Free The Deep Blue Alibi by Paul Levine Page B

them.”
    Steve squinted, trying to make out the shape rising from the middle of the room, but could see nothing but shadows. This was all a bit theatrical for his taste. He had the feeling that Junior was putting on a show for them. Or more likely, just for Victoria.
    “You have to know something about my background for this to make any sense,” Junior said. With the four of them standing in the half-light of the cool room, Junior spent the next few minutes explaining that over the years, with all the time he spent on the water, he’d become a deeply committed environmentalist.
    Save the Whales.
    Protect the Reefs.
    Ban Tuna Nets.
    The whole range of do-gooder ocean projects. Junior said he’d given away chunks of money to environmental groups, probably, he thought now, as penance for his father’s actions. Hal Griffin, his son admitted, was a one-man tsunami when it came to ecosystems. Blowing opponents out of the water, literally sinking a Greenpeace boat in Sydney Harbor by ramming it with a barge. His old man was a major-league pillager, an All-Pro despoiler, his projects a dishonor roll of moneymaking, havoc-wreaking, eco-disasters. Eroded beaches from shoreline condos in the Philippines, massive fish kills off Jamaica after dredging a marina, a vicious sewage runoff from a gated community in the Caicos Islands.
    “Everywhere Dad goes, environmentalists come after him with elephant guns.”
    But does Dad go after others with spearguns? Steve wondered. Whereas the son, by his own immodest admission, was Sir Galahad of the Deep.
    “You’ve heard of tree huggers,” Junior said. “Call me a coral kisser. I’ve snorkeled the world’s best, and they’re all living on borrowed time. The coral reefs are the rain forests of the oceans.”
    “All of which has exactly what to do with Oceania?” Steve asked.
    “A couple years ago,” Junior continued, “I was arguing with Dad and said something like, ‘You won’t be happy till you build a resort right on top of a coral reef.’ And Dad took it as a challenge. He asked where there’s a coral reef at least three nautical miles offshore from an English-speaking country, with a population center of at least three million people nearby.”
    “Why three miles?” Victoria asked.
    “So it’s outside territorial waters,” Junior said.
    “The cannon-shot rule,” Bobby said, and they all looked at the smartest boy in the sixth grade. “From pirate days. Four hundred years ago, the farthest a cannon could shoot from shore was three miles. That’s where the law comes from.”
    “Thank you, Mr. History Channel,” Steve said, then turned to Junior. “If you’re outside the three-mile limit, you can run a casino. That the idea?”
    “Exactly. But we’d still be within the two-hundredmile EEZ.”
    Steve gave him a blank look.
    “The Exclusive Economic Zone,” Bobby translated, adding sheepishly, “I know most of the federal acronyms. Also most of the personalized license plates banned by the State of Florida.”
    “Don’t start,” Steve warned him.
    “G-R-8-C-U-M,” Bobby said. “I-W-N-T-S-E-X.”
    “Bobby …”
    “B-I-G-P-N-S.”
    “Cool it, kiddo!”
    “Because we’re in the EEZ,” Junior said, “the federal government still has jurisdiction over development. So we need an environmental assessment report to get a federal permit.”
    “Ben Stubbs of the EPA,” Victoria mused.
    “Yep. Which is why Dad had to jump through all the hoops. He was cussing all the way, but he did it. And here’s the result.”
    Junior flicked another switch, and the enormous room was bathed in a soft light. “Behold Oceania,” he said.
    Looming in front of them was a three-dimensional diorama, maybe thirty feet long by seven feet high. From floor to shoulder level was the ocean—or at least a blue Lucite rendition of it, complete with miniature, plasticized fish. Floating on the surface were three donut-shaped buildings, connected by covered passageways. From the