The Deep Blue Alibi (5 page)

“I’m wondering if you should be the one to handle your father’s case,” Victoria volunteered.

“Who’d be better?”

“Someone who can be objective.”

“I don’t plan to be objective. I’m a warrior, a gladiator.”

“You know what I mean. You have to separate the truth from fiction. When your father was disbarred—”

“He resigned. There’s a difference.”

Christmas lights were strung on the overhang of the houseboat, even though it was May, and even though the Solomons were descended from the tribes of Israel. Splotches of green paint haphazardly covered divots of wood rot in the stern deck.

Steve could see movement on the rear porch, his father getting up from a wooden rocker, a drink in his hand. Herbert’s shimmering white hair was swept straight back and flipped up at his shoulders. His skin, remarkably unlined for a man of sixty-six, was sunbaked, and his dark eyes were bright and combative.

“Hey, Dad,” Steve said.

“Don’t ‘Hey, Dad’ me, you sneaky son-of-a-bitch.”

“What’d I do now?” Steve stepped aboard, thinking he’d been asking that question a lot lately.

“Victoria,” Herbert said. “How do you put up with this gallynipper?”

“Sometimes, I wonder,” she replied.

“You could do a helluva lot better than him.”

“Maybe I’ll go check on Bobby,” Victoria said, “let you boys play.”

“He’s asleep,” Herbert said. “Tuckered out from poling the skiff all day.”

“I’ll go inside, just the same,” she said.

“Coward,” Steve told her as she headed through a door into the rear cabin.

“There’s rum on the counter, soda in the fridge,” Herbert called after her, gesturing with his glass, sprigs of mint peeking over the rim. Deep into his evening mojitos. He turned back to Steve and scowled. “You best cut your own weeds, son, and stay out of mah tater patch.”

Even when reaming him out, the old man’s voice maintained the mellifluous flow of molasses oozing over ice cream. Savannah born and raised, Herbert still spoke the honeyed patois of his youth.

As a boy hanging out in the courthouse, Steve heard his father call a witness “So gosh-darned crooked, he could stand in the shadow of a corkscrew and nevuh see the sun. So slippery, gittin’ ahold of him is like grabbing an eel in an oil slick. So low a critter, ah had to drain the swamp just to find him.”

Herbert could, as they used to say, talk a cat out of a tree. Even though four years at the University of Virginia followed by law school at Duke had polished his diction, Herbert had quickly figured out that playing the Southern gentleman with a tart tongue had its advantages in court. All these years later, whatever regional expressions Herbert still employed came not so much from his youth but from impersonating characters straight out of Mark Twain.

Now, standing on the rear deck of his sagging and splintered houseboat, Herbert T. Solomon, recovering lawyer
—rekoven loy-yuh—
was giving his son a piece of his mind.

“Who told you to petition the Bar on mah behalf?”

“How’d you know?”

“You think ah’m a senile old Cracker?”
Ole Cracka.

“Jews can’t be Crackers, Dad. Unless they’re
matzohs.
”

“Now, ah was just a jackleg country lawyer, but ah know when ah’m being poleaxed.”

“Maybe jurors fell for that muskrat-in-a-tub-of-lard shtick, but I don’t. So cut the crap, or I’ll tell everyone about your Phi Beta Kappa key.”

“Don’t change the subject. Ah got friends in Tallahassee who say you been poking around in mah business.”

“All right, so I filed papers to get your license back.”

“Don’t want it back.”

“We could practice law together.”

“Got a good life here.”

“You know what the headline on your obituary will be? ‘Disgraced Ex-Judge Kicks Bucket.’ ”

“So what? Ah’m not gonna be around to read it.”

“Well, I will.”

“So ah should do this for
you
? Why don’t you just practice law with your beautiful lady and lemme alone?”

“Vic wants to split up, go solo.”

Dammit.
Steve hadn’t planned on revealing that. But now that he had, maybe he could get some sympathy.

“She’ll do better without you,” Herbert fired back. “If you’re not careful, she’ll kick you out of bed, too.”

“If the
Herald
interviews me for that obit, I’m gonna say how supportive you always were.”

“Aw, don’t be such a pussy. Ah remember when those Cuban kids kicked the living piss out of you in the ninth grade.”

“Do you remember my coming back with a baseball bat? Breaking some ribs?”

Herbert drained his mojito. “I recollect going to see Rocky Pomerance at the police station, bailing you out. And you say I didn’t support you?”

