The Deep Blue Alibi (3 page)

Sure, Steve, but it’s gonna be my business, not yours.

“And how the hell did that guy get a spear in his chest?” Not letting up. He was like a fifty-ton Mud Cat dredging the harbor, a
force majeure
in his own right.

“I don’t know any more than you do, Steve.”

“Three possibilities,” he persisted. “One: accident. Griffin’s showing the guy the speargun and it fires. Then we’ve got a civil case to defend.”

“We,” she thought, her heart sinking. God, hadn’t he been listening?

“Two: They fought over something. The guy clobbers Griffin, who shoots him with the spear. Then, we’ve got aggravated battery, maybe murder if the guy dies. Self-defense a possibility if Griffin feared for his life.”

Try poaching Uncle Grif’s legal work, you’ll be in fear for
your
life, sweetheart.

“Three: a boat malfunction. The steering goes out, we sue the manufacturer or repair yard or parts supplier for damages. That doesn’t explain the spear, but—”

“Let’s just see how Uncle Grif is doing,” she interrupted icily, “and not worry about business.”

“Sure thing, but we could be looking at big bucks here.”

“We” again. When you’re already upset with your boyfriend, his everyday aggravating habits seem even worse. There’s a multiplier effect, like the bank compounding interest. Here he was, once again not listening to her, once again not picking up the nuances of her voice, the rhythms of her mood.

Dammit, Solomon. You can read the flutter of a witness’ eyelashes. Why can’t you hear me unless I scream?

They passed the marina at Garrison Bight, ancient houseboats slouched cockeyed in the water, unrehabilitated hippies sprawled on front porches, drinking the night away. Two tourists on motor scooters hogged the middle of the road, and Steve banged the horn again. He hung a left at College Road onto Stock Island, headed past the pungent garbage dump and landfill, and pulled between two rows of royal palms into the hospital parking lot. A helicopter descended noisily, heading for the concrete pad near the Emergency Room entrance. But if there was any emergency, it was journalistic, not medical. The chopper was from Channel 4 in Miami.

Great. Just great. Steve never met a camera he didn’t love.

A Monroe County sheriff’s car sat angled at the hospital’s front entrance. Perched on the hood of the car, like a long-legged ornament, was a white ibis. If she were superstitious, Victoria would have considered it a bad omen. The bird watched them walk into the lobby, Victoria’s mind swirling with memories.

Why
had
Uncle Grif called her after all these years? And why had he
not
called all these years?

The Lords and the Griffins.

When she was a child and Lord-Griffin Construction Company was booming, the two families were inseparable. Nelson and Irene Lord, Harold and Phyllis Griffin. Dinners, bridge games, vacations. For Victoria, before her world collapsed, it was a time of nannies and cruises, tennis camps and Shetland ponies. Her favorite playmate was Hal, Jr. They’d played doctor when she was four and Junior was six, kissed for real when she was twelve and he was fourteen. Such innocence. Such promise. Until her father leapt off the roof of one of the Lord-Griffin condos. Then came the lawsuits, bankruptcies, Grand Jury investigations. Something about bribery and extortion in the building trades. Hal Griffin took his family to Costa Rica and laid low for several years.

Victoria and her mother lost track of them, but then Uncle Grif turned up in Singapore and Indonesia, building hotels and accumulating a fortune. Over the years, he worked his way back home, developing resorts in the Caribbean. Then, a year ago, there’d been a story in the
Miami Herald
when he bought Paradise Key, a small, private island in Shark Channel, just off the Gulf side of Islamorada. There was speculation in the business pages about a new Griffin project in Florida, but nothing official. Then, last week, Uncle Grif finally called. He apologized for having been out of her life all these years. Then said he’d been keeping tabs on her.

Keeping tabs.
That had sounded mysterious. But it must have been true. Uncle Grif knew all about her honors at Princeton and Yale Law. He knew about her brief stint in the State Attorney’s Office, and he’d heard she was in private practice. Now he had some legal work that might interest her.

Her.

Not the senior partner at some deep-carpet firm. Not Alan Dershowitz. Not Steve Solomon. But her.

Victoria Lord, attorney-at-law. Sole practitioner.

Dammit! How could she get Steve to accept that?

