“Unusual? What the hell’s that mean?”
Her silence forced him to think about it. It took a moment. “Animal attractions?”
“Lots of them. Lion Safari. Monkey Palace. Seaquarius.”
“And Cetacean Park? And Grisby’s other place. In California, the first one ALM raided.”
“Undersea World,” Victoria helped out.
“Bestia insured them, too?”
“I’m putting Grisby on the stand Monday morning. Why don’t you ask him?”
“You’re something else, Vic.”
“I just want to level the playing field.”
“You restore my faith in the justice system.”
“Stop it. You’d do the same for me.”
He didn’t answer.
“Wouldn’t you, Steve?”
An hour later, Steve knocked at the study door and waited.
“Come in,” Victoria said.
The room was dark except for a lamp on an end table. Victoria was propped on two pillows on the convertible sofa, reading. She wore an orange silk camisole over white silk slacks, and somehow reminded Steve of a Creamsicle.
He moved toward the sofa bed, and she raised one hand. “Hold it right there, cowboy. You know the rules.”
“I just want to talk, that’s all.”
“Uh-huh.”
Steve sat on the corner of the sofa bed. “I think you just tanked your own case.”
“How do you figure?”
“When I took Grisby’s depo, he denied ever knowing Sanders. On cross, I’ll prove he lied. His credibility will be shot, and no one will believe his version of the shooting.”
“Grisby says he didn’t know Sanders worked for the insurance company, and I believe him.”
“How’s that possible? Grisby would have filed a claim after Undersea World was hit.”
“A junior adjuster handled everything on-site. All Sanders did was approve the paperwork back at the home office. Bestia’s records confirm it.”
“So you’re saying this is just a big coincidence. The guy who approved the insurance payment after the first raid accidentally turns out to be the thief the second time.”
“No coincidence at all. Sanders knew the location of every single trained dolphin in the country. Once Hardcastle hired him, he knew exactly where he could steal the best.”
“I’m not buying it. I don’t care what the paperwork shows. Grisby had to know Sanders and he had to want him dead.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s the only way my client goes free.”
SOLOMON’S LAWS
10. Never sleep with a medical examiner, unless you’re dead.
Thirty-two
Steve flicked his wrist and jiggled the frying pan a foot above the burner. He prided himself on his ability to make a perfectly symmetrical apple-cheddar omelette, the cheese melting right to the edge without slopping over.
“Smells good,” Victoria said, checking out the kitchen table. Toasted English muffins, freshly brewed coffee, and sliced papayas. “Someone wants something.”
“Don’t be so cynical, Vic. You know I like to make you breakfast on Saturday mornings.”
“Only when you’ve been bad Friday night.”
Bobby walked in, barefoot and wearing a Miami Heat jersey that hung to his knees. “Yum. Is it makeup time, Uncle Steve?”
“Hey, cut it out, you two.” Steve served Victoria her omelette and started up another one. “Can’t a guy do something nice for the people he loves?”
“Most people can. Bobby, why do you think your uncle’s being so thoughtful?”
“No idea, but I’m cool with it.” The boy speared a slice of papaya. “Can I pitch to you today, Uncle Steve?”
“As soon as we get back from the morgue.”
“Great. Can I watch an autopsy?”
“Nope. We’re just gonna meet with Dr. Ling.”
“So, that’s it,” Victoria said. “You’re witness-tampering today.”
“Hey, I’m entitled to talk to your witnesses.”
“You don’t want me to tell Dr. Ling to stonewall you, is that it?”
“Dr. Ling won’t talk to Uncle Steve, anyway,” Bobby said. “Dr. Ling hates him.”
Steve flipped the second omelette, his motion herky-jerky, the cheese slopping onto the pan. “No she doesn’t, kiddo.”
“I heard her say she’d like to cut your heart out.”
“She’s a medical examiner. It was a professional statement.”
Not long before Steve met Victoria, he’d had a brief relationship with Dr. Mai Ling. He’d known her for several years from court, but they’d only got together after a marathon night of Texas Hold ’Em with a rowdy group of homicide detectives, ER doctors, and deputy medical examiners. Steve admired Mai’s ability to keep her poker face whether bluffing, folding, or removing bullet fragments from a spleen. She was committed to her work, and would often cancel dinner dates after a drive-by shooting in Liberty City.
Mai was blatantly pro-prosecution. She was constantly irritated by Steve’s courtroom antics on behalf of defendants. The tipping point came when he cross-examined her in a murder case, pointing out that she’d performed the autopsy the morning after consuming two bottles of Sauvignon Blanc and spending the night in a bed not her own. Steve didn’t need a private investigator to ferret out the information, as he had provided both the wine and the bed. On her way out of the courtroom, Mai announced that she would, indeed, be pleased to perform an autopsy on Steve while he was still breathing.
“I could always tell when Dr. Ling slept over,” Bobby said. “The house smelled like formaldehyde.”
“She called it ‘le parfum de la mort,’” Steve said, “but to her, it smelled like roses.”
“Uncle Steve, you sure dated a lot of weirdos, B.V.”
Meaning “Before Victoria,” Steve knew.
Victoria poured herself a cup of coffee. “You don’t expect Dr. Ling to contradict her autopsy report, do you, Steve?”
“I just need her to refine a point or two.”
“If she’s holding a scalpel,” Bobby said, “I know what she’d like to refine.”
The county morgue was a red brick building that resembled a schoolhouse. It was located, not so humorously, on Bob Hope Road. Usually, Dr. Mai Ling spent Saturday mornings doing the paperwork that had piled up along with the bodies. But today she was perched on a stool in a spotless lab, gently brushing specks of tissue off a skull under a magnifying lens.
“Hey, Mai,” Steve called out.
She turned and stared at him with the same poker face she used when pushing all-in on the river. Mai was a petite woman with short dark hair and a face with sharp planes and small features. She wore eye shadow the color of an eggplant. This, with her dark eyes, tended to give her a raccoon look. Her white lab coat was crisply starched.
“How’s my favorite canoe maker?” Steve tried again.
No smile. No nothing.
“Bobby,” he continued, “did I ever tell you that Dr. Ling never had a patient who lived?”
Bobby rolled his eyes.
Still ignoring Steve, Mai smiled at the boy and held up the skull. “Bobby, do you know what I’m doing right now?”
“The skull has two different spiderweb fractures. You want to see which one caused the death because-and just guessing here-two different guys hit the dead guy.”
“You’re a very smart boy.” Mai set the skull on the counter and turned toward Steve. “What brings you here on a Saturday, Counselor?”
“Same as you. Pursuing justice.”
“If it’s the Nash case, my autopsy report speaks for itself. I have nothing to add.”
“I’m going to cross-examine you next week. Don’t you want a preview?”
“Sure. Preferably without wine.”
Steve spent a few minutes explaining what he wanted. Illustrations on the autopsy report showed the location of Sanders’ wounds. Pellets from the first shotgun blast peppered the gluteus medius muscle of the hip and lodged in the iliac crest. But the femoral artery wasn’t severed. Steve’s question was simple and direct.