Her Lost Alibi: A gripping suspense thriller. (An Amber Cross Thriller Book 1)

by David F. Berens

  The impassive calm that she was used to in her father’s face turned to rage as quickly as if an internal switch had been flipped. He jumped to his feet and jammed a finger into her chest. “You are no person to judge me. That man, that beast, defiled you, my only daughter. My angel…”

  His breathing was harsh and shallow and his face was as red as a low flame.

  “I don’t have to explain myself when I am doing the work of God,” he said, absently rubbing his arm. “You were only fourteen. My baby. Your innocence … your … your …”

  A strange look flitted over his face. His words slurred. He slumped to one knee, his lips working furiously as if he were still trying to speak. And without warning, he fell face first onto the rumpled, patchwork quilt.

  Four hours later, the doctor spoke with Amber, informing her that her father had just had a stroke and that with his age, full recovery didn’t look likely to happen for a long time. “Please be gentle with him,” the doctor said, ushering her into his room.

  She was startled at how old he suddenly looked. His hair was matted and brushed back on his head. He had more wires and tubes that she could count. There was a mild slump to his face on one side, and his eyes were dark and puffy.

  She ran to the bed and grabbed his hand. “Oh, daddy, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have— “

  He held up a hand. “I should’ve told you,” he croaked.

  “It’s okay, daddy. Don’t…”

  “No. I’ve let you down. When I came back from New York … I … you were … you had forgotten it all. Somehow, it was as if nothing had ever happened. So, I let it fade with what you remembered. But now, it seems as if … the memory has returned to haunt you.”

  She wiped at the tears streaming down her face. “Then, it’s true. You followed Marcario to New York?”

  “I … I think so. Yes. I did.”

  “And, did you, I mean … what did you do? Daddy, someone killed a man in New York. A man named Eric Torres. The police say it was Marcario Morales … but … was it … was it you?”

  Joseph Cross squinted his eyes and looked away from her. “I don’t know. I can’t remember it now. I … I think … I thought it was the man who attacked you, Bear-bear.”

  A sob escaped her throat. The picture snapped into focus. Marcario Morales had come to Florida for a visit. He had maneuvered his way into her father’s house on the pretense of sharing dinner with them and expressing his newfound desire to serve the Lord. Then, Morales had attacked her. Her father had followed him to New York to exact vengeance. He must have shot the wrong man … Eric Torres. Marcario was probably hanging out with Eric at the time—they had been friends, or at least acquaintances before the murder. He must’ve been there. The eye witnesses saw him at the scene and thought he was the killer.

  That meant Morales was, ironically, innocent. She looked up to say something to her father, but he had fallen asleep. He looked dead and she might’ve panicked if it hadn’t been for the incessant beeping of the heart monitor. He can’t go to jail. He’d die in prison. But to save Morales, I have to give up my father.

  “Miss,” a voice said from the door. It was the doctor. “He really needs his sleep. Why don’t you go on home and get some rest yourself? He’ll be fine tonight and he’ll need you in the next few weeks as he recovers.”

  She was about to resist and refuse, but, looking at her father, asleep and wheezing softly, she picked up her backpack. She leaned over and kissed him on his forehead. The drive back to his house was thankfully short. She cried the whole way and wondered if she could keep it together enough to get there without having a wreck.

  Something about the thought of him waking up to see her in a hospital bed next to him made her smile. “Well, that’s one way to see me past visiting hours,” she thought he’d joke.

  When she opened the door of the house, it seemed so very empty and dark. Her mind replayed the events of that day when Marcario had pushed his way in and tried to … to … rape her. She pushed the visions away, poured a full glass of red wine, and curled up in her bed. She only got up twice to make sure she had locked all the doors.

  She turned off the lights and tried to sleep, but she could only see her father gunning down Eric Torres, being shackled in handcuffs, dragged to prison, and Morales laughing as he was freed from his cell. She picked up her phone. She had a missed call. Even in this, a dark night for sure, she smiled. Minter Tweed, the screen said. She pushed the button to call him back.

