtroom. I was thankful for that.
“How’d he get into the wine cellar?”
She exhaled a puff into the draft of the ceiling fan. “Beats me. When he first arrived, Nicky gave him a tour of the house, including the cellar, which isn’t a cellar at all or it’d be under five feet of water. It’s a custom-built room off the kitchen. Lots of insulation, wood shelving, a couple thousand bottles. He must have come back into the house from the pool. Maybe the jerkoff wanted to steal a Château Pétrus 1961. Or maybe he was looking for a place to pee.”
It made no sense. There was plenty to drink outside, where it was also warm, and women in bikinis lounged poolside. “Why would he wander into a freezing room soaking wet and drink two bottles of champagne? Did he lock himself in?”
“Impossible. The bolt slides open from the inside. Apparently, he didn’t want to leave.”
Or couldn’t.
The rain had stopped, and the wind had died. Outside the window, the late-afternoon sun peeked from behind the clouds, slanting shadows of a palm frond across the room. In the chinaberry tree, a mockingbird was yawking and cackling. It’s the males without mates who do the singing. I ought to know.
“Who was the last person to see Tupton alive?” I asked.
She seemed to consider the question before answering. “Nicky, I think.” Her eyes brightened. “Sure, I remember now. They were both sitting in the kiddie pool drinking mimosas, Nicky trying to charm him. Then they walked toward the house together, going into the kitchen. That’s the last I saw him. You’ll have to ask Nicky what happened next.”
I intended to do just that. As Nicky’s lawyer, I had to be ready for anything. The death of Peter Tupton was just a bit too bizarre. Just now, the lawyer inside me—the guy who sees evil and deception, artifice and mendacity—had a lot of questions to ask. And so would the state attorney, I was willing to bet.
Words like “inquest” and “autopsy” and “grand jury” were popping into my head. And motive, too. What was it Doc Riggs, the retired coroner, always said? “When there’s no explanation for the death, always ask: Cui bono? Who stands to gain?”
Hey, Nicky Florio, this may be more trouble for you than just a wrongful death suit. You could be up to your ass in alligators.
Gina was getting dressed. She wriggled into her ultratight jeans and shot me a look. “Jake, why are you smiling?”
“Didn’t know I was.”
“You were. Your blue eyes were crinkling at the corners, and you had that crooked grin you used to sweep me off my feet.”
“So that’s what did it. I thought it was the Jack Daniel’s.”
She was looking around the room for her bra. “It was your smile. That and shoulders I could lean on.”
“Not too hard. One’s been separated and the other has a torn a rotator cuff.”
She found the bra, red and frilly, in a tangle of bed sheets. “Just now, you were almost laughing. What were you thinking about?”
&n
bsp; “The Canons of Ethics.”
She gave me a shove. “No, really.”
“Okay, then. The Ten Commandments, or at least one of them.”
“Which one?”
“Something about thy client’s wife,” I said.
#
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“BUM RAP” SNEAK PREVIEW
“Bum Rap” is the newest thriller in the Jake Lassiter series. Here’s a sneak preview. For more information or to purchase, please visit the BUM RAP AMAZON PAGE.
-1-
The gunshot hit Nicolai Gorev squarely between the eyes. His head snapped back, then whipped forward, and he toppled face-first onto his desk.
There were two other people in the office of Club Anastasia.
Nadia Delova, the best Bar girl between Moscow and Miami, stared silently at Gorev as blood oozed from his ears. She had seen worse.
Steve Solomon, a South Beach lawyer with a shaky reputation, spoke over the echo still ringing off the walls. “I am in deep shit,” he said.
-2-
One week earlier . . .
Office of the United States Attorney for the Southern District of Florida
In Re: Investigation of South Beach Champagne Clubs and one “John Doe”
File No. 2014-73-B
Statement of Nadia Delova
July 7, 2014
(CONFIDENTIAL)
Q: My name is Deborah Scolino, assistant United States attorney. Please state your name.
A: Nadia Delova.
Q: How old are you?
A: Twenty-eight.
Q: Where were you born?
A: Saint Petersburg. Russia. Not Florida.
Q: What is your occupation?
A: What do I look like? Nuclear physicist?
Q: Ms. Delova, please . . .
A: Bar girl. I am Bar girl.
Q: What does that entail?
A: Entails my tail. [Witness laughs]. Is simple job. I get men to buy cheap champagne for expensive price.
Q: How do you do that?
A: We go to nice hotel. Fontainebleau or Delano. Me and Elena on hunting parties.
Q: Do you dress as you have today? For the record, a tight-banded mini in hot pink. I’m guessing Herve Leger.
A: Is knockoff. But shoes are real. Valentino slingbacks with four-inch heels. I dress good on hunting parties.
Q: And just what are you hunting for?
A: Tourists. Men with money. We look for expensive watches. Patek Philippe. Audemars Piguet. Rolex Submariner.
Q: So you approach the men?
A: At the hotel bar. We make small talk. “Oh, you are so handsome. Tell us about Nebraska.” We say we know a private club with good music.
Q: What club is that?
A: Anastasia. On South Beach.
Q: What happens when you get there?
A: Bartender serves free vodka shots, except ours—mine and Elena’s—are water. When the man is drunk, we order champagne. Nicolai buys it for twenty-five dollars at Walmart. Charges a couple thousand a bottle, but the man is so drunk, he signs credit card because Elena has her tongue in his ear, or my hand is in his crotch. Or both.
Q: Just who is Nicolai?
A: Nicolai Gorev. Owner of Club Anastasia.
Q: Ms. Delova, we need you to help the government’s investigation of Nicolai Gorev.
