And with his blessing, she spent a few days boxing up the important things she’d found in the attic, tucking them into the hatchback of the Datsun, and visiting the nature preserve one last time.
Holding the box of ashes, she looked up at a gray, stormy sky. Big drops of rain were starting to peck at the surface of the water as she stood on the edge of the boardwalk.
“Daddy,” she said, her finger tracing the top of the simple urn, “I’m so sorry. I wish I had never come here. It’s all my fault that you’re gone.”
She flipped open the lid and opened the plastic bag holding her father’s ashes. “I just want you to know that I forgive you for what you did. I may never understand why … but I feel whole again, knowing what happened.”
She swung the bag around in a wide arc, the ashes blowing into the wind and settling on the surface of the pond. The rain picked up, so she tucked the bag back into the box and closed it. She pulled her jacket up over her shoulders and jogged back to her car. She turned the radio on and turned North on the Florida Turnpike and began the long haul back to Savannah.
Her phone rang forty-seven times and forty-seven times she let the calls of condolences go to voicemail. Even Fat Rick had left an awkwardly heartfelt message for her. She would listen to them all when she got home … or maybe she wouldn’t. Time would tell.
Somewhere just north of St. Augustine at The Back 40 Urban Cafe, sipping an incredibly delicious orange cream Fountainhead craft soda and staring into the lively koi pond, she decided she would file an official report detailing the Marcario Morales murder—the true story.
Friday afternoon, after the lunch rush and before the evening party surge, she walked into the Savannah Police Department. She hadn’t gone home to her apartment for fear of finding the roaches had taken over. She hadn’t showered or changed clothes. She walked past Rita in the reception area, ignored whatever smart remark Fat Rick was making, clocked in, sat down at her battleship gray desk, removed her flip flops, and started typing the report. It all felt so foreign, so far away. She hadn’t been in the office since … how long? Was it a week? Maybe two? It didn’t matter now.
She left nothing out of her report. Why would she? At this point, her father had died and couldn’t serve time for his crime. She knew who had killed Eric Torres. Marcario Morales would be exonerated and set free, or at the very least be granted a new trial. She fought to keep tears in her eyes as she reviewed the seven-page report that would put an end to her dealings with the Morales case file and would provide the “open and shut” review for Chief Decker to send to the governor.
As she signed the report and prepared to make the triplicate copies to shuttle off to their respective destinations, Rita walked by and put a note on her desk. Apparently, someone named Olanta Greene had called the tip line after hearing the details of the case on a podcast. Amber’s digging into the matter had rekindled interest in the decade old case and TV Investigator, Russell Blake, had produced a show—aptly titled, Two Witnesses, One Lost Alibi: The Marcario Morales Case. Though Rita’s writing was atrocious, she was able to make out that a regular listener to the podcast had been in New York on that fateful day and remembered seeing Morales hanging out with Eric Torres at a bar—The Oracle Lounge. The two men were arguing and near blows over a girl. Bouncers had escorted the two men out, still yelling and lunging at each other.
Amber crumpled the note and tossed it into the trash can under her desk. She made a mental note to have someone close the tip line and call Russell Blake. The case was solved. She knew very well who did it. That man, Joseph Cross, was at rest … she hoped.
18
Anniversary
The next morning, Amber woke to the sound of birds chirping happily outside the vertical blinds of her luxurious Orchard View apartment. She’d been gone so long, she’d forgotten the smell … the musty, moldy, probably killing her smell of the carpet in the living room. She’d fallen asleep on the couch again with the television on, but the sound turned down. She grabbed the remote, adjusted the volume to tolerable, and headed to the kitchen. She’d made a quick stop at the Circle K on her way home last night to grab a couple of Ultra Violet Zap drinks. That was all that was in her fridge except for a plastic container that she was afraid to open.
