The Deep Blue Alibi

Twenty-five

The headache floated away on a sea of Demerol and Steve dreamily wondered why his sense of smell had suddenly become so acute. When the paramedics had loaded him into the ambulance, the salty evening breeze seemed to blossom like a fine tequila. When the orderlies wheeled him into the ER at Fishermen's Hospital, his nose was on sensory overload, inhaling a mixture of iodine and limestone dust, crushed shells and wet mud. Then, in the hospital, the harsh metallic tang of cleansers and solvents.

Later, sedated in his room, he sensed the sweetness of English Leather cologne. He'd known that aroma since childhood. Opening his eyes, he found the room dark, but heard a familiar Southern drawl. Saying Bobby was fine. "Not even a scratch. Don't worry about a thing. Sleep well, son."

Now, with the morning sun peeking through the blinds, he dreamed he was on a Hawaiian beach, a Polynesian girl draping a lei of fresh gardenias around his neck, the fragrance as intoxicating as a wahine's smile. For some reason, he thought the girl's name was Mauna Loa, but that could have been the jar of macadamia nuts in his cupboard at home.

A few minutes later, Steve's eyes half opened and he saw a bouquet of flowers on the sideboard.

Aha. White gardenias.

He wondered if he could get a job as a police dog, sniffing luggage at the airport. Maybe his other senses had sharpened, too. Maybe the knock on the noggin had made him smarter. Then he drifted back to sleep. A minute later, or maybe an hour, another aroma. Something spicy but with a hint of vanilla. A woman's perfume. He thought he heard a soft voice calling his name, but that could be a dream, too.

"Steve, are you awake?"

"Mauna Loa?"

He opened his eyes. Victoria was standing over him. Little vertical lines creased her forehead. She looked at him with such tenderness and care that he nearly choked up with emotion.

"When's the last time I told you how beautiful you are?" he asked.

"You okay, Steve?"

"And that I love you. I really, really love you. And cherish you. I really cherish you." He began singing, "Cherish is the word. ." and the lines in Victoria's forehead deepened.

The goofy smile was so un-Steve-like, Victoria thought. His sharp-featured face was almost cherubic and all the rough edges of his personality seemed rounded off.

"You're beautiful," Steve said. "Have I told you that lately?"

"Thirty seconds ago."

"And I love your outfit," he continued.

"This rag?" She looked down at her wrinkled, spaghetti-strapped tank dress. She'd pulled it on hurriedly when Herbert called. And she wasn't feeling beautiful. She'd splashed on a drop of Must de Cartier but hadn't taken the time to put on makeup, and she felt pasty and dry-mouthed from the river of gimlets the night before. "I've had this dress since college. You've seen it a hundred times."

"It picks up the color of your eyes."

"The dress is red and white, Steve. Just which color does it pick up?"

"I don't know. Today, everything looks gorgeous."

She sat on the edge of the bed and gingerly touched his forehead. A bump, purple and blue, rose from beneath the hairline.

"Bobby," he said. "Where's Bobby?"

"At your father's. Sleeping. He's fine."

"I love that kid. I couldn't love him any more if I were his father."

"I know. He knows, too."

"I've been lost and confused, Vic. In a fog. But I see clearly now."

Please don't, she thought. Please don't sing.

Too late. He was already into it: "I can see clearly now. ."

A nurse had told her that Steve had a Level 2 concussion. But not a word about him being possessed by aliens.

Shortly after the rain had gone, Steve stopped singing and blurted out, "I'm gonna change, Vic."

"Really? How?"

"I'm gonna talk less. I'm gonna listen more. I'm gonna focus on you. I'm gonna be nicer to everybody."

"I think I wandered into the wrong room."

"We need to do more things together. Maybe a cooking class. Or join the opera society. What about the ballet? You love ballet."

"But you hate it."

"Doesn't matter. I want to do things for you."

"What's in that IV, anyway?"

"I dunno, why?"

"I'd like to order a case."

There was a knock at the open door, and Willis Rask walked in. A holstered gun jiggled on the sheriff's hip. "Am I disturbing anything?"

"Not at all, Sheriff," Victoria said.

"Willis," Steve said. "I love you, man."

"That's great, Stevie. I been talking to your doctors."

"I have doctors?"

"Post-traumatic amnesia. It'll come back to you." Rask grinned at them. "They did a brain scan and found nothing."

"Is that good?" Steve asked.

"I think it's the sheriff's little joke," Victoria told him.

"I see you got the flowers." Rask nodded in the direction of the sideboard.

"They're from you?" Steve gave him the goofy grin that looked like it belonged on someone else's face.

"I ordered them, but only on instructions. You see the card?"

Steve rolled onto an elbow, then settled back down hastily. "Vic, you do it."

