The Deep Blue Alibi

component parts. The prosecutorial cliche was that there are three elements to a crime. In a circumstantial case-a case without an eyeball witness-you get a conviction by proving that the defendant had the motive, opportunity, and means to commit the murder.

In State of Florida versus Harold Griffin, there'd be no trouble proving opportunity. Two men go out on a boat. When it reaches shore-hits shore-one man has a spear in his chest. Talk about simple math.

There'd surely be the means, too; the defendant knew there was a speargun on the boat and had easy access to it.

But motive was the state's problem. Griffin had no apparent reason to kill Stubbs. Hell, he needed Stubbs alive. Needed him to turn in a favorable environmental report on Oceania. Which, apparently, the man had been ready to do. Weren't they all going to celebrate by feasting on lobster jambalaya at Louie's while toasting Oceania with expensive champagne and Cuban cigars?

So Steve came to the studied conclusion-all the while knowing, this ain't rocket science-that Hal Griffin was probably right.

Whoever killed Stubbs wanted to deep-six Oceania. And to defend Griffin, we gotta find that person.

Or persons. Again Steve remembered Stubbs raising two fingers in his hospital bed.

He squinted into the sun and turned to Junior, who was soaking up rays himself. 'We need a list of everyone who knew what your father was planning out in the Gulf.'

'Not a problem,' Junior said.

'Plus everyone with a financial stake in Oceania.'

'You got it.'

'And everyone who knew that your father was taking Stubbs out on that boat.'

'Easy,' Junior said. 'They're all the same people.'

'Good,' Steve said. 'Give us their names and addresses.'

'I can do better than that,' Junior said, stirring from the chaise. 'C'mon. Let's go to the movies.'

It's nice to own an island, Steve thought. And have your own seaplane. And a mansion built on a cove. And your own cozy little movie theater.

They had gone into what Junior modestly called the 'media room,' which turned out to be an elaborate mini movie theater with a proscenium entrance, Doric columns, motorized curtains the color of blood, and leather recliners that, according to Junior, rumbled and rattled to enhance big action sequences. They were not there, however, to watch a Terminator or Matrix flick.

They were there to review the security video shot by mounted cameras on the dock twenty-four hours earlier. As they sank into cushy leather love seats, Junior used a remote to dim the lights.

'Sorry about the decor,' Junior said, gesturing with the remote.

'What's to be sorry about?' Steve asked.

'I wanted more of a Zen design,' Junior answered. 'Earth tones. Clean lines. A more meditative feel. But you know Dad, Tori.'

Victoria laughed. 'Uncle Grif's more the Roman Colosseum type.'

'Exactly. Years ago, when Caesar's Palace opened in Vegas, Dad thought it was too subtle.'

Steve watched as a grainy black-and-white image flickered onto the large screen. There was the Force Majeure, tied up at the dock, several hours before it had vaulted ashore and split in two like a coconut. The image on the screen changed. The angle sharper, the distance closer. There was no audio.

'There are three security cameras behind the house on the dock side,' Junior told them. 'The recording alternates from one to the other every seven seconds.'

On the screen, two men were sitting on the fighting chairs in the cockpit of the boat. One was Clive Fowles, the pilot with the British accent. The other was a broad-shouldered African-American man. He wore a flowery islands shirt and khaki safari shorts. He was animated, talking while gesturing with both hands. Fowles nodded, listening, while sipping a drink.

'That's Leicester Robinson with Fowles,' Junior said. 'Robinson Barge and Tow. A native Conch, fifth generation Key West, at least. Leicester has the Oceania contract to ferry workers and material to the site.'

'So no motive to stop the project,' Steve said.

'Just the opposite. He would have made a fortune.'

'Would have?' Victoria tucked a leg underneath her. 'You make it sound like the project's dead.'

'Not dead, Tori. But we have to face facts. No more stealth permits. Oceania's gonna come under intense scrutiny. The gambling lobby will line up against us. Indian money. Casino money. And if Dad's convicted of murder, everything stops.'

'But if he's acquitted. .'

'In projects this size, there's a momentum factor. You line up the investment bankers and the foreign investors and the insurance carriers, and you gotta move quickly. Any unfavorable publicity, delays, scandals. . the bad karma spreads like a red tide.'

'Anything else about Robinson we should know?' Steve asked.

'He's a character,' Junior said. 'He puts on this tough-guy exterior. Wears a skull-and-crossbones ring because his ancestors were supposedly pirates. Pilots tugboats and operates barges and knows how to handle cranes and pile drivers. But he's got an English degree from Amherst, a master's in history, too. If he hadn't come home to take over the family business, he'd probably be some Ivy League professor.'

In Steve's experience, history professors were unlikely assassins unless they bored you to death. 'What about Fowles?'

'Ex-British Navy. Submariner. Fought in the Falklands. Was living in the Bahamas trying to build two-man submarines when Dad met him. Boat captain. Scuba diver. Pilot. Jack-of-all-trades. He's been with Dad fifteen years.'

'Trustworthy?'

'A good man. Drinks a little too much, but down here, who doesn't?'

'What's Fowles' connection to Oceania?' Victoria asked.

'Overall troubleshooter during construction,' Junior replied. 'Dive master once we start reef tours for the guests.'

Again, no motive, Steve thought.

'On his days off, Fowles takes marine biology students out to the reef for cleanup dives,' Junior said. 'They haul up all the crap the boaters toss overboard. Once a year he takes a fish census.'

'What's he do, knock on the coral?' Steve inquired. 'Ask how many barracuda live there?'

'He counts fish with a bunch of volunteer divers. It's how you judge the health of the ecosystem. Fowles is an excellent diver, really knows his sea life. He'd be the key man for the underwater tours.'

On the screen, the glass door to the salon slid open, and Junior walked out. Wearing his Speedos. Barefoot and bare-chested, as usual. He said something to Robinson and Stubbs, then climbed the ladder to the fly bridge, graceful as a high diver scooting up the ten-meter board. Once he got to the control panel, he hit some switches.

'Checking the NOAA weather for Dad,' he explained.

The salon door opened again, and this time, a tall, caramel-complexioned woman with long, dark hair stepped into the cockpit. The woman seemed to blink against the glare of the sun, then put on large, stylish sunglasses. She wore a light-colored, low-cut, spaghetti-strapped sundress, and for just a moment, as she walked across the cockpit, hips in full, fluid motion, breasts straining at the thin fabric, Steve thought she resembled a young Sophia Loren. One difference, though. He had never made love to Sophia Loren.

'Who's that?' Victoria asked. Putting a little disapproval into the 'that,' Steve thought.

'Ah,' Junior said. 'That sweet confection is-'

'Delia Bustamante!' Steve immediately regretted the exhilaration in his voice.

Victoria turned toward him, studied his profile in the semidarkness. 'You know her, Steve?'

'Last I saw her,' Steve said carefully, aiming for nonchalance, 'she owned a Cuban restaurant in Key West.'