by Paul Levine
“Correct,” Steve said.
“Meaning you might have been right all along about Katrina being innocent. Manko, too.”
“Don't sound so surprised.”
“But we still don't have the proof.”
“Last time I checked, the burden of proof was on the prosecution.”
She laughed. “When did you start believing the letter of the law? An adulterous wife is in the room when her rich old hubby strangles to death. That pretty much shifts the burden.”
“‘The woman is perfected,'” Steve said. “The answer's gotta be there.”
“Maybe.” Her mind drifted back to Steve's account of chasing down Janice and Thigpen. “So that's all your sister wanted, to see Bobby for a few hours?”
“And to tell me she's Zinkavich's rebuttal witness.”
“Did you ask what she's going to say?”
“She's going to bad-mouth me. What more do we need to know?”
Odd that he brushed it off that way, she thought. Something wasn't ringing true. She glanced at Bobby, who turned away. What was going on? What wasn't Steve telling her?
Steve wanted to tell her the truth.
But could she handle the truth?
If he told Victoria about Janice's illegal proposal and his equally illegal response, she'd quit Bobby's case. Probably even report him to the Florida Bar. Was that a look of suspicion a moment ago? Or just his guilty conscience playing tricks?
What he planned to do could cost him his license, if it didn't land him in prison. Not the kind of risk he'd take for just anyone.
Still, this went far beyond trampling legal niceties. He'd never bribed a witness before. But then, he'd never been this desperate. Winning custody of Bobby wasn't a legal skirmish; it was his life.
“So tell me what you want,” he had said to his sister as they stood by the smashed truck.
“I hate helping that fuck Zinkavich,” she said. “He treats me like I'm some low-life criminal.”
“Imagine that.”
“So I figured I could screw him over instead of you.”
“I'm listening.”
“He got me and Rufe out of prison, but we're on parole, so he still could violate us and send us back.”
“Not unless you do something stupid.”
“They find one joint in our truck, we're back in the can. Hang out with known felons, same thing. Parole's a bitch. That's why we gotta get away, Rufe and me.”
“What's that got to do with me?”
“You gotta give us a hundred thousand dollars.”
“I don't have that kind of money. In fact, I don't have any kind.”
“What about your big murder trial?”
“My client's money is tied up. I don't get a dime unless we win.”
That was the truth. Katrina had agreed to pay them two hundred fifty thousand dollars, but it would be collectible only if she was acquitted. An unfortunate technicality in the law doesn't let homicidal wives inherit their husbands' estates.
“You could hit up Dad.”
“Mom's medical bills drained him. He's tapped out, living on his pension.”
“There's got to be someone else. Someone who'll lend you the bread.”
Who would he ask? He didn't have a clue. “What do I get for my money?”
“Me and Rufe disappear and never testify.”
It won't work, Steve thought. Kranchick's testimony would still bury him. “Your leaving town's not good enough. If I pay you, you've got to stay and testify.”
“How's that gonna help you?”
“When Zinkavich puts you on the stand, you won't give his answers. You'll give mine.”
Victoria was watching Steve, kneeling in the dirt, tying Bobby's shoestrings. There's something he's not telling me, she thought.
His sister is going to sandbag him, and he doesn't seem concerned. Zinkavich already has Kranchick and Thigpen, and now this. Steve should be ranting, cursing, pawing the ground, plotting a counterattack. But he seems nonchalant about the whole thing.
What's he hiding?
As she worked on that dilemma, an open Jeep Wrangler skidded to a stop in front of them. The driver wore a Bigby Farms jacket with the avocado logo. The passenger was his boss, Bruce Bigby, standing tall, holding the roll bar for support, blond hair windblown. Wearing an off-white skier's jumpsuit, he had a bullhorn in one hand, a walkie-talkie clipped to his belt, a digital thermometer zippered on his sleeve, and a revolver holstered on his hip. In that getup, Bruce looked part astronaut, part general, and—she hated to think it—a total dweeb.
“Get those heaters into the hollow!” Bigby yelled into the bullhorn. “Gosh darn it, I told you, the trees in the low areas freeze first!”
