by Steve Brewer
“Ah, geez. I’m in the middle of trial. Once Nash gets convicted, it’s too late.”
“We’re on their trail.”
“Yeah. Them and Osama bin Laden.”
“Look, Solomon, I’ll do what I can to help Nash, but I can’t make the case go away.”
“What can you do?”
“Share intel.”
“I’m listening.”
“We had Grisby under surveillance. Sanders stopped by Cetacean Park two days before the raid.”
“Did he talk to Grisby?”
“For about two or three minutes. Out on the dock. But we don’t know what was said.”
“It’s not much, but it’s something,” Steve said. “Grisby claimed he never saw Sanders before the night he killed him.”
“Another thing that never added up,” Agent Parsons said. “On three consecutive nights before the raid, Grisby took the two dolphins out into the Bay.”
“What do you mean, ‘took them’?”
“Around midnight, Grisby rode out to the channel on a Jet Ski and led the dolphins over to Hurricane Harbor. He left them there overnight, then went back in the morning and led them up the channel and into the park. Same thing each time.”
“Why? Why would he do that?”
“No idea.” Agent Parsons sipped the rest of her passion fruit iced tea through the straw until it made an unladylike slurping sound. “It didn’t seem relevant to our investigation of Hardcastle.”
“Maybe not,” Steve said. “But it might be damn relevant to why Grisby killed Sanders.”
Thirty-five
DOLPHIN DOUBLES
“Training them,” Bobby said.
“What do you mean?” Steve asked.
“Mr. Grisby must have wanted Spunky and Misty to know that if they ever left the channel, he’d come get them. He’d lead them back to the park.”
“Is that even possible—training the dolphins to wait for him?”
“When you tell me to wait somewhere, what do I do?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Spunky and Misty aren’t like that. They try to please. And they want to be fed.”
Steve was driving along Miracle Mile in Coral Gables and speaking into his cell phone. Bobby was at the house, watching an instructional baseball video with the sound turned down. He should have been taking a shower and getting ready for dinner. A Saturday night tradition. Steve always took Bobby and Victoria to whatever restaurant they chose to celebrate the weekend. Tonight, it was Restaurant St. Michel in the Gables.
“Grisby knew Sanders was coming for the dolphins,” Steve said. “That’s why he fired the security guard. That’s why he had the shotgun. He prepared everything, including a safe place for the dolphins to hide until the shooting stopped.”
“Makes sense, Uncle Steve. He’d lost his two best dolphins before and sure didn’t want it to happen again.”
Steve hit the brakes and pulled over to the curb. “Say that again.”
“Say what? Mr. Grisby lost two dolphins before, and—”
“That’s it, Bobby. It happened before! Grisby’s place in California was hit and his two star dolphins released. Grisby got the insurance money and used that to open Cetacean Park here. That’s the missing piece of the second puzzle, which helps solve the first puzzle.”
“What piece is that?”
“Most people can’t tell one dolphin from another, can they?”
“Most people don’t know what to look for.”
“But Sanders knew.”
“Me, too. Misty has a pink belly and a nick in her fluke—”
“Go on the Internet, kiddo. Find Undersea World in California. Dig up newspaper stories about the raid, old websites, anything that’ll have pictures of Grisby’s dolphins. If the two headliners aren’t doubles for Spunky and Misty, I’ll eat a can of tuna without opening the can.”
“You’re saying Mr. Grisby stole his own dolphins?”
“I’m betting the ALM never hit Undersea World. Sanders figured that out but paid Grisby’s insurance claim anyway.”
“Why would he do that?”
“So he could blackmail Grisby. For a while, Sanders probably took cash. Then he demanded Spunky and Misty. He’d make it look like another ALM raid. Grisby can’t refuse. But he plans his own double-cross, to keep the dolphins and get out from under the blackmail. He knows when the raid is coming. All he has to do is kill Sanders and claim self-defense.”
“Wow. That’s totally devious. Can you prove it, Uncle Steve?”
