like that kind of look.”
“What kind?”
“Like a fox. A dangerous, bushy-tailed fox—”
“Ooh.”
“With this look in his eyes, like he's playing some trick on the world.”
“He sounds divine. Maybe you should introduce us.”
“What happened to staying home and petting the kitty?”
“Dead batteries.”
“Believe me, you don't want to get mixed up with Solomon.”
“I'm not talking about forever. I'm talking about a horny Tuesday night.”
“Jac-kie,” Victoria chastised her in a tone reminiscent of The Queen. “You can do a lot better than Steve Solomon.”
“Are you keeping that bad boy for yourself?”
“Are you crazy? I'm marrying Bruce in a month.”
“One last fling with a wholly inappropriate man. It's de rigueur.”
“Says who?”
“Cosmo.”
Jackie grabbed the rest of the carrot cake, and with a mouth full of icing said: “Wouldn't you love to see Solomon's face if you got Katrina as a client?”
It was a tantalizing thought, but could she do it? “I've never handled a murder case.”
“C'mon. Go for it.”
Maybe Jackie was right. Maybe she should be more aggressive, not worry about appearances. As Victoria thought about it, a realization dawned. There were no hidden diamonds. At least none buried in the stucco or tucked inside light fixtures.
The only diamonds we'll ever find are the ones we make ourselves.
She should probably plan what to say, scribble notes on index cards, but to hell with it. She'd do it the way Solomon would.
Moving quickly so she couldn't change her mind, Victoria flipped open her cell phone.
“What are you doing?” Jackie asked.
“Winging it,” Victoria said.
Ten
AMBUSH ON KUMQUAT STREET
Victoria hit the brakes, and her aging Ford Taurus swerved into the oncoming lane, barely missing a two-foot-long green iguana wiggling across the asphalt. It made her think of that other lizard, the shoe-stealing Steve Solomon. Except, had he been slithering by, she would have floored it.
Squish.
There was Loquat Avenue. Where the hell was Kumquat? The streets were not well lighted, and Victoria was lost after dark somewhere in Coconut Grove. She'd been distracted, practicing what she would say to Solomon if she could ever find his house.
I don't want your champagne. I don't want your flowers. I don't want to see your face or ever hear your name.
Then she corrected herself. She
did
want to see his face. She wanted to watch him suffer.
Lord
it over him, as her mother used to quip.
“Katrina Barksdale hired me. So go back to your fender benders and birdshit cases. And give me back my damn shoe.”
It sounded good to her. Strong. Defiant.
But now she was adrift in a neighborhood where hibiscus hedges burst from front yards and crept, untamed and unshorn, to the street, where live oaks eclipsed the moon, erasing shadows and turning everything a poisonous greenish black. The windows on the Taurus were down—the A/C needed freon—and the intoxicating fragrance of jasmine washed over her in the humid night. She was starting to perspire. Why did she wear the white satin blouse and worsted wool slacks?
It was the second outfit she'd tried on. First the white jeans with the sleeveless silver nylon net top, flecked with confetti beads. A little too sexy for an unannounced visit to a man's home after dark. And altogether too frivolous for this mission. She could have covered up with her little silver leather jacket with the snap buttons, but the night was too warm. Not only that, she'd promised Bruce she'd throw out all her leather, as it offended his PETA principles. So far, she hadn't done it, and she wished he would lighten up.
Just as she was thinking about her other broken promise—to stop eating meat—she caught a whiff of someone's backyard barbecue. It smelled like ribs being smoked, the tang of a vinegary sauce in the evening air. God, could she help it if she was a born carnivore? If she joined PETA, she'd change the name to People for
“What kind?”
“Like a fox. A dangerous, bushy-tailed fox—”
“Ooh.”
“With this look in his eyes, like he's playing some trick on the world.”
“He sounds divine. Maybe you should introduce us.”
“What happened to staying home and petting the kitty?”
“Dead batteries.”
“Believe me, you don't want to get mixed up with Solomon.”
“I'm not talking about forever. I'm talking about a horny Tuesday night.”
“Jac-kie,” Victoria chastised her in a tone reminiscent of The Queen. “You can do a lot better than Steve Solomon.”
“Are you keeping that bad boy for yourself?”
“Are you crazy? I'm marrying Bruce in a month.”
“One last fling with a wholly inappropriate man. It's de rigueur.”
“Says who?”
“Cosmo.”
Jackie grabbed the rest of the carrot cake, and with a mouth full of icing said: “Wouldn't you love to see Solomon's face if you got Katrina as a client?”
It was a tantalizing thought, but could she do it? “I've never handled a murder case.”
“C'mon. Go for it.”
Maybe Jackie was right. Maybe she should be more aggressive, not worry about appearances. As Victoria thought about it, a realization dawned. There were no hidden diamonds. At least none buried in the stucco or tucked inside light fixtures.
The only diamonds we'll ever find are the ones we make ourselves.
She should probably plan what to say, scribble notes on index cards, but to hell with it. She'd do it the way Solomon would.
Moving quickly so she couldn't change her mind, Victoria flipped open her cell phone.
“What are you doing?” Jackie asked.
“Winging it,” Victoria said.
Ten
AMBUSH ON KUMQUAT STREET
Victoria hit the brakes, and her aging Ford Taurus swerved into the oncoming lane, barely missing a two-foot-long green iguana wiggling across the asphalt. It made her think of that other lizard, the shoe-stealing Steve Solomon. Except, had he been slithering by, she would have floored it.
Squish.
There was Loquat Avenue. Where the hell was Kumquat? The streets were not well lighted, and Victoria was lost after dark somewhere in Coconut Grove. She'd been distracted, practicing what she would say to Solomon if she could ever find his house.
I don't want your champagne. I don't want your flowers. I don't want to see your face or ever hear your name.
Then she corrected herself. She
did
want to see his face. She wanted to watch him suffer.
Lord
it over him, as her mother used to quip.
“Katrina Barksdale hired me. So go back to your fender benders and birdshit cases. And give me back my damn shoe.”
It sounded good to her. Strong. Defiant.
But now she was adrift in a neighborhood where hibiscus hedges burst from front yards and crept, untamed and unshorn, to the street, where live oaks eclipsed the moon, erasing shadows and turning everything a poisonous greenish black. The windows on the Taurus were down—the A/C needed freon—and the intoxicating fragrance of jasmine washed over her in the humid night. She was starting to perspire. Why did she wear the white satin blouse and worsted wool slacks?
It was the second outfit she'd tried on. First the white jeans with the sleeveless silver nylon net top, flecked with confetti beads. A little too sexy for an unannounced visit to a man's home after dark. And altogether too frivolous for this mission. She could have covered up with her little silver leather jacket with the snap buttons, but the night was too warm. Not only that, she'd promised Bruce she'd throw out all her leather, as it offended his PETA principles. So far, she hadn't done it, and she wished he would lighten up.
Just as she was thinking about her other broken promise—to stop eating meat—she caught a whiff of someone's backyard barbecue. It smelled like ribs being smoked, the tang of a vinegary sauce in the evening air. God, could she help it if she was a born carnivore? If she joined PETA, she'd change the name to People for
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