Like the incoming tide, Steve's thought processes moved slowly but inexorably in one direction. He could poke around like a cop without a warrant.
No…I can't snoop through Dad's things.
But. . if Dad doesn't find out. . what's the harm?
So…where do I start?
If his old man had ever been involved in anything nefarious, he sure as hell didn't make any money from it. Otherwise, why live on this rust bucket, a fourteen-byforty foot rectangular chunk of fiberglass sitting askew in the marshy water of Pirates Cove?
Steve began his search on the top deck. It was an open party deck with a fly bridge at the bow. Not even a hiding spot. On the main deck, the lockboxes were filled with fishing gear, gaffs, flashlights, and coiled lines. He heard an outboard motor chugging in the cove. A couple kids in a center-console fishing boat headed toward open water, the bow up on a plane.
Steve slipped into Herbert's stateroom, sifted through the built-in cabinets, riffled a pile of khaki shorts and faded T-shirts.
Just what am I looking for, anyway?
A small desk was mounted into the bulkhead. Some bills were stuffed into wooden slots. In a drawer, a box of stationery and his father's checkbook. Steve scanned the check stubs. Small amounts. Electricity, liquor store, phone bill.
Phone bill.
Paid yesterday.
Steve dumped the rubber trash can under the desk. Junk mail. Real estate flyers. A notice from Monroe County about mosquito spraying. And there…the Verizon bill.
He went through the numbers, recognized a few. His own, of course. And a Coral Gables number he knew as Teresa Torano's, a client and friend Steve inherited from his father. There were a cluster of calls to a Miami number Steve didn't recognize. Five calls the day he deposed Pinky Luber. Judging from the time code, two calls made before the depo and three after. Probably nothing, but. .
Steve dialed, waited.
A woman answered crisply: "Mr. Jones' office."
Jones. That narrows it down.
"May I speak to Mr. Jones, please?"
Whoever the hell he is.
"Who's calling?"
"Mr. Darrow. Clarence Darrow."
"Will Mr. Jones know what this is regarding, Mr. Darrow?"
I doubt it. Even I don't know what it's regarding.
"It's personal," Steve said, figuring that was true.
"If it's not court business, he won't return the call until after six p.m."
Ah, court business.
"Actually, I got this jury summons in the mail. . "
The woman laughed. "And you're calling the chief clerk to get you out of jury duty?"
Chief clerk. A name popped into Steve's head. Reginald Jones. Chief Clerk of the Circuit Court for Miami-Dade County. Steve had seen the name hundreds of times. It was printed on every subpoena, administrative order, and other official document that came out of the courthouse.
"I wanted to tell Mr. Jones they misspelled my name."
"I'll pass that along, Mr. Darrow. Good day."
Steve had another mojito, though he doubted that's what you call it when you skipped the sugar, soda, lime, and mint. Sipping the rum straight, he wondered what was going on between his father and Reginald Jones.
Jones was one of those anonymous bureaucrats who run local government. An executive with a handsome six-figure salary, his name would rarely appear in the newspaper unless there was a bomb threat at the courthouse or the janitors went on strike. Jones' job was to manage several hundred deputy clerks, bailiffs, and lower level administrators. They, in turn, ran the whole creaky mechanism of the justice system. Civil Court, Criminal Court, Juvenile Court, jury pools, adoptions, marriage licenses, real estate records, tax liens. All the mundane governmental intrusions into our lives.
But Herbert Solomon didn't have any court business. Not now. But then. .
A memory came to Steve. He was still a kid, one who loved visiting the courthouse, loved basking in the glow of his father's power and authority. Herbert Solomon was Chief Judge of the Eleventh Circuit. Pinky Luber was Chief of Capital Crimes in the State Attorney's Office, head prosecutor in Herbert's courtroom. And the deputy clerk sitting in front of the bench, stamping exhibits, running the courtroom with brisk efficiency, was a trim African-American man in his twenties with a neat mustache. Judge Solomon seemed to like the young man, would invite him up to sidebars and into chambers. Steve could even remember his father talking to the man in chambers.
"Reggie, you best tell Juror Three to start wearing panties to court."
"Reggie, that witness' testimony had more holes than the Loxahatchee Road."
"Reggie, you find Mr. Luber and tell him if he's late again, ah'm gonna put him in the cooler."
Young Reggie had to be Reginald Jones, now Chief Clerk of the Court. He had been in Herbert Solomon's life long before the judge's fall from grace. But what the hell was he doing there now?
Twenty-eight
Like a winged goddess, Victoria arched her back, spread her arms, and sank deeper into the salty, inviting sea. What a luxurious sensation. The turquoise water like warm velvet swirling between her bare legs, cupping her exposed breasts.
Suddenly, a man-sleek and naked-swept below the surface and scooped her into his strong arms.
Junior Griffin.
She was in twilight sleep, vaguely aware she was dreaming. Fine with her. Better to remember the dream in the morning. Judging from the trailer, it would be a hell of a movie. R-rated.
Steve was spending the night on the houseboat; she was alone in her king-size bed at the Pier House. Well, almost alone.
Now, where the hell did Junior go?
Ah, there he was, free-diving to the bottom, arms extended, legs kicking, and. . oh, God. . that sledgehammer between his legs. Cutting through the water, creating its own wake, a keel on a sloop.
Come back, Junior. It'll be morning soon, and my dreamy self is horny as hell.
Victoria pondered just how was she breathing, being underwater and all. Then, figuring she might be a mermaid, left it at that.
Junior zoomed back into view, rising like a missile from the deep. With something in his hand. An oyster.
Victoria's mind drifted like kelp in the current. Steve loved oysters with beer. The Queen loved oysters with pearls.
Dammit, forget them; go with the flow of the dream.
Junior pried open the oyster with his bare hands. Said something to her. Glug-glug, bubbles bursting from his mouth. Inside the oyster, a gorgeous ring. Dainty triangular gems surrounding a hefty square diamond.
Princess cut. Naturally.
Junior opened his mouth and glugged something again. The underwater acoustics were lousy.
"What is it, Junior? You want to marry me?"
"I want an underwater hump-a-rama," Junior enunciated clearly, but in Steve's voice.
Damn him. Trespassing in my dream!
She heard something then. A slapping sound. Not the slap of a leaping fish smacking the water. Something landlocked and familiar. A quiet thud, the sound of something flat hitting carpet.
Something moved. Her bed was on an elevated portion of the room. One step down and twenty feet away was her worktable, covered with files. Beyond that, the sliding door to the balcony. She could see the silhouette of a person outlined against the glass door, backlit by torches on the pool deck below.