The Deep Blue Alibi

Twenty-seven

Standing in the galley of his houseboat, Herbert Solomon crushed fresh mint leaves while he peppered Steve with questions. "Did you know Billy Wahoo's been talking about you on the radio?"

"Billy Wahoo's a moron."

"A caller asked why you didn't get eaten by sharks when you went into the channel, and Billy said it had to be professional courtesy."

"A moron who needs new material."

It was the day after the visit to Havana Viejo and Steve's brain trust-his father and his nephew-were dispensing their opinions. As he talked, Herbert used a handpress to squeeze a stalk of sugarcane, dribbling sweet guarapo into a glass filled with ice cubes. "Billy asked his listeners if they thought you had an accident or if someone was out to get you because of Griffin's case."

"Yeah?"

"Majority think you're just another lousy driver from Miami." Herbert poured a healthy portion of rum into the glass, added some fresh lime juice, a splash of club soda, and mint leaves. "So did that Cuban gal have something to do with attacking you?"

"No way," Steve said.

"No way, Jose," Bobby agreed.

"Delia's emotional but she wouldn't resort to violence."

Herbert tasted his concoction, nodded his approval. "What's Victoria think?"

"She says any number of women would like to run me off the road."

"That why she didn't stay here last night?"

"Vic sleeps better in the hotel."

"Uh-huh. How long's it been?"

"What?"

"Since you two humped?"

"Jeez, Dad. There's a child present."

"Steve humps Victoria," Bobby said. "Wanna see what I can do with that?"

"Don't do it, Bobby. No dirty anagrams today."

"HIS STUMP OVERACTIVE!" Bobby rearranging the letters almost as fast as Steve told him not to.

"He wishes." Herbert took a pull on his drink and turned to Steve. "When ah was your age, your mom and ah did it every day. Some men sneak out for nooners with their mistresses. Ah'd go home for lunch and have a quickie with mah wife."

"If it's okay with you, Dad, I'd rather not picture you and Mom in the bedroom."

"Wasn't time for the bedroom. We'd do it standing up in the kitchen." Herbert polished off the mojito. "Son, you be careful you don't lose that gal."

Sitting at the galley table, working on his laptop computer, Bobby pretended not to listen. He had found a website with live satellite photos of the Florida Keys and was looking for nude beaches. Steve was sprawled on a love seat. His headache had gone from a roaring avalanche to a dull thud. Overhead, a paddle fan stirred the moist air.

"You told me Pinky Luber had some scary friends," Steve said. "Any of them ride Harleys?"

"You're digging in the wrong pea patch," Herbert said. "Pinky would never jeopardize a child."

"Meaning me, Uncle Steve. Not you." Bobby clicked the mouse, zoomed on a satellite photo. "Look, I got a shot of Pirates Cove. You can see the top deck of Gramps' houseboat."

For a moment, Steve wondered if Bobby could get a photo of the Pier House, peer into the windows of Victoria's room, look into the deepest corners of her heart. If technology couldn't do that, Steve wondered, how could he? But he didn't want to dwell on his personal life just now. "Dad, how come you keep sticking up for that scumbag Luber?"

"Ain't gonna talk about Pinky." Herbert handed Steve a drink. "This'll cure what ails you."

"A little honesty would be better than a mojito."

"Nothing's better than a mojito." Herbert peered over Bobby's shoulder at the monitor. "Well, look at that. There's the channel. Bobby, you think the shrimp will be running tonight?"

"Shrimp can't run, Gramps."

"Good, they'll be easier to catch. Turn that off and go fetch the nets and lanterns."

Changing the subject, Steve thought. A lifetime habit of his father's. Hit and run. First the crack about losing Victoria, then the evasion about Luber.

Just what is the old man hiding?

"Uncle Steve, you going shrimping with us?" Bobby asked.

"Nah," Herbert said, before Steve could respond. "Uncle Steve needs to rest."

To snoop or not to snoop.

That was the question facing Steve.

Along with the bigger question.

Why is Dad so protective of Pinky Luber, the guy whose perjury ruined his life?

The questions were coming faster than the answers. Mellowed out by rum and Demerol, Steve leaned back on a plastic chaise lounge on the stern deck, gazing at the calm water. An unseen bird trilled in a gumbo-limbo tree, sounding remarkably like a ringing cell phone. Herbert and Bobby had taken the Boston Whaler to Sugarloaf Key. Once they anchored near the bridge pilings, they'd be scooping up shrimp for hours.

