"Forty thousand in cash?" Griffin said. "Where'd Stubbs get that kind of money, Princess?"
"I was hoping you'd know."
"Stubbs dying is bad. The money only makes it worse. Someone's gonna say I was bribing the bastard."
"To do what?" Thinking Uncle Grif's sympathy seemed to be reserved for himself.
"Not that Stubbs didn't hint around. Sees my house, says something about how he got into the wrong racket. Gets on the boat, same thing. 'You builders got more money than Croesus.' Jesus, Princess, this is just like with Nelson and me."
The mention of her father's name startled her. "What do you mean?"
"Those condo towers on the beach up in Broward. Some snitch claimed we were bribing zoning officers, but we weren't. A competitor of ours paid the son-of-abitch to make it up. It's one of the things that drove Nelson over the edge."
"What were the others, Uncle Grif?"
"Aw, jeez, Princess. I'm not a shrink, and it was a long time ago."
She heard a voice in the background on the line, then Griffin told her a doctor needed to examine him.
After the phone clicked off, Steve said: "Let me guess. Uncle Grif's conscience cried out and he confessed."
"Do me a favor, Steve. When we meet Junior, drop the sarcasm."
"Why? Won't he get it?"
The Grumman swooped low over the crystalline water, the engines a peaceful drone. No one had spoken for thirty minutes-meaning it had been half an hour since Victoria reminded Steve she was sitting first chair-when Bobby shouted: "Dolphins!"
They looked out the windows. Below them, two bottlenose dolphins leapt skyward, knifed back into the water, then leapt again. All in perfect unison.
"Yeah, your buddies," Steve enthused. Wondering if the dolphins were mates. Wondering, too, if the female complained, "Next time, I'll say when we jump." And was the male confused when she said she was tired of being treated like one of his groupers?
"They're beautiful," Victoria said.
"Tursiops truncatus," Bobby said.
The kid knew his dolphins. He'd studied them, telling Steve that fifty million years ago otters returned to the sea, where they developed into the silvery creatures who can swim at thirty knots and can be trained by the Navy to clear harbors of mines. For nearly a year, Bobby had been a regular at a dolphin sanctuary on Key Largo. That first day, he was afraid of the animals. Of course, then he feared people, too. The kid had all the symptoms of the abused child: nightmares, tantrums, eating disorders. But once he was in the water, the dolphins seemed to calm him, taking to him immediately, pinging him with their sonarlike sound waves, which Bobby said tickled him all over, then letting him hitch rides, or nudging him through the water with their snouts.
A marine biologist at the facility told Steve that dolphins somehow sense when children are ill. Something to do with their echolocation abilities. Dolphins emit ultrasound frequencies, like an MRI scan in a medical facility, he said. If you put four healthy children in the water and one suffering from Down's syndrome or leukemia or autism or cerebral palsy, a dolphin will approach the ill child.
Hanging out with Bobby alongside the penned-off canal in Key Largo, listening to the dolphins chirp and creak, Steve learned all the stories about their strange powers. There was JoJo, the docile female dolphin who one day inexplicably butted a girl in the rib cage. The bruise was so severe, the girl was treated at the hospital, where an X-ray revealed a tumor in her abdomen. Doctors dismissed the idea that JoJo had intentionally communicated her knowledge of the girl's condition, but the dolphin experts at the facility disagreed.
Though he didn't want to get all New Agey about it, Steve figured there just might be something to the healing and rescue powers of the dolphins.
Once in the water with the sleek animals, Bobby had quickly loosened up. He played with them, returned their affection, splashed them when they slapped the water to douse him. He had his favorite, Bucky, a speedy male with a pink-striped belly. Bobby would stroke Bucky's fluke and imitate his high-pitched squeaks and creaks. He told Steve he understood the dolphin's language. Bucky would say when he was tired or bored or hungry-and specifically whether he preferred smelt or herring for lunch. Bobby said Bucky understood him, too, and Steve wondered whether a relationship with a fifty-million-year-old species called "Tursiops truncatus" might be easier than one with a modern woman.
Now the seaplane skimmed over the Gulf, temporarily cooling the simmering dispute between Steve and Victoria. The water color kept changing, from turquoise to emerald to muddy brown to muted rust, depending on the depth and the grasses and coral below. He watched the shadow of the plane as it crossed miniature islands, some little more than marshy savannahs and woody hammocks poking out of the sea.
Steve was still thinking about what Sheriff Rask had told them. Ben Stubbs died without regaining full consciousness. There'd be no "Griffin shot me" statements. Once the Grand Jury handed up the indictment, it would be a purely circumstantial case. Steve still wondered about Stubbs raising two fingers in the ICU. Had he meant there'd been two attackers? Or was he giving the old "peace" sign? Or maybe just waving good-bye?
Even before Griffin was officially charged, there were things to be done. Jury selection didn't begin in the courthouse. It started in the news media and spread to the taverns and beauty parlors and coffee shops. Steve was already planning a statement for his client.
"Harold Griffin, noted builder and philanthropist, deeply regrets the unfortunate accident at sea that claimed the life of a dedicated public servant."
Steve hadn't a clue if Griffin was a philanthropist, but it sounded better than "a rich dude who builds mammoth resorts in environmentally sensitive ecosystems."
"Just a few more minutes, folks," the pilot said over the speaker. He was a man in his forties with wispy blond hair and a sunburned face. Wearing chino safari shorts and a navy blue shirt with epaulets, he spoke with a British accent, telling them his name was Clive Fowles. Pronouncing it "Foals." He had invited Bobby to sit copilot in what he called his "magic flying boat," but the boy, always shy with strangers, turned him down. Then he'd offered to take them all diving on the reef if their stay allowed it.
"Anything you need, just ring up Captain Clive," Fowles told them as they settled into their seats. "Mr. G told me to take good care of you."
"Mr. G, Senior, or Mr. G, Junior?" Steve asked.
"Only one Mr. G," Fowles said. "That's the boss."
Now, as they neared Paradise Key, Steve glanced at Victoria. She was staring out at the sea, quietly smiling to herself.
"Excited about seeing the hottest boy at Pinecrest?" Steve asked.
"Do you remember the first girl you kissed?"
"Sarah Gropowitz. Beach Middle School."
"You ever think of her?"
"Only when I send a check to the ACLU. She runs the Equal Rights for Lesbians Committee."
Victoria turned to look at him.
"But my kissing her didn't make her that way," Steve defended himself.
"Would you at least concede the possibility of cause and effect?"
"Sharks!" Bobby shouted.
Sure enough, maybe a dozen sharks were cruising the shallow water, the plane's shadow darting over them. Well, why not? They were flying over Shark Channel just off Upper Matecumbe Key. Suddenly two sharks leapt out of the water.
"Spinners, Uncle Steve. A hunting party."
Bad omen, Steve thought, just as Fowles said over the speaker, "Paradise Key. Dead ahead."