Solomon Vs. Lord - 02 - The Deep Blue Alibi, Page 3

  "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.

  "The Secret Sharer," Victoria continued. "A ship captain hides a stowaway who's accused of killing another seaman. The captain sails close to shore and lets the stowaway swim to safety."

  "And when the boat crashed on Sunset Key," Steve said, "what happened to this secret sharer fellow?"

  "I don't know," Victoria said. "It's just an idea."

  "I don't know either," Griffin said. "And I didn't give a statement to the police. You think I'm a damn fool, Solomon?"

  "No. I pity the man who takes you for one. Or who crosses you."

  "Steve, please." A command, not a request. "Uncle Grif, I'm sorry. Steve can be abrasive sometimes."

  "No problem, Princess. I like this punk."

  "You do?" She sounded stunned.

  "Most lawyers stick their tongues so far up my butt, it tickles my nose. Sorry, Princess. Your mother used to say I was uncouth. Not like your father. All polished fingernails and luncheon clubs. Of course, if Nelson had begun life spreading hot tar on roofs, his hands might not have been so clean." Griffin turned back to Steve and showed a crooked smile. "I told the cops my head hurt, and I'd talk to them later. I do good, Counselor?"

  "Real good. Not a word to the cops until we hear what Stubbs has to say. Then we'll draft a statement for you. Assuming you want us to represent you."

  "We'll see. Give me a game plan."

  "We have to prepare for the worst. Stubbs comes to and says the two of you argued, and you speared him like an olive with a toothpick. We get a doctor who'll say that after losing all that blood, Stubbs is hallucinating."

  Griffin winked at Victoria. "I like the way this punk thinks."

  "So who knocked Uncle Grif unconscious?" Victoria said.

  "The same guy who shot Stubbs," Steve answered.

  "And that would be ...?"

  "Jeez, we've been here ten minutes. Give me a chance to come up with our one-armed man."

  "Steve, you can't just spin stories out of thin air," Victoria said.

  "Sure I can. It's one of Solomon's Laws."

  "What laws are those?"

  "Steve makes them up as he goes along." Victoria pursed her lips, showing her displeasure. " 'If the law doesn't work, work the law.' That sort of thing."

  " 'If the facts don't fit the law,' " Steve said cheerfully, " 'bend the facts.' That's another one."

  "I like what I'm hearing." Griffin seemed to be enjoying himself, despite his injuries. "What else, Solomon?"

  "I want to be there when the cops question Stubbs. Or better yet, question him first."

  "It'll never happen," Victoria said. "The police won't let you near him."

  "There are ways," Steve said.

  "Don't even think about it."

  "What's going on?" Griffin asked.

  "Steve likes to crash parties. Once, he faked a heart attack to get into an ER."

  "It wasn't a big deal," Steve said, "until I got the bill for my angiogram."

  Griffin coughed up a laugh. "You're an asshole, Solomon."

  "Yeah?"

  "But my kind of asshole." He turned to Victoria. "Princess, you did real good hooking up with this guy. You're hired. Both of you."

  Three

  INTENSIVE CARE

  How could this be happening?

  Steve taking over as if they were still partners and he was numero uno.

  How did I let this happen again?

  Victoria had intended to split up the firm, and here was Steve poaching her client. Winning over Uncle Grif with all that macho crap.

  Steve excused himself, saying he'd give the two of them a little time together, then catch up with Victoria in the hospital lobby.

  Victoria waited until the door closed behind him, making certain the deputy in the corridor couldn't hear her. Maybe there was still a way to push Steve out, or at least into the second chair. "Uncle Grif, what's the legal work you called me about? Does it have anything to do with Stubbs?"

  "My son will give you all the answers. You remember Junior, don't you, Princess?"

  "You don't forget the first boy who kissed you."

