The Deep Blue Alibi (15 page)

“If it had been a real Cartier, I couldn’t have bought it from the valet parker at jai alai.”

“The Queen doesn’t hate you, Steve. She just always imagined me with someone …” How could she put this? “… different.”

“A Princeton WASP whose Daddy owned an investment bank. Summer in Southampton, winter in Aspen.”

“Actually, she always thought I’d marry Junior.”

Steve made an “ow” sound and wrapped an arm around Tami. “I’m beginning to see the benefits of inanimate partners. No mothers-in-law.”

Victoria had never told Steve some of her mother’s pithier comments about him:

“For the life of me, Princess, I don’t know what you see in that ambulance chaser.”

And just now Victoria decided not to tell Steve something else, too. Her mother’s odd reaction last night to the news about Uncle Grif. The Queen never asked about the case. Victoria would have expected her to wonder
—Who’s dead? Did Grif do it? How badly hurt is he?—
but she didn’t ask any of those questions. Her first response:
“What did Grif say about me, dear?”

On second thought, maybe that was to be expected. After all, The Queen’s egocentricity was as much a trademark as her couture dresses and salon coiffures. But the question wasn’t:
“Did he ask about me?”
More of a concern, an alarm, about
what
was said. And then there was:
“Did Grif mention your father?”

Again, it wasn’t the question so much as the tone, Victoria reflected. Was there just a hint of fear? It seemed as if The Queen didn’t want her talking about the family with Uncle Grif. After all these years of silence, what was she afraid of?

Victoria wondered about the secrets parents keep. Both Steve’s father and her mother were hiding things. Was it to protect themselves, or their children? But don’t all of us keep secrets from our loved ones? After all, she didn’t come clean with Steve about just how shaky their relationship was.

What am I afraid of?

There was fear all around, it seemed to her.

The Queen had ended the phone call with another odd note Victoria was still processing.

“Grif was always envious of your father,”
Irene Lord had said.

“I thought they were best friends,”
Victoria replied.

“They were. But Nelson had such …
je ne sais quoi
… elegance, such class. Grif always knew he’d be nothing more than …”

Victoria could picture her mother, in her suite at the Shangri-la Hotel, making a dismissive European gesture, to be followed by a French expression.

“Another nouveau riche builder,”
The Queen concluded.

Victoria kept herself from pointing out that, after her father’s death, she and her mother were
nouveau pauvre. “I don’t get it, Mother. Why are you criticizing Uncle Grif?”

“I’m not, dear. I’m only saying, don’t take everything he says at face value. Now, I must ring off, darling. I’m late for my mud bath.”

Victoria imagined her mother, the phone pressed between shoulder and ear, delicate fingers removing a three-carat diamond stud from the other ear, placing it carefully in her black-lacquer traveling jewelry box. There was so much more Victoria wanted to ask. Why had The Queen never told her about Grif’s offers of financial support? And why had she refused all his help? Why shut Uncle Grif out of their lives when they needed him the most?

She decided not to share any of this with Steve, at least not until she could figure out some of it. She glanced at him stuffing Tami’s overflowing breasts back into place. Wondering if he was taking longer than absolutely necessary to complete the task.

She thought of her father, remembering a handsome man in an old-fashioned, three-piece suit, a barrel-chested man with a deep voice and a mane of salt-andpepper hair. He had seemed so strong. So invincible. But damn him, he’d been weak. He took the coward’s way out, abandoning his family. Not even a note, she thought for the thousandth time. How hard would it have been to write of his love for his only child?

Damn him! Damn him for the pain he left in his wake.

A memory came back to her, just a glimpse of her father, scooping her up and swinging her around, her legs nearly parallel to the ground as she shrieked with delight. A merry-go-round of a father. She remembered him as a tall man, but years later, she saw photos of Nelson and Irene Lord together. They were about the same height, and Irene was five-eight. The tricks the mind plays, she thought. What else was distorted in her memory? And what other secrets did her mother keep locked in her black-lacquer jewelry box?

