Solomon vs. Lord (37 page)

Read on for an excerpt of Paul Levine's next Solomon vs. Lord book,
THE DEEP BLUE ALIBI
, coming from Bantam
Books in Spring 2006.

THE DEEP BLUE ALIBI

A Solomon vs. Lord Novel

by

PAUL LEVINE

THE DEEP BLUE ALIBI

On sale Spring 2006

“Forget it, Steve. I'm not having sex in the ocean.”

“C'mon,” he pleaded. “Be adventurous.”

“It's undignified and unsanitary,” she said. “Maybe even illegal.”

“It's the Keys. Nothing's illegal.”

Steve Solomon and Victoria Lord were wading in the shallow water just off Sunset Key. At the horizon, the sun sizzled just above the Gulf.

“In this light, you're really magnificent,” he said.

“Nice try, hotshot, but the bikini stays on.”

Still, she had to admit that there was something erotic about the warm water, the salty breeze, the glow of the setting sun. And Steve looked totally hot, his complexion tinged a reddish bronze, his dark hair slick and lustrous.

If only I didn't have to drop a bombshell on him tonight.

“It'll be great.” He grabbed her around the waist. “A saltwater hump-a-rama.”

Dear God. Did the man I think I love really say “hump-a-rama”?

“We can't. There are people around.”

Twenty yards away, a young couple with that honeymoon look—satiated and clueless—pedaled by on a water bike. On the beach, hotel guests carried drinks in plastic cups along the shoreline. Music floated across the water from the hotel's tiki-hut bar, André Toussaint singing “Island Woman.”

Why couldn't Steve see she wasn't in the mood? How can someone so good at picking a jury be so oblivious to the ebb and flow of his lover's emotions?

She pried his hands off her hips. “There's seaweed. And sea lice. And sea urchins.” She'd run out of
sea-things
.

“Okay, we can do it in the boring old hotel room.”

“So you find our sex life drab without special effects.”

“I didn't say that.”

She sharpened her voice into cross-exam mode. “Isn't it true that after a few months, all your old girlfriends started to bore you?”

“Not the ones who dumped me.”

“Do you realize you have relationship attention disorder?”

“I love our sex life.” He pulled her close, and she could feel the bulge in his swim trunks. “Why don't we go in now and get started?”

Get started? Making it sound like cleaning the kitchen.

“You go. Start without me.”

She looked toward the horizon where thin ribbons of clouds were streaked the color of a bruised plum. They'd never make it before sunset. No way she was going to miss the orange fireball dip into the sea. She loved the eternal rhythm of day into night, the sun rising from the Atlantic, setting in the Gulf. What dependability. She doubted Steve understood that. If he had his way, the sun would zigzag across the peninsula, stopping for a beer in Islamorada.

She had another reason to stiff-arm his stiff arm.

The bombshell.

She'd been thinking about it all the way to Key West. A pesky mosquito of a thought, buzzing in her brain. She hated to ruin the evening, but she had to tell him soon.

She brought her legs up and floated on her back. As she looked toward the horizon upside down, the sun floated at the waterline, connected to its reflection by a fiery rope.

“Okay, okay, I give up,” Steve said. “
Coitus postponus
. What time do we meet your uncle?”

“Eight o'clock. And I told you, he's not really my uncle.”

“I know. Good old Hal Griffin. Your father's partner, the guy who bought you fancy presents when you were a spoiled brat.”

“Privileged, not spoiled. Uncle Grif's the one who named my mother ‘The Queen.'”

“And you ‘The Princess.'”

So Steve had been listening after all, she thought. “You think the name fits?”

“Like your Jimmy Choos.”

She started swimming the backstroke, heading out to sea, toward the setting sun. Her smooth strokes knifed through the water, now glazed a boiling orange. Steve swam alongside her, struggling to keep up.

“What I don't get is why Griffin's called you after all these years,” he said between breaths.

The same question had been puzzling Victoria. She hadn't seen Uncle Grif since her father's funeral when she was twelve. Now, suddenly, a phone call. “All I know is he has some legal work for me.”

“You mean for
us
.”

“He didn't know about you.”

“But you told him, right? Solomon and Lord.”

“Of course.”

Is this how it begins? A little white lie, followed by bigger, darker ones.

God, she hated this. She had to tell Steve, and quickly. But how?

