Alibi

by Sydney Bauer

“Why is it so easy for you to believe that Sawyer Jones did not?” David asked, regretting his question the moment it came out of his mouth.

  And he saw it then—the anger, the resentment, the hurt at his seeming determination to hijack Sara’s night of victory and turn it into a blistering pit of self-doubt.

  “I’m going to bed,” she said at last.

  And he wanted to say something to make it better, wanted to turn back the clock and have them sitting here, peacefully, happily together. But in the end he said nothing. Because, if truth be told, he knew she was right. He did feel an affinity with James Matheson, he did “sense” that the kid was innocent of the heinous crime everyone was so keen to claim he committed, he did hope that Matheson was not about to become the third victim in a crime that already taken two innocent lives and above all else, if that was to be the case, more than anything he wanted to be the one to defend him.

  Maybe he was frustrated. Maybe he missed the adrenaline of a seemingly unwinnable high-profile case—a rush he had not felt since defending Stuart Montgomery over a year ago. Maybe he was jealous of Sara’s latest high, maybe he wished it was he who pulled off the 1.5 million dollar settlement and was dragged into a murder investigation unwittingly or not.

  But he knew that wasn’t the case. Admittedly he relished the chance of taking on Roger Katz again, but this had little to do with ego and more to do with his gut. What that would mean for Sara and her new client he did not know, but he sensed, if he got what he wished for, he was about to find out.

  33

  “Gabe, honestly, you look fine,” said an exhausted Marie Mannix, pushing a stray blond lock away from her tired blue eyes. It was late and she was kneeling on her sons’ bedroom floor surrounded by a myriad of Halloween costumes that had been worn and re-worn by the four Mannix boys for over a decade.

  “I’ll paint the lightning bolt on your head tomorrow night. Stephen said he’d lend you his old glasses, and if you carry the garden broom you’ll be a dead ringer for . . .”

  “But everyone goes as Harry Potter, Mom,” said Gabriel, the third of the four Mannix sons. “And most of them have capes or Quiddich robes from Toys ‘R’ Us, not cutouts from their moms’ old dresses.”

  “But the skirt looks just like a cape, Gabe, and . . .”

  “Gabriel,” said Mannix, who had heard the ongoing banter all the way from the downstairs living room of their much-loved if not slightly weatherbeaten West Roxbury Colonial and decided it was time for a Halloween reality check for his nine-year-old son. “Do you know how much those costumes cost?”

  “No, sir,” said a sheepish Gabe.

  “They cost one million and twenty-five dollars,” said six-year-old Michael who was happy to sit on his top bunk and watch the drama play out beneath him.

  “Shut up, doofus,” said Gabe.

  “Gabriel!” said Joe, walking into the room. “You apologize to your little brother and hightail it into bed right now. At this rate you’ll be grounded from trick-or-treating for the next twenty years. Your mom has been kind enough to make you a costume so the least you can say is ‘thank you.’ ”

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” said an obviously overtired Gabe. “But Henry Bosco is always giving me shit for wearing Joseph or Stevie’s hand-me-downs, so what’s he gonna say if he finds out I am wearing my mom’s dress?”

  “Don’t say ‘shit,’ ” said Marie Mannix, now clearing the bedroom floor of Halloween debris. “Your father’s right. One more complaint and you can stay home while your brothers are out filling their bags with candy.”

  “Okay,” said a stubborn Gabe at last, crawling into the lower bunk with a look of pure disgust on his olive-skinned face. “Thanks, Mom—but I’m still not wearing the dress.”

  “Up to you, Gabe,” said Mannix. “Totally up to you.”

  “He’ll get over it,” said Joe as he turned out the younger boys’ light before moving down the hall to check on his two older sons, Stephen and Joe Junior, who were sitting up in their own single beds playing some form of handheld computer game, which Joe was convinced was turning them slowly into zombies.

  “Lights out in five minutes, boys,” said Marie as she took her husband’s hand and headed for the stairwell.

