Solomon Vs. Lord - 02 - The Deep Blue Alibi

by Paul Levine

  Junior zoomed back into view, rising like a missile from the deep. With something in his hand. An oyster.

  Victoria's mind drifted like kelp in the current. Steve loved oysters with beer. The Queen loved oysters with pearls.

  Dammit, forget them; go with the flow of the dream.

  Junior pried open the oyster with his bare hands. Said something to her. Glug-glug, bubbles bursting from his mouth. Inside the oyster, a gorgeous ring. Dainty triangular gems surrounding a hefty square diamond.

  Princess cut. Naturally.

  Junior opened his mouth and glugged something again. The underwater acoustics were lousy.

  "What is it, Junior? You want to marry me?"

  "I want an underwater hump-a-rama," Junior enunciated clearly, but in Steve's voice.

  Damn him. Trespassing in my dream!

  She heard something then. A slapping sound. Not the slap of a leaping fish smacking the water. Something landlocked and familiar. A quiet thud, the sound of something flat hitting carpet.

  Something moved. Her bed was on an elevated portion of the room. One step down and twenty feet away was her worktable, covered with files. Beyond that, the sliding door to the balcony. She could see the silhouette of a person outlined against the glass door, backlit by torches on the pool deck below.

  Oh, Jesus. I'm awake, and this is real!

  The figure bent, picked up a file from the floor, replaced it on the table.

  Should I scream? Jump up? Fight?

  Heart racing. Paralyzed with fear. Holding her breath, then exhaling, so loud that surely the intruder could hear her breathe.

  A weapon. She needed a weapon. Scissors. A pen. Anything. But what did she have? A clock radio. A paperback book. A pillow.

  Defenseless. Lying under a sheet, wearing only a satin camisole that stopped above the waist.

  A rustle of papers. The intruder opening a file. A narrow beam from a miniature flashlight.

  Go ahead. Steal whatever you want. Then leave!

  Her ears seemed to twitch like a cat's, her sense of hearing on high alert. The bed had become a furnace. In an instant, she was bathed in sweat. Beads of perspiration, like salty tears, trickled down her face and neck. She could barely breathe, her throat dry and constricted.

  Oh, God. Don't cough.

  An involuntary spasm shook her, and she barked a cough. The miniature flashlight clicked off. For an eternity, no movement, no sound. The silhouette a statue at the table, Victoria frozen under the sheet.

  Breathe. Dammit, breathe, or you'll cough again.

  She watched the figure walk silently toward the bed.

  Oh, God, what now?

  Her muscles were locked so tightly, she was terrified she wouldn't be able to move. Her joints petrified wood.

  C'mon. You've got to fight.

  She would not let herself be raped. Or beaten. Or killed. Furious now. The intruder just a few steps away. When he was close enough, she would spring at him. Go for his eyes. Gouge!

  She curved her hands into claws.

  Another step closer. Two more steps and . . .

  Scream and spring.

  She would shriek to startle him, then tear his face off.

  One step away, the intruder stopped. She heard breathing, this time not her own. In the dark, could he see her eyes were open?

  The intruder turned and walked past the table. She heard the balcony door sliding in its track. She counted five seconds, then leapt out of bed and raced to the door. Slammed it shut, locked it, inserted the pin in the slot in the track.

  Breathing hard, she peered through the glass. Tiki torches burned on the deserted pool deck. The fronds of a palm tree swayed in the ocean breeze. Nothing else moved. The intruder could have crawled down from her second-story balcony—maybe even jumped—to the ground.

  The adrenaline flow had stopped, but her mind cranked at the speed limit. So much to do. Call the police. Call Steve. Wash her face. Get dressed. Pee . . . don't forget to pee.

  Okay, slow down. Relax.

  Think.

  The digital clock on the nightstand read 3:17 a.m. She turned on the lights and checked the worktable. Nothing seemed to be missing. A chilling thought.

  Someone left. That doesn't mean someone else isn't still here.

  She ran to the closet, threw open the door. No one inside except Calvin Klein and Donna Karan. Whoops, Vera Wang, too.

  She considered waking her mother, just a few feet away in the adjoining room. No. She'd be a mess. Let The Queen get her beauty sleep. Tell her about this in the morning.