She could hear him flailing away, kicking up a storm, trying to catch her. Except for swimming—all splash, no speed—Steve was an accomplished athlete. He'd run track in high school and played baseball at the University of Miami, where he was a mediocre hitter but a terrific base runner.

Solomon takes off . . . and steals second!

A good primer for lawyering, Victoria figured. Conning the pitcher, stealing the catcher's signs, then racing to a base you hadn't otherwise earned. Steve had been particularly adept at spiking opposing fielders and kicking the ball out of their gloves. But like a lot of athletes, he didn't know his limitations. He thought he was good at everything. Poker. Auto repair. Sex. Okay, he was good in bed, very good once she taught him to slow down and stop trying to score from first on a single.

A hundred yards offshore, she started treading water, waiting for him to catch up.

“So where are we eating, Vic?” Puffing hard now.

So very Steve. He could be thinking about dinner while still eating lunch. “Uncle Grif made reservations at Louie's Backyard.”

He made an appreciative
hmm
ing sound. “Love their cracked conch. Maybe go with the black grouper for an entrée, mango mousse for dessert.”

Sex and food, she thought. Did he ever think about anything else?

“And we'll be back in the room in time for
SportsCenter
,” he continued.

Yes, of course he did.

Was it his imagination, or was something bothering Victoria? Steve couldn't tell. She'd been quiet on the drive down the Overseas Highway, occasionally glancing at the red coral heads peeking through the shallow turquoise water. He'd asked how her cases were going—they divided up the workload as
his, hers,
and
theirs
—but she didn't want to talk shop. He sang some old Jimmy Buffet songs. But she didn't join his search for a lost shaker of salt or a cheeseburger in paradise.

Now he told himself that nothing was wrong. After all, he was holding Victoria in his arms as they treaded water. When he'd complimented her, he'd been sincere in his own lusty-hearted way. In the glow of the twilight, she was stunning, her skin blushed, her butterscotch hair pulled back in a ponytail, highlighting her cheekbones. Small breasts, long legs, a firm, trim body. He felt a stirring inside his trunks. The air was rich with salt and coconut oil, and he was with the woman he loved, a woman who for reasons inexplicable, seemed to love him, too.

By his calculations, they still had time to hit the room, make love, and meet Griffin at Louie's. Maybe do it in the shower as they cleaned up for dinner, the Solomon method of multitasking. He just wished the sun would hurry the hell up and call it a day.

Nearby, two windsurfers were catching a final ride, the wind shutting down for the night with the setting sun. Overhead, seabirds dipped and cawed. From the beach, he heard the sound of salsa coming from the bar's speakers, Celia Cruz singing “
Vida Es un Carnaval
.”

Damn straight. Steve's life was a carnival, a sun-filled, beach-breezed, beer commercial of an existence. This was better than knocking off State Farm for a seven-figure verdict. Not that he ever had, but he could imagine. Better, too, than stealing home in a college baseball game. That he'd done, against Florida State. Of course, his team lost. But still, a helluva moment.

“Steve, we need to talk,” Victoria said.

“Absolutely.” He was watching a pink sash of clouds at the horizon turn to gray. A slice of the sun nestled into the water. On the beach, the tourists yelped and cheered, as if they had something to do with this nightly feat. “What do we need to talk about?”

“Us.”

Uh-oh
.

In Steve's experience, when a woman wanted to talk about
us
, the carnival was about to fold its tent. He quickly ran through his possible misdemeanors. He hadn't left the toilet seat up for two weeks, at least. He hadn't been mean to her mother, even though Her Highness hated him. He hadn't flirted with other women, not even the exotic dancer he was representing in a prickly lewd and lascivious trial.

“So what'd I do?” Sounding defensive.

Victoria put her hands around his neck, twining her fingers, as they treaded water in unison. “You treat me like a law clerk.”

“No, I don't. But I am the senior partner.”

“That's what I mean. You don't treat me as an equal.”

“Cut me a break, Vic. Before you came along, it was my firm.”

“What firm? Solomon and
Associates
was false advertising. It was just you. Solomon and
Lord
is a firm.”

“Okay, okay. I'll be more sensitive to . . .” What? He'd picked up the phrase from Dr. Phil, or Oprah, or one of the women's magazines at the dentist's office.

“I'll be more sensitive to . . .”

