The Deep Blue Alibi (10 page)

“But it was a sea wall, and we landed in four feet of water.”

Laughter. From two out of three, anyway. Steve’s expression was both aggravated and distant, as if fretting about something he could do nothing about, the sliding value of the dollar, maybe. “Could I bring you two back from Memory Lane a second?”

“Sure thing,” Junior said.

Do we have to? Victoria thought.

“I never saw anything in the papers about Oceania,” Steve began, “never heard anyone in the Keys talking about it.”

“Dad didn’t want the gambling industry finding out what we were doing until we had the federal permits,” Junior explained. “What do you think the lobbyists for Atlantic City and the Gulf casinos would do to stop us?”

“Bribe a congressman or two,” Victoria suggested.

“And if that didn’t work?”

“Kill Stubbs and frame your father,” Steve said. “You’re saying a competitor did it.”

“Who else would have a better motive?” Junior said.

It had been fifteen minutes since Junior relocked the double doors to the Oceania room. The three adults— if you counted Steve—lay on chaise lounges on an outdoor deck overlooking the cove. A pitcher of margaritas with a platter of tortilla chips and fresh-made guacamole sat on a table in the shade of an umbrella. A man-made waterfall poured over rocks into a small pond stocked with fish and long-necked swans. Bobby was wading in the pond, trying to talk swan language to the big birds.

Junior’s cell phone had rung several times, reporters calling. Following their instructions, Junior expressed his father’s regret at Stubbs’ demise and declined comment on everything else. Helicopters from three Miami TV stations hovered over the island like noisy mosquitoes. One buzzed so low, it stirred the cove into a white froth. The crews got their footage, then powered north again.

Now, as Steve ran through his questions, Victoria sorted out her feelings. She felt slightly decadent, reclining on a wicker chaise lounge, sinking into the cocoa-colored cushions, sipping tequila on a workday afternoon, with two hot guys. One was her lover and potential life mate and the other once seemed destined for that role. Over the years, she had wondered about Junior. What kind of man had he become?

To start with, an awesome hunkalicious man, but he seems so much more than his physicality.

A decent, smart, caring man. All that time and money he spent on worthwhile causes. And look at Oceania, something that could have been an environmental holocaust, but thanks to Junior could become an environmental showplace, a stunning blend of commerce and nature.

So, Steve, what do you think of Junior now?

Sure, Junior had enjoyed a privileged life. But he wasn’t the spoiled rich kid Steve had predicted—and spitefully wanted—him to be.

Now, in the shade of an umbrella, the same cocoa print fabric as the chaise cushions, with Junior’s coppery-bronzy tan accentuating his bright smile, with his sun-streaked thatch of hair, with his six-pack of abs rigid as body armor and his carved deltoids rippling with each movement of his bare arms, with his strong jaw with that devilish cleft, he was …

Oh, hell, just say it, or at least think it.

If I were standing, my knees would have buckled by now.

Not to get overheated about it, but he was the closest thing to a Greek god she’d ever seen. A modern Adonis, who, if she remembered her course at Princeton, Fables and Myths, got it on with Aphrodite, notwithstanding the lady’s marriage to somebody-or-other. Was she feeling a little like Aphrodite, the trampy goddess of passion, who also peeled grapes with Ares, Dionysus, and a few other guy-gods Victoria couldn’t remember?

Jeez, am I so superficial that his looks, his luscious total maleness, turns me into mush?

No, of course not. It was just a healthy sexual fantasy, right? Like Steve studying the
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit issue more closely than any appellate court decision. She wondered if Steve was picking up her vibes. Could he tell what she was thinking—and feeling—about Junior?

“Great margaritas,” Steve allowed, sipping at his drink.

Okay, she thought, maybe he wasn’t tuned to her channel just now.

“Fresh-squeezed lime juice,” Junior explained. “No matter what anyone tells you, don’t go for the cheaper tequila just because you’re mixing drinks. Arette’s best. Blanco Suave, if you’re willing to spend a hundred bucks a bottle. Now, if you’re sipping tequila straight, go for Tres, Cuatro y Cinco, blue agave, but that will set you back four hundred bucks.”

“Seems like a lot of money for something that’s gonna turn into piss in twenty minutes,” Steve countered. Mr.
Savoir Vivre.

