The Deep Blue Alibi (41 page)

“I owe you an apology, Junior.”

“What for?”

“For accusing you of killing Stubbs.”

“It’s okay. Didn’t bother me.”

“I’m usually pretty sharp about things like that, but with you…”

“It got personal. I know.”

“Well, I’m sorry about it.”

“Like I said, everything’s cool.” Junior flashed that cover-boy smile. “I was crowding your turf with Tori.” He shrugged in a way that tossed a lock of blond hair across his eyes. “It wouldn’t have worked out with her and me, anyway.”

What’s this? Is he throwing in the towel?

“I need someone who’ll travel with me. Follow the sun. Hit the dive spots in the summer, the ski resorts in the winter. Tori really enjoys her work, wants to be the best lawyer in town. Hard for me to relate to, but that’s cool. We’ll always be buds, but we’re just very different. Now, you two …”

Steve laughed. “Yeah, like flint and steel.”

“Sparks are good, right? She really loves you.”

He said it so matter-of-factly, like it was a given. Like any idiot could see it.

“She told you…?”

“No offense, Steve, but I know a little more about women than you do. And I know Tori loves you.”

Okay. Two positive events today.

Steve’s headache seemed to fade away as he pulled on Junior’s polo shirt, not even minding it was two sizes too big.

SOLOMON’S LAWS

12. When a man and woman are in total sync— thinking each other’s thoughts, making each other laugh, bringing each other joy—they’ve hit the sweet spot, and just being together is
better than
… almost as good as sex.

Fifty

THE STUFF MURDER’S MADE OF

“Does it hurt?”

“Only when I look at the hospital bill.”

They were in Victoria’s hotel room, Steve propped up on her bed. Bobby sat at the worktable, bent over his laptop. It was dark out, and the Jimmy Buffett cover band churned out tunes on the patio.

Victoria kept refilling bags of ice for Steve’s neck and taking his temperature, though she wasn’t sure exactly why. Despite his brush with death, Steve seemed oddly at peace.

If only I could keep him on codeine and Demerol, we’d get along a lot better.

“You can stay here tonight,” she said.

“Here?” Steve patted the comforter on the king-size bed.

“The adjoining room. The Queen’s gone back to Miami.”

At his computer, Bobby laughed. “I knew you weren’t getting any trim tonight, Uncle Steve.”

“Get back to work, kiddo,” Steve said, “or I’ll report you as a habitual truant.”

“You’re the one who’ll go to jail,” Bobby shot back. “What’s it called, Victoria?”

“Contributing to the delinquency of a minor,” she said.

“The kid was already a delinquent when he moved in,” Steve defended himself.

“I’m hungry,” Bobby said. “When do we eat?”

“After we solve a murder.” Steve had already told them about the trip on
Fowles’ Folly
and the aftermath. Everything except for Fowles’ sort-of confession. He’d smoothed out the edges on that, telling Victoria simply that Fowles had confessed. Steve hadn’t yet decided whether to tell a blatant lie, as Willis Rask had asked, but he wanted to keep his options open.

After Steve finished his tale, with Bobby downloading satellite images of Jacksonville, Victoria gave an update on the trial. The state had rested. Tomorrow morning, she would call her first witness. On the patio, the band played “We Are the People Our Parents Warned Us About.”

Steve must have been listening. “So what’s with you and your mother?”

“We’ve reached a new understanding. I didn’t know all the facts. Now that I do, I think I was way too judgmental. What about you and your father?”

“Once I learned the facts, I became more judgmental. You want to tell me what happened?”

“Later. When the trial’s over. You?”

“Same.”

They were silent a moment before Steve said, “Not that I don’t love Dad.”

“I understand.”

“I mean, that’s what love is, right? Accepting the person, with all their flaws.”

“Just like they accept you.”

Bobby cackled again. “Jeez, you two are a couple of scaredy-cats. Why don’t you just come out and say you want to bone each other?”

“I’m warning you, kiddo,” Steve growled. “You’ve got military school in your future.”

“Yeah, sure. If you want to see where that scuzzball Conklin got a traffic ticket, come over here.”

Victoria got there first; Steve eased himself out of bed and moved slowly to the worktable. They both peered at the satellite shot.

