The Deep Blue Alibi (20 page)

“The client always comes first, Vic. Not the lawyer’s personal needs.”

“Then why aren’t you here? Why are you wasting your time on your father’s case when he told you to dismiss it?”

“You didn’t want me there!”

“Since when does that stop you?”

“Don’t change the subject. I thought you could handle one simple arraignment without the client firing us.”

“Uncle Grif didn’t fire us. He just walked out and didn’t come back.”

“And won’t return your calls.”

“You’re overreacting,”
Victoria said.

Steve was driving south on the Overseas Highway, headed to Key West and what was left of their case. Victoria had told him about Griffin bribing Stubbs but continuing to deny that he killed the “greedy prick”— an expression they might want to fine-tune before getting to court.

If we get to court.

The relationship between murder client and defense counsel was as delicate as that between two lovers. Had Victoria destroyed it?

“What the hell happened?” Steve demanded. “I’m the one who breaks the china.
You’re
the one who’s supposed to get along with people.”

“I told you. It all came clear to me about The Queen and Uncle Grif.”

“And you couldn’t keep quiet about it?” Steve banged the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. “That’s ancient history. Who cares if they were playing hide-the-salami when Bette Midler was winning Grammys?”

“Must you be so crude?”

“Haven’t I told you nothing’s as important as maintaining your client’s trust?”

“Aren’t you the one who accused Uncle Grif of murder ten minutes after meeting him?”

“I
implicated
him. I
accused
his son. Besides, that’s just my interviewing technique.”

It was nearly ten p.m., Steve had a piercing headache, and the drive had barely begun. A misty rain was falling when they left Miami, so the top was up, the wind whistling through a small tear in the canvas above Bobby’s head. They zipped past rows of Australian pines that looked like the log pilings of a wooden fort. A pale slice of moon peeked out from a thin layer of scudding clouds. On either side of the road, the turquoise water had turned an ominous black, the tangled mangrove trees melding into one indistinguishable dark mass, and the marshy hammocks—baked all day by the sun—were discharging a brackish smell into the moist night air.

“Why can’t you understand my feelings?”
Victoria pressed him.
“Uncle Grif and my mother might be responsible for my father’s death. How can I have a relationship with either one of them?”

“Exactly what Griffin’s wondering. He thinks you wouldn’t mind seeing him go to prison. We’re dead in the water, Vic. He’ll have new counsel by the morning.”

“Uncle Grif never said that.”

The Caddy rumbled over the Jewfish Creek Bridge. Steve always wondered if he should be offended by the name. The jewfish was a giant grouper—some weighed several hundred pounds—and he had no idea why anyone would ascribe an ethnic heritage to the ugly old creature. Was there such a thing as a Methodist moray? A Baptist barracuda? He didn’t think so. He hoped the reason behind the name was positive. Maybe jewfish were the doctors or professors or comedians of undersea life. But he feared the name reflected some negative stereotype, like the big fat loan shark dishing out a hundred clams at usurious rates. Shylocks of the deep.

“You gonna bill him for the time you spent calling him a sleaze?” Steve said into the cell phone.

“You billed The Beav for time spent wrestling a silicone doll.”

“In Judge Schwartz’s chambers? That was a hearing.”

“I’m talking about at home, the night before.”

“That was trial prep.”

Judge Schwartz’s clerk had called that afternoon, saying he was drafting an order dismissing the lawsuit against The Beav, but that His Honor would be hanging on to Tami the Love Doll a bit longer.

“I would have expected a little more empathy from you,”
Victoria said.
“When I told Junior about the two of them, he practically wept.”

“You called Mr. Suntan before me!”

“Why are you so insecure about him?”

Steve heard a throaty roar from behind the Caddy. In the rearview mirror, he saw a motorcycle swoop closer, tailgating them. The road was only two lanes with a solid line, but the chopper—a cherry red Harley—shot past him, the rider in black leather with a Darth Vader helmet.

“You should have called me first,” Steve told Victoria.

“Junior has an emotional stake in this. He’s sharing my pain.”

“What Junior wants to share is your bed.”

There was silence on the line.

