by Paul Levine
"Great margaritas," Steve allowed, sipping at his drink.
Okay, she thought, maybe he wasn't tuned to her channel just now.
"Fresh-squeezed lime juice," Junior explained. "No matter what anyone tells you, don't go for the cheaper tequila just because you're mixing drinks. Arette's best. Blanco Suave, if you're willing to spend a hundred bucks a bottle. Now, if you're sipping tequila straight, go for Tres, Cuatro y Cinco, blue agave, but that will set you back four hundred bucks."
"Seems like a lot of money for something that's gonna turn into piss in twenty minutes," Steve countered. Mr. Savoir Vivre.
"Depends what's important to you, I guess," Junior said.
What was important to Steve? she wondered. His nephew, Bobby, of course. His work. And her. But how important was she? Getting Steve to open up was a lot like opening a jar of martini olives. It helps if you bang on his lid a few times.
Steve's tongue flicked a salt crystal from the rim of the margarita glass. He had a faraway look, and Victoria knew he wasn't thinking about their relationship. Or the Florida Marlins. Or even Bobby. He was getting into the case, and his look told her something was bothering him.
"I still don't get it," Steve said. "A project as big as Oceania. How'd you keep it quiet?"
"Dad's good at keeping secrets," Junior said, "and not just about business."
"Meaning what?"
"After Nelson passed away—"
"Committed suicide," Victoria interrupted the Greek god, preferring plain English to euphemisms. "My father committed suicide."
That silenced both men for a moment. Victoria instantly regretted having altered everyone's mood, especially her own. But she was still furious at her father and probably always would be. The mention of his name, of his death, brought back the pain.
"After your father committed suicide," Junior continued, looking at her with tenderness, "I kept bugging Dad to tell me why he did it. The two of them were inseparable. Our mothers were best friends. You and I were, you know . . ."
Destined to be a couple.
She had finished the sentence in her mind while sipping her drink. "What did your father say?"
"Nothing. Except, 'I'm sure Nelson had his reasons.' "
"He didn't even leave a note," Victoria said. "I was twelve, and all these years I've hated him for not even leaving a note. Why couldn't he just write, 'My darling daughter, I'm sorry. Please forgive me. I always loved you.' "
Neither man had an answer. Steve dipped a chip into the guacamole. He wanted to talk about the case but seemed to realize he'd have to wait out the talk about family.
After a moment, Junior said, "What did your mother tell you about it?"
"Not much. There was a Grand Jury investigation. Something about kickbacks and bribes in the construction industry. Dad got subpoenaed and committed suicide right before he was scheduled to testify." Victoria drained the margarita quicker than she had intended. "The Queen never would go into details. So I guess your father's not the only one to keep secrets."
"My theory is that Dad put all the pressure on Nelson to take care of the legal problems," Junior said. "When they had some setbacks, it was too much for him. And ever since, Dad's felt guilty."
"Is that why he stayed away all these years?" she asked.
"Dad didn't stay away. He sent all those checks."
"What checks?"
Junior seemed surprised. "I guess The Queen never told you. For a couple years, Dad sent her checks, but she didn't cash them."
"Why? What'd she tell your father?"
"I don't think they spoke after the funeral. Not even once."
"Maybe she had trouble reaching him. You guys moved out of the country. You disappeared from our lives."
"He wrote her, Tori. Tried to call, too. But no response."
Why? Victoria wondered. And why hadn't her mother told her? That was Irene Lord for you. Secrecy and stoicism were the currencies The Queen traded in. You don't go around whining about your husband's suicide. You don't examine it. You give it a handy label—"business pressures, your father cracked"—and you move on.
The Queen had stored away the memories in an attic trunk and kept the key from her only daughter. But Uncle Grif must know what's inside. Now Victoria had another mission, having nothing to do with the murder case. She would learn everything she could from Uncle Grif. This meant spending more time with him, getting to know him all over again. And while she was at it, that applied to Junior, too.
SOLOMON'S LAWS
5. "Love" means taking a bullet for your beloved. Anything short of that is just "like."
