Solomon Vs. Lord - 02 - The Deep Blue Alibi

by Paul Levine

  A pelican landed on the dock nearby and stared at them over its pouch.

  "I know nothing except that your client harpooned that man from Washington," Delia fired back.

  "Really," Steve said. "You know what a good defense lawyer would say to that?"

  Delia laughed without smiling. "How would you know?"

  "A good lawyer would say you had a helluva lot more reason to kill Ben Stubbs than Griffin did. Put that in your bouillabaisse."

  "Steve, be quiet," Victoria ordered. Apparently, the painkillers were wearing off.

  "If I were going to kill anyone, it would have been Griffin, not his government flunky," Delia said. "Griffin's the one who's going to destroy the reef and pollute the coastline. It's his casino that will steal grocery money from hardworking people."

  "It's all perfectly legal. Griffin was getting the permits and licenses."

  "A license to steal!"

  "You were on Griffin's boat before it left the dock that day," Victoria persisted.

  "He fed me cheap champagne and soggy hors d'oeuvres. Then he tried to bribe me with a job at his hotel. A hundred thousand a year to do nothing except shut up. I told Griffin what he could do with his job and left the boat."

  "Where did you go?"

  "You mean, do I have an alibi?" Delia smiled slyly. "My lover met me at my home. We devoured each other all day. At midnight, we ate four dozen oysters and drank two pitchers of sangria, then made love the rest of the night."

  "Obviously, she's not talking about me," Steve said to Victoria.

  "We'll need his name and address," Victoria told Delia, "so we can interview him."

  "If he's not too exhausted," Steve added.

  "He is the greatest lover I've ever known." Delia fanned herself with one hand. "Sometimes I faint with ecstasy."

  "He's probably putting roofies in your sangria," Steve suggested.

  Victoria shot her partner a shut up look and said: "Delia, do you know anyone who would have killed Ben Stubbs and tried to pin it on Hal Griffin?"

  "No."

  Victoria slid a leaflet across the table. "Have you ever seen one of these?"

  "Of course. The Keys Alert flier about Oceania. I wrote it."

  "Any idea who would have tossed these flyers all over the bridge at Spanish Harbor Channel?"

  "None of my friends. That would be littering."

  "How about somebody on a motorcycle who ran me off the road last night?" Steve asked.

  Delia shrugged and seemed puzzled.

  "My nephew was with me. He could have been killed."

  "Bobby?" Delia said. "If you had half his humanity, Solomon, you'd be un santo. A saint. No one I know would threaten Bobby. Or you, no matter how rotten you are."

  Victoria took inventory of Delia Bustamante and immediately came to two conclusions. One: the woman seemed to be telling the truth. And two: She was still in love with Steve.

  Just what is this effect he has on women?

  "Hullo, luv!" A man came out the restaurant's kitchen door onto the wharf. He looked familiar, Victoria thought, and the British accent clinched it.

  Clive Fowles.

  Uncle Grif's seaplane pilot, boat captain, and dive master. Fowles wore a blue short-sleeve shirt with epaulets and chino safari shorts. His fair skin, which probably never took on a true tan, was scorched pink.

  "Well, bugger me! It's the barristers. You all right, Solomon? They're talking about you on the radio."

  "I'm fine, Fowles."

  Delia leapt from the table and threw her arms around the oyster-eating Brit, squashing her breasts against his chest, kissing him on the lips a little longer than necessary, purring like a kitten. Victoria figured she was putting on a show for Steve.

  "Ms. Lord, I see you've met my bird," Fowles said. "I know Mr. Solomon's already acquainted." He said it with a trim smile and no rancor.

  "Mr. Fowles," Victoria said, "we'd like to come see you tomorrow and take a statement."

  "Outfitting a new boat for Mr. G tomorrow. Day after's fine though."

  Delia was still draped over him like a leopard on an antelope. "If you'll excuse us," she purred, "I have to cook something very special for my man."

  "Hang on a sec before you grease the pans," Steve said. "Fowles, does Griffin know about your love of Cuban food?"

  "You mean Delia, mate?" Fowles shrugged. "I don't ask Mr. G who he shags and he doesn't ask me."

  "What the cabrón's really asking," Delia said, "is whether I got you to frame Griffin for murder."

