Текст книги "The Last Alibi"

Автор книги: David Ellis

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 31 страниц)

48.

Shauna

Wednesday, July 3

No matter how much you prepare for a trial in advance, no matter how many boxes you check in the weeks before it begins, the final days are always a sprint. Bradley John and I, joined by Arangold Construction’s in-house lawyer, the two Arangolds, father and son, and three paralegals, have been working around the clock the last few days. The trial starts next Tuesday, the ninth, and should last about three weeks. Bradley and I have divvied up the work—about two-thirds of the witnesses mine—and are now poring over the numerous pretrial motions our opponent, the city, has filed to tie us up in the closing hours.

Day has turned into night has turned into day, the movement of the hands on the clock nothing but a signal that we have less and less time to get ready. Some people, facing deadlines like this, just want it to be over. I’m the type who always wants more time.

We’ve taken a break to eat some sandwiches that Marie ordered for us, subs in paper wrapping with grease stains, their contents described in shorthand with black Magic Marker. A copy of today’s Herald is strewn about, the headline about the scandal du jour, an investigative report that shows the mayor’s administration has wasted millions of dollars on the city’s new contractor to handle garbage disposal and waste hauling. Not the hugest deal in the world, but the Herald reporters are the ones who exposed it, so it has to be a big deal.

It’s okay with me, however, because it’s my theme for the trial. City employees who sleep on the job, unmanned hotlines where complaining callers can’t get anyone to answer—the inefficient, incompetent city looking to blame my client, a hardworking father-son operation, for the mistakes that the city itself made.

I make a pit stop in the bathroom, and when I come out I see the light on in Jason’s office. A Jason sighting has been rare these days. I haven’t spent much time thinking about him, given the trial, unless you count the number of times I’ve cursed him under my breath for bailing on this case and leaving me with too much to do.

I venture into his office, not sure of much of anything when it comes to Jason anymore. I checked with Marie the other day on Jason’s comings and goings, only to find that his appointment calendar seems to be shrinking.

“Hey,” I say without much enthusiasm, not a Happy to see you tone of voice.

He has his back to me, removing a bottle of water from his small refrigerator near his desk. When he turns to me, I draw a quick breath.

He is even skinnier than the last time I saw him, his face almost gaunt, the circles beneath his eyes prominent and dark. His hair is hanging in his face, the bangs curling around almost to his cheeks. He has two or three days’ growth on his face, like sandpaper.

He is no longer the imposing jock-turned-lawyer, the high and tight haircut and formidable presence. He looks more like Kurt Cobain.

“How’s it goin’?” Jason nods at me. “Final sprint, right?”

“Um, yeah . . . yeah, final sprint.”

“Something wrong?” he asks. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

That’s because I have.

I invite myself into his office, stand by one of the chairs but don’t sit. “Thought maybe you were sick,” I say. “Marie said you’ve referred some of your cases out.”

He sighs. “A couple of dogs. Nothing worth keeping.”

I move my head up and down. “You’re not going into retirement?” I say, broaching the issue delicately.

“Spending more time on the yacht? Sailing the world? Not just yet. Everything okay on the trial?”

How nice of him to ask. “You know how it is. You’re sure you don’t have enough time to get everything together. And then, somehow, it comes together.”

“Right, right.” He nods at me again. “You’re pissed off I bailed on you?”

Well, at least he noticed. He’s seemed so caught up in his own little world, I didn’t think he would take note of something like, oh, completely breaking his word to me and not helping with the trial, not being a good law partner. While we’re at it, let’s add not being a good friend to the list.

“We’re managing,” I say, deflecting the question. There’s a lot of deflecting going on in this exchange. “What about you?” I ask. “Are you okay?”

“Me? I’m all good.” Deflect.

“How are things with Alexa?”

“Oh, yeah, she’s good. It’s good. Spending a lot of time with her.”

The inanity of this conversation, catching up with each other like we’re a couple of college classmates who bumped into each other years later, is enough to make my head explode. I want to grab him by the arms and shake him, but it takes two for a conversation like that, and only one of us is interested.

“Tell her to cook you some meat and potatoes,” I say. “You’re shrinking.”

“Right. Oh, hey.” He looks past me. I turn, too. Alexa comes waltzing in, carrying a shopping bag full of groceries.

Plans for the evening? I don’t ask, but it’s July 3. The fireworks are tonight. Maybe that’s what they’re doing. People who aren’t about to start a trial go out and watch the fireworks. People with boyfriends snuggle up on a blanket and drink wine and watch the sky explode while they grope each other. I haven’t been groped in a long time. I wouldn’t mind being groped a little, or a lot.