Victoria picked the card off the plastic spear and read it aloud. " 'Come Monday, it'll be all right. Get well quick, and we'll chase some wahoo.' It's signed, 'Jimmy B.' "

"That's nice of him," Steve said. "Damn nice."

"So you really know Jimmy Buffett?" Victoria said.

"I love him so-o-o-o much," Steve cooed.

With Victoria looking on, Sheriff Rask spent a few minutes trying to take a statement from Steve, who kept interrupting with wild-hare statements about how much he loved the Keys, including all the fishes and the birds and each and every gator, and how Bobby saved his ass, claiming it was a dolphin, and isn't Bobby the greatest kid and old Herbert the best dad in the world, and did Willis know that Victoria was an incredible lover, even better than that double-jointed little gymnast from Auburn he'd met during the college baseball playoffs all those years ago?

Rask took notes, but Steve didn't provide much useful information. He hadn't gotten a license number on the motorcycle. He couldn't identify the rider. Unable to see past the space helmet, Steve couldn't even tell if the bottle thrower was a man or a woman.

"And I got no idea who would want to kill me."

"If he wanted to kill you," Rask pointed out, "he would have used a gun, not a jar of used motor oil. This seems more like a warning."

The sheriff asked if he'd pissed off anyone lately, and Steve mentioned Pinky Luber, but he didn't think the little bowling ball spent much time riding Harleys.

Rask told him that a bunch of leaflets were scattered on the road where the Caddy went off the bridge, and Steve remembered Darth Vader tossing papers from the saddlebag.

"They're all about Oceania," Rask said. " 'Stop the polluters. Stop destroying the reefs.' That sort of thing. They've all got the logo of Keys Alert. You know the group?"

"Delia Bustamante," Steve crooned. "Sweet girl. Owns a restaurant."

"Didn't you used to bake her frijoles?"

"Ancient history," Steve said.

"Once the news broke about Oceania, Delia's been the biggest mouth in the South. She's leading the opposition to the project."

Victoria adjusted the blinds to let more sun into the room. Outside, a breeze from the Gulf riffled the fronds of a towering royal palm. "You think Steve was nearly killed because we're defending Hal Griffin?"

Rask shrugged. "If you get Griffin off, Oceania gets built. If you don't, the project sinks. But those Keys Alert folks aren't ecoterrorists."

"You're sure?"

"Mostly, they're just people who like to wade in the surf without tar sticking to their feet."

"Delia Bustamante was on the Force Majeure just before it left the dock," Victoria said. "What about it, Steve? You still believe she's not capable of violence?"

Steve's answer was a peaceful snore. His eyes were closed and he still had the goofy smile in place.

"You think after the medication wears off we'll get the old Steve back?" Rask asked.

"Not for a while, I hope," Victoria said. "I kind of like the new, improved model."

A few minutes later, Rask said his good-byes-one to Victoria, one to his snoring buddy-and departed.

Victoria sat in the chair next to Steve's bed, thinking through the day's events. She had already decided this was no time to break up with Steve. It was bad form to dump a boyfriend when he's hooked to an IV. Not only that, they had too much work to do. Uncle Grif had called her cell phone as she crossed the Seven Mile Bridge on the way to the hospital. He'd heard about Steve and asked if he could help. A private plane to take him to Miami or to bring specialists to the Keys. . anything, just name it. And he said he wanted Solomon amp; Lord to continue with his case. He trusted her and hoped she trusted him.

When she hesitated, Griffin had added: "Your mother and I had a special relationship, Princess. We were dear, close friends. As close as people who aren't lovers can be. We did nothing to be ashamed of. And that's the truth."

Did she believe him? Uncle Grif's relationship with the truth was proving to be more a distant cousin than a blood brother. Still, she apologized for making the accusations, and he shushed her, saying he understood; he knew the stress she'd been under.

Her mother and Uncle Grif. Another issue to table until after the murder trial. Then she would use all her skills to delve into that "special relationship." She would learn exactly what happened and why her father committed suicide. If her original suspicion proved correct, she would surgically remove both of them-Uncle Grif and The Queen-from her life.

Tabled, too, was Steve. Saved, temporarily, by a Level 2 concussion. But when this case was over, she'd reconsider him, too. De novo review, as the courts say. A brand-new look from page one onward. If she needed to use the scalpel on that relationship, too- well, it would be painful but not without an upside. There would be a loss of a connection, but a gain of independence.

But in the midst of a murder trial, it's best not to make any irrevocable decisions.

There was a snort from the bed. "You say something?" Steve asked, blearily.

"Delia Bustamante. Is she capable of violence?"

"Only against pork chops."

"I'm serious, Steve. We've finally got a possible defense. Is there any chance she's behind the attack on you and the murder of Ben Stubbs?"

Steve touched his forehead, sizing up the bump. "Delia's a sweetheart. I mean, she's emotional, but in a 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.