Now, there’s a guy who really fills a hospital bed, Steve thought, getting a glimpse of Harold Griffin. Burly chest, wide shoulders, thick neck, a white bandage on his forehead, and his right arm in a sling. A still handsome, still rugged man in his mid-sixties, Griffin had pale blue eyes and bushy, sun-bleached eyebrows.

“My God, you’re all grown up, Princess,” Griffin said as Victoria walked to his bedside.

“How are you feeling, Uncle Grif?”

“Nothing but a separated shoulder, a couple cuts, and a monster headache.” He looked toward Steve. “You must be the young man Victoria mentioned.”

“Steve Solomon.” Wondering just what Victoria had said. “Young man” made him sound like a boyfriend, which he was. But this was business, right? Hadn’t Victoria told him about the firm? “I’m Victoria’s partner.”

“Partner,” Griffin repeated. “Used to be, when you said you were someone’s partner, everybody knew what you meant. Like Victoria’s father and me. Borrowed money together, built condos together, covered each other’s ass. These days, it might mean a couple of interior decorators playing house.” He barked a laugh and said, “Come to think of it, they’re covering each other’s ass, too.”

“What happened out there, Mr. Griffin?” Steve asked.

“Call me Grif. I was bringing Stubbs down from Paradise Key to discuss the new project. Ben Stubbs from Washington. Environmental Protection Agency. Poor sucker’s in the ICU right now. Never saw so much blood in my life, and I was in ‘Nam.”

“What’s the EPA have to do with your project?” Victoria asked.

Griffin motioned her to move closer. “Cop still in the hall?”

“Right outside the door.”

“Did he happen to say if he was protecting me or confining me?”

“Didn’t say anything, Uncle Grif.”

True, Steve thought. The deputy, a gum-chewing, jug-eared, close-shaved kid, had been too busy gaping at Victoria’s tanned legs.

“Can’t talk to you about Stubbs until we sweep for bugs,” Griffin whispered. “I once bid on a shopping center in Singapore. Figured my hotel room might be bugged, so I made all my calls from the bathroom after turning on the shower. But every move I made, a competitor beat me to the punch. Turned out, there was a bug in the toilet-roll dispenser.”

In Key West, Steve thought, the only bugs in hotel bathrooms were likely to have eight legs. He couldn’t envision Willis Rask, the sheriff, illegally eavesdropping in a hospital room. Same for State Attorney Richard Waddle, even if his nickname was “Dickwad.”

“Can you just tell us what happened on the boat?” Victoria asked.

Griffin used his good arm to wave them even closer. Victoria scooted along one side of the bed, Steve the other. It was starting to look like a sleepover at Never-land Ranch. Griffin continued so softly, it was nearly impossible to hear him. “I don’t know how the hell Stubbs got that spear in his chest. And that’s the truth.”

“You make any stops? Refuel, that sort of thing?” Steve asked. Thinking they needed a third party coming aboard. A mermaid with a speargun would do.

Griffin looked around, as if someone might be listening. When he didn’t find anyone, he whispered: “One quick stop. A couple miles west of Black Turtle Key, one of those no-name islands. I keep my lobster pots offshore there. Pulled up a few critters for our dinner.”

“I thought we were going to Louie’s Backyard,” Victoria said.

“You ever have their lobster jambalaya, Princess?”

“Never saw it on the menu.”

” ‘Course not. They make it just for me. I bring the lobster, they do the rest, from the andouille sausage to the spices.”

Speaking louder now, apparently not concerned if eavesdroppers stole his recipe.

“I think I saw our dinner crawling across the beach,” Victoria said.

“Lobsters are out of season,” Steve reminded them.

“So sue me,” Griffin shot back.

What do you make of a guy who brings his own food to the best restaurant in Key West? Probably the same thing you’d say about someone who names his boat
Force Majeure.
This guy lives large, fills a conference room the way he fills a hospital bed. A man used to getting his own way. So what does he do if things don’t go his way?

“All those hundred-dollar bills blowing across the beach,” Steve said. “What was that about?”

“Louie’s is expensive,” Griffin said. “I was gonna pick up the check.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Seriously, I just keep a lot of cash around.”

“How much? On the boat today.”

“Maybe a hundred thousand. More or less.”

All that cash. One man with a spear in his chest. Another with a bump on his noggin. And a mess of out-of-season lobsters. Where do you look in the law books for this one?

“See anybody on that little island where you stopped?” Steve asked.

Griffin shook his head.

