by Paul Levine
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 from 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. Incr
ease 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 expose 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.
On the screen, Junior reached over his head, flexed his knees. Then he did a perfect swan dive into the water, clearing the starboard side of the boat by inches and disappearing from view.
"Like I told you before, I went for a swim," Junior said, casually.
"Really?" Steve said. "I thought you were auditioning for La Quebrada."
"The Acapulco cliffs? I dived them when I was in college. Spring break. You?"
"I would have but I was getting arrested in Daytona Beach," Steve claimed. On the screen, the boat blocked any view of Junior. "Where'd you swim to?"
"Around the island. Five miles. I do it every day."
"So when you finished your swim, the cameras would have picked you up again, right?"
"They would, if I'd come back to the dock," Junior explained. "But I always finish at the beach, and there aren't any cameras there."
Meaning an incomplete alibi, Steve thought.
On the dock, Fowles tossed the stern line aboard, and water churned as the engines started up.
And then there were two. Just Hal Griffin and Ben Stubbs on the Force Majeure as it headed out of the cove.
Griffin steered the boat toward open water. Stubbs got out of the fighting chair and walked to the rail, smiling and waving to someone onshore. In a moment, the boat was out of camera range.
"So that's it," Junior said. "Everybody connected with Oceania was there."
"But everybody got off the boat, except your father," Victoria said.
"That doesn't rule out somebody finding a way to get back on," Steve said.
"Okay," Junior said. "Then you've got Clive Fowles, Leicester Robinson, and Delia Bustamante. Three suspects."
"Four, actually," Steve said, looking straight at Junior.
Thirteen
VENOMS TO LOSE
The old Caddy was just north of mile marker 106, headed toward Miami. Steve drove, Victoria alongside, with Bobby reading in the backseat. His grandfather had bought a Harry Potter book, but Bobby had left it behind and brought along a collection of John Updike's early stories. The little wizard-Bobby, not Harry- had already gone through his Philip Roth stage.
" 'He was robed in this certainty,' " Bobby read aloud, " 'that the God who had lavished such craft upon these worthless birds would not destroy His whole Creation by refusing to let David live forever.' "
"What the hell's that?" Steve demanded.
" 'Pigeon Feathers,' " Bobby said. "A boy shoots some pigeons in his family's barn. It's all about the inevitability of death."
"Jeez, Vic. Did you give that to him?" Steve said.
"Bobby wanted something challenging," Victoria said.
"How about cleaning his room?" Steve suggested. "That seems to be quite a challenge."
"Don't discourage Bobby from reading fine literature," Victoria said.
"Or how about doing your homework for once, kiddo?"
"Bor-ing," Bobby sang out.
"And what's with that note I got from your social studies teacher? Two demerits for insubordination?"
"All I did was ask: 'If vegetarians eat vegetables, what do humanitarians eat?' "
"Nobody likes a smart-ass, kiddo."
"Re-al-ly?" Bobby and Victoria shot back in unison.
One hand on the wheel, Steve grumbled something to himself, stewing over Bobby, or Junior, or even her, Victoria figured. As the tires hummed along the roadway, she thought about the man sitting next to her. Her feelings for Steve were so scrambled. They seldom talked about their relationship, never really defined it. They had drifted into monogamy with no plan for the future.
Where are we headed?
Marriage? Steve never brought it up. He had suggested living together, but she thought that had more to do with cutting driving time than a blossoming commitment. They had gotten together while defending Katrina Barksdale on a charge she killed her husband during kinky sex. At the time, Victoria was engaged to Bruce Bigby, avocado grower and grown-up Boy Scout. She had laughed off Steve's flirtations, rebuffed his advances. In truth, she hadn't much liked him. A shark in the courtroom, a wise guy everywhere else. The idea of getting together with him had seemed preposterous.
But something had happened. Steve burned with a joyous fire. He would burst through the courtroom door like a rodeo rider coming out of the chute. Combat juiced him; injust
ice angered him. Once he believed in his client, he would do anything to win. Sometimes he crossed the line of acceptable behavior, often even erasing it.
"If the law doesn't work, work the law."
At first, Solomon's Laws offended her. And even now Steve's tactics could shock her sense of gentility. But he was right about so many things. You didn't win cases by sticking to the rules carved in the marble pediments. You didn't win by citing precedent. "Your Honor, referring to the venerable case of Boring versus Snoring. ."
You won by finding your opponent's soft spot and attacking. You won with showmanship and flair and, whenever possible, the truth. A trial lawyer is a warrior, a knight in rusty armor, who would often be bloodied but would never surrender. Steve taught her to conquer her fears.
Don't be afraid to lose.
Don't be afraid to look ridiculous.
Don't be afraid to steal home.
He sometimes won impossible cases. When a burglarious client was caught with his fingers lodged in the cash slot of an ATM machine, Steve not only beat the criminal charge, he successfully sued the bank for the man's mashed knuckles.
Steve had style. Prowling the well of the courtroom like a shark in the ocean, woe unto the fatter, slower fish. Where she was tense in trial and could even feel herself trembling during moments of stress, Steve was totally comfortable. It seemed he didn't just own the courtroom, he leased it out to the judge, the prosecutor, the jurors.
Not that the attraction was all intellectual. Steve was undeniably, if unconventionally, sexy. A thatch of dark hair a bit too long. Eyes a deep liquid brown, brightening with mischief. A sly smile, as if he were playing some joke on the world. A bad boy, a sleek male animal with an almost feral look. And an infectious enthusiasm. He had seemed so exciting compared to Bruce Bigby, the South Dade Avocado Growers Man of the Year.
Then there was the night it had snowed in Miami. Victoria and Steve had gone to Bruce's avocado grove to help the workers protect the trees from the frost. Smudge pots curled black smoke into the air; Christmas lights warmed the avocado trees; Benny More's love songs played with a bolero beat. It was a wholly surreal and bizarre night, which still did not explain what had happened.
