The Deep Blue Alibi svl-2

by Paul Levine

  "You get the feeling Griffin didn't want you along?" Steve asked.

  "Not really, mate. Mr. G just gave me the rest of the day off. I'd busted my hump the day before. Hauled ass out to Black Turtle Key to bait the lobster traps, plus all my other work back here."

  Victoria and Steve exchanged glances. There was a question someone had to ask without giving up too much. The pots had been baited with more than chum. But did Fowles know that? Victoria chose her words carefully. "I thought Hal Griffin baited the traps himself."

  "He tell you that?" Fowles laughed. "Yeah, I can hear him saying it. 'I baited the traps.' Same way he'd say: 'I flew the Grumman to Nassau.' Or 'I reconditioned the diesels.' I suppose it's true because Mr. G pays for it, but good old Clive Fowles does the flying and the reconditioning."

  "And that baiting," Steve said. "What'd you use? Redfish? Crab?"

  Another laugh. "Don't sod about, Solomon. Just ask it. Yeah, some crab and a big bag of currency."

  Sloppy, Victoria thought. Uncle Grif involving Fowles like that. Now the boat captain would be a prime prosecution witness. Fowles could help the state establish the bribes, or at least one of them.

  "Griffin tell you what the money was for?" Steve asked.

  "Nope."

  "And you didn't ask?"

  "I don't get paid to ask questions."

  "But you wondered," Steve said. "Wondering's free."

  "I figured Ben Stubbs was gonna be richer stepping off the boat than stepping on."

  "Make you angry, knowing your boss was paying the guy off?"

  "Just reinforced my beliefs about the way of the world, Solomon. Money talks. Bullshit walks." Bull-shite.

  Fowles tossed an empty beer can back in the cooler. He scooped up one of the plastic bands that ties a sixpack together. It was lying on the seawall and would blow into the water in a light breeze. The plastic bands strangle fish that get caught in them.

  No way Fowles would ever toss junk into the water, Victoria decided. Or tolerate those who did. His heart would be with Delia in the battle to save the coral reef, but his pocketbook would be with Uncle Grif. So just where did he stand?

  "Any idea who would want to frame your boss for murder?" she asked.

  "I figure someone who wanted to stop Oceania."

  Victoria dropped a line into the water. "Someone like Delia?"

  "Strike me pink! You're still on that? Delia's a lover, not a killer. Just ask your partner."

  Steve smiled, agreeably. Annoyingly.

  "Ever tell Mr. Griffin how you felt about Oceania?" Victoria asked Fowles, ignoring Steve.

  "I told him how development killed the big reefs off Honolulu and Singapore and Hong Kong. I told him how pile driving so close to the reef would dislodge sediment that would clog up the coral. How the gas pipeline and the conduits for water and electrical would mess up the ocean floor. But he had a study to rebut every one of my arguments. Like I told Delia from the start, it's Mr. G's decision, not the guy who drives his boats and flies his planes. In the end, my opinion didn't count any more than Junior's."

  "What's that mean?" Steve jumped in. "What was Junior's opinion?"

  "All I'm saying is that father and son don't always see eye to eye."

  "Mr. Griffin told you to be open with us," Victoria reminded Fowles. "But you're holding back."

  When the Englishman didn't respond, Steve said, "Just what's Junior got to do with this?"

  Fowles rolled his pants legs back down. "Nothing much, except when the financing fell through, Mr. G and Junior had a row. A real argy-bargy."

  "When the financing fell through. ."

  What did that mean? Griffin had a huge construction loan in place. He had his financing. So what the hell did Fowles mean? Steve shot Victoria a look that warned: "Don't let on we're clueless."

  As if she would give that up. She tried to remember something Junior told them. Jesus, what was it? Had her knees been so wobbly from seeing him that she'd forgotten? The word "hoops" came back to her. Junior complained about "all the hoops" the insurance companies made them jump through to get their financing. He'd been evasive about just who issued the binder, some double-talk about a foreign consortium. Then Steve made up the name of a Pacific Rim company that Junior seemed to agree was the one.

  Victoria cautiously baited another line, cast it. "Did the financing run into trouble because of the insurance problem?"

  "It did indeed."