  “Well, well,” he said, his Southern drawl even more pronounced tonight, “if it isn’t the prodigal daughter.”

  “Hello, Mr. Tweed,” she said, sipping her wine. “What’s up?”

  “I might be obliged to ask you the same question, madam. And please, let’s dispense with the Mr. Tweed business. You must call me Minter.” He said. “I myself am perched on the veranda in a rocking chair of the highest craftsmanship, imbibing a middling quality bourbon, watching the night people walk about the square.”

  A long silence filled the line. Amber tried to find her voice, but was afraid of the tears that would surely come again.

  “Do I sense that something dreadful has happened, Miss Cross?” He said, his tone softening.

  She took a deep breath and began to explain the connection between the Morales case and her father. She left nothing out and traced her steps exactly as she had taken them from the prison cell, to her father’s house, and finally to the hospital. As she told the story, something nagged at her mind about the whole thing. Something was off, but she couldn’t place what it was. She shrugged it away and continued.

  “I don’t know what to do, Minter. I can’t turn my father in for this. He would go to prison and die in his cell,” she said, feeling the stinging burn behind her eyes. “But … Morales … is innocent.”

  She waited for him to respond. “What do you think I should do?”

  Her only answer was a deep, sonorous snore. She hung up and rolled over. When dawn threatened to peek into the room, she decided trying to sleep was pointless. Something … she wasn’t sure what … made her decide to rummage around in the attic.

  15

  Eye Witness

  Climbing the rickety ladder into the cool, dark attic, she realized what she was looking for was connection. A connection to her mother … and her father. A musty smell enveloped her as she patted the nearest beam, feeling around for the chain on the single naked bulb. She found it and clicked it on. Harsh, yellow light blazed into the tiny cavern of antiques and keepsakes. Cardboard boxes, plastic tubs, garbage bags, and a few random buckets were lined up along the side wall nearest the back of the house. Closer to the front, there were three low shelves containing the few trinkets and decorations for major holidays. Rabbits, and scarecrows, and turkeys sat alongside wreaths, and Santas, and long, tangled strings of lights.

  She lifted the lids on a few of the boxes and found old high school yearbooks, written essays, and varsity letters from her single, unspectacular season on the track team. A couple of larger boxes held her mother’s clothes and a few of her purses and shoes. She could almost smell her mother in them. She closed them again and opened a small wooden chest. It had been Amber’s long ago, sitting at the foot of her bed as a repository for stuffed animals and blankets, but it seemed her father had repurposed it. Now it was a collection, a collection of remembrances.

  Her father had carefully tucked some old letters they’d written to each other when he was away at seminary. She glanced at a few, but almost felt as if she was intruding on the young lovers’ secrets. She found some photographs of their intimate wedding ceremony at the old Windrush Farm. And beneath them, she found a copy of their marriage certificate. Tears filled her eyes as she put it aside. A leather photo album rested in the bottom of the chest. It was neither dusty, nor old. Her father must’ve bought it recently. She opened it and found that he’d carefully organized old pictures of them just before they got married, and then more from their lives before children. When
she turned a few more pages, she found herself pictured there as a little girl at Disney World. They all looked so happy with their Mickey ears on top of their heads and ice cream from the Mickey bars dripping down their fingers.

  The last few pages of the album were of her mother in her sick bed. God, she’d gone downhill so fast. Cancer is a bitch no matter how you look at it. The last page was a photograph of the beautiful flowers on her mother’s grave. Her tears spattered the clear plastic as she closed the book.

  She put the lid back on the chest, but took the album downstairs with her. She wrapped her arms around it and fell back asleep as a chilly, dawn drizzle began to peck against the windows.