“The St. Johns River in Jacksonville,” Bobby said, pointing at the screen. “And that’s St. Johns Riverway Drive at Commodore Point. That’s where Conklin got the ticket.”

“All those ships,” Steve said. “Looks like a port.”

Bobby clicked the mouse, and the image zoomed closer. There was lettering on top of one of the buildings fronting the river.
Southern Shipworks.
Victoria said it aloud, wanting to hear it. “Southern Shipworks.”

“What about it?” Steve asked.

“I know that name. Let me think.”

“Work on it a sec,” Steve said, going to the mini-bar. “They have Jack Daniel’s in here?”

“Robinson!” Victoria said. “Leicester Robinson. That’s where he was building his barges for the Oceania work.”

Steve stopped short. The Jack Daniel’s could wait. “Makes sense if Conklin was working for Robinson.”

“Not ten days ago. Robinson said he cancelled the barge work right after Stubbs was killed.”

Then it happened. Two runners in sync, stride for stride.

He said: “Unless Robinson lied …”

She said: “Because he needed the barges for something other than Oceania …”

He said: “Something that could make money only if there was
no
Oceania …”

She said: “So Robinson hired Conklin and Fowles …”

Together then: “To stop Oceania!”

Total synergy, Victoria thought.

The sweet spot of our relationship.

That’s what Steve had called it during the Barksdale trial. They didn’t hit it every day, but when they did, well, it was just better than anything else. They completed each other’s thoughts, finished each other’s sentences, filled each other’s lives.

“So what’s Robinson planning?” she asked.

“We’ve got a loose thread. So …”

“Let’s pull it and see where it leads,” she finished. “Fowles told Griffin he should forget about the hotel and casino. Just take people out to the reef on glass-bottomed boats and catamarans.”

“Griffin said Fowles was talking about a rowboat while he was building the
Queen Mary
,” Steve contributed.

“And Robinson said Griffin thought too big and Fowles too small. So Robinson …”

“Planned something in between.”

“You know what it is, don’t you, Steve?”

“After Stubbs was killed, Robinson wouldn’t have needed the barges for Oceania. But if he changed their configuration …” Steve stuck a finger under his neck brace and wiggled his chin. “Bobby, zoom in on every ship under construction.”

“I will if you order room service. Club sandwich, extra mayo.”

“Later. Do your magic first.”

On the patio, the band was breaking into “Apocalypso.”

“Vic, we don’t have time to subpoena the shipyard,” Steve said, “but if I’m right, Robinson’s building one helluva barge. Tomorrow, you’ll have to bluff him. Act like you have his blueprints.”

“Robinson’s not my first witness.”

“He is now.”

She nearly said something about her order of proof but stopped herself. She’d have to be more flexible. Steve was always telling her that. “Okay, we call Robinson as an adverse witness, and …?”

“I gotta see the photos to be sure. Bobby, what’s happening?”

“In a sec, okay?”

Victoria said: “Steve, maybe you should cross Robinson. You have a handle on this.”

He cocked his head as far as his stiff neck would allow. “C’mon, Vic. You wanted the hot seat. I vaguely recall the words ‘first chair’ and ‘autonomy’ coming up in the conversation.”

It could have been vintage sarcastic Steve, but his smile was warm, his words soft to the touch.

Yes, painkillers definitely take his edge off.

“But Robinson’s the big enchilada,” she said.

“I’m hungry,” Bobby whined.

Steve smiled at her. “You’ll be terrific. I know it.”

“I really wish you would take Robinson,” she continued. “You’re the best cross-examiner I’ve ever seen.”

“That’s only because you never watch yourself.”

She groaned.

“I mean it, Vic. You’re a natural. Robinson will never know what hit him. Besides, I’m not counsel of

record anymore. I withdrew, remember?”

“So file a new appearance in the morning.”

“A lawyer can’t be a witness, too. After you’re done with Robinson, you’re calling me.”

“What? Why?”

“Here’s your barge,” Bobby said, pointing at the monitor.

Victoria leaned over Bobby’s shoulder. Rectangular pods seemed to be stacked on the deck of a long, flat craft. From the satellite, the pods looked like giant children’s building blocks. “What is it?” she asked.

“The stuff murder’s made of.” Steve gave Bobby a hug. “Let’s get this boy a club sandwich. Extra mayo.”