“Hi, hon,” Victoria said.
“Sweetie.” He gave her a brisk salute, then hopped out of the Jeep. The legs of his jumpsuit were bloused over the tops of combat boots. On the speakers, Celia Cruz was singing “Corazon Rebelde,” ode to a rebellious heart.
“Hey, Bruce,” Steve said.
Bigby's eyes went wide. “Jeez, Steve. Another shaving accident?”
“Family reunion.”
“Those are open cuts. Have you taken antibiotics?”
“Does Jack Daniel's count?”
Bigby's walkie-talkie crackled with static. “Señor Bigby, thirty-three degrees in the north quadrant.”
Bigby hit a button. “Get some heaters over there, Foyo.”
“Sí, jefe.”
“Nobody sleeps. Hot coffee all night. Rum and Coke at dawn.”
“Sí, jefe.”
“And that music. Does it have to be that Cuban crapola?”
“Is what the men like.”
“Whatever.” Bigby clicked off the walkie-talkie. “Bobby, care to ride with me?”
Bobby gripped Steve's hand and shook his head.
“He's a little shaken,” Steve said. “We'll catch up with you later.”
“You got it.”
“What can I do to help?” Steve asked.
“Gonna be a long night,” Bigby said. “Will you look after my sweetie for me?”
“To the best of my limited abilities.”
“What's with the gun, hon?” Victoria asked.
Bigby lowered his voice to a whisper. “The men expect it. El jefe always carries a side arm. It's a Caribbean thing.”
“And what does el jefe shoot?” she persisted.
“Varmints, trespassers . . .”
Guys sniffing after jefe's fiancée? she wondered.
The violent bleat of a siren interrupted them. Startled, Bobby stumbled into Steve's chest, his glasses falling to the ground. “No noise. No noise. No noise.”
Steve wrapped his arms around the boy. “It's okay, kiddo. It's okay.”
“Not really,” Bigby said, grimly. “It means the temperature's just hit thirty-two. If it goes to twenty-nine and stays there, I'm in deep doo-doo, if you'll pardon my French.”
Did he really say “deep doo-doo”? Victoria wondered.
“I'm taking Bobby inside for a while,” Steve said, picking up the boy's glasses.
“There's hot chocolate in the kitchen,” Bigby said, “and a spare bedroom next to the den. Make yourself at home.”
Steve and Bobby walked toward the house, the boy ferociously gripping his uncle's arm. When they were out of earshot, Bigby said: “With the grace of God, we'll never have to face that.”
“Face what?”
“You know . . . that.”
She was startled. “If you mean Bobby, he's a wonderful child.”
“I know, sweetie. I know. You're a sucker for the bird with the broken wing.”
“It's more than that. I really love the boy.”
“Sure you do. But would you rather our son be the captain of the football team at Dartmouth or some oddball who scrambles words in his head?”
“Depends who has the bigger heart.”
“Whatever.” He peeled the thermometer off his sleeve, checked the
readout, and frowned. “Keep the kid out of trouble for me, sweetie. He falls down a well, Solomon will sue me quicker than he can say ‘shalom.'”
“Don't think I've ever heard him use the word.”
“Figure of speech.”
“I know, Bruce. Just one I never expected to hear from you.”
“Hey, you know me. Not a prejudiced bone in my body. All my doctors and lawyers are Jews. Heck, I wanted you to work with Solomon for a while, remember? Pick up some of his tricks. They're sharper than we are that way.”
“Are they?”
“Oh, come on, don't be so sensitive.”
She blinked involuntarily, as if she'd been slapped.
Don't be so sensitive?
“That's very controlling,” she said.
“What? How?”
“C'mon, Bruce. You're not that clueless. You can't tell another person how to feel.”
Bigby's walkie-talkie squawked again. “Jefe, veintiocho grados in the hollow.”
“Darn! Those lights strung yet?”
“Almost. Ya casi termino, jefe.”
“Gotta go, sweetie.” Bigby straightened the holster on his hip and hopped into the Jeep. John Wayne amid the avocados.
