The Deep Blue Alibi svl-2

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The Deep Blue Alibi svl-2 Page 30

by Paul Levine


  "Sustained," Judge Feathers said. "Ms. Lord, I give counsel some room to roam on cross, but you've just passed the county line."

  "I'm sorry, Your Honor," Victoria said, though she wasn't sorry a bit. She'd gotten the point across to the jury.

  Victoria held the speargun-state's exhibit three-in both hands. "In the instruction manual, your company warns that the shaft should be pointed away from the person attempting to load the spear. Obviously, you anticipated a person shooting himself."

  "Oh, the lawyers put that in."

  Those darn lawyers.

  "But we've never had a lawsuit," Traylor added hastily.

  A lawsuit would have been nice for the defense, Victoria thought. A class action even better. "Everybody shish-ka-bobbed by the speargun, raise your hands." But you have to play the cards you're dealt.

  The courtroom door squeaked open, and her mother swept in. The Queen had disappeared two days earlier, her final words chillier than the frozen margarita she'd been drinking at the time. Lunch at a Mexican restaurant near the courthouse. Victoria had been working on her order of proof at a secluded table when her mother breezed over, carrying her slushy drink. Barely past noon, but the drink wasn't her first of the day. Skipping pleasantries, The Queen berated Victoria for being "bitchy and judgmental and no damn fun," saying it's no wonder she couldn't hold a man.

  "Do you ever consider my happiness?" Irene demanded.

  "I didn't think it was necessary, Mother, with you spending full time on the job."

  "You're a little icy for my taste, darling. Comes from your father's side."

  "If only he were here to defend himself."

  "I'm entitled to happiness, too." Her mother pirouetted toward the door, the hem of her pink cotton Cynthia Steffe bubble skirt swirling around her hips.

  The Drama Queen.

  "Good luck in court, dear," her mother tossed over her shoulder. "Even if you don't care about my happiness, please win for your uncle Grif."

  Happiness seeming to be the topic of the day.

  Her mother's Manolo Blahnik sandals click-clacked on the tile floor as she exited.

  Now the sandals were back. Well, different sandals. The Blahniks-open-toed, ribbon-tied, T-strapped- had been a present from Victoria, courtesy of Steve's larcenous client who'd hijacked a cargo container of the Italian beauties. Today's sandals weren't Blahniks and must be new. At least, Victoria hadn't seen them before. Snakeskin with silver buckles, side cutouts, and three-inch heels.

  Where did you go, Mother? And why are you and your reptilian shoes back?

  Angry at her for leaving, and for coming back, too.

  There was something about those snakeskin sandals, she thought. What was it? Gorgeous, really, with vivid red-and-yellow stripes on a black background.

  Red-and-yellow stripes! A coral snake. My coral snake.

  "Anything else, Ms. Lord?" Judge Feathers asked.

  Dammit. Stay focused.

  "Just one more question, Your Honor."

  "Good. Unless it's the old plumbing I hear, I think some stomachs are growling in the jury box."

  Victoria gestured with the speargun. "Mr. Traylor. Just because no one sued doesn't mean no one's been impaled while loading the Mark 3000, isn't that correct?"

  "Objection," Waddle said.

  "On what grounds?" the judge asked.

  "The question has a double negative. Maybe a triple."

  "Overruled. I think the jury got it."

  "I wouldn't know if anyone's ever been injured," Traylor said.

  Avoiding the word "impaled" and the gory image that conveyed.

  "So you can't rule out that, on some occasion, the Mark 3000 has fired while being loaded?

  Breaking the promise to ask only one question.

  "I can't rule it out."

  "No further questions, Your Honor."

  "Then let's eat lunch," the judge said.

  "I need to tell you about Grif and me," The Queen said.

  "I'm in trial," Victoria said. "Give me a continuance, okay?"

  The Queen persisted and persuaded her to take a walk. Ten minutes later, they were on the docks, passing a row of fishing boats, when Irene said: "I'm in love with Grif."

  "Congratulations."

  "But I wasn't when your father was alive."

  "So you told me. You only did Grif the first time the other night. What else is so important it can't wait?"

