The Deep Blue Alibi (6 page)

Now, on this sticky morning, waiting for the ride to Uncle Grif’s private island, Victoria wondered just why she’d taken such care dressing. And what’s the pleasurable buzz she was feeling? Was the
café Cubano
even stronger than usual?

Okay, let’s be honest here. I’m going to see Junior, all grown up, after all these years.

She shot a look at Steve, who did not seem to share the same electrical buzz. He’d eaten two platefuls of the fried fish and had a sour look of aggravation combined with indigestion.

“How come you slept onshore last night, Uncle Steve?” Crouched at the water’s edge, Bobby scooped up crabs no larger than a fingernail.

“The boat makes me seasick.”

Bobby laughed. “It doesn’t even move.”

“I like the hammock.”

“I thought it made your back hurt.”

Steve grunted something unintelligible.

Bobby looked up at him. “Usually you and Victoria rack out together. But last night—”

“Who are you—Dr. Phil?” Steve interrupted, expelling a burp of fried sharpies.

“Are you two fighting?” Bobby asked.

“Absolutely not.”

Bobby stood up, cocked his head at an angle, and studied his uncle through thick eyeglasses. “Why do grown-ups always lie?”

Victoria didn’t want Bobby to get upset. He was always asking when the two of them were getting married. So far, she hadn’t told Bobby about splitting up the law firm. Last night, he had probably overheard them quarreling about who would take the lead today. Steve had insisted she would go too easy questioning Junior. One day in, and he was already taking over, violating their agreement. They squabbled a while, and Steve—not getting his way—had stomped off the boat in his Jockeys and dived into the rope hammock strung between two sabal palms. This morning, he was scratching at mosquito bites and barely speaking to her. Did he really think Bobby wouldn’t pick up on their squabbling?

“I’m not lying,” Steve told the boy.

“You’re a lawyer,” Bobby said. “You don’t even know when you’re lying.” The boy lowered his voice into an eerie impression of his uncle. “The relationship between the truth and Mr. Solomon is like the relationship between the color blue and the number three. Occasionally, you’ll see the number three written in blue, but you don’t expect it. Same thing with Mr. Solomon. If he tells the truth, it’s just a coincidence.”

“Excellent, Bobby,” Victoria said. “You’re amazing.”

“Yeah, great,” Steve said, without enthusiasm. “Verbatim from my closing argument in Robbins versus Colodney.”

“Except I changed Robbins’ name to yours.”

“What I don’t get,” Steve said, “is how somebody who remembers everything he hears forgets to take out the trash.”

“Steve, we have to settle this about Junior.” Victoria decided to turn the conversation away from Steve’s distant relationship with the truth. “Are we on the same page?”

“I hate that expression,” Steve said. “I’ll bet you learned it in the DA’s office. ‘Same page. Team player. Push the envelope.’ Crock of bureaucratic clichés.”

“Excuse me if we’re not all rebels like Steve-the-Slasher Solomon.”

“I knew you two were fighting,” Bobby said.

“We’re resolving some professional differences,” Victoria told the boy.

“So why couldn’t Uncle Steve just say that?”

“Because your uncle thinks the shortest distance between two points is a winding road.” Victoria turned to Steve. “I’m taking the lead when we interview Junior. Is that clear?”

“Who’s Junior?” Bobby asked.

“Some guy Vic used to French kiss when they both wore braces.”

“Sometimes, Stephen, you are really spiteful,” she said. Using his full name, trying to clue him in as to just how angry she was. “And for the record, I didn’t wear braces.” Giving him an exaggerated, toothy smile.

“Junior’s a spoiled rich kid,” Steve said. “La Gorce Country Club. Daddy’s platinum American Express card. Boarding school.”

Victoria spoke to Bobby, pretending Steve wasn’t even there. “Junior Griffin was the hottest boy at Pinecrest.”

“I went to high school with the
Marielitos.
”

Mr. Macho, as if he’d served with the Magnificent Bastards battalion of the Marines.

“Miami Beach High,” she reminded him. “Not exactly Baghdad.”

“I had to fight for my lunch money.”

“When Junior laughed, he had dimples and the cutest little cleft in his chin,” Victoria said with a wicked smile.

“They do that with surgery,” Steve said.

She turned toward Bobby but aimed her words like spears at his uncle. “Junior was captain of the swim team and king of the junior prom. My mother called him ‘Dreamboat.’ ”

Steve made a guttural sound, like a man choking.

“He had this kind of Brad Pitt look,” she persisted, “blond and rugged.”