“I could come along,” she said.
“Sends the wrong message to the men. Wouldn't want them to think their jefe's pussy-whipped.”
“Of course not.”
She studied him, smoke swirling around his head, diesel fumes in the air.
“What?” Bruce asked.
“I've never seen you like this.”
“In a time of crisis,” Bigby intoned, “that's when you can take the full measure of a man.”
“So true.”
He motioned for the driver to pull away. Still standing, gripping the roll bar with one hand, he waved to Victoria with the other. “Later, sweetie.”
“Later, jefe,” Victoria said, as the Jeep bumped along the path and disappeared into the black haze of the grove.
Thirty-seven
THE WHISPERING
OF PALM TREES
Steve's butt was sore, and his torn lip flared with pain. Bobby was starting to calm down, asking if he could have marshmallows in his hot chocolate. They were walking on a flagstone path between two rows of cypress trees. Bigby's farmhouse sat on a rise ahead of them.
“Big house for one person,” Bobby said.
“Two people,” Steve corrected.
The house was a solid three stories of Dade County pine with a wraparound porch and a tin roof. It had been built by Bigby's great-grandfather, who'd also had the good sense to buy two thousand acres of surrounding land nobody wanted at the time. The exterior grounds had been preserved much as they must have been in the reign of Bigby the First, Steve figured. A sugarcane grinder sat under a lean-to; a dinner bell topped a ten-foot-high pole; and firewood was stacked next to a smokehouse, where in earlier days hogs were turned into hams.
Steve spotted some modern additions. A red clay tennis court ringed by coconut palms. A lagoon surrounded by a man-made beach, and a chickee hut with bamboo walls and a roof of dried palm fronds. He visualized Victoria as Lady of Bigby Manor, didn't like the picture, chased it away.
He and Bobby walked inside, where a uniformed housekeeper seemed to be expecting them. Bigby must have called ahead on his cell phone or walkie-talkie, Steve figured, or maybe he sent smoke signals. The maid held a cup of steaming coffee for Steve and a cup of hot chocolate for Bobby. With marshmallows.
The coffee stung Steve's lip. The hot chocolate sent Bobby off on a riff about cocoa beans. He'd read somewhere about the health benefits of flavonoids, and he was repeating the chemical composition to Steve, who wasn't listening. Instead, he was thinking about Bruce Bigby. The man with everything. Including Victoria.
So why don't I hate him?
Maybe because Bigby seemed decent enough. Sure, the guy was irritatingly upbeat and so forthright that irony sailed right by him. Then there was that streak of boosterism, hawking his time-shares like some kind of subtropical Babbitt. But so what? Compared to most people Steve encountered each day—violent criminals, incompetent judges, perjurious witnesses—Bigby was a Boy Scout with shiny merit badges. Besides, it didn't matter what he thought. Victoria loved the guy.
So get over it, chump. She's his.
The interior of the house had been updated recently, Steve thought, as he walked Bobby to a guest bedroom. The walls were sleek mahogany, the floors Italian tile. The artwork—mostly South American and Native American—was expensive, eclectic, and tasteful, if you overlooked the six-foot oil painting of two ripe avocados dangling on a branch like pendulous breasts.
The guest bedroom was a cozy place with Native American baskets, wall hangings, and pottery. Steve tucked Bobby into bed, pulling a comforter up to his chin.
“Don't go till I fall asleep, Uncle Steve.”
Steve sat on the edge of the bed. “Not going anywhere, kiddo.”
“That was raging today, huh?”
“Raging?”
“When you waxed Mom's friend, you were totally tight.”
“Totally,” Steve agreed. There was something buzzing around in Bobby's head, Steve knew, but it was having a hard time coming out. “You want to talk about what happened, kiddo?”
Under the comforter, Bobby's thin shoulders shrugged.
“You know the rules. Anything you ask, I answer.”
“My mom,” Bobby said. “Is she a bad person or is she, like, totally whacked?”
He'd never lied to the boy. He couldn't start now. “A little of both. Maybe a lot of both.”
