by Paul Levine
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."
"Sometimes you gotta break the law to do justice, Solomon. Didn't anybody ever teach you that?"
Only my father, Steve thought, sinking back into his pillow.
Ten minutes after Rask left, a nurse came by to tell Steve they were releasing him: "But don't be a stranger, hear?"
A moment later, the curtain parted and Junior Griffin poked his head inside. He wore denim cutoffs, a muscle tee, and even through the curtains Steve could see the entire contingent of nurses staring at him.
"Steve, I came as soon as I heard."
"Thanks, Junior. C'mon in before the nurses drool all over the bedpans."
Junior sat on the edge of Steve's bed. "I just spoke to Tori. She's worried to death. Says to please call her."
One positive development today, at least.
"I brought you something to wear." Junior handed over some faded jeans and a polo shirt. "If there's anything I can do..."
"My car's at Paradise Key," Steve said.
Junior offered to drive Steve there; he could
use the cell to call Victoria and his father and Bobby; there'd be a hot meal waiting if he wanted it; and wasn't it a shame about Clive Fowles?
"I owe you an apology, Junior."
"What for?"
"For accusing you of killing Stubbs."
"It's okay. Didn't bother me."
"I'm usually pretty sharp about things like that, but with you..."
"It got personal. I know."
"Well, I'm sorry about it."
"Like I said, everything's cool." Junior flashed that cover-boy smile. "I was crowding your turf with Tori." He shrugged in a way that tossed a lock of blond hair across his eyes. "It wouldn't have worked out with her and me, anyway."
What's this? Is he throwing in the towel?
"I need someone who'll travel with me. Follow the sun. Hit the dive spots in the summer, the ski resorts in the winter. Tori really enjoys her work, wants to be the best lawyer in town. Hard for me to relate to, but that's cool. We'll always be buds, but we're just very different. Now, you two . . ."
Steve laughed. "Yeah, like flint and steel."
"Sparks are good, right? She really loves you."
He said it so matter-of-factly, like it was a given. Like any idiot could see it.
"She told you...?"
"No offense, Steve, but I know a little more about women than you do. And I know Tori loves you."
Okay. Two positive events today.
Steve's headache seemed to fade away as he pulled on Junior's polo shirt, not even minding it was two sizes too big.
SOLOMON'S LAWS
12. When a man and woman are in total sync— thinking each other's thoughts, making each other laugh, bringing each other joy—they've hit the sweet spot, and just being together is better than . . . almost as good as sex.
Fifty
THE STUFF MURDER'S MADE OF
"Does it hurt?"
"Only when I look at the hospital bill."
They were in Victoria's hotel room, Steve propped up on her bed. Bobby sat at the worktable, bent over his laptop. It was dark out, and the Jimmy Buffett cover band churned out tunes on the patio.
Victoria kept refilling bags of ice for Steve's neck and taking his temperature, though she wasn't sure exactly why. Despite his brush with death, Steve seemed oddly at peace.
If only I could keep him on codeine and Demerol, we'd get along a lot better.
"You can stay here tonight," she said.
"Here?" Steve patted the comforter on the king-size bed.
"The adjoining room. The Queen's gone back to Miami."
At his computer, Bobby laughed. "I knew you weren't getting any trim tonight, Uncle Steve."
"Get back to work, kiddo," Steve said, "or I'll report you as a habitual truant."
"You're the one who'll go to jail," Bobby shot back. "What's it called, Victoria?"
"Contributing to the delinquency of a minor," she said.
"The kid was already a delinquent when he moved in," Steve defended himself.
"I'm hungry," Bobby said. "When do we eat?"
"After we solve a murder." Steve had already told them about the trip on Fowles' Folly and the aftermath. Everything except for Fowles' sort-of confession. He'd smoothed out the edges on that, telling Victoria simply that Fowles had confessed. Steve hadn't yet decided whether to tell a blatant lie, as Willis Rask had asked, but he wanted to keep his options open.
After Steve finished his tale, with Bobby downloading satellite images of Jacksonville, Victoria gave an update on the trial. The state had rested. Tomorrow morning, she would call her first witness. On the patio, the band played "We Are the People Our Parents Warned Us About."
Steve must have been listening. "So what's with you and your mother?"
"We've reached a new understanding. I didn't know all the facts. Now that I do, I think I was way too judgmental. What about you and your father?"
"Once I learned the facts, I became more judgmental. You want to tell me what happened?"
"Later. When the trial's over. You?"
"Same."
They were silent a moment before Steve said, "Not that I don't love Dad."
"I understand."
"I mean, that's what love is, right? Accepting the person, with all their flaws."
"Just like they accept you."
Bobby cackled again. "Jeez, you two are a couple of scaredy-cats. Why don't you just come out and say you want to bone each other?"
"I'm warning you, kiddo," Steve growled. "You've got military school in your future."
"Yeah, sure. If you want to see where that scuzzball Conklin got a traffic ticket, come over here."