“Brad Pitt’s real name is William Bradley Pitt,” Bobby said. He squeezed his eyes shut, and Victoria knew he was unscrambling an anagram from the actor’s name. After a moment, he grinned and said, loudly: “PARTLY LIABLE DIMWIT.”

She still didn’t know how Bobby did it. When she had asked him, all he said was that he saw letters floating above his head and he pulled them out of the air.

“Those high school studs like Junior,” Steve said, “twenty years later, they’re bald, fat losers.”

“You still haven’t answered me. Are you going to butt in with Junior like you did with Uncle Grif?”

“You win. Take the lead, Vic. Have a ball.”

“Good. We need to be in perfect sync. If there’s a criminal case—”

“Oh, there’s a criminal case.”

“How do you know?”

“Because Willis Rask didn’t come here to wish us bon voyage.” Steve gestured toward the two-lane blacktop fifty yards from the shoreline. A Monroe County police car pulled to a stop, and Sheriff Willis Rask climbed out and hitched up his belt.

SOLOMON’S LAWS

3. Beware of a sheriff who forgets to load his gun but remembers the words to “Margaritaville.”

Seven

COLUMBO OF THE KEYS

The sheriff waved and headed their way.

“Let me handle him,” Steve said.

Victoria bristled. “There you go again.”

“Trust me, Vic. I’ve known Rask a long time. Hey, Willis, how’s the speed-trap business?”

“Hey, Stevie!” Rask shouted back. “Still chasing ambulances?”

If it hadn’t been for his uniform, Steve thought, Willis Rask could be mistaken for another forty-fiveyear-old Conch who spent too much time in the sun with too many chilled beverages. He was overweight and had a brush mustache and long sideburns. He wore his graying hair tied back in a ponytail. His shirttail flopped out of his pants, and his Oakley sunglasses, on a chain of tiny seashells, were surely nonregulation. In one buttoned shirt pocket, the round shape of a metal container was visible under the fabric. Unless he’d switched to Altoids, Rask still indulged in chewing tobacco. His sunburned face was usually fixed in a quizzical half smile. The sheriff did not give the overall impression of a spit-and-polish lawman. Spit, maybe. But not polish.

Steve knew the sheriff’s story better than most. As a young man, Rask ran a charter fishing boat, back when the main catch in the Keys was “square grouper,” large bales of marijuana. Rask off-loaded from mother ships, and got busted on his third run. His lawyer was that silver-tongued windy-spinner, Herbert T. Solomon, Esq., who provided free counsel on the condition that Rask would go to college and stay straight. Herbert did that a lot in the old days. He taught young Steve that a lawyer owed a debt to all of society, not just to paying clients. Steve followed his father’s lead, which might explain why he drove a thirty-year-old car and had an office in a second-rate modeling agency with a window overlooking a Dumpster.

Though he couldn’t have been older than ten at the time, Steve could still remember his father’s closing argument in Rask’s trial. Wearing a seersucker suit with suspenders, Herbert glided around the courtroom like a ballroom dancer, smooth-talking the jury, earnestly declaring that his client had performed a public service, not a criminal act. Young, naive Willis Rask had fished that soggy pot out of the Florida Straits to protect the birds and the boats.

“Those bales of devil weed were a hazard to navigation,”
Herbert proclaimed with a straight face.
“Thankfully, Willis was drawn to the area by a flock of terns that hovered overhead, feasting on the seeds. Willis saved untold boats from being sunk and birds from becoming ill. Without this young hero’s quick thinking, there’d have been no tern left unstoned.”

That made the jurors smile, and they came back in twenty minutes with a not guilty verdict. Willis danced down the stairs, kissed the kapok tree on the courthouse lawn, then hugged his lawyer. He kept his promise, finishing college at Rollins, upstate in Winter Park, then law school at Stetson over in DeLand.

A dozen years later, Rask came up with a novel platform when he ran for sheriff of what locals called the “Conch Republic.” He’d clear drunk drivers off the narrow roads and jail husbands who beat their wives. But he wouldn’t arrest anyone for possession of small amounts of marijuana. The limited resources available to law enforcement were too precious to waste on victimless crimes. In the permissive Keys—where Jimmy Buffet’s “Why Don’t We Get Drunk and Screw” was an unofficial anthem—it was a brilliant tactic. Rask won in a landslide. Some voters lit up a joint on the way out of the voting booth.

“Glad I caught you.” Rask met them at the shoreline. “Yo, Bobby.”

“Safety’s off on your Glock,” Bobby said.

Rask pulled the gun from his holster and checked the lever. “Jeez, you’re right. How’d you see that?”

