The Deep Blue Alibi

Dear God. I don't have cellulite. Pilates keeps my abs tight. I don't need plastic surgery. What could she possibly say?

'Have you ever thought about a bikini wax, darling?'

Thirty-two

ADIOS, STEVE

Griffin began giving orders. Telling Irene to take a swim, the lawyers to sit down, and the waitress to bring a round of beachcombers.

Irene sashayed into the shallow end of the pool, giving everyone a chance to admire her newly tucked tush. Steve and Victoria took seats at a bamboo-legged table shaded by a thatched palm umbrella. And the nude waitress jiggled off to get their tall lemonades spiked with rum and triple sec.

'Clive Fowles called me right after you left him,' Griffin told them. 'All worked up. Afraid he'd given you the wrong idea about Junior.'

'Maybe you're the one who gave us the wrong idea,' Steve said. 'Why didn't you tell us you and Junior fought about Oceania?'

'Ever argue with your father, Solomon?'

'Only for the last thirty years.'

'Ever kill him as a result?'

'Not yet.'

An unfamiliar sensation, Steve thought, the breeze between his legs. But not unpleasant. These naturists might be onto something. In the pool, two young women-barely old enough to drink-screamed as they sailed down the water slide. Maybe there'd be time for a coed volleyball game before they left.

Griffin turned toward Victoria. 'Princess, you don't go along with this nonsense about Junior killing Stubbs, do you?'

'I'm trying to keep an open mind.'

That's my partner. She doesn't think Junior did it, but she won't split ranks outside our little family. Lawyers and mobsters follow lessons learned from The Godfather.

'But it makes no sense to me, Uncle Grif,' she continued.

So much for the Sonny Corleone rule.

'Because it's bullshit,' Griffin said. 'Junior had nothing to do with Stubbs' death.'

'I'd like you to hear me out,' Steve said.

'Hey, guys!'

Coming toward their table was the killer hunk himself. Twirling a croquet mallet, chest out, shoulders back, smiling with those Chiclet teeth. And between his legs…

Oh, shit. The Monster.

Angled out a bit, surrounded by tufts of blond hair, was a happy, confident, hey-look-at-me salami. The son- of-a-bitch could play croquet without a mallet.

'How'd you do, son?' Griffin called out.

'Good enough to win.' Junior grinned and swung the wooden mallet by its blue suede handle. 'Twentysix to fourteen in the final.'

'Attaboy.'

'Hi, Tori.' Junior leaned over the table and kissed Victoria on the cheek.

Jesus, did his pendulous pendulum just brush her bare shoulder?

'Hey, Junior.' She smiled up at him.

'Steve.' Junior nodded.

'Nice mallet,' Steve replied.

'Son, why don't you swim some laps while I finish up with my lawyers?' Griffin suggested.

'No problem, Dad. I'll do five hundred meters of butterfly.'

Junior bounced toward the pool, Victoria staring after him.

Griffin sipped at his lemony drink. 'Go ahead, Solomon. Make your pitch.'

'To win your case, we need to point the finger at someone else.'

'Not at my son, you don't. Jesus, Junior wasn't even on the boat.'

'You're sure?'

'I was there, dammit.'

'You were up on the bridge. No way you could see what was going on below.'

'I'm not buying it, Solomon.'

'Junior thought Oceania might bankrupt you,' Steve barreled ahead. 'If he thought that killing Stubbs would stop the project-'

'Bullshit. I'm the only one mad enough to kill the bastard.'

Victoria wrinkled her forehead. 'Uncle Grif, I don't understand that.'

'What's not to understand?' Steve shot back. 'He's sticking up for his kid.'

'Listen to me for once, Steve,' she ordered. 'That's not what I'm talking about. That day on the boat, Uncle Grif, what were you mad at Stubbs about?'

'Like I told you before, he was extorting me for a million bucks.'

'No, that was a week earlier. On the boat, you settled everything. You gave Stubbs the hundred thousand from the lobster pot with a promise of more. You told me he accepted it.'

There was an unspoken question hanging in the humid air, Steve knew.

'If you'd told the truth, if you'd reached a deal with Stubbs, why were you still mad enough to kill him?'

Doing good, Vic. Steve felt a sense of pride. She was using skills he'd taught her. Always precise with time lines, she'd picked up an inconsistency he had missed. Now he'd just settle back and follow her orders; he'd shut up and listen.

'Were you lying to me before, Uncle Grif? Did you have a fight on the boat over money?'

Griffin waved at Irene, who was hanging on to the side of the pool, doing leg kicks. The reluctant witness buying time. Then he sighed and said: 'What I told you was true as far as it went. Stubbs took the hundred thousand. But only after trying to hold me up for more. The dumb shit told me he had a better offer.'

'A better offer for what?' Victoria asked.

'Another 'bidder' is what he called it. 'I got another bidder soliciting my services.' Someone promising him a million bucks to write a negative environmental report. To kill Oceania.'

'Who?'

'Stubbs wouldn't say, and the more he refused, the madder I got. So, I pulled that old speargun of Junior's out of the lockbox and aimed square at Stubbs' chest.'

Victoria's hand flew to her own bare breasts. 'Uncle Grif, no.'

'Hold on, Princess. I yell at Stubbs he'd better tell me who my enemies are or I'll nail his hide to the bulkhead. He laughs at me. I look down and see there's no spear in the gun. That breaks the tension a bit, and we both calm down. We talk, and I tell him I'll pay him a hundred thousand every year. He chews it over, then says fine, he'll be loyal to me. As if the asshole knows anything about loyalty. Anyway, we got a deal, so I go back up to the bridge and head for Sunset Key to meet you two. Maybe half an hour later, I put her on auto, come down the ladder, and he's got a spear sticking in his chest.'

For a moment there was no sound but the joyous chatter of the naked volleyballers.

Victoria pursed her lips. Attuned to her expressions, Steve knew she was framing a diplomatic reply. Whereas he might blurt out: 'What a load of crap!' she chose words like a florist picking roses, right down to pruning back the rotting leaves.

'That's a pretty tough sell, Uncle Grif,' Victoria said, evenly.