  "But Griffin landed insurance somewhere," Steve added, "or he couldn't have gotten a construction loan."

  Fowles barked out a laugh. "You don't know shit, do you, mate?" Shite.

  "Tell us," Steve said.

  "Oceania couldn't get insurance. The computer models showed the hotel would capsize in a Category Five hurricane. Mr. G argued that the chances of a Category Five hitting one tiny spot in the Gulf were infinitesimal, but it didn't matter. No one would insure the place."

  "So how'd he get a construction loan?"

  "By putting up everything he owned as collateral. Every last piece of real estate. Every stock and bond, all his spare cash, too. That's what the row was about. Junior was ranting and raving that his father's ego had run amuck. That he was building a monument to himself that was sheer folly and he'd lose everything."

  Victoria remembered something Uncle Grif had said the day The Queen showed up. "Lately, Junior's taken an interest in the business. Been riding me hard, telling me I spend too much money, take too many risks."

  "So Junior was scared shitless he'd lose his inheritance," Steve emphasized, as if Victoria didn't get the point. As if she didn't know he was already pushing Junior to the head of the Reasonable Alternative Scenario class of suspects most likely to create reasonable doubt.

  "And Mr. G was yelling right back," Fowles continued, "giving Junior a real bollocking, calling him a prima donna and a playboy."

  "A playboy," Steve repeated, just in case Victoria had missed it.

  "Mr. G said it was his money and he'd do whatever the hell he wants with it. So if you ask me, Junior Griffin had a helluva lot more reason to deep-six Oceania than Delia or me. Millions more, you might say."

  Steve's smile was so smug, Victoria longed to slap it right off his face.

  Thirty

  CROSSING THE BRIDGE

  "Junior's not a killer," Victoria said as they approached Big Pine Key.

  "No way you can be certain."

  "But you know Delia's harmless, even though she throws a mean meat cleaver."

  Victoria was at the wheel of her Mini Cooper, headed south on U.S. 1. The car would have fit into the trunk of Steve's old Eldo, although the trunk was probably currently occupied by families of grouper and snapper. They were on their way to meet Junior, Steve insisting they confront him with Fowles' accusations.

  "Look at the facts," he said. "Junior was angry that his father was going to build a hotel on top of a coral reef. But it gets worse. The old man's gotta put up everything he owns to secure the financing. Now Junior's afraid the fish aren't the only ones who are gonna be homeless. The two men argue, but no way Dad's gonna change his mind. Junior wants to stop the project, but how? He won't kill his father. And maybe he didn't even want to kill Stubbs. Maybe he just wanted to threaten him but things escalated."

  "Couldn't happen unless Junior miraculously gets back on the boat while it's under way."

  "No problem for Aquaman. You saw him climb on a seaplane that was under way."

  "The security video clearly shows Junior diving off the Force Majeure."

  "But not swimming away from the boat. He could have climbed up the dive ladder when no one's looking. He hides below, then confronts Stubbs in the salon, tries to get him to change his report. Stubbs says no. He's being paid a fortune to whore for Oceania. Junior threatens to expose the bribes, but Stubbs figures he's bluffing. If Stubbs is guilty of taking bribes, Griffin's guilty of paying them. Stubbs doesn't think Junior will take his old man down."

  "You're making this up as
you go along."

  "That's what creative lawyers do, Vic. Now, just hear me out. Junior threatens Stubbs with the spear-gun. Maybe Stubbs tries to take the gun away and it discharges accidentally. Or maybe Junior just flat-out shoots him. Either way, Junior dives off the boat and swims to shore."

  "Too many maybes. And Uncle Grif? Who knocked him out?"

  "I don't know yet. But remember that cruise ship that got smacked by a forty-foot wave on a calm day?"

  "Yeah."

  "Maybe a rogue wave hits the Force Majeure as Griffin's going back up the ladder. He falls to the deck and is knocked out."

  "Way too many maybes."

  "Jeez, Vic. I'm just playing poker with ideas here. All I'm saying, we can toss Junior's Speedos at the jury and create reasonable doubt."

  "Uncle Grif will never go for it."

  "You're assuming he doesn't already think that's what happened."

  "If Uncle Grif thought all that, why wouldn't he tell us?"

