Trial and Error

Thirty-six

“Didn’t I talk to you an hour ago?” Agent Parsons sounded irritated.

“I just figured out what Grisby did,” Steve said. “Actually, my nephew helped a lot, but he always lets me take the credit.”

Steve pulled into a parking spot on Ponce de Leon Boulevard. He was meeting Victoria and Bobby for dinner in ten minutes. But Agent Parsons had given him her cell phone number, and now he told her his theory about Grisby’s double-cross.

“Grisby has a building he calls ‘the infirmary.’ It’s an oversize quonset hut, out of sight behind some palm trees. It has a big dolphin tank with a spillway into the channel. Bobby says that’s got to be where he’s keeping the dolphins. If you get a search warrant and a squad of marshals, we can hit the place tonight.”

“Now? Saturday night?”

“What’s the matter, they don’t pay you overtime?”

“I don’t have the authority to seek a search warrant on a Wednesday morning, much less call a federal judge at home on a Saturday night. I need to speak to my superiors.”

“Fine. Do it now.”

“And just what crime am I supposedly investigating?”

“Murder, for starters. Grisby assassinated Sanders.”

“No federal jurisdiction. You know that, Solomon.”

“How about insurance fraud?”

“Outside the scope of my investigation. I’m not after the fish-park guy.”

Steve didn’t take the time to explain that dolphins aren’t fish. “What are you, a salesclerk at Macy’s? This isn’t your department?”

“We have procedures, Solomon. We have an office flow chart.”

“That’s why people hate the government. And department stores.”

“Relax, Solomon. First thing Monday morning, I’ll bring it up in a staff meeting. Don’t bother me till then.”

The phone clicked off just as Steve called her a word that rhymes with “rich.”

A moment later, Victoria pulled into the parking spot in front of him, swinging her Mini Cooper to the curb without having to back up. She got out of the car, and Steve waited for the passenger door to open. But it didn’t.

Where’s Bobby?

“Bobby said you wanted him to stay off his feet,” Victoria told Steve. “Something about tomorrow’s game.”

“I didn’t mean he shouldn’t come to dinner.”

They were seated at a corner table in Restaurant St. Michel, a romantic dining spot in a 1920’s hotel. A pianist played “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” and diners whispered to one another in the elegant art deco room. Steve figured that Victoria, consistent to her core, would order sugarcane skewered pork tenderloin with a rum molasses glaze. She wouldn’t touch the grilled pineapple plantain chips, so he would clean off her plate along with his filet mignon tartar. Bobby loved the crab cakes, so it puzzled Steve that his nephew hadn’t come along.

“What was Bobby doing when you left?” he asked.

“Eating a cheese sandwich and working on the computer.”

Steve made a hmm-ing sound.

“What are you worried about?” she asked.

“I’m not sure.”

“I told Bobby we’d be home early and we’d bring him dessert.”

“What’d he ask for? Tiramisu or key lime pie?”

“Neither. He said he didn’t want to overload on sugar.”

Steve thought that over. Maybe the boy was just worried about the game. “I told Bobby he was pitching, and I think it scared him a little.”

“How’d you get Ira Kreindler to let Bobby pitch?”

“I haven’t yet, but I’ll persuade him.”

“How? You know what a hardhead he is.”

“You still have that gun Pincher gave you?”

“I’m serious, Steve. You shouldn’t get Bobby’s hopes up if you can’t deliver.”

“I never make a promise to you or Bobby that I can’t keep.”

“What bothers me are the methods you use to keep those promises.”

“Let’s not fight about it. Let’s eat and get home, so I can talk to Bobby.”

Victoria picked up the menu and studied it.

“I’ll eat your pineapple chips,” Steve offered.

“I’m not ordering pork tenderloin. I’m getting the yellowtail snapper with the curry sauce.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t look so disappointed. You can order pineapple chips on the side.”

“It’s not that. You’re becoming less predictable.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“I don’t know.”

“People grow, Steve. They change.”

“They become prosecutors.”

“Don’t start on that. Now, tell me everything that happened today.”

“I thought I already had.”

“You gave me bits and pieces. Start at the beginning.”

Steve did as he was told. It had been an eventful day.

Mai Ling leading him to FBI Agent Constance Parsons.

Agent Parsons turning out to be Nash’s girlfriend Passion Conner.

Sanders meeting with Grisby two days before the raid and likely blackmailing him long before that.

Parsons letting the raid go ahead in order to nail Hardcastle.

Bobby figuring out that Grisby still had the dolphins.

Victoria listened attentively. Unlike Steve, she seldom interrupted. She liked to vacuum up every bit of information and process it a moment or two before responding. This time a glass of California wine helped the processing. A Sangiovese from Eberle Winery. Victoria said it tasted of cherry cola and raspberries, with a hint of licorice. Steve thought it tasted like a damn good Chianti; but then, he was no expert.

“Look at all of Grisby’s connections to Sanders,” Steve said, summing up. “The first insurance claim. Sanders showing up at Cetacean Park just before the raid. Grisby lying in wait for him with a shotgun. I’ll bet I can find a money trail from Grisby to Sanders, proving the blackmail and furnishing the motive for murder.”

“What about those two guys from Hardcastle, the ones in the Lincoln?”

“Yeah? What about them?”

“Grisby double-crossed them, too, right?”

“Sure. They thought Sanders had it all worked out with Grisby. Make it look like an animal rights attack and haul the dolphins away in the confusion.”

Victoria signaled the waiter for a refill on the wine. “So, if Bobby figured that the dolphins are back at the park, wouldn’t those two guys figure the same thing?”