Solomon Vs. Lord - 02 - The Deep Blue Alibi

by Paul Levine

  "Spinners, Uncle Steve. A hunting party."

  Bad omen, Steve thought, just as Fowles said over the speaker, "Paradise Key. Dead ahead."

  Dead ahead.

  Steve thought of Ben Stubbs, dead indeed. He thought of Victoria, upset with him for grievances he could barely comprehend. He thought of his father, angry at him for nothing more than trying to restore his lost reputation. With a sense of uncertainty and foreboding, Steve tried to figure out just what was going on.

  Why is Vic so pissed off, anyway?

  Hadn't he curbed the habits that offended her feminine sensibilities? He'd cut way down on the scratching, burping, and farting. He'd quit representing hookers, and it had been months since he'd spent all night playing Texas Hold 'Em at the Miccosukee casino. Not only that, he'd been considerate of her foibles, too. Did he say anything last week when she used his razor to shave her legs, then put it back on the sink, where it lay, waiting to maim him like a rusty machete? Not a word, other than "Ouch!" On her birthday, hadn't he written her a sexy poem, working her love of tennis into the last stanza? She didn't seem to appreciate the effort it took to find a rhyme for "Martina Hingis." Did she think the word just popped into his head: "cunnilingus"?

  He pressed his face to the window just as the plane banked hard and began to descend. An island shimmered out of the water like a green mirage. Circling the shoreline was a single-lane road that connected to a private causeway linking the island to Lower Matecumbe Key.

  The seaplane headed for a horseshoe-shaped cove on the Gulf side. At the far end was a concrete dock where the Force Majeure would have been docked if it wasn't being hauled away in pieces from Sunset Key. Next to the dock, a sandy beach studded with saw palmetto trees. Half-a-dozen snowy egrets wading in the shallow water took to the air at the sound of the engines. A sloping lawn rose from the shoreline to a strand of Australian pines that surrounded a large, three-story wooden house. Solar panels on the roof flashed brilliantly in the sun.

  "Everyone buttoned up back there?" Fowles asked over the speaker. "There'll be a bloody big splash when we hit."

  The plane was at thirty feet when it passed through the opening in the cove, and Fowles set it down with the promised splash, the windows plastered with streaming water. The plane slowed immediately, the two props on the high wings still whirling, the plane now a boat chugging toward the shoreline.

  "Welcome to Paradise," Fowles told them. "Junior should be waiting in the . . . oh, sod it all! Look at that, off the starboard."

  Steve was already looking out his window, so he caught the entire amazing sight. Maybe it wasn't a pair of dolphins jumping in tandem or a school of sharks in a hunting party. This was both more impressive—and more threatening. Without quite knowing why, Steve sensed that this sight portended a greater impact on his life than the wonders of nature.

  A man in skimpy, black Speedos shot out of the water, smooth and sleek as a Polaris missile. He held a lobster in one hand and grabbed the pontoon of the seaplane with the other. With athletic grace, he hoisted himself onto the pontoon and waved the lobster over his head, flashing a smile toward the fuselage windows.

  Could he see Victoria through the glass? Steve wondered.

  She could surely see him.

  And what would she have seen? Or, more important to Steve, what would she have felt?

  The man was an inch or two over six feet tall, with a swimmer's body. Flat waist, ridged six-pack of abs, carved shoulders, and long, smooth, muscled arms. With his arms raised, his lats flared like stingrays from his sides. His chest was simply too large for the rest of him. Two slabs of meaty pecs, like thick steaks, and an overall impression of chesty, brutal strength. He was suntanned a deep bronze, so deep that his smile looked dangerously bright. His long hair was slicked straight back and darkened from the water, but Steve could see it was sun-streaked. An Abercrombie & Fitch ad come to life, a fucking nightmare of a guy, Steve thought. But even worse, he wasn't just some chiseled waiter-actor or model-poseur or jock–beach bum that infested South Beach like cockroaches in the hotels. No, this guy had a history with Victoria, and with fissures already appearing in the professional relationship of Solomon & Lord, Steve was starting to feel insecure about their personal relationship as well.

  "Jun-ior," Victoria breathed, her face pressed to the window, somehow making the name sound pornographic. "My, but he's all grown up."