  "Yesterday, I drove up to Miami and went to the bank. My safe-deposit box. I took out your father's suicide note."

  Victoria stopped short next to a stack of wooden slatted lobster traps. "Now! After all these years, you have to do this now? Why?"

  "I can't stand your hating me."

  "Please, Mother. I can't deal with this now."

  A fisherman hosing down his deck looked over at them. Not often did two well-dressed women bark at each other in front of his trawler.

  "I know the pressure you're under, Princess, and God knows I want you to win, but-"

  "You don't know anything! I don't want to see the note."

  "You don't have a choice."

  "I'm not twelve years old anymore, Mother. I make my own decisions."

  The Queen reached into her burnt-orange leather handbag. Victoria started walking away as soon as she saw what came out of the bag. An old-fashioned manila envelope with a string tie.

  The Queen hurried after her in those damn snakeskin sandals. "I adored your father. I never cheated on him. Grif and I were just friends. Bridge partners. We enjoyed the same things. Sinatra. French movies. Post-modern art."

  "Mother, I don't care, okay?"

  "I never slept with him."

  "Fine. Now, just drop it."

  "It's your father who cheated."

  Victoria wheeled around. In the direct sun, in her pin-striped trial suit, her face heating up, she thought she might faint. "Liar!"

  "I knew you'd say that. That's why I brought Nelson's note."

  Irene tried to hand her the envelope, but Victoria backed off as if it were on fire. "It's probably a forgery. I wouldn't put it past you."

  "I don't wear faux pearls, I don't use paper plates, and I don't forge suicide notes. It's time you knew the truth. Your father was having an affair with Phyllis."

  "Phyllis Griffin?"

  "It wasn't Phyllis Diller. Yes, Phyllis Griffin. They were sneaking around those last few months."

  "Now I know you're lying."

  Uncle Grif's wife, Junior's mother. The idea was preposterous.

  "When I found out, I told your father I wanted a divorce. He begged me to forgive him, but I wouldn't. He got all psychological. Said he didn't love Phyllis. It was the pressure of the business, the Grand Jury investigation, maybe even animosity toward Grif for getting them into legal trouble. Nelson offered to get counseling, anything to save the marriage. I told him to go to hell. Said I'd divorce him and take you away. My pride was wounded, and I wouldn't give him another chance. So I am guilty, dear. Guilty of being rigid and unforgiving. Guilty of being so self-directed I couldn't see how damaged your father was. He committed suicide the night after our blowup."

  Victoria felt the slightest puff of a breeze. The boats groaned in their moorings, the air heavy with putrid fish. "Give it to me."

  The note was handwritten on Griffin-Lord Construction Co. stationery.

  Dearest Irene,

  I cannot express the depths of my love for you

  and Victoria, but it's all become too much to bear.

  I fear the business will go under, and I don't see a way out. I have wronged you deeply, and nothing

  I can ever say or do will make that right. My

  biggest regret is that I will not live to see the

  woman Victoria is destined to become. I beg both

  of you to forgive me.

  Nelson

  Overhead, a seabird cawed. Victoria was aware of the sound of diesel engines kicking up, water boiling at the stern of a fishing boat.

&n
bsp; "I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier," Irene said. "I wanted you to remember your father differently. And maybe part of me was humiliated."

  "Why?" Suddenly, everything had changed. Her mother was a victim in the marriage, not its villain. "Dad's the one who cheated, the one who took the coward's way out."

  "Nelson felt he needed someone else. Not something for me to be proud of. And all these years, I've wondered. If I'd handled it differently, would he still be alive?"

  "You can't blame yourself."

  "I've told myself that, too. But I'm the only one who could have saved him. And I didn't." She took the note back, tore it up, and tossed the pieces off the dock, where they fluttered in the breeze like wings of herons.

  Victoria needed to clear her mind. At the corner of Southard and Duval, she stepped off the curb and into the path of a pink taxi. The driver squealed to a stop, banged the horn, and cursed in Creole.

  Victoria tried to fathom the depths of her feelings. Her mother, who could be so shallow and superficial, had now gone the other direction. She shouldered moral complicity in her husband's death. But what did she expect of herself? What superhuman powers of understanding and compassion did she think she lacked?

