Sitting in the Barksdale living room, Victoria watched Katrina flip through the glossy photos of her wrestling match with Chet Manko.
“If I'd known they were taking pictures, I'd have gotten a bikini wax,” Katrina said, making a face.
Victoria slipped a cassette into a portable tape recorder. “Frankly, we're more concerned about the audiotapes.”
Sade was singing “Smooth Operator,” but Katrina was still studying the photos. “Jesus, I look all washed out. That sun on the bay is brutal.”
Victoria refrained from saying that she'd look even worse after a few years at Dade Correctional Institution. “Kat, I really need you to listen to this.”
Katrina shrugged and tossed her hair over a shoulder. She wore a crisscross black-and-white halter mini that Victoria had seen at Saks. A Balenciaga design, sixteen hundred fifty dollars. Black ankle-wrap sandals with a hanging brass pendant. Giuseppe Zanotti. Six hundred bucks, at least. After Sade had finished singing about a man with eyes like angels but a heart that's cold, and after Manko had finished soliciting a murder, Katrina shrugged again. “What's the big deal? You heard me. I told Chet to forget it.”
“Pincher's going to say the tape shows you were considering Manko's offer, and that later you killed your husband without Chet's help.”
“That's ridiculous.”
“Did you and Manko talk about killing Charles other times?”
“Sure. Chet wouldn't let it go. He had a whole plan. Next time we crossed the Gulf Stream, he'd dump Charlie overboard and claim it was an accident.” She shivered. “Just the thought of Charlie being eaten by a shark freaked me out. I told Chet to shut up, never mention it again.”
Victoria tried to evaluate her client. Was Katrina telling the truth? Where was the human polygraph when she needed him?
Her cell phone rang. It was Steve, saying he wouldn't have time to pick up the baby-backs, but he'd stop at the Italian deli on the way back to his place. She said to forget about the food, how'd it go with the divorce lawyer?
“‘Cement a spit-fed whore,'” he replied.
“I beg your pardon.”
He read her the poem, which she scribbled down. No, she didn't have any idea what it meant, either.
“Charles Barksdale's telling us something,” Steve said. “And we better figure it out before Pincher does.”
“What's ‘contretemps'?” Katrina asked, after Victoria read her the verse.
“A mistake, an embarrassing mishap.”
“Like getting charged with bumping your husband off?”
“More like spilling the soup on your date. You have no idea what Charles could have meant? ‘Contretemps'? ‘Competent wish'? ‘Spit-fed whore'?”
“Better not have been talking about me.”
“Think about it, Kat. Had Charles ever said anything like this?”
Another shrug, another hair toss. “Charlie was always quoting books, showing off. And writing stuff he called poetry. He never came out and said what he meant.”
“That's what poetry does.”
“That's why I never liked it. Me, I just say whatever the hell I'm thinking.”
Thirty-four
PROSCIUTTO AND MELON, SALTY AND SWEET
“You're slicing the prosciutto too thin,” Victoria said.
“Since when does someone named Lord know anything about prosciutto?” Steve said.
“And what's your name, Solomonte?”
They were standing shoulder to shoulder at his kitchen counter. He was carefully constructing bruschetta al prosciutto, and she was supervising.
“Jews and Italians both know food,” he said. “This is top-grade prosciutto from Parma. It's supposed to be paper-thin, so it melts on your tongue.”
Victoria watched Steve slice the pink, buttery meat with the care of a surgeon. Outside, the sun had set, and the wind slammed palm fronds against the windows.
“When I was a kid, my mother served prosciutto and melon appetizers at her dinner parties,” she said.
“Great combination. The salty and the sweet.”
Like the two of us, she thought. Then chased the thought away. “How long have you been cooking?”
He gave her a sharp look. “I know what you're doing.”
“What?”
“This nurturing shtick. You're trying to take my mind off Bobby's case.”
Busted. Does he really know me that well?
“What we should be doing is prepping Bobby for his testimony,” he said.
“You sure you want him to testify?”
“He needs to tell the judge he wants to stay with me.”
“But it's risky. When Bobby gets nervous, there's no telling what he might say.”
Steve peeled a garlic clove with his fingers. “Gotta pull rank on you here. Bobby testifies.”
“I can be more objective than you can.”
“But I have more at stake, so it's my call. Besides, my gut tells me he'll do fine.”
“That again?”
“I keep telling you, listen to your gut.”
“Mine says I'm starving.” She pointed at the tiny ribbons of white that laced the meat. “Is that fat?”
Again, he gave her a long look.
“I'm not nurturing,” she protested. “I'm asking because I watch what I eat.”
“Just enough fat for flavor.”
Tempted, she grabbed a tiny sliver of the meat, nibbled at it, and closed her eyes in ecstasy. “Mmm, succulent.” She took a larger slice, placed it on her tongue, and purred, “So su-cu-lent.”
“If you say ‘succulent' one more time, I'm suing you for sexual harassment.”
She placed a fingertip in her mouth, extracted the last bit of flavor, and said, “Suc-cu-lent. So sue me, Solomon.” She picked up a wafer of garlic, rubbed it across a slice of ciabatta. “You going to heat the bread?”
“Not heat it, grill it. The panini grill gives it crispness. A good meal is a combination of flavors and textures. Like your mother's prosciutto and melon.”
“Opposites sometimes fit together well,” she said.
He gave her a look but didn't pick up the ball and run with it. “I take it you and Bruce don't do much cooking.”
“I'm lousy in the kitchen, and Bruce is pretty much a yogurt and veggie guy.”
“For me, eating's a sensual pleasure. Makes up for the lack of other ones.”
“Don't pull that on me, Solomon. How's the court reporter with the Rudnicks, anyway?”
“Sofia? Not seeing her anymore.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “We didn't have a lot to talk about.”
“Talk? Could it be you're maturing before my eyes?”
“Nah. Just a temporary phase.”
“Have you called Jackie yet?”
He drizzled olive oil on the garlicky ciabatta, put it into the panini grill. “I will. When I get some time.”