  Was it Steve's imagination, or was her breath fogging the window?

  Standing on the pontoon, one arm gripping the strut—all the better to display his undulating muscles—Junior Griffin turned squarely toward the fuselage, and now Steve noticed one final attribute. The sizable bulge in his Speedos. Steve wasn't sure where Victoria's gaze was directed, but he could swear he heard her sigh.

  Nine

  SPEEDO GUY

  The seaplane rolled onto the concrete ramp at the water's edge. Bobby clambered down the stairs, followed by Victoria and Steve. In an instant, Junior appeared, kissing Victoria swiftly on the lips, then twirling her off her feet in a big, wet hug.

  "Wow! You're here," he said. "You're really here."

  She laughed at his enthusiasm, so straightforward and without irony or sarcasm.

  He set her back down on the dock as if she were made of glass and looked into her eyes. "Tori, I've really missed you."

  Tori. No one had called her that since she was twelve. In fact, nobody except Junior had ever called her that, and just now it sounded so sweet and lovable that she felt herself blush.

  Junior exchanged pleasantries with Steve and Bobby but never broke eye contact with Victoria. Was his smile always this radiant, she wondered, his dimples so deep? His eyes were a deep blue, almost the color of one of her eyeshadows, Adriatic Azure. She watched him towel off and pull a pair of white canvas shorts over his Speedos. The rich golden hue of his skin, the lingering taste of salt water from his kiss, the warmth of the sea breeze . . . so many sensations bombarding her.

  Bare-chested and barefoot, like a preppy Tarzan, Junior led his visitors up a flagstone path toward the house, Casa de la Sol, according to a tasteful sign embedded in the wall of coral boulders.

  "Dad told me how beautiful you are," Junior said, "but wow. I'm at a loss for words."

  "That's so sweet." She was aware of Steve next to her, could feel his discomfort.

  "And a big-time lawyer, too. Wow."

  "Wow" seeming to be a key component in Junior's verbal arsenal. Okay, so he was never valedictorian at Pinecrest, but he was voted Most Popular. And now that he'd turned into this bronzed Adonis, all she could think was, Well, being a National Merit Scholar isn't everything.

  "All these years . . ." Junior said, letting it hang there.

  "Yes," Victoria said.

  "Do you remember Bunny Flagler's costume party at La Gorce?"

  She smiled at the memory. "You were Zorro. I was Wonder Woman."

  "We sneaked out to the eighteenth green."

  "And the sprinklers came on." Victoria laughed. Remembering spiked punch, an Eagles cover band, and sloppy kisses in the humid night.

  Steve cleared his throat, the sound of a dog growling. "I once went to a costume party as David Copperfield."

  "Great magician," Junior said.

  "The Dickens character," Steve corrected him.

  "Oh, right."

  "He was an orphan, like me."

  "You weren't an orphan, Uncle Steve," Bobby said.

  "But I wanted to be."

  "Why?" Junior asked.

  "Not sure you'd understand," Steve said. "You live in Casa de la Sol. I grew up in Bleak House."

  "Maybe it just needed some decorating," Junior said, and Victoria's spirits sank. Had the literary reference sailed by him like a catamaran in a gale? But then, Junior laughed and let them know he'd been joking. "Sometimes I wish I had a Dickensian upbringing. Builds character, don't you think?"

  "Didn't work with Steve," Victoria said.

  How about that, Steve the Sla
sher? The hottest boy at Pinecrest can go toe-to-toe with you.

  The elevation climbed slightly as the flagstone path curled around a stand of coconut palms. "Steve, you move like an athlete," Junior said.

  "You staring at my ass?" Steve shot back.

  "No, I mean it. The way you walk. Graceful-like."

  "Uncle Steve played baseball at U of M," Bobby announced, proudly.

  "See," Junior said. "I can tell."

  Victoria took stock of the moment. There was Steve, pissy as a skunk, and there was Junior, exuding charm. Guileless and confident. So much to like about him.

  "Uncle Steve still holds the record for stolen bases in playoff games," Bobby continued.

  "Wow," Junior said. "Ever play in the College World Series?"

  "Yeah, but I don't brag about it."

  " 'Course not," Bobby said. "You got picked off third in the championship game."

