The Last Alibi (A JASON KOLARICH NOVEL)

by David Ellis

  “You had a bad dream,” she whispers. “Are you in pain? I think the pain causes the nightmares.”

  “I . . . yeah, maybe. Why are you up?”

  “I heard you waking up,” she says, but she doesn’t look like she just woke up. She looks like she’s been watching me sleep.

  She opens her hand. “I got you a pill. There’s water on the nightstand.”

  “Oh. Yeah, okay. You don’t have to . . . do that. I mean, I can do it myself.”

  “I know you can. I’m just trying to help.”

  I take the pill and chew it up. These dreams suck. It would be nice if I could sleep through the night just once, instead of lurching forward in terror every two hours.

  “You’re low on pills,” she says. “You know that, right?”

  Of course I know that. I monitor those things more closely than anything in my life. “I’ve got it covered,” I say.

  I put my head back on the pillow and stare at the ceiling. I should be feeling better soon.

  “I’m sorry about what happened tonight,” she says. “With that girl. I get jealous. I guess that’s obvious.”

  My breathing evens out. It’s kicking in now, the euphoria, the giddiness. I look over at her, my eyes having adjusted to the darkness, her features becoming clearer now. Is she . . . Has she . . .

  “Are you . . . crying?” I ask.

  “No, no. No, no. I’m not sad. I’m happy. I’m happy when we’re together. Are you?”

  “I’m . . . happy,” I murmur.

  “You’d tell me if you weren’t, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’m happy. Go back to sleep.” I reach over and touch her arm.

  “I don’t like it when you talk to pretty girls,” she whispers to me. “I don’t want to share you. Is that so bad?”

  “No . . . no . . .”

  And then my thoughts turn into swirls, sideways and inside out, and then I’m falling, falling, falling onto something feathery and warm.

  52.

  Shauna

  Monday, July 8

  Team Arangold—me and Bradley plus the client—leaves the courthouse at two-thirty, having spent the last several hours arguing pretrial motions in advance of jury selection tomorrow morning. We are counting time by the hours now, and the tension is showing in all of us. We had a decent afternoon in front of Judge Getty, so we’re off to a good start, but you just never know with this stuff. Twelve people who know absolutely nothing about this case will hear from both sides and pick a winner. To call that prospect unsettling is an understatement of the highest order. The future of a family construction business hangs in the balance.

  And yet.

  And yet, as Bradley and I walk across the courthouse plaza toward our law firm, all I can think about is my asshole law partner. And that little Barbie doll of his with the Cleopatra haircut and the cute figure and stunning blue eyes.

  “What do you think of her?” I ask Bradley. We’ve spent so much time together, going into battle on the Mariel trial and now this one, that a relationship has formed beyond the formal employer-employee framework—not that we were ever that formal to begin with.

  “She’s hot,” he says.

  “Okay, thanks, Bradley. That’s hugely helpful.”

  “Should I assume, because you’re asking, that you don’t like her?”

  I consider denying the charge, but he’s right—I wouldn’t be asking otherwise. “I’m just not sure that it’s a good fit. And I’m not sure Jason’s in a place right now where he can tell what’s good for him and what’s not.”

  Bradley looks over at me, as if to comment, but doesn’t. He just mumbles a hmph of agreement, or at least not disagreement.

  “Spill it,” I say.

  “You’re very protective of him, is all.”

  “So what if I am?”

  “So nothing. I mean, he’s like that with you, too. If he thought somebody was going to do you wrong, he’d break him in half. You’re very important to him.”

  “Not lately,” I say, surprising myself by the injection of self-pity, wishing I could snatch that embarrassing comment out of the air and shove it back into my big fat mouth.

  We zigzag across an intersection, walking in shade now, a relief from the stifling heat.

  “Let me ask you something,” says Bradley. “What did you think of Tori?”

  “Tori? Oh, their relationship was a train wreck.”

  “A train wreck in hindsight. But before that. What did you think of her?”

