The Deep Blue Alibi svl-2

by Paul Levine

  "Bobby. ."

  "B-I-G-P-N-S."

  "Cool it, kiddo!"

  "Because we're in the EEZ," Junior said, "the federal government still has jurisdiction over development. So we need an environmental assessment report to get a federal permit."

  "Ben Stubbs of the EPA," Victoria mused.

  "Yep. Which is why Dad had to jump through all the hoops. He was cussing all the way, but he did it. And here's the result."

  Junior flicked another switch, and the enormous room was bathed in a soft light. "Behold Oceania," he said.

  Looming in front of them was a three-dimensional diorama, maybe thirty feet long by seven feet high. From floor to shoulder level was the ocean-or at least a blue Lucite rendition of it, complete with miniature, plasticized fish. Floating on the surface were three donut-shaped buildings, connected by covered passageways. From the bottom of each building, steel cables angled downward and were embedded in the ocean floor. At the side of the center building was a marina with perhaps two hundred miniature boats, little plastic people waving gaily from the decks. Above the hotel, suspended in the air by a wire, was a seaplane, a larger version of what they had flown to Paradise Key.

  "The center building is the casino," Junior said.

  "Two hundred thirty thousand square feet of slots, blackjack, craps, roulette, keno, poker rooms. The works. And unlike Atlantic City or Las Vegas, no taxes to pay. Or as Dad likes to say, 'Uncle Sam ain't no relative of mine.' "

  "How would you get people out there?" Victoria asked. Ever practical, Steve thought.

  "Seaplanes, private boats, hydrofoils leaving the mainland every thirty minutes."

  "What about hurricanes?" Steve asked.

  "We'd evacuate the hotel, of course," Junior said. "But our construction method is revolutionary. Woven steel cables fasten the buildings to the sea bottom, but they're flexible, so the buildings can rise and fall in high seas. Computer models show we can withstand a Category Four storm."

  "What about Category Five?" Steve asked.

  "Statistically improbable. Only two have ever hit the United States."

  Bobby chimed in: "Camille in sixty-nine. Andrew in ninety-two."

  The kid watched the Weather Channel, too. "You're not counting the ones before the Weather Service had a numbering system," Steve said.

  "We're confident our hotel can take the worst storm that's statistically likely to hit," Junior said.

  The worst storm that's statistically likely to hit.

  Not bad, Steve thought, giving Junior bonus points for lawyerlike double-talk. The guy was sharper than he looked, greater than the sum of his pecs and traps.

  "You haven't seen the best part," Junior said. "Take a look at Building Three. We call it The Atlantis."

  They walked around to the other side of the diorama. The ocean floor sloped upward there, as it neared the largest of the donut-shaped buildings. But it wasn't just a sandy bottom. It was a coral reef in miniature, frozen in plastic, reproduced in startling detail. Staghorn coral, looking like deer antlers; green sea fans waving hello; grooved brain coral, looking like a human cerebrum. A moray eel poked its head out of a skyscraper of pillar coral. Swimming above and through the reef were giant grouper, bright blue angelfish, multihued parrotfish, huge tarpon, sea turtles, and other creatures Steve couldn't name.

  "The Atlantis seems submerged." Victoria pointed beneath the building. This donut was more like a floating saucer, with a portion of the building under the surface, portholes beneath the sea.

  "My idea." Junior's smile was so wide, his dimples looked like gunshot wounds. "Three hundred hotel rooms underwater. You can watch the fish swim by your window."

  And in fact, there were two sharks cruising past a porthole window. Thrill the folks from Omaha without getting their feet wet.

  "If you look closely at the passageways connecting the buildings, you'll see the floors are transparent. Stroll from the dining room to the casino and you're walking across the world's largest aquarium."

  "Incredible," Victoria murmured. "The hotel is a giant glass-bottom boat."

  Junior smiled. "I told Dad that most people will never take the snorkeling or scuba trip. So, if you're going to build a hotel above a reef, why not bring the reef into the hotel? Or damn close, anyway."

  "It's really something," Victoria said. Awe in her voice, as if Junior had just shown her the Mona Lisa and said he painted it.

  Big deal, Steve thought. The rich kid tells the architects to stick portholes in the hotel rooms. What's he want, the Nobel Prize?

  "Here's where Dad surprised me," Junior said. "The construction costs will be astronomical, so at first he balked. A real sense of arriere-pensee."

  "I hate it when that happens," Steve said. Thinking:

  What the hell did he say: "derriere penises"?

  "That means he had doubts," Bobby piped up. "Uncertainty. Reservations."

  "But Dad's so smart," Junior continued. "He thought it over and realized that the marketing hook was the reef with underwater hotel rooms right above it. It's the sizzle of the steak. Nothing like it anywhere in the world."

  Junior rattled on for a few more minutes about the state-of-the-art desalinization plant, the solar-powered generators, the recycling plant that grinds leftover prime rib into fish food. Steve wasn't giving it his full attention. Instead, he was trying to take the measure of Junior Griffin, prep-school make-out artist turned thick-chested free diver who oozed lethal levels of testosterone from every pore.

  "So, what could have been an environmental disaster will be a beacon to the world for safe construction in environmentally sensitive areas," Junior said. "Construction in harmony with nature."