Steve listened to the Caddy’s tires whining across the asphalt. The Harley had disappeared into the distance. He was still waiting for Victoria to say:
“I’m not interested in Junior. You’re the only man for me, even if sometimes you are the world’s biggest dummy.”

But she didn’t say that, not even the “biggest dummy” part. He decided to make a tactical retreat. “Look, I’m sorry—I’m being a real shit.”

Still nothing.

“I’ll try to be more understanding of what you’re going through.”

Line static.

“We should talk about the case, Vic, just in case we’re not fired.”

“I’m tired, Steve. I’m going to sleep.”

Avoidance. Steve had never been in therapy or couples counseling or Deepak Chopra seminars, but he intuitively knew that you had to talk through your problems. In his experience, there was a surefire, four-step method for making up:

Talk.

Hug.

Kiss.

Screw.

Occasionally, it was possible to skip a step or two on the way to number four, but women loved to talk as much as they loved to buy shoes, so it was best to start there.

“How ‘bout waiting up for me?” he suggested. “It’s a beautiful night. Maybe we can walk on the beach, sip some sour mash whiskey.”

“I’m really tired.”

“It’s been a few days and I really miss you.”

“Uh-huh.”

Okay, he thought, just lay it on the line. “I’ve got an itch that needs scratching.”

“Gross,” Bobby said.

“Try calamine lotion,”
Victoria said, and the phone clicked dead.

Twenty-three

A THOUGHT BEFORE DYING

“Why do you always fight with everybody?” Bobby

drilled him.

“I’m a lawyer,” Steve said.

“I don’t mean in court. With Victoria and Gramps.”

“I guess ‘cause I love them, kiddo.”

“So why not tell them that, then just let them do what they want?”

“Objection. Compound question.”

“I mean it, Uncle Steve. When’s the last time you told Victoria you loved her?”

Steve shrugged. No way he was going to tell a twelve-year-old kid that his “I love yous” were generally confined to moments of priapic, pre-orgasmic bliss. And now that he thought of it, their lovemaking had tailed off recently. Starting the day Hal Griffin’s boat went airborne, there’d been a definite slowdown in the hot-and-saucy department. No doubt about it: life would be better if the Griffins—Senior and Junior— had never shown up.

“And why don’t you listen to Gramps?” Bobby continued. “He’s older than you, so he’s gotta know more, right?”

“The old man’s being stubborn about his case.”

“He says you’re an egg-sucking gallywampus.”

“I’d deny it if I knew what the hell it was.”

They were on the bridge crossing the Spanish Harbor Channel, thirty miles from Key West. On the oldies station, the Zombies were asking, “Who’s your daddy?” and inquiring if he was a man of wealth like the singer.

“Victoria says you’re overbearing,” Bobby said. “What’s that mean, exactly?”

“It means sometimes I care so much about her that I invade her space.”

“Is that why she threw your autographed Jeff Conine baseball at your head the other day?”

“We were just playing pitch and catch.”

“Then how’d the window get broken?”

“I ducked. Look, kiddo. Women act weird sometimes. Once every month, for a few days, they have this hormonal thing going on.”

“I know all about that stuff, Uncle Steve.”

“Good, but there’s more to it. It’s probably time I taught you everything I know about women.”

“Go ahead. I’ve got a minute.”

“I’m serious, kiddo. You can learn from my mistakes.”

Steve was trying to figure where to start when he heard the roar. In the rearview mirror, another chopper. As it pulled around to pass, he saw that it was the same one, a red Harley, the Screaming Eagle, all steel and chrome, with Darth Vader still aboard. It must have pulled off the road somewhere after passing them earlier. Now it came alongside and hung there.

“What’s with this cowboy?” Steve said.

“Maybe he wants to race,” Bobby said.

“On a two-lane bridge? What a jerk.” Steve eased off the gas, but the Harley did, too, hanging with him. They were neck and neck, a mile from Big Pine Key and dry land.

Steve gave the Caddy some gas, and the old speedometer wand wiggle-waggled to seventy, seventy-five, eighty, the engine clearing its throat, then snarling to life. The Harley kept alongside, effortlessly.