Like the incoming tide, Steve's thought processes moved slowly but inexorably in one direction. He could poke around like a cop without a warrant.

No…I can't snoop through Dad's things.

But. . if Dad doesn't find out. . what's the harm?

So…where do I start?

If his old man had ever been involved in anything nefarious, he sure as hell didn't make any money from it. Otherwise, why live on this rust bucket, a fourteen-byforty foot rectangular chunk of fiberglass sitting askew in the marshy water of Pirates Cove?

Steve began his search on the top deck. It was an open party deck with a fly bridge at the bow. Not even a hiding spot. On the main deck, the lockboxes were filled with fishing gear, gaffs, flashlights, and coiled lines. He heard an outboard motor chugging in the cove. A couple kids in a center-console fishing boat headed toward open water, the bow up on a plane.

Steve slipped into Herbert's stateroom, sifted through the built-in cabinets, riffled a pile of khaki shorts and faded T-shirts.

Just what am I looking for, anyway?

A small desk was mounted into the bulkhead. Some bills were stuffed into wooden slots. In a drawer, a box of stationery and his father's checkbook. Steve scanned the check stubs. Small amounts. Electricity, liquor store, phone bill.

Phone bill.

Paid yesterday.

Steve dumped the rubber trash can under the desk. Junk mail. Real estate flyers. A notice from Monroe County about mosquito spraying. And there…the Verizon bill.

He went through the numbers, recognized a few. His own, of course. And a Coral Gables number he knew as Teresa Torano's, a client and friend Steve inherited from his father. There were a cluster of calls to a Miami number Steve didn't recognize. Five calls the day he deposed Pinky Luber. Judging from the time code, two calls made before the depo and three after. Probably nothing, but. .

Steve dialed, waited.

A woman answered crisply: "Mr. Jones' office."

Jones. That narrows it down.

"May I speak to Mr. Jones, please?"

Whoever the hell he is.

"Who's calling?"

"Mr. Darrow. Clarence Darrow."

"Will Mr. Jones know what this is regarding, Mr. Darrow?"

I doubt it. Even I don't know what it's regarding.

"It's personal," Steve said, figuring that was true.

"If it's not court business, he won't return the call until after six p.m."

Ah, court business.

"Actually, I got this jury summons in the mail. . "

The woman laughed. "And you're calling the chief clerk to get you out of jury duty?"

Chief clerk. A name popped into Steve's head. Reginald Jones. Chief Clerk of the Circuit Court for Miami-Dade County. Steve had seen the name hundreds of times. It was printed on every subpoena, administrative order, and other official document that came out of the courthouse.

"I wanted to tell Mr. Jones they misspelled my name."

"I'll pass that along, Mr. Darrow. Good day."

Steve had another mojito, though he doubted that's what you call it when you skipped the sugar, soda, lime, and mint. Sipping the rum straight, he wondered what was going on between his father and Reginald Jones.

Jones was one of those anonymous bureaucrats who run local government. An executive with a handsome six-figure salary, his name would rarely appear in the newspaper unless there was a bomb threat at the courthouse or the janitors went on strike. Jones' job was to manage several hundred deputy clerks, bailiffs, and lower level administrators. They, in turn, ran the whole creaky mechanism of the justice system. Civil Court, Criminal Court, Juvenile Court, jury pools, adoptions, marriage licenses, real estate records, tax liens. All the mundane governmental intrusions into our lives.

But Herbert Solomon didn't have any court business. Not now. But then. .

A memory came to Steve. He was still a kid, one who loved visiting the courthouse, loved basking in the glow of his father's power and authority. Herbert Solomon was Chief Judge of the Eleventh Circuit. Pinky Luber was Chief of Capital Crimes in the State Attorney's Office, head prosecutor in Herbert's courtroom. And the deputy clerk sitting in front of the bench, stamping exhibits, running the courtroom with brisk efficiency, was a trim African-American man in his twenties with a neat mustache. Judge Solomon seemed to like the young man, would invite him up to sidebars and into chambers. Steve could even remember his father talking to the man in chambers.

"Reggie, you best tell Juror Three to start wearing panties to court."

"Reggie, that witness' testimony had more holes than the Loxahatchee Road."

"Reggie, you find Mr. Luber and tell him if he's late again, ah'm gonna put him in the cooler."

Young Reggie had to be Reginald Jones, now Chief Clerk of the Court. He had been in Herbert Solomon's life long before the judge's fall from grace. But what the hell was he doing there now?