  The Englishman barked a laugh. "You're good in bed, darling, but no one's that good." He turned to Steve, his eyes losing the laughter. "You take me for a sodding idiot, Solomon? Mr. G's been good to me. Bought me my own boat. Treats me with respect."

  Steve gave him the Solomon stare. Accompanied by silence, it was intended to make a witness keep talking. Instead, Fowles laughed again. "What's up, mate? Got a touch of the sunstroke?"

  "Just thinking about the curious case of Clive Fowles. The day we meet, you offer to take us diving. You do a fish census every year. You take students on dive trips. You love that reef. Maybe you love Delia, too. She hates Griffin, hates what he's planning, and I can only imagine what she whispers across the pillow. She's your alibi, and you're hers. Which is like Bonnie vouching for Clyde. You're what trial lawyers call a 'reasonable alternative scenario.' You know what that is, Fowles?"

  "Sure, mate. A bleeding fall guy. Now bugger off and we'll talk day after tomorrow. I'm hungry, and not just for fried snapper."

  Delia giggled and snuggled Fowles' neck. If either of them were worried about just being accused of murder, they didn't show it.

  Victoria got to her feet. "See you, Mr. Fowles. Nice meeting you, Delia."

  With Delia clutching Fowles' arm, the pair headed toward the kitchen door.

  "Good night, lovebirds," Steve said.

  "Adiós, cabrón," Delia retorted. "Are you man enough to admit you're dying for another taste?"

  "Don't talk dirty, Delia."

  "I'm talking about my mango flan."

  "Your flame's too hot," Steve called out. "You always curdle the cream."

  Minutes later, Steve and Victoria walked silently along the docks, seabirds squawking above their heads.

  "What are you thinking about?" she asked. "Besides Delia's culinary specialties."

  "You."

  "Yeah?"

  "I've been trying to figure out what's been bothering you."

  "You noticed. So what's your reasonable alternative scenario about me?"

  Testing him. He'd been so clueless about Delia's feelings for him. Were his instincts better with her?

  "You've been unhappy for a while," Steve said. "But I've been so wrapped up in my own stuff, I didn't see it."

  "Getting warmer. Keep going."

  "You're reassessing everything in your life. Including me."

  "Burning hot," she said. "And what are you going to do about it?"

  "Work on our relationship before you throw a meat cleaver at me. Or worse, before you walk away without throwing it."

  "Three-alarm fire," Victoria said. Wondering if it was possible for the flame of a relationship to burn just right. Hot enough to cook, without curdling the cream.

  Twenty-seven

  TO SNOOP OR NOT

  TO SNOOP

  Standing in the galley of his houseboat, Herbert Solomon crushed fresh mint leaves while he peppered Steve with questions. "Did you know Billy Wahoo's been talking about you on the radio?"

  "Billy Wahoo's a moron."

  "A caller asked why you didn't get eaten by sharks when you went into the channel, and Billy said it had to be professional courtesy."

  "A moron who needs new material."

  It was the day after the visit to Havana Viejo and Steve's brain trust—his father and his nephew—were dispensing their opinions. As he talked, Herbert used a handpress to squeeze a stalk of sugarcane, dribbling sweet guarapo into a glass filled with ice cubes.
"Billy asked his listeners if they thought you had an accident or if someone was out to get you because of Griffin's case."

  "Yeah?"

  "Majority think you're just another lousy driver from Miami." Herbert poured a healthy portion of rum into the glass, added some fresh lime juice, a splash of club soda, and mint leaves. "So did that Cuban gal have something to do with attacking you?"

  "No way," Steve said.

  "No way, José," Bobby agreed.

  "Delia's emotional but she wouldn't resort to violence."

  Herbert tasted his concoction, nodded his approval. "What's Victoria think?"

  "She says any number of women would like to run me off the road."

  "That why she didn't stay here last night?"

  "Vic sleeps better in the hotel."

  "Uh-huh. How long's it been?"

  "What?"

  "Since you two humped?"

  "Jeez, Dad. There's a child present."

  "Steve humps Victoria," Bobby said. "Wanna see what I can do with that?"

  "Don't do it, Bobby. No dirty anagrams today."

  "HIS STUMP OVERACTIVE!" Bobby rearranging the letters almost as fast as Steve told him not to.