A: Nyet.
Q: Ms. Delova . . .
A: I am not as stupid as you might think.
-3-
“I didn’t shoot the bastard,” Steve Solomon said.
“Tell me the truth, Steve.”
“Jeez, Vic, I am.” Sounding frustrated. Telling the story over and over. He spread his arms and held his palms upward, the gesture intended to show he wasn’t hiding anything.
Victoria studied him. She’d been studying Solomon for several years now. He was her law partner and lover. Solomon & Lord.
Victoria Lord. Princeton undergrad, Yale Law.
Steve Solomon. University of Miami undergrad. Key West School of Law.
Victoria graduated summa cum laude. Steve graduated summa cum luck.
She practiced law by the book. He burned the book. But in court . . . well in court, they were a powerful team.
Solomon & Lord.
Steve had street smarts and was a master of persuasion. Victoria knew the law, which helped with judges. Plus, she was likable, a necessity with juries. Steve also had one talent Victoria lacked: he could lie with a calm certainty no polygraph could ever discover.
She loved Steve. And hated him. Sometimes they argued over “good morning.” But life sizzled when they were together and fizzled when they were apart. Right now, one wrong move, and they could be apart forever.
“Tell me again,” she said. “Everything.”
“Why?”
“I want to see if you tell the same story two times in a row.”
“Aw, c’mon, Vic.”
They were sitting in a lawyers’ visitation room at the Miami-Dade County jail. The metal desk and two chairs were bolted to the concrete floor. Victoria hated the place. It smelled of sweat and disinfectant and something vaguely like cat piss. Her ankle-strap Gucci pumps had slipped on something wet—and yellow—when she had walked down the corridor. She always felt nauseous visiting a client here. Now that the accused was Steve, she also felt a throat-constricting fear.
To get into the jail, she had shown her Florida Bar card. To get out, Steve would need a very good lawyer. She had tried—and won—several murder trials. But with all the emotional baggage, she felt incapable of representing Steve. A surgeon didn’t operate on a loved one.
“If you didn’t kill Gorev, who did?” she asked.
“Like I said, Nadia Delova, our client.”
“Our client?”
“Okay, you were at a hearing in Broward. Nadia was a walk-in. She had five thousand in cash and said she just needed me for a one-hour meeting.”
“Where’s the money?”
“In an envelope in my desk drawer.”
“When were you going to tell me about it?”
“That reminds me of a lawyer joke.”
“Not now, Steve.”
“A lawyer sends out a bill for five thousand dollars, and the client mistakenly sends him ten thousand dollars. What’s the ethical question?”
“Obviously, should he return the money?”
“No! Should he tell his partner?”
Steve laughed at his own joke. He had a habit of doing that. A lot of his old habits were starting to irritate her. Accepting new clients without her approval was one. Straddling the border between ethical and sleazy conduct was another. Getting charged with murder was a new one.
“Where’s Nadia now?”
“That’s what I need to find out. Or you do.”
“You understand your predicament?”
“The cops found me in a locked room with a dead man and a smoking gun. Yeah, I have a pretty good idea.”
“Tell me everything from the top.”
“Nadia was waiting when I unlocked the door to our office at about eight fifteen a.m. She said she was a Bar girl. Very up front about it.”
“How admirable.”
Steve ignored her sarcasm and plowed ahead. “She must have come straight from work, because she was all dolled up. Minidress. Heels. Jewelry. Gloves.”
“Gloves in Miami. In July.”
“Dressy black gloves. Up to the elbows. Like Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”
“Wasn’t Holly a prostitute?”
“Only in the book. In the movie, she was more like a fun date.”
Just outside the door, a baby wailed. It was a weirdly discordant sound in this dreadful place. The common visitation area, a dismal space with rows of benches for families, was adjacent to the lawyers’ room. The baby’s keening reached an impossibly high pitch, an
d Victoria felt a headache coming on.
“Physical description of this Nadia?” she asked.
“About your height. Nearly six feet. Without her heels.”
“She took off her shoes?”
“In the office. For a minute. She rubbed her feet. Is that important?”
“I don’t know. Had you ever met this Bar girl before?”
“Of course not.”
“But she felt comfortable enough to take off her shoes and rub her feet in your presence?”
“Is that a lawyer’s question or a girlfriend’s question?”
“Just keep going. What else besides her height and her tired feet?”
“Dark hair. Nearly jet-black. Pale skin and blue eyes. Unusual combination. Very . . .”
“Striking?”
“Well . . .” He swallowed, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. Victoria made a mental note that Steve—for all his bluster—might not hold up well under cross-examination.
“If you like that sort of thing,” he said finally. “I always preferred blondes. Like you.”
“Of course. What else about Nadia can you remember?”
“Her lips were very . . . What’s the word?”
“I don’t know, Steve. What is the word?”
“Big?”
“Pouty,” Victoria said. “Bee-stung?”
“Yeah. Exactly.”
“Unlike my very average, very WASPy lips?”
“C’mon, you have great lips. Anyway, she had a nice . . .” He made a flowing motion with both hands, the male pantomime for a curvaceous woman. Victoria figured that men had been communicating this way since they first emerged from caves. Not that today’s men were that much different from those of the Paleolithic Era.
“Body?” she helped him out. “Curvy body?”
“Yeah, great body. I mean, no greater than yours, but . . .”
“Bigger boobs?”
He nodded, as if saying it aloud might shatter her fragile ego.
“Okay, so at eight fifteen a.m., this striking, long-legged, cantaloupe-breasted woman wearing gloves up to her elbows gives you five thousand in cash, and, like a puppy wagging its tail, you follow her to this South Beach club.”