“You remember Alexa,” says Jason.

How could I forget Alexa! How’s it goin’, girl?

“Sure. Hi,” I say.

“Hi,” she says, dropping her bag on the couch. She turns to me and salutes me in grandiose fashion, a reminder of my awkward gesture last time. If it were remotely amusing, I would smile. But it isn’t, so I don’t. It’s so far from amusing that I couldn’t see amusing with a telescope. This is bad. I don’t know how else to say it, like the temperature changes when she walks in, the lights dim—something. This lady is bad news.

Not that she notices or cares what I think. She waltzes right past me and throws her arms around Jason. He seems a bit surprised by the public display of affection.

“Well, that’s my cue,” I say.

“Good luck with the trial,” Jason calls out as I walk away. I don’t bother with an answer.

49.

Jason

Sunday, July 7

The Jason Kolarich Bizarro Tour continues onward. With July 4 falling on a Thursday, most people took off Friday and made it a four-day weekend. I guess I did, too, technically, by which I mean I didn’t go in to work any of those days. But I barely left the house, afraid of encountering anybody that could end up being the next victim of “James Drinker” simply because they spoke to me and happen to be female, young, and attractive.

So Alexa picks up my dry cleaning. She shops for groceries. She even took in my car for an oil change. And she spends the night, every night.

I have to credit Alexa for the suggestion that we spend each night together so that my friend the serial killer can’t frame me for another murder. A nice chess move; we’ve blocked his king. If nothing else, it has bought me time while Joel Lightner and I try to figure out who the hell this guy is.

But tonight, I tell Alexa we’re going out to a new Greek place that everyone’s talking about. By everyone, I mean Joel Lightner, who mentioned it was popular. Alexa questions the wisdom of the decision, but doesn’t put up a fight. She’s probably feeling as cooped up as me.

So out we go, Alexa dolled up in one of her summer dresses and me looking like someone who badly needs a good meal, a haircut, and clothes that are a size smaller. The place is about as fancy as a Greek restaurant is going to get, which is to say not very fancy at all, but apparently they do some interesting things with the seafood and they have a dozen brands of ouzo and the lighting is a little darker.

We’re in the bar area, doubling as the waiting area for the packed restaurant, and I do what I do whenever I leave the house now—I look for “James.” Look without looking, trying for discretion, and not focusing too hard. Sometimes it’s easier to find something when you’re not actually looking for it, so I just try to keep my observation level as high as possible and wait to see if anything sticks out, lingering eye contact or, better yet, hastily broken eye contact, followed by defensive body language.

“James” could be here right now, in disguise or otherwise—but probably in disguise, given the security camera at the front door of the establishment. All I know for certain is he’s muscular; I don’t think he could have faked that. I don’t know if he has a big gut or if he wore something to make himself look fat. I don’t know his hair color, but assume it isn’t red, or long and curly, either. I never got a great look at his face because he was wearing those thick glasses, but still—I think if we were face-to-face, I could make him.

There must be over a hundred people packed into the bar area and overflowing into the dining area. Nobody jumps out at me at first blush.

Nobody except Joel Lightner, sitting at the bar by himself.

Alexa excuses herself to the bathroom, so I’m loitering with a cocktail and waiting for someone to give us a seat. My phone buzzes and I check it, always wondering if it’s going to be my lucky day and it’s “James” again. But it’s not. It’s Shauna, and I’m not particularly in the mood for hearing about how different I’ve become or registering the tinge of disappointment in her voice, so I let it go to voice mail.

The hostess standing behind the podium is a stunning blond woman, wearing a sleeveless black dress and wearing it very nicely. Nice tan. Nice cut to her arms. Nice smile. Nice cleavage.

“You come here often?” I ask.

She laughs. Nice laugh.

“Too often,” she says.

“What are the odds I can get moved up in line?” I ask.

“Not good.”

“What if I told you I was a lawyer?”

“Even worse, then.”

My turn to smile. “I see you have good taste.”

“Which one are you?” She looks down at the list. “Ko-LAHR-ick, right?”

“Right person, wrong pronunciation. KOH-la-rich,” I say. “Kola like the drink, rich like wealthy.”

“What kind of name is that?”

“A last name. My first is Jason.”

I pull out my wallet and remove a business card. As a rule, I hate it when people do that. I hand it over the podium to her. She takes it and reads from it. “‘Tasker and Kolarich.’ What kind of a lawyer are you?”

“A bored one.”

“Can I keep the card?” she asks, flashing a smile for the ages.

“If you didn’t, I’d be insulted.”