“Bobby notices stuff,” Steve said.

“And there’s no clip in it,” Bobby added.

“No wonder it’s so light today.” Rask hefted the gun, then turned to Victoria. “And you must be Stevie’s partner.”

“Victoria Lord,” she said.

“My deputies told me Stevie had hooked up with a real looker.” Rask winked at her. “And they weren’t lying.”

“Red light, Sheriff,” Victoria said. “That’s inappropriate.”

Her tone reminded Steve of his fourth-grade teacher, a woman who’d slap his knuckles with a ruler whenever he acted up.

“Whoa, sorry,” Rask said. “Got your hands full with this one, huh, Stevie?”

“She keeps her safety off, too, Willis.”

“They’re fighting, Sheriff,” Bobby added.

“Quiet,” Steve said, then turned to Rask. “Thought I might see you yesterday at the hospital.”

“Just got back into town,” Rask said. “Jimmy had a concert in Orlando.”

“I’m jealous, you old parrothead.”

Rask grinned and sang a few lines of “A Pirate Looks at Forty,” all about making money smuggling grass but pissing it away just as fast.

Steve laughed. “You
are
a pirate, Willis, but if you’re looking at forty, it’s in the rearview mirror.”

“Are you here on official business, Sheriff?” Victoria’s tone erased both men’s smiles and cut off the notion of singing any more tunes.

“You don’t like Jimmy Buffett?” Rask made it sound like a crime.

“She likes Freddy Chopin,” Bobby said.

The sheriff let out a low whistle. “Can you drink to his stuff?”

“I recommend it,” Steve advised.

“Go ahead, Steve. Make fun,” she said. “I’m sure you think those slacker songs are better than a piano étude.”

“Ooh,” the sheriff said, “sounds like somebody needs a ‘License to Chill.’ ”

Steve gave Rask the thumbs-up, extra points for working a parrothead song title into his repartee. “So, Willis, when’s the last time you and Jimmy went fishing?”

“Couple weeks. Chased some wild-ass tarpon off Key Largo.”

“You know Jimmy Buffett?” Victoria asked. Her skeptical schoolmarm tone again.

Both men chuckled, and Steve said: “That song, ‘A Pirate Looks at Forty.’ It’s all about Willis.”

“Really?” She smiled so sweetly, Steve knew she didn’t believe a word of it.

“Steve knows Jimmy, too,” the sheriff said.

Victoria cocked her head. “Funny he never mentioned it.”

“Not a big deal. We fish a little, drink a little. Why? You never met Chopin?”

In the distance, they heard the whine of turboprop engines. Four hundred feet above the water, the flying boat shone silver in the morning sun.

“Sheriff, we have to be going,” Victoria said briskly. “So if you have any business …”

“Couple of questions, is all.”

“Careful, Vic,” Steve said. “You’re dealing with Columbo of the Keys.”

“I’ll bet,” she said.

“One of Solomon’s Laws: Beware of a sheriff who forgets to load his gun but remembers the words to ‘Margaritaville.’ ”

“Willis Rask,” Bobby said, biting his lip and concentrating while he dug up an anagram. “IS RAW SKILL.”

“Got that right, Bobby,” the sheriff said. “Stevie, we been looking into that fellow who got stuck with the spear. Ben Stubbs.”

“You’re doing actual police work?” Steve said. “Tarpon must not be running.”

“Stubbs was staying at the Pier House.” Rask pulled a battered notebook from a shirt pocket, flipped a page. “He bought three charts—all of the eastern Gulf—at Charlie Simmons’ store two days ago.

Stopped at the Oceanographic Institution, used his federal ID to get access, spent some time in their library and computer files. Pulled up some topographic maps of the ocean floor a few miles west of Boca Chica. Two nights in a row, he ate dinner at Cienfuegos. Snapper with a mango salsa.” Rask looked up from his notebook. “You two know any of this?”

“No,” Victoria said.

“All of it,” Steve said. “Except the mango salsa.”

“Uncle Steve’s lying,” Bobby said.

“I know,” Rask said. “Your uncle lies, even when the truth’s a better story.” He flipped another page in his notebook. “After dinner, Stubbs had two beers at the Hog’s Breath, then spent a couple hours at Fat Mary’s over on Whitehead.”

“Fat Mary’s?” Victoria said.

“Strip joint,” Steve said. He added hastily, “Or so I’m told.”

Rask returned the notebook to his pocket. “That reminds me, Stevie. Fat Mary says howdy. Anyway, I was just wondering what Stubbs was doing on your client’s boat.”