Bobby and Steve were skipping stones across the shallow water, betting who could get the most skips, the loser having to peel mangoes for their afternoon smoothies. Despite his numerous flaws, both personal and professional, Steve was a terrific surrogate father. If Victoria kept a scorecard of her boyfriend's pluses and minuses-and what woman doesn't? — Steve's care for Bobby would be his finest attribute. Once, while sipping a glass of Chardonnay, she had scribbled notes on a legal pad, grading Steve's potential as a life mate:
1. Great parenting skills
2. Makes me laugh
3. Makes me come
The negatives took up two pages, but still, those three positives carried a lot of weight.
Her cell phone rang, the readout showing the hospital. "Morning, Uncle Grif. How do you feel?"
"Lousy, Princess. Those fifty-dollar sleeping pills don't work."
"What about your headache?"
"Like a drill bit going through bedrock."
"How's that guy Stubbs doing?"
"I ask but they don't tell. Listen, Princess-lying awake last night, it all came clear to me. Someone's trying to sink Oceania."
"Oceania?"
"A dream of mine that's almost a reality. It's what I was coming to talk to you about. Junior will tell you everything."
"So who's trying to sink Oceania?"
"Whoever shot Stubbs. That's your case. Someone wanted me out of the picture. No more Hal Griffin, no more Oceania."
Whatever that is. Victoria swatted at her neck, where a mosquito had settled for breakfast.
"What I'm saying," Griffin continued, "if Stubbs doesn't make it and I'm charged with killing him, you can't just poke holes in the prosecution's case."
"That's the way we defend most circumstantial cases. Show reasonable doubt."
"Not enough here. You gotta find the guy who did this."
Oh, is that all? she thought. "Let's pray that Stubbs lives. He'll clear you, right?"
"I hope so."
She had hoped for a confident "Damn right." Not a wishy-washy "I hope so." Griffin's ambiguous answer raised more questions, but you don't ask a client on the phone whether he shot somebody. Instead, she urged him to get some rest, and they clicked off.
She caught up with Steve and Bobby-the Solomon Boys-kneeling, faces close to the sand, as if searching for a lost contact lens. Competing to see who most resembled the white egrets wading in the shallows, pecking their snouts into the water.
Steve stood and spit out a tiny shell, leaving a mustache of wet sand on his upper lip. Looking altogether too innocent for the crafty trial lawyer he was. "So what's our client say?" he asked Victoria.
"That he's been framed."
"Gee. Never heard that one before."
Bobby scrambled to his feet and wiped off his bare knees. He wore cutoffs and a University of Miami football jersey. He was short and skinny, and even Steve's ham-and-cheese paninis and fruit smoothies hadn't put much meat on his bones. "Where's the plane? I'm bored."
"Seaplanes make a helluva racket taking off," Steve said, knowing that loud noises could rattle the boy. "I don't want you to get scared."
The boy snorted a laugh. "I'm not a sis."
"Not saying you are."
"I'm not scared. The Grumman Mallard has a great safety record."
"You researched it?" Victoria asked.
"On the Net. It took, like, thirty seconds. Anything you want to know about flying boats, just ask. Then I checked with NOAA. No storms, winds steady from the southeast." A born mimic, the boy lowered his voice into weatherman mode: "A grand day for flying, fishing, or just relaxing in the sun. More at eleven."
Victoria hoped for a smooth flight. Her stomach was queasy from the mess of sharpies Herbert had fried with cornmeal for breakfast. If catfish at dawn were not enough, he'd also cooked grits with chorizo sausage and cheddar cheese, all washed down with sugar-laced rocket fuel cafe Cubano.
"If you ever need any research, come to me," Bobby instructed. "I'm ten times better than Uncle Steve on the computer."
She tousled his already messy hair. "You're the smartest boy I know."
Victoria adored Bobby and marveled at the progress he'd made. Less than two years earlier, Steve had rescued him from a religious cult, where the boy's mother had abused and neglected him. At first, diagnosed with unnamed central nervous system damage-some characteristics of Asperger's syndrome, some autistic tendencies-the ten-year-old was uncommunicative and afraid, his body wracked with tremors. Doctors could find no organic brain damage, and under Steve's care he rapidly became more socialized. He also began to demonstrate what doctors called paradoxical functional facilitation, a fancy term for savantlike abilities of memorization and echolalia, the ability to repeat verbatim anything he heard or read. Bobby was still nervous around strangers but had warmed up quickly to Victoria. She had become his mother figure and worried what might happen to Bobby if she and Steve ever broke up. Lately, she'd worried about it even more.
Steve, apparently chastised by her criticism of yesterday's T-shirt, had changed into one with a different logo: "The Only Mark I've Made in Life Is in My Underwear." Did he honestly think that was an improvement, or was he just taunting her? Well, it would surely make an impression on Junior Griffin, Mr. Preppy from her past.
Victoria wore a white tank top and a short, crochet ruffle skirt in aquamarine, the same color as the ocean. Her Manolo Blahnik sandals picked up the hue of the skirt. Two sexy side straps ran up to her ankles, drawing attention to her calves. Well, that was the idea, wasn't it? The sandals had been a gift from Steve. Sort of. He'd represented a truck driver at the Port of Miami who had a habit of delivering cargo containers to his own U-Store-It warehouse instead of the proper recipients. Steve lost the case and the truck driver was broke and headed for prison. But a cargo container brimming with expensive Italian shoes had conveniently fallen off his truck before the man's conviction, and Steve was paid in leather, instead of greenbacks. If business didn't pick up, Victoria might go hungry, but never barefoot.
Before leaving Herbert's houseboat, she'd carefully applied eye shadow, a color called "Cognac," which seemed to go well with the Tropical Sunset lipstick. Sexy, sure, but not trampy. Her blond hair was casually messed. What Steve had called her "Meg Ryan look," though the last time Victoria had seen her in a movie, Meg's hair was neither blond nor messed.
Now, on this sticky morning, waiting for the ride to Uncle Grif's private island, Victoria wondered just why she'd taken such care dressing. And what's the pleasurable buzz she was feeling? Was the cafe Cubano even stronger than usual?
Okay, let's be honest here. I'm going to see Junior, all grown up, after all these years.
She shot a look at Steve, who did not seem to share the same electrical buzz. He'd eaten two platefuls of the fried fish and had a sour look of aggravation combined with indigestion.
"How come you slept onshore last night, Uncle Steve?" Crouched at the water's edge, Bobby scooped up crabs no larger than a fingernail.
"The boat makes me seasick."
Bobby laughed. "It doesn't even move."
"I like the hammock."
"I thought it made your back hurt."
Steve grunted something unintelligible.
Bobby looked up at him. "Usually you and Victoria rack out together. But last night-"
"Who are you-Dr. Phil?" Steve interrupted, expelling a burp of fried sharpies.
"Are you two fighting?" Bobby asked.