  "Because he wants us to win the case without involving his son."

  When they hit Big Pine Key, Victoria turned left onto Long Beach Road. Before leaving Fowles at Paradise Key, Steve had called Junior, who was looking at dive boats for sale in Marathon. Then he was heading to the Polynesian Beach Club to unwind.

  Unwind from what? Steve wondered. The guy didn't work. What would wind him up in the first place?

  Junior invited them for lunch at the club, which he said served a fine grilled ahi. So now Steve looked forward to tuna followed by cross-examination.

  Junior said the club was reachable only by a private bridge from the southern tip of Big Pine Key. He'd lowered his voice to tell Steve the password, "Kon-tiki," which they were to say to a guard at the gatehouse. It was all a little too Skull and Bonesy for Steve's taste. A rich man's private retreat, fat cats congratulating one another over rum and colas. Junior chuckled on the phone, saying he was sure they'd enjoy the "ambience."

  Ambience, my ass. The phony bastard.

  "So what's your plan?" Victoria asked.

  Steve gave her a smile. "I'm going to tell Junior to be a man. Save his father by turning himself in. Plead to manslaughter. Ten years, out in seven. Not too bad. Of course, he'll lose his tan."

  The man in the gatehouse wore a pith helmet and a navy shirt with epaulets. He smiled broadly when Steve whispered, "Kon-tiki."

  "Have a good day, sir, ma'am," the guard said. "And watch out for sunburn."

  They crossed the bridge, and Victoria parked the Mini Cooper next to a silver Hummer with a trailer hitch. Junior's, she told Steve, as he unfolded himself from the little car. On the back bumper of the Navigator was a bumper sticker: "Divers Do It Deeper."

  "Tacky," he said. "Very tacky."

  "You're one to talk. With those juvenile T-shirts."

  "Mine have meaning. They're not idle boasts."

  "You're all adolescents," she said. "All of you."

  They headed toward a clubhouse with bamboo walls and a thatched palm roof. Standing by the front door was an eight-foot carved wooden tiki, the Polynesian god. A long red tongue hung from his open mouth, looking distinctly obscene.

  Steve heard the thwack of racket on ball. He took a closer look, first seeing a flash of movement, then a flash of flesh. Half hidden behind a row of sabal palms was a tennis court, two middle-aged couples playing doubles.

  "I think the laundry workers are on strike."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "The tennis players aren't wearing shirts. Or shorts, for that matter."

  Victoria peered between the trees.

  A man shouted, "Out? Out, my ass!"

  Then a woman's voice, "C'mon, Al. It was out. Forty love."

  "They're naked," Victoria whispered, as if the tiki god might be eavesdropping.

  "That's what I'm telling you. Junior wants us with our pants down. You, anyway."

  "Don't freak out. It's got to be one of those clothing-optional resorts."

  "Nothing optional about it," said the young woman behind the rattan counter in the clubhouse. Woven tapa cloths hung on the bamboo walls, and in the corner, a red-and-blue mynah was perched on an artificial tree. "Everyone's in the buff. Members, guests, staff."

  The woman had one of those Disney World smiles, as if she'd overdosed on nitrous oxide. Her name tag said "Honey" and hung on a cord that snaked through the cleavage between her oversize, suntanned breasts. In Steve's estimation-based both on firsthand experience and defending Dr. Irwin Rudnick on med mal charges-Honey's grapefruit-shaped boobs had been surgically enhanced. "Once you cross the bridge, it's all nude, all the time," Honey emphasized. "Even the luncheon buffet."

  "We're meeting a member," Victoria said, and Steve refrained from making a really bad pun.

  "Who would that be?" Honey inquired.

  "Junior Griffin."

  "Oh, Mr. Grif-fin," Honey purred. "He's a big man around here."

  Again, Steve stifled himself.

  "I'm an intern," Honey volunteered. "Hotel management at Florida State. Mr. Griffin is my mentor."

  "You're in good hands," Victoria said.

  "Both of them," Steve remarked. A man can only resist so much temptation.

  Honey pointed toward the locker rooms. After they disrobed-Honey confided that Junior-the-Mentor advised her never to say "stripped"-they should follow the Tahiti Trail across Volcano Bridge and the Koi Lagoon. They'd pass the swimming pool and find Junior Griffin on the croquet court.

