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  What am I? Chopped liver? Pickled herring? Jeez, I’m the senior partner here.

  Questions dogged Solomon.

  Why isn’t Victoria reining Calvert in? Just what power does he hold over her? Does she still have feelings for the guy? Doesn’t she see his true nature?

  Criminal defense lawyers get a feel for their clients, nearly all of whom profess their innocence. A few actually are. From their first meeting with Calvert, Solomon believed the man was guilty. Victoria didn’t share the feeling. For his part, Lassiter didn’t have a shred of evidence, much less proof beyond a reasonable doubt.

  The worst of all worlds.

  “How rude of me, Stephen,” Calvert said. “You’re hungry. I should have offered refreshments. How about some smoked fish spread and crudités?”

  Solomon shook his head. “That’s okay. Don’t want to spoil my appetite for a martini.”

  Calvert turned back to Lassiter. “Counselor, you were saying how infidelity leads to jealousy, which leads to murder. But how prevalent, really? There is so much infidelity in marriages, and so few murders.”

  “Occupational hazard—I see a lot them. Mostly the killers are men with seemingly massive egos, but just quivering pudding underneath. Insecurities galore, often about their masculinity.”

  Lassiter paused, as if waiting to see if he could get a rise out of Calvert. But the doctor just showed the same indecipherable, reptilian stare. With each passing moment, Solomon despised the guy even more.

  “I would think in these days of gender equality,” Calvert said, “women should be gaining in the mariticide numbers.”

  Using the Latin word for killing a husband, showing off. Distinctly pronouncing each syllable so it couldn’t be confused with matricide. He really can’t help it.

  “Women usually take less drastic measures,” Lassiter said. “Maybe just cut the sleeves off all their husbands’ shirts.”

  “A Freudian might find some symbolism in that snipping.” Calvert made a click-clicking sound with his tongue.

  “A few have taken the scissors directly to their husbands’ genitals. No need for symbolism there.”

  “Oh, how your male clients must have responded with uxoricidal rage.”

  Again with the five-dollar words.

  “Some. That’s how they became my clients.”

  “I imagine they saw your ads on a bus bench.”

  Solomon stifled a laugh. Back in the days BV, Before Victoria, he was the one with the bus bench ads, not Lassiter. The ads hadn’t stirred up any business until he secured the phone number 823-3733, which translated to UBE-FREE in giant letters.

  “Your clients, Mr. Lassiter,” Calvert mused. “I picture a parade of grease monkeys who find their spouses in someone else’s double-wide.”

  “What are you saying, Dr. Calvert? That you’re too upper-crust to kill your wife?”

  “Not precisely. Extramarital gymnastics came with the package that was Sofia. It was never a deal breaker.”

  “Well, aren’t you the understanding one?”

  “Not that I liked it. Or got off on it. I was never present. I never asked for the details. The whos and whens and wheres, I didn’t want to know. If anything, we had an understanding, sub silencio, an unspoken agreement that she had certain freedoms, and so did I—should I choose to exercise them.”

  “You were unfaithful, too?”

  “Such a quaint word, unfaithful. Religious overtones, don’t you think?”

  The discordant sound of a leaf blower kicked up from a neighbor’s yard. Solomon looked toward Victoria. What was she thinking? What was she feeling? What was it about this supercilious prick that kept her under his spell? Why was she letting him pontificate?

  Clark Calvert, oh wise philosopher. Share your wisdom.

  Equal parts disgusted and fearful, Solomon would have to talk to Lassiter about it, get some advice. Before Lassiter had met Melissa, he’d had a thing for Victoria, but Solomon knew he would never act on it. Which was pretty much the definition of a friend, now that he thought about it.

  “Were you tomcatting around?” Lassiter asked. “Do you like that word more?”

  “Indeed, I do. It’s quite vintage. Images of back alleys and stairs to third-floor walk-ups. No, Mr. Lassiter. Sofia filled all my carnal needs.”

  “Carnal? You play with words like a dealer shuffling cards.”

  “You disapprove of my vocabulary?”

