The Deep Blue Alibi (2 page)

God, she hated this. She had to tell Steve the truth. But how?

He was flailing away, kicking up a storm, trying to catch her. Except for swimming—all splash, no speed— Steve was an accomplished athlete. He’d run track in high school and played baseball at the University of Miami, where he was a mediocre hitter but a terrific base runner.

“Solomon takes off … and steals second!”

A good primer for lawyering, Victoria figured. Conning the pitcher, pilfering the catcher’s signs, then
stealing
a base. Even the word would appeal to Steve. He had been particularly adept at spiking opposing fielders and kicking the ball out of their gloves. But like a lot of athletes, he didn’t know his limitations. He thought he was good at everything. Poker. Auto repair. Sex. Okay, he was good in bed, very good once she taught him to slow down and stop trying to score from first on a single.

A hundred yards offshore, she started treading water, waiting for him to catch up.

“So where are we eating?” he asked, breathing hard.

So very Steve. He would plan dinner while still eating lunch. “Uncle Grif made reservations at Louie’s Backyard.”

He made an appreciative
hmm
sound. “Love their cracked conch. Maybe go with the black grouper for an entree, mango mousse for dessert.”

Sex and food, she thought. Did he ever think about anything else?

“And we’ll be back in the room in time for
Sports Center,
” he continued.

Yes, of course he did.

Was it his imagination, or was something bothering Victoria? Steve couldn’t tell. She’d been quiet on the drive down the Overseas Highway, occasionally glancing toward the Gulf, where red coral heads peeked through the shallow turquoise water. He’d asked how her cases were going—they divided up the workload as
his, hers,
and
theirs—
but she didn’t want to talk shop. He’d sung some old Jimmy Buffett songs. But she didn’t join his search for a lost shaker of salt.

Now he told himself that nothing was wrong. After all, he was holding Victoria in his arms as they treaded water. In the glow of the twilight, she was stunning, her skin blushed, her butterscotch hair pulled back in a ponytail, highlighting her cheekbones. Small breasts, long legs, a firm, trim body. He felt a pleasurable stirring inside his trunks. The air was rich with salt and coconut oil, and he was with the woman he loved, a woman who, for reasons inexplicable, seemed to love him, too.

By his calculations, they still had time to hit the room, make love, and meet Griffin at Louie’s. Maybe do it in the shower as they cleaned up for dinner, the Solomon method of multitasking. He just wished the sun would hurry the hell up and call it a day.

Nearby, two windsurfers caught a final ride. Overhead, seabirds dipped and cawed. From the beach, he heard the sound of salsa coming from the bar’s speakers, Celia Cruz singing “Vida Es un Carnaval.”

Damn straight. Steve felt his life was a carnival, a sun-filled, beach-breezed, beer commercial of a life. This was better than knocking off a mega-insurance company for a seven-figure verdict. Not that he ever had, but he could imagine. Better, too, than stealing home in a college baseball game. That he’d done, against Florida State. Of course, his team lost. But still, a helluva moment.

“Steve, we need to talk,” Victoria said.

“Absolutely.” He watched a pink sash of clouds at the horizon turn to gray. A slice of the sun nestled into the water. On the beach, the tourists yelped and cheered, as if they had something to do with this nightly miracle. “What do we need to talk about?”

“Us.”

Uh-oh.

In Steve’s experience, when a woman wanted to talk about
us,
life’s carnival was about to fold its tent. He quickly ran through his possible misdemeanors. He hadn’t been rude to her mother, even though Her Highness loathed him. He hadn’t left the toilet seat up for two weeks, at least. He hadn’t flirted with other women, not even the exotic dancer he was representing in a prickly lewd and lascivious trial.

“So what’d I do now?” Sounding defensive.

Victoria put her hands around his neck, twining her fingers, as they treaded water in unison. “You treat me like a law clerk.”

Oh, that. At least it wasn’t something that would toss him out of bed.

“No I don’t. But I am the senior partner.”

“That’s what I mean. You don’t treat me as an equal.”

“Cut me a break, Vic. Before you came along, it was my firm.”

“What firm? Solomon and
Associates
was false advertising. Solomon and
Lord
is a firm.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll be more sensitive to …” What? He’d picked up the phrase from Dr. Phil, or Oprah, or one of the women’s magazines at his dentist’s office.