  Griffin nodded. "Junior's done nothing but talk about you since I told him we were getting together. Your father always said our lives always would be intertwined, our families connected. Nelson even thought you and Junior might end up together." His eyes seemed to focus on a distant memory. "It's a damn strange world, Princess, but the older I get, the more I believe in destiny. Like some things are just meant to be."

  The man in the white lab coat with the stethoscope draped around his neck hurried through the swinging door of the ICU, nodded to an attendant at the nurses' station, and kept moving at a brisk pace.

  Always keep moving. Act confident. Look like you belong.

  Steve's rules for trespassing. He'd once confessed to a fictional crime to get access to a police station holding cell. Another time, he'd crashed corporate offices in an exterminator's uniform and sprayed the baseboards with insecticide. He'd even picked up a personal injury client by pretending to be a paramedic.

  Paramedic to doctor. One small step for a man. One giant leap for a lawyer.

  With wide-open physicians' locker rooms, hospitals were among the easiest venues to crack. Scrubs, lab coats, stethoscopes. Samples of the newest amphetamines, if you're into that sort of thing.

  At the moment, Steve wore rubber-soled white shoes, scrub pants, and a lab coat with a name tag reading, "G. Koenigsberg, MD."

  Spotting a cop standing outside a closed door, Steve headed that way. "Officer, how's our patient doing?"

  "Damned if I know," the deputy answered. Another young one with hair shaved close enough to show scalp through the buzz cut. "Your people won't let us in."

  "I'll check and see if he's up to talking."

  Steve entered the room, closing the door behind him. An oxygen clip in his nose, Ben Stubbs lay on his back. A snarl of tubes and wires sprouted from him. He was a small man with a narrow face and sunken cheeks, his skin the unhealthy gray of an amberjack. His chest was thick with white bandages, and a bedside machine beeped in sync with his heartbeat.

  "And how are we feeling today, Mr. Stubbs?"

  Stubbs' eyes were open but unfocused. He seemed to be in a twilight state of semi-consciousness.

  "We'll have you waterskiing in no time. Unless you never skied before. Then it might take a little longer."

  Still no reaction.

  Steve moved closer to the bed. "Mr. Stubbs, can you remember what happened?"

  The man's pale eyes blinked and he moved his head slightly.

  "Who did this to you?"

  Stubbs' lips moved. No words came out. Slowly, he raised his right hand a few inches above the bedsheets. Shakily, he held up two fingers, like a scalper selling a pair of Dolphins' tickets. A very weak scalper.

  "Two? What are you saying? Two men did this to you?"

  Stubbs' hand fell back to the bed, and the door flew open. A middle-aged man in a suit and tie stormed into the room, two uniformed deputies at his heels. "Just who the hell are y
ou?" the man demanded.

  "You first," Steve shot back.

  "Dr. Gary Koenigsberg. Head of trauma."

  "Marcus Welby. Internal Security. Florida Department of Medicine. As a matter of professional courtesy, I'll just write up a warning today."

  "Warning? What the hell are you talking about?"

  Steve unclipped the name tag and tossed it to the doctor. "You've got some real security problems here, Koenigsberg."

  SOLOMON'S LAWS

  2. Always assume your client is guilty. It saves time.

  Four

  PRESUMPTION OF GUILT

  "You're impossible," Victoria fumed. "What would

  you have done if a patient really needed a doctor?"

  "Surgery," Steve suggested.

  "I leave you alone five minutes, and you get arrested."

  "I wasn't arrested. More like escorted out."

  "It's humiliating being your partner. Can you see why I need to be on my own?"

  "Loosen up, Vic. I got some information from Stubbs."

  "He talked?"

  "Not exactly. But I think two guys might have attacked him."

  Steve told her about Stubbs raising two fingers, but she seemed unimpressed with his sleuthing. "It could mean anything," Victoria said. "Or nothing."