Fifty-one

SON OF A SON OF A SAILOR

She was all alone.

Oh, the courtroom was filled. Reporters in the front row, a still photographer alongside. There were the regulars, retirees who cruise the building looking for cheap entertainment. A few local lawyers occupied the back pews, waiting for their own cases, grousing about handling D&Ds—drunk and disorderlies—instead of a juicy murder trial. There were unkempt old-timers, leathery as lizards, who wandered inside just for the air-conditioning. The jurors were stuffed into their box like eggs in a carton, their expressions ranging from bored to bemused to bitchy:
“Prove your case, and entertain me while you’re doing it, lady.”

Alongside Victoria at the defense table sat Hal Griffin, not nearly as tan or hearty as when the trial began. Judge Feathers swiveled in his high-back chair, his clerk huddled over her desk below the bench. A paunchy, sleepy bailiff stood just inside the door, the courtroom’s Medicare-eligible centurion. Sheriff Rask, placid as ever, sat directly behind the prosecution table.

But I’m all alone.

One gladiator. A hundred lions.

Steve would know that feeling. It was part of their bond, the trial lawyer’s steaming brew of terror and exhilaration.

“Never let them see your fear.”

One of his first lessons. Closely followed by:
“Act like you own the courtroom.”

Leading up to:
“Make the jury comfortable and your opponent squirm.”

I’ll try, she thought, knowing it would be easier with Steve by her side. But he was outside, pacing in the corridor. With the witness rule in effect, he was barred from the courtroom while another witness testified. And right now Leicester Robinson was striding toward the witness stand. He wore pleated black pants and a silk coral shirt open at the neck. His mustache was neatly trimmed, his twisted dreadlocks short and tidy. Wire-rimmed glasses gave him a scholarly appearance, but his broad shoulders and thick, callused hands did not fit the image of the history professor he had nearly become. No, this was a working man. Educated and articulate, but a man comfortable with heavy machinery and dirty boots.

At breakfast, Griffin had reacted with disbelief when Victoria told him about Fowles and Robinson.

“Clive would never betray me,” Griffin had said, shaking his head. “And Robinson? That would take some
cajones.
”

Victoria didn’t think the tenth-generation grandson of pirates and salvors lacked the balls. Or the brains. Or the “duality of evil.” The phrase Robinson used to describe the ship captain in Conrad’s
Secret Sharer.

Now, as Robinson paused in front of the clerk’s table, Judge Feathers instructed: “Just take your seat on the witness stand, sir. You’re still under oath.”

Victoria stood and smoothed the skirt of her Philippe Adec suit. A color so dark, the saleswoman had called it “anthracite.” Fitting for the gravity of the day’s proceedings. And the difficulty of the task, turning coal into diamonds.

She scanned the courtroom. Junior was missing from his usual spot behind the defense table. Sheriff Rask caught her eye and winked. His second wink of the morning. Earlier, when she was draining a cup of coffee from a machine in the lobby, the sheriff had strolled over and good-morninged her.

“Good luck with Robinson today.”
He winked and walked off whistling “Son of a Son of a Sailor.”

Now Victoria walked to the far end of the jury box. She didn’t want to be in the jurors’ range of vision. Let them concentrate on Robinson, who sat waiting, staring at her.

Sometimes, with an adverse witness, you start slowly and softly. Nonthreatening. A neutral tone, a pleasant demeanor, a sunny path strewn with rose petals, concealing the sharpened bamboo in the pit below. Steve likened cross-examination to lulling a pitcher to sleep by taking a short lead off first, then stealing second with a furious, unexpected burst of speed. But early this morning, he’d said that Robinson would know what they were after.

“He just doesn’t know how much we know. Act confident. Hold a folder stuffed with papers, as if we have the specs on the barges. Keep the questions short. Don’t give him time to think between answers.”

“Do you own a Cigarette Top Gun Thirty-eight, Mr. Robinson?” she asked.

“Not personally,” he answered.

“In a corporate name, then. Does your Bahamian corporation own the boat?”

“It does.”

“And what’s the reason you hide your ownership of that boat?”

“Objection. Argumentative.” Waddle couldn’t know where she was headed but wanted to block the path getting there.