  “You could have said ‘sensual needs.’ Or ‘sexual needs.’ But you used the word carnal. You’re a physician, and you drop Latin words like a butterfingered receiver with the football. My old pal Doc Charlie Riggs taught me a little of that ancient language. Carnal comes from the Latin word meaning ‘flesh’ or ‘meat,’ and it’s related to the word carnage, which relates to murder and slaughter. So maybe your subconscious chose that word, and you were really saying that Sofia filled your murderous needs.”

  He barked a little laugh. “Bravo, Counselor! You’ve combined your rudimentary knowledge of Latin with your slipshod knowledge of Freud. And eureka! You’ve caught me. I confess. Nolo contendere!”

  “Just so we’re clear, what is it you’re confessing to?”

  “Not following accepted standards of behavior. Not being society’s idea of a perfect husband. A capital offense, I fear.” He turned toward Victoria. “You’re so fortunate you didn’t marry me, Victoria. Imagine the likely consequences.”

  Victoria’s eyes blinked, but she stayed silent.

  Lassiter didn’t say a word.

  It was left to Solomon to say, “What consequences?”

  Before Calvert could answer, Victoria said, “Steve, we’re not asking the questions. Jake is.”

  Just great, Solomon thought. I’m being ignored by our client and lectured by Victoria. He looked toward Lassiter for help.

  “What consequences, Doctor?” Lassiter asked, just as Solomon’s eyes pleaded for him to.

  “Who knows? The road not taken,” Calvert said. “Opportunities left unexplored. Victoria and Clark. Who is to say what might have happened? Endless joy or endless strife. Unquestioned loyalty or embittered resentment. Possibly, eternal love.” He showed that small, thin-lipped smile and looked directly at Victoria with those opaque eyes. “Or not. Who is to say which spouse cuts off the other’s sleeves? Or which one pushes the other off a cliff?”

  -19-

  A Woman of a Million Moods

  Victoria Lord . . .

  Victoria sucked in a breath and didn’t exhale.

  What did Clark just say?

  Bringing back the memory of that horrible day on the cliff near Big Sur, when he had frightened her so deeply. But what was he saying now? Admitting he killed Sofia? Or just the opposite? That he’s a man who can walk that tightrope between civilized and bestial behavior. Or was this just some game, an effort to shock her? But why?

  Such an odd mix of emotions just now. Sitting at a table with the man she loves and the man she first loved. She averted Clark’s gaze and glanced at Steve. His big brown eyes were in puppy-dog mode. A searching, confused look.

  Poor guy. Do I need to keep assuring him of my love? We’re getting married! Can’t he tell my devotion to him isn’t threatened by my professional obligation to Clark?

  In the Intracoastal, two motor yachts churned past each other, foamy wakes slapping against the seawall. The breeze was picking up, and the day, which had been sunny, then cloudy, then storming, then sunny again, threatened to change yet again. In the distance, a police siren sang against the wind.

  Victoria returned her attention to Jake, who showed no signs of ending his interrogation. He had loosened his tie to half-mast, the out-of-court mode for a guy whose neck was always too big for his shirt collar. He was fifty but still a handsome man, his thick hair, once the color of sawgrass, now turning silver, the lines on his face deepening, adding character if you like that craggy look. Even the broken nose was attractive in a manly-man sort of way.

  She had been wor
ried about him. Those headaches he tried to shrug off, the experimental treatments with Dr. Melissa Gold he refused to talk about.

  Typical man. Afraid of showing fear, of appearing mortal.

  She was glad Melissa had come into Jake’s life. A sophisticated, educated woman who cared for him. A year or so ago, Victoria had complained about Jake dating women she called “the young and the flighty.” Under her prodding, Jake had agreed to stop chasing inappropriate women, though he narrowly defined the term to bail jumpers and fleeing felons.

  Victoria knew that Jake was resistant to forming a deep, abiding relationship. Steve said it was because he was hung up on her, but Victoria thought it was more complex, having to do both with prior failed relationships and his uncertain medical condition.

  “Let’s play a game, Dr. Calvert,” Jake said.

  “Oh, goodie. Is money involved? Shall we wager on something?”

  “Words. I’ll say a name or a word, and you say the first thing that pops into your head.”