  "Oh, Nelson darling, don't be depressed. I forgive you for screwing my best friend."

  No, the betrayal and shameful abandonment were all her father's.

  And the note I so longed for?

  Now that she'd seen it, now that she'd held in her hands the last item he'd touched before the swan dive off the condo roof …the note made no difference.

  You regret not seeing me grow up? Damn you! You could have been here.

  Now that she knew what had happened, the truth had not set her free. No peace came with the knowledge, just one pain replacing another. What was it Steve said his father had told him? Something about being careful when turning over rocks. There'll be snakes, not flowers, underneath.

  In this moment, more than any other, she wished Steve were here. As she passed under the kapok tree on the courthouse lawn-the last place she had seen him- she pulled out her cell phone and dialed his number. There was no answer, but she listened to the entire leave-your-number message just so she could hear his voice.

  Dammit, Steve. Where are you?

  Forty-eight

  THE DEEP BLUE ALIBI

  A very loud woman shouted something at Steve.

  He couldn't see her because his eyes were glued shut. At least, that's the way they felt. He forced his eyes open, a salty crust cracking along his lashes.

  Ouch. He was staring into a broiling sun. Suddenly aware of noxious fumes. Burning fuel, melting plastic.

  "Wave your arm if you can hear me!"

  That voice again. Amplified. Authoritative.

  If I'm dead, then God could be a woman. But then, that sun is hot as hell, and who's to say the devil's not a chick? Now, just where is my arm?

  Steve managed to wave, water pouring down his wet-suit sleeve into his face. His mask was gone. So was one of his fins. He was floating, lifting and falling with every swell. The top-of-the-line buoyancy compensator-thank you, Stubbs-was rigged to float an unconscious man on his back.

  Fowles. Where are you?

  "Just stay calm, sir. We'll get you in a minute."

  Steve lifted his head out of the water. It weighed about the same as that giant jewfish.

  Maybe heaven is a giant spa, and I'm in the Jacuzzi.

  Maybe that's where the good Jews go. The others are made into gefilte fish.

  Bobbing in the water, smaller than a cutter, was a boat. He recognized the red, white, and blue diagonal stripes. Coast Guard. Most beautiful boat he'd ever seen. A woman in uniform stood at the bow rail, a bullhorn in her hand. Most beautiful woman, too, though he couldn't make out a single feature. He gave her the thumbs-up sign.

  "That's it, sir! Don't try to swim over."

  Swim? Going back to sleep is more like it. What time's my massage?

  He was aware of the putt-putt of a small yellow inflatable craft coming to his side. Two men in uniforms leaned over, barking instructions. They seemed very young and pimply but their voices were strong. Best he could understand, he was to do nothing. They'd get him aboard. He tried to say something, but his throat was raw with salt water, and he vomited all over the guardsmen as they hauled him into the inflatable.

  "Another man," Steve croaked. "Scuba gear. Where is he?"

  "Just relax now, sir."

  They seemed extremely competent for twelve-yearolds, Steve thought, hazily.

  The inflatable headed toward the boat, dodging pieces of fiberglass and aluminum, the remnants of the Cigarette. Fuel burned, black and orange, on the surface. Bouncing in the waves nearby, without its rider, the rusty old chariot. The bow charred black, but seemingly indestructible.

  As they neared the boat, Steve saw another inflatable in the water. Two more Coast Guardsmen. A lifeless body, a man in jeans and a bloodied T-shirt, lay facedown in the craft.

  Conchy Conklin? Who else could it be?

  With a net, the guardsmen were fishing something out of the water. What was it?

  An arm! From the elbow down, an arm in a torn wet suit.

  Fowles.

  God, he'd done it. He'd sacrificed himself. He'd destroyed his own personal Tirpitz and saved Steve's life. How do you repay a debt like that?

  You don't. Maybe you make a vow to be a better man, but the debt goes unpaid.

  As a young guardsman helped Steve up the ladder of the larger craft, he had the vague notion that he'd lost something. The mask, of course. And one fin. And. .

  The slate.

