The Deep Blue Alibi by Paul Levine Page A

“I’d describe it as brief.”
    “Well, perhaps you’ll have some insight into Ms. Bustamante when we interview her.”
    Was Steve imagining it, or did Victoria hit the “we” a little hard?
    On the screen, several things happened in the next few moments. Delia seemed to say her good-byes to Fowles and Robinson. Then Fowles offered an arm so she could step onto the dock, showing some tapered calves as she left.
    Moments later, the salon door opened again and Griffin walked out, talking over his shoulder to someone following him. Ben Stubbs. Looking considerably better than he had in the ICU. A slim man, in his forties. Skinny legs under baggy khaki shorts, a papershuffler’s paunch visible under his polo shirt, deck shoes with socks. He actually looked like a Washington bureaucrat on vacation.
    A few more flicks of the cameras, and Griffin was gesturing toward Stubbs. One hand, then the other, then both. Were they angry gestures?
    Steve leaned forward. “Was your father arguing with Stubbs?”
    “Don’t know. I was up on the bridge, and the radio was on.”
    “Did you know your father was stopping at an island to pick up lobsters?”
    In the darkness next to him, Junior shrugged. “Never mentioned it to me.”
    On the screen, Robinson and Fowles stepped onto the dock. That left just three people on the boat, the two Griffins and Stubbs. Then Hal Griffin climbed the ladder to the fly bridge, the captain about to take command. Stubbs stayed in the cockpit, plopping down in one of the fighting chairs. On the dock, Fowles came back into view, kneeling near the bow, untying a line from a cleat, and tossing it aboard. Back on the fly bridge, Griffin said something to Junior and gave him an affectionate clop on the shoulder. Junior climbed onto the rail and balanced there a moment, looking like some ancient statue intended to deify the human form. He turned to face the water, his profile to the camera. Even on the grainy video, one thing was clear—that damn bulge in his Speedos.
    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
     
    VENOMS TO LOSE
     
    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