  For the second time in as many weeks, she had a terrible, lucid dream. She felt like she was stuck between reality and fantasy, never sure what was real and what was imagined. She emerged from nowhere into a dark, rainy alleyway, bright city lights reflecting on the pavement. Her footsteps made no sound as she made her way toward the crossing street. Suddenly, a door opens and a man steps out. She freezes and watches. The man moves quietly into the shadows of a nearby dumpster and crouches into the darkness. She knows instantly, that it is Joseph Cross, her father. She opens her mouth to scream, but nothing will come out.

  She tries to run toward his hiding place, but her feet are now frozen in place. She can’t move, she can’t breathe, she can’t make a sound. She is an unwitting witness to the scene unfolding in front of her.

  The door across the street from the one her father had used opened. The clank of dishes, the bustling hubbub of a restaurant kitchen, and the echoes of dinner service blare out. Music is playing and though it should be a jazz band, or maybe even a piano player doing their versions of the hits from the 80’s and 90’s, it isn’t. It is demonic and reminds Amber of Satan’s lead section from the famous Charlie Daniels song, The Devil went Down to Georgia. A man comes through the door and Amber is confused. At first, she thinks it is Marcario Morales, but when the light hits his face, she is shocked to see that it isn’t. It’s Eric Torres—the man who Morales is in jail for murdering. In the crime scene photos, he doesn’t look much like Morales, but then again, he’s blue and has a hole in his face. But here, in the dream, he could be Marcario’s twin.

  It’s an odd time to realize it, but both men resemble a young John Leguizamo. Eric Torres has a cigarette pinched between his lips and is carrying a six pack of beer. He sets the beer down, searches the pockets of his green raincoat for a lighter. He’s about to light up, when Joseph steps out of the shadows. Amber wants to scream again, but she is still frozen.

  Strangely, Eric doesn’t see her father raise the pistol. He leans down, picks up his six-pack and steps off the curb. That’s when the gunshot deafens her. Torres goes down to one knee, his hand clutching his side. Her father walks up to him, raises the gun, then pauses.

  He mumbles something … a Bible verse … or a prayer. Raises the gun, and fires one more time into Eric Torres’s head. He drops the gun and runs away. Amber tries desperately to run after him, to stop him, but before she can, the door opens again and Marcario Morales runs out. He splashes through puddles in the street to help his friend. Insanely, he sees the gun and reaches down to pick it up. Two more people come out. Somehow, in the dream, she knows they are the two eye witnesses that picked Morales out of a lineup for shooting Eric Torres—open and shut case.

  Amber Cross jerked upright, tossing the photo album from her arms onto the floor, pictures sliding from their sleeves. She sobbed into her hands. She knew the murder probably hadn’t really happened that way, her mind had taken what she knew of the case and filled in the details with what she’d learned from her father. The bottom line was, Marcario Morales was an innocent man, and her father had violated the seventh commandment: Thou shalt not kill.

  Somewhere under the bed, her phone, thrown aside with the photo album, began to ring … urgently.

  16

  No Time

  Amber was certain that her piece-of-crap rental car was going to explode. It groaned in pain as the odometer climbed closer and closer to the 100 m.p.h. mark. It was nearing the top of the dial when the engine light came on. Screw it, she thought. I got the insurance.

  She glanced at her watch, tears streaming down her face. The call had come about fifteen minutes ago at six a.m. on the dot. Not enough time, she thought.

  “You’d better come right away,” the nurse, or the doctor, or whoever the hell had called told her. “He’s fighting, but…”

  She didn’t wait for the end of the statement before hanging up, throwing on a jacket, and speeding toward the hospital. Memorial Regional Hospital South was less than thirty miles from her father’s house, but as she got into the city, the streets were busy with working people headed out to offices, fast food joints, convenience stores, banks, and auto repair places. Had the roads been clear, she would’ve ignored the red lights and could’ve made the drive in half the time.

  She banged her hand on the dashboard, threatening to widen a sunbaked crack above the faulty radio. When she did, it lit up and Bob Dylan began to croon “Tangled Up in Blue”—her father’s favorite song.