  Fowles' confession. His dying wish had been to settle up, to clear Griffin's name. The slate was Griffin's deep blue alibi and now it was at the bottom of the deep blue sea.

  Forty-nine

  VISITING HOUR

  The ER staff at Fishermen's Hospital appeared happy to see Steve. A couple jokes about discounts for repeat customers, a couple suggestions to stay away from bodies of water. They promised to let him out after a few hours' observation as long as the various probes and scans all came back normal.

  Steve's face was the color of a broiled lobster with a ghostly white outline from the mask. His neck was wrapped in a soft brace, but all moving parts seemed to be in semi-working order. Soon, the doctors and nurses dispersed, and his little cubicle was filled with people in uniform, with guns on their hips. Steve refused to make any statements, until he heard someone belting out the chorus of "Trying to Reason with Hurricane Season."

  "C'mon in, parrothead," Steve rasped as Sheriff Willis Rask poked his nose through the curtain.

  "Jimmy B. says howdy. Wow, you look like shit."

  "Thanks, Willis. Why don't you clear everybody out of here so we can talk?"

  Rask shooed out the others, pulled up a chair, and Steve told him everything that had happened since showing up at Paradise Key that morning. The chariot ride, the reef, Fowles' story about sneaking aboard the Force Majeure, fighting with Stubbs over the speargun, the spear firing, and finally the attack by Conklin in a Cigarette with flame decals.

  "It matches up," Rask said. "One body's Chester Lee Conklin. Body parts of the guy in the wet suit are a little harder to ID, but from what you say, it's got to be Fowles."

  "What about the Cigarette? Who owned it?"

  "Registered to a shell company in the Bahamas. We're trying to track it back, see who pays the annual fees."

  "Find anything on the boat?"

  "You mean what's left of it? Coast Guard's still sifting through the debris. We did find Conklin's Harley, though. At a marina on Lower Matecumbe."

  Steve propped himself up on the pillow. "You inventory the saddlebag? Interview people at the marina? Find out where Conklin was staying?"

  "I dunno, Steve. I'm not supposed to share investigative materials with civilians. Especially defense lawyers."

  "Give. Or I'll tell the mayor you're still growing pot in your backyard."


  "Hell, so's he." He scratched at his mustache. "Nothing but a carton of Marlboros and a traffic ticket in the saddlebag."

  "Ticket for what?"

  "Expired tag, is all."

  "What aren't you telling me, Willis?"

  "Nothing I can make heads or tails of. The ticket was issued in Jacksonville. Ten days ago."

  Jacksonville? You couldn't get any farther away and still be in Florida.

  "Long ride," Steve said. "Any idea what Conklin was doing up there?"

  Rask shrugged. "Could have been visiting friends or family. 'Course, it's not like Miami." Rask hummed a little of "Everybody's Got a Cousin in Miami."

  Sure, Conklin could have been visiting or vacationing or bodysurfing. But he might also have been working for whoever hired him to run Steve off the road and threaten Victoria. Steve asked for the address where the ticket was issued, and Rask gave him a block on St. Johns Riverway Drive. Then Steve told him about Fowles signing a confession on a magnetic slate, now lost at the bottom of the sea.

  "Wait a sec, Steve. What confession? You said Stubbs got shot accidentally, struggling over the speargun."

  "He did. But Fowles took moral responsibility."

  Rask tugged at an earlobe. "That muddies the water a bit."

  "The truth often does."

  "Fowles say who he was working for?"

  Steve shook his head, a painful movement. "Only that Conklin worked for him, too. They were supposed to force Stubbs to take their boss's offer of a million bucks. Toss him overboard if he turned them down."

  Rask lowered his voice. "I like the confession. And I'll find out who their boss was. But now that I think about it, I can't have you telling the Grand Jury the shooting was an accident."

  "Why not?"

  "Because if you do, I'll never nail the boss for conspiracy to kill Stubbs."

  "So you want me to lie under oath?"

  "Just smudge the fine print a bit. Say Fowles admitted killing Stubbs on someone's orders. I'll provide the someone as soon as I have it."

  "Aw, jeez, Willis. I bend the rules here and there, but you're asking me to commit perjury."

 

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