It was more than that, Steve thought. Clive Fowles seemed to be measuring himself against his grandfather. Desperate to be a hero. But how could a man compete with those memories? In the warm turquoise waters of the Gulf, just what could a man do to earn his own medals?
Ten minutes later, they sat on the edge of the concrete seawall, soaking up the morning sun. Victoria wore an orange Lycra bandini top with floral pants that tied in front and stopped at mid-calf. Her long, tanned legs dangled over the water. Steve wore denim cutoffs and a T-shirt that read: "Could You Come Back in a Few Beers?"
Fowles turned up the bottoms of his coveralls and now resembled a sunburned Huck Finn. He had carried his cooler from the workshop, and Steve accepted a second cold stout, even though it wasn't yet noon. Half a mile offshore, a sailboat headed downwind, its bright orange spinnaker puffed off the bow like an umbrella in a storm.
"Did you know Griffin was taking Stubbs to Key West?" Steve asked.
" 'Course I knew," Fowles said. "I cleaned the boat and fueled it for Mr. G."
"You had drinks at the dock," Victoria elbowed in. "Then you went ashore. Why weren't you driving the boat?"
"When Mr. G has company, he likes to handle the Majeure himself. Show off a bit."
"Even though he was stopping to pull up lobster pots?" Victoria asked.
"Especially then. He gets to play Great White Fisherman. Anchor the boat, get out the gaff, pull in his supper. It's a macho thing."
"You get the feeling Griffin didn't want you along?" Steve asked.
"Not really, mate. Mr. G just gave me the rest of the day off. I'd busted my hump the day before. Hauled ass out to Black Turtle Key to bait the lobster traps, plus all my other work back here."
Victoria and Steve exchanged glances. There was a question someone had to ask without giving up too much. The pots had been baited with more than chum. But did Fowles know that? Victoria chose her words carefully. "I thought Hal Griffin baited the traps himself."
"He tell you that?" Fowles laughed. "Yeah, I can hear him saying it. 'I baited the traps.' Same way he'd say: 'I flew the Grumman to Nassau.' Or 'I reconditioned the diesels.' I suppose it's true because Mr. G pays for it, but good old Clive Fowles does the flying and the reconditioning."
"And that baiting," Steve said. "What'd you use? Redfish? Crab?"
Another laugh. "Don't sod about, Solomon. Just ask it. Yeah, some crab and a big bag of currency."
Sloppy, Victoria thought. Uncle Grif involving Fowles like that. Now the boat captain would be a prime prosecution witness. Fowles could help the state establish the bribes, or at least one of them.
"Griffin tell you what the money was for?" Steve asked.
"Nope."
"And you didn't ask?"
"I don't get paid to ask questions."
"But you wondered," Steve said. "Wondering's free."
"I figured Ben Stubbs was gonna be richer stepping off the boat than stepping on."
"Make you angry, knowing your boss was paying the guy off?"
"Just reinforced my beliefs about the way of the world, Solomon. Money talks. Bullshit walks." Bull-shite.
Fowles tossed an empty beer can back in the cooler. He scooped up one of the plastic bands that ties a sixpack together. It was lying on the seawall and would blow into the water in a light breeze. The plastic bands strangle fish that get caught in them.
No way Fowles would ever toss junk into the water, Victoria decided. Or tolerate those who did. His heart would be with Delia in the battle to save the coral reef, but his pocketbook would be with Uncle Grif. So just where did he stand?
"Any idea who would want to frame your boss for murder?" she asked.
"I figure someone who wanted to stop Oceania."
Victoria dropped a line into the water. "Someone like Delia?"
"Strike me pink! You're still on that? Delia's a lover, not a killer. Just ask your partner."
Steve smiled, agreeably. Annoyingly.
"Ever tell Mr. Griffin how you felt about Oceania?" Victoria asked Fowles, ignoring Steve.
"I told him how development killed the big reefs off Honolulu and Singapore and Hong Kong. I told him how pile driving so close to the reef would dislodge sediment that would clog up the coral. How the gas pipeline and the conduits for water and electrical would mess up the ocean floor. But he had a study to rebut every one of my arguments. Like I told Delia from the start, it's Mr. G's decision, not the guy who drives his boats and flies his planes. In the end, my opinion didn't count any more than Junior's."
"What's that mean?" Steve jumped in. "What was Junior's opinion?"
"All I'm saying is that father and son don't always see eye to eye."
"Mr. Griffin told you to be open with us," Victoria reminded Fowles. "But you're holding back."
When the Englishman didn't respond, Steve said, "Just what's Junior got to do with this?"
Fowles rolled his pants legs back down. "Nothing much, except when the financing fell through, Mr. G and Junior had a row. A real argy-bargy."
"When the financing fell through. ."
What did that mean? Griffin had a huge construction loan in place. He had his financing. So what the hell did Fowles mean? Steve shot Victoria a look that warned: "Don't let on we're clueless."
As if she would give that up. She tried to remember something Junior told them. Jesus, what was it? Had her knees been so wobbly from seeing him that she'd forgotten? The word "hoops" came back to her. Junior complained about "all the hoops" the insurance companies made them jump through to get their financing. He'd been evasive about just who issued the binder, some double-talk about a foreign consortium. Then Steve made up the name of a Pacific Rim company that Junior seemed to agree was the one.
Victoria cautiously baited another line, cast it. "Did the financing run into trouble because of the insurance problem?"
"It did indeed."
"But Griffin landed insurance somewhere," Steve added, "or he couldn't have gotten a construction loan."
Fowles barked out a laugh. "You don't know shit, do you, mate?" Shite.
"Tell us," Steve said.
"Oceania couldn't get insurance. The computer models showed the hotel would capsize in a Category Five hurricane. Mr. G argued that the chances of a Category Five hitting one tiny spot in the Gulf were infinitesimal, but it didn't matter. No one would insure the place."
"So how'd he get a construction loan?"
"By putting up everything he owned as collateral. Every last piece of real estate. Every stock and bond, all his spare cash, too. That's what the row was about. Junior was ranting and raving that his father's ego had run amuck. That he was building a monument to himself that was sheer folly and he'd lose everything."
Victoria remembered something Uncle Grif had said the day The Queen showed up. "Lately, Junior's taken an interest in the business. Been riding me hard, telling me I spend too much money, take too many risks."
"So Junior was scared shitless he'd lose his inheritance," Steve emphasized, as if Victoria didn't get the point. As if she didn't know he was already pushing Junior to the head of the Reasonable Alternative Scenario class of suspects most likely to create reasonable doubt.
"And Mr. G was yelling right back," Fowles continued, "giving Junior a real bollocking, calling him a prima donna and a playboy."
"A playboy," Steve repeated, just in case Victoria had missed it.
"Mr. G said it was his money and he'd do whatever the hell he wants with it. So if you ask me, Junior Griffin had a helluva lot more reason to deep-six Oceania than Delia or me. Millions more, you might say."
Steve's smile was so smug, Victoria longed to slap it right off his face.