  It was just after nine on a muggy night, and they were back in the old Caddy headed north on U.S. 1. Well, the sign said, North. Steve knew they were on a portion of Useless 1 that ran due east. The Keys were a scimitar-shaped archipelago running northeast to southwest, from Miami to Key West. Though Key West was a coastal city, if you drew a line due north from Sloppy Joe's Bar on Duval Street, you'd actually end up west of Cleveland. The curving coastline created the geographic oddity, like Reno, Nevada, being farther west than Los Angeles.

  Victoria was silent a few moments. Always an ominous sign.

  Preferring to take his whipping in one dose, Steve asked: "You're not still pissed about the hospital, are you?"

  "I didn't care for the way you spoke to Uncle Grif."

  "C'mon, he loved it."

  "It's like you assume he's guilty."

  "I always assume clients are guilty. Most of them are, so it saves time."

  "Uncle Grif would never kill anyone."

  "How would you know? You haven't seen the guy since you were a teenybopper, making out with what'shis-name at the country club."

  "Junior. And you're right. He taught me to French kiss."

  "Remind me to thank him. My point is, our perceptions of people are skewed by our own circumstances."

  "No kidding? Look who took Psych 101."

  "You remember Griffin as someone who gave you great birthday presents. I see him as one tough customer."

  "Maybe he's a little rough around the edges, but underneath, he's a sweetheart."

  "All of us are capable of murder. Even you, Princess."

  "Don't call me 'Princess.' "

  "Why not? Sweet old Uncle Grif does."

  "He doesn't make it sound like an accusation."

  Traffic was light as they crossed the bridge at Boca Chica. Overhead, two jet fighters banked in formation, practicing night landings at the Naval Air Station. Steve hit the gas and passed a Winnebago, giving the tourists a look at the Eldo's license plate, i-object. The car's top was down, the air rich with the salty aroma from the tidal pools. In a few minutes they would be at Herbert Solomon's houseboat, where they would spend the night. Steve was already tensing up at the prospect of seeing his father, and here's Victoria busting his chops.

  He looked over at her. "I do something wrong?"

  "I hate it when you lecture me."

  "All I said—"

  "The self-anointed senior partner dispensing wisdom. 'All of us are capable of murder.' Of all the fatuous clichés . . ."

  "Sorry. Only original thoughts from now on."

  "I really care for you, Steve. You know that?"

  "Why do I think there's a 'but' coming?"

  "But you're overbearing and arrogant and egotistical. . . ."

  He decided to wait it out.

  "And your T-shirt is ridiculous."

  "I don't think this is about my shirt." He'd bought the black cotton tee at Fast Buck Freddy's on Duval Street. The shirt had a drawing of a man on a bar stool with the inscription: "Rehab Is for Quitters." "So what's really going on here, Vic?"

  "You stole my client."

  "Our client."

  "Weren't you listening? I'm going out on my own."

  "C'mon, we have a big new case. Uncle Grif wants me on this."

  "Don't call him that. He's not your uncle."

  "As much as he's yours."

  "Infuriating. I left that one out. You're overbearing, arrogant, egotistical, and infuriating."

  "And you hate my shirt. But we're cocounsel on Grif's case. It's what he wants."

  She knew Steve was right, which only made her angrier. "All right. But it's our last case. It's the only way I can grow as a lawyer. And the only way to preserve our personal relationship. I want to be with you, but not in the courtroom."

  "You're sure about it? You really want to break up our firm?"

  "Most of the time, I love being with you. You can be warm and funny and caring. But at work, you drive me crazy."

  "Really, really sure?"

  "Yes, dammit!"

  "Okay, then. Our last case. Win, lose, or mistrial."

  "And I sit first chair."

  "What?"

  "You heard me, Steve."

  "Okay. Okay."

  "You really accept it?" Sounding suspicious.

  " 'Course I do. You're the boss. This is our swan song. After this, you fly solo. Get that autonomy you're talking about."

  "You respect my feelings on this?" Still not quite buying it.

  " 'Course I do. I can lay down a bunt for the team."

