The Deep Blue Alibi (24 page)

“You told me Pinky Luber had some scary friends,” Steve said. “Any of them ride Harleys?”

“You’re digging in the wrong pea patch,” Herbert said. “Pinky would never jeopardize a child.”

“Meaning
me,
Uncle Steve. Not you.” Bobby clicked the mouse, zoomed on a satellite photo. “Look, I got a shot of Pirates Cove. You can see the top deck of Gramps’ houseboat.”

For a moment, Steve wondered if Bobby could get a photo of the Pier House, peer into the windows of Victoria’s room, look into the deepest corners of her heart. If technology couldn’t do that, Steve wondered, how could he? But he didn’t want to dwell on his personal life just now. “Dad, how come you keep sticking up for that scumbag Luber?”

“Ain’t gonna talk about Pinky.” Herbert handed Steve a drink. “This’ll cure what ails you.”

“A little honesty would be better than a mojito.”

“Nothing’s better than a mojito.” Herbert peered over Bobby’s shoulder at the monitor. “Well, look at that. There’s the channel. Bobby, you think the shrimp will be running tonight?”

“Shrimp can’t run, Gramps.”

“Good, they’ll be easier to catch. Turn that off and go fetch the nets and lanterns.”

Changing the subject, Steve thought. A lifetime habit of his father’s. Hit and run. First the crack about losing Victoria, then the evasion about Luber.

Just what is the old man hiding?

“Uncle Steve, you going shrimping with us?” Bobby asked.

“Nah,” Herbert said, before Steve could respond. “Uncle Steve needs to rest.”

To snoop or not to snoop.

That was the question facing Steve.

Along with the bigger question.

Why is Dad so protective of Pinky Luber, the guy whose perjury ruined his life?

The questions were coming faster than the answers. Mellowed out by rum and Demerol, Steve leaned back on a plastic chaise lounge on the stern deck, gazing at the calm water. An unseen bird trilled in a gumbo-limbo tree, sounding remarkably like a ringing cell phone. Herbert and Bobby had taken the Boston Whaler to Sugarloaf Key. Once they anchored near the bridge pilings, they’d be scooping up shrimp for hours.

Like the incoming tide, Steve’s thought processes moved slowly but inexorably in one direction. He could poke around like a cop without a warrant.

No…I can’t snoop through Dad’s things.

But … if Dad doesn’t find out … what’s the harm?

So…where do I start?

If his old man had ever been involved in anything nefarious, he sure as hell didn’t make any money from it. Otherwise, why live on this rust bucket, a fourteen-byforty foot rectangular chunk of fiberglass sitting askew in the marshy water of Pirates Cove?

Steve began his search on the top deck. It was an open party deck with a fly bridge at the bow. Not even a hiding spot. On the main deck, the lockboxes were filled with fishing gear, gaffs, flashlights, and coiled lines. He heard an outboard motor chugging in the cove. A couple kids in a center-console fishing boat headed toward open water, the bow up on a plane.

Steve slipped into Herbert’s stateroom, sifted through the built-in cabinets, riffled a pile of khaki shorts and faded T-shirts.

Just what am I looking for, anyway?

A small desk was mounted into the bulkhead. Some bills were stuffed into wooden slots. In a drawer, a box of stationery and his father’s checkbook. Steve scanned the check stubs. Small amounts. Electricity, liquor store, phone bill.

Phone bill.

Paid yesterday.

Steve dumped the rubber trash can under the desk. Junk mail. Real estate flyers. A notice from Monroe County about mosquito spraying. And there…the Verizon bill.

He went through the numbers, recognized a few. His own, of course. And a Coral Gables number he knew as Teresa Toraño’s, a client and friend Steve inherited from his father. There were a cluster of calls to a Miami number Steve didn’t recognize. Five calls the day he deposed Pinky Luber. Judging from the time code, two calls made before the depo and three after. Probably nothing, but …

Steve dialed, waited.

A woman answered crisply: “Mr. Jones’ office.”

Jones. That narrows it down.

“May I speak to Mr. Jones, please?”

Whoever the hell he is.

“Who’s calling?”

“Mr. Darrow. Clarence Darrow.”

“Will Mr. Jones know what this is regarding, Mr. Darrow?”