“How come she's bad and you're good?”
“She's not all bad and I'm not all good.”
And that was the truth, he thought. Only hours earlier, he'd agreed to pay Janice a bribe. One hundred thousand dollars for her favorable testimony. His only defense was that he didn't have the money to carry out the crime. He would work on that tomorrow. He would try not to consider the ethical and moral ramifications of what he had agreed to do. That, he knew, would come another day, and with it, a pain worse than his current headache.
The boy's eyelids were fluttering. “If Mrs. Barksdale murdered her husband, wouldn't she be way bad?”
“Way bad,” Steve agreed.
“Not the bad that's good. The bad that's bad.”
“Yep.”
“The woman is perfected,” the boy whispered. “We'll figure it out.” A second later, he was asleep.
“You're a wonderful father,” a soft voice said.
Steve turned. Victoria stood just inside the bedroom door.
“Thanks. But sometimes I think I get more from him than he does from me.”
Victoria walked to the bed, reached down, and stroked Bobby's cheek. He was breathing so heavily he seemed to be purring. “He idolizes you. You should be very proud.”
But just now, he wasn't feeling proud at all. Not as a would-be father. Not as a lawyer. Not as a man. He felt more like a felon on the verge of being caught. Hoping to change the subject, he gestured toward a darkened window. “How's it going out there?”
“Temperature's dropping. Bruce is freaking.”
“Sorry I'm not more help.”
“That's okay. I just thought it would be nice to have you around.” She was silent a moment. Then she said: “Do you want to take a walk?”
A three-quarter moon peeked through the orange-tinted clouds, and black smoke curled above the trees. Cuban love songs played on the speakers as Victoria led Steve along a path of coral rocks on a ridge above the grove. Suddenly, thousands of brightly colored lights blinked on, turning the avocado grove into a stand of Christmas trees.
“Wow. Look at that.”
“Bruce's idea to heat the trees,” Victoria said. “He cleaned out every Wal-Mart of Christmas lights from Orlando to Key West.”
“Smart guy, your Bigby.”
“He's got nothing on you.”
“Just a few million bucks. And you
.”
“Which do you suppose is more important to Bruce?” she asked.
The question surprised Steve. Discussing her relationship with Bigby had been off-limits. “Can't answer for him. Only for me.”
His words hung in the air, trapped like the smoke from the smudge pots. After a moment, she said: “Keep going, Solomon.”
“I'm cold. Let's go back.”
“This way.” She took him by the hand.
“Where?”
She didn't answer, just led him down the path toward the lagoon.
“If you're thinking about skinny-dipping, forget it,” he said.
Two flaming torches were stuck in the ground at the entrance to the chickee hut at the water's edge. “Come on in,” she said. “It's a good windbreak.”
“Yeah, for a Miccosukee hunting party.”
He lingered at the entrance, and she ducked inside.
He wondered: Just what the hell's going on? The walk. The hut. Was she coming on to him? Or could he be misreading the signals? No doubt his brain was addled by his dinner of Jack Daniel's, Tylenol with codeine, and peanut butter cups.
“What are you afraid of?” Her voice came from the shadows inside the hut.
“You.”
“What do you think's going to happen in here?”
“If we were fifteen, we'd make out. But we're not, so I figure you've got pre-wedding jitters, and because I'm your pal, you want to talk. ‘I love this about Bruce,' and ‘I don't like this about Bruce.' Frankly, Victoria, I can do without it.”
“What if I just wanted to make out?”
“What about el jefe? He's packing heat.”
“I know you, Solomon. You're not afraid of him. All your fears are self-directed.”
Steve was aware of something cold and wet striking his forehead. What the hell? He turned back toward the grove. The orange-lit sky was flecked with white. “It's snowing!”
“Impossible.”
She hurried out of the hut. Then, to his astonishment, she spun a pirouette and yelped with joy, sticking out her tongue to catch the flakes swirling toward her. “It's fabulous!” Over the speakers, Benny Moré was singing something with a bolero beat. “Magical . . .”