  "He wishes." Herbert took a pull on his drink and turned to Steve. "When ah was your age, your mom and ah did it every day. Some men sneak out for nooners with their mistresses. Ah'd go home for lunch and have a quickie with mah wife."

  "If it's okay with you, Dad, I'd rather not picture you and Mom in the bedroom."

  "Wasn't time for the bedroom. We'd do it standing up in the kitchen." Herbert polished off the mojito. "Son, you be careful you don't lose that gal."

  Sitting at the galley table, working on his laptop computer, Bobby pretended not to listen. He had found a website with live satellite photos of the Florida Keys and was looking for nude beaches. Steve was sprawled on a love seat. His headache had gone from a roaring avalanche to a dull thud. Overhead, a paddle fan stirred the moist air.

  "You told me Pinky Luber had some scary friends," Steve said. "Any of them ride Harleys?"

  "You're digging in the wrong pea patch," Herbert said. "Pinky would never jeopardize a child."

  "Meaning me, Uncle Steve. Not you." Bobby clicked the mouse, zoomed on a satellite photo. "Look, I got a shot of Pirates Cove. You can see the top deck of Gramps' houseboat."

  For a moment, Steve wondered if Bobby could get a photo of the Pier House, peer into the windows of Victoria's room, look into the deepest corners of her heart. If technology couldn't do that, Steve wondered, how could he? But he didn't want to dwell on his personal life just now. "Dad, how come you keep sticking up for that scumbag Luber?"

  "Ain't gonna talk about Pinky." Herbert handed Steve a drink. "This'll cure what ails you."

  "A little honesty would be better than a mojito."

  "Nothing's better than a mojito." Herbert peered over Bobby's shoulder at the monitor. "Well, look at that. There's the channel. Bobby, you think the shrimp will be running tonight?"

  "Shrimp can't run, Gramps."

  "Good, they'll be easier to catch. Turn that off and go fetch the nets and lanterns."

  Changing the subject, Steve thought. A lifetime habit of his father's. Hit and run. First the crack about losing Victoria, then the evasion about Luber.

  Just what is the old man hiding?

  "Uncle Steve, you going shrimping with us?" Bobby asked.

  "Nah," Herbert said, before Steve could respond. "Uncle Steve needs to rest."

  To snoop or not to snoop.

  That was the question facing Steve.

  Along with the bigger question.

  Why is Dad so protective of Pinky Luber, the guy whose perjury ruined his life?

  The questions were coming faster than the answers. Mellowed out by rum and Demerol, Steve leaned back on a plastic chaise lounge on the stern deck, gazing at the calm water. An unseen bird trilled in a gumbo-limbo tree, sounding remarkably like a ringing cell phone. Herbert and Bobby had taken the Boston Whaler to Sugarloaf Key. Once they anchored near the bridge pilings, they'd be scooping up shrimp for hours.

  Like the incoming tide, Steve's thought processes moved slowly but inexorably in one direction. He could poke around like a cop without a warrant.

  No...I can't snoop through Dad's things.

  But . . . if Dad doesn't find out . . . what's the harm?

  So...where do I start?

  If his old man had ever been involved in anything nefarious, he sure as hell didn't make any money from it. Otherwise, why live on this rust bucket, a fourteen-byforty foot rectangular chunk of fiberglass sitting askew in the marshy water of Pirates Cove?

  Steve began his search on the top deck. It was an open party deck with a fly bridge at the bow. Not even a hiding spot. On the main deck, the lockboxes were filled with fishing gear, gaffs, flashlights, and coiled lines. He heard an outboard motor chugging in the cove. A couple kids in a center-console fishing boat headed toward open water, the bow up on a plane.

  Steve slipped into Herbert's stateroom, sifted through the built-in cabinets, riffled a pile of khaki shorts and faded T-shirts.

  Just what am I looking for, anyway?

  A small desk was mounted into the bulkhead. Some bills were stuffed into wooden slots. In a drawer, a box of stationery and his father's checkbook. Steve scanned the check stubs. Small amounts. Electricity, liquor store, phone bill.

  Phone bill.

  Paid yesterday.

  Steve dumped the rubber trash can under the desk. Junk mail. Real estate flyers. A notice from Monroe County about mosquito spraying. And there...the Verizon bill.