  “How tiresome. If you say ‘cat,’ and I say ‘dog,’ what would you make of it? Just what training did all those phys-ed courses give you for Jungian word association? Did you, in fact, learn anything at all?”

  “Boxing. I learned how to throw a left-jab, right-hook combo. Wanna see?”

  “Jake, please,” Victoria said.

  “Look, Doc. I know you gotta show you’re the smartest guy on the terrazzo, but I ain’t stupid.”

  “Ain’t you now?”

  Jake ground his knuckles into his forehead. Victoria didn’t know if it was a meaningless gesture, like rubbing your chin, or if he was fighting off a migraine.

  Jake said, “I didn’t spend four years at Penn State—okay five years—to listen to your condescending bullshit.”

  “Fine, Counselor,” Clark said. “Just get on with it before I doze off out of ennui.”

  “Cat.”

  Clark snorted and smiled. “Departed.”

  “Father-in-law.”

  “Corrupt. Wired. Always hated me.”

  “Dr. Calvert . . .”

  “I’m sorry. You just wanted one word. Okay, what would I say about Pepe Suarez? How about ‘contemptible’?”

  “You thought too hard about it to come up with a single word. Let’s do it your way. Don’t limit yourself. Give me a phrase, a sentence, a master’s thesis. Anything you want to say is fine.”

  “Fire away, then.”

  “Sofia.”

  “Bewitching and bewildering. Girl-woman. And very much alive.”

  “Your medical patients.”

  “Interesting specimens. Except for the boring specimens.”

  Jake raised an eyebrow. Victoria couldn’t tell if it was intentional. Was Jake underlining the comment for her benefit? Making certain she didn’t miss the point: Clark relating to human beings as things.

  “Sex.”

  Clark laughed. “You want me to use some word associated with violence or domination, don’t you, Counselor?”

  “Not really. But you just did, so let’s move on. State Attorney Pincher.”

  “Political toady.”

  “Detective Barrios.”

  “The Cuban Columbo. Without the raincoat. Or the brains.”

  “Steve Solomon.”

  “Pleasant fellow. In over his head.”

  Victoria winced. Why, oh why did Clark do that? And what did he mean? Over his head with the case? Or with her? She could see Steve’s jaw muscles flexing. They did that when he ground his teeth.

  “Victoria Lord,” Jake said.

  “Jake, is this necessary?” Victoria interjected.

  “Let him answer, Vic,” Steve said. “I’d like to hear this.”

  Clark cupped his chin in his hand, as if in deep thought, and said, “Unformed angel. When I met Victoria, she was so pure and angelic. So young, still a girl really. I was hoping to watch her grow into the woman she would become.”

  “Or were you hoping to mold her into the woman you wanted?” Jake asked. “As you later tried with Sofia.”

  “You’re suggesting that I’m controlling—is that it?”

  “I think we can all agree on ‘controlling.’ It’s ‘strangling’ that’s the issue.”

  “You don’t know me, Counselor. You haven’t even scratched the surface.”

  “Let’s try. How about this one? Clark Calvert.”

  “Free of shackles,” the doctor said.

  “Shackles of marriage? Of Sofia?”

  “Free of society’s shackles.”

  “The rules don’t apply to you. That it?”

  “Not the stupid ones. But I wouldn’t kill my wife. And I didn’t.”

  “Forget the word associations,” Jake said. “Just tell me about Sofia. In your own words.”

  “Whose would I use but my own?” Clark exhaled an exasperated sigh. “Lovely little thing. Well put together. Natural boobs, of course. I wouldn’t let her make that mistake, though Lord knows, she wanted a couple of beach balls.”

  “You wouldn’t let her have breast augmentation?” Jake said.

  “Do you disapprove? Are you one of those men who lusts after the big melons?”

  “I pretty much love all breasts. But you didn’t say, ‘I talked her out of it.’ You said you ‘wouldn’t let her.’”

  “In addition to your practice of amateur psychiatry, are you also a linguist, Counselor?”

  “Just tell me what else I should know about Sofia.”

  “She loves nude sunbathing. Has a smooth tan hide and a luxurious pelt of thick, dark hair.”

