Alibi

by Sydney Bauer

  “Take language, for example,” said Tony, now squinting into the descending afternoon sun. “Pronunciation, sentence structure, syntax, semantics, and the difference in the way Japanese and English handle expressions of respect and humility . . . everything about English is different from Japanese and when we add accents and colloquialisms the problem multiplies tenfold.

  “And then you have the nonverbal stuff,” he continued, obviously eager to get his point across, his voice raising a little, his pace upping a beat. “Like knowing a nod is not necessarily a ‘yes,’ that a ‘hai’—the Japanese word for ‘yes’—is often used to indicate they are listening but not that they agree.”

  “Wow,” said David. “I see what you mean.”

  Tony nodded. “We’re a hands-on bunch, DC. So we shake and hug and pat on the back, whereas the Japanese may find this an invasion of their personal space. They don’t like to maintain eye contact and we find that uncomfortable,” he added without taking a breath. “We talk the leg off a chair while the Japanese prefer concise verbal communications. We are encouraged to be clear and assertive while they are brought up to read the more subtle unspoken signals.

  “So my point is . . . it can be . . .”

  David could see his friend was running out of steam and wondered why all of this “information” on Japanese relations had spewed from his friend’s normally neatly organized conscience this afternoon. Tony was agitated—there was no doubt about it. But David wasn’t sure if he should press for the real meaning behind his impromptu sociology lecture, or leave it to Tony to decide when, and how much to . . .

  “I don’t trust him,” said Tony at last, his eyes now set on a Massachusetts Bay Transport Authority shuttle boat heading across the harbor to Logan Airport.

  “Who Tony?” asked David quietly. “Who don’t you trust?”

  “The kid, Peter,” he said, still following the shuttle’s path. “His father is sensitive to the needs of communication and he treats people with respect. John Nagoshi is a good man and runs his company as such, but his son is an arrogant prick with a total disregard for others.”

  Tony stopped there and David said nothing, giving his friend time to consider exactly how much he wanted to share.

  “He’s ambitious, David,” Tony said at last, before turning to his friend again, “almost to the point of fanaticism. He’s cold and condescending and opinionated and self-assured—and worse still, I fear he is making decisions without consulting his father. And if that’s the case, I don’t know if I should tell Coolidge that . . .”

  “You know for sure he is sidestepping the dad?”

  “Last week we had a board meeting to go over division profit margins and Peter asks to be excused so he can check some release dates with the American sales director in New York, a local guy named Jeff McGrath. But I go out to get some additional paperwork and I hear him on Coolidge’s office line talking to some dude in Chinese, the aggression in his voice unmistakable.”

  “Well, maybe he made two calls, one to McGrath and one to . . .”

  “No, only the one, and it was to China. After everyone left I went into Coolidge’s office and pressed ‘last call made,’ and it was to Nagoshi Inc.’s manufacturing plant in Guangdong.”

  “Tony, there could be a million reasons why Peter Nagoshi . . .”

  “Last week I went over the figures from China and found some significant anomalies—and lots of them. Like reduced outgoings, higher production levels, ballooning profit margins, unaccounted for payments to his Chinese head of operations.”

  “So maybe the boss got a bonus for a job well done.”

  “Guangdong is Peter’s jurisdiction, David, but his father is still in charge. I checked with the latest output results and noted John Nagoshi had been sent a brief on China’s improvements, but in a watered-down form. You have to know this kid, David. He will stop at nothing to rule his father’s empire single-handedly. He has this determination, this look in his eye, this decided lack of anything resembling a conscience.”

  David looked at his friend again and suddenly—just like that—realized what was actually troubling his longtime friend.

  “Oh my God,” said David at last. “You think Peter’s ambition is uncontainable—so much so that he is willing to lie to his father, hoodwink his lawyers and go to any lengths to achieve his individual goals.”

  “Let’s just say whenever I saw the brother and sister together, it certainly appeared like there was no love lost between them. Peter seemed wary of his sister. People seemed to gravitate to her and maybe he was concerned her popularity might undermine his determination to lead his father’s company.”