“Not a word. Not yet, anyway. You have any ideas?”
“Only one,” Bobby said. “If Mr. Grisby trained Spunky and Misty to come back to the park, that’s where they’ve got to be now.”
SOLOMON’S LAWS
11. If you can’t keep a promise to a loved one, you probably aren’t going to keep the loved one, either.
Thirty-six
THE OFFICE FLOW CHART
“Didn’t I talk to you an hour ago?” Agent Parsons sounded irritated.
“I just figured out what Grisby did,” Steve said. “Actually, my nephew helped a lot, but he always lets me take the credit.”
Steve pulled into a parking spot on Ponce de Leon Boulevard. He was meeting Victoria and Bobby for dinner in ten minutes. But Agent Parsons had given him her cell phone number, and now he told her his theory about Grisby’s double-cross.
“Grisby has a building he calls ‘the infirmary.’ It’s an oversize quonset hut, out of sight behind some palm trees. It has a big dolphin tank with a spillway into the channel. Bobby says that’s got to be where he’s keeping the dolphins. If you get a search warrant and a squad of marshals, we can hit the place tonight.”
“Now? Saturday night?”
“What’s the matter, they don’t pay you overtime?”
“I don’t have the authority to seek a search warrant on a Wednesday morning, much less call a federal judge at home on a Saturday night. I need to speak to my superiors.”
“Fine. Do it now.”
“And just what crime am I supposedly investigating?”
“Murder, for starters. Grisby assassinated Sanders.”
“No federal jurisdiction. You know that, Solomon.”
“How about insurance fraud?”
“Outside the scope of my investigation. I’m not after the fish-park guy.”
Steve didn’t take the time to explain that dolphins aren’t fish. “What are you, a salesclerk at Macy’s? This isn’t your department?”
“We have procedures, Solomon. We have an office flow chart.”
“That’s why people hate the government. And department stores.”
“Relax, Solomon. First thing Monday morning, I’ll bring it up in a staff meeting. Don’t bother me till then.”
The phone clicked off just as Steve called her a word that rhymes with “rich.”
A moment later, Victoria pulled into the parking spot in front of him, swinging her Mini Cooper to the curb without having to back up. She got out of the car, and Steve waited for the passenger door to open. But it didn’t.
Where’s Bobby?
***
“Bobby said you wanted him to stay off his feet,” Victoria told Steve. “Something about tomorrow’s game.”
“I didn’t mean he shouldn’t come to dinner.”
They were seated at a corner table in Restaurant St. Michel, a romantic dining spot in a 1920’s hotel. A pianist played “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” and diners whispered to one another in the elegant art deco room. Steve figured that Victoria, consistent to her core, would order sugarcane skewered pork tenderloin with a rum molasses glaze. She wouldn’t touch the grilled pineapple plantain chips, so he would clean off her plate along with his filet mignon tartar. Bobby loved the crab cakes, so it puzzled Steve that his nephew hadn’t come along.
“What was Bobby doing when you left?” he asked.
“Eating a cheese sandwich and working on the computer.”
&
nbsp; Steve made a hmm-ing sound.
“What are you worried about?” she asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“I told Bobby we’d be home early and we’d bring him dessert.”
“What’d he ask for? Tiramisu or key lime pie?”
“Neither. He said he didn’t want to overload on sugar.”
Steve thought that over. Maybe the boy was just worried about the game. “I told Bobby he was pitching, and I think it scared him a little.”
“How’d you get Ira Kreindler to let Bobby pitch?”
“I haven’t yet, but I’ll persuade him.”
“How? You know what a hardhead he is.”
“You still have that gun Pincher gave you?”
“I’m serious, Steve. You shouldn’t get Bobby’s hopes up if you can’t deliver.”
“I never make a promise to you or Bobby that I can’t keep.”
“What bothers me are the methods you use to keep those promises.”
“Let’s not fight about it. Let’s eat and get home, so I can talk to Bobby.”
Victoria picked up the menu and studied it.