Twelve
FOUR SUSPECTS
Maybe it was the tropical sun beating down on Steve or the potent Arette tequila that fogged him in, or the uncertainty—yeah, the arrière-pensée—triggered by Junior's muscular presence. Or did it start with Victoria refusing to have sex in the water, then insisting they split up the firm? Steve couldn't tell.
Wasted away again in Margaritaville, he was sprawled on a chaise lounge three feet away from the woman he loved. Three feet on the other side was the suntanned slab of beef who was obviously putting the moves on her. Even worse, she seemed receptive, her eyes shiny with anticipation, her body language open and inviting.
Maybe it was his own fault, Steve thought. Had he driven her away? But how? He didn't have a clue.
In the whole wide world, there were two people he cherished with his lifeblood. Victoria and Bobby. Meaning he'd take a bullet for either of them. Without hesitation, no questions asked. Given the cosmic choice—the voice of God claiming his life or theirs—Steve would sacrifice himself. Deep down, Steve believed he loved his pain-in-the-ass father, too. But giving up his life for the old man was a stretch.
"Another margarita?" Junior offered. "Milagros can make a couple more pitchers." A Spanish-speaking woman in a white uniform stood at a discreet distance on the deck, waiting for her master's instructions.
"No thanks," Steve said. "We've got work to do."
"Anything I can do, just ask," Junior volunteered.
Just how much should he tell Junior? Steve didn't describe how he always broke down a murder case into its component parts. The prosecutorial cliché was that there are three elements to a crime. In a circumstantial case—a case without an eyeball witness—you get a conviction by proving that the defendant had the motive, opportunity, and means to commit the murder.
In State of Florida versus Harold Griffin, there'd be no trouble proving opportunity. Two men go out on a boat. When it reaches shore—hits shore—one man has a spear in his chest. Talk about simple math.
There'd surely be the means, too; the defendant knew there was a speargun on the boat and had easy access to it.
But motive was the state's problem. Griffin had no apparent reason to kill Stubbs. Hell, he needed Stubbs alive. Needed him to turn in a favorable environmental report on Oceania. Which, apparently, the man had been ready to do. Weren't they all going to celebrate by feasting on lobster jambalaya at Louie's while toasting Oceania with expensive champagne and Cuban cigars?
So Steve came to the studied conclusion—all the while knowing, this ain't rocket science—that Hal Griffin was probably right.
Whoever killed Stubbs wanted to deep-six Oceania. And to defend Griffin, we gotta find that person.
Or persons. Again Steve remembered Stubbs raising two fingers in his hospital bed.
He squinted into the sun and turned to Junior, who was soaking up rays himself. "We need a list of everyone who knew what your father was planning out in the Gulf."
"Not a problem," Junior said.
"Plus everyone with a financial stake in Oceania."
"You got it."
"And everyone who knew that your father was taking Stubbs out on that boat."
"Easy," Junior said. "They're all the same people."
"Good," Steve said. "Give us their names and addresses."
"I can do better than that," Junior said, stirring fro
m the chaise. "C'mon. Let's go to the movies."
It's nice to own an island, Steve thought. And have your own seaplane. And a mansion built on a cove. And your own cozy little movie theater.
They had gone into what Junior modestly called the "media room," which turned out to be an elaborate mini movie theater with a proscenium entrance, Doric columns, motorized curtains the color of blood, and leather recliners that, according to Junior, rumbled and rattled to enhance big action sequences. They were not there, however, to watch a Terminator or Matrix flick.
They were there to review the security video shot by mounted cameras on the dock twenty-four hours earlier. As they sank into cushy leather love seats, Junior used a remote to dim the lights.
"Sorry about the decor," Junior said, gesturing with the remote.
"What's to be sorry about?" Steve asked.
"I wanted more of a Zen design," Junior answered. "Earth tones. Clean lines. A more meditative feel. But you know Dad, Tori."
Victoria laughed. "Uncle Grif's more the Roman Colosseum type."
"Exactly. Years ago, when Caesar's Palace opened in Vegas, Dad thought it was too subtle."
