The Deep Blue Alibi

Victoria needed to clear her mind. At the corner of Southard and Duval, she stepped off the curb and into the path of a pink taxi. The driver squealed to a stop, banged the horn, and cursed in Creole.

Victoria tried to fathom the depths of her feelings. Her mother, who could be so shallow and superficial, had now gone the other direction. She shouldered moral complicity in her husband's death. But what did she expect of herself? What superhuman powers of understanding and compassion did she think she lacked?

'Oh, Nelson darling, don't be depressed. I forgive you for screwing my best friend.'

No, the betrayal and shameful abandonment were all her father's.

And the note I so longed for?

Now that she'd seen it, now that she'd held in her hands the last item he'd touched before the swan dive off the condo roof …the note made no difference.

You regret not seeing me grow up? Damn you! You could have been here.

Now that she knew what had happened, the truth had not set her free. No peace came with the knowledge, just one pain replacing another. What was it Steve said his father had told him? Something about being careful when turning over rocks. There'll be snakes, not flowers, underneath.

In this moment, more than any other, she wished Steve were here. As she passed under the kapok tree on the courthouse lawn-the last place she had seen him- she pulled out her cell phone and dialed his number. There was no answer, but she listened to the entire leave-your-number message just so she could hear his voice.

Dammit, Steve. Where are you?

Forty-eight

THE DEEP BLUE ALIBI

A very loud woman shouted something at Steve.

He couldn't see her because his eyes were glued shut. At least, that's the way they felt. He forced his eyes open, a salty crust cracking along his lashes.

Ouch. He was staring into a broiling sun. Suddenly aware of noxious fumes. Burning fuel, melting plastic.

'Wave your arm if you can hear me!'

That voice again. Amplified. Authoritative.

If I'm dead, then God could be a woman. But then, that sun is hot as hell, and who's to say the devil's not a chick? Now, just where is my arm?

Steve managed to wave, water pouring down his wet-suit sleeve into his face. His mask was gone. So was one of his fins. He was floating, lifting and falling with every swell. The top-of-the-line buoyancy compensator-thank you, Stubbs-was rigged to float an unconscious man on his back.

Fowles. Where are you?

'Just stay calm, sir. We'll get you in a minute.'

Steve lifted his head out of the water. It weighed about the same as that giant jewfish.

Maybe heaven is a giant spa, and I'm in the Jacuzzi.

Maybe that's where the good Jews go. The others are made into gefilte fish.

Bobbing in the water, smaller than a cutter, was a boat. He recognized the red, white, and blue diagonal stripes. Coast Guard. Most beautiful boat he'd ever seen. A woman in uniform stood at the bow rail, a bullhorn in her hand. Most beautiful woman, too, though he couldn't make out a single feature. He gave her the thumbs-up sign.

'That's it, sir! Don't try to swim over.'

Swim? Going back to sleep is more like it. What time's my massage?

He was aware of the putt-putt of a small yellow inflatable craft coming to his side. Two men in uniforms leaned over, barking instructions. They seemed very young and pimply but their voices were strong. Best he could understand, he was to do nothing. They'd get him aboard. He tried to say something, but his throat was raw with salt water, and he vomited all over the guardsmen as they hauled him into the inflatable.

'Another man,' Steve croaked. 'Scuba gear. Where is he?'

'Just relax now, sir.'

They seemed extremely competent for twelve-yearolds, Steve thought, hazily.

The inflatable headed toward the boat, dodging pieces of fiberglass and aluminum, the remnants of the Cigarette. Fuel burned, black and orange, on the surface. Bouncing in the waves nearby, without its rider, the rusty old chariot. The bow charred black, but seemingly indestructible.

As they neared the boat, Steve saw another inflatable in the water. Two more Coast Guardsmen. A lifeless body, a man in jeans and a bloodied T-shirt, lay facedown in the craft.

Conchy Conklin? Who else could it be?

With a net, the guardsmen were fishing something out of the water. What was it?

An arm! From the elbow down, an arm in a torn wet suit.

Fowles.

God, he'd done it. He'd sacrificed himself. He'd destroyed his own personal Tirpitz and saved Steve's life. How do you repay a debt like that?

You don't. Maybe you make a vow to be a better man, but the debt goes unpaid.

As a young guardsman helped Steve up the ladder of the larger craft, he had the vague notion that he'd lost something. The mask, of course. And one fin. And. .

The slate.

Fowles' confession. His dying wish had been to settle up, to clear Griffin's name. The slate was Griffin's deep blue alibi and now it was at the bottom of the deep blue sea.

Forty-nine

VISITING HOUR

The ER staff at Fishermen's Hospital appeared happy to see Steve. A couple jokes about discounts for repeat customers, a couple suggestions to stay away from bodies of water. They promised to let him out after a few hours' observation as long as the various probes and scans all came back normal.

Steve's face was the color of a broiled lobster with a ghostly white outline from the mask. His neck was wrapped in a soft brace, but all moving parts seemed to be in semi-working order. Soon, the doctors and nurses dispersed, and his little cubicle was filled with people in uniform, with guns on their hips. Steve refused to make any statements, until he heard someone belting out the chorus of 'Trying to Reason with Hurricane Season.'

'C'mon in, parrothead,' Steve rasped as Sheriff Willis Rask poked his nose through the curtain.

'Jimmy B. says howdy. Wow, you look like shit.'

'Thanks, Willis. Why don't you clear everybody out of here so we can talk?'

Rask shooed out the others, pulled up a chair, and Steve told him everything that had happened since showing up at Paradise Key that morning. The chariot ride, the reef, Fowles' story about sneaking aboard the Force Majeure, fighting with Stubbs over the speargun, the spear firing, and finally the attack by Conklin in a Cigarette with flame decals.

'It matches up,' Rask said. 'One body's Chester Lee Conklin. Body parts of the guy in the wet suit are a little harder to ID, but from what you say, it's got to be Fowles.'

'What about the Cigarette? Who owned it?'

'Registered to a shell company in the Bahamas. We're trying to track it back, see who pays the annual