  “Maybe I should have bought him the new costume,” she said as she moved across the living room and into the kitchen to get Mannix a beer and pour herself a glass of Sangiovese. The room was still warm from the family’s home-cooked dinner, the air thick with the comforting scents of tomatoes, garlic and Parmesan.

  “Nah,” said Joe. “Gabe’s a good kid. He’ll be okay. Back in my day all we needed was a sheet with two holes cut out and . . .”

  “Back in your day,” said his wife. “Stores weren’t marketing Halloween to a generation of kids brought up on consumerism.”

  “Yeah,” said Joe. “And we could roam free on the streets for hours without our parents fearing we might be abducted, assaulted, raped.”

  “They’re going to be fine, Joe,” she said, smiling at him as she shook her head.

  He could not help but marvel at the woman who stood before him—her flaxen hair, pale eyes and rich olive skin still glowing with the youthfulness those of Northern Mediterranean descent seemed blessed with.

  “Rough day?” she said, moving some draining dishes to the side so that she might lean against the counter and face her husband head-on.

  “I guess,” he said.

  “You’ll work it out, Joe,” she said taking his hand. “You always do.”

  “With this one I am not so sure,” he said. “There is just too much riding on it. The pressure is building, Marie. Katz wants an arrest and I may not have the power to . . .”

  “What does your instinct tell you?” she asked, looking directly into his eyes.

  “That’s half the problem. I can’t seem to get a read on it. Things are happening too slow and too fast all at the same time.”

  She put down her glass of wine then, leaning forward to reach her arms around him. “Just don’t let them railroad you, honey. It’ll come. You just need time to think it through.”

  But she was interrupted by the shrill ringing of the telephone, the long piercing sound sending a shiver up Joe’s spine. He was on edge, he knew.

  Marie let go of him then, making some brief comment as to the lateness of the call before reaching to her far right to grab the old red wall phone from its cradle.

  “Mannix residence,” she said. And then a pause, until: “Yes, he’s here. Can I ask who’s calling?”

  She looked up at her husband and Joe saw it in her eyes. Trouble, he knew. Trouble in the form of . . .

  “It’s ADA Katz,” she said. “And he says he needs to speak to you—now.”

  34

  Saturday, October 31—Halloween

  There were five other men in the room, observed Joe Mannix as he perched himself on the edge of the low bookcase just inside the door. Or more specifically one man—John Nagoshi; two assholes—Roger Katz and the lawyer; and two boys who, despite their obvious attempts to appear humble, looked more like a matching set of spoiled brats than ever.

  Nagoshi sat opposite the two boys in the same seat he had occupied at their last meeting. He was silent, calm, dignified, while Katz was still running the show up front and Gordon Westinghouse had spread himself out in the now single space, where Joe and Frank had squeezed previously, at the other end of the table.

  “Right,” said the impeccably dressed Katz, signaling for his sour-faced assistant Shelley to finish pouring the ice waters and leave.

  “We all know why we are here so, out of respect to Mr. Nagoshi,” he said, and Joe could have sworn he took a slight bow, “I suggest we get to it.”

  “Mr. Katz,” said Mr. Westinghouse. “As you are aware, my son Heath and his friend Mr. H. Edgar Simpson have some information relevant to the murder of Jessica Nagoshi, which took place a little under two months ago on the night of Friday, September 11 of this year.

  “Messrs
Westinghouse and Simpson are willing to divulge such information but not until a reasonable set of circumstances can be met.” Westinghouse paused there for effect, tapping his Mont Blanc pen on his leather-bound legal pad before moving on.

  “You can appreciate their situation, Mr. Katz,” he said with appropriate furrow in his tanned brow. “They have struggled with the American value of loyalty to a trusted friend versus a responsibility to behave as law-abiding citizens, and have honorably decided to do the right thing. They will give you the name of Miss Nagoshi’s killer and the evidence to put him away, but not until we can come to some form of . . . arrangement.”

  “Mr. Westinghouse,” said Joe, who had finally had enough. He stood from his corner perch—a perch he was designated by insinuation, considering there were now only five chairs and five glasses of ice water around Katz’s cherrywood conference table. “Forgive me for being blunt, but these kids are after one thing and one thing only—the reward money. Now, money or no money, just the fact that they are here tells me your son and his, ah . . . companion have information that they have withheld from police.