Steve watched as a grainy black-and-white image flickered onto the large screen. There was the Force Majeure, tied up at the dock, several hours before it had vaulted ashore and split in two like a coconut. The image on the screen changed. The angle sharper, the distance closer. There was no audio.
"There are three security cameras behind the house on the dock side," Junior told them. "The recording alternates from one to the other every seven seconds."
On the screen, two men were sitting on the fighting chairs in the cockpit of the boat. One was Clive Fowles, the pilot with the British accent. The other was a broad-shouldered African-American man. He wore a flowery islands shirt and khaki safari shorts. He was animated, talking while gesturing with both hands. Fowles nodded, listening, while sipping a drink.
"That's Leicester Robinson with Fowles," Junior said. "Robinson Barge and Tow. A native Conch, fifth generation Key West, at least. Leicester has the Oceania contract to ferry workers and material to the site."
"So no motive to stop the project," Steve said.
"Just the opposite. He would have made a fortune."
"Would have?" Victoria tucked a leg underneath her. "You make it sound like the project's dead."
"Not dead, Tori. But we have to face facts. No more stealth permits. Oceania's gonna come under intense scrutiny. The gambling lobby will line up against us. Indian money. Casino money. And if Dad's convicted of murder, everything stops."
"But if he's acquitted . . ."
"In projects this size, there's a momentum factor. You line up the investment bankers and the foreign investors and the insurance carriers, and you gotta move quickly. Any unfavorable publicity, delays, scandals . . . the bad karma spreads like a red tide."
"Anything else about Robinson we should know?" Steve asked.
"He's a character," Junior said. "He puts on this tough-guy exterior. Wears a skull-and-crossbones ring because his ancestors were supposedly pirates. Pilots tugboats and operates barges and knows how to handle cranes and pile drivers. But he's got an English degree from Amherst, a master's in history, too. If he hadn't come home to take over the family business, he'd probably be some Ivy League professor."
In Steve's experience, history professors were unlikely assassins unless they bored you to death. "What about Fowles?"
"Ex–British Navy. Submariner. Fought in the Falklands. Was living in the Bahamas trying to build two-man submarines when Dad met him. Boat captain. Scuba diver. Pilot. Jack-of-all-trades. He's been with Dad fifteen years."
"Trustworthy?"
"A good man. Drinks a little too much, but down here, who doesn't?"
"What's Fowles' connection to Oceania?" Victoria asked.
"Overall troubleshooter during construction," Junior replied. "Dive master once we start reef tours for the guests."
Again, no motive, Steve thought.
"On his days off, Fowles takes marine biology students out to the reef for cleanup dives," Junior said. "They haul up all the crap the boaters toss overboard. Once a year he takes a fish census."
"What's he do, knock on the coral?" Steve inquired. "Ask how many barracuda live there?"
"He counts fish with a bunch of volunteer divers. It's how you judge the health of the ecosystem. Fowles is an excellent diver, really knows his sea life. He'd be the key man for the underwater tours."
On the screen, the glass door to the salon slid open, and Junior walked out. Wearing his Speedos. Barefoot and bare-chested, as usual. He said something to Robinson and Stubbs, then climbed the ladder to the fly bridge, graceful as a high diver scooting up the ten-meter board. Once he got to the control panel, he hit some switches.
"Checking the NOAA weather for Dad," he explained.
The salon door opened again, and this time, a tall, caramel-complexioned woman with long, dark hair stepped into the cockpit. The woman seemed to blink against the glare of the sun, then put on large, stylish sunglasses. She wore a light-colored, low-cut, spaghetti-strapped sundress, and for just a moment, as she walked across the cockpit, hips in full, fluid motion, breasts straining at the thin fabric, Steve thought she resembled a young Sophia Loren. One difference, though. He had never made love to Sophia Loren.
"Who's that?" Victoria asked. Putting a little disapproval into the "that," Steve thought.
"Ah," Junior said. "That sweet confection is—"
"Delia Bustamante!" Steve immediately regretted the exhilaration in his voice.
Victoria turned toward him, studied his profile in the semidarkness. "You know her, Steve?"
"Last I saw her," Steve said carefully, aiming for nonchalance, "she owned a Cuban restaurant in Key West."
