Solomon and Lord Drop Anchor

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“What aren’t you telling me?” Victoria Lord demanded.

Jeez. Her grand jury tone.

“Nothing to tell,” Steve Solomon said. “I’m going deep-sea fishing.”

“You? The guy who got seasick in a paddle boat at Disney World.”

“That boat was defective. I’m gonna sue.” Steve hauled an Igloo cooler onto the kitchen counter. “You may not know it, but I come from a long line of anglers.”

“A long line of liars, you mean.”

The partners of Solomon amp; Lord, Attorneys-at-Law, stood in the kitchen of Steve’s bungalow on Kumquat Avenue in Coconut Grove. The place was a square stucco pillbox the color of a rotting avocado, but it had withstood hurricanes, termites, and countless keg parties.

Unshaven and hair mussed, wearing cargo shorts and a t-shirt, Steve looked like a beach bum. Lips glossed and cheekbones highlighted, wearing a glen plaid suit with an ivory silk blouse, Victoria looked sexy, smart, and successful.

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