Fowles nodded his good-byes and headed across Whitehead Street.
"What's with him?" Steve asked.
"If Uncle Grif is convicted, he's out of work."
"Yeah, maybe." Steve watched Fowles disappear into the bar, passing under the sign in the doorway: No Sniveling Since 1890. "Anyway, like I said, Vic, if you need anything, I'm here for you."
Do I need anything? Let's make a list. Peace of mind. Self-confidence. And a stunning cross-examination wouldn't hurt, either.
"I'm fine," she said.
"How are your experts coming along?"
"The prof from Columbia will say it's possible Stubbs shot himself loading the speargun. The angle of entry is a little problematic, but it might work."
"Except …?"
"What you said that first day. We can sell one improbability to the jury, but when we start compounding improbables, we lose."
"Griffin being knocked unconscious being the second improbable."
"Without an explanation, it kills us. If we're saying Stubbs shot himself, then there's no assailant hiding on board who also knocks out Griffin. We're stuck arguing that Griffin fell down the ladder and conveniently knocked himself out. No one will buy it. Hell, I don't buy it."
"You check the weather for that day?"
"I remember the weather. It was warm and clear. We were standing in the surf, and you were trying to get into my bikini."
"The way I remember it, you were putting the moves on me."
"Just one of our many differing observations."
"You really should check the weather with NOAA."
"Eighty-one degrees, sixty-nine percent humidity. Southeast wind at ten to twelve knots. Light chop on inland waters. Three foot seas." She gave him her best smart-ass smile. The smile she'd picked up from him. "Like to know the barometric pressure?"
"What about the Coast Guard?"
"What about them?"
"Any boats capsize? Any rescues in the area? Maybe there was a rogue wave. A mini-tsunami."
"A mini-tsunami? Why not Moses parting the Gulf?
You want to add another improbable? I know you're
trying to help, Steve. Sorry if I'm being bitchy." "No problem." She took the briefcase from his hand. "Thanks. I've
got to go. Meet-" "Junior for lunch," Steve said. "I know."
Forty-three
"The Coast Guard rescued a couple fishermen off Raccoon Key, but nothing else that day," Bobby said.
"The fishermen report any rogue waves?" Steve asked.
"They reported drinking a case of Bud and one guy hooking the other's ear with a shank barb." The kid gave him a told-you-so smirk. "Then they ran the boat onto a sandbar."
"It was worth a shot."
They were aboard Herbert's sagging houseboat, Bobby working at his laptop computer, a printed map of the Eastern Gulf spread in front of him. As soon as Steve stepped onto the creaky deck, Herbert took off, claiming he had to run errands. Steve wondered if his father was avoiding him, but in truth, the cupboards were bare of Bacardi.
"I checked the satellite photos, Uncle Steve. No tidal waves, no tsunamis, no flying saucers."
"Don't you start with me, too. Victoria already gave me grief."
"So maybe Mr. Griffin just fell down the ladder."
"Dammit, don't give up so easily."
"You mad at me about something, Uncle Steve?"
"Sorry. I missed lunch. I'm just hungry."
"You're horny. You miss Victoria."
"Mind your own business." Steve leaned over Bobby's shoulder. "What's that on the screen?"
"A shot from the NOAA Eastern Gulf satellite. The day of the boat crash." Steve peered at the monitor: green islands in a turquoise sea. Bobby pointed to a white speck on the screen. "There's the Force Majeure."
"No shit?"
"Cool, huh? I followed it all the way to Key West, except for when it got cloudy around Big Torch Key."
"The picture on the monitor now. Where is that?"
"Just west of Black Turtle Key. The island there…" He pointed at a tiny green speck.". . it's got no name. That's where Mr. Griffin stopped to pick up the lobsters."
"And the money. Don't forget about the money." Steve studied the image. There was another boat visible on the screen. Thinner and nearly as long as the Force Majeure. "How far away is that boat?"
"Little more than a mile. You can tell from the grid lines."
"Can you back up the pictures? Follow the Force Majeure all the way from Paradise Key?"
"I know what you're thinking, Uncle Steve. Did that other boat trail them out there and somebody come aboard and shoot Mr. Stubbs. But that boat got there first, then just sort of stayed in the same spot for a while."
Steve strained his eyes, staring at the long thin boat, a blade in the water. It wasn't a typical fishing boat. More like a speedboat. A Fountain Lightning, or a Magnum, or a Cigarette. Capable of astounding speeds. What was it doing anchored or idling in the middle of nowhere? Of course, the answer could be innocent. The occupants could have been having a picnic or a nap or an orgy.
"Where'd the boat come from? Did you track it back?"
Bobby shook his head. "I told you, it got there before the Force Majeure, so I didn't think it meant anything."
"Do it now."
Bobby made a face, hit some keys, and the screen flicked with dozens of images. Time was being reversed, the long skinny boat heading back to wherever it departed shore. The photos finally stopped at an overhead view of scores of boats lined up at several parallel docks.
"Where are we?" Steve asked.
Bobby checked the coordinates against his map. "A marina on Lower Matecumbe Key."
"What time is it?"
In the corner of the screen was the digital readout: "15:51 GMT."
"Ten-fifty-one a.m, our time," Bobby said.
"The Force Majeure left Paradise Key fourteen minutes earlier," Steve said. Remembering the time code on the security cameras. "Start it up again, Bobby. Let's see how close the mystery boat comes to Paradise Key."
The images clicked by again, the boat nearing the tip of Griffin's island.
"Does it stop anywhere?" Steve asked.
"I don't know. I just speed-clicked through these before. I mean, it didn't seem important. There's no way it followed the Force Majeure."
"Don't get defensive. You're doing a great job, kiddo. Now, please slow it down."
Bobby hit more keys. On the screen, the boat remained in the same place inside one of the grids. Then it started moving again. "There, Uncle Steve. It's stopped, but only for like thirty seconds."
"And that's Paradise Key." Even from high altitude, he could spot the lagoon with the huge house on the small island. "Maybe two miles away, right?"
"I know what you're thinking, Uncle Steve."
"Oh, you do?"
"Yeah. You think Junior Griffin swam out to meet the boat. It picked him up and took him to the no-name island. He waited for the Force Majeure, sneaked aboard, and shot Mr. Stubbs with the speargun."
"The thought crossed my mind." He gestured toward the screen. "Keep going."
Bobby clicked to fast-forward mode. After a blur of images, the photos slowed to a crawl. Now both boats were on the screen. "This is where the speedboat passes the Force Majeure."
"How fast they going?"
"Really fast. Like maybe fifty knots."
"In a big hurry to go nowhere."
The mystery boat slowed as it approached Black Turtle Key. Precisely where Griffin's lobster traps were submerged just offshore a no-name island. Bobby had been partly right. The boat hadn't followed the Force Majeure. It didn't have to; it got there first.