His father’s support, Steve recalled, was equally divided between lackadaisical indifference and caustic criticism. Still, as a child, he had idolized the headline-grabbing lawyer, the respected judge. Part of his own psychology, Steve knew, was the childhood fear that he could never measure up to the standards Herbert T. Solomon had set. Then, when his father was implicated by a dirty lawyer in a zoning scandal, everything fell apart. Now Steve couldn’t understand why his father wouldn’t let him paste it all back together.

“I’m not dropping the case, so you might as well hear me out. I’ve got a great plan of attack.”

“Ah ain’t listening.”

“You resigned from the bench and the Bar but were never impeached or disbarred.”

“So what?”

“You can still pass the ‘moral character’ test.”

“Let it be, son.”

“I can win this, Dad.”

“Sleeping dogs, son. Let ‘em lay.”

“What are you saying? Did you take bribes to rezone property?”

“Screw you! You know better than that.”

“Then you should have fought back. Hired counsel. Jeez, Dad, if you were innocent—”

“Innocent until proven broke. Ah walked away. That’s mah right.”

“I’m gonna subpoena Pinky Luber, force him to recant his allegations.”

“Son, you ain’t got enough butt in your britches to take on Pinky.”

“That little old man? He’s …He’s…”

Steve tried to come up with a down-home expression to keep pace with his father. Just how did you describe Pinky Luber, ex-lawyer and ex-con, the sleaze-ball who fingered his father?

Softer than a pat of butter?

Greasier than a deep-fried donut?

All vine and no taters?

Skipping dinner seemed to make all his metaphors turn on food. Steve settled on: “Pinky’s nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Don’t be fooled by appearances. Pinky always had scary friends, even when he was a prosecutor. Dirty cops, thugs, P.I.’s. And he probably made a few more acquaintances in prison.”

“Is that what you’re afraid of, Dad? Pinky coming after you?”

“One thing you never learned, son. You start turning over rocks, you best be expecting snakes, not flowers.”

Six

A DREAM CALLED OCEANIA

It was just after eight a.m., but the humidity already hung in the air like damp sheets on a clothesline. Overhead, the clouds were fleecy white with just enough gray to warn of afternoon rain. Victoria, Steve, and Bobby walked along a scrubby beach at Pirates Cove, waiting for Hal Griffin’s seaplane to pick them up and take them to Paradise Key, where Junior would be waiting.

A turtle as big as a garbage-can lid slid from the sand into the water and paddled away. Victoria wished they’d had time for a morning swim. Preferably without Steve’s plea for an underwater hump-a-rama. And preferably without crashing boats and cash-carrying lobsters.

Bobby and Steve were skipping stones across the shallow water, betting who could get the most skips, the loser having to peel mangoes for their afternoon smoothies. Despite his numerous flaws, both personal and professional, Steve was a terrific surrogate father. If Victoria kept a scorecard of her boyfriend’s pluses and minuses—and what woman doesn’t?—Steve’s care for Bobby would be his finest attribute. Once, while sipping a glass of Chardonnay, she had scribbled notes on a legal pad, grading Steve’s potential as a life mate:

1. Great parenting skills

2. Makes me laugh

3. Makes me come

The negatives took up two pages, but still, those three positives carried a lot of weight.

Her cell phone rang, the readout showing the hospital. “Morning, Uncle Grif. How do you feel?”

“Lousy, Princess. Those fifty-dollar sleeping pills don’t work.”

“What about your headache?”

“Like a drill bit going through bedrock.”

“How’s that guy Stubbs doing?”

“I ask but they don’t tell. Listen, Princess—lying awake last night, it all came clear to me. Someone’s trying to sink Oceania.”

“Oceania?”

“A dream of mine that’s almost a reality. It’s what I was coming to talk to you about. Junior will tell you everything.”

“So who’s trying to sink Oceania?”

“Whoever shot Stubbs. That’s your case. Someone wanted me out of the picture. No more Hal Griffin, no more Oceania.”

Whatever that is.
Victoria swatted at her neck, where a mosquito had settled for breakfast.

“What I’m saying,”
Griffin continued,
“if Stubbs doesn’t make it and I’m charged with killing him, you can’t just poke holes in the prosecution’s case.”

“That’s the way we defend most circumstantial cases. Show reasonable doubt.”

“Not enough here. You gotta find the guy who did this.”