“Depends what’s important to you, I guess,” Junior said.

What
was
important to Steve? she wondered. His nephew, Bobby, of course. His work. And her. But how important was she? Getting Steve to open up was a lot like opening a jar of martini olives. It helps if you bang on his lid a few times.

Steve’s tongue flicked a salt crystal from the rim of the margarita glass. He had a faraway look, and Victoria knew he wasn’t thinking about their relationship. Or the Florida Marlins. Or even Bobby. He was getting into the case, and his look told her something was bothering him.

“I still don’t get it,” Steve said. “A project as big as Oceania. How’d you keep it quiet?”

“Dad’s good at keeping secrets,” Junior said, “and not just about business.”

“Meaning what?”

“After Nelson passed away—”

“Committed suicide,” Victoria interrupted the Greek god, preferring plain English to euphemisms. “My father committed suicide.”

That silenced both men for a moment. Victoria instantly regretted having altered everyone’s mood, especially her own. But she was still furious at her father and probably always would be. The mention of his name, of his death, brought back the pain.

“After your father committed suicide,” Junior continued, looking at her with tenderness, “I kept bugging Dad to tell me why he did it. The two of them were inseparable. Our mothers were best friends. You and I were, you know …”

Destined to be a couple.

She had finished the sentence in her mind while sipping her drink. “What did your father say?”

“Nothing. Except, ‘I’m sure Nelson had his reasons.’ ”

“He didn’t even leave a note,” Victoria said. “I was twelve, and all these years I’ve hated him for not even leaving a note. Why couldn’t he just write, ‘My darling daughter, I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I always loved you.’ ”

Neither man had an answer. Steve dipped a chip into the guacamole. He wanted to talk about the case but seemed to realize he’d have to wait out the talk about family.

After a moment, Junior said, “What did your mother tell you about it?”

“Not much. There was a Grand Jury investigation. Something about kickbacks and bribes in the construction industry. Dad got subpoenaed and committed suicide right before he was scheduled to testify.” Victoria drained the margarita quicker than she had intended. “The Queen never would go into details. So I guess your father’s not the only one to keep secrets.”

“My theory is that Dad put all the pressure on Nelson to take care of the legal problems,” Junior said. “When they had some setbacks, it was too much for him. And ever since, Dad’s felt guilty.”

“Is that why he stayed away all these years?” she asked.

“Dad didn’t stay away. He sent all those checks.”

“What checks?”

Junior seemed surprised. “I guess The Queen never told you. For a couple years, Dad sent her checks, but she didn’t cash them.”

“Why? What’d she tell your father?”

“I don’t think they spoke after the funeral. Not even once.”

“Maybe she had trouble reaching him. You guys moved out of the country. You disappeared from our lives.”

“He wrote her, Tori. Tried to call, too. But no response.”

Why? Victoria wondered. And why hadn’t her mother told her? That was Irene Lord for you. Secrecy and stoicism were the currencies The Queen traded in. You don’t go around whining about your husband’s suicide. You don’t examine it. You give it a handy label
—”business pressures, your father cracked”—
and you move on.

The Queen had stored away the memories in an attic trunk and kept the key from her only daughter. But Uncle Grif must know what’s inside. Now Victoria had another mission, having nothing to do with the murder case. She would learn everything she could from Uncle Grif. This meant spending more time with him, getting to know him all over again. And while she was at it, that applied to Junior, too.

SOLOMON’S LAWS

5. “Love” means taking a bullet for your beloved. Anything short of that is just “like.”

Twelve

FOUR SUSPECTS

Maybe it was the tropical sun beating down on Steve or the potent Arette tequila that fogged him in, or the uncertainty—yeah, the
arrière-pensée
—triggered by Junior’s muscular presence. Or did it start with Victoria refusing to have sex in the water, then insisting they split up the firm? Steve couldn’t tell.

Wasted away again in Margaritaville, he was sprawled on a chaise lounge three feet away from the woman he loved. Three feet on the other side was the suntanned slab of beef who was obviously putting the moves on her. Even worse, she seemed receptive, her eyes shiny with anticipation, her body language open and inviting.