  “You think he murdered her, don’t you?” David asked at last. “You think he killed her or had her killed so that he could . . .”

  “I don’t know, DC,” interrupted Tony, his face now drained of color. “But I have to admit, for want of a better explanation, which it seems the police are at a loss to come up with, the thought has crossed my mind.”

  15

  He saw them coming. No, he felt them coming before he even looked up. And when he did, when he stacked his paddle and lifted his head to see Jessica’s humanitarian friend point him out to the two cops, he felt a shudder of fear radiate throughout his entire body.

  They had come for him, James thought. He had run out of time.

  He looked down again, even started a conversation with a fellow kayaker as he put on his shoes so that their appearance would look like a total surprise. He did up his laces, collected himself, ignored the excretion of sweat stinging his underarms and threw on his kayak team jersey with all the casualness that a self-assured college kid such as himself should display. He was going to stick to the stereotype, he knew, as they headed down the bank toward him. He was going to play out the charade exactly as expected, just as he supposed he always knew he would.

  “James Matheson?” said the dark-haired one, flashing his gold shield in the early afternoon sun.

  “Yes,” said James with an appropriate look of interest on his olive-skinned face.

  “Lieutenant Joseph Mannix, Boston PD—and this here is Detective Frank McKay. You got a minute?”

  “Sure,” said James. “I’ll catch you later, man,” he called to his teammate over his shoulder as casually as possible. “Tomorrow, same time, right?”

  “Ah . . . you got it,” said the friend, unable to conceal his curiosity.

  James instinctively walked farther up the riverbank, away from the boathouse crowd and the now growing group of curious onlookers. His gait was relaxed, as if a pair of homicide detectives made regular visits to Mr. Easygoing Young Man on Campus after every kayak practice—“Just popped in for a chat—to shoot the breeze, kick the shit and tackle the troubles of the world.”

  No biggie right? No biggie at all.

  “How can I help you, detectives?” said Matheson, a fixed smile on his even-featured face.

  Joe looked at Frank. “Detective McKay and I are investigating the murder of Jessica Nagoshi.” And then he stopped short.

  Years of experience had taught Mannix that silence was an interrogator’s most efficient tool—and assessing how those silences were filled was the key to evaluating a subject’s motives.

  “Right,” said James, shaking his head. “That was, you know . . . so incredibly sad. Jessica was a nice kid from what I hear.”

  “You didn’t know her?”

  “Well, yeah, sort of. But she was a couple of years below me and we didn’t have that many classes together. We did share a few lectures though, at least I think I saw her in one or two—and I’d see her out every now and again, but that was about it.”

  “You see her the night that she died?” asked Frank.

  “Actually yeah, I think I did. She was at the Lincoln with some girlfriends.”

  Joe said nothing.

  “Geez,” said the kid, barely missing a beat. “Just goes to show you. You never know, right? Carpe diem and all that.”


  “You talk to her at the Lincoln Club?” asked Joe.

  “Ah, to be honest I can’t remember,” said Matheson, scratching his head. “We may have said ‘hey’ to each other.”

  “Did you see her leave?” This from Frank.

  “Not really. But there must have been a point when she went home because I don’t think she was there when we left.”

  “We?” asked Frank.

  “Yeah, me and my friends Heath Westinghouse and H. Edgar Simpson—both third-year law students here at Deane.”

  “So you three went home together?”

  “Not exactly. We all left the Club at about one—and Westinghouse dropped H. Edgar home. But I . . . well . . .”

  “You what, James?” asked Joe.

  Matheson looked down, scuffing his feet in the moist levee dirt, a contrived half smile on his face.

  “You scored, is that it?” Frank smiled in return. “Come on, kid. We were all twenty-two once. At least I think I was.”

  James responded with a nervous laugh. “Well, it’s not like me and my friends set out to . . . you know, find a girl to beat it up with?”

  “Is that what they call it these days?” said Joe, shaking his head in mock disbelief and maintaining the big boy banter.

