"That's Leicester Robinson with Fowles," Junior said. "Robinson Barge and Tow. A native Conch, fifth generation Key West, at least. Leicester has the Oceania contract to ferry workers and material to the site."
"So no motive to stop the project," Steve said.
"Just the opposite. He would have made a fortune."
"Would have?" Victoria tucked a leg underneath her. "You make it sound like the project's dead."
"Not dead, Tori. But we have to face facts. No more stealth permits. Oceania's gonna come under intense scrutiny. The gambling lobby will line up against us. Indian money. Casino money. And if Dad's convicted of murder, everything stops."
"But if he's acquitted. ."
"In projects this size, there's a momentum factor. You line up the investment bankers and the foreign investors and the insurance carriers, and you gotta move quickly. Any unfavorable publicity, delays, scandals. . the bad karma spreads like a red tide."
"Anything else about Robinson we should know?" Steve asked.
"He's a character," Junior said. "He puts on this tough-guy exterior. Wears a skull-and-crossbones ring because his ancestors were supposedly pirates. Pilots tugboats and operates barges and knows how to handle cranes and pile drivers. But he's got an English degree from Amherst, a master's in history, too. If he hadn't come home to take over the family business, he'd probably be some Ivy League professor."
In Steve's experience, history professors were unlikely assassins unless they bored you to death. "What about Fowles?"
"Ex-British Navy. Submariner. Fought in the Falklands. Was living in the Bahamas trying to build two-man submarines when Dad met him. Boat captain. Scuba diver. Pilot. Jack-of-all-trades. He's been with Dad fifteen years."
"Trustworthy?"
"A good man. Drinks a little too much, but down here, who doesn't?"
"What's Fowles' connection to Oceania?" Victoria asked.
"Overall troubleshooter during construction," Junior replied. "Dive master once we start reef tours for the guests."
Again, no motive, Steve thought.
"On his days off, Fowles takes marine biology students out to the reef for cleanup dives," Junior said. "They haul up all the crap the boaters toss overboard. Once a year he takes a fish census."
"What's he do, knock on the coral?" Steve inquired. "Ask how many barracuda live there?"
"He counts fish with a bunch of volunteer divers. It's how you judge the health of the ecosystem. Fowles is an excellent diver, really knows his sea life. He'd be the key man for the underwater tours."
On the screen, the glass door to the salon slid open, and Junior walked out. Wearing his Speedos. Barefoot and bare-chested, as usual. He said something to Robinson and Stubbs, then climbed the ladder to the fly bridge, graceful as a high diver scooting up the ten-meter board. Once he got to the control panel, he hit some switches.
"Checking the NOAA weather for Dad," he explained.
The salon door opened again, and this time, a tall, caramel-complexioned woman with long, dark hair stepped into the cockpit. The woman seemed to blink against the glare of the sun, then put on large, stylish sunglasses. She wore a light-colored, low-cut, spaghetti-strapped sundress, and for just a moment, as she walked across the cockpit, hips in full, fluid motion, breasts straining at the thin fabric, Steve thought she resembled a young Sophia Loren. One difference, though. He had never made love to Sophia Loren.
"Who's that?" Victoria asked. Putting a little disapproval into the "that," Steve thought.
"Ah," Junior said. "That sweet confection is-"
"Delia Bustamante!" Steve immediately regretted the exhilaration in his voice.
Victoria turned toward him, studied his profile in the semidarkness. "You know her, Steve?"
"Last I saw her," Steve said carefully, aiming for nonchalance, "she owned a Cuban restaurant in Key West."
Victoria kept quiet, but he could read her cross-examining mind. "And just when was the last time you saw her?"
"Havana Viejo," Junior helped out. "Great Cuban food. Plus, Delia's on the Monroe County Environmental Advisory Board. Dad brought her into his circle, tried to get her support. Even offered her a consultant's job in food services at Oceania. Big bucks, little work."
"In other words, a bribe?" Steve said.
"A well-intended favor," Junior replied. For a beach bum, he had a way with words.
"If I know Delia, she wouldn't go for it," Steve said. Feeling Victoria alongside, shifting onto one hip on the love seat.
"Delia told Dad that Oceania was a blight," Junior continued. "Worse than drilling for oil. She raised all the bugaboos. Pollution in the Gulf. Traffic congestion at the hydrofoil ports. Increase in crime up and down the Keys. Gambling addictions, poor slobs tossing the rent money into the slots. She was gonna blow the project out of the water. Her exact words."
"I can picture Delia saying that," Steve said, "but I don't see her killing anyone."
"How would you know that?" Victoria asked, her tone even.
"Some things you intuitively know about people."
"Just how well do you know her?" Her voice still neutral, so clean as to be positively antiseptic.
"Before you and I met, like a couple years before we met, Delia and I. ."
What was the word? What was the phrase they were using these days? "Hooked up"? But that was so juvenile, and he was, after all, an adult, at least chronologically.
"Fucked each other's brains out?" Victoria suggested. Ever helpful.
"Well," Steve said. "Not only that."
Aargh. He'd blundered. Because, in fact, his relationship with Delia had been pretty much limited to mutual lust. He lusted for her luscious lechon asado as well as her luscious self. He'd gained ten pounds in the short time they'd dated.
Her thing was having sex out-of-doors, something that seemed more enticing in the telling than the doing, once you've rolled bare-assed over pine needles a few times. Their long-distance coupling-it's a four-hour drive from Miami-lasted three months. Either she'd run out of locations to expose her ass to the moonlight, or he'd gotten tired of her roasted pork and sweet plantains. He couldn't quite remember which. So his "not only that" was both misleading and destined to bring another unwanted question.
"What else was it besides sex?" Victoria's tone took on the flavor of the prosecutor she once was. "Just how would you describe the relationship?"
"Brief," Steve said. "I'd describe it as brief."
"Well, perhaps you'll have some insight into Ms. Bustamante when we interview her."
Was Steve imagining it, or did Victoria hit the "we" a little hard?
On the screen, several things happened in the next few moments. Delia seemed to say her good-byes to Fowles and Robinson. Then Fowles offered an arm so she could step onto the dock, showing some tapered calves as she left.
Moments later, the salon door opened again and Griffin walked out, talking over his shoulder to someone following him. Ben Stubbs. Looking considerably better than he had in the ICU. A slim man, in his forties. Skinny legs under baggy khaki shorts, a papershuffler's paunch visible under his polo shirt, deck shoes with socks. He actually looked like a Washington bureaucrat on vacation.
A few more flicks of the cameras, and Griffin was gesturing toward Stubbs. One hand, then the other, then both. Were they angry gestures?
Steve leaned forward. "Was your father arguing with Stubbs?"
"Don't know. I was up on the bridge, and the radio was on."
"Did you know your father was stopping at an island to pick up lobsters?"
In the darkness next to him, Junior shrugged. "Never mentioned it to me."
On the screen, Robinson and Fowles stepped onto the dock. That left just three people on the boat, the two Griffins and Stubbs. Then Hal Griffin climbed the ladder to the fly bridge, the captain about to take command. Stubbs stayed in the cockpit, plopping down in one of the fighting chairs. On the dock, Fowles came back into view, kneeling near the bow, untying a line from a cleat, and tossing it aboard. Back on the fly bridge, Griffin said something to Junior and gave him an affectionate clop on the shoulder. Junior climbed onto the rail and balanced there a moment, looking like some ancient statue intended to deify the human form. He turned to face the water, his profile to the camera. Even on the grainy video, one thing was clear-that damn bulge in his Speedos.