I doubt it. Even I don’t know what it’s regarding.

“It’s personal,” Steve said, figuring that was true.

“If it’s not court business, he won’t return the call until after six p.m.”

Ah, court business.

“Actually, I got this jury summons in the mail… .”

The woman laughed. “And you’re calling the chief clerk to get you out of jury duty?”

Chief clerk.
A name popped into Steve’s head.
Reginald Jones.
Chief Clerk of the Circuit Court for Miami-Dade County. Steve had seen the name hundreds of times. It was printed on every subpoena, administrative order, and other official document that came out of the courthouse.

“I wanted to tell Mr. Jones they misspelled my name.”

“I’ll pass that along, Mr. Darrow. Good day.”

Steve had another mojito, though he doubted that’s what you call it when you skipped the sugar, soda, lime, and mint. Sipping the rum straight, he wondered what was going on between his father and Reginald Jones.

Jones was one of those anonymous bureaucrats who run local government. An executive with a handsome six-figure salary, his name would rarely appear in the newspaper unless there was a bomb threat at the courthouse or the janitors went on strike. Jones’ job was to manage several hundred deputy clerks, bailiffs, and lower level administrators. They, in turn, ran the whole creaky mechanism of the justice system. Civil Court, Criminal Court, Juvenile Court, jury pools, adoptions, marriage licenses, real estate records, tax liens. All the mundane governmental intrusions into our lives.

But Herbert Solomon didn’t have any court business. Not now. But
then …

A memory came to Steve. He was still a kid, one who loved visiting the courthouse, loved basking in the glow of his father’s power and authority. Herbert Solomon was Chief Judge of the Eleventh Circuit. Pinky Luber was Chief of Capital Crimes in the State Attorney’s Office, head prosecutor in Herbert’s courtroom. And the deputy clerk sitting in front of the bench, stamping exhibits, running the courtroom with brisk efficiency, was a trim African-American man in his twenties with a neat mustache. Judge Solomon seemed to like the young man, would invite him up to sidebars and into chambers. Steve could even remember his father talking to the man in chambers.

“Reggie, you best tell Juror Three to start wearing panties to court.”

“Reggie, that witness’ testimony had more holes than the Loxahatchee Road.”

“Reggie, you find Mr. Luber and tell him if he’s late again, ah’m gonna put him in the cooler.”

Young Reggie had to be Reginald Jones, now Chief Clerk of the Court. He had been in Herbert Solomon’s life long before the judge’s fall from grace. But what the hell was he doing there now?

Twenty-eight

RUDE AWAKENING

Like a winged goddess, Victoria arched her back, spread her arms, and sank deeper into the salty, inviting sea. What a luxurious sensation. The turquoise water like warm velvet swirling between her bare legs, cupping her exposed breasts.

Suddenly, a man—sleek and naked—swept below the surface and scooped her into his strong arms.

Junior Griffin.

She was in twilight sleep, vaguely aware she was dreaming. Fine with her. Better to remember the dream in the morning. Judging from the trailer, it would be a hell of a movie. R-rated.

Steve was spending the night on the houseboat; she was alone in her king-size bed at the Pier House. Well, almost alone.

Now, where the hell did Junior go?

Ah, there he was, free-diving to the bottom, arms extended, legs kicking, and … oh, God … that sledgehammer between his legs. Cutting through the water, creating its own wake, a keel on a sloop.

Come back, Junior. It’ll be morning soon, and my dreamy self is horny as hell.

Victoria pondered just how was she breathing, being underwater and all. Then, figuring she might be a mermaid, left it at that.

Junior zoomed back into view, rising like a missile from the deep. With something in his hand. An oyster.

Victoria’s mind drifted like kelp in the current. Steve loved oysters with beer. The Queen loved oysters with pearls.

Dammit, forget them; go with the flow of the dream.

Junior pried open the oyster with his bare hands. Said something to her.
Glug-glug,
bubbles bursting from his mouth. Inside the oyster, a gorgeous ring. Dainty triangular gems surrounding a hefty square diamond.

Princess cut. Naturally.

Junior opened his mouth and
glug
ged something again. The underwater acoustics were lousy.

“What is it, Junior? You want to marry me?”

