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  PRAISE FOR PAUL LEVINE

  TO SPEAK FOR THE DEAD

  “Move over Scott Turow. To Speak for the Dead is courtroom drama at its very best.” —Larry King

  NIGHT VISION

  “Levine’s fiendish ability to create twenty patterns from the same set of clues will have you waiting impatiently for his next novel.” —Kirkus Reviews

  FALSE DAWN

  “Realistic, gritty, fun.” —New York Times Book Review

  MORTAL SIN

  “Take one part John Grisham, two parts Carl Hiaasen, throw in a dash of John D. MacDonald, and voila! You’ve got Mortal Sin.” —Tulsa World

  RIPTIDE (originally published in hardcover as Slashback)

  “A thriller as fast as the wind. A bracing rush, as breathtaking as hitting the Gulf waters on a chill December morning.” —Tampa Tribune

  FOOL ME TWICE

  “You’ll like listening to Jake’s beguiling first-person tale-telling so much that you won’t mind being fooled thrice.” —Philadelphia Inquirer

  FLESH & BONES

  “Lassiter is smart, tough, funny, and very human . . . one of the most entertaining series characters in contemporary crime fiction.” —Booklist

  LASSITER

  “Since Robert Parker is no longer with us, I’m nominating Levine for an award as best writer of dialogue in the grit-lit genre.” —San Jose Mercury News

  LAST CHANCE LASSITER

  “Cleverly plotted and well written. The dialogue and characterizations are first-rate.” —Bookreporter.com

  STATE vs. LASSITER

  “The best of the best. Just when I thought ‘Lassiter’ couldn't get any better.” —Goodreads 5-star review

  SOLOMON vs. LORD

  “A funny, fast-paced legal thriller. The barbed dialogue makes for some genuine laugh-out-loud moments. Fans of Carl Hiaasen and Dave Barry will enjoy this humorous Florida crime romp.” —Publishers Weekly

  THE DEEP BLUE ALIBI

  “A cross between Moonlighting and Night Court . . . courtroom drama has never been this much fun.” —Freshfiction.com

  KILL ALL THE LAWYERS

  “A clever, colorful thriller . . . with characters drawn with a fine hand, making them feel more like friends than figments of the author’s imagination. Levine ratchets up the tension with each development but never neglects the heart of the story—his characters.” —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  HABEAS PORPOISE

  “Steve Solomon and Victoria Lord are smart and funny and sexy in a way that Hollywood movies were before comedies became crass and teen-oriented.” —Connecticut Post

  IMPACT (Originally published in hardcover as 9 Scorpions)

  “A breakout book, highly readable and fun with an irresistible momentum, helped along by Levine’s knowledge of the Supreme Court and how it works.” —USA Today

  BALLISTIC

  “Ballistic is Die Hard in a missile silo. Terrific!” —Stephen J. Cannell

  ILLEGAL

  “Levine is one of the few thriller authors who can craft a plot filled with suspense while still making the readers smile at the characters’ antics.” —Chicago Sun-Times