  "Really? That's hard to do, isn't it? Getting picked off third base, I mean."

  "Bad call," Steve defended himself. "I got in under the tag."

  "But Uncle Steve caught hell," Bobby added. "Bottom of the ninth. Probably cost the 'Canes the title. That's why they call him 'Last Out Solomon.' "

  "Thanks a lot, kiddo," Steve said.

  "That's too bad, Steve," Junior said. "I had no idea."

  It struck Victoria then. That "move like an athlete" stuff. Junior had set Steve up. He had intended to draw out the most humiliating moment of Steve's life.

  "I had no idea"? Hah. You knew exactly what you were doing.

  Meaning he'd researched Steve. And her, too, she supposed. Meaning also that there was far more to grown-up Junior than his suntan and amazing pecs.

  "I like solitary sports," Junior said, as they neared the house. "Maybe it's because I'm an only child."

  "I wish I were," Steve said.

  "Then I wouldn't be here, Uncle Steve," Bobby said.

  "Good point. I withdraw the remark. And I'm glad my sister's a nutcase, or you wouldn't be living with me."

  The path ended at the house, the highest point on the small island. On one side of the house, a helicopter pad. On the other, a negative-edge swimming pool. And down a slight grade, a private beach of white sand. As they walked, Junior told them of his love of the water. He was a windsurfer and a kitesurfer, a distance swimmer and a scuba diver. But most of all, he loved free diving off Cabo San Lucas, sinking as deep as possible with no oxygen except what you can hold in your lungs.

  He told them about his rigorous physical training, claimed he could hold his breath for five minutes and twenty seconds and consciously reduce his pulse rate to twenty beats per minute. He told them about the terrifying thrill of being attached to a weighted sled and descending to 400 feet—the world record was 558 feet, but that diver died—and the searing pain in his chest as his lungs shriveled to the size of a fist. He told them about rocketing back to the surface like a human missile on the air-powered sled, about the hallucinations from nitrogen narcosis, about the fear that his heart would burst, his brain explode. And that was the exhilarating kick, the electrical charge of the sport, the knowledge that every time you slipped into your wet suit, you taunted the angel of death.

  And when he was done, it was Victoria who said, "Wow."

  As they approached the coral rock steps leading to the front door of Casa de la Sol, Steve asked: "What was Ben Stubbs doing on your father's boat?"

  He asked the question so quickly, Victoria had been caught off guard.

  Dammit! Breaking his promise that I take the lead.

  "Now, that's a long story," Junior said.

  "Does it have something to do with Oceania?" Victoria asked. Trying to seize the momentum from Steve.

  "Everything to do with it," Junior agreed cheerfully. "In case Dad didn't explain it, Oceania's going to be a floating hotel."

  "Isn't that a cruise ship?" Steve asked.

  "Trust me, nothing like it."

  "Where would the hotel be built?" Victoria fired off the question before Steve could follow up.

  "In the Gulf. Four miles west of Boca Chica."

  While Steve and Victoria tried to picture exactly where that would be, Bobby piped up: "That's a marine sanctuary. There's a big coral reef and a zillion fish."

  "Right," Steve said. "Federally protected. How can you build out there?"

  "That's why Stubbs was so important. He was the EPA guy who could say yea or nay."

  "Which was it?" Victoria asked.

  "Thumbs-up. He'd already prepared a draft of his report. With all the safeguards to protect the reef, Stubbs was on board. All he needed was to talk to you two about the paperwork for the permits."

  "So your father had no motive to hurt him?" Victoria said, as they paused at the top step.

  "Just the opposite," Junior answered. "Stubbs was crucial to our getting the project approved. Whoever killed him wanted to stop Oceania."

  "Did your father tell you what happened on the boat?" Steve asked.

  "Only that he came down the ladder, saw Stubbs with the spear in his chest, tried to get back up to the bridge, then somehow got knocked unconscious. He came to, passed out again. Next thing he knew, they'd crashed on the beach."

  Exactly what Uncle Grif told us, Victoria thought. "What about all that money on the boat?"

  "That's just Dad. He likes the feel of having lots of cash around."

  "The money was in waterproof bags," Steve said. "What was that about?"