  I release a sigh. “I didn’t like her much.”

  “Okay. And what about Jason’s wife, Talia?”

  “Talia was great.”

  “Don’t just say that because she’s dead now. Forget the car crash, the whole tragic part. When she was alive and she and Jason were married—honestly, what did you think of her?”

  The wound of that tragedy has scabbed over somewhat, but still hurts. Jason was in incredible pain, however he tried to conceal it, and therefore so was I. No matter what else. No matter how else I felt about that relationship.

  The words come to me, but I bat them away, swat at them like a scary hornet.

  I was jealous of her, I would answer if pressed.

  “What’s your point, Mr. John?”

  “You know what my point is. Nobody’s good enough for your Jason.”

  “Now he’s my Jason? He’s not my Jason.”

  We stop at another intersection. I look over at Bradley, who is smiling widely.

  “Okay, have it your way,” he says. The light changes, and we move forward, on to our building, on to the last stages of trial preparation, on to another damn topic.

  53.

  Shauna

  Monday, July 8

  When I get back to the law firm, I take a look down the hall and find the door to Jason’s office closed once again, but the office light on, spilling out under the doorway. That’s the second time I’ve ever seen that door closed, the first being when he was in there with Alexa doing whatever it was they were doing. A closed door means privacy. A closed door means no visitors welcome. And the Arangolds will be here in an hour, so it’s not like I have a lot of free time.

  But I walk in that direction anyway, and I knock on his door anyway, and I poke my head in anyway, without getting an answer, because once upon a time Jason never closed the door, and once upon a time even if he did, there was one person in the world who could walk through it, and that person was me. And if Alexa doesn’t like it, she can—

  But Alexa isn’t in the office.

  There are two people in the office, Jason and a younger guy. Jason is behind his desk but standing, stuffing cash into his pocket. The younger man is on the other side of the desk, slouching in a chair with his feet up, his back to me when I pop in but now turning. He gives me a quick nod of acknowledgment, cool and confident. It takes me a moment, but only a moment, before I recognize him. He is much better at this than Jason, much better at pretending that he isn’t doing what it looks like he’s doing. He’s had a lot more practice.

  “Shauna,” says Jason, trying to act normal, still in recovery mode, a few bills sticking out of his pants pocket. “You don’t knock?”

  I knocked. I just didn’t wait for an answer. If I hadn’t knocked, if I’d just walked right in without any advance warning, Jason wouldn’t have had the nanosecond of time to try to hide the transaction that was taking place.

  “You remember Billy Braden,” he says, gesturing to his client while shoving the money deeper into his pocket.

  Sure, I do. Richie Rich. The son of wealthy doctors, the Highland Woods boy who deals drugs for fun, because it’s cool to take a walk on the wild side, to play Candyman before Daddy gets him into Harvard and buys him his first condo.

  “We were just discussing the appeal,” Jason says. “The state’s appealing the judge’s ruling.”

  I look away, close my eyes, wishing I could close my ears, too.

  “Hey, man, gotta scatter,” Billy says.
/>
  “Yeah, okay. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Cool. Nice seeing you,” Billy says, presumably to me, but I don’t look at him.

  And then he’s gone. Then it’s just Jason and me.

  “Boy, that guy’s a piece of work,” Jason says, still recovering. “I mean, I’ve had clients who wanted to pay in cash before, but you’d think a guy with—”

  “Jason.”

  “—his bank account—”

  “Jason.”

  He stops talking. The silence sucks all of the oxygen from the room.

  “Don’t,” I say. “Please don’t lie to me. Tell me to fuck off. Tell me to get out of your office. But don’t lie to me. Not me.”

  I keep my gaze on the window, not having mustered the courage for eye contact just yet. My chest is burning, my limbs filled with electricity, my pulse racing so hard that it’s difficult for me to stand still.

  “It’s painkillers, isn’t it?” I say. “You got hooked while you were recuper—”

  “It’s nothing,” he says. “I’m not on anything. I’m fine, Shauna.”