Victoria got there first; Steve eased himself out of bed and moved slowly to the worktable. They both peered at the satellite shot.
"The St. Johns River in Jacksonville," Bobby said, pointing at the screen. "And that's St. Johns Riverway Drive at Commodore Point. That's where Conklin got the ticket."
"All those ships," Steve said. "Looks like a port."
Bobby clicked the mouse, and the image zoomed closer. There was lettering on top of one of the buildings fronting the river. Southern Shipworks. Victoria said it aloud, wanting to hear it. "Southern Shipworks."
"What about it?" Steve asked.
"I know that name. Let me think."
"Work on it a sec," Steve said, going to the mini-bar. "They have Jack Daniel's in here?"
"Robinson!" Victoria said. "Leicester Robinson. That's where he was building his barges for the Oceania work."
Steve stopped short. The Jack Daniel's could wait. "Makes sense if Conklin was working for Robinson."
"Not ten days ago. Robinson said he cancelled the barge work right after Stubbs was killed."
Then it happened. Two runners in sync, stride for stride.
He said: "Unless Robinson lied . . ."
She said: "Because he needed the barges for something other than Oceania . . ."
He said: "Something that could make money only if there was no Oceania . . ."
She said: "So Robinson hired Conklin and Fowles . . ."
Together then: "To stop Oceania!"
Total synergy, Victoria thought.
The sweet spot of our relationship.
That's what Steve had called it during the Barksdale trial. They didn't hit it every day, but when they did, well, it was just better than anything else. They completed each other's thoughts, finished each other's sentences, filled each other's lives.
"So what's Robinson planning?" she asked.
"We've got a loose thread. So . . ."
"Let's pull it and see where it leads," she finished. "Fowles told Griffin he should forget about the hotel and casino. Just take people out to the reef on glass-bottomed boats and catamarans."
"Griffin said Fowles was talking about a rowboat while he was building the Queen Mary," Steve contributed.
"And Robinson said Griffin thought too big and Fowles too small. So Robinson . . ."
"Planned something in between."
"You know what it is, don't you, Steve?"
"After Stubbs was killed, Robinson wouldn't have needed the barges for Oceania. But if he changed their configuration . . ." Steve stuck a finger under his neck brace and wiggled his chin. "Bobby, zoom in on every ship under construction."
"I will if you order room service. Club sandwich, extra mayo."
"Later. Do your magic first."
On the patio, the band was breaking into "Apocalypso."
"Vic, we don't have time to subpoena the shipyard," Steve said, "but if I'm right, Robinson's building one helluva barge. Tomorrow, you'll have to bluff him. Act like you have his blueprints."
"Robinson's not my first witness."
"He is now."
She nearly said something about her order of proof but stopped herself. She'd have to be more flexible. Steve was always telling her that. "Okay, we call Robinson as an adverse witness, and ...?"
"I gotta see the photos to be sure. Bobby, what's happening?"
> "In a sec, okay?"
Victoria said: "Steve, maybe you should cross Robinson. You have a handle on this."
He cocked his head as far as his stiff neck would allow. "C'mon, Vic. You wanted the hot seat. I vaguely recall the words 'first chair' and 'autonomy' coming up in the conversation."
It could have been vintage sarcastic Steve, but his smile was warm, his words soft to the touch.
Yes, painkillers definitely take his edge off.
"But Robinson's the big enchilada," she said.
"I'm hungry," Bobby whined.
Steve smiled at her. "You'll be terrific. I know it."
"I really wish you would take Robinson," she continued. "You're the best cross-examiner I've ever seen."
"That's only because you never watch yourself."
She groaned.
"I mean it, Vic. You're a natural. Robinson will never know what hit him. Besides, I'm not counsel of
record anymore. I withdrew, remember?"
"So file a new appearance in the morning."
"A lawyer can't be a witness, too. After you're done with Robinson, you're calling me."
"What? Why?"
"Here's your barge," Bobby said, pointing at the monitor.
Victoria leaned over Bobby's shoulder. Rectangular pods seemed to be stacked on the deck of a long, flat craft. From the satellite, the pods looked like giant children's building blocks. "What is it?" she asked.
"The stuff murder's made of." Steve gave Bobby a hug. "Let's get this boy a club sandwich. Extra mayo."
Fifty-one
SON OF A SON OF A SAILOR
She was all alone.
Oh, the courtroom was filled. Reporters in the front row, a still photographer alongside. There were the regulars, retirees who cruise the building looking for cheap entertainment. A few local lawyers occupied the back pews, waiting for their own cases, grousing about handling D&Ds—drunk and disorderlies—instead of a juicy murder trial. There were unkempt old-timers, leathery as lizards, who wandered inside just for the air-conditioning. The jurors were stuffed into their box like eggs in a carton, their expressions ranging from bored to bemused to bitchy: "Prove your case, and entertain me while you're doing it, lady."