  But that wasn't what Steve was thinking. He was thinking that he'd square around to bunt, then pull back and smack the ball past the third baseman. Sure, he'd give Victoria more authority. At first. Then, when she got in trouble, he'd be right there to rescue her. She'd see how foolish she'd been to even think about splitting up the firm.

  "I can trust you on this?" Victoria Lord asked. "You'll respect my wishes?"

  "Would I lie to you?" Steve Solomon said.

  Five

  RECOVERING LAWYER

  When they reached Sugarloaf Key, Steve hung a right onto Old State Road, and after another two miles, he brought the Eldo to a stop under a gumbo-limbo tree. The past few minutes, he'd been thinking of something other than his relationship with the brainy and leggy woman in the passenger seat.

  "When are you going to tell your father about the Bar petition?" Victoria asked, getting out of the car.

  Jeez, reading my mind.

  He'd filed a lawsuit to get back his father's license to practice law but neglected to mention it to his old man. "Not till I have some good news to report."

  They walked on a path of crushed shells toward the waterline at Pirates Cove. Victoria's leather-soled slides were, well, sliding on the moist shells, and she shortened her stride. "I wonder if that's the right way to do it. Keeping it secret, I mean."

  Her roundabout, feminine way, Steve knew, of saying, "You're really messing up here."

  "Trust me, Vic. I know how to handle my old man."

  Steve knew his father desperately missed being a lawyer. Not just any lawyer, but Herbert T. Solomon, Esq., a Southern-born, silver-tongued, spellbinding stem-winder of a lawyer. And then a respected Miami judge. Before his fall.

  Now Herbert spent his days fishing, usually alone. But today he'd been taking care of his grandson. On the trip down the Overseas Highway the day before, Steve and Victoria had dropped off twelve-year-old Bobby Solomon. Bobby lived with Steve instead of his own mother, Steve's drug-addled and larcenous sister, Janice, who recently claimed to be growing organic vegetables in the North Carolina mountains. Steve made a mental note to check if the government's food py
ramid listed marijuana under vegetables.

  As they approached the houseboat, Steve could hear the wind chimes—beer cans dangling on fishing line— on the rear deck. The old wreck—the boat, not his father—was tied to a splintered wooden dock by corded lines thickened with green seaweed. Herbert Solomon owned five acres of scrubby property off Old State Road, but docking the boat there was still illegal, even under the Keys' notoriously lax zoning. Even in the dark, the boat clearly listed to starboard. From inside came the sounds of calypso, Harry Belafonte singing, "Man Smart (Woman Smarter)."

  "I'm wondering if you should be the one to handle your father's case," Victoria volunteered.

  "Who'd be better?"

  "Someone who can be objective."

  "I don't plan to be objective. I'm a warrior, a gladiator."

  "You know what I mean. You have to separate the truth from fiction. When your father was disbarred—"

  "He resigned. There's a difference."

  Christmas lights were strung on the overhang of the houseboat, even though it was May, and even though the Solomons were descended from the tribes of Israel. Splotches of green paint haphazardly covered divots of wood rot in the stern deck.

  Steve could see movement on the rear porch, his father getting up from a wooden rocker, a drink in his hand. Herbert's shimmering white hair was swept straight back and flipped up at his shoulders. His skin, remarkably unlined for a man of sixty-six, was sunbaked, and his dark eyes were bright and combative.

  "Hey, Dad," Steve said.

  "Don't 'Hey, Dad' me, you sneaky son-of-a-bitch."

  "What'd I do now?" Steve stepped aboard, thinking he'd been asking that question a lot lately.

  "Victoria," Herbert said. "How do you put up with this gallynipper?"

  "Sometimes, I wonder," she replied.

  "You could do a helluva lot better than him."

  "Maybe I'll go check on Bobby," Victoria said, "let you boys play."

  "He's asleep," Herbert said. "Tuckered out from poling the skiff all day."

  "I'll go inside, just the same," she said.

  "Coward," Steve told her as she headed through a door into the rear cabin.