27

AIR HISSED through the cabin, but in no way suggesting their actual ground speed of 720 miles per hour. Below, clouds mottled the surface of the electric blue water with purple shadows. A robin’s egg horizon hinted at the curve of the earth from fifty thousand feet.

“I feel guilty for working,” Casey said, leaning back in her seat. “That’s just beautiful.”

Graham looked up from his book, The Art of War, and poured her a fresh sparkling water, dropping in a wedge of lemon before passing it across the aisle.

“Enjoy,” he said, turning his attention back to Sun Tzu. “No reason not to do both.”

“The perfect setting to grab some DNA.” She reached for her briefcase and extracted a file Stacy had sent overnight to her hotel room, the case of a young woman the Dallas district attorney’s office wanted to put behind bars for selling a dime bag of marijuana to an undercover cop. As she went through page after page of the police report, the description of the crime, and the young woman’s background, Casey couldn’t help comparing the resources she had to spend on Dwayne Hubbard.

“Bad news?” Graham asked, breaking her concentration.

“No, why?”

“I’m sitting here thinking about being extremely subtle, even to the point of formlessness, in order to be the director of my opponent’s fate,” he said, obviously quoting the book, “and I look over and it’s like you swallowed a rotten egg.”

“Maybe I can subtly wring my opponent’s neck,” she said. “I’ve got a DA’s office willing to spend two hundred hours of time and energy to put a woman away for two years at a six-figure cost to the taxpayers for selling a couple joints while murderers, rapists, and real drug dealers rule the streets. It makes me sick sometimes, the double standard of justice.”

“Men and women?” Graham asked.

“Rich and poor,” she said. “If I had the Freedom Project’s resources for every one of my clients, they’d all walk. Think about Dwayne Hubbard.”

“He has the resources now. We’re flying a private jet to the Caribbean for a DNA sample.”

“Twenty years too late, though, right?”

“So shines a good deed in a weary world,” he said.

“More Sun Tzu?”

“No,” Graham said, grinning. “Willie Wonka.”

He stared at her until she laughed.

“You know what happens with all work and no play,” he said.

“That’s work,” she said, nodding at his book. “Management styles.”

“So how about champagne?” he said. “Clearly not work.”

“I had you for the wheat-beer type.”

He laughed. “I’ve got a six-pack of Pyramid Hefeweizen. I was going for a mood with champagne.”

“Then I’ll have a beer,” she said.

He jumped up from his seat and dug into the burl-wood galley, removing from a bin of ice two bottles dressed in baby blue and white labels. Expertly, he flicked off the tops, removed a crystal glass from the shelf, and raised it questioningly.

“Bottle is fine,” she said.

“I like that.”

He handed her one and sat back down. They touched bottles across the aisle, each taking a mouthful and savoring the flavor.

“So,” she said, “what’s this place you’ve got us at?”

“Villa Oasis? You’ll love it. Right on Grace Bay. The sun sets like a slice of tomato on a warm breeze. Water clear as the air and so blue it looks like a Disney creation.”

The plane tilted and began its downward slide.

“Already?” Casey asked.

Graham raised his bottle, winked, and took a swallow.

Casey enjoyed the way a uniformed woman with a gold badge shuttled them right through customs while the people getting off a commercial airliner queued up like cattle in cargo shorts and flowered shirts. A jeep waited for them just outside the terminal with its engine running and a man in a panama hat standing guard.

“No limo?” Casey asked.

Graham’s face fell and he said, “You didn’t want one, did you?”

“I’m kidding,” she said, grabbing the roll bar and climbing into the passenger seat. “It’s perfect.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Two men loaded their bags into the back. Graham put the jeep into gear and they raced off. He took the curves and hills with the familiarity of a native, honking when he passed and waving in a friendly way. Casey didn’t catch her breath until they pulled down the private drive and rolled to a stop in front of a broad white villa with a clay tile roof nestled into a thicket of sea pines and palm trees. The dust settled and a dark man in white linen hurried down the steps, greeting Graham and introducing himself to Casey as Charles. Charles took their luggage and led them into the house.

The sun had already nestled itself into the puffy clouds on the horizon, and still the brilliance of the blue water shone like a gem beyond the white beach. Casey let out a breath and felt her body relax.

“This way,” Graham said, leading her out onto the terrace and across the pool area to a smaller building.

He swung open the door and led her through the open main room with its light-colored wood and festive island colors to a master bedroom where several sets of clothes had been laid out on the huge four-poster bed: swimsuits, capris, summer dresses, shorts, and T-shirts. On the floor were sandals and shoes that went with the clothes.

“I told them size two, but Laura insisted on buying everything in a four as well,” Graham said. “I guessed seven for your feet, so she got eights and sixes, too. I know you said you’d make do with the clothes you had, but I wanted you to be comfortable.”

“These are very nice,” Casey said, lifting a cotton dress from the bed. “I don’t know what to say. Who’s Laura?”

“She’s a sort of concierge,” he said. “Whenever I come to this island, or anyplace else for that matter, I have someone who takes care of things.”

“How much do you come here?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes once or twice a year. I like Barbados, too, and St. John’s.”

Charles appeared, silently deposited her bag, and left just as quietly as he’d come. Casey stared at Graham.

“What?”

“Kind of a strange coincidence,” she said, “you being a regular visitor at the place Nelson Rivers is hiding out at.”

Graham stepped toward her and rested his hands lightly on her shoulders. Softly, he said, “Will you please stop? Do you think I’ve visited this island for years because Nelson Rivers is here? It doesn’t even make sense. Why? What’s the connection? Tell me if you can even think one up and I’ll fly you straight to Dallas. I told you, I visit other islands, too. It’s a coincidence. That’s it. Now please, can we enjoy this just a little bit?”

Casey sighed and shook her head. “You’re right. Forgive me?”

“Of course,” he said. “I’ll even let you make it up to me. Take some time and get your things unpacked if you want and let’s take a swim, then dinner on the beach. What do you think?”

“I think that water looks delicious.”

Casey put some of her things away in the bathroom, then changed into a one-piece suit and found a light cotton robe in the closet. She slipped her feet into a pair of the sandals and wandered through the pool house, touching the shells in a bowl on the glass coffee table at the center of a curved sectional couch and opening the refrigerator to see fresh staples along with bottles of beer, seltzer water, and juice. She slid the glass door open and circled the pool before wandering down the curved staircase leading to the beach.

Two red-and-white-striped lounge chairs lay facing the water with a small table between them on which rested an ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne as well as two more Pyramid Hefeweizens that appeared to be an afterthought. Casey laughed to herself and walked down to where the small waves lapped the shore. Between her toes, the white sand felt fine as flour, and when she stepped into the water it gave way beneath her feet like clean mud. In front of her, the setting sun left the sky in a wash of orange, red, and violet.