  Victoria sat on the edge of the bed, picked up the phone, and dialed Steve's cell. She had to tell him three times before he was sufficiently awake to understand. Then he came unglued.

  "Oh, Christ! Are you okay?"

  "I'm fine. I'm going down to the front desk as soon as I get dressed."

  "No. No. No. Stay in the room. Check all the locks again. I'll call Rask at home. He'll have cops there in ten minutes. Sure you're okay?"

  "I'm sure."

  "Stay calm now." His voice rising.

  "I'm calm."

  "You get a look at the guy?"

  "No."

  "I should have been there. I'd have clobbered him with my Barry Bonds."

  True, Steve slept with a baseball bat under his bed, but the only thing he ever clobbered was the occasional palmetto bug. On the phone, she heard what sounded like drawers slamming and muttered curse words.

  "What are you doing, Steve?"

  "Looking for Dad's car keys. Dammit. Where the hell ...?"

  "Steve . . ."

  "Yeah?"

  "Calm down."

  Five minutes later, Victoria pulled some cotton sweats from a drawer, but sticky with sweat, she decided to clean up before dressing. She slipped out of the camisole and padded into the bathroom, nearly tripping over a halter sandal she'd left on the floor by the sink.

  She opened the shower door and turned on the water, hotter than usual, the steam rising like a cleansing cloud. Once inside, she let the water stream over her body.

  Water. The sea. My dream. Junior.

  Or half Junior, half Steve. A Minotaur of a dream lover. If dreams represent repressed desires, as she had learned in Psychology 101, just which man did she desire?

  She grabbed the soap and lathered up, pondering the question.

  Suddenly, something grabbed her bare leg.

  A snake!

  It tightened on her calf and circled higher, gripping her knee.

  She screamed, the sound echoing off the tile, the loudest sound she had ever made. Thick as her wrist, the snake coiled around her thigh. Its head solid black. Stripes of yellow, red, and black along its five-foot length.

  Coral snake!

  Slithering up her leg, tongue flicking in and out.

  She screamed again.

  Dammit! Do something!

  She shot a hand out and grabbed the snake near its head. Tugged at it, tried to pull it off her leg. The damn thing was impossibly strong. She braced a foot against the shower wall, yanked as hard as she could. The snake flew off her leg and coiled around her arm, its tail flapping in the air. She shook her arm, but the snake stayed put, opening its mouth to an impossible dimension. Wide enough to swallow an orange. Fangs showing, the head darted toward Victoria's face. She jerked sideways, slipped on the wet tile, and crashed through the shower door, falling to the floor.

  Her hip took the fall, and pain shot down a leg. The snake flew off her arm, slid across the tile, and coiled in front of the bathroom door. Blocking her exit. The reptile's head bobbed, left to right and back again, tongue flicking, daring her to move.

  Naked. Wet. Hip throbbing. Afraid. Victoria stayed on the soapy floor, her eyes searching for a weapon. What was there? A bar of soap? A towel? A tiny bottle of perfume.

  A shoe!

  She'd nearly tripped over it. An ankle-strapped, halter sandal with fuschia pom-poms. One of the Manolo Blahniks filched by a client. Nothing m
ore than flimsy scraps of leather, weighing a few ounces. What she needed was a work boot with steel toes.

  But look at the heel. A solid three inches. You could pound nails with it. The shoe was three feet away, halfway between her and the damned serpent.

  The snake's head swung back and forth, seeming to size up the space between them. Then lowering itself to the floor, the snake slithered toward her.

  "Princess! Princess! Are you all right?"

  Her mother's voice. From the bedroom. She must have come through the connecting door. The snake stopped. It turned its head toward the sound.

  Now!

  Victoria's hand flew out, grabbed the sandal, swung as hard as she could. The heel caught the top of the snake's snout, pierced its hide, and slammed it to the tile. The snake coiled and shook its entire body, the sandal staying put.

  "Princess! Are you in there?" Her mother getting closer.

  "Stay out!" Victoria commanded, scrambling to her feet.

  On the floor, the snake writhed, and the sandal tore loose. Victoria grabbed the tail and cracked the snake like a bullwhip. There was the crunch of breaking cartilage. She whipped the snake again, its head smashing against the tile wall. Then she dropped it, motionless, onto the floor.