  It took her back to the time he had taken Amber and her mother out to Chapel Trail Nature Preserve for a picnic. Her mother had made half-a-dozen peanut butter and jelly sandwiches—all they could afford at the time—and three of those mini cartons of milk they used to serve in elementary schools. Her father had brought a cheap box of Franzia Moscato and a pawn shop guitar. It was the one-year anniversary of his new appointment as the pastor of the New Wine Ministries Church.

  He liked to play Dylan songs because they were generally three chords or less and you didn’t really have to sing perfectly either. Amber had demanded that her daddy play it again and again until all the sandwiches were gone and the sunset was flaming across the boardwalk.

  She swiped a hand at the tears and screamed at the line of cars in front of her, stopped patiently at the red traffic light. She glanced over at the car beside her and a woman who looked as if she had just eaten a lemon glared at her. Contrary to her usually meek nature, Amber flipped the woman off just as the light went green. She could see the uptight woman mouth, “well, I never…” as she sped past.

  The GPS said she was still eleven minutes away, but it surely hadn’t accounted for the insane amount of stops she was making on Pines Boulevard. She cursed the city designers and swore she would take it up with whoever programmed the intervals at which the lights stopped traffic.

  “Not enough time,” she said, watching the minutes tick by on her phone. “I just need a few more minutes, God. Please, won’t you give me just a few more minutes.”

  Without prompting or sufficient warning, the Marcario Morales case popped into her mind. She swore loudly and then asked forgiveness. She suddenly wished she had never heard of the case. Re-living the details of that awful episode had stressed her father so badly that he’d had a major stroke and now … she pushed the thought away. Three more minutes had passed and she hadn’t even traveled three miles.

  When she finally made it to the hospital, she pulled up to the valet stand and jumped out of the car without bothering to turn it off, give her name, or tell the confused young man at the stand where she was going. She ran through the lobby, only slowing to push the elevator button, then think better of it, and jerk open the heavy steel door to race up the concrete stairs. Her footfalls echoed in the stairwell as she pulled herself along, holding a handrail that appeared to have more than a dozen coats of yellow paint on it. She broke through the door, slamming it open harder than she meant to and skidded to a stop in front of the nurse’s station.

  The nurse behind the counter, a motherly black woman named Jenise, had seen Amber crash through the door, stood up, and held up a hand to stop her. She didn’t say a word. She just came out from behind the yellowing Formica counter, took Amber in her pillowy arms, and whispered in her ear.

  “He fought the good fight, child,” she said. “He
finished the race. He kept the faith. Today he will wear the crown of righteousness.”

  Amber felt the dam inside her, full of tiny holes and cracks, break. The flood of sadness poured out of her, wracking her body with gasping sobs. She would’ve collapsed to the ground, but Jenise was stronger than she thought. The woman held her, rocked her, and hummed gently in her ear until she was able to calm down.

  “Can I see him?” She asked, wiping her face with a blue cloth the nurse had brought her.

  Jenise nodded and stretched out a hand toward her father’s room.

  17

  Tip Line

  The service for Joseph Cross was held at the New Wine Ministries Church. There was no casket because her father had left behind a letter that clearly stated his desire to be cremated after every last bit of his body fit for it was donated. “It is only a vessel for my eternal soul. From dust I came and to dust I shall return,” he’d written. “May God use my body to heal that of another. That would be the greatest accomplishment I could hope for as I leave this earth.”

  He was not to be buried in the ground either. He wanted his ashes to be spread, fittingly, in the water at Chapel Trail Nature Preserve. The wooden box holding him was placed on the altar at the front of the church and hundreds of people passed by to pay their respects to their pastor, their shepherd, and their friend.

  Amber was in a daze, the events of the past few days pummeling her with uncertainties about what she would do when she returned to “real life” in Savannah. She had called Minter and Chief Decker to briefly explain what had happened and that she would be back in town in a couple of days.

  “Take your time, Ber,” Decker had told her. “Take the rest of the week if you want.”