  Junior shrugged. "On a boat, that makes sense, doesn't it?"

  "Actually, there's a lot that doesn't make any sense. A hundred thousand on the boat. Forty thousand in Stubbs' hotel room. The spear in Stubbs' chest."

  "There's something I should tell you," Junior said. "Something I feel terrible about."

  "What?" Victoria asked.

  "In a way, I'm responsible for Stubbs' death."

  "How?" they asked simultaneously.

  "That was my speargun."

  SOLOMON'S LAWS

  4. You can sell one improbable event to a jury. A second "improb" is strictly no sale, and a third sends your client straight to prison.

  Ten

  THE CORAL KISSER

  "There's something I need to show you that will explain a lot," Junior said.

  "The speargun," Steve said, intending to stay on track. "How about an explanation of that?"

  "Not a problem. But there's a lot more to this than the speargun."

  Junior Griffin was leading the three of them through the foyer of the house, all limestone floors and rich wood paneling. On one wall were brightly colored paintings that seemed to be Haitian in origin. On another, open-mouthed, mounted fish, including the largest amberjack Steve had ever seen. Plump and silvery, with a yellow racing stripe, the fellow had to be six feet long. Next to the fat jack was an even more impressive specimen, a blue-striped, scaly-hided, lantern-jawed tarpon that, according to a brass plaque, weighed 271 pounds and was caught by Hal Griffin off the coast of Cuba on a twenty-pound test line. It must have been a hell of a fight, Steve thought, reading the inscription: Runner-up, Ernest Hemingway International Fishing Tournament. For a moment, Steve wondered whether the owner of the Force Majeure was ever satisfied with second place.

  "I have quite a collection of spearguns," Junior said. "Excalibur, Rhino, Beuchat, plus some classic handmade mahogany and teak guns from the fifties and sixties. And I make my own. Made an eight-bander that can bring down a thousand-pound tuna."

  What Steve really wanted to know was who brought down a 160-pound guy with a P-4 Civil Service rating. "The gun that shot Stubbs," he said, "where'd you keep it?"

  "In a compartment on the Force Majeure. I shoot lobsters with it."

  "It's illegal to spear lobsters," Steve said, contemplating a citizen's arrest.

  "In Florida waters, maybe. Not in the Bahamas."

  So who speared Stubbs, beach boy? That's illegal just about everywhere.

  They walked into an open living room with cu
rved walls two stories high. Windows looked out on the cove, where palm fronds fluttered in the ocean breeze. The place was all handcrafted woods. Maple floors, redwood beams, cherry panels. To Steve, the house resembled the interior of a fine yacht. "Did your father know where you kept the gun?"

  Junior shrugged and his deltoids rippled as if shocked with a cattle prod. "The gun was mixed in with some fishing gear. I'm sure he'd seen it, but I doubt Dad would even know how to load the thing."

  "But you know how."

  "Sure."

  "In-ter-esting. Very interesting." Steve was trying to sound profound, but managed to sound like a pompous twit, even to himself.

  "What's the big deal?" Junior asked.

  The big deal, Steve thought, was that he wanted to place the murder weapon in someone's hand, someone's other than his client's. If that hand belonged to Zorro at Bunny Flagler's costume party, well tough shit.

  "Yes, Ste-phen." Victoria made his name sound like a streptococcus. "What is the big deal?"

  She was pissed, Steve knew. He'd promised to let her take the lead, had even meant it at the time. But once they got here, once the game began, he just couldn't back off. Hey, you don't pinch hit for Alex Rodriguez.

  Bobby piped up: "Uncle Steve wants to pin the murder on the hottest boy at Pinecrest."

  "I know, Bobby," Victoria said. "I just wanted to hear Steve say it."

  Steve wished that Bobby didn't have the irksome habit of speaking only the truth, a real anomaly in the Solomon household. Turning to Junior, Steve asked: "Where were you when your father and Stubbs took the boat out?"

  "Taking a swim."

  "By yourself?"

  "I'm a big boy, Solomon."

  Bobby said: "What Uncle Steve means, do you have an alibi witness?"

  Junior laughed. "Only the barracuda who likes to tail me."

  "Cool," Bobby said.

  "Look, Solomon. I had no motive to kill Stubbs."