"Maybe it just needed some decorating," Junior said, and Victoria's spirits sank. Had the literary reference sailed by him like a catamaran in a gale? But then, Junior laughed and let them know he'd been joking. "Sometimes I wish I had a Dickensian upbringing. Builds character, don't you think?"
"Didn't work with Steve," Victoria said.
How about that, Steve the Slasher? The hottest boy at Pinecrest can go toe-to-toe with you.
The elevation climbed slightly as the flagstone path curled around a stand of coconut palms. "Steve, you move like an athlete," Junior said.
"You staring at my ass?" Steve shot back.
"No, I mean it. The way you walk. Graceful-like."
"Uncle Steve played baseball at U of M," Bobby announced, proudly.
"See," Junior said. "I can tell."
Victoria took stock of the moment. There was Steve, pissy as a skunk, and there was Junior, exuding charm. Guileless and confident. So much to like about him.
"Uncle Steve still holds the record for stolen bases in playoff games," Bobby continued.
"Wow," Junior said. "Ever play in the College World Series?"
"Yeah, but I don't brag about it."
" 'Course not," Bobby said. "You got picked off third in the championship game."
"Really? That's hard to do, isn't it? Getting picked off third base, I mean."
"Bad call," Steve defended himself. "I got in under the tag."
"But Uncle Steve caught hell," Bobby added. "Bottom of the ninth. Probably cost the 'Canes the title. That's why they call him 'Last Out Solomon.' "
"Thanks a lot, kiddo," Steve said.
"That's too bad, Steve," Junior said. "I had no idea."
It struck Victoria then. That "move like an athlete" stuff. Junior had set Steve up. He had intended to draw out the most humiliating moment of Steve's life.
"I had no idea"? Hah. You knew exactly what you were doing.
Meaning he'd researched Steve. And her, too, she supposed. Meaning also that there was far more to grown-up Junior than his suntan and amazing pecs.
"I like solitary sports," Junior said, as they neared the house. "Maybe it's because I'm an only child."
"I wish I were," Steve said.
"Then I wouldn't be here, Uncle Steve," Bobby said.
"Good point. I withdraw the remark. And I'm glad my sister's a nutcase, or you wouldn't be living with me."
The path ended at the house, the highest point on the small island. On one side of the house, a helicopter pad. On the other, a negative-edge swimming pool. And down a slight grade, a private beach of white sand. As they walked, Junior told them of his love of the water. He was a windsurfer and a kitesurfer, a distance swimmer and a scuba diver. But most of all, he loved free diving off Cabo San Lucas, sinking as deep as possible with no oxygen except what you can hold in your lungs.
He told them about his rigorous physical training, claimed he could hold his breath for five minutes and twenty seconds and consciously reduce his pulse rate to twenty beats per minute. He told them about the terrifying thrill of being attached to a weighted sled and descending to 400 feet-the world record was 558 feet, but that diver died-and the searing pain in his chest as his lungs shriveled to the size of a fist. He told them about rocketing back to the surface like a human missile on the air-powered sled, about the hallucinations from nitrogen narcosis, about the fear that his heart would burst, his brain explode. And that was the exhilarating kick, the electrical charge of the sport, the knowledge that every time you slipped into your wet suit, you taunted the angel of death.
And when he was done, it was Victoria who said, "Wow."
As they approached the coral rock steps leading to the front door of Casa de la Sol, Steve asked: "What was Ben Stubbs doing on your father's boat?"
He asked the question so quickly, Victoria had been caught off guard.
Dammit! Breaking his promise that I take the lead.
"Now, that's a long story," Junior said.
"Does it have something to do with Oceania?" Victoria asked. Trying to seize the momentum from Steve.
"Everything to do with it," Junior agreed cheerfully. "In case Dad didn't explain it, Oceania's going to be a floating hotel."
"Isn't that a cruise ship?" Steve asked.
"Trust me, nothing like it."
"Where would the hotel be built?" Victoria fired off the question before Steve could follow up.
"In the Gulf. Four miles west of Boca Chica."
While Steve and Victoria tried to picture exactly where that would be, Bobby piped up: "That's a marine sanctuary. There's a big coral reef and a zillion fish."
"Right," Steve said. "Federally protected. How can you build out there?"
"That's why Stubbs was so important. He was the EPA guy who could say yea or nay."
"Which was it?" Victoria asked.
"Thumbs-up. He'd already prepared a draft of his report. With all the safeguards to protect the reef, Stubbs was on board. All he needed was to talk to you two about the paperwork for the permits."
"So your father had no motive to hurt him?" Victoria said, as they paused at the top step.
"Just the opposite," Junior answered. "Stubbs was crucial to our getting the project approved. Whoever killed him wanted to stop Oceania."
"Did your father tell you what happened on the boat?" Steve asked.
"Only that he came down the ladder, saw Stubbs with the spear in his chest, tried to get back up to the bridge, then somehow got knocked unconscious. He came to, passed out again. Next thing he knew, they'd crashed on the beach."
Exactly what Uncle Grif told us, Victoria thought. "What about all that money on the boat?"
"That's just Dad. He likes the feel of having lots of cash around."
"The money was in waterproof bags," Steve said. "What was that about?"
Junior shrugged. "On a boat, that makes sense, doesn't it?"
"Actually, there's a lot that doesn't make any sense. A hundred thousand on the boat. Forty thousand in Stubbs' hotel room. The spear in Stubbs' chest."
"There's something I should tell you," Junior said. "Something I feel terrible about."
"What?" Victoria asked.
"In a way, I'm responsible for Stubbs' death."
"How?" they asked simultaneously.
"That was my speargun."
SOLOMON'S LAWS
4. You can sell one improbable event to a jury. A second "improb" is strictly no sale, and a third sends your client straight to prison.
Ten
"There's something I need to show you that will explain a lot," Junior said.
"The speargun," Steve said, intending to stay on track. "How about an explanation of that?"
"Not a problem. But there's a lot more to this than the speargun."
Junior Griffin was leading the three of them through the foyer of the house, all limestone floors and rich wood paneling. On one wall were brightly colored paintings that seemed to be Haitian in origin. On another, open-mouthed, mounted fish, including the largest amberjack Steve had ever seen. Plump and silvery, with a yellow racing stripe, the fellow had to be six feet long. Next to the fat jack was an even more impressive specimen, a blue-striped, scaly-hided, lantern-jawed tarpon that, according to a brass plaque, weighed 271 pounds and was caught by Hal Griffin off the coast of Cuba on a twenty-pound test line. It must have been a hell of a fight, Steve thought, reading the inscription: Runner-up, Ernest Hemingway International Fishing Tournament. For a moment, Steve wondered whether the owner of the Force Majeure was ever satisfied with second place.
"I have quite a collection of spearguns," Junior said. "Excalibur, Rhino, Beuchat, plus some classic handmade mahogany and teak guns from the fifties and sixties. And I make my own. Made an eight-bander that can bring down a thousand-pound tuna."