Victoria Lord, attorney-at-law. Sole practitioner.
Dammit! How could she get Steve to accept that?
Now, there's a guy who really fills a hospital bed, Steve thought, getting a glimpse of Harold Griffin. Burly chest, wide shoulders, thick neck, a white bandage on his forehead, and his right arm in a sling. A still handsome, still rugged man in his mid-sixties, Griffin had pale blue eyes and bushy, sun-bleached eyebrows.
"My God, you're all grown up, Princess," Griffin said as Victoria walked to his bedside.
"How are you feeling, Uncle Grif?"
"Nothing but a separated shoulder, a couple cuts, and a monster headache." He looked toward Steve. "You must be the young man Victoria mentioned."
"Steve Solomon." Wondering just what Victoria had said. "Young man" made him sound like a boyfriend, which he was. But this was business, right? Hadn't Victoria told him about the firm? "I'm Victoria's partner."
"Partner," Griffin repeated. "Used to be, when you said you were someone's partner, everybody knew what you meant. Like Victoria's father and me. Borrowed money together, built condos together, covered each other's ass. These days, it might mean a couple of interior decorators playing house." He barked a laugh and said, "Come to think of it, they're covering each other's ass, too."
"What happened out there, Mr. Griffin?" Steve asked.
"Call me Grif. I was bringing Stubbs down from Paradise Key to discuss the new project. Ben Stubbs from Washington. Environmental Protection Agency. Poor sucker's in the ICU right now. Never saw so much blood in my life, and I was in 'Nam."
"What's the EPA have to do with your project?" Victoria asked.
Griffin motioned her to move closer. "Cop still in the hall?"
"Right outside the door."
"Did he happen to say if he was protecting me or confining me?"
"Didn't say anything, Uncle Grif."
True, Steve thought. The deputy, a gum-chewing, jug-eared, close-shaved kid, had been too busy gaping at Victoria's tanned legs.
"Can't talk to you about Stubbs until we sweep for bugs," Griffin whispered. "I once bid on a shopping center in Singapore. Figured my hotel room might be bugged, so I made all my calls from the bathroom after turning on the shower. But every move I made, a competitor beat me to the punch. Turned out, there was a bug in the toilet-roll dispenser."
In Key West, Steve thought, the only bugs in hotel bathrooms were likely to have eight legs. He couldn't envision Willis Rask, the sheriff, illegally eavesdropping in a hospital room. Same for State Attorney Richard Waddle, even if his nickname was "Dickwad."
"Can you just tell us what happened on the boat?" Victoria asked.
Griffin used his good arm to wave them even closer. Victoria scooted along one side of the bed, Steve the other. It was starting to look like a sleepover at Never-land Ranch. Griffin continued so softly, it was nearly impossible to hear him. "I don't know how the hell Stubbs got that spear in his chest. And that's the truth."
"You make any stops? Refuel, that sort of thing?" Steve asked. Thinking they needed a third party coming aboard. A mermaid with a speargun would do.
Griffin looked around, as if someone might be listening. When he didn't find anyone, he whispered: "One quick stop. A couple miles west of Black Turtle Key, one of those no-name islands. I keep my lobster pots offshore there. Pulled up a few critters for our dinner."
"I thought we were going to Louie's Backyard," Victoria said.
"You ever have their lobster jambalaya, Princess?"
"Never saw it on the menu."
" 'Course not. They make it just for me. I bring the lobster, they do the rest, from the andouille sausage to the spices."
Speaking louder now, apparently not concerned if eavesdroppers stole his recipe.
"I think I saw our dinner crawling across the beach," Victoria said.
"Lobsters are out of season," Steve reminded them.
"So sue me," Griffin shot back.
What do you make of a guy who brings his own food to the best restaurant in Key West? Probably the same thing you'd say about someone who names his boat Force Majeure. This guy lives large, fills a conference room the way he fills a hospital bed. A man used to getting his own way. So what does he do if things don't go his way?
"All those hundred-dollar bills blowing across the beach," Steve said. "What was that about?"
"Louie's is expensive," Griffin said. "I was gonna pick up the check."
"Uh-huh."
"Seriously, I just keep a lot of cash around."
"How much? On the boat today."
"Maybe a hundred thousand. More or less."
All that cash. One man with a spear in his chest. Another with a bump on his noggin. And a mess of out-of-season lobsters. Where do you look in the law books for this one?
"See anybody on that little island where you stopped?" Steve asked.
Griffin shook his head.
"You head straight from there to Sunset Key?"
Again, Griffin lowered his voice to a parched whisper. "At thirty-five knots. I'm up on the fly bridge, wind blowing my hair, or what's left of it. I asked Stubbs to keep me company up there, but the lazy bastard stays in the cockpit, getting a tan, drinking a Bud. Few minutes later, I look down, and he's not there. I figure maybe he's inside, sacking out or taking a leak. Little while later, I still don't see him, so I get on the intercom, but there's no answer. I get worried, think maybe he fell overboard. He'd been drinking pretty good and he's clumsy on his feet, especially on a wet deck. So I put her on auto and went down the ladder."
He paused and gnawed his lower lip. Steve didn't have to try a hundred cases to know that what was coming next was either a careful lie or the painful truth. The trick-the damned near impossible trick- was to distinguish the two.
"Soon as I open the door to the salon, I see Stubbs," Griffin said. "On the floor, slumped up against a bulkhead, bleeding like a stuck pig, that spear in his chest. I run out of there, climb back up the ladder. I was gonna call the Coast Guard, head for Marathon."
"Fishermen's Hospital."
"Exactly. But then, boom. The lights go out."
"Meaning what?"
"I don't know. My next memory is being down on the deck, my head split open, drifting in and out.
Maybe someone up on the fly bridge whacked me across the skull as I came up the ladder."
Oh, shit. The phantom strikes. Twice. First in the salon, then on the bridge.
"Next thing I know, I'm on the beach with a stomping headache, and here comes the Princess, looking just like her mother all those years ago." He turned toward Victoria. "How is The Queen, anyway?"
"Before you two catch up on old times," Steve interrupted, "did you tell that story to the police?"
"What do you mean by 'story,' Solomon?"
"Nothing. Just asking if you gave a statement."
"Don't bullshit me, kid. Spit it out."
Steve took a breath, fired away. "What you just told us, it's the worst story I ever heard. Worse than Scott Peterson's phone calls to Amber Frey."
"Steve," Victoria said. Her warning tone. "You're not talking to some thug in the lockup."
He ignored her, cut to the heart of it. "There are only two of you on the boat in the middle of the Gulf, right?"
"Yeah."
"So who speared Stubbs?"
Griffin's eyes narrowed. "When Stubbs comes to, ask him."
"And if he doesn't come to?"
That stopped Griffin a moment. Then he said: "My theory is, someone stowed away below before we left my dock."
"Like in that book by Joseph Conrad," Victoria said.
"What book?" Steve asked. Just what's Miss Princeton summa cum laude talking about now? In college, Steve had read the Cliffs Notes of Heart of Darkness, but he didn't remember any stowaway.