  “Among other things.” Matheson laughed. “Anyways, I guess you could say I got lucky.”

  “This lucky got a name?” asked Frank.

  “Sure,” said Matheson, now running his hands through his thick short hair. The kid kept changing feet and shifting his weight this way and that. He was nervous as all hell, thought Joe. A bona fide sack of stress.

  “But if you don’t mind, detectives, I’d rather not give it up. The girl just broke up with her ex and well . . . if he found out she . . . so soon after . . . I don’t think it would be fair to either of them.”

  “Sure, James,” said Joe. “We get it. So there’s nothing else you can tell us about Jessica—about that night at the Lincoln Club, about anyone else she may have been interested in, or someone who wanted to, ah . . . ‘beat it up’ with her?”

  “Geez,” the kid said again, now looking up, as if searching for an answer in the clouds. “Not really. I mean she was a pretty girl. I am sure there were guys who . . .”

  Just then Joe bent down to pick up his briefcase. He did this slowly, wanting the kid to follow his movements and suffer every second in the process.

  “What’s that?” asked James, the curiosity obviously proving too much as Mannix pulled the drawing pad from his bag.

  “Jessica’s sketchbook,” answered Joe. “She was pretty good. Here, take a look.”

  James Matheson edged closer to Joe, and Mannix could swear he felt the kid shaking. Joe flipped through the sketches—slowly, deliberately, until stopping at the portrait.

  “That look like someone you know?” asked Frank.

  “Wow . . . sure,” said James, scratching his head again and taking a small step back. “It looks a lot like me.” He smiled, as if flattered and confused all at the same time.

  “It is you, James,” said Joe. “She even captured the light in your pale green eyes. See?” Joe advanced again.

  “Sure,” he said again, taking another step back while nodding in double-time.

  “You have any idea why she would . . . ?”

  “No,” interrupted the kid, his voice raising a notch. “I mean,” he took a breath, “I guess she was bored in some economics lecture or something, and took to drawing the closest, equally disinterested subject in the room. No idea why she chose my mug though. I mean, there are plenty more interesting faces at Deane.”

  “Now, kid,” said Frank, surprising the boy with a jovial punch in the arm, the mere suggestion at physical contact making the boy flinch. “If I looked like you in college, I would have been ‘wrestling it up’ as often as . . .”

  “It’s ‘beating it up,’ ” said James, a little too quickly before slipping on that smile again. “Beating it up—you know, the freshmen even call it banging the bootie.”

  “Hmmm.” Frank smiled. “I think if I suggested either of those options to Mrs. McKay, she’d bang my bootie right out the front door.”

  The boy smiled again, his perfect teeth fixed in a jaw-breaking clinch.

  “Anyway,” James said again. “If there’s nothing else, detectives, I really gotta get cleaned up before afternoon classes. The professors here are pretty tough. Half of them lock the doors if you’re one minute late.”

  “Sure, kid,” said Joe. “Just wanted to check on the sketch and all. I am afraid we don’t have that many leads so . . .”

  “I understand, detectives. It’s not a problem,” said James, his bag already over his shoulder, his feet already retracing his steps back down the riverfront. “And good luck, you know. With solving the case, I mean.”

  “Sure, kid,” repeated Joe. “And thanks for your time.”

  The pair of them watched him go, Matheson’s head down, his steps short and anxious.

  “Geez,” said Frank.

  “I know,” said Joe.

  They realized they were being watched by the scattering of students just leaving the boat shed, so they walked in silence, back up the levee and toward the northern end of campus where the main entrance was located. They were halfway up the bank when Joe stopped, grabbing Frank’s arm from behind before turning him on the spot and gesturing for him to follow him back down the levee.

  “I think I dropped my pen,” he said. But he hadn’t, despite the fact that he was now crouching down, sifting aside a leaf or two to examine the mud beneath them. “Nikes,” he said then, pointing to the partial, average-sized shoe print showing the just visible logo in the shape of that famous swoosh.