Victoria kept quiet, but he could read her cross-examining mind. "And just when was the last time you saw her?"
"Havana Viejo," Junior helped out. "Great Cuban food. Plus, Delia's on the Monroe County Environmental Advisory Board. Dad brought her into his circle, tried to get her support. Even offered her a consultant's job in food services at Oceania. Big bucks, little work."
"In other words, a bribe?" Steve said.
"A well-intended favor," Junior replied. For a beach bum, he had a way with words.
"If I know Delia, she wouldn't go for it," Steve said. Feeling Victoria alongside, shifting onto one hip on the love seat.
"Delia told Dad that Oceania was a blight," Junior continued. "Worse than drilling for oil. She raised all the bugaboos. Pollution in the Gulf. Traffic congestion at the hydrofoil ports. Increase in crime up and down the Keys. Gambling addictions, poor slobs tossing the rent money into the slots. She was gonna blow the project out of the water. Her exact words."
"I can picture Delia saying that," Steve said, "but I don't see her killing anyone."
"How would you know that?" Victoria asked, her tone even.
"Some things you intuitively know about people."
"Just how well do you know her?" Her voice still neutral, so clean as to be positively antiseptic.
"Before you and I met, like a couple years before we met, Delia and I . . ."
What was the word? What was the phrase they were using these days? "Hooked up"? But that was so juvenile, and he was, after all, an adult, at least chronologically.
"Fucked each other's brains out?" Victoria suggested. Ever helpful.
"Well," Steve said. "Not only that."
Aargh. He'd blundered. Because, in fact, his relationship with Delia had been pretty much limited to mutual lust. He lusted for her luscious lechon asado as well as her luscious self. He'd gained ten pounds in the short time they'd dated.
Her thing was having sex out-of-doors, something that seemed more enticing in the telling than the doing, once you've rolled bare-assed over pine needles a few times. Their long-distance coupling—it's a four-hour drive from Miami—lasted three months. Either she'd run out of locations to ex
pose her ass to the moonlight, or he'd gotten tired of her roasted pork and sweet plantains. He couldn't quite remember which. So his "not only that" was both misleading and destined to bring another unwanted question.
"What else was it besides sex?" Victoria's tone took on the flavor of the prosecutor she once was. "Just how would you describe the relationship?"
"Brief," Steve said. "I'd describe it as brief."
"Well, perhaps you'll have some insight into Ms. Bustamante when we interview her."
Was Steve imagining it, or did Victoria hit the "we" a little hard?
On the screen, several things happened in the next few moments. Delia seemed to say her good-byes to Fowles and Robinson. Then Fowles offered an arm so she could step onto the dock, showing some tapered calves as she left.
Moments later, the salon door opened again and Griffin walked out, talking over his shoulder to someone following him. Ben Stubbs. Looking considerably better than he had in the ICU. A slim man, in his forties. Skinny legs under baggy khaki shorts, a papershuffler's paunch visible under his polo shirt, deck shoes with socks. He actually looked like a Washington bureaucrat on vacation.
A few more flicks of the cameras, and Griffin was gesturing toward Stubbs. One hand, then the other, then both. Were they angry gestures?
Steve leaned forward. "Was your father arguing with Stubbs?"
"Don't know. I was up on the bridge, and the radio was on."
"Did you know your father was stopping at an island to pick up lobsters?"
In the darkness next to him, Junior shrugged. "Never mentioned it to me."
On the screen, Robinson and Fowles stepped onto the dock. That left just three people on the boat, the two Griffins and Stubbs. Then Hal Griffin climbed the ladder to the fly bridge, the captain about to take command. Stubbs stayed in the cockpit, plopping down in one of the fighting chairs. On the dock, Fowles came back into view, kneeling near the bow, untying a line from a cleat, and tossing it aboard. Back on the fly bridge, Griffin said something to Junior and gave him an affectionate clop on the shoulder. Junior climbed onto the rail and balanced there a moment, looking like some ancient statue intended to deify the human form. He turned to face the water, his profile to the camera. Even on the grainy video, one thing was clear—that damn bulge in his Speedos.