  ALSO BY PAUL LEVINE

  THE JAKE LASSITER SERIES

  To Speak for the Dead

  Night Vision

  False Dawn

  Mortal Sin

  Riptide

  Fool Me Twice

  Flesh & Bones

  Lassiter

  Last Chance Lassiter

  State vs. Lassiter

  THE SOLOMON & LORD SERIES

  Solomon vs. Lord

  The Deep Blue Alibi

  Kill All the Lawyers

  Habeas Porpoise

  THE LASSITER, SOLOMON & LORD SERIES

  Bum Rap

  STAND-ALONE THRILLERS

  Impact

  Ballistic

  Illegal

  Paydirt

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2015 Paul J. Levine

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477829868

  ISBN-10: 1477829865

  Cover design by Brian Zimmerman

  For my grandchildren . . . Jonah, Lexi, Ruby, and Violet

  CONTENTS

  Start Reading

  1 Nicolai Gorev

  2 Nadia and the Feds

  3 Your Lawyer or Your Lover

  4 Last Chance Lassiter

  5 Nadia and the Feds (Part Two)

  6 Interred with Their Bones

  7 Club Anastasia

  8 Where Is Nadia?

  9 Stand Your Ground Solomon

  10 True Confession

  11 A Damn Fool or a Damn Murderer

  12 Reporting for Duty

  13 What a Hunk

  14 Fed Talk

  15 Nadia and the Feds (Part Three)

  16 Giving Men Hope

  17 The Night Has a Thousand Eyes

  18 The Pit and the Jeweler

  19 The Other B-Girl

  20 Lassiter, Solomon & Lord

  21 Saint Vladimir

  22 The Women Talk

  23 Code Yellow

  24 Nadia and the Feds (Part Four)

  25 Orange Is the New Solomon

  26 She Wears Short-Shorts

  27 The Cemetery and General Custer

  28 Playing Poker with the Feds

  29 Nadia and the Feds (Part Five)

  30 On the Beach

  31 In the Shadows

  32 “Evening, Ladies”

  33 Gun-Shy

  34 Grief and Hunger

  35 Women and Love

  36 Tomahawk Steak for Two

  37 Let’s Make a Deal

  38 Jailhouse Lawyers

  39 All You Need Is Love

  40 Whore’s Rules

  41 Pretzel Man

  42 The Chrysler

  43 The Dew Drop Inn

  44 At Long Last . . . Pravda

  45 Enter the Cavalry

  46 Nadia and the Feds . . . and Benny

  47 Use a Gun and You’re Done

  48 Caring about Justice

  49 Bending the Law Like a Pretzel

  50 The Vulture and the Chicken

  51 The Collective Genius

  52 A Simple Case of Murder

  53 Tap-Dancing across a Tightrope

  54 Steve Solomon and O. J. Simpson

  55 Using the Scalpel

  56 “Boom! Right in Head”

  57 Hostile Witness

  58 Rapprochement

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ALSO AVAILABLE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  “Jake Lassiter. The Jakester! The mouthpiece who took the shy out of shyster and put the fog into pettifogger.”

  —State Attorney Ray Pincher

  -1-

  Nicolai Gorev

  The gunshot hit Nicolai Gorev squarely between the eyes. His head snapped back, then whipped forward, and he toppled face-first onto his desk.

  There were two other people in the office of Club Anastasia.

  Nadia Delova, the best Bar girl between Moscow and Miami, stared silently at Gorev as blood oozed from his ears. She had seen worse.

  Steve Solomon, a South Beach lawyer with a shaky reputation, spoke over the echo stil
l ringing off the walls. “I am in deep shit,” he said.

  -2-

  Nadia and the Feds

  One week earlier. . .

  Office of the United States Attorney for the Southern District of Florida

  In Re: Investigation of South Beach Champagne Clubs and one “John Doe”

  File No. 2014-73-B

  Statement of Nadia Delova

  July 7, 2014

  (CONFIDENTIAL)

  Q: My name is Deborah Scolino, assistant United States attorney. Please state your name.

  A: Nadia Delova.

  Q: How old are you?

  A: Twenty-eight.

  Q: Where were you born?

  A: Saint Petersburg. Russia. Not Florida.

  Q: What is your occupation?

  A: What do I look like? Nuclear physicist?

  Q: Ms. Delova, please . . .

  A: Bar girl. I am Bar girl.

  Q: What does that entail?

  A: Entails my tail. [Witness laughs] Is simple job. I get men to buy cheap champagne for expensive price.

  Q: How do you do that?

  A: We go to nice hotel. Fontainebleau or Delano. Me and Elena on hunting parties.

  Q: Do you dress as you have today? For the record, a tight-banded mini in hot pink. I’m guessing Herve Leger.

  A: Is knockoff. But shoes are real. Valentino slingbacks with four-inch heels. I dress good on hunting parties.

  Q: And just what are you hunting for?