  My eyes close again. “You’re not fine. You’re lying to me.”

  “Shauna, I swear I’m fine.”

  “I said don’t lie to me!” Now I look at him, snapping my head around. “Don’t you dare lie to me, Jason. Anything but that.”

  Jason falls into his chair, shaking his head, a hand over his mouth. “I don’t know how to prove a negative, Shauna. I’m not addicted to anything.”

  “Swear on Talia’s grave,” I say.

  He makes a face, but his eyes still haven’t met mine. “What?”

  “Look me in the eye, Jason Kolarich, and swear on Talia’s grave that you aren’t addicted to something.”

  “Who . . . ?” Jason pops out of his chair. “Who the hell do you think you are, demanding something like that? Fuck you, Shauna. Fuck you.” He points at the door. “Now get out of my office.”

  Now, finally, there is eye contact, now that he’s refused to address the issue.

  “I’ll help you, Jason. I can help.”

  “There’s nothing to help.” He points toward the hallway. “Now you were about to leave my office?”

  I take a long breath. Something inside me breaks in half. I move toward the door but stop and turn before leaving.

  “This isn’t your office, not anymore,” I hear myself say. “I want you and your drugs out of my law firm.”

  54.

  Shauna

  Monday, July 8

  Six o’clock arrives before I’ve lifted my head. I’ve given my opening statement to the client and Bradley twice now. They’ve critiqued it, offered feedback, suggested a few tweaks, but overall people seem energized. Scared out of their minds, but energized, optimistic.

  “You’re ready,” Bradley says to me. “You need some sleep. This is going to be a long fight. Don’t start it exhausted.”

  “I’m going to get sleep,” I promise.

  “No, you’re not. You’re going to be up half the night practicing your opening. I’m trying to talk you out of it.”

  “I’ll take it under advisement,” I say, looking down the hall at Jason’s office. I’ve blocked out our last exchange; the trial prep with the client has given me a cooling-off period. Did I really just kick him out of the firm? Did Tasker and Kolarich just become Tasker? It feels like a dream, something I remember but that didn’t actually happen.

  Leave it alone, I tell myself as I start walking down the hall. Now’s not the time, I reason as I approach the door. Opening statements are fifteen hours away, I note.

  I take a deep breath and walk in.

  Jason isn’t there. But his girlfriend, Alexa, is.

  She’s putting Jason’s football into a box, along with a few other items from his desk. The rest of the office is intact, and there’s just the one box. So he’s packing up a few items but not moving out entirely. Not yet.

  “He asked me to grab some things,” she says.

  I nod. I consider turning and leaving, but I stand my ground.

  “Alexa,” I say, “I’m concerned about Jason.”

  She braces herself. “Jason’s fine,” she says. Not What do you mean? What’s your concern? Immediately defensive. As if she expected the question and had an answer at the ready.

  “He’s not fine,” I say. “I think we both know he’s not fine.”

  “I don’t know what you—”

  “Alexa, I just walked in on him buying drugs from a drug dealer. Right here, in this office. And if I know he’s doing it, then you must know, too.”

  She raises her chin. “He’s in pain. He has chronic pain and a doctor who doesn’t believe him.”

  “He doesn’t have chronic pain,” I say. “He hasn’t had pain in his knee for months. Do you see him hobbling around? Do you see him grimacing in pain?”

  She sighs and shakes her head. “I don’t see those things because he’s taking medication. The point is to not grimace in pain. That’s why we have painkillers.”

  “I think it’s time you opened your eyes,” I say.

  She cocks her head. “And I think it’s time you minded your own business.”

  And there it is. A turf battle. This isn’t about Jason at all, not for her. This is about possession, about yours and mine.

  “Jason is my business,” I say, knowing that I’m playing her game, but playing it anyway.

  Her face wrinkles up, mock confusion. “Really? How many times have you two spoken in the last month? Because I’m with him every day, and I have to tell you, your name hardly ever comes up.”