“I’ll eat your pineapple chips,” Steve offered.
“I’m not ordering pork tenderloin. I’m getting the yellowtail snapper with the curry sauce.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t look so disappointed. You can order pineapple chips on the side.”
“It’s not that. You’re becoming less predictable.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“I don’t know.”
“People grow, Steve. They change.”
“They become prosecutors.”
“Don’t start on that. Now, tell me everything that happened today.”
“I thought I already had.”
“You gave me bits and pieces. Start at the beginning.”
Steve did as he was told. It had been an eventful day.
Mai Ling leading him to FBI Agent Constance Parsons.
Agent Parsons turning out to be Nash’s girlfriend Passion Conner.
Sanders meeting with Grisby two days before the raid and likely blackmailing him long before that.
Parsons letting the raid go ahead in order to nail Hardcastle.
Bobby figuring out that Grisby still had the dolphins.
Victoria listened attentively. Unlike Steve, she seldom interrupted. She liked to vacuum up every bit of information and process it a moment or two before responding. This time a glass of California wine helped the processing. A Sangiovese from Eberle Winery. Victoria said it tasted of cherry cola and raspberries, with a hint of licorice. Steve thought it tasted like a damn good Chianti; but then, he was no expert.
“Look at all of Grisby’s connections to Sanders,” Steve said, summing up. “The first insurance claim. Sanders showing up at Cetacean Park just before the raid. Grisby lying in wait for him with a shotgun. I’ll bet I can find a money trail from Grisby to Sanders, proving the blackmail and furnishing the motive for murder.”
“What about those two guys from Hardcastle, the ones in the Lincoln?”
“Yeah? What about them?”
“Grisby double-crossed them, too, right?”
“Sure. They thought Sanders had it all worked out with Grisby. Make it look like an animal rights attack and haul the dolphins away in the confusion.”
Victoria signaled the waiter for a refill on the wine. “So, if Bobby figured that the dolphins are back at the park, wouldn’t those two guys figure the same thing?”
Thirty-seven
RISKING IT ALL FOR LOVE
Steve knew.
The lights were on in their house, but pulling into the driveway, he knew.
As he walked toward the front door, Victoria pulled up in her car.
Steve unlocked the door and called out Bobby’s name. No answer.
Steve knew the house was empty.
He knew that Bobby’s bicycle would be gone, too.
He knew that Bobby was headed for Cetacean Park. He just didn’t know how long a head start the boy had.
***
The wind was in Bobby’s face. Riding over the bridge to Key Biscayne always took longer than riding back to the mainland because the wind came off the ocean. Tonight, it wasn’t bad. Warm and moist, the breeze like a washcloth.
Bobby had left the house just after Victoria drove off to meet Uncle Steve for dinner. Now it was dark, a half-moon was rising over the Bay, and he pulled his bicycle into a strand of scrubby pine trees adjacent to Cetacean Park.
Uncle Steve had let him down again. Two hours ago Bobby told his uncle that Spunky and Misty had to be back at the park. That’s the only thing that made sense. His uncle promised to do something about it. Then he called back later. He said the FBI would get on it Monday.
Monday!
Right now, Grisby could be loading Spunky and Misty into tanks for transport. Just like he’d done before when he’d brought the dolphins from California. Bobby had found photographs of Undersea World. The shots of Spunky were difficult to make out, a lot of water splashing. But one photo of Misty was unmistakable. The little notch in her fluke and her pink belly gave her away.
Bobby imagined what might be going on right now at Cetacean Park. Those two men from Hardcastle could be there. Pissed off at the double-cross. Ready to kill Grisby. Kidnap the dolphins, sneak them off to the warfare center in San Diego, turn them into freaks and assassins.
My best buds.
This was his only chance, or they’d be gone forever. Didn’t Uncle Steve say that men always did whatever had to be done, no matter the risk? Especially for those you love.
Well, I love Spunky and Misty, and I’m their only hope.