Sixteen

THIS YEAR’S BIGBY

In the span of seven minutes, Judge Alvin Schwartz— eighty-one years old, nearsighted, absentminded, and cantankerous as a hemorrhoid—threatened Steve with contempt, ordered him to put his pants back on, reserved ruling on his motion for summary judgment, tossed all lawyers out of his chambers, but commanded Ms. Tami Stepford and all her silicone charms to remain behind, while His Honor considered the weighty legal precedents concerning injuries suffered while wrestling bikini-clad women in vats of Jell-O.

On the way out of the courthouse, Steve felt elated. Victoria had made the legal arguments, and he’d handled the single-leg takedown and crotch-and-a-half pinning move. Surely Victoria must realize they were a terrific team. “We’re gonna win,” he predicted cheerfully.

“Great,” Victoria said, without enthusiasm. “We’ll get more work from …” She couldn’t bring herself to say it. Even the name sounded dirty. “That place.”

“Hey, The Beav pays the bills.”

“Not just in lap dance coupons?”

“C’mon, Vic. You know I don’t mess around with The Beav Brigade.” Referring to the pole climbers, lap dancers, and bar-top booty shakers.

It was technically true, thanks to his use of the present-tense verb “don’t.” It would have been completely true if he’d added “anymore.”

From the day he first kissed Victoria—actually, she kissed him on the dock of a yacht club while her fiancé was having avocado vichyssoise inside—he had not been with another woman. Had not even lusted after another woman. In the time they’d been together, he had often told Victoria that he loved her—usually amidst various whoops and snorts while her legs were wrapped around his hips—but even so, he figured he meant it.

“So, how ‘bout Nemo for dinner?” he asked. “My treat. You’re crazy about their pan-seared yellowtail.”

“Ah. Uhh. Ah,” Victoria said.

She was either buying time or was in desperate need of a Heimlich maneuver, Steve thought.

“Actually, Junior’s in town,” she admitted after a moment.

“No problem. Tell Junior to join us. He can pick up the check.”

“The thing is …”

“Yeah?”

“He already asked me to dinner.”

Steve felt like he’d been slugged in the gut. “You mean, like a date?”

“Not a date-date. Just a chance for us to catch up on old times without you cross-examining him.”

“No fucking way.”

She shot him a harsh look. He knew she hated the F-word, and he’d curtailed using it as the modifier of choice. No more “fucking hot out there.” He’d cut back on the action verb, “fuck him,” and the noun, “the fuck you doing?” And he was working on not using it as a suffix of the word “mother.”

So when he chose to smack Victoria with a “no fucking way,” it was a calculated verbal slap on the kisser to let her know just how pissed he was.

How pissed was he?
Fucking pissed.

“Ste-phen,” she dragged out his name, showing her irritation, “just chill. Having dinner with Junior is no big deal.”

“Where you going?”

“Norman’s. In the Gables.”

“A date restaurant. The most romantic place in town.”

“Then why don’t you ever take me there?”

“Because we’re not dating. We’re together. We don’t need a dark, expensive place with fancy food.”

“Meaning what? Romance is dead?”

He’d walked into quicksand, and struggling was useless, but he flailed about, anyway. “C’mon, Vic. I’ve taken you there when a client paid.”

“Which would make it a business restaurant, correct?”

Touché. The woman was a born cross-examiner.

“That’s irrelevant,” he scrambled, trying to counter-punch. “You’re not going to talk business. You’re going to relive the joys of playing strip poker at Bunny Flagler’s.”

“You’re overreacting.”

Was he?

No. This is how you react when the woman you’re crazy about might jump ship.

He remembered the day he met Victoria, the ultra-proper, rigid-postured, long-legged young prosecutor in a conservative glen-plaid suit. She’d had a meltdown when he tried to call Mr. Ruffles, a talking toucan, to testify. Face flushed, she’d lost her cool and called Steve unethical and sleazy, diabolical and dangerous, a disgrace to the profession. How could he not fall for her?

That day in the courtroom, she was still a novice, and he’d caught a tremor in her lower lip as she rose to speak. But when she did speak
… Oh, Lordy,
as his father might say. In her tailored suit and velvet-toed shoes, with her short, butterscotch hair tousled just a whisper, with her commanding height, and her voice, growing stronger and more confident by the minute, Victoria Lord conveyed intelligence, competence, and unshakable integrity.

She had what every great trial lawyer desires, something that cannot be taught, bought, or even forgotten; she had
presence.
You couldn’t
not
watch her.