  “Myself and fellow homicide detective Frank McKay have been an active presence on their campus over the past two months and have made repeated public pleas via their university president for all students to come forward with any information they feel may assist us in our investigations.

  “Further, we held a private meeting with the two young men less than one week ago during which they denied any knowledge as to their friend’s possible involvement in Miss Nagoshi’s death.” Joe knew his voice was rising, but at this point he didn’t give a damn. “Now, all of a sudden, they have information, coincidentally just as Mr. Nagoshi here confirms the speculation of the posting of a substantial reward. Well, I could be wrong, but in my line of work that adds up to obstruction of justice, and makes these two smart-ass kids a pair of bona fide criminals—”

  “Lieutenant Mannix,” said Katz, cutting him off with a stare that shot daggers across the room. “We understand your frustration at not being able to solve this case.”

  Joe took a breath.

  “But in the end, all that matters is that we find the person responsible for this heinous crime and make sure justice is done. Mr. Nagoshi and his family have been through enough and Messrs Simpson and Westinghouse, despite their obvious initial hesitations, should be congratulated for coming forward to assist us.

  Katz went on. “That being said—”

  “That being said,” interrupted Gordon Westinghouse, who obviously felt it was time to exercise his high-three-figure-an-hour clout. “The reward money is an issue, Mr. Katz. We are all adults here,” he said, looking at Mannix in disdain for referring to his son and his friend as “kids.” “And Mr. Nagoshi is a respected and experienced businessman who understands the importance of a mutually beneficial negotiation. So let’s cut to the chase, shall we?”

  And so they did.

  And less than fifteen minutes later the deal had been struck.

  “Now that that is agreed,” Gordon Westinghouse went on, as he arched his back and expanded his chest in what Joe could only describe as an old-fashioned pruning of feathers, “my son and his friend are happy to continue this conversation on the principles of good faith. But we must have your word, Mr. Nagoshi, that the money, which I remind you is not refundable if the District Attorney’s Office fails to follow through with a conviction, will be wired to the specified accounts in the Grand Caymans within the hour.

  “Finally, my son and Mr. Simpson, who I remind you are protected by the aforementioned clause of confidentiality, will not divulge the said information unless the individual they identify be allowed to turn himself in by the end of the day. My son and Mr. Simpson feel it is the least they can do for the individual in question, so as to eliminate any unnecessary embarrassment on his part.”

  “What?” said Joe. “Unnecessary embarrassment? If these boys are right then the so-called person in question is a goddamned murderer. Now call me harsh, but to be honest, Mr. Westinghouse, whether or not the killer is embarrassed is the least of my concerns.”

  “I am sorry, Lieutenant,” said H. Edgar, the first words he had spoken all morning. Simpson signaled to his friend’s father that it was all right, he wanted to speak and was not going to offer anything to jeopardize their agreement.

  “I am afraid this last request, while grounded in altruism, is not as unselfish as it first seems. You can understand our relationships with our fellow students at Deane are extremely important to us, and we do not want our peers to misunderstand the reasons for our providing you with the information needed to file charges against our friend.”

  “You worried this little snitching act might get you scratched off the ‘A’ list, kid?” asked Joe, now standing from his perch. “Is it just me or is this whole fucking scenario getting sicker by the minute?”

  Joe locked eyes with John Nagoshi then, and felt an overwhelming embarrassment on behalf of the stoic Japanese businessman. His daughter was dead and here they were haggling over how to maintain the burgeoning health of these two young assholes’ social status. It was beyond repulsive. Joe knew it, and judging by the look of pure despondency on John Nagoshi’s face, the grieving father knew it too.

  “You have our word,” said Roger Katz then, ignoring Joe to speak directly with Gordon Westinghouse. “Our detectives will give the young man in question a small window of opportunity to hand himself in—say until 7 p.m. this evening.”

