Free Solomon vs. Lord by Paul Levine

resulted from a homicide, rather than an accident.
    Dr. Yang would not comment on these reports, and all proceedings before the Grand Jury are confidential. The sole suspect in the inquiry is Barksdale's widow, Katrina Barksdale, 33, who reportedly was with her husband in the bedroom of their luxurious bayfront home when the incident occurred last Wednesday night. The couple had been married four years.
    Barksdale was best known for his waterfront condominium projects and as a sponsor of book fairs and poetry seminars.
    Asked for a comment, State Attorney Raymond Pincher said, “We will present the Grand Jury with evidence that Mrs. Barksdale had ample motive, opportunity, and means to commit this heinous crime, and that she did so with premeditation and malice aforethought.”
    The State Attorney then added, “Not that I'm prejudging her.”

Eight
    THE OLD MAN
AND THE SEA BREEZE
    What the hell did his father want?
    What was so important that Steve had to fill the mammoth tank of his 1976 Cadillac Eldorado for the drive down Useless 1, the old highway that runs from Maine to Key West?
    And why did the old man say to leave his grandson behind? Strange, because Bobby's the one Herbert Solomon enjoyed seeing.
    These were the questions plaguing Steve as the old Caddy powered past the mango groves and vegetable farms of South Dade. Not that he had anything better to do. With the bird trial ended and his office empty of clients
—customers,
Cece called them—he had time for a quick trip to the Keys.
    Or a long trip.
    He felt a stab of pain when he saw the billboard with a drawing of pastel-colored low-rise buildings around a lake ringed by avocado trees.

    BIGBY RESORT & VILLAS

Your Forever Getaway

    Sounded like Menorah Gardens Cemetery, he thought. He had tried calling Victoria last night, but she wasn't picking up the phone, even though he'd dangled irresistible bait.
    “Your Prince Charming here,” he said to her answering machine, “and if you ever want to see your size eight-and-a-half Guccis again, you'll return my call.”
    In Victoria's haste to flee the courtroom, bird crud on her sleeve, Nikes on her feet, she had left her shoes behind. The snakeskin pumps, greatly admired by Marvin the Maven, now sat on the cracked white leather of the passenger seat, like a pair of miniature schnauzers.
    When the phone rang just before midnight, he hoped it was Cinderella calling back. No luck.
    “You stepped in the deep shit this time,” Herbert Solomon had drawled, sounding semi-blitzed, “and ah'm gonna pull you out.”
    Steve heard the soft sound of water splashing. “You in the bathtub, Dad?”
    “Pirates Cove, flashlight in one hand, shrimp net in the other.”
    “Where's the bottle of bourbon?”
    “Shrimp are fat and juicy. Ah'll bring you some.”
    “You okay to drive home?”
    “Drive? Ah'm in the kayak.”
    “Great. I'll alert the Coast Guard.”
    “Just git on down here tomorrow. It's important.”
    “Just what shit did I step in?”
    “Not on the phone, son. Don't be such a dimwit.”
    They spent a few minutes negotiating a meeting place like two lawyers haggling over an insurance settlement. His father argued that Steve had the benefit of turnpike speeds all the way to Homestead, while he'd be stuck in traffic in the Lower Keys, so they should meet somewhere south of the halfway point. In rebuttal, Steve claimed that he actually worked for a living, while his father sipped hootch from Mason jars, so how about driving farther north? They settled on Tortugas Tavern, an open-air guzzlery just south of Islamorada on Lower Matecumbe Key.
    It was cloudless, the Eldo's top was down, the steering wheel was warmed by the sun. Once a fiery red, the Caddy was now a faded dingy orange, but its fuel-injected engine still managed a throaty roar. On the reggae station, Bob Marley was confessing that he'd shot the sheriff, though apparently not the deputy.
    The drive gave Steve an uncomfortable ninety minutes to