“Too late. Katrina already wrote a check. Payable to Solomon and Lord.”
“There's no such firm. Never will be.”
Steve looked back toward the courtyard and gave Katrina a little wave. “Okay. We're a one-case firm. Win, lose, or draw, we split up. But for now…”
“No way. I'll tell Kat you're an impostor and a shyster.”
“We'll look like clowns. Neither of us will get the case.”
“You bastard. You low-life, bullshit-slinging bastard!”
“Go ahead. Get it out of your system.”
They were at the edge of the dock, the huge yacht looming over them. A three-foot metal gaff was mounted on hooks attached to a piling. She could grab it, bash his skull, and push him into the water. When he tried to crawl out, she'd clobber him. Again and again. Watch him slip under in a mess of splintered bone and bubbling blood. Justifiable homicide. No jury would convict her.
“Trust me,” he said. “Someday you'll thank me.”
“Someday I'll kill you.”
“Like it or not, we're attached at the hip.”
Furious, she spun around so she wouldn't have to look at him. She needed a plan. She could torpedo him, no doubt about it. But what would Katrina think? That she didn't have her shit together. Solomon was right, damn him. If she opened her mouth, they'd both lose the case.
She wheeled back and faced him. “Katrina really wrote a check?”
Smiling like a lizard on a sunny rock, Steve patted his jacket pocket. “It's right here. Ten thousand dollars.”
“Ten thousand? For a murder case? Are you kidding? It's got to be six figures.”
“Sure, it should be. But Barksdale's kids have filed suit against Katrina for wrongful death, tied up all the money. She's got hardly anything in her own name.”
“She's got more than ten thousand.”
“Jeez, one day in private practice, you're greedy already. Look, we'll get a million dollars' worth of publicity, and if we win, the money gets freed up and we get paid.”
“I can't buy groceries with publicity.”
“Why do you rich people worry so much about money?”
“I'm not rich, you jerk.”
“But your clothes.”
“Consignment shops.”
“And jewelry?”
“My mother's castoffs.”
“Princeton? Yale?”
“Scholarships and loans.”
“Oh,” he said, downcast. “And I was hoping you could front the expenses for expert witnesses, lab tests, consultant fees.”
“You are so totally dim. I'm broke.”
“All the more reason for you to tag along.”
“I don't tag along.”
“Okay, you take the law, I take the facts.”
“I'll consider it if we split fees, sixty-forty my way,” she said.
“Sixty-forty, my way. I'm providing you with free space in my penthouse office.”
“You have a penthouse?”
“Top floor. Of a two-story building.”
“I'll bet it's a real showplace,” she said. “Fifty-five, forty-five, my way.”
“Fifty-fifty. You can use my secretary. She types a hundred words a minute. In Spanish. In English, she spells everything phonetically, so you gotta really proof it.”
“She won't mind the extra work?”
“Doesn't matter. It's a term of her parole that she have a job.”
“Great,” she said, feeling her temples beginning to throb. “Just great.”
“So, we have a deal?”
She thought a moment before saying: “Not until you agree to some ground rules.”
“Whatever you say.”
“None of your macho bullshit. You treat me as an equal.”
“You got it.”
“We don't do anything unethical.”
“Of course not.”
“And none of your sophomoric cracks about my sex life.”
“Or lack thereof?”
“That's what I'm talking about,” she said.
“Just testing the boundaries. So-partners?”
“For one case.”
“Fine. Let's shake.”
She extended a hand, but he didn't shake. Instead, he fanned out his fingers, just as Bobby had done. She paused another moment-dammit, this sucked, but what choice did she have?-raised her hand, and pressed it against his.
Steve looked into her eyes as their hands pressed together, wondering just how long she would hold the position. First time they'd ever touched, and he sure as hell wasn't going to be the one to break away.
She caught the look in his eyes and pulled her hand back.
Suddenly, a churning noise in the water startled them both. The engines on the Kat's Meow were firing up, and water churned at the stern.
“Hey there!” a voice came from above. “Sorry if I spooked you.”
On the flying bridge, a sun-baked man in a white shirt with epaulets stood at the wheel. In his mid-thirties, he sported a mustache and wore aviator sunglasses and a blue ball cap. “Wanna give me a hand with the lines?”
“No problem,” Steve said. He walked to the front cleat, unwrapped the bow line, and tossed it aboard.
Katrina called from the courtyard: “Where you going, Chet?”
“The marina. Carbon monoxide gauge is on the fritz. Be back before sundown.” He looked down at Steve, who was untying the stern line. “She's a beauty, huh?”
For a second, Steve thought he was talking about Katrina.
“Sixty-four feet with a hull draft of only twenty-three inches,” the man said.
Oh.
“Sleeps eight. Or twelve if you're real good friends.” The man laughed, and Steve tossed the stern line onto the deck.
“You live aboard?” Victoria asked, and Steve smiled. He was about to ask the same thing.
“Captain's quarters,” Chet said.
“Were you here the night Charles died?” she asked. That was Steve's next question, too. He'd been right about Victoria. She had great instincts. “Mr…?”
“Manko. Call me Chet. I was sleeping in my stateroom. Mrs. B called me right away. I got there even before the paramedics, but Mr. B was already dead.”
“We're going to need to talk to you, Mr. Manko,” Victoria said.
Steve smiled, liking the sound of the “we.”
“Not a problem,” Manko said. “I'm always around.” Then he waved to Katrina, gave the throttle some juice, expertly pulled away from the dock, and headed toward the open bay.
“You're thinking he's a corroborating witness?” Steve asked.
“I'm hoping,” she said.