“I’ll be more sensitive to …”

You toss around the words when your girlfriend is upset. But it’s best to know what the hell you’re talking about. “Your
needs,
” he finished triumphantly. “I’ll be more sensitive to your needs.”

“I’ll never grow as an attorney until I have autonomy.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t get all crazy. It’s not going to affect our relationship, but I want to go out on my own.”

“Your own what?”

“I want to open my own shop.”

“Break up the firm?” Stunned, he stopped bicycling and slipped under the water. She grabbed him by his hair and pulled him up. “But we’re great partners,” he sputtered, spewing water like a cherub on a fountain.

He couldn’t believe it. Why would she want to trash a winning team?

“We’re so different. I do things by the book. You burn the book.”

“That’s our strength, Vic. Our synergy. You kiss ‘em on the cheek, I kick ‘em in the nuts.” Peddling to stay afloat, he took her by the shoulders and eased her closer. “If you want, I’ll change my style.”

“You can’t change who you are. As long as it’s Solomon and Lord, I’ll always be second chair. I need to make a name for myself.”

He almost said it then:
“How about the name Mrs. Victoria Solomon?”

But he would have sounded desperate. Besides, neither one of them was ready for that kind of commitment.

“I’m not going to beg you to stay,” he said instead, brusquely. “If it makes you happy, go fly solo.”

“Are you mad?”

“No, I’m giving you space.” Another phrase he’d picked up somewhere. “I’m giving you respect and …”

A rumbling, grumbling growl in the distance.

What the hell’s that noise?

Jet Skis? They ought to ban the damn things. But even as he turned to face the open sea, he realized this sound was different. The roar of giant diesels.

A powerboat roared toward the beach. And unless it turned, straight toward them.

From the waterline, it was impossible to judge the size of the boat or its speed. But from the sound—the rolling thunder of an avalanche—Steve knew it was huge and fast. A bruiser of a boat, good for chasing marlin or sailfish in the deep blue sea. Not for cruising toward a beach of swimmers and paddlers and waders.

Steve told himself to stay calm. The jerk would turn away at the piling with the
No Wake
sign. The boat would whip a four-foot mini-tsunami toward the beach, everyone on board having a big laugh and a bigger drink.

Okay, so turn now.

“Steve …”

“Don’t worry. Just some cowboy showing off.”

But the boat didn’t turn and it didn’t slow down. Instead, it muscled toward them, its bowsprit angled toward the sky like a thin patrician nose.

Now Steve was worried.

Five hundred yards away. The boat leapt the small chop, splatted down, leapt again. He could see white water cascading high along the hull, streaming over the deck. The roar grew louder, a throaty baritone, like a dozen Ferraris racing their engines. The son-of-a-bitch must be doing forty knots.

Still it came, its bow seemingly aimed straight at them. In twenty seconds, it would be on them. Windsurfers scattered. Swimmers shrieked and splashed toward shore. On the beach, people in chaise lounges leapt to their feet and backpedaled. A lifeguard tooted his whistle, drowned out by the bellow of the diesels.

Squinting into the glare of the sinking sun, Steve could see there was no one on the fly bridge. A boat without a driver.

“C’mon!” Victoria cried out, starting to swim parallel to the beach.

Steve grabbed her by an ankle and yanked her back. They didn’t have the speed or maneuverability. What they had were five seconds.

“Dive!” he ordered.

Wide-eyed, Victoria took a breath.

They dived straight down, kicking hard.

Underwater, Steve heard the props, a high-pitched whine that drowned out the diesel roar. Then, a bizarre sensation, a banging in his chest. Like someone smashing his sternum with a ballpeen hammer. A split-second later, he heard the
click-click-click
of a bottlenose dolphin, but he knew it was the boat’s sonar, bombarding him with invisible waves. Suddenly, the wash of the props tore at him, dragging him up then shoving him down. He tumbled head-over-ass, smacked the sandy bottom with a shoulder, and felt his neck twist at a painful angle. Eyes open, he swung around, desperately looking for Victoria, seeing only the murky swirl of bottom sand. Then a glimpse of her feet headed for the surface. He kicked off the bottom and followed her.