  "Princess! What's happening? Why'd you scream?"

  The Queen came through the doorway. She'd taken the time to put on a swirling white silk gown and fluffy slippers. A beauty mask was propped on top of her head.

  "Omigod!" Her mother shrank back, keeping her distance from the snake. "Those red stripes. Coral snake?"

  Victoria sank to the cold tile floor, trembling. "Yeah, I think so."

  "Are you all right?"

  "I fell pretty hard, but I'm fine." Victoria rubbed her hip; there'd be a bruise within hours.

  "Thank God. I should get some ice—"

  "It's okay, Mom. Don't worry about me."

  "Not for you. For the snake."

  Oh. Her mother thinking more clearly than she was. "For evidence. That's a good idea, Mother."

  "Evidence? What evidence? I've got a craftsman in Miami who can make a killer handbag out of that beauty."

  Twenty minutes later, her mother had gone back to sleep and Victoria had changed into pink cotton sweats and sneakers. Outside, Monroe County deputies roamed the pool deck and parking lot. Inside the hotel suite, Sheriff Willis Rask stood astride the dead reptile and hefted Victoria's fuschia pom-pom sandal.

  "You killed that monster with this little-bitty thing?" The sheriff wore a quizzical look.

  Victoria shrugged.

  When Steve arrived from the houseboat, he hugged her tightly and expressed all the right concerns, saying if he caught whoever did this, he'd pulverize the guy. Break every bone in his body, starting with his knees. Rask told Steve to chill out, then asked Victoria to tell him everything that had happened that night. She did as instructed, skipping the nude-coed-in-turquoisewater dream.

  "Snake in a shower's a new one on me," Rask admitted. "Saw a toilet filled with mud puppies and scrub lizards once. Men's room at Charlie Harper's Arco on Tortuga Drive. Molly Alter's boy dumped the poor creatures there after Charlie caught him stealing cans of tire glue. Boy was a sniffer."

  "Lizards and mud puppies won't bite you," Steve said.

  "Maybe not, but if one licks your butt, you might trip over your own drawers and bang your head on the wall. Happened to Charlie."

  Victoria pointed a sneakered toe at the carcass. "That's not a mud puppy, Sheriff. It's a coral snake. Someone tried to kill me."

  "Maybe. Maybe not," Rask mused.

  A little too mellow for Victoria's taste. The sheriff carried the scent of cannabis with him. Either Rask had just captured a freighter stuffed with marijuana or he'd smoked a joint on the drive over.

  "Willis, I gotta agree with Vic," Steve said. "Whoever broke in planted the snake in the bathroom."

  "Most likely true," Rask agreed, "but Ms. Lord could have gotten to the hospital in ten minutes. Plenty of time, and they're damn good with snakebites. If a local did this, he'd know that."

  "What are you saying, Sheriff?" Victoria demanded. "This was just a practical joke? Like lizards in the toilet?"

  "Ever see a baby gator bite a woman in the ass?" Rask asked.

  A breathtaking non sequitur, Victoria thought. Weed will do that.

  "Trailer park on Stock Island." Rask nodded at the memory. "Woman gets in the bathtub, plans to soak a while, file down her corns. Her husband neglected to mention he'd caught a baby gator that morning. Don't know if he planned to eat it or raise it. Woman's ass took thirty stitches, as I recall."

  "Sheriff, someone ran Steve off a bridge. Now someone puts a poisonous snake in my shower. You don't see a pattern here?"

  "Pattern, yes. Attempted murder, no. Like I told Steve before, if someone wanted to kill him, they wouldn't just toss glop on his windshield. And whoever was in your room tonight could surely have killed you if they wanted."

  "They want to mess with our heads," Steve said. He walked to the mini-bar and tried to open it, but Victoria had hidden the key to keep her mother from charging booze to her room. "They want to foul up Griffin's defense."

  "Which means," Victoria broke in, "that whoever's doing it is also trying to frame Uncle Grif."

  "And is probably the real killer," Steve said.

  "Can't comment on that," Rask said. "My position's gotta be that your guy's the one."

  "Vic, you're not spending any more nights alone," Steve advised her.

  "The houseboat's too small," she replied. "I need room to work."

  "Then I'll move in here."

