On the screen, Junior reached over his head, flexed his knees. Then he did a perfect swan dive into the water, clearing the starboard side of the boat by inches and disappearing from view.
"Like I told you before, I went for a swim," Junior said, casually.
"Really?" Steve said. "I thought you were auditioning for La Quebrada."
"The Acapulco cliffs? I dived them when I was in college. Spring break. You?"
"I would have but I was getting arrested in Daytona Beach," Steve claimed. On the screen, the boat blocked any view of Junior. "Where'd you swim to?"
"Around the island. Five miles. I do it every day."
"So when you finished your swim, the cameras would have picked you up again, right?"
"They would, if I'd come back to the dock," Junior explained. "But I always finish at the beach, and there aren't any cameras there."
Meaning an incomplete alibi, Steve thought.
On the dock, Fowles tossed the stern line aboard, and water churned as the engines started up.
And then there were two. Just Hal Griffin and Ben Stubbs on the Force Majeure as it headed out of the cove.
Griffin steered the boat toward open water. Stubbs got out of the fighting chair and walked to the rail, smiling and waving to someone onshore. In a moment, the boat was out of camera range.
"So that's it," Junior said. "Everybody connected with Oceania was there."
"But everybody got off the boat, except your father," Victoria said.
"That doesn't rule out somebody finding a way to get back on," Steve said.
"Okay," Junior said. "Then you've got Clive Fowles, Leicester Robinson, and Delia Bustamante. Three suspects."
"Four, actually," Steve said, looking straight at Junior.
Thirteen
The old Caddy was just north of mile marker 106, headed toward Miami. Steve drove, Victoria alongside, with Bobby reading in the backseat. His grandfather had bought a Harry Potter book, but Bobby had left it behind and brought along a collection of John Updike's early stories. The little wizard-Bobby, not Harry- had already gone through his Philip Roth stage.
" 'He was robed in this certainty,' " Bobby read aloud, " 'that the God who had lavished such craft upon these worthless birds would not destroy His whole Creation by refusing to let David live forever.' "
"What the hell's that?" Steve demanded.
" 'Pigeon Feathers,' " Bobby said. "A boy shoots some pigeons in his family's barn. It's all about the inevitability of death."
"Jeez, Vic. Did you give that to him?" Steve said.
"Bobby wanted something challenging," Victoria said.
"How about cleaning his room?" Steve suggested. "That seems to be quite a challenge."
"Don't discourage Bobby from reading fine literature," Victoria said.
"Or how about doing your homework for once, kiddo?"
"Bor-ing," Bobby sang out.
"And what's with that note I got from your social studies teacher? Two demerits for insubordination?"
"All I did was ask: 'If vegetarians eat vegetables, what do humanitarians eat?' "
"Nobody likes a smart-ass, kiddo."
"Re-al-ly?" Bobby and Victoria shot back in unison.
One hand on the wheel, Steve grumbled something to himself, stewing over Bobby, or Junior, or even her, Victoria figured. As the tires hummed along the roadway, she thought about the man sitting next to her. Her feelings for Steve were so scrambled. They seldom talked about their relationship, never really defined it. They had drifted into monogamy with no plan for the future.
Where are we headed?
Marriage? Steve never brought it up. He had suggested living together, but she thought that had more to do with cutting driving time than a blossoming commitment. They had gotten together while defending Katrina Barksdale on a charge she killed her husband during kinky sex. At the time, Victoria was engaged to Bruce Bigby, avocado grower and grown-up Boy Scout. She had laughed off Steve's flirtations, rebuffed his advances. In truth, she hadn't much liked him. A shark in the courtroom, a wise guy everywhere else. The idea of getting together with him had seemed preposterous.
But something had happened. Steve burned with a joyous fire. He would burst through the courtroom door like a rodeo rider coming out of the chute. Combat juiced him; injustice angered him. Once he believed in his client, he would do anything to win. Sometimes he crossed the line of acceptable behavior, often even erasing it.
"If the law doesn't work, work the law."
At first, Solomon's Laws offended her. And even now Steve's tactics could shock her sense of gentility. But he was right about so many things. You didn't win cases by sticking to the rules carved in the marble pediments. You didn't win by citing precedent. "Your Honor, referring to the venerable case of Boring versus Snoring. ."
You won by finding your opponent's soft spot and attacking. You won with showmanship and flair and, whenever possible, the truth. A trial lawyer is a warrior, a knight in rusty armor, who would often be bloodied but would never surrender. Steve taught her to conquer her fears.
Don't be afraid to lose.
Don't be afraid to look ridiculous.
Don't be afraid to steal home.
He sometimes won impossible cases. When a burglarious client was caught with his fingers lodged in the cash slot of an ATM machine, Steve not only beat the criminal charge, he successfully sued the bank for the man's mashed knuckles.
Steve had style. Prowling the well of the courtroom like a shark in the ocean, woe unto the fatter, slower fish. Where she was tense in trial and could even feel herself trembling during moments of stress, Steve was totally comfortable. It seemed he didn't just own the courtroom, he leased it out to the judge, the prosecutor, the jurors.
Not that the attraction was all intellectual. Steve was undeniably, if unconventionally, sexy. A thatch of dark hair a bit too long. Eyes a deep liquid brown, brightening with mischief. A sly smile, as if he were playing some joke on the world. A bad boy, a sleek male animal with an almost feral look. And an infectious enthusiasm. He had seemed so exciting compared to Bruce Bigby, the South Dade Avocado Growers Man of the Year.
Then there was the night it had snowed in Miami. Victoria and Steve had gone to Bruce's avocado grove to help the workers protect the trees from the frost. Smudge pots curled black smoke into the air; Christmas lights warmed the avocado trees; Benny More's love songs played with a bolero beat. It was a wholly surreal and bizarre night, which still did not explain what had happened.
I made love to Steve Solomon in a chickee hut …on Bruce's farm. Wearing Bruce's engagement ring! What a slut!
She had lived a life of rigid propriety, had never even cheated on a boyfriend, much less her fiance. But what a red-hot connection, her feelings crackling with electricity. Of course, the relationship couldn't sustain the heat of those first encounters. Every affaire d'amour has its peaks and valleys, she reminded herself.
And ditches and gulleys and sinkholes and deep, deep canyons.