The Deep Blue Alibi

Twenty-six

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.

Five minutes later, the three of them sat at a redwood picnic table on the wharf just outside the kitchen door. Victoria tried to calm down Delia with a sister-to-sister chat. Sure, Steve could be incredibly aggravating. Heaven knows, there had been many times she'd longed to brain him. "But he speaks highly of you, Ms. Bustamante, and we're here on court business. So if you could just answer a few questions. ." But before Victoria could start her interrogation, Delia launched her own.

"That bump on the bastard's head, did you hit him with a frying pan?"

"I've been tempted to, but no."

"Too bad. You sleeping with the puerco?"

"That ain't kosher," Steve said, "calling me a pig."

"We're law partners," Victoria said, "and. ."

Just how should I put it? Lovers-for-now?

"C'mon, Delia," Steve broke in. "We're here on business. Leave the personal baggage out of it."

Delia loosened the clip that held her hair back and shook her head. Long, dark tresses cascaded over her bare shoulders. She turned to Steve with a look as sharp as the meat cleaver. "Is this tall, cold cerveza better in bed than I am?"

"Ah, Jeez," Steve said. "Why not ask what's better, stone crabs or filet mignon?"

"Because you said I was the best lover you ever had."

"I think I said the 'loudest lover.' "

"You said the best! Tu eres el mejor amente que he tenido en toda mi vida."

"That was before I met Victoria."

"So she is better!"

"I didn't say that."

You did to me, Victoria thought.

"Lighten up, Delia," Steve continued. "Making love isn't an Olympic contest. No judges give style points. It's physical and chemical and emotional and the feelings come from deep inside."

"What would you know of feelings?" Delia demanded.

"All I'm saying is that in the moment, everyone is the best lover with the one they're with. In that moment, you can't imagine ever being with anyone else. But things change. People move on."

Delia looked at Victoria with sympathy. "Ay, he'll break your heart, too, chica."

"Delia, I didn't break your heart."

She pressed one hand to her ample bosom. "I gave you everything."

"You gave me mango flan. And what's with the theatrics?"

"Steve, why don't you go for a walk and let us girls talk?" Victoria suggested.

"Delia, be honest," Steve blasted ahead. "We just had fun. We never even said we loved each other."

"When I made you bouillabaisse, was that not love?" Delia's eyes glistened.

"You make bouillabaisse for parties of eight."

"Not with sourdough croutons I bake myself."

"Okay," Victoria interposed. "Let's agree on something: Steve's an insensitive jerk."

"No I'm not."

"And look at you now," Delia said, with disgust. "Ass-licking lambioso! Doing Griffin's dirty work. Will you lie to the jury the way you lied to me?"

"I never lied to you," Steve said. "Not once."

"You said you could eat my grilled pork chops forever and ever. Siempre y siempre."

"I could. Your chops are delicious. That shallot glaze, I've never tasted anything like it."

"So why did you leave me?"

"It was a long drive. We drifted apart." He shrugged, as if searching for more. "I started eating sushi."

"Cabron! Bastard!"

Victoria wanted to steer the conversation out of Delia's kitchen and as far from her bedroom as possible. "Ms. Bustamante, you're a potential witness in a murder case, and we really need to find out what you know."

A pelican landed on the dock nearby and stared at them over its pouch.

"I know nothing except that your client harpooned that man from Washington," Delia fired back.

"Really," Steve said. "You know what a good defense lawyer would say to that?"

Delia laughed without smiling. "How would you know?"

"A good lawyer would say you had a helluva lot more reason to kill Ben Stubbs than Griffin did. Put that in your bouillabaisse."

"Steve, be quiet," Victoria ordered. Apparently, the painkillers were wearing off.

"If I were going to kill anyone, it would have been Griffin, not his government flunky," Delia said. "Griffin's the one who's going to destroy the reef and pollute the coastline. It's his casino that will steal grocery money from hardworking people."

"It's all perfectly legal. Griffin was getting the permits and licenses."

"A license to steal!"

"You were on Griffin's boat before it left the dock that day," Victoria persisted.

"He fed me cheap champagne and soggy hors d'oeuvres. Then he tried to bribe me with a job at his hotel. A hundred thousand a year to do nothing except shut up. I told Griffin what he could do with his job and left the boat."

"Where did you go?"

"You mean, do I have an alibi?" Delia smiled slyly. "My lover met me at my home. We devoured each other all day. At midnight, we ate four dozen oysters and drank two pitchers of sangria, then made love the rest of the night."

"Obviously, she's not talking about me," Steve said to Victoria.

"We'll need his name and address," Victoria told Delia, "so we can interview him."

"If he's not too exhausted," Steve added.

"He is the greatest lover I've ever known." Delia fanned herself with one hand. "Sometimes I faint with ecstasy."

"He's probably putting roofies in your sangria," Steve suggested.