  She didn't immediately reply.

  How to say it?

  "I need my space, Steve."

  "Nice try, tiger," Rask needled him.

  "Then give her official protection, Willis. Two deputies here all night. One in the corridor, one under the balcony."

  "I dunno, Stevie. We got a budget crisis down here. . . ."

  "Willis. This is important to me, okay?"

  "Jeez, Stevie."

  "My dad would want you to."

  Playing that card, Victoria thought. Did Willis Rask owe his career to Herbert Solomon, getting him out of trouble all those years ago?

  Rask sighed. "Okay, you got it."

  "I don't want it," Victoria said.

  "I don't care," Steve said.

  "Are you listening? I don't want police protection."

  "Not your call, cupcake."

  "What did you call me?"

  "Keep your cops here, Willis," Steve instructed. "Send in the National Guard, too, while you're at it."

  "You can be so damn controlling." Pretending to be annoyed, but deep down, appreciating the way Steve stepped up to the plate for her. The concern in his voice. With all the doubts she had about their relationship, there was something about which she was always certain: Steve truly, deeply cared for her.

  The sheriff crouched down and straightened the snake to its full length. "Think there's enough skin for a pair of boots, Stevie?"

  "I was thinking more of a briefcase," Steve replied, crouching down beside him.

  "Forget it, both of you," Victoria ordered. "Someone else already has dibs."

  Twenty-nine

  V FOR VICTORY

  An hour later, Sheriff Rask carted off the dead snake in an Igloo cooler, promising to FedEx it to Irene's leather craftsman as soon as it was measured, photographed, and analyzed for evidentiary purposes. By nine a.m., Victoria and Steve were driving north toward Paradise Key.

  Steve felt a stew of conflicting emotions. Relief that Victoria was okay. Guilt that he hadn't been there to protect her. Guilt over something else, too. His deception.

  He hadn't told her about rooting around in his father's trash. He knew she would disapprove; the phrase "invasion of privacy" came instantly to mind. So, not a word about uncovering his father's mysterious phone calls to Reginald Jones, Chief Clerk of the Circuit Court. That was something he would ha
ve to investigate by himself.

  Jones to Luber to Solomon.

  Sounded like a double-play combination, with his old man the first baseman. But what the hell really went on two decades ago in all those capital cases? Back then, the courthouse was a beehive of little fiefdoms, with sleazy lawyers, greedy bail bondsmen, and corrupt cops buzzing in the corridors. Presiding over the messy business, perched on a higher plane in each courtroom, were the robed lords of the manor, some decent, some incompetent, and some nakedly opportunistic.

  "A den of treachery and mendacity that ah'll clean up," Herbert Solomon announced when his fellow jurists named him Chief Judge of the Circuit.

  But what had happened? What did Herbert do then that made him fear Luber now? Reginald Jones was the link between the two men, literally sitting between them in the courtroom. But what did Jones—a baby deputy clerk at the time—have to do with it?

  Today, Steve had intended to find out. He had planned to rent a car, drive to Miami, and drop by Jones' office. Pound the table and get some answers. Or not. But after the episode in the hotel room, Steve was not about to leave Victoria alone. And she insisted on interviewing Clive Fowles. Jones would have to wait.

  Steve figured that Fowles was a man with conflicts of his own. Torn between his love for Delia Bustamante and a coral reef on one hand and his duty to Hal Griffin on the other. Just who won that tug-of-war, Steve couldn't be sure.

  Victoria turned off her cell phone as they approached the causeway to Paradise Key in her metallic silver Mini Cooper. Reporters had been calling since dawn with questions about the snake attack. The car radio was tuned to a talk show hosted by Billy Wahoo, the self-proclaimed "prime minister of the Conch Republic."

  "These two Mia-muh lawyers seem mighty accident prone. First Solomon drives off a bridge, then Lord nearly gets bitten by a snake. Those two are the mouthpieces for that carpetbagger Hal Griffin, and trouble follows him like skeeters on a sweathog. You ask me, Solomon and Lord are gonna be up the creek when they get to court."

  "This bastard's polluting the jury pool," Steve complained.

  "Don't worry. I'll weed out the bad ones on voir dire."

  Steve looked over and laughed.

  "What?" she asked, without taking her eyes off the road.