  He went through the numbers, recognized a few. His own, of course. And a Coral Gables number he knew as Teresa Toraño's, a client and friend Steve inherited from his father. There were a cluster of calls to a Miami number Steve didn't recognize. Five calls the day he deposed Pinky Luber. Judging from the time code, two calls made before the depo and three after. Probably nothing, but . . .

  Steve dialed, waited.

  A woman answered crisply: "Mr. Jones' office."

  Jones. That narrows it down.

  "May I speak to Mr. Jones, please?"

  Whoever the hell he is.

  "Who's calling?"

  "Mr. Darrow. Clarence Darrow."

  "Will Mr. Jones know what this is regarding, Mr. Darrow?"

  I doubt it. Even I don't know what it's regarding.

  "It's personal," Steve said, figuring that was true.

  "If it's not court business, he won't return the call until after six p.m."

  Ah, court business.

  "Actually, I got this jury summons in the mail. . . ."

  The woman laughed. "And you're calling the chief clerk to get you out of jury duty?"

  Chief clerk. A name popped into Steve's head. Reginald Jones. Chief Clerk of the Circuit Court for Miami-Dade County. Steve had seen the name hundreds of times. It was printed on every subpoena, administrative order, and other official document that came out of the courthouse.

  "I wanted to tell Mr. Jones they misspelled my name."

  "I'll pass that along, Mr. Darrow. Good day."

  Steve had another mojito, though he doubted that's what you call it when you skipped the sugar, soda, lime, and mint. Sipping the rum straight, he wondered what was going on between his father and Reginald Jones.

  Jones was one of those anonymous bureaucrats who run local government. An executive with a handsome six-figure salary, his name would rarely appear in the newspaper unless there was a bomb threat at the courthouse or the janitors went on strike. Jones' job was to manage several hundred deputy clerks, bailiffs, and lower level administrators. They, in turn, ran the whole creaky mechanism of the justice system. Civil Court, Criminal Court, Juvenile Court, jury pools, adoptions, marriage licenses, real estate records, tax liens. All the mundane governmental intrusions into our lives.

  But Herbert Solomon didn't have any court business. Not now. But then . . .

  A memory c
ame to Steve. He was still a kid, one who loved visiting the courthouse, loved basking in the glow of his father's power and authority. Herbert Solomon was Chief Judge of the Eleventh Circuit. Pinky Luber was Chief of Capital Crimes in the State Attorney's Office, head prosecutor in Herbert's courtroom. And the deputy clerk sitting in front of the bench, stamping exhibits, running the courtroom with brisk efficiency, was a trim African-American man in his twenties with a neat mustache. Judge Solomon seemed to like the young man, would invite him up to sidebars and into chambers. Steve could even remember his father talking to the man in chambers.

  "Reggie, you best tell Juror Three to start wearing panties to court."

  "Reggie, that witness' testimony had more holes than the Loxahatchee Road."

  "Reggie, you find Mr. Luber and tell him if he's late again, ah'm gonna put him in the cooler."

  Young Reggie had to be Reginald Jones, now Chief Clerk of the Court. He had been in Herbert Solomon's life long before the judge's fall from grace. But what the hell was he doing there now?

  Twenty-eight

  RUDE AWAKENING

  Like a winged goddess, Victoria arched her back, spread her arms, and sank deeper into the salty, inviting sea. What a luxurious sensation. The turquoise water like warm velvet swirling between her bare legs, cupping her exposed breasts.

  Suddenly, a man—sleek and naked—swept below the surface and scooped her into his strong arms.

  Junior Griffin.

  She was in twilight sleep, vaguely aware she was dreaming. Fine with her. Better to remember the dream in the morning. Judging from the trailer, it would be a hell of a movie. R-rated.

  Steve was spending the night on the houseboat; she was alone in her king-size bed at the Pier House. Well, almost alone.

  Now, where the hell did Junior go?

  Ah, there he was, free-diving to the bottom, arms extended, legs kicking, and . . . oh, God . . . that sledgehammer between his legs. Cutting through the water, creating its own wake, a keel on a sloop.

  Come back, Junior. It'll be morning soon, and my dreamy self is horny as hell.

  Victoria pondered just how was she breathing, being underwater and all. Then, figuring she might be a mermaid, left it at that.