Bobby worked his way to the dock, listening to the whisper of water in the channel. No dolphins. He wondered what time Uncle Steve and Victoria would get home. They’d be hacked off. But it wasn’t his fault.
Uncle Steve should have gotten the dolphins back, or at least he should have tried harder. But he was so caught up trying to prove his stupid client innocent, he forgot about the dolphins . . . and about me.
“Family comes first.” That’s what he’d always said. But he was still a lawyer, and Bobby sensed a conflict between obligations to the family you love and the scumbags you represent.
A splash in the channel, but it was just a small fish leaping, the moonlight catching its phosphorescence. No Spunky. No Misty.
Bobby followed the channel toward the main building. During the day, a busy place, with a souvenir stand, a food court, and a dolphin video playing on a flat screen. Growing more narrow, the channel wound inland past the building under an umbrella of leafy palms. It ended at a spillway that came from the quonset hut Mr. Grisby called “the infirmary.”
The building was thirty feet high, made of corrugated metal. The roof was elevated by wooden rafters, leaving an open breezeway that ran the circumference of the round building. Bobby could see lights through the breezeway, and he could hear men’s voices.
He climbed a ladder that ran up the side of the building. Halfway up, Bobby recognized Mr. Grisby’s voice, but couldn’t make out the words. Then a shrill metal whistle. Bobby knew the sound. Mr. Grisby trained dolphins with blasts from a whistle.
The ladder stopped at a metal catwalk just at the breezeway. By standing on his tiptoes, Bobby could see down into the building. There was Mr. Grisby, on a platform no wider than a diving board. Two men stood at the perimeter of the tank. A smaller man in cowboy boots and a black T-shirt. Tough-looking dude. And a larger man with blond hair, muscles not as well defined.
Mr. Grisby tooted the whistle and Spunky and Misty jumped in unison, landed, then paddled upright on their flukes, looking like ballerinas.
“Watch this, gentlemen. I think you’ll be impressed.”
Grisby knelt down and grabbed a large nylon sack that lay at his feet. He opened the drawstrings, and something tumbled out of the sack and into the water.
A body in a green-and-brown cam
ouflage uniform.
Thirty-eight
STRIDE FOR STRIDE
“Shit.”
Steve slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel.
From the top of the bridge, nothing but twin rows of red taillights in front of them. At the bottom of the span, two police cars and a tow truck blocked the eastbound lane. A Hummer sat diagonally in the roadway, a deep-hulled sailboat splintered across the lanes, where it had fallen off its trailer.
“What now?” Victoria asked.
“We walk. Or run. C’mon.”
Steve pulled the car as far off the roadway as he could, and they started on foot. A jog at first. They’d both changed clothes after dinner. Victoria was in her workout attire: Nike stretch pants, running shoes, and fitted top. Steve wore khaki shorts and an old Hurricanes baseball jersey.
Once off the bridge, they were able to cut through the picnic areas that lined the causeway, just yards from the shoreline. Their path was lit by hundreds of headlights from the traffic jam. White gulls trudged along the beach, digging for toenail crabs.
“This is all my fault,” Steve said as they jogged alongside each other.
“What is?”
“Bobby. I’ve been too self-absorbed. I haven’t paid enough attention to him.”
“You’re a wonderful father to him, Steve. Bobby adores you.”
“I haven’t been consistent. At first, because of everything he’d suffered with my crazy sister, I didn’t want to deny him anything. Then I thought maybe I was overprotecting him, so I backed off. Now I just don’t know. I’ve lost all sense of balance.”
“All parents learn on the fly, and you’re doing fine.”
“If I were doing so great, he’d be home right now.” Steve shot a look across the Bay in the direction of Cetacean Park. “If anything happens to him . . .”
His words hung in the humid air, and they ran in silence for another few moments.
Just after they’d left the house, Steve had called FBI Agent Parsons again on her cell. This time, she sounded even more exasperated. “Your twelve-year-old nephew has ridden off on his bicycle, and you think it’s a federal case? Is that it, Solomon?”