  “That will be fine,” said the older Westinghouse, shifting his chin slightly to the left in a gesture of dismissal at Mannix’s obviously “irrelevant” objections. “That being agreed, and as it is . . .” The Italian-suited attorney shifted his Tiffany cuff-linked sleeve to examine his Rolex. “. . . almost noon, I suggest we proceed with Mr. Simpson and Mr. Westinghouse’s statements. The young men will go on record here today so that you might secure an arrest and further agree to repeat their statements in front of a grand jury at your earliest convenience so that you might secure an indictment. Fair?” He looked to Katz.

  “Indeed,” said the obviously delighted ADA.

  He nodded at the two boys then, H. Edgar taking his natural position as leader by lifting his ice water to his lips and taking the smallest of sips before clearing his throat as if ready to move on. Gordon Westinghouse gave Katz a nod and the ADA reached across the table to press the red “R” button on the rectangular recording device strategically placed in the middle of the conference room table.

  “My name is Homer Edgar Simpson,” H. Edgar began, his voice loud and crisp and strong and clear. “And I give this statement of my own free will at the offices of the Suffolk County District Attorney at 11:52 a.m. on Saturday, October 31 in the presence of my attorney, Mr. Gordon Westinghouse, Assistant District Attorney Roger Katz and Boston Police Homicide Unit Commander Lieutenant Joseph Mannix.”

  Jesus, thought Joe.

  “Myself and my friend Heath Gordon Westinghouse are here to share information we feel relevant to the investigation into the death of Jessica Nagoshi. In other words, gentlemen,” he said, and Joe could have sworn he was in the process of constricting the beginnings of a smile, “we know the identity of Jessica’s killer and we have evidence to support such a claim.”

  The room went quiet then, as if H. Edgar wanted his moment in the sun to last as long as was humanly possible. The antique clock ticked, the air-conditioning hissed and the five people present seemed to hold their breath in anticipation of what was to come out of the Simpson kid’s voice next.

  “Who was it, son?” said Roger Katz at last, his words gushing forth in an eruption of uncontainable excitement. He was obviously unable to hold back with the question he had been dying to have answered for weeks.

  And then Joe saw it, the corner of Simpson’s lips lifting in an expression he could no longer suppress. “James Matheson,” he said at last. “Our friend, James Matheson, killed Jess Nagoshi with his own bare hands.”<
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  “And you have proof?” interrupted Katz.

  “Yes,” answered Simpson.

  “In the form of . . .” urged the ADA.

  “A confession,” said H. Edgar.

  “A confession?” asked Katz, obviously savoring every word. “How? Matheson told you he . . . ?”

  “As good as,” said H. Edgar, now smiling quite unashamedly. “Admittedly he was slightly under the weather at the time, but the information came right from the horse’s mouth, Mr. Katz.”

  “No,” interrupted Joe, determined to put a stop to Katz’s feeding frenzy before it got even further out of control. “A confession is not proof, Roger, it’s hearsay. How do we know Simpson here is not lying? How do we know Matheson was not just shooting off his mouth during some emotional college drinking fest?”

  But then he looked at Simpson, and he could see the boy had anticipated Joe’s cynicism and was, as always, on the ready with a reply.

  “He took her shoes,” said Simpson, his eyes now focused on Joe, his expression pure delight at having dropped a bombshell on the detective’s attempts to discredit him.

  “He whacked her over the head, strangled her with his bare hands, laid her on a rock and took her shoes. Does that qualify as proof, Lieutenant?” He studied Joe then, relishing in the shock in his expression. “Yes,” he said at last, his victory now complete. “Yes, I thought so.”

  35

  The Grand Caymans

  Grand Cayman Island Caribbean Trust and Banking Corporation financier Kitt Baptiste was a very happy man. He was one of those “glass half full” human beings who saw the light beyond every shadow, the rainbow beyond every storm and the good in everyone—even his new assistant Sonita De Paisa who, despite having received two weeks of intensive training, still found it difficult to grasp what Kitt thought to be the simplest of tasks.

  “A beautiful day,” said Kitt as he arrived at his office after attending a rather pleasant outdoor lunch meeting with representatives from Deutsche Financial and the Royal Bank of Canada.