“Oh, there you are.” Alexa grabs hold of my arm, throwing her weight into me. “Sorry that took me so long!”

“Hey there,” I say, keeping my balance. “Alexa, this is—”

“Our hostess! It’s really super to meet you!” Her tone is less than sincere. And the look on her face is less than friendly.

The hostess isn’t sure what to make of that. She looks at me.

“It was nice meeting you,” I say. I extend my hand to shake the hostess’s. Then I steer Alexa back into the main crowd. “What the hell was that?”

“I was going to ask you the same . . . thing,” she says, slapping my chest, part playfully and part not. “Are you here with me or are you here with the hostess?” She is wearing an artificial smile, but her eyes are burning.

“Hey.” I step back from her. “I was just talking to someone while you were in the bathroom. What’s the big deal?”

“And what were you talking about? The stock market? Global warming? Or were you exchanging phone numbers?” She keeps that icy smile on her face, her eyes shooting lasers.

“If you must know,” I answer, “we were discussing the proliferation of nuclear weapons in the Middle East.”

The smile turns into a frown.

“We decided we were against it,” I add.

Still frowning.

I throw up my hands. “We were just talking.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I noticed.”

“Ko-LAHR-ick for two?” the hostess calls out, needling me. “Ko-LAIR-itch?”

“I don’t like it,” Alexa repeats before she follows a waiter into the dining room.

50.

Jason

Sunday, July 7

Once Alexa and I are seated, we order some shrimp on a sizzling plate with garlic and onions for an appetizer while we peruse the menu.

“Lawyers give out their business cards,” I say to Alexa. “That’s what they’re for.”

“I see. You did it for business,” she says, looking at the menu, her expression as hard as stone. “You think this hostess knows a bunch of criminals and she’ll refer them to you.”

I pull out my phone and shoot a text message to Joel: ???

He texts back a minute later: SO FAR NOTHING. WHAT WAS THAT WITH ALEXA? SHE ALMOST SCREWED THE WHOLE THING UP. OR WAS THAT PART OF THE PLAN?

“You never know where business will come from,” I say.

NOT PART OF PLAN, SHE DOESN’T KNOW, I text back to Joel. JUST A JEALOUS GIRLFRIEND.

“You were flirting with her,” Alexa says to me. “Just admit it.”

I look at her and cock my head. “You’re being ridiculous. Admit that.”

THE BUSINESS CARD WAS A NICE TOUCH, Lightner texts back. I thought so, too.

Alexa throws down her menu. “Take me home,” she says. “I don’t want to be here.”

“What? We just got here.”

Her face is crimson, her mouth turned downward, a pouty scowl. “My head hurts. I’m leaving. You can stay if you want. Maybe the hostess can join you for dinner. What’s her name, anyway?”

Linda. Her name is Linda. She just started at this restaurant yesterday. She has another job, too: She’s one of Joel Lightner’s best investigators, the beautiful blond who interrupted our meeting the other day; apparently Alexa didn’t turn around and see her that day, standing in the doorway. I probably should have discussed this whole scheme with Alexa, but I don’t want her involved. She’s involved enough, anyway, purely by her association with me.

“I don’t know the hostess’s name,” I lie.

“Well, now you can learn it.”

“Wow,” I say, opening my hands as Alexa gets up, not even waiting for me. “You’re going to walk out on me?”

“Sure looks that way.”

And she’s gone. I throw down some cash to cover the appetizer and drinks we ordered and make my way out. Alexa has already left the restaurant. I’ll catch up to her.

First, I take the opportunity for one more stop at the hostess station. I whisper something to Linda—“You be careful now”—and she makes a point of laughing, like I just said something really charming. I shake her hand good-bye, my other hand covering our handshake. Affectionate but not too forward. I don’t want to come on too strong here. I just want this beautiful young woman to stand out to whoever it is who may be watching. Joel has promised that they’ll have her under the tightest of scrutiny, and that she is armed and well trained herself.

He’d better be right. Because if this has gone as planned, Linda Sparks has just become target number six.

51.

Jason

Monday, July 8

A low growl, then thick sweaty gums, fangs dripping with saliva, black nose with nostrils flaring in anticipation; my movements are slow but steady, unsure of what will provoke it, and then its eyes come to life and it SPRINGS—

“Shit,” I whisper to myself. I catch my breath, wait for my pulse to even out, wipe sweat off my face. My dreams have graduated from serial killers and dead women and insects feasting on my skin to animals, mean and snarling, ready to pounce.

I roll over and Alexa is staring at me, wide awake, propped up on one elbow.

I blink twice and say, “What . . . are you doing?”

“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.