  And then Joe saw Frank nod, before he met Joe’s eye and lifted his finger as if to indicate there was one last thing. Frank got to his feet and then walked, jogged, back to the boathouse, which was now, thankfully, deserted. Joe followed him, his feet sliding on the slick autumn leaves, stopping finally on the northern side of the shed, the kayaks and paddles now neatly stacked layer upon layer on the whitewashed exterior wall.

  Frank hesitated, saying nothing, taking in the neatly racked sporting equipment before reaching out for the closest paddle and facing his boss once again. Then he proceeded to mimic a kayaker’s action—one, two, one, two—the circular downward motion that forced the streamlined vessels to slice through the water at surprisingly high speeds. And then he did it again, but this time with force, a look of anger and determination on his face. “Wham, wham,” he said. “Wham, wham!” he said again, this time louder and faster, the force coming directly from his gut.

  “Well I’ll be,” said Joe, looking at his friend as the tiny pieces suddenly fell perfectly into place. “Well, I’ll fucking be.”

  16

  “This is the best,” said Jake Davis, fishing another crispy onion ring from the gingham-lined side basket. “Seriously, I haven’t eaten so well in weeks.”

  David and Sara had arranged to meet Jake at Antico Forno, a popular gourmet pizza restaurant in the city’s historical North End. The colorful Italian Salem Street eatery was famous for its thin-crust pizzas with a list of topping combinations that read like the Encyclopedia Britannica. After fifteen minutes of debate, they had settled for an extra large wood-fired sausage, tomato, mozzarella and ricotta with some garlic bread and onion rings on the side. Topped off with a bottle of merlot, David couldn’t think of a finer meal on the planet—and all for under twenty bucks apiece.

  “What is it with guys and pizza?” joked Sara. “It’s like you all have some built-in genetic need for Italian cholesterol at least once a week.”

  “They’ll never understand,” said David, smiling at Sara’s younger brother.

  “That’s okay,” said Jake. “All the more for us, right?”

  And with that Jake lifted his glass to ‘clink’ with David’s, prompting Sara to roll her eyes before grabbing her own glass of red and taking a slow sip.r />
  David enjoyed Jake’s company. So much so in fact that the three of them, sitting there together, relaxed, felt suspiciously like family, which in a way he supposed Jake was—or in the very least, he hoped would be one day. He looked at the brother and sister across the table—nothing and everything alike. Jake with his mop of light blond hair, now combed down and across in an attempt to tame it for his long hours on the conservative corporate beat. Sara and her long, wavy, chestnut brown tresses, her mocha skin glowing, her pale blue eyes shining indigo in the lavender candlelight. They were physical extremes and yet so perfectly attuned to one another, their mannerisms identical, their laughs in sync. He realized then that what he was actually feeling was a slight tinge of envy, for while David was close to his younger, Massachusetts General nursing sister, Lisa, he rarely found the time to catch up with her. And his older brother Sean was . . . well, he was a shipyard worker hundreds of miles away in David’s hometown of Newark. Hundreds of miles away, and a million miles apart, thought David, Sean having inherited their late father’s tough, silent edge and David and Lisa more like their idealistic mom.

  Was it really almost twenty years ago that he had left New Jersey to study law in Boston? A wide-eyed, sandy-haired, enthusiastic high school grad determined to uphold justice, defend the innocent and kick some serious courtroom butt? He could see his older brother’s face now—the disappointment, the resentment at his having decided against joining the family shipping business. It was as if he was letting them down—and, in a way, he supposed he was.

  All of which made him think of another law student with, no doubt, similar visions of grandeur. He had not spoken to Mannix in the past twenty-four hours, but he knew his detective friend would have tracked down James Matheson today in an effort to discover what, if any, role he played in the Nagoshi girl’s demise. Strangely enough, he felt an all-consuming hope that the boy was innocent. That the enthusiastic, intelligent, passionate student he had, truth be told, enjoyed sharing his thoughts and theories with had nothing to do with the violent actions that took place in that greenhouse several weeks ago—which made his mind take another tack to Tony Bishop, and his suspicions about . . .