anytime you want.”
“Cut the crap and get in, Solomon.” Cowboy Boots was trying to sound tough. He was also succeeding.
“Are you nuts? Look around. Justice Building. County Jail. Sheriff’s Department. A thousand cops within spitting distance. All I have to do is yell-”
Steve never saw the punch. A short right, square in the gut. Steve gasped. His knees buckled. He would have hit the ground, but Cowboy Boots grabbed him neatly by the collar of his suit jacket and shoved him into the backseat, piling in after him. Steve was still wheezing to catch his breath when the car pulled out. No shrieking tires, no crazy turns. Just a smooth acceleration past the Justice Building, where Steve’s presence was expected, if not entirely desired.
The driver spoke first. “Like I said, Solomon, we can help you with the Nash case.”
“No. You said,
“But first, you gotta help us. You know who we are?”
“No, but I know where you’re going. There’s a cell with your name on it about a block away.”
“That ain’t funny.” Cowboy Boots cuffed Steve on the head with an open palm.
Which is when Steve saw it. Red scar tissue. A chunk out of the man’s arm. Just as Nash had described. But not a bullet wound. Steve had seen a nearly identical divot in another man’s arm. Captain Dan, one of the best fishing guides in Islamorada. It was a shark bite.
“You’re the two guys on the boat,” Steve said. “You were supposed to bring the dolphins aboard. But you cut and ran when the cops showed up.”
The Lincoln passed under the I-95 overpass on 20th Street. “What else did Nash tell you about us?” the driver demanded.
“Nothing. He doesn’t even know your names.”
“You sure about that?”
“He doesn’t know if you’re Mr. Blue and your pal is Mr. Pink,” Steve said.
Cowboy Boots smacked Steve on the head a second time. “What the hell’s
“So why would I be Mr. Pink?”
“Never mind.” The driver turned to Steve, who felt the beginning of a headache inside one temple. “You know why we’re asking this stuff, right, Solomon?”
“Because you two worked for Sanders. And because you’re afraid Nash can lead the cops straight to you.”
Cowboy Boots snickered. It was better than getting slugged. “He thinks Sanders was our boss.”
It must have been a good joke, because both men laughed.
“Hey, Solomon,” the driver said. “If you gave Nash a penny for his thoughts, you’d get back change.”
More yuks. These two seemed to be quite happy kidnappers. And they didn’t seem terribly upset about Sanders’ death, which added to Steve’s confusion. Just then he remembered something Nash had said in the jail. The night of the break-in, Sanders had asked about the Gulf Stream, worried about the size of the waves. One of these guys had replied, “You do your job, we’ll do ours.”
A command. Not the way you speak to your boss.
“So what is it you want from me?” Steve asked.
“There are important people who need to know what Sanders told Nash.”
“About what?”
“Where we were planning to go that night, for one thing.”
That stopped Steve. These guys have nothing to do with ALM, he thought. And if Sanders worked for them, he had nothing to do with the movement, either.
“Even if Nash told me, I couldn’t tell you-”
Another open palm ricocheted off the back of Steve’s skull. “Sure you could,” Cowboy Boots said. “Or you’ll be Mr. Brown. As in shit-in-your-pants.”
“But Nash doesn’t know anything. You said it yourself. He needs two hands to find his dick.”
The headache dug deeper into Steve’s skull. Back in college, he’d been beaned by a Tulane pitcher who took offense at batters crowding the plate. The pitch cracked Steve’s batting helmet and left him seeing double. Now he was starting to feel as if he’d been hit by another pitch.
The car pulled to a stop in front of the Justice Building. Steve hadn’t realized it, but they’d driven in a circle.
“He’s telling the truth,” the driver told his pal, before turning to Steve. “Get out.”
The second Steve’s feet hit the pavement, the door swung closed, and the black Lincoln pulled away. Hillsborough County plates.
That’s all Steve could pick up before the car turned the corner. He ran a hand through his mussed hair, tucked his shirttail in, and straightened his tie. Then he bounded up the steps two at a time, heading into the Justice Building. He was late for court.
Twenty-one
“I’m sure Mr. Solomon will be here any moment, Your Honor. Traffic is so heavy today.”
Victoria often made excuses for Steve when they were cocounsel. Now, even on opposite sides of a case, she was still sticking up for him.
“Uh-huh.” Judge Gridley, berobed, was on the bench. Victoria, with perfect posture, stood behind the prosecution table.
Some judges will hold you in contempt for being tardy. Some levy a fine, five bucks a minute, the proceeds going to the Pizza Fund for Needy Bailiffs. But Judge Gridley seemed remarkably sanguine, leafing through a tabloid tout sheet called
The door flew open and Steve barreled into the courtroom, looking as if he’d just been dragged through a car wash. Hair tousled, shirt sweat-stained, dark complexion tinged red around the ears. He slipped into his suit jacket and tightened the knot in his tie as he hurried through the swinging gate to the defense table.
“Good afternoon, Your Honor.” He nodded toward the bench, then gave Victoria a tight smile.
“What happened to you?” Victoria asked.
“Later. Let’s get this over with.”
“Ah, Mr. Solomon graces us with his presence,” Judge Gridley said mildly, without looking up.
Steve bowed slightly. “I apologize, Your Honor.”
“One preliminary matter before we take on the defense motion.” The judge closed
“I generally don’t bet against the ’Canes in the Orange Bowl,” Steve said.
“A wise policy,” the judge allowed.
“But those national championships seem like ancient history. The line’s pick ’em. I’d go with the ’Noles.”
The judge grunted his approval and jotted a note on his tout sheet. “Okay, Mr. Solomon. It’s your motion. Stoke your boilers.”
Before Steve could open his mouth, Victoria said, “The defense motion may be moot, Your Honor. I haven’t had time to discuss this with Mr. Solomon, but the state has a plea offer.”