They both broke through the water just as the boat ramped off the sandy incline, going airborne, props churning. Steve heard screams from the beach, saw people scattering as the boat flew over the first row of beach chairs, slashed the palm-frond roof of the tiki-hut bar, and crashed through a canvas-topped cabana. The wooden hull split amidships with the sound of a thousand baseball bats splintering, its two halves separating as tidily as a cleanly cracked walnut.

“Vic! You okay?”

But she was already swimming toward shore.

Victoria ignored Steve’s shouts to wait. No, the
senior partner
would have to catch up on his own. She had seen the lettering on the stern as the big boat lifted out of the water:
FORCE MAJEURE IV.
She instantly recognized the name, remembered the first
Force Majeure,
even after all these years.

How could it be?

In a place where most boats were christened with prosaic puns
—Queasy Rider, Wet Dream—
this craft could be owned by only one man. In the law, a
force majeure
was something that couldn’t be controlled. A superior, irresistible force. Like a powerful yacht …or its powerful owner.

Steve was still yelling to wait up as she scrambled onto the sand and ran toward the broken boat. The bridge was lying on its side in the sand, the chrome wheel pretzled out of shape. Shards of glass, torn cushions, twisted grab rails, were scattered everywhere. The fighting chair, separated from its base, sat upright in the sand, as if waiting for a missing fisherman.

Half-a-dozen Florida lobsters crawled across the sand, a shattered plastic fish box nearby. Something was impaled on one lobster’s antenna. It took a second for the bizarre sight to register.

A hundred-dollar bill. The lobster’s spiny antenna was sticking right through Ben Franklin’s nose.

Then she saw the other bills. A flutter of greenbacks, blowing across the beach, like seabirds in a squall.

“This one’s breathing, but he’s messed up bad.”

It was the hotel lifeguard, bent over a thin man in cargo shorts and polo shirt. He lay on his side, motionless, his limbs splayed at grotesque angles, a broken doll. The lifeguard turned the man gently onto his back, then gasped. A metal spear protruded from the man’s chest.

“Jesus!”

Victoria got a look at the man’s face.

Thank God. It’s not him.

“Another one! Over here!” A woman’s voice.

Victoria navigated around a thicket of splintered teak decking. A female bartender was crouched in the sand over a thick-bodied man in a white guayabera. Rivulets of blood ran down the man’s face from a gash on his forehead. “Don’t move,” the bartender ordered. “We’re gonna get you to the hospital.”

The man grunted. He appeared to be in his sixties, with a thick neck and thinning gray hair. His eyes were closed, either from pain or the blood running into his eyes.

Victoria edged closer.

Could it possibly be him?

“You should put a compress over the wound,” she said.

The man opened his eyes, and Victoria recognized him at once. “Uncle Grif!”

“Hello, Princess.” Grimacing through the pain, Hal Griffin pushed the bartender aside. “Leave me alone, dammit. I need to talk to my lawyer.”

SOLOMON’S LAWS

1. If the facts don’t fit the law … bend the facts.

Two

THE IRRESISTIBLE FORCE

Lower Keys Medical Center wasn’t far away, but the streets were jammed. Locals on bicycles, teenagers in flip-flops, cruise-ship passengers scorched from the Caribbean sun. With Victoria sitting shotgun, Steve was at the wheel, stuck in traffic, bogged down behind a Key West taxi, pink as Pepto-Bismol. Steve banged the horn, but the taxi didn’t pick up speed. Of course not; its bumper sticker read:
“What’s Your Hurry? This Ain’t the Mainland.”

They had taken the ferry from Sunset Key and picked up Steve’s rusty orange 1976 Eldorado from its parking spot off Mallory Square. The old Caddy, whose throaty rumble had once sounded dark and velvety, like a pot of brewing coffee, now hacked and belched like a geezer at the Sand & Surf Retirement Home.

“So who’s the other guy on the boat?” Steve asked.

“All I know, Uncle Grif was bringing someone to dinner. He didn’t say who.”

Steve honked at a bearded jaywalker with tattooed snakes crawling up his bare back. “And just now, on the beach, he didn’t tell you?”

“It didn’t seem to be the time for introductions.” Trying to shut him up. She knew Steve well enough to read his mind. He was already thinking there was profitable legal business scattered in that boat wreckage.