“I want an underwater hump-a-rama,”
Junior enunciated clearly, but in Steve’s voice.

Damn him. Trespassing in my dream!

She heard something then. A slapping sound. Not the slap of a leaping fish smacking the water. Something landlocked and familiar. A quiet thud, the sound of something flat hitting carpet.

Something moved. Her bed was on an elevated portion of the room. One step down and twenty feet away was her worktable, covered with files. Beyond that, the sliding door to the balcony. She could see the silhouette of a person outlined against the glass door, backlit by torches on the pool deck below.

Oh, Jesus. I’m awake, and this is real!

The figure bent, picked up a file from the floor, replaced it on the table.

Should I scream? Jump up? Fight?

Heart racing. Paralyzed with fear. Holding her breath, then exhaling, so loud that surely the intruder could hear her breathe.

A weapon. She needed a weapon. Scissors. A pen. Anything. But what did she have? A clock radio. A paperback book. A pillow.

Defenseless. Lying under a sheet, wearing only a satin camisole that stopped above the waist.

A rustle of papers. The intruder opening a file. A narrow beam from a miniature flashlight.

Go ahead. Steal whatever you want. Then leave!

Her ears seemed to twitch like a cat’s, her sense of hearing on high alert. The bed had become a furnace. In an instant, she was bathed in sweat. Beads of perspiration, like salty tears, trickled down her face and neck. She could barely breathe, her throat dry and constricted.

Oh, God. Don’t cough.

An involuntary spasm shook her, and she barked a cough. The miniature flashlight clicked off. For an eternity, no movement, no sound. The silhouette a statue at the table, Victoria frozen under the sheet.

Breathe. Dammit, breathe, or you’ll cough again.

She watched the figure walk silently toward the bed.

Oh, God, what now?

Her muscles were locked so tightly, she was terrified she wouldn’t be able to move. Her joints petrified wood.

C’mon. You’ve got to fight.

She would not let herself be raped. Or beaten. Or killed. Furious now. The intruder just a few steps away. When he was close enough, she would spring at him.
Go for his eyes. Gouge!

She curved her hands into claws.

Another step closer. Two more steps and …

Scream and spring.

She would shriek to startle him, then tear his face off.

One step away, the intruder stopped. She heard breathing, this time not her own. In the dark, could he see her eyes were open?

The intruder turned and walked past the table. She heard the balcony door sliding in its track. She counted five seconds, then leapt out of bed and raced to the door. Slammed it shut, locked it, inserted the pin in the slot in the track.

Breathing hard, she peered through the glass. Tiki torches burned on the deserted pool deck. The fronds of a palm tree swayed in the ocean breeze. Nothing else moved. The intruder could have crawled down from her second-story balcony—maybe even jumped—to the ground.

The adrenaline flow had stopped, but her mind cranked at the speed limit. So much to do. Call the police. Call Steve. Wash her face. Get dressed. Pee … don’t forget to pee.

Okay, slow down. Relax.

Think.

The digital clock on the nightstand read 3:17 a.m. She turned on the lights and checked the worktable. Nothing seemed to be missing. A chilling thought.

Someone left. That doesn’t mean someone else isn’t still here.

She ran to the closet, threw open the door. No one inside except Calvin Klein and Donna Karan. Whoops, Vera Wang, too.

She considered waking her mother, just a few feet away in the adjoining room. No. She’d be a mess. Let The Queen get her beauty sleep. Tell her about this in the morning.

Victoria sat on the edge of the bed, picked up the phone, and dialed Steve’s cell. She had to tell him three times before he was sufficiently awake to understand. Then he came unglued.

“Oh, Christ! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m going down to the front desk as soon as I get dressed.”

“No. No. No. Stay in the room. Check all the locks again. I’ll call Rask at home. He’ll have cops there in ten minutes. Sure you’re okay?”

“I’m sure.”

“Stay calm now.”
His voice rising.

“I’m calm.”

“You get a look at the guy?”

“No.”

“I should have been there. I’d have clobbered him with my Barry Bonds.”

True, Steve slept with a baseball bat under his bed, but the only thing he ever clobbered was the occasional palmetto bug. On the phone, she heard what sounded like drawers slamming and muttered curse words.