  A: Tourists. Men with money. We look for expensive watches. Patek Philippe. Audemars Piguet. Rolex Submariner.

  Q: So you approach the men?

  A: At the hotel bar. We make small talk. “Oh, you are so handsome. Tell us about Nebraska.” We say we know a private club with good music.

  Q: What club is that?

  A: Anastasia. On South Beach.

  Q: What happens when you get there?

  A: Bartender serves free vodka shots, except ours—mine and Elena’s—are water. When the man is drunk, we order champagne. Nicolai buys it for twenty-five dollars at Walmart. Charges a couple thousand a bottle, but the man is so drunk, he signs credit card because Elena has her tongue in his ear, or my hand is in his crotch. Or both.

  Q: Just who is Nicolai?

  A: Nicolai Gorev. Owner of Club Anastasia.

  Q: Ms. Delova, we need you to help the government’s investigation of Nicolai Gorev.

  A: Nyet.

  Q: Ms. Delova . . .

  A: I am not as stupid as you might think.

  -3-

  Your Lawyer or Your Lover

  I didn’t shoot the bastard,” Steve Solomon said.

  “Tell me the truth, Steve.”

  “Jeez, Vic, I am.” Sounding frustrated. Telling the story over and over. He spread his arms and held his palms upward, the gesture intended to show he wasn’t hiding anything.

  Victoria studied him. She’d been studying Solomon for several years now. He was her law partner and lover. Solomon & Lord.

  Victoria Lord. Princeton undergrad, Yale Law.

  Steve Solomon. University of Miami undergrad. Key West School of Law.

  Victoria graduated summa cum laude. Steve graduated summa cum luck.

  She practiced law by the book. He burned the book. But in court . . . well in court, they were a powerful team.

  Solomon & Lord.

  Steve had street smarts and was a master of persuasion. Victoria knew the law, which helped with judges. Plus, she was likable, a necessity with juries. Steve also had one talent Victoria lacked: he could lie with a calm certainty no polygraph could ever discover.

  She loved Steve. And hated him. Sometimes they argued over “good morning.” But life sizzled when they were together and fizzled when they were apart. Right now, one wrong move, and they could be apart forever.

  “Tell me again,” she said. “Everything.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to see if you tell the same story two times in a row.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Vic.”

  They were sitting in a lawyers’ visitation room at the Miami-Dade County jail. The metal desk and two chairs were bolted to the concrete floor. Victoria hated the place. It smelled of sweat and disinfectant and something vaguely like cat piss. Her ankle-strap Gucci pumps had slipped on something wet—and yellow—when she had walked down the corridor. She always felt nauseous visiting a client here. Now that the accused was Steve, she also felt a throat-constricting fear.

  To get into the jail, she had shown her Florida Bar card. To get out, Steve would need a very good lawyer. She had tried—and won—several murder trials. But with all the emotional baggage, she felt incapable of representing Steve. A surgeon didn’t operate on a loved one.

  “If you didn’t kill Gorev, who did?” she asked.

  “Like I said, Nadia Delova, our client.”

  “Our client?”

  “Okay, you were at a hearing in Broward. Nadia was a walk-in. She had five thousand in cash and said she just needed me for a one-hour meeting.”

  “Where’s the money?”

  “In an envelope in my desk drawer.”

  “When were you going to tell me about it?”

  “That reminds me of a lawyer joke.”

  “Not now, Steve.”

  “A lawyer sends out a bill for five thousand dollars, and the client mistakenly sends him ten thousand dollars. What’s the ethical question?”

  “Obviously, should he return the money?”

  “No! Should he tell his partner?”

  Steve laughed at his own joke. He had a habit of doing that. A lot of his old habits were starting to irritate her. Accepting new clients without her approval was one. Straddling the border between ethical and sleazy conduct was another. Getting charged with murder was a new one.

  “Where’s Nadia now?”

  “That’s what I need to find out. Or you do.”

  “You understand your predicament?”