Hoda and Jenna were going on and on about a new hurricane in the gulf, the latest on Scarlett Johansson and her new beau, and Matthew McConaughey had a new movie coming out. She popped the Zap and chugged half of it in one swallow. The refreshing jolt of caffeine was a blessing and, in a few minutes, she was feeling better. She hadn’t realized how tired she was, but on her way out of the office, Chief Decker had insisted she take at least the weekend off.
She plopped down on the sofa and turned the TV up a little more. After finishing her drink, her stomach began to growl. Donuts. I need juice and donuts. There was a great little place just around the corner from her apartment called Glo’s Coffee Corner. They had baked breakfast treats to die for. She grabbed the remote. Her finger froze over the red power button. The Today show, as it always did, flashed a huge graphic of the date on screen. Saturday, June 13th, 2020.
Amber fell back onto the couch, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest. How had she not remembered. Today was the anniversary of her mother’s death. She would’ve cried, but she didn’t feel like she had any tears left. She was alone now.
After the opening sting and theme song, Hoda came with an uncharacteristically serious look on her face to announce they had breaking news. The screen switched to a scene Amber recognized immediately. A man was walking through the razor-wired, chain-link tunnel that led out of Sullivan Correctional Facility. The man was smiling and waving, unshackled, to a horde of reporters, clicking cameras, waving microphones, and shoving in as close as they could to the man.
He approached a podium that had been set up just outside in the parking lot. Several other men in suits, and a bevy of police officers were lined up beside the makeshift stage. Governor Jerry Cruz was introduced by the Mayor of New York. He walked to the podium, his impeccable navy suit, crisp white shirt, fiery red tie, and American flag lapel pin made him look like a presidential candidate. He was likely being groomed by the Republican establishment for a future campaign.
She had never met the man personally, but she remembered that Chief Decker had mentioned that he was especially interested in the Morales case. Amber had delivered the rock-solid, open and shut report that they had wanted, but not in the way that they had expected. Cruz had been looking to bury the case and the implications that the police department had put an innocent man behind bars. But, like a professional politician, he was spinning Morales’s release to his favor.
“I’ve worked tirelessly behind the scenes to get this case re-opened. I’ve worked hard for the truth. I’ve worked overtime for justice.” He took a second to look meaningfully at Morales. “I’ve worked tenaciously for you, my friend.”
Amber huffed. “I’m the one who did all the work.” And trashed my father’s good name in the process, she thought.
Governor Cruz continued. “After more than a decade in prison, I’m happy to report that Marcario Morales has been exonerated of all charges in the killing of Eric Torres.”
A field reporter that Amber didn’t recognize came on to explain that the conviction had been vacated, and that Morales had been granted a new trial. Though Morales was being released on his own recognizance, he had not yet been exonerated as Cruz stated. But Amber knew that would come at the trial. All because of her investigation and report.
The press conference went on and on, with several reporters questioning why it had taken so long to free Morales. Others wanted all the fine details. The police officers near the podium took turns stepping up to the mic, looking exceedingly uncomfortable, and failing to explain exactly why Morales had gone to jail and now why he was innocent.
Amber clicked over to another local channel to see they were running the same feed from the prison, but had an attorney on explai
ning what would happen next for Marcario Morales. She watched as the press conference came to a close with Cruz motioning for Morales to come to the podium with him. Morales’s smile faltered slightly, but he walked slowly toward the governor. Strangely, the man, who had just been released from prison after more than ten years of incarceration for a crime he didn’t commit … looked guilty. He held his hands down in front of him, clasped together near his belt buckle. It almost looked as if he still had handcuffs on.
Cruz placed his hand on Morales’s shoulder and the man, who was taller than the governor by four inches … flinched. He looked as if Jerry Cruz had given him an electric shock. The scene got even stranger. As Cruz was reciting his carefully scripted speech extolling the virtues of the police department while at the same time warning against complacency, he stretched out his hand toward Marcario. He was waiting on a handshake that never came.