Victoria shot her partner a shut up look and said: "Delia, do you know anyone who would have killed Ben Stubbs and tried to pin it on Hal Griffin?"

"No."

Victoria slid a leaflet across the table. "Have you ever seen one of these?"

"Of course. The Keys Alert flier about Oceania. I wrote it."

"Any idea who would have tossed these flyers all over the bridge at Spanish Harbor Channel?"

"None of my friends. That would be littering."

"How about somebody on a motorcycle who ran me off the road last night?" Steve asked.

Delia shrugged and seemed puzzled.

"My nephew was with me. He could have been killed."

"Bobby?" Delia said. "If you had half his humanity, Solomon, you'd be un santo. A saint. No one I know would threaten Bobby. Or you, no matter how rotten you are."

Victoria took inventory of Delia Bustamante and immediately came to two conclusions. One: the woman seemed to be telling the truth. And two: She was still in love with Steve.

Just what is this effect he has on women?

"Hullo, luv!" A man came out the restaurant's kitchen door onto the wharf. He looked familiar, Victoria thought, and the British accent clinched it.

Clive Fowles.

Uncle Grif's seaplane pilot, boat captain, and dive master. Fowles wore a blue short-sleeve shirt with epaulets and chino safari shorts. His fair skin, which probably never took on a true tan, was scorched pink.

"Well, bugger me! It's the barristers. You all right, Solomon? They're talking about you on the radio."

"I'm fine, Fowles."

Delia leapt from the table and threw her arms around the oyster-eating Brit, squashing her breasts against his chest, kissing him on the lips a little longer than necessary, purring like a kitten. Victoria figured she was putting on a show for Steve.

"Ms. Lord, I see you've met my bird," Fowles said. "I know Mr. Solomon's already acquainted." He said it with a trim smile and no rancor.

"Mr. Fowles," Victoria said, "we'd like to come see you tomorrow and take a statement."

"Outfitting a new boat for Mr. G tomorrow. Day after's fine though."

Delia was still draped over him like a leopard on an antelope. "If you'll excuse us," she purred, "I have to cook something very special for my man."

"Hang on a sec before you grease the pans," Steve said. "Fowles, does Griffin know about your love of Cuban food?"

"You mean Delia, mate?" Fowles shrugged. "I don't ask Mr. G who he shags and he doesn't ask me."

"What the cabron's really asking," Delia said, "is whether I got you to frame Griffin for murder."

The Englishman barked a laugh. "You're good in bed, darling, but no one's that good." He turned to Steve, his eyes losing the laughter. "You take me for a sodding idiot, Solomon? Mr. G's been good to me. Bought me my own boat. Treats me with respect."

Steve gave him the Solomon stare. Accompanied by silence, it was intended to make a witness keep talking. Instead, Fowles laughed again. "What's up, mate? Got a touch of the sunstroke?"

"Just thinking about the curious case of Clive Fowles. The day we meet, you offer to take us diving. You do a fish census every year. You take students on dive trips. You love that reef. Maybe you love Delia, too. She hates Griffin, hates what he's planning, and I can only imagine what she whispers across the pillow. She's your alibi, and you're hers. Which is like Bonnie vouching for Clyde. You're what trial lawyers call a 'reasonable alternative scenario.' You know what that is, Fowles?"

"Sure, mate. A bleeding fall guy. Now bugger off and we'll talk day after tomorrow. I'm hungry, and not just for fried snapper."

Delia giggled and snuggled Fowles' neck. If either of them were worried about just being accused of murder, they didn't show it.

Victoria got to her feet. "See you, Mr. Fowles. Nice meeting you, Delia."

With Delia clutching Fowles' arm, the pair headed toward the kitchen door.

"Good night, lovebirds," Steve said.

"Adios, cabron," Delia retorted. "Are you man enough to admit you're dying for another taste?"

"Don't talk dirty, Delia."

"I'm talking about my mango flan."

"Your flame's too hot," Steve called out. "You always curdle the cream."

Minutes later, Steve and Victoria walked silently along the docks, seabirds squawking above their heads.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked. "Besides Delia's culinary specialties."

"You."

"Yeah?"

"I've been trying to figure out what's been bothering you."

"You noticed. So what's your reasonable alternative scenario about me?"

Testing him. He'd been so clueless about Delia's feelings for him. Were his instincts better with her?

"You've been unhappy for a while," Steve said. "But I've been so wrapped up in my own stuff, I didn't see it."

"Getting warmer. Keep going."

"You're reassessing everything in your life. Including me."

"Burning hot," she said. "And what are you going to do about it?"

"Work on our relationship before you throw a meat cleaver at me. Or worse, before you walk away without throwing it."

"Three-alarm fire," Victoria said. Wondering if it was possible for the flame of a relationship to burn just right. Hot enough to cook, without curdling the cream.