Still, Steve the Slasher was the wilier practitioner, and he’d tricked her into a mistrial, which got her fired from the State Attorney’s Office. He’d been regretful about that, at first. But no more. Had she not been sacked, they never could have hooked up to defend Katrina Barksdale on charges she’d strangled her husband.

Victoria had been engaged to the Avocado King then, and she’d stiff-armed all of Steve’s advances. Until she came to the conclusion—not rationally, Steve figured, but chemically, magically, hormonally—that he, Last Out Solomon, was the man for her. Not Bruce Bigby. Which, at this moment, gave him precious little solace. For it stood to reason that if he stole Victoria’s heart from Bigby, could not another man do the same to him? Was he this year’s Bigby?

Seventeen

THE LOVE SONG OF

JUNIOR GRIFFIN

Victoria felt her cheeks burn as she followed the maître d’ past the open, wood-burning oven on the way to the table. Or maybe the warmth wasn’t coming from the oven at all. With Junior Griffin’s strong hand on her bare skin, just above the top of her sequined silk chiffon ruffle top, was she blushing?

Diners at other tables stared as they walked by. Usually, she was the one who drew the looks, but now it seemed that her companion was the focus of attention. Junior wore an unstructured beige silk jacket, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his dark tan a burnished bronze in the subdued lighting. Underneath the jacket, a coral blue silk shirt was open at the neck, the fabric picking up the color of his eyes.

Adonis in Armani.

Sounds and smells filled this room of dark woods, a feel of old-world Spanish architecture. From the open kitchen came the crackle of rum-painted grouper, sizzling in a pan. From the tables, the tinkle of glasses and quiet conversations—in English, Spanish, Portuguese— giving the place an exotic feel.

The maître d’ led them to a prime table, and why shouldn’t he? They looked like an upwardly mobile young couple, sophisticated and successful.

Except we’re not a couple at all.

She felt a moment of confusion as they ordered drinks, tequila for Junior, a Cosmopolitan for her. She was trying to convince herself that she had been honest with Steve. This wasn’t a date. This was just a reconnection with her childhood friend. An opportunity to learn more about her father, more about her mother’s secrets, maybe even a nugget or two for the murder case.

But not a date. Definitely
not
a date.

She hadn’t let Junior pick her up at the condo. There’d be no awkward moments
—”Want to come up for a drink?”—
at the end of this evening.

So why had she taken such care dressing? She didn’t have to change out of the high-collared, pin-striped suit she’d worn to court. But she had showered, washed and blow-dried her hair, then tried on four outfits. First, the conservative blue-green tweed jacket with a fringe trim and matching skirt with a silk scarf tie. No way. She looked like Mary Poppins.

Then the racy Balenciaga criss-cross halter minidress. But she didn’t have the nerve for that one. Next, a middle-of-the-road Burberry beige wrap dress with splotches of black spots. Forget it. She looked like a demented schoolteacher whose fountain pen had exploded in her closet.

Finally, she decided on the bare-shouldered, sequined Max Azria ruffle top with the black tuxedo pants. When Junior met her at the bar, he’d cocked his head and said:
“Wow, you look gorgeous.”
They brush-kissed and she felt a tingle of excitement and a creeping blush that rose like a fever from the back of her neck.

Now, as the waiter served pre-appetizer snacks like little party favors sent from the kitchen—a bite-size flan risotto flaked with lemon and a griddled masa cake topped by a tomatillo sauce—Junior surprised her with a question. “So, you and Solomon, law partners and how much more?”

She told him the story. How months earlier she’d called Steve “the sleaziest lawyer she’d ever met.” How they’d shared facing jail cells after being held in mutual contempt for bickering in court. How he’d tricked her into a mistrial, which got her fired, and then how they’d teamed up to try a murder case. She left out the bit about making love in her fiancé’s avocado grove. Wildly romantic at the time, it just seemed tawdry in the telling. But as she spoke to Junior, that night kept coming back to her. A snowstorm in Miami, a hurricane in her heart. She could still smell the black smoke of the smudge pots, could see the twinkling Christmas lights warming the trees. One indelible image: Steve’s face. Startled … because
she
had made the first move. He had resisted—well, hesitated, anyway. The tough guy had been afraid of getting hurt. She was, after all, engaged to someone else.