It wasn’t that Morales didn’t see it; it was obvious that he did. He was refusing the shake the governor’s hand. Amber studied his face as a spark of something lit deep in her memory. Marcario Morales was actively avoiding … no actively rejecting the familiar clasp of friendship.
Amber flashed back to her first meeting with Morales inside the Sullivan Correctional Facility. She had extended her hand offering a shake, but Morales had looked down at his shackles. But the officer hadn’t locked him down. He could have easily returned the shake … but he didn’t. Alarm bells were going off in her head, but she didn’t know exactly why.
19
Layers of Déjà Vu
When she’d watched more than a few hours of the media frenzy around the release of Marcario Morales, she turned the television off. The sun was slowly falling below the tree-line at the Orchard View apartments. In the silent void of her living room, she reached into her backpack and pulled out the photo album she’d taken from her father’s house. She flipped through the pages until her emotions and her nose were raw from crying.
“I miss you, mom,” she whispered.
On a sudden whim, she decided she would go get some wine—boxed wine, maybe a Franzia Moscato if she could find it. It was the least she could do on the anniversary of her mother’s death. She threw on a jacket and walked out into the chilly evening air. It was an unseasonably cool June evening, almost cold enough for a fire. She remembered Minter talking about his chiminea and the smell of pine wood as it burned. The thought of that and his rich, sweet pipe smoke made her long to talk with the man about all that had happened.
She bought the wine at Sam’s where they sold all manner of wine, liquor, and beer. She discovered that they also had a fine selection of cigars and pipe tobacco. She picked a Mac Baren tobacco called 7 Seas Regular. She thought it was a cool name, but it also it smelled heavenly, like chocolate and vanilla together.
She was urging the heater in the Datsun to come on as she passed through the square near the police station when she realized that she had no idea where Minter Tweed lived. The thought of it was about to send her to tears again, when she saw the light shining out across his office balcony. Even in the growing darkness, she could see the back and forth motion of his rocking chair.
She parked across the street at a meter she knew was broken and whistled up in his direction. He leaned forward, a puff of smoke billowing out around his head.
“Well, well,” he said, his fatherly voice warming her chilled heart. “If it isn’t the long-lost Ms. Sherlock Holmes. Did you find what you were seeking?”
“I found enough,” Amber said. She held up the tin of tobacco and the box of wine. “I brought you a gift.”
“Do tell,” he said, lifting his thin frame from the rocking chair. “Perhaps you should bring it up to show me. My eyes simply cannot see that far in this light.”
She climbed the stairs to the second floor, found her way down the hall to the conference room. She entered and was not entirely surprised to see that the stacks of paper from the Morales file were still strewn about in no particular order. It was exactly as she had left it. A pang of … something … remorse? Melancholy? Regret? Not exactly, but it was close. A pang of regret stung her heart. Tweed ambled into the room.
“I’ve been meaning to have Mattie box that all up again,” he said, surveying the boxes of paperwork scattered about.
“It’s okay,” Amber said, “I’ll have to scan it all anyway.”
“In due time,” Tweed said. “All in due time. For tonight, let us not dwell on the particulars. Tonight, we should smoke sweet tobacco and drink inexpensive grape juice that has gone past its due date.”
Amber smiled as he lifted an empty wine glass toward her. “Did you have bourbon in that?”
“No, my dear. I had a wonderful Pinot Noir,” he said, his words ever-so-slightly slurring. “But I am quite sure it shall not compare to the …”
His voice trailed off as he looked down at the box she was holding. “Oh, yes. This is Franzia. My mother used to drink it. I didn’t think you drank wine.”
“Of course, I do,” he said. “When the bourbon is all gone.”
She laughed. “Then wine it is.”
She reached out to hug him, but he shook his head. “My doctor has advised me, in my current compromised state, that my immunities are better served with reserved contact. Especially with one who has traveled as widely as you have in the past week, Ms. Cross.”