Maybe it was his own fault, Steve thought. Had he driven her away? But how? He didn’t have a clue.

In the whole wide world, there were two people he cherished with his lifeblood. Victoria and Bobby. Meaning he’d take a bullet for either of them. Without hesitation, no questions asked. Given the cosmic choice—the voice of God claiming his life or theirs—Steve would sacrifice himself. Deep down, Steve believed he loved his pain-in-the-ass father, too. But giving up his life for the old man was a stretch.

“Another margarita?” Junior offered. “Milagros can make a couple more pitchers.” A Spanish-speaking woman in a white uniform stood at a discreet distance on the deck, waiting for her master’s instructions.

“No thanks,” Steve said. “We’ve got work to do.”

“Anything I can do, just ask,” Junior volunteered.

Just how much should he tell Junior? Steve didn’t describe how he always broke down a murder case into its component parts. The prosecutorial cliché was that there are three elements to a crime. In a circumstantial case—a case without an eyeball witness—you get a conviction by proving that the defendant had the
motive, opportunity,
and
means
to commit the murder.

In State of Florida versus Harold Griffin, there’d be no trouble proving opportunity. Two men go out on a boat. When it reaches shore
—hits
shore—one man has a spear in his chest. Talk about simple math.

There’d surely be the means, too; the defendant knew there was a speargun on the boat and had easy access to it.

But motive was the state’s problem. Griffin had no apparent reason to kill Stubbs. Hell, he
needed
Stubbs alive. Needed him to turn in a favorable environmental report on Oceania. Which, apparently, the man had been ready to do. Weren’t they all going to celebrate by feasting on lobster jambalaya at Louie’s while toasting Oceania with expensive champagne and Cuban cigars?

So Steve came to the studied conclusion—all the while knowing, this ain’t rocket science—that Hal Griffin was probably right.

Whoever killed Stubbs wanted to deep-six Oceania. And to defend Griffin, we gotta find that person.

Or persons. Again Steve remembered Stubbs raising two fingers in his hospital bed.

He squinted into the sun and turned to Junior, who was soaking up rays himself. “We need a list of everyone who knew what your father was planning out in the Gulf.”

“Not a problem,” Junior said.

“Plus everyone with a financial stake in Oceania.”

“You got it.”

“And everyone who knew that your father was taking Stubbs out on that boat.”

“Easy,” Junior said. “They’re all the same people.”

“Good,” Steve said. “Give us their names and addresses.”

“I can do better than that,” Junior said, stirring from the chaise. “C’mon. Let’s go to the movies.”

It’s nice to own an island, Steve thought. And have your own seaplane. And a mansion built on a cove. And your own cozy little movie theater.

They had gone into what Junior modestly called the “media room,” which turned out to be an elaborate mini movie theater with a proscenium entrance, Doric columns, motorized curtains the color of blood, and leather recliners that, according to Junior, rumbled and rattled to enhance big action sequences. They were not there, however, to watch a
Terminator
or
Matrix
flick.

They were there to review the security video shot by mounted cameras on the dock twenty-four hours earlier. As they sank into cushy leather love seats, Junior used a remote to dim the lights.

“Sorry about the decor,” Junior said, gesturing with the remote.

“What’s to be sorry about?” Steve asked.

“I wanted more of a Zen design,” Junior answered. “Earth tones. Clean lines. A more meditative feel. But you know Dad, Tori.”

Victoria laughed. “Uncle Grif’s more the Roman Colosseum type.”

“Exactly. Years ago, when Caesar’s Palace opened in Vegas, Dad thought it was too subtle.”

Steve watched as a grainy black-and-white image flickered onto the large screen. There was the
Force Majeure,
tied up at the dock, several hours before it had vaulted ashore and split in two like a coconut. The image on the screen changed. The angle sharper, the distance closer. There was no audio.

“There are three security cameras behind the house on the dock side,” Junior told them. “The recording alternates from one to the other every seven seconds.”

On the screen, two men were sitting on the fighting chairs in the cockpit of the boat. One was Clive Fowles, the pilot with the British accent. The other was a broad-shouldered African-American man. He wore a flowery islands shirt and khaki safari shorts. He was animated, talking while gesturing with both hands. Fowles nodded, listening, while sipping a drink.