'Actually, there's a lot that doesn't make
'There's something I should tell you,' Junior said. 'Something I feel terrible about.'
'What?' Victoria asked.
'In a way, I'm responsible for Stubbs' death.'
'How?' they asked simultaneously.
'That was my speargun.'
SOLOMON'S LAWS
4. You can sell one improbable event to a jury. A second 'improb' is strictly no sale, and a third sends your client straight to prison.
Ten
'There's something I need to show you that will explain a lot,' Junior said.
'The speargun,' Steve said, intending to stay on track. 'How about an explanation of that?'
'Not a problem. But there's a lot more to this than the speargun.'
Junior Griffin was leading the three of them through the foyer of the house, all limestone floors and rich wood paneling. On one wall were brightly colored paintings that seemed to be Haitian in origin. On another, open- mouthed, mounted fish, including the largest amberjack Steve had ever seen. Plump and silvery, with a yellow racing stripe, the fellow had to be six feet long. Next to the fat jack was an even more impressive specimen, a blue-striped, scaly-hided, lantern-jawed tarpon that, according to a brass plaque, weighed 271 pounds and was caught by Hal Griffin off the coast of Cuba on a twenty-pound test line. It must have been a hell of a fight, Steve thought, reading the inscription:
'I have quite a collection of spearguns,' Junior said. 'Excalibur, Rhino, Beuchat, plus some classic handmade mahogany and teak guns from the fifties and sixties. And I make my own. Made an eight-bander that can bring down a thousand-pound tuna.'
What Steve really wanted to know was who brought down a 160-pound guy with a P-4 Civil Service rating. 'The gun that shot Stubbs,' he said, 'where'd you keep it?'
'In a compartment on the
'It's illegal to spear lobsters,' Steve said, contemplating a citizen's arrest.
'In Florida waters, maybe. Not in the Bahamas.'
They walked into an open living room with curved walls two stories high. Windows looked out on the cove, where palm fronds fluttered in the ocean breeze. The place was all handcrafted woods. Maple floors, redwood beams, cherry panels. To Steve, the house resembled the interior of a fine yacht. 'Did your father know where you kept the gun?'
Junior shrugged and his deltoids rippled as if shocked with a cattle prod. 'The gun was mixed in with some fishing gear. I'm sure he'd seen it, but I doubt Dad would even know how to load the thing.'
'But you know how.'
'Sure.'
'In-ter-esting. Very interesting.' Steve was trying to sound profound, but managed to sound like a pompous twit, even to himself.
'What's the big deal?' Junior asked.
The big deal, Steve thought, was that he wanted to place the murder weapon in someone's hand, someone's other than his client's. If that hand belonged to Zorro at Bunny Flagler's costume party, well tough shit.
'Yes, Ste-phen.' Victoria made his name sound like a streptococcus. 'What is the big deal?'
She was pissed, Steve knew. He'd promised to let her take the lead, had even meant it at the time. But once they got here, once the game began, he just couldn't back off. Hey, you don't pinch hit for Alex Rodriguez.
Bobby piped up: 'Uncle Steve wants to pin the murder on the hottest boy at Pinecrest.'
'I know, Bobby,' Victoria said. 'I just wanted to hear Steve say it.'
Steve wished that Bobby didn't have the irksome habit of speaking only the truth, a real anomaly in the Solomon household. Turning to Junior, Steve asked: 'Where were you when your father and Stubbs took the boat out?'
'Taking a swim.'
'By yourself?'
'I'm a big boy, Solomon.'
Bobby said: 'What Uncle Steve means, do you have an alibi witness?'
Junior laughed. 'Only the barracuda who likes to tail me.'
'Cool,' Bobby said.
'Look, Solomon. I had no motive to kill Stubbs.'
'No apparent motive,' Steve corrected him.
'Don't be a dick, Steve,' Victoria said.
'It's okay, Tori,' Junior interposed. 'I know you guys have a job to do.' As they started up a maple staircase to the second floor, he said: 'If you're interested, I've got a theory about what happened.'
'What is it?' Victoria asked. Eager now.
Yeah, Steve thought. Show us something besides your fast-twitch muscle fibers.
'I think Stubbs might have found the speargun and started fooling around with it,' Junior said. 'It's an old pneumatic model. The Poseidon Mark 3000. Works on air pressure instead of bands. If he tried to jam a shaft down the barrel and did it wrong, the spear could fire.'
'Why would Stubbs even handle the gun?' Victoria wanted to know.
Junior shrugged again, his lats joining his delts in a little muscle dance. 'Why do kids take their fathers' revolvers out of nightstands?'
'So if Stubbs shot himself, who slugged your father?' Steve asked, before Victoria could slip in another question.
'No one. After Dad found Stubbs, he rushed up the ladder to get back to the bridge. Dad had been drinking- they both had-and he was excited. The ladder's wet from spray. He slips and falls, conking his head.'
They stopped in front of a wide set of double doors, Junior fishing for a key from a pocket of his shorts. Junior didn't lock up his spearguns, Steve thought, but he needed a key to get into whatever room he was going to show them.
'I can sell swampland to alligators,' Steve said, 'but that story stinks like old mackerel. The problem is, you're compounding multiple improbables.'
'The hell does that mean?'
'Tell him, Vic.'
She nailed Steve with a look that said she didn't like being ordered to perform. Then said: 'One of Steve's theories.'
'Not just a theory. A law. The Solomonic Law of Compounding Improbables. Vic, you do the honors.'
Again, she shot Steve a look. 'Stubbs shooting himself,' Victoria said, 'that's one improbable event. Your dad falling down the ladder and knocking himself out, that's two. A boat without a driver crashing on the exact beach where it was supposed to dock, that's three. There's a multiplier effect. Each improbable event makes the others harder to believe.'
'And easier for a jury to convict,' Steve said.