“You head straight from there to Sunset Key?”

Again, Griffin lowered his voice to a parched whisper. “At thirty-five knots. I’m up on the fly bridge, wind blowing my hair, or what’s left of it. I asked Stubbs to keep me company up there, but the lazy bastard stays in the cockpit, getting a tan, drinking a Bud. Few minutes later, I look down, and he’s not there. I figure maybe he’s inside, sacking out or taking a leak. Little while later, I still don’t see him, so I get on the intercom, but there’s no answer. I get worried, think maybe he fell overboard. He’d been drinking pretty good and he’s clumsy on his feet, especially on a wet deck. So I put her on auto and went down the ladder.”

He paused and gnawed his lower lip. Steve didn’t have to try a hundred cases to know that what was coming next was either a careful lie or the painful truth. The trick—the damned near impossible trick— was to distinguish the two.

“Soon as I open the door to the salon, I see Stubbs,” Griffin said. “On the floor, slumped up against a bulkhead, bleeding like a stuck pig, that spear in his chest. I run out of there, climb back up the ladder. I was gonna call the Coast Guard, head for Marathon.”

“Fishermen’s Hospital.”

“Exactly. But then,
boom.
The lights go out.”

“Meaning what?”

“I don’t know. My next memory is being down on the deck, my head split open, drifting in and out.

Maybe someone up on the fly bridge whacked me across the skull as I came up the ladder.”

Oh, shit. The phantom strikes. Twice. First in the salon, then on the bridge.

“Next thing I know, I’m on the beach with a stomping headache, and here comes the Princess, looking just like her mother all those years ago.” He turned toward Victoria. “How is The Queen, anyway?”

“Before you two catch up on old times,” Steve interrupted, “did you tell that story to the police?”

“What do you mean by ‘story,’ Solomon?”

“Nothing. Just asking if you gave a statement.”

“Don’t bullshit me, kid. Spit it out.”

Steve took a breath, fired away. “What you just told us, it’s the worst story I ever heard. Worse than Scott Peterson’s phone calls to Amber Frey.”

“Steve,” Victoria said. Her warning tone. “You’re not talking to some thug in the lockup.”

He ignored her, cut to the heart of it. “There are only two of you on the boat in the middle of the Gulf, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So who speared Stubbs?”

Griffin’s eyes narrowed. “When Stubbs comes to, ask him.”

“And if he doesn’t come to?”

That stopped Griffin a moment. Then he said: “My theory is, someone stowed away below before we left my dock.”

“Like in that book by Joseph Conrad,” Victoria said.

“What book?” Steve asked.
Just what’s Miss Princeton summa cum laude talking about now?
In college, Steve had read the Cliffs Notes of
Heart of Darkness,
but he didn’t remember any stowaway.

“The Secret Sharer,”
Victoria continued. “A ship captain hides a stowaway who’s accused of killing another seaman. The captain sails close to shore and lets the stowaway swim to safety.”

“And when the boat crashed on Sunset Key,” Steve said, “what happened to this secret sharer fellow?”

“I don’t know,” Victoria said. “It’s just an idea.”

“I don’t know either,” Griffin said. “And I didn’t give a statement to the police. You think I’m a damn fool, Solomon?”

“No. I pity the man who takes you for one. Or who crosses you.”

“Steve, please.” A command, not a request. “Uncle Grif, I’m sorry. Steve can be abrasive sometimes.”

“No problem, Princess. I like this punk.”

“You do?” She sounded stunned.

“Most lawyers stick their tongues so far up my butt, it tickles my nose. Sorry, Princess. Your mother used to say I was uncouth. Not like your father. All polished fingernails and luncheon clubs. Of course, if Nelson had begun life spreading hot tar on roofs, his hands might not have been so clean.” Griffin turned back to Steve and showed a crooked smile. “I told the cops my head hurt, and I’d talk to them later. I do good, Counselor?”

“Real good. Not a word to the cops until we hear what Stubbs has to say. Then we’ll draft a statement for you. Assuming you want us to represent you.”

“We’ll see. Give me a game plan.”

“We have to prepare for the worst. Stubbs comes to and says the two of you argued, and you speared him like an olive with a toothpick. We get a doctor who’ll say that after losing all that blood, Stubbs is hallucinating.”

Griffin winked at Victoria. “I like the way this punk thinks.”