  “The cops found me in a locked room with a dead man and a smoking gun. Yeah, I have a pretty good idea.”

  “Tell me everything from the top.”

  “Nadia was waiting when I unlocked the door to our office at about eight fifteen a.m. She said she was a Bar girl. Very up front about it.”

  “How admirable.”

  Steve ignored her sarcasm and plowed ahead. “She must have come straight from work, because she was all dolled up. Minidress. Heels. Jewelry. Gloves.”

  “Gloves in Miami. In July.”

  “Dressy black gloves. Up to the elbows. Like Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”

  “Wasn’t Holly a prostitute?”

  “Only in the book. In the movie, she was more like a fun date.”

  Just outside the door, a baby wailed. It was a weirdly discordant sound in this dreadful place. The common visitation area, a dismal space with rows of benches for families, was adjacent to the lawyers’ room. The baby’s keening reached an impossibly high pitch, and Victoria felt a headache coming on.

  “Physical description of this Nadia?” she asked.

  “About your height. Nearly six feet. Without her heels.”

  “She took off her shoes?”

  “In the office. For a minute. She rubbed her feet. Is that important?”

  “I don’t know. Had you ever met this Bar girl before?”

  “Of course not.”

  “But she felt comfortable enough to take off her shoes and rub her feet in your presence?”

  “Is that a lawyer’s question or a girlfriend’s question?”

  “Just keep going. What else besides her height and her tired feet?”

  “Dark hair. Nearly jet-black. Pale skin and blue eyes. Unusual combination. Very . . .”

  “Striking?”

  “Well . . .” He swallowed, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. Victoria made a mental note that Steve—for all his bluster—might not hold up well under cross-examination.

  “If you like that sort of thing,” he said finall
y. “I always preferred blondes. Like you.”

  “Of course. What else about Nadia can you remember?”

  “Her lips were very . . . What’s the word?”

  “I don’t know, Steve. What is the word?”

  “Big?”

  “Pouty,” Victoria said. “Bee-stung?”

  “Yeah. Exactly.”

  “Unlike my very average, very Waspy lips?”

  “C’mon, you have great lips. Anyway, she had a nice . . .” He made a flowing motion with both hands, the male pantomime for a curvaceous woman. Victoria figured that men had been communicating this way since they first emerged from caves. Not that today’s men were that much different from those of the Paleolithic Era.

  “Body?” she helped him out. “Curvy body?”

  “Yeah, great body. I mean, no greater than yours, but . . .”

  “Bigger boobs?”

  He nodded, as if saying it aloud might shatter her fragile ego.

  “Okay, so at eight fifteen a.m., this striking, long-legged, cantaloupe-breasted woman wearing gloves up to her elbows gives you five thousand in cash, and, like a puppy wagging its tail, you follow her to this South Beach club.”

  “Actually, I drove us both.”

  “And just why did she need a lawyer?”

  “Her boss, Nicolai Gorev, was holding her passport. She wanted it back plus some money he owed her.”

  “And how exactly were you going to help her do this?”

  Steve let out a long, slow breath. “Well, that’s where it gets a little sticky.”

  “Doesn’t it always?”

  “I think it was maybe a language thing, her being Russian and all.”

  “Damn it, Steve. What aren’t you telling me?”

  He was quiet a moment, then gave her that twinkling smile. It was intended to distract her from whatever he needed to say but didn’t want to. He was a handsome man with black hair and deep-brown eyes. Mischievous eyes, Victoria thought. Devilish eyes, her mother always said. She did not mean it as a compliment. He had an aquiline nose that reminded Victoria of George Washington, except that if Steve had chopped down a cherry tree, he would have lied about it.

  At last, Steve said, “Well, you know how you always hated that TV commercial I did for the firm?”

  “The blasphemous one? ‘If you want the best lawyers in Miami, hire the wisdom of Solomon, the strength of the Lord.’ ”

  “Nope. The one where I was a cowboy with the pearl-handled pistols?”