Steve didn't look up from the magazine. “Maybe in a hanging, but not a slow, steady pressure like we've got here.”
Victoria was starting to wonder about Steve's work ethic. He'd spent half an hour drinking Cuban coffee, eating guava pastries, and reading the Miami Herald, laughing out loud at Carl Hiaasen's column. He'd spoken on the phone with a man he called Fat Louie, saying, “Gimme the over for a nickel on the Dolphins-Jets.” And for the past twenty minutes, he'd been thumbing through Sports Illustrated, and it wasn't even the swimsuit issue. She longed to say, “Get to work, lazybones,” but that would sound too much like her mother.
“Other than the injury to the neck, Charles had no bruises or lacerations,” she said.
“Uh-huh.”
Sounded bored. When was he going to roll up his sleeves, dig into the file?
“That's consistent with Katrina's story that Charles consented to being tied up and collared,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“The toxicology was normal. Blood gases showed-”
“Hey, rookie.” He tossed down the magazine. “You're interrupting my train of thought.”
“Excuse me. I'm trying to learn the forensics.”
“You're wasting your time.”
“Really?”
“Pretend you're Pincher. How do you prove the death was a homicide and not an accident?”
“Motive,” she said. “Pincher needs a reason Katrina would kill Charles or he can't win a circumstantial case.”
“Exactly,” he said. “Forget the blood gases. Figure out motive.”
“You didn't get anything from Katrina?”
“Nothing besides passion-fruit iced tea.”
“Maybe if you hadn't been so busy flirting.”
“I was establishing common ground, building a bond. It's what I do.”
“Especially with attractive women.”
“Not always successfully.” He gave her a long look. “Like I told you, she swears she loved her husband with all her heart. They had a perfect marriage. She had no reason to kill good old Charlie.”
“And you believe she's telling the truth?”
“Absolutely. I'm the Human Polygraph Machine, and we've got ourselves an innocent client.”
Had he been convincing? He had not told Victoria the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. He knew she badly wanted Katrina to be innocent, needed her to be innocent. A career prosecutor-if you call three trials and two cups of coffee a career-Victoria had never defended any client, much less a murder client. Steve feared her demeanor could give it away, their client's guilt written all over her face. He doubted she'd fight as hard if she thought their client was guilty. Hell, that's when you have to fight harder and be more creative.
Maybe Katrina was innocent, but in the real world, the arithmetic was against it. How many lost souls, swallowed by the so-called justice system, were truly innocent? Five percent? Less.
Best was to have a client you liked, a cause that was just, and a check that cleared. One out of three was the norm, he figured.
Yesterday, he'd given his trial team-as he'd come to think of Victoria, Bobby, and Cece-his old key-to-the- jailhouse-door speech. That was true; they had a duty to set Katrina free if they could. But he hadn't revealed how he felt on the ultimate question: Did she kill her husband?
When he was skimming through the magazine, he was replaying those moments alone with Katrina before Victoria arrived. He had tried to rattle Katrina to shake out the truth. It's always a good idea to give your client a dose of cross-examination before the prosecutor has a chance to do it.
Sitting at the table in the courtyard, Katrina's smile had been teasing, her eyes sparkling, her laugh tinkling. As he watched the slit on her skirt slide up her thigh, he wondered: Why so frisky for such a recent widow?
Steve had told her his ground rules for the attorney-client relationship. “Lie to your priest, your spouse, and the IRS, but not to your lawyer. I don't want any surprises at trial, so if there are any skeletons in the cabana…”
“Meaning?” Katrina asked, guileless as a child bride.
“Any men in your life besides your husband?”
“Only my masseur, my Pilates instructor, and my plastic surgeon.” She laughed and tossed layers of raven hair his way.
“I guess that's a no.”
“On the ice tour, we were all young and in great shape. A different hotel every other night, lots of parties, guys with great butts. Some of the guys were even straight, and boy, did they make out like bandits. But when I met Charlie, I quit that scene. I've been faithful to him since the day he proposed.”
“And vice versa?”
“Charlie would never stray, I can guarantee you that.”
Boasting more about her own abilities than her husband's fidelity, Steve thought. “Anything out there that can embarrass you?”
“There was a party once with about half the Detroit Red Wings, but that's ancient history. And Charlie knew all that stuff, anyway. He liked hearing about the other men, the group sex, the girl-on-girl. Give Charlie a hot story and leather restraints, he'd be sailing over Viagra Falls.”
“Any old boyfriends who are gonna post X-rated video on the Internet?”
Her eyes were clear and cool as a winter rain. “I had lots of X-rated moments, but I didn't let anyone tape them.”
“Good.”
“I worked a Vegas ice show in a thong and skates. That a problem?”
“Don't think so.”
“When you're in a sit spin, the breeze off the ice can really freeze your beav.”
For a moment, the only sound in the courtyard was the gurgling fountain of spitting cherubs.
Her tongue seemed to flick across her lips, but she might have just been moistening her gloss. “You unattached, Steve?”
“Like a piece of driftwood.”
“Maybe when this is over…”
She let the bait play in the water, but he didn't leap for it.
“Any prenup?” he asked, getting back to business.
“You know a rich old guy who doesn't demand one?”
“I'll need a copy.”
“Sure, but I can tell you what it says. If we got divorced, I'd keep what I brought into the marriage.”
“Which is what, other than your skates and thongs?”
“What difference does it make? We weren't getting divorced. We were planning a trip to Tuscany in the spring. We were going fishing off Bimini next week. We had a good life.”
“It might matter to the State Attorney, so I have to ask.”
“Besides my skates and thongs,” she said, eyes wary, “if we got divorced, I'd keep my wits. They've always been good to me. As for money, I wouldn't get a dime.”
“And if you were married when your husband died, you'd get… ?”
“One-third of his estate, the rest goes to his kids from his first marriage.”
“If you were unhappy, that might be a motive for murder.”
“I wasn't unhappy.”
“Or if Charlie planned to divorce you…”
“And lose the best blow jobs of his life? Look, we got along. He had his business and his poetry seminars, and I had the club and my friends. Charlie gave me everything I wanted. Why would I risk all that by killing him?”
“Spouses kill each other all the time for the darnedest reasons.”
“If I'd killed Charlie,” she said, her voice as sharp as a skate blade, “I'd have a better alibi than ‘I was sucking his cock and then he strangled.'”