  My hands ball into fists as I move toward her. The kettle at boil. This woman, this woman is poison.

  “I’ve seen your act, sweetheart,” I say. “You like the ones who are broken, don’t you? You’ve got a tiny radar that goes beep-beep-beep when you spot one. You could see from a mile away that Jason was struggling. That’s why you were drawn to him, wasn’t it? That’s what you want. You want him broken so you can control him. I’ll bet you’re right there with a pill every time he needs one, aren’t you? Here you go, Jason. Take that pill. There, there, Jason. Am I getting warm?”

  She crosses her arms and glares at me. “I’m with Jason because he’s a great guy. If you can’t see—”

  “I know Jason’s a great guy. Don’t you tell me Jason’s a great guy. I love Jason.”

  Her lips part, then a small smile breaks out. Her eyes dance with some newfound inspiration. “I think we’re finally getting somewhere,” she says.

  “Are we? Where are we getting, Alexa? Do tell.”

  “You went a couple of rounds with him over the years, but somehow he never picked you, did he? This isn’t about Jason. This is about you, Shauna.”

  I’m speechless, like I’ve just taken a punch to the stomach, the breath whisked from me. I should have seen that coming. It’s the default position for someone like her, a comeback so venomous and hateful and childish.

  Is it also true?

  I start to leave, pivot, end up walking in a circle, unable to decide on my next move. The air in this room is toxic. If I stay here, I don’t know what will happen. My hands are visibly shaking. I open my mouth to speak, unsure if I’m capable.

  Control it, Shauna. Keep control.

  “If you have any true feeling for Jason at all,” I say, “you will get him help.”

  I leave the room and walk down the hall, numb, hollow. I walk past Bradley’s office. He says something to me, but I don’t respond, I don’t even make out the words. I walk into my office and pick up my phone. I find the phone number in my contacts.

  Joel Lightner answers on the third ring.

  “Joel, it’s Shauna,” I say. “I need to talk to you.”

  55.

  Jason

  Monday, July 8

  I empty the martini glass and place it carefully down on the table. It was a bad idea. My body can’t handle the alcohol, and given the other things I’m putting in my bo
dy these days, I’m taking a risk even with one drink. For a moment, I think the vodka’s going to come right back up. Across from me, Joel Lightner is watching me very carefully.

  “She didn’t kick you out,” he says to me.

  “She did. She said the words.”

  “She said the words, but she didn’t mean them.”

  “You’re a freakin’ mind reader now. A man of many talents.” I gesture to the waitress for another round out of instinct, knowing that I won’t touch a drop of it.

  “Shauna wouldn’t kick you out of the firm because you refused to help her with a trial,” Lightner informs me.

  The waitress is quick with the next martini. “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “It’s probably for the best. It’s probably time, y’know?”

  “Time for what? Time for you to run your own law firm? You have any idea how much of a pain in the ass it is to administer something like that? Until I hired an office manager, I was miserable having my own agency. The payroll and the books and the human resources bullshit. I know you, Kolarich. You don’t want to run your own office. You want to try cases and battle it out in court. You want someone else handling the rent payments and balancing the books.”

  That isn’t what I meant. I have no intention of having my own law firm, either.

  “Let’s talk about something else,” I say, my thoughts clouding up. “Let’s talk about how you can’t figure out who ‘James Drinker’ is and why the hell he’s decided to single me out for the biggest mind-fucking of all time.”

  “Hey, I’m not Superman. We ran the list of violent ex-cons released in the last year, I even went back eighteen months, and you didn’t prosecute any of them. Maybe if you could give me a complete list of everyone you prosecuted, but you can’t. The juvie stuff is sealed up, and there’s all sorts of misdemeanor casework that you can’t remember and I don’t have records of. He could be anybody.”

  He’s right, of course. None of this is his fault. I’m just lashing out.

  “Maybe this idea with Linda will work out,” says Lightner.