“Asshole,” Steve muttered.

Darth Vader waved. He seemed to have something in his hand. Then he let go, and sheets of paper flew across the road.

“Litterbug,” Steve said.

Darth reached into a saddlebag and came up with something else in his hand. A jar, or a jug, half-gallon size.

“What the hell?” Steve said.

The Harley pulled ahead of them and the object shot from the guy’s hand, striking the Caddy’s windshield with a
crack.
Seconds later, a black, greasy liquid covered the glass.

“Shit!” Steve flicked on the wipers. That only smeared the gunk. With zero visibility, he hit the brakes, trying to keep the wheel straight, but the front right tire hit the curb of the raised walkway and blew out with a
bang.
Steve steered left, but the exploded tire’s rim was grinding into the concrete, throwing off sparks, and dragging the Caddy back into the curb. The car leapt onto the walkway. The right rear tire blew out, the right front fender grazed the railing with the skull-jarring rattle of a dentist’s drill.

“Fuck!”

“Uncle Steve!”

Steve’s right arm shot out reflexively and pushed Bobby back into the seat. His left hand gripped the shuddering steering wheel. The car bounced off the walkway and back onto the bridge, skidding straight into the oncoming lane. The wipers had cleared enough of the gunk from the windshield to see the Harley was gone. But something far worse was coming at them. Eight beams of light, which Steve hoped was only one car, its headlights quadrupled as the beams refracted through the black goo.

The oncoming car’s horn blasted, and Steve yanked the steering wheel right again, but still the Caddy dragged left, screeching across the oncoming lane. As he fought the wheel, Steve was aware of several sounds.

The honking of the car rushing straight at them.

The grinding of the Caddy’s rims on the pavement.

His own breathing.

Steve steadied the wheel, but the rear end fishtailed left. He gave it some gas—braking would only heighten the spin—and tried to straighten the wheel. The car fishtailed right, and when the rear end passed the midpoint, they slid backwards toward the oncoming car.

The next five seconds passed in slow motion.

The oncoming car swerved into the left lane and sideswiped the Caddy.

Sliding ass-backwards, the Caddy skipped over the walkway on the left side of the bridge and crashed through the guardrail.

They tumbled toward the water, Steve pressing an arm into Bobby’s chest to lock him into his seat. The Caddy flipped over a half turn and landed on its side with a
splash
that was surprisingly quiet.

“I’m okay! I’m okay!” Bobby’s voice was ragged as the car sank, the headlights glowing eerily, a greenish yellow, in the murky water.

“Attaboy,” Steve said, forcing himself to stay calm. “We’re going for a swim.”

The car headed downward, nose first. The headlights flickered and went out. The Caddy hit the bottom with a muted
thud.
Steve’s chest smacked the steering wheel and his head banged into a metal strut in the canvas top. Pain shot across his skull. He heard the rush of water. His feet and legs were wet. Everything was black, except for the sparks that ricocheted in his brain.

“Bobby?”

He groped across the seat. The boy was gone.

“Bobby!”

Water poured through a gash in the canvas top. Colder than he had expected.

“Bobby! Where are you? Bobby!”

Steve fumbled with the release of his harness and felt it give way. He floated toward the torn roof where water rushed in.

“Bobby!”

Taking a breath, he dived into the backseat, his hands feeling for the boy.

Nothing.

Stay calm. Think it through. Okay, Bobby is out. That’s good. Now, how the hell did he get out? Because if one person can do it…

Steve floated into the front seat, sucked in another breath, went under again, and tried to open the door. It weighed a ton.

He came up and kicked at the closed window, but in the rising water, he had no purchase.

He groped at the top. The tear in the canvas had to be there somewhere. One hand broke through. The opening wasn’t large enough for him. But Bobby, all skin and bones, must have gotten out. Was he hurt? What about the current? Would it take him toward land or out to sea? With both hands, Steve tried tearing at the canvas, but it wouldn’t give. Fear gripped him. He had to find Bobby, get him to shore.

As water rushed in, the air pocket shrank. No choice now. Steve sucked in a breath and rammed his head through the hole in the canvas.

His shoulders stuck.