by Paul Levine
"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 Slasher? 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 pr
oblem. 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 curved 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."
"No apparent motive," Steve corrected him.
"Don't be a dick, Steve," Victoria said.
"It's okay, Tori," Junior interposed. "I know you guys have a job to do." As they started up a maple staircase to the second floor, he said: "If you're interested, I've got a theory about what happened."
"What is it?" Victoria asked. Eager now.
Yeah, Steve thought. Show us something besides your fast-twitch muscle fibers.
"I think Stubbs might have found the speargun and started fooling around with it," Junior said. "It's an old pneumatic model. The Poseidon Mark 3000. Works on air pressure instead of bands. If he tried to jam a shaft down the barrel and did it wrong, the spear could fire."
"Why would Stubbs even handle the gun?" Victoria wanted to know.
Junior shrugged again, his lats joining his delts in a little muscle dance. "Why do kids take their fathers' revolvers out of nightstands?"
"So if Stubbs shot himself, who slugged your father?" Steve asked, before Victoria could slip in another question.
"No one. After Dad found Stubbs, he rushed up the ladder to get back to the bridge. Dad had been drinking-they both had-and he was excited. The ladder's wet from spray. He slips and falls, conking his head."
They stopped in front of a wide set of double doors, Junior fishing for a key from a pocket of his shorts. Junior didn't lock up his spearguns, Steve thought, but he needed a key to get into whatever room he was going to show them.
"I can sell swampland to alligators," Steve said, "but that story stinks like old mackerel. The problem is, you're compounding multiple improbables."
"The hell does that mean?"
"Tell him, Vic."
She nailed Steve with a look that said she didn't like being ordered to perform. Then said: "One of Steve's theories."
"Not just a theory. A law. The Solomonic Law of Compounding Improbables. Vic, you do the honors."
Again, she shot Steve a look. "Stubbs shooting himself," Victoria said, "that's one improbable event. Your dad falling down the ladder and knocking himself out, that's two. A boat without a driver crashing on the exact beach where it was supposed to dock, that's three. There's a multiplier effect. Each improbable event makes the others harder to believe."
"And easier for a jury to convict," Steve said.
"Say a man takes his boat out fishing on Christmas Eve, though he has virtually no history of fishing," Victoria said. "And his pregnant wife disappears the same day. Months later, her body and the baby's body wash up onshore in nearly the same place as the guy went fishing. A place the guy went back to when he claimed he was somewhere else."
"The Scott Peterson case," Junior said, unlocking the doors.
"His defense compounded too many improbables," Victoria said, as they walked into a darkened room that seemed cooler than the rest of the house.
Steve smiled to himself. As much as Victoria complained about his lawyering, she was picking up his techniques.
Why doesn't she realize what a winning team we are?
"Steve's created a mathematical formula around the theory," she continued.
"One of Solomon's Laws," Steve said. "I call it squaring the improbables: 'If you have one chance in three of convincing jurors of an improbable event, you have one chance in nine of convincing them of two, and-' "
"One chance in eighty-one of convincing them of three," Bobby calculated.
"Exactly. In other words, no chance in hell."
Junior flicked on a light switch, and a tiny spotlight in the perimeter of the ceiling came on. They were in a huge, windowless room, bathed in shadows. "What I'm going to show you," Junior said, "only a few people have seen. Stubbs was one of them."
Steve squinted, trying to make out the shape rising from the middle of the room, but could see nothing but shadows. This was all a bit theatrical for his taste. He had the feeling that Junior was putting on a show for them. Or more likely, just for Victoria.
"You have to know something about my background for this to make any sense," Junior said. With the four of them standing in the half-light of the cool room, Junior spent the next few minutes explaining that over the years, with all the time he spent on the water, he'd become a deeply committed environmentalist.
Save the Whales.
Protect the Reefs.
Ban Tuna Nets.
The whole range of do-gooder ocean projects. Junior said he'd given away chunks of money to environmental groups
, probably, he thought now, as penance for his father's actions. Hal Griffin, his son admitted, was a one-man tsunami when it came to ecosystems. Blowing opponents out of the water, literally sinking a Greenpeace boat in Sydney Harbor by ramming it with a barge. His old man was a major-league pillager, an All-Pro despoiler, his projects a dishonor roll of moneymaking, havoc-wreaking, eco-disasters. Eroded beaches from shoreline condos in the Philippines, massive fish kills off Jamaica after dredging a marina, a vicious sewage runoff from a gated community in the Caicos Islands.
"Everywhere Dad goes, environmentalists come after him with elephant guns."
But does Dad go after others with spearguns? Steve wondered. Whereas the son, by his own immodest admission, was Sir Galahad of the Deep.
"You've heard of tree huggers," Junior said. "Call me a coral kisser. I've snorkeled the world's best, and they're all living on borrowed time. The coral reefs are the rain forests of the oceans."
"All of which has exactly what to do with Oceania?" Steve asked.
"A couple years ago," Junior continued, "I was arguing with Dad and said something like, 'You won't be happy till you build a resort right on top of a coral reef.' And Dad took it as a challenge. He asked where there's a coral reef at least three nautical miles offshore from an English-speaking country, with a population center of at least three million people nearby."
"Why three miles?" Victoria asked.
"So it's outside territorial waters," Junior said.
"The cannon-shot rule," Bobby said, and they all looked at the smartest boy in the sixth grade. "From pirate days. Four hundred years ago, the farthest a cannon could shoot from shore was three miles. That's where the law comes from."
"Thank you, Mr. History Channel," Steve said, then turned to Junior. "If you're outside the three-mile limit, you can run a casino. That the idea?"
"Exactly. But we'd still be within the two-hundredmile EEZ."
Steve gave him a blank look.
"The Exclusive Economic Zone," Bobby translated, adding sheepishly, "I know most of the federal acronyms. Also most of the personalized license plates banned by the State of Florida."
"Don't start," Steve warned him.
"G-R-8-C-U-M," Bobby said. "I-W-N-T-S-E-X."