You throw it out when your girlfriend is upset. But it's best if you know what the hell you're talking about. Another problem: He was growing tired treading water. “Your needs,” he said, triumphantly. “I'll be more sensitive to your
needs
.”

“I'll never grow as an attorney until I have autonomy.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don't get all crazy. It's not going to affect our relationship, but I want to go out on my own.”

“Your own what?”

“I want to open my own shop.”

“Break up the firm? Trash a winning team?” Stunned, he stopped bicycling and slipped under the water. Popping to the surface, he spit water like a cherub on a fountain. “But we're great partners.”

“We're so different. I do things by the book. You burn the book.”

“That's our strength, Vic. Our synergy. You kiss 'em on the cheek, I kick 'em in the nuts.” Pedaling to stay afloat, he put his arms around her back and pulled her closer. “If you want, I'll change my style.”

“You can't change who you are. As long as it's Solomon and Lord, I'll always be second chair. I need to make a name for myself.”

He nearly said it then:
“How about the name, Mrs. Victoria Solomon?”

But he would have sounded desperate. Besides, neither one was ready for that kind of commitment.

“If it makes you happy,” he said brusquely, “go fly solo.”

“Are you pouting?”

“No, I'm giving you space.” Another phrase he'd picked up somewhere. “I'm giving you space and autonomy and . . .”

What's that noise?

Jet Skis? They ought to ban the damn things. But even as he turned to face the open sea, he realized this sound was different. The roar of giant diesels.

A powerboat roared toward the beach. And, unless it turned, right at them.

From the waterline, it was impossible to judge the size of the boat or its speed. But from the sound—the rolling thunder of an avalanche—Steve knew it was huge and fast. A bruiser of a powerboat good for chasing marlin or sailfish in the deep blue sea. Not for cruising toward a beach of swimmers and paddlers and waders.

Steve forced himself to stay calm. The jerk would turn away at the piling with the no-wake sign, the props whipping a four-foot roller toward the beach. Everyone on board would have a big laugh and a bigger drink.

The boat muscled toward them, riding on a plane, its bowsprit angled toward the sky like a thin patrician nose.

“Steve         .         .         .”

“Don't worry. Just some cowboy showing off.”

But it didn't turn and it didn't stop. Now he was worried.

Five hundred yards away, the boat leapt the small chop, splatted down, leapt again. He could see white water cascading high along the hull, streaming over the deck. The roar grew louder, a throaty baritone, like a dozen Ferraris racing their engines. The son-of-a-bitch must be doing forty knots.

Still it came, its bow seemingly aimed straight at them. In twenty seconds, it would be on them. Windsurfers scattered. Swimmers kicked and splashed toward shore. On the beach, people in chaise lounges leapt to their feet and backpedaled. A lifeguard tooted his whistle, nearly drowned out by the bellow of the diesels.

Squinting into the glare, Steve could see there was no one on the fly bridge. A boat without a driver.

“C'mon!” Victoria cried out, starting to swim parallel to the beach.

Steve grabbed her by an ankle and pulled her back. They didn't have the speed or maneuverability. What they had were five seconds.

“Dive!” Steve ordered.

Wide-eyed, Victoria took a breath.

They dived straight down, kicking hard.

Underwater, Steve heard the props, a high-pitched whine that drowned out the roar of the diesels. Then, a bizarre sensation, a banging in his chest. Was someone smashing his sternum with a ball-peen hammer? A split second later, he heard the
click-click-click
of a bottlenose dolphin, but he knew it was the boat's sonar, bombarding him with invisible waves. Suddenly, the wash of the props tore at him, dragging him up and pushing him down simultaneously. He tumbled head-over-ass, smacked the bottom with a shoulder, and felt his neck twist at a painful angle. Eyes open, he swung around, looking for Victoria, seeing only the cloudy swirl of bottom sand. Then a glimpse of her feet headed for the surface. He kicked off the bottom and followed her, surfacing a second after she did.

They both turned toward the shore just as the boat ramped off the sandy incline, going airborne, props still churning. Steve could hear screams from the beach, could see people scattering as the boat flew over the first row of beach chairs, then grazed the palm frond roof of the tiki-hut bar and crashed through a canvas-topped cabana. The wooden hull split amidships with the sound of a thousand baseball bats splintering, its two halves separating as neatly as a cleanly cracked walnut.