  Jeez, he's giving a speech to the Kiwanis.

  "You must be so proud," Victoria said in a gushing tone that Steve interpreted to mean, "You are the sexiest and most wonderful man in the universe, and if I can dump my boyfriend, I'd like to have your babies, starting nine months from today."

  Steve kept trying to size up the guy, which was hard to do objectively because he was growing so aggravated with Victoria. But it occurred to him that maybe he'd been mistaken about Junior. The guy's save-theplanet shtick seemed sincere. Of course, not having to work for a living gives you free time for wholesome hobbies. Back in college, Steve had joined the ACLU. At the time, he had few political opinions, but he figured that left-leaning coeds were easy to bag.

  A stray thought began to gnaw at him, a vague notion that there was something wrong with Mr. Right. What was it?

  It only took a moment. It's so obvious, Steve thought, all the while realizing that his powers of reasoning might be tainted by jealousy, envy, and fear.

  The son-of-a-bitch is just too good to be true.

  Which meant that he was a phony. And with any luck, a murderer, too.

  Eleven

  THE SECRETS PARENTS KEEP

  "Do you remember the time your father took us to that hot dog place on the causeway?" Victoria asked.

  "Fun Fair," Junior said.

  "You ate ten chili dogs on a dare."

  "Twelve. With onions. I got sick in the back of Dad's Bentley."

  "And do you remember what we did on your fourteenth birthday?" she prodded.

  "Skinny-dipped in the Venetian pool."

  "Nope. We carved our initials on a banyan tree."

  "Right. Bayfront Park," Junior remembered. "A security guard chased us."

  "And we jumped over that concrete wall to hide. . "

  "But it was a sea wall, and we landed in four feet of water."

  Laughter. From two out of three, anyway. Steve's expression was both aggravated and distant, as if fretting about something he could do nothing about, the sliding value of the dollar, maybe. "Could I bring you two back from Memory Lane a second?"

  "Sure thing," Junior said.

  Do we have to? Victoria thought.

  "I never saw anything in the papers about Oceania," Steve began, "never heard anyone in the Keys talkin
g about it."

  "Dad didn't want the gambling industry finding out what we were doing until we had the federal permits," Junior explained. "What do you think the lobbyists for Atlantic City and the Gulf casinos would do to stop us?"

  "Bribe a congressman or two," Victoria suggested.

  "And if that didn't work?"

  "Kill Stubbs and frame your father," Steve said. "You're saying a competitor did it."

  "Who else would have a better motive?" Junior said.

  It had been fifteen minutes since Junior relocked the double doors to the Oceania room. The three adults- if you counted Steve-lay on chaise lounges on an outdoor deck overlooking the cove. A pitcher of margaritas with a platter of tortilla chips and fresh-made guacamole sat on a table in the shade of an umbrella. A man-made waterfall poured over rocks into a small pond stocked with fish and long-necked swans. Bobby was wading in the pond, trying to talk swan language to the big birds.

  Junior's cell phone had rung several times, reporters calling. Following their instructions, Junior expressed his father's regret at Stubbs' demise and declined comment on everything else. Helicopters from three Miami TV stations hovered over the island like noisy mosquitoes. One buzzed so low, it stirred the cove into a white froth. The crews got their footage, then powered north again.

  Now, as Steve ran through his questions, Victoria sorted out her feelings. She felt slightly decadent, reclining on a wicker chaise lounge, sinking into the cocoa-colored cushions, sipping tequila on a workday afternoon, with two hot guys. One was her lover and potential life mate and the other once seemed destined for that role. Over the years, she had wondered about Junior. What kind of man had he become?

  To start with, an awesome hunkalicious man, but he seems so much more than his physicality.

  A decent, smart, caring man. All that time and money he spent on worthwhile causes. And look at Oceania, something that could have been an environmental holocaust, but thanks to Junior could become an environmental showplace, a stunning blend of commerce and nature.

  So, Steve, what do you think of Junior now?

  Sure, Junior had enjoyed a privileged life. But he wasn't the spoiled rich kid Steve had predicted-and spitefully wanted-him to be.

  Now, in the shade of an umbrella, the same cocoa print fabric as the chaise cushions, with Junior's coppery-bronzy tan accentuating his bright smile, with his sun-streaked thatch of hair, with his six-pack of abs rigid as body armor and his carved deltoids rippling with each movement of his bare arms, with his strong jaw with that devilish cleft, he was. .

  Oh, hell, just say it, or at least think it.

  If I were standing, my knees would have buckled by now.

  Not to get overheated about it, but he was the closest thing to a Greek god she'd ever seen. A modern Adonis, who, if she remembered her course at Princeton, Fables and Myths, got it on with Aphrodite, notwithstanding the lady's marriage to somebody-or-other. Was she feeling a little like Aphrodite, the trampy goddess of passion, who also peeled grapes with Ares, Dionysus, and a few other guy-gods Victoria couldn't remember?

  Jeez, am I so superficial that his looks, his luscious total maleness, turns me into mush?

  No, of course not. It was just a healthy sexual fantasy, right? Like Steve studying the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue more closely than any appellate court decision. She wondered if Steve was picking up her vibes. Could he tell what she was thinking-and feeling-about Junior?

  "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 y
our 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 arriere-pensee-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 cliche 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.