The Deep Blue Alibi

Thirty-four

At the wheel of his new car, Steve raced Lexy and Rexy along Ocean Drive. He drove the egg-shaped Smart- larger than an iPod, smaller than an offensive lineman's butt-as the twins Rollerbladed. An unfair race. Lexy and Rexy were ahead by two limo lengths.

It was the morning after Steve had thumbed a ride home, helped by an amiable but odoriferous septic tank truck driver. Now, headed to the office, Steve put the pedal to the metal-or was it plastic? — and the little German car pulled even with the long-legged Rollerbladers.

He got to the Les Mannequins building first, thanks to a Miami Beach bicycle cop, a lifeguard type in cargo shorts and epaulet shirt, who pulled over the twins. The official charge was reckless skating, but the cop obviously wanted to meet the leggy speeders, who wore cutoffs with bikini tops.

Steve wheeled the Smart to a stop, perpendicular to the curb, where it fit into a parking space without sticking out into traffic. The two-seater was on loan from Pepe Fernandez, a client whose primary occupation was stealing cargo containers of frozen shrimp from the Port of Miami. The enterprise lost money because Fernandez seldom could sell the booty before it melted into a disgusting crustacean slime. Lately, Fernandez and two buddies had begun boosting imported cars by physically picking them up from the dock and tossing them into waiting trailer trucks. This naturally limited the size of vehicle they could steal and resulted in their inventory of Smarts, cars that made Mini Coopers look like Mack trucks. Ordinarily, Steve would have felt guilty driving a stolen car, but the Smart got approximately five times the mileage of his old Eldo, so he rationalized his actions as good for the environment.

Moments later, he was at his second-floor office overlooking the Dumpster. He'd been planning on putting a plaque on the door:

SOLOMON AND LORD

ATTORNEYS AT LAW

But he'd never gotten around to it. Now it was too late.

"You got checks to sign," Cece Santiago announced as Steve came in the door.

Cece was in her customary position, grinding out bench presses in front of the desk she seldom used. Wearing her uniform, Lycra shorts and a muscle tee, with the requisite three studs through one eyebrow.

"What checks?" Steve asked.

"Court reporter. Credit cards. My salary."

"Didn't I just pay you?"

She eased the bar into the brackets and sat up. "Two months ago. For services two months before that. You owe me like a gazillion dollars."

"You get me an appointment with Reginald Jones?"

"No can do. His assistant says he's in conference all day."

"What about tomorrow?"

"County Commission meeting."

"Thursday, then?"

"Public hearings on a new courthouse in Sweet-water."

"He's scared."

"He's busy." Cece lay back on the bench and began her stomach crunches.

"They're in it together. My father. Pinky. Reggie."

"In what, jefe?"

"I don't know. Something bad."

"Malo? Not your father."

"I wouldn't have thought so. But I'm starting to think that our parents-the people we've known the longest-are the people we know the least, Cece."

"When that stinky old car of yours went off the bridge, just how hard did you hit your head?"

"Don't you start with me."

"You want to lose your papi, too?"

"What do you mean, 'too'?"

"Victoria. Chasing her away. Stupid. Muy stupido, jefe."

That afternoon, Steve sat in the chief clerk's waiting room, reading a stimulating article, "Managing Cubicle Space in the 21st Century Office," in a magazine called Municipal Administrator. The walls were covered with plaques from the Rotary and the Kiwanis and photos of a beaming Reginald Jones with numerous politicos, all wearing their pasted-on, ribbon-cutting, power-brokering smiles. Governor Jeb Bush here, Senator Connie Mack there. Local movers-and-shakers, too. Jones was an African-American man who seemed fond of Italian suits and silk jacquard ties, with kerchiefs in his coat pocket that matched his shirts. The word "dapper" came to mind.

Jones had manned the clerk's desk in Judge Solomon's courtroom all those years ago. Pinky Luber had captained the prosecution table, long before he became a fixer and a perjurious witness. Now Herbert Solomon was covertly calling Jones and mad as hell about Steve finding out about it. Just what was going on with these three, the Bermuda Triangle of the courthouse?

Steve had already downed two cups of motor oil from the coffee machine in the corridor. He'd checked his cell phone for messages from Victoria. Nada. He was camped out with no appointment, but he'd been rehearsing what he would say to Reginald Jones, should he ever get the honor of seeing him. Steve might start off with the bluff:

"I know all about you and Pinky and my old man."

Or maybe the good son approach:

"You can trust me, Reggie. I'm just trying to help out my dad."

Or even a threat:

"You wanna talk to me or the Grand Jury?"

But so far, there'd been no chance to talk to anyone. Mr. Jones was in conference, according to the receptionist charged with keeping vagrants, terrorists, and wayward lawyers out of the chief clerk's inner sanctum.

