The Deep Blue Alibi

good way. She's warm and funny and a great cook, and-'

'Okay, I get it.'

Steve leaned back and closed his eyes. Before he could fall asleep again, Victoria asked, 'So who the hell was that double-jointed gymnast from Auburn?'

SOLOMON'S LAWS

7. When meeting an ex-girlfriend you dumped, always assume she's armed.

Twenty-six

BONNIE VOUCHES FOR CLYDE

The doctor was in his mid-thirties, both too young and too suntanned for Steve's taste. The tattoo on the doc's forearm-a windsurfer jumping a wave- did not exactly inspire confidence, either. 'The scans are clean. Your reflexes are fine. Now, what's two plus two?'

The doctor seemed to be in a hurry, Steve thought. Maybe the wind was coming up. An old joke came to mind. A priest, a physicist, and a lawyer are all asked: 'What's two plus two?' Lowering his voice to a whisper, Steve gave the lawyer's punch line. 'How much do you want it to be?'

The doctor forced a smile and scribbled on a clipboard. He was releasing Steve, with instructions to call if he experienced any headaches or dizziness. Along with some pain pills, the doctor gave him a tip: A posse of reporters and photographers were sniffing around the hospital lobby like vultures after roadkill. Wanting a statement, photographs, some link between the bridge attack and the Griffin murder case. Steve thought it over. What would he say?

'There are forces out to stop Hal Griffin any way they can, including assaulting his lawyer.'

But was that true? He had no idea. For the first time in his professional life, Steve decided to forgo a chance at free publicity-mother's milk to a trial lawyer-and he ducked out the employees' entrance.

Victoria picked him up in the hospital parking lot, threaded her Mini Cooper between two TV trucks, and headed south toward Key West. They were going to pay an unannounced visit on Delia Bustamante.

'Why are we sneaking out like this?' she asked. 'You never met a camera you didn't love.'

'Anything I say would just be a guess. I don't know enough to make an intelligent statement.'

'Usually, that doesn't stop you.'

'I'm trying to be more circumspect.'

Oh. Just how long would that medication last? Victoria wondered again.

Steve called Bobby on the cell. The boy felt terrific. He was going shrimping with his grandfather. No, he didn't need more rest. He'd slept half the day and was mega-bored. The resilience of kids.

When they reached Key West, Victoria parked on Duval Street. First stop, Fast Buck Freddy's to get Steve some clothes. Within fifteen minutes, his new fashion statement was complete. Black sneakers, green camouflage pants, and a T-shirt with the slogan:

Twenty-four beers in a case.

Twenty-four hours in a day.

Coincidence?

He put on the shirt and paraded around the store, but GQ didn't call to set up a photo shoot. Victoria paid the bill and insisted on carrying his packages, which was fine with Steve. He was playing his concussion for all the sympathy he could get.

They passed through Mallory Square just before sunset. The place was jammed with tourists, plus the usual collection of jugglers, mimes, balloon twisters, and a guy with a sign, I Read for Food. He mildly entertained the crowd by reciting passages from Hemingway's Islands in the Stream.

'How do you feel?' Victoria asked for the tenth time.

'Kind of funky, but nothing a couple margaritas couldn't cure.'

'No alcohol. You heard the doctor.'

Steve didn't argue. He liked being pampered by Victoria, and he was still in the post-traumatic, post-Demerol glow of goodwill and affection.

They walked along the waterfront to Havana Viejo, Delia Bustamante's restaurant.

On the porch, several patrons hung out at a raw bar, and Liz O'Connor, a local musician, strummed her guitar and sang, 'I'll Know It's Time to Go When the ATM Says No.'

'How 'bout some key lime garlic oysters before we talk to Delia?' Steve asked Victoria.

'Didn't you hear the doctor say only bland foods?'

'Yes, ma'am. Whatever you say.'

She gave him another of those who is this guy? looks, and Steve just smiled and held the door for her as they walked inside. Like a lot of Keys' eateries, Havana Viejo had a nautical theme-all anchors and buoys and sharks' jaws-plus black-and-white photos of pre-Castro Cuba on the walls. The air was fragrant with curry sauce in a conch stew. At a nearby table, under a framed photo of a yacht club in Old Havana, locals in shorts, T-shirts, and sandals devoured swordfish glazed with mango and Scotch peppers. Delia Bustamante, owner and chef, maintained a passionate, sensuous relationship with food. She was, as Steve recalled, pretty damn hot in the bedroom, too.

'You hungry, Vic?' he asked, as they headed for the kitchen.

'You think Delia's gonna cook for you?'

'Why wouldn't she?'

'Didn't you break up with her?'

'I always manage to stay friends. It's part of my charm.'

'Really? What's the rest of it?'

They entered the kitchen through swinging doors. Delia stood in front of a gas range, stirring sliced papayas and apples in a saucepan that emitted the aroma of brown sugar and cinnamon, papaya applesauce, the side dish for one of her specialties, spicy barbecued salmon.

'What's cooking, babe?' Steve spread his arms, as if to hug her from twenty paces.

Delia looked up from the range, her black eyebrows arching. She wore spandex yoga pants and a pink tank top with a lace-up front. The laces were undone and the tops of her caramel breasts were slick with perspiration. Her dark hair was pulled straight back, setting off her cheekbones.

'Bastard son-of-a-bitch! Y que carajo tu haces aqui, cabron, hijo de la gran puta, descarado? '

'My mother was no such thing,' Steve said.

'Come mierda!' She threw the spatula at him, missing by two feet, but pieces of sauteed papayas splattered his T-shirt.

'Delia, sweetheart. You gorgeous babe. What's the matter?'

'Bastard!' She scooped up a meat cleaver and hurled it across the kitchen. Steve would have ducked, but the throw was high and wide, like an overanxious catcher tossing the ball into center field when trying to catch a runner stealing second.

The cleaver smacked into a wooden support piling with a thunk and stuck there. Then Steve realized he hadn't been the target. His photograph was tacked to the piling. A shot of him at the restaurant's raw bar, his head thrown back as he tossed down an oyster. Someone had drawn a Salvadore Dali mustache on the photo, so it appeared he had inhaled a mouse into each nostril, stringy tails curling out. A black eye-patch, also the artist's touch, gave him a sinister, piratical look. And now the meat cleaver split his forehead in two.

'If that's the way you feel, I'm gonna pass on the mushroom-dusted snapper,' Steve told Delia.