She had no idea what he meant by “compromised state,” but noticed that he didn’t look as rosy as he had when she met him.
He held up the hand not holding his wine glass. “I wash my hands so much now, I’m almost certain my fingerprints are gone.”
She laughed and filled two glasses full of the pale-yellow wine while Minter packed a healthy bit of tobacco into his pipe. “Then we will clink our glasses instead of shake our hands,” Amber said.
They sat on the balcony, the sweet smell of pipe smoke enveloping them. As she sipped her wine, the strong sense of déjà vu hit her. She felt as if she’d been here before, but it wasn’t exactly that. It was more like her memories were layering over what she was going through now. She could almost see the sparkling water of the Chapel Trail Nature Preserve as they ate PB&J sandwiches. Over that, like a layer of transparent film, she watched outside her body as she spread her father’s ashes into the same water. She knew she had eased into that dreamy state just before sleep would take her, that golden hour of floating and warmth and security. She felt safe with Minter nearby, though she was certain he was already asleep. His rocker was still and his pipe had gone out.
The grandfather clock in the conference room behind them began to gong and Amber counted them. …ten … eleven … twelve. And so, the anniversary of her mother’s death … June, 13th passed by for another year. She was glad tomorrow was Sunday. She would spend it in bed, reading, or relaxing, or watching something on—
She sat up, her mind latching onto something that had been eluding her. The date. There was something about the dates and the Morales case that didn’t add up. Even though she was two glasses of wine into the night, she was still coherent enough to realize she’d missed something. But what was it? She jumped up from her rocking chair so quickly that she dropped her wine glass. It shattered on the wooden floor of the balcony, but Minter Tweed only sniffed and went back to snoring.
20
A Box of Wine
She ran back into the conference room, stumbling over the empty cardboard file boxes. She rifled through the stacks of paper, unsure of exactly what it was she was looking for, but she knew something was off with the dates. The statement containing the list of alibi witnesses wasn’t much help. The last name was still blacked out, but she knew now that was her father, Joseph Cross.
She grabbed a notepad and began to jot down important bullet points for the case. The first and most important details were the principals involved:
1) Victim - Eric Torres
2) Alleged Murderer - Marcario Morales/ Innocent
3) Actual Murderer - Joseph Cross
She paused for a moment after writing her father’s name and added “Guilty.” She tapped her pencil on the pad, considered what she needed to know next and continued.
4) Crime Scene - New York
5) Date of Murder - 6/20/2010
She looked at the date. With two glasses of wine in her system, she was slightly intoxicated. The answer was staring right at her, but she couldn’t figure out what it all meant. Morales couldn’t have been the murderer for two reasons: first, he was in Florida based on more than a dozen alibi witnesses including her father and second, her father all but admitted that he’d gone to New York to exact righteous vengeance on Morales. Unfortunately, the two men looked similar and hung out together quite often. Her father had apparently shot Torres thinking it was Morales.
But something still wasn’t quite right. She ran down the list of alibi witnesses again, her finger tracing each name and their details. She stopped on the third one. Gemma.
Gemma Jimenez, married to Jorge Jimenez. He and Morales were old buddies whose criminal history was minor, including a few shoplifting charges and misdemeanor drug arrests. Gemma had straightened Jorge out when she married him, and didn’t like Marcario coming around influencing her man. But when the baby was born, Jorge had insisted that Morales be allowed to come down for the birth.
“Wait,” Amber said aloud. “When was the baby born again?”
She sifted through her own research notes until she found it. Arianna Rita Jimenez, born June 13th, 2010. Her brow furrowed in confusion. She turned a few more pages over and back until she found the original statement Morales had given to police with the alibi witnesses listed.
He had told them he was in Florida at the time of the murder and that his friends, Gemma and Jorge had just had a baby and he was there for … wait … what was he there for?
Her Lost Alibi: A gripping suspense thriller. (An Amber Cross Thriller Book 1) Page 7