After what seemed like long enough for most statutes of limitations to expire, an attractive woman in a beige business suit appeared and asked Steve to follow her. They were buzzed into a corridor teeming with deputy clerks parked in front of computers, doing whatever it is that runs the local justice system. At the end of the corridor, the woman dropped him off at a corner conference room with an easterly view. Walking in, Steve could see Biscayne Bay, with Fisher Island and Miami Beach in the background. He could also see two turkey buzzards. One buzzard was perched on the railing outside the window, one was inside, sitting at the conference table. The one inside had a round pink face, a shiny pink head, and a diamond pinky ring.

"Pinky, what the hell you doing here?"

"Same thing I've done for years," Luber said. "Helping my friends."

Outside the window, the buzzard flapped its wings and took off. Steve took a seat. "Where's Reggie Jones?"

"Forget him. He's got nothing for you. But I do." Pinky leaned across the table. "I got a name. Conchy Conklin."

"Who's he?"

"Conklin was in Alabama Jack's the other night, drinking his ass off, throwing hundred-dollar bills around."

"So what?"

"Did I mention he was bowlegged from riding a red Harley he'd parked outside?"

"Keep talking."

"He's flapping his gums about the easiest ten grand he ever made. Messing up some guy in an old Caddy."

"Conchy Conklin," Steve muttered to himself. Trying to find something in the name to spark a memory. Coming up empty.

"Unless his parents were morons, which I don't rule out," Luber said, "I figure 'Conchy' is a nickname."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah. He was bragging about how quick his hands are."

"Quick hands? I don't get it."

"Says he catches snakes barehanded, sells them to reptile farms. Claimed he caught a whole nest of coral snakes on Crab Key last week."

"The son-of-a-bitch." If it was true, Conklin was the guy who ran him off the bridge and planted the snake in Victoria's hotel room. "What else? What about a description?"

"Thirties. Beard. Sunburned. Like he does outdoor work, not a sunbather. He's not a regular at Alabama Jack's. Left the impression he lives farther south in the Keys."

"How do you know all this?"

"Like I told you before, I grease the skids, kid."

"So who hired this Conklin?"

"I give you the moon, you want the stars, too? That's all I know."

Steve would call Sheriff Rask, give him the information, see what he could come up with. "Pinky, why you telling me this?"

"Because I remember you when you were a snotnosed kid. Before you became a snot-nosed lawyer. And I like your old man."

"What do you want in return?"

"What do you think?"

"I'm not dropping Dad's case. I'm gonna get his license back."

Pinky sighed. "Herb thinks you're a helluva fine lawyer."

"No he doesn't."

"Maybe he doesn't say it. But he admires you. Your damn stubbornness probably reminds him of himself. Problem is, you're too close to this one. You got your feelings all wound up in it." Pinky showed a grin that crinkled his cheeks and slitted his eyes. "Just like Hal Griffin's case."

"For a guy barred from every courthouse in the state, you seem to know a lot."

"I know Griffin fired you. And you deserved it. You looked at Griffin's case through your dick, and all you could see was that playboy son. Nothing fouls up the brain cells like a woman."

"How do you know. .?" But then it came to him. There could only be one way. "Dammit, Dad's been talking to you."

"Aw, lay off Herb. He loves you more than you deserve." Luber pulled out a Cuban cigar, the Robusto, and licked the tip with a pink tongue. "What makes you think that waterlogged beach boy is a killer?"

"Go ask my father." Sounding pissy. Feeling confused. His father leaking info about Griffin's case. Reggie Jones refusing to see him but getting Luber to toss him a bone. Just what the hell was going on?

"I know your theory," Luber said. "The son's afraid his rich old man's gonna lose the family fortune if Oceania sinks. That's a negative motive. Damn tough to convey to a jury. Someone with no criminal record offing a guy to prevent a potential future event that might or might not take place. Too iffy. Jurors like evidence they can lay their hands on."

"So who do you think killed Ben Stubbs?"

"Damned if I know. Did you follow the green path, like I told you?"

"I tried. The forty thousand in Stubbs' hotel room is still unaccounted for."

"If you ask me, boychik, whoever paid Stubbs that dough is the same shitbird who hired Conklin to run you off the road and scare the panties off your lady. And whoever that is had a positive motive, not a negative one."

"Someone who would make a ton of money if Oceania sank," Steve said.

"That's what I'm saying."

"So if I find who hired Conklin, I'll find who murdered Stubbs."

"I'd bet on it."

"And you don't want anything in return for this information?"

Pinky grinned, pushed his chair back. "Sure I do, kid. When the time comes, I want you to do the smart thing."