Oh, is that all? she thought. “Let’s pray that Stubbs lives. He’ll clear you, right?”

“I hope so.”

She had hoped for a confident
“Damn right.”
Not a wishy-washy
“I hope so.”
Griffin’s ambiguous answer raised more questions, but you don’t ask a client on the phone whether he shot somebody. Instead, she urged him to get some rest, and they clicked off.

She caught up with Steve and Bobby—the Solomon Boys—kneeling, faces close to the sand, as if searching for a lost contact lens. Competing to see who most resembled the white egrets wading in the shallows, pecking their snouts into the water.

Steve stood and spit out a tiny shell, leaving a mustache of wet sand on his upper lip. Looking altogether too innocent for the crafty trial lawyer he was. “So what’s our client say?” he asked Victoria.

“That he’s been framed.”

“Gee. Never heard that one before.”

Bobby scrambled to his feet and wiped off his bare knees. He wore cutoffs and a University of Miami football jersey. He was short and skinny, and even Steve’s ham-and-cheese paninis and fruit smoothies hadn’t put much meat on his bones. “Where’s the plane? I’m bored.”

“Seaplanes make a helluva racket taking off,” Steve said, knowing that loud noises could rattle the boy. “I don’t want you to get scared.”

The boy snorted a laugh. “I’m not a sis.”

“Not saying you are.”

“I’m not scared. The Grumman Mallard has a great safety record.”

“You researched it?” Victoria asked.

“On the Net. It took, like, thirty seconds. Anything you want to know about flying boats, just ask. Then I checked with NOAA. No storms, winds steady from the southeast.” A born mimic, the boy lowered his voice into weatherman mode: “A grand day for flying, fishing, or just relaxing in the sun. More at eleven.”

Victoria hoped for a smooth flight. Her stomach was queasy from the mess of sharpies Herbert had fried with cornmeal for breakfast. If catfish at dawn were not enough, he’d also cooked grits with chorizo sausage and cheddar cheese, all washed down with sugar-laced rocket fuel
café Cubano.

“If you ever need any research, come to me,” Bobby instructed. “I’m ten times better than Uncle Steve on the computer.”

She tousled his already messy hair. “You’re the smartest boy I know.”

Victoria adored Bobby and marveled at the progress he’d made. Less than two years earlier, Steve had rescued him from a religious cult, where the boy’s mother had abused and neglected him. At first, diagnosed with unnamed central nervous system damage—some characteristics of Asperger’s syndrome, some autistic tendencies—the ten-year-old was uncommunicative and afraid, his body wracked with tremors. Doctors could find no organic brain damage, and under Steve’s care he rapidly became more socialized. He also began to demonstrate what doctors called paradoxical functional facilitation, a fancy term for savantlike abilities of memorization and echolalia, the ability to repeat verbatim anything he heard or read. Bobby was still nervous around strangers but had warmed up quickly to Victoria. She had become his mother figure and worried what might happen to Bobby if she and Steve ever broke up. Lately, she’d worried about it even more.

Steve, apparently chastised by her criticism of yesterday’s T-shirt, had changed into one with a different logo:
“The Only Mark I’ve Made in Life Is in My Underwear.”
Did he honestly think that was an improvement, or was he just taunting her? Well, it would surely make an impression on Junior Griffin, Mr. Preppy from her past.

Victoria wore a white tank top and a short, crochet ruffle skirt in aquamarine, the same color as the ocean. Her Manolo Blahnik sandals picked up the hue of the skirt. Two sexy side straps ran up to her ankles, drawing attention to her calves. Well, that was the idea, wasn’t it? The sandals had been a gift from Steve. Sort of. He’d represented a truck driver at the Port of Miami who had a habit of delivering cargo containers to his own U-Store-It warehouse instead of the proper recipients. Steve lost the case and the truck driver was broke and headed for prison. But a cargo container brimming with expensive Italian shoes had conveniently fallen off his truck before the man’s conviction, and Steve was paid in leather, instead of greenbacks. If business didn’t pick up, Victoria might go hungry, but never barefoot.

Before leaving Herbert’s houseboat, she’d carefully applied eye shadow, a color called “Cognac,” which seemed to go well with the Tropical Sunset lipstick. Sexy, sure, but not trampy. Her blond hair was casually messed. What Steve had called her “Meg Ryan look,” though the last time Victoria had seen her in a movie, Meg’s hair was neither blond nor messed.