But why wouldn't she help him? That he couldn't figure out. He stole a glance across the room. On this chilly day, with gusts rattling the windowpane, Victoria wore a brown knit skirt fringed at the bottom. A matching hooded cardigan and fleece-lined, high-heeled suede boots completed the outfit, which Steve had never seen before. He wondered if he was starting to memorize her wardrobe, as he had done with her features, her every look. There was the furrowed brow with pursed lips when she studied a law book, the triumphant smile when she pounced on a winning point, the mysterious gaze when she stared into space. And another look, too.
He'd seen it once, and only because he opened his own eyes to find hers closed. When their lips had parted during their one and only kiss, she radiated total rapture.
Now he replayed their conversation of just a few minutes ago. He surely knew Victoria well enough to crack her codes. Suggesting he get counsel, she'd been overly polite, overly delicate. Then he said, Fine, you represent me. And she said no. Why?
There could be only one reason.
He felt his mood plummet. It's not that she lacked confidence in her own abilities.
She thinks I haven't got a chance. She thinks I'm going to lose.
Thirty
WEDDING BELL BLUES
An hour later, Steve was still stewing about Bobby's case, and Victoria was grinding away on the murder case, reading appellate cases, taking notes in neat lettering on her cards. The intercom buzzed and Cece said: “Yo, Vic. Hottie alert. Beefcake on final approach.”
Bruce Bigby, in a double-breasted charcoal suit with a thin chalk stripe, breezed through the doorway, kissed Victoria's cheek, and opened a briefcase, all in one motion.
“Hate to burst in like this, sweetie. Hey, Steve.” He did a double take. “Jeez, your face.”
“Shaving accident,” Steve said.
“Hon, what are you doing here?” Victoria said.
“We've got a thousand things to do.” He pulled a file from his briefcase. “Steve, you've got to be more careful.”
“I'm fine. Stick to your gourds, Bruce.”
“Mind your manners, partner,” Victoria warned.
“Avocados aren't gourds, Steve,” Bigby said.
“Who gives a shit?”
“Steve!” Victoria glared at him.
“I'm sorry, Bruce,” Steve said contritely. “Just having a bad day.”
“Not a problem, Steve. I understand.”
What a nice guy, Steve thought. So even-keeled. So imperturbable. So irritating. Steve realized he both resented and envied Bigby. Then he felt guilty about it. He owed Bigby for trying to help with Kranchick, even if it hadn't worked. And he wanted to make up for being such a prick just now. Forcing some cheer into his voice, he said: “So what's new on the farm, Bruce?”
“Arctic front's headed our way. We might be burning smudge pots by the weekend.”
“If you need any extra hands, I'm there.” Steve didn't know which would be worse, freezing his ass off, or watching Bigby make out with Victoria in the glow of a smudge pot. “I mean it. You need the fields set on fire, just call me.”
“You burn sugarcane fields, not avocado trees. But a mighty decent offer.” Bigby dropped his voice to a whisper. “Say, Vic told me. I'm sorry about the doctor's report.” He shot a look at Bobby. “Are we allowed to talk about it in front of-?”
“I'm not deaf, dipshit,” Bobby said.
“Bobby!” Steve said.
“My fault,” Bigby said. “Robert, I apologize.”
“So just why are you here, hon?” Victoria asked.
To Steve, she sounded on edge. Not quite “what the hell are you doing in my office when I've got work to do?” But maybe just a tinge of annoyance.
“The wedding, sweetie,” Bigby said. “You do remember?”
“It's all she talks about,” Steve said, and Victoria gave him a warning look.
“I'm a little busy right now,” she said.
Bigby spread the contents of a file on her desk. “Seating charts, floral arrangements, musical selections, speeches to write. Really, sweetie, we're way behind the curve.”
“I'm sorry, Bruce, but it's been hectic here.”
“I know. I know. Murder and all, but really…”
“Look, I'm gonna take a walk on the beach,” Steve said. “You two stay here and pick out place settings.” He preferred a colonoscopy with a garden hose to listening to their wedding plans.
“We could use your help with final menu choices,” Bigby said.
“I'm partial to barbecue,” Steve said.
“Not unless it's made of tofu,” Bigby reminded him.
Steve got to his feet. “I'll be at Tenth Street Beach if you need me.”
“Isn't that the topless beach?”
“Funny, I never noticed.”
“Hang on a sec, Steve. I want to ask you for a favor.”
“Anything, Bruce.”
“I'd be honored if you'd be one of our ushers.”
“Me? I don't have any training.”
“You'll learn at the rehearsal.”
“I don't know. Somebody trips and falls, they might sue me.”
“Just think about it. And do you want to sit on the bride's side or the groom's side of the church?”
“The Jewish side,” Steve said.
The intercom buzzed again, and Cece announced that State Attorney Pincher was calling. Steve and Victoria exchanged looks-What's he want?-and Steve hit the speaker button. “Hey, Sugar Ray. Coerce any confessions today?”
“Got that discovery you requested.” Faint amusement tickled his voice.
“Great. I'll send my courier over.”
“You don't have a courier.”
“I forgot. Be a pal and send the stuff over with one of yours.”
“Oh, I think you and your partner ought to come over here, pronto.”
“Yeah, why's that?” Steve heard laughter in the background. He pictured an office filled with Pincher's flunkies.
“'Cause I want to see your face when your case goes straight to Hades.” Again, the ripple of sycophantic laughter. The phone clicked dead.
Steve turned to Victoria. “Pincher's gonna sandbag us, but I don't know how.”
“Then the sooner the better.”
“Right. Let's get going.”
Victoria gathered some papers, dumped them in a briefcase. No muss, no fuss. Steve admired how she just got down to business, readied for the fight.
“Sorry, hon,” she said. “The menus and seating charts will have to wait.”
“And the flowers?” Bigby said.
“You choose. Really, Bruce. You're better at it than I am.”
“If you say so,” Bigby said, disappointed.
“I'm partial to birds of paradise,” Steve said, heading for the door.
8. There is some shit I will not eat.
Thirty-one
MY PARTNER
“What happened to your face, Solomon?” Ray Pincher asked. “Your secretary beat you up?”
Steve put on his best Jack Nicholson: “Your wife got excited and crossed her legs a little too quick.”
Pincher scowled, but his crew-two female prosecutors and Delvin Farnsworth, the homicide detective-snickered.
“Hated that movie,” Pincher said. “Evil prevailed. ‘It's Chinatown, Jake.' What kind of crap is that?”
“What do you have for us, Ray?” Steve wasn't being paid enough to listen to Pincher's movie reviews.
“I'm getting there,” Pincher said.
Victoria and Steve were sitting on one side of a long rectangular table in Pincher's conference room. There was a nice view from the windows, if you like concrete expressway trestles fifty feet high.
Pincher was wearing a jet black vested suit with a lavender shirt, lavender tie, and lavender kerchief in his pocket. Way too much lavender for Steve's taste. “Solomon is usually a formidable opponent,” Pincher said, turning to the detective. “Reprehensible, but formidable. Lately, though, he's been off his game.”