Free The Deep Blue Alibi by Paul Levine

a way, I’m responsible for Stubbs’ death.”
    “How?” they asked simultaneously.
    “That was my speargun.”

SOLOMON’S LAWS
     
    4. You can sell one improbable event to a jury. A second “improb” is strictly no sale, and a third sends your client straight to prison.
     

Ten
     
    THE CORAL KISSER
     
    “There’s something I need to show you that will explain a lot,” Junior said.
    “The speargun,” Steve said, intending to stay on track. “How about an explanation of that?”
    “Not a problem. But there’s a lot more to this than the speargun.”
    Junior Griffin was leading the three of them through the foyer of the house, all limestone floors and rich wood paneling. On one wall were brightly colored paintings that seemed to be Haitian in origin. On another, open-mouthed, mounted fish, including the largest amberjack Steve had ever seen. Plump and silvery, with a yellow racing stripe, the fellow had to be six feet long. Next to the fat jack was an even more impressive specimen, a blue-striped, scaly-hided, lantern-jawed tarpon that, according to a brass plaque, weighed 271 pounds and was caught by Hal Griffin off the coast of Cuba on a twenty-pound test line. It must have been a hell of a fight, Steve thought, reading the inscription: Runner-up, Ernest Hemingway International Fishing Tournament. For a moment, Steve wondered whether the owner of the Force Majeure was ever satisfied with second place.
    “I have quite a collection of spearguns,” Junior said. “Excalibur, Rhino, Beuchat, plus some classic handmade mahogany and teak guns from the fifties and sixties. And I make my own. Made an eight-bander that can bring down a thousand-pound tuna.”
    What Steve really wanted to know was who brought down a 160-pound guy with a P-4 Civil Service rating. “The gun that shot Stubbs,” he said, “where’d you keep it?”
    “In a compartment on the Force Majeure. I shoot lobsters with it.”
    “It’s illegal to spear lobsters,” Steve said, contemplating a citizen’s arrest.
    “In Florida waters, maybe. Not in the Bahamas.”
    So who speared Stubbs, beach boy? That’s illegal just about everywhere.
    They walked into an open living room with curved walls two stories high. Windows looked out on the cove, where palm fronds fluttered in the ocean breeze. The place was all handcrafted woods. Maple floors, redwood beams, cherry panels. To Steve, the house resembled the interior of a fine yacht. “Did your father know where you kept the gun?”
    Junior shrugged and his deltoids rippled as if shocked with a cattle prod. “The gun was mixed in with some fishing gear. I’m sure he’d seen it, but I doubt Dad would even know how to load the thing.”
    “But you know how.”
    “Sure.”
    “In-ter-esting. Very interesting.” Steve was trying to sound profound, but managed to sound like a pompous twit, even to himself.
    “What’s the big deal?” Junior asked.
    The big deal, Steve thought, was that he wanted to place the murder weapon in someone’s hand, someone’s other than his client’s. If that hand belonged to Zorro at Bunny Flagler’s costume party, well tough shit.
    “Yes, Ste-phen.” Victoria made his name sound like a streptococcus. “What is the big deal?”
    She was pissed, Steve knew. He’d promised to let her take the lead, had even meant it at the time. But once they got here, once the game began, he just couldn’t back off. Hey, you don’t pinch hit for Alex Rodriguez.
    Bobby piped up: “Uncle Steve wants to pin the murder on the hottest boy at Pinecrest.”
    “I know, Bobby,” Victoria said. “I just wanted to hear Steve say it.”
    Steve wished that Bobby didn’t have the irksome habit of speaking only the truth, a real anomaly in the Solomon household. Turning to Junior, Steve asked: “Where were you when your father and Stubbs took the boat out?”
    “Taking a swim.”
    “By yourself?”
    “I’m a big boy, Solomon.”
    Bobby said: “What Uncle Steve means, do you