  "Mr. Griffin swings the best mallet at the club," Honey breathed, dreamily.

  "Golly, is there anything that man can't do?" Steve said, agreeably.

  "When he's got a clean shot, he always scores," Honey said, her eyes aglow.

  SOLOMON'S LAWS

  8. If a guy who's smart, handsome, and rich invites you and your girlfriend to a nudist club. . chances are he's got a giant

  shmeckel.

  Thirty-one

  SIZE MATTERS

  "Do you think I'm flat-chested?" Victoria said.

  "Absolutely not. You're well proportioned."

  "Is that like saying a plain girl has a good personality?"

  "You're tall and sinewy and athletic with boobs that are perfect for the rest of your bod."

  "But small."

  "Not small, not big. Just the way I like them."

  "You're sure?"

  "More than a handful is a waste."

  "So why were you staring at Honey's humongous bazooms?" she demanded, having trapped him on the road of cross-examination.

  "Because looking away would have stamped me as a rookie." Slipping out of the trap.

  Naked and self-conscious, they passed a row of stone tikis that Victoria thought resembled the Easter Island gods. The path cut through a stand of mangrove trees, providing cover and a sense of security, for now.

  "If a woman's a nudist, she wants you to look," Steve continued. "Proper etiquette requires a gaze. Not a long stare, but a look sufficient to appraise and appreciate."

  "Great excuse. You really are a good lawyer." She'd been staring straight ahead, but now glanced at him. "What's with the newspaper?"

  "It was in the locker room."

  "And why are you holding it over your crotch?"

  "No reason. I've been meaning to catch up on world affairs."

  "Really?" She grabbed the paper. Diario Las Americas. "What's new in Tegucigalpa?"

  A noise startled her. Just off the path, a woodpecker-as naked as they were-hammered at a bottlebrush tree. Victoria tried breathing deeply, inhaling the moist air laden with salt from nearby tidal pools.

  She never considered herself an exhibitionist. If anything, she was shy about her body. But this posed a test, like competing for a spot on the law journal. She was determined to overcome her inhibitions, to win whatever was at stake.

  I have a good body. And there's nothing wrong with nudity, right?

  She was starting to convince herself. What was there to be embarrassed about?

&
nbsp; Junior.

  Junior would be naked, too. One gorgeous hunk of a man. What would he think of her body?

  God, why am I thinking of him?

  Victoria tossed the newspaper into a trash receptacle and glanced at Steve, whose right hand covered his groin.

  "Now what?" she asked.

  "It's shrinking."

  "Oh, stop."

  "Do you think I'm small?" Remembering Aqua-man in his Speedos. Knowing they were moments from encountering Junior's jumbo Johnson.

  "I think you're well proportioned for your body."

  Touche.

  "I mean it, Vic. Am I a little . . little?"

  "I don't have a sufficient sampling to answer. But yours is fine. It's cute."

  "Cute? Cute is for kittens. A man wants to be a monster. A leviathan. A colossus."

  "Okay, it's a cute little colossus."

  "An oxymoron if ever I heard one."

  "It's fine. You also have a great tush. You look terrific in jeans."

  "I'd kill for a pair right now," Steve said.

  The path ended at a rope bridge suspended over a peaceful lagoon. Lily pads and water flowers on the surface, fat Japanese koi swam below. From unseen speakers, music played. Dark and mysterious, heavy on the drums. Jungle music.

  A man and woman, both naked, both in their sixties but fit and tanned, padded across the bridge, headed their way. They would all have to pass sideways.

  Okay, good test, Victoria thought. Act normal. Reach a comfort level.

  "Hullo there!" the man called out.

  "Hi! Hi!" Victoria was too loud.

  The woman looked them up and down, and Victoria felt herself reddening. "You two need some sun," the woman advised.

  Victoria told herself to keep her eyes above waist level, but maybe Steve was right. If you're going nude, you expect people to look. As they scooted sideways, she let herself check out the man. The rope bridge was swaying back and forth and, omigod, so was the man's oversize scrotum. A low-hanging, loose sack that resembled a burlap bag with a couple onions inside. Victoria turned away so quickly, she could have suffered whiplash.