  “Sounds like you’re describing the best in show at Westminster Kennel Club.”

  “Indeed, she’s a prize. Vivacious. Outgoing. Makes friends easily, unlike me.”

  “Why unlike you?”

  “I’m no good at parties. Meeting people. Small talk bores me. Most people bore me.”

  “Did Sofia bore you?”

  “Ha! You tried to trick me with the past tense. You wanted me to say, ‘No, she never bored me.’ She doesn’t bore me, Counselor. She’s alive, somewhere, and still not boring me.”

  “Duly noted. You found her . . . pardon me, you find her exciting?”

  “A meteor streaking across the sky.”

  “What does that mean, exactly, Doctor?”

  Clark showed a little smile. “She’s hot. A firecracker. In and out of bed.” He shot a look at Victoria.

  What are you saying, Clark? Hoo boy, Sofia’s hotter than I am?

  “Beyond her looks, Sofia is a woman of a million moods. Unstable behavior that coincides with those shifting moods. A damaged self-image, which I have labored to heal. Impulsive behavior that tries the patience of anyone who cares for her. Intense episodes of anger, depression, and anxiety, and sometimes all three. Irrational fears of abandonment, feelings of emptiness that no amount of tender loving care seems to help. And a history of substance abuse and attempts at self-harm as a teenager and young adult.”

  “What do all those symptoms add up to, Doctor?”

  “Oh, stop playing games. You know very well. Classic borderline personality disorder.”

  “Did you know this when the two of you met?”

  “It would have been hard to miss.”

  “That might have scared away most men.”

  “Do you think I fit into that category? ‘Most men.’ Or would you find me more sui generis?”

  “No, I don’t think you’re one of a kind. I’ve met guys like you before. Narcissists. Egomaniacs. Sociopaths.”

  “And did you also get a medical degree at East Bumfuck State?”

  “I ask the questions, Doc. Did you marry Sofia so you could fix her?”

  Clark blinked. “A surprisingly perspicacious question, Counselor. Did I underestimate you?”

  “I don’t know. What’s perspicacious mean? Sweaty, like perspiration?”

  He tilted his head and showed the hint of a smile. “Victoria said you were smarter than you look.”

/>   “She’s told me. My brain takes it as a compliment, but my face gets pissed off.”

  “I suppose that subconsciously I thought I could fix Sofia. And when she comes back, I’ll keep trying.”

  Victoria turned toward Jake. “Jake, I assume you’re about finished. I think my client—”

  “Our client,” Steve interjected.

  “Our client has been incredibly forthcoming. We know you have nothing. You know you have nothing. Can we just call it a day?”

  “I’m almost done. Promise.”

  “It’s okay, Victoria.” Clark reached across the table and patted her hand. She flinched but didn’t pull away. If it had been any other client—a man she hadn’t lived with and loved and ultimately rejected—the gesture wouldn’t have been so off-putting. Steve’s eyes widened, watching the patty-cake.

  Jake studied the three of them. Though he was expressionless, Victoria thought she saw wheels turning. Just what was he thinking? What would he do? And what would he say?

  After a moment, Jake said, “Doctor, why did you kill Sofia’s cat?”

  -20-

  The Unasked Question

  Steve Solomon . . .

  Lassiter’s question about the cat was still pending. Steve forced himself to stay seated. He yearned to beat the crap out of the cat killer, possible wife killer, and dead-certain son of a bitch who was bird-dogging his fiancée.

  “My Victoria . . .”

  “Victoria and Clark. Who is to say what might have happened?”

  Steve used all his self-control to keep cool and show no emotions. He surely wouldn’t reveal his fondest wish: a murder conviction and a life sentence for Clark Calvert, MD.

  “No segue, Mr. Lassiter?” Calvert said at last. “No song and dance? Just a rude and aggressive question?”

  “The cat. Why’d you kill Escapar?” Lassiter’s voice colder than it had been.

  “It’s hardly relevant, but if you must know, it was an accident.”

  “Not what Sofia told Dr. Freudenstein.”

  “Somewhere in Miami, there’s a person walking around today whose DNA shows he’s a descendant of Charlemagne.”

  “Not following you, Doc.”