Maybe Jackie was right. Maybe she should be more aggressive, not worry about appearances. As Victoria thought about it, a realization dawned. There were no hidden diamonds. At least none buried in the stucco or tucked inside light fixtures.
The only diamonds we'll ever find are the ones we make ourselves.
She should probably plan what to say, scribble notes on index cards, but to hell with it. She'd do it the way Solomon would.
Moving quickly so she couldn't change her mind, Victoria flipped open her cell phone.
“What are you doing?” Jackie asked.
“Winging it,” Victoria said.
Ten
AMBUSH ON KUMQUAT STREET
Victoria hit the brakes, and her aging Ford Taurus swerved into the oncoming lane, barely missing a two- foot-long green iguana wiggling across the asphalt. It made her think of that other lizard, the shoe-stealing Steve Solomon. Except, had he been slithering by, she would have floored it. Squish.
There was Loquat Avenue. Where the hell was Kumquat? The streets were not well lighted, and Victoria was lost after dark somewhere in Coconut Grove. She'd been distracted, practicing what she would say to Solomon if she could ever find his house.
I don't want your champagne. I don't want your flowers. I don't want to see your face or ever hear your name.
Then she corrected herself. She did want to see his face. She wanted to watch him suffer. Lord it over him, as her mother used to quip.
“Katrina Barksdale hired me. So go back to your fender benders and birdshit cases. And give me back my damn shoe.”
It sounded good to her. Strong. Defiant.
But now she was adrift in a neighborhood where hibiscus hedges burst from front yards and crept, untamed and unshorn, to the street, where live oaks eclipsed the moon, erasing shadows and turning everything a poisonous greenish black. The windows on the Taurus were down-the A/C needed freon-and the intoxicating fragrance of jasmine washed over her in the humid night. She was starting to perspire. Why did she wear the white satin blouse and worsted wool slacks?
It was the second outfit she'd tried on. First the white jeans with the sleeveless silver nylon net top, flecked with confetti beads. A little too sexy for an unannounced visit to a man's home after dark. And altogether too frivolous for this mission. She could have covered up with her little silver leather jacket with the snap buttons, but the night was too warm. Not only that, she'd promised Bruce she'd throw out all her leather, as it offended his PETA principles. So far, she hadn't done it, and she wished he would lighten up.
Just as she was thinking about her other broken promise-to stop eating meat-she caught a whiff of someone's backyard barbecue. It smelled like ribs being smoked, the tang of a vinegary sauce in the evening air. God, could she help it if she was a born carnivore? If she joined PETA, she'd change the name to People for Especially Tasty Animals. But when you love someone, you make compromises, right? Giving up meat in return for Bruce-well, that was a no-brainer, wasn't it?
One hand on the steering wheel, she absentmindedly ran a finger over her blouse's twisted cording. The satin braids twirled in a floral pattern, and the sleeves puffed out with elaborate scalloped cuffs. The slacks were nothing fancy, plain black with straight legs. A trick from her mother. “Basic bottoms with a glamorous top. Simple but elegant.”
Now where was she? She'd passed Palmetto Street, Royal Palm, and Poinciana. She figured she'd gone too far. She hung a U-turn and backtracked, and there it was. Kumquat Avenue. Which house was it?
Shit!
She slammed on the brakes and barely missed hitting a pickup truck head-on. An old green pickup with no lights and a bug screen on its front bumper. It must have pulled out from the curb in the darkness. She flashed her lights, but the truck sped away with its lights still off. Asshole.
The bungalow was just as she'd imagined it. Concrete block and stucco. Needing a paint job. Lightbulbs missing on a lantern near the front door. Dead fronds from a sabal palm littering the front yard. Solomon's car, an ancient Cadillac convertible the size of an aircraft carrier, sat in the gravel driveway. She knew it was his from the vanity plate: I-OBJECT. Rust spots sprouted on the fenders like cancerous growths, and the white canvas top was freckled with mildew and patched with duct tape. The overall impression was that the car had been pulled from the bottom of a canal with a mobster stuffed in the trunk.
Carrying Solomon's bribes-the bottle of champagne and a wilting bouquet of birds of paradise-she followed a path of chipped flagstone to the front door, avoiding the red berries of a Brazilian pepper tree that could send her blouse to dry-cleaner hell. She stepped around a dead frog, careful not to let her high-heeled sandals touch the gray cadaver being autopsied by a phalanx of carpenter ants. A plant with drooping white flowers overhung the path. Like the entire neighborhood of overgrown vegetation, like Solomon himself, the huge plant needed trimming back. What was it called?
Ouch. She stopped short. A sharp, pointed leaf had snagged her puffy sleeve. She gently extricated herself. Too late. A ragged hole appeared in the blouse, a swirling soutache braid torn loose.
Damn you, Solomon, and damn your shrubbery, too.
Of course, the doorbell didn't work. She pounded on the door, and the name of the plant came to her. Spanish dagger.
Suddenly, a startling sensation. Something cold on the back of her neck. She wheeled around and caught a blast of water in the face.
Shit! Did a sprinkler turn on? Why did every encounter with Solomon turn into a disaster?
“Oppugnatio!”
The yell came with a green-and-brown blur, a figure leaping out of the pepper tree, landing three feet away. A skinny boy, maybe eleven or twelve years old, in camouflage gear.
“Capitis damnare!” he bellowed, then raised a red plastic rifle and hit her with a powerful blast of water. She stumbled backward, snagging herself again on a Spanish dagger leaf. She dropped the flowers and Cristal. The bottle shattered and sprayed her sandals and bare toes with champagne. Her attacker dashed past her, flinging open the door and running into the house.
A bare-chested man appeared in the open doorway. “What the hell's going on?” Solomon was wearing nothing but a towel around his waist.
“Some little monster just-”
“Bobby. My nephew. You scared him.”
“I scared him?” The nephew, she thought. Back in the jail cell, Solomon called him a reverse chick magnet but failed to mention he was a serial killer in training. “If I remember my Latin, I think he just condemned me to death.”
“He must have thought you were a social worker.”
She stuck a finger through the hole in her blouse. Ruined.
“Family Services is checking out my parenting skills,” Steve continued.
“Is there a grade below F?”
“So why are you here? Wait. Don't tell me. You're taking me up on my offer?”
“That what you think?”
“Or you're hitting on me.” He gave her that infuriating grin. “I haven't been to a wet T-shirt contest in years.”
She looked down at her blouse, her breasts and nipples silhouetted by the wet fabric.
Oh, great. The one time I don't wear a bra.
