Текст книги "The Last Alibi"

Автор книги: David Ellis

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 31 страниц)

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 body 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.

“I still don’t like the idea.” I was never keen on using Linda as bait. But Joel talked me into it. He said it was Linda’s idea. Linda Sparks is a former Marion Park cop, a martial arts expert with a license to carry a firearm, a firearm she knows how to use very well. And she has two of Lightner’s other investigators tailing her night and day. If “James” goes after her, he won’t get very far.

But that assumes a lot of things I don’t know. It assumes that “James” even followed me to that Greek restaurant in the first place, and that he would take the bait if he was there. But we sure made Linda an inviting target. She fits the profile, and I flirted with her openly, even giving her my business card, which would be irresistible to “James.” A dead woman with my business card in her purse? If “James” was there, he’s going to tail Linda, check out where she lives, scout out the whole thing. If he keeps to form, it will be a week or so before he makes a move. Could be longer than a week, could be shorter.

“Hey,” I say. “What about this signature of his? Remember you said the cops told you he left a signature at every crime?”

Joel takes a sip of his drink and smacks his lips. “I remember.”

“You can’t get me any more information on that? If I knew what that was—”

“Jason, no cop investigating a serial killer is going to tell someone like me what the offender’s signature is. That’s their one chit. They hold it back so they can differentiate between bogus confessions and real ones, helpful information and unhelpful, and so they can separate copycat crimes from the real offender. Nobody’s going to tell me that information, and I wouldn’t ask them to.”

“Well, can you guess?”

“Can I guess? Sure, I can guess. Um, he leaves a rose at each scene. No, he writes a love letter to each of them and stuffs it in their mouths. Maybe he removes their front teeth. Wait, wait, here we go, he jerks off into a cup—”

“Okay, I get it. So why am I talking to you?”

“Why are you talking to me? Maybe because I’m the only person on the face of this earth who can tolerate you. Besides Shauna, whom you’ve managed somehow to alienate. Don’t be an asshole. Call her up.”

I look at my martini, certain now that I won’t touch the second drink. I miss vodka, though. I miss the buzz and the late nights, the give-and-take with Lightner and with Shauna, when we could get her out with us. “Alexa tolerates me,” I say.

“Yeah, great. She must fuck you really well, kid, because you’ve disappeared since you met her. I mean, this has been a true honor tonight, just to have the pleasure of your company. And where is the lovely Alexa tonight? She let you off your leash. What’s the occasion?”

I don’t know why I put up with Lightner. “She grabbed a few things from my office. I didn’t feel like going back there and having it out with Shauna.”

“Well, she sure made friends with Linda,” he says. “What was that? I thought she was going to slap Linda across the face. She looked like she wanted to.”

I shrug. “She gets jealous. Wouldn’t you, if you had a catch like me?”

Lightner gets a good laugh out of that. “A catch like you? I believe this is not the first time I’ve mentioned that you look like shit, Kolarich. I mean, absolute dog shit. Comb your hair once in a while, guy. Eat a meal. Sleep a few hours. You know who you look like?”

“Brad Pitt?”

Joel’s phone, resting on the table next to a bowl of nuts, starts to vibrate. On the face of the phone, it says Shauna Tasker.

“Don’t answer it,” I say.

He answers it. “Hey, girl. I’ve got your law partner here and he’s brooding. No, that’s okay, go ahead. You sure? It’s no . . . Okay, I’ll call you tomorrow. Hey, listen—you guys are going to work this out. Yes, you are. Yes, you are. Okay, tomorrow.” He clicks off the phone. “You’re an asshole,” he says to me. “Shauna’s a peach. Granted, she won’t sleep with me, which is a major character flaw, but otherwise she’s the best. Don’t be an idiot. Kiss and make up with her.”

“I’ll get right on that.” I fish out some peanuts, but think better of it.

“And just for my own curiosity,” says Joel, “why did you bail on that trial with her? That’s a heater of a case she’s handling. I thought you lived for that shit. The high stakes and conflict. That’s right up your alley. Why didn’t you work on it?”

I throw some money on the table and scoot out of the booth. “This has been a real treat,” I say. “Let me know when you figure out who ‘James Drinker’ is or if you get any leads on the surveillance. And definitely send me a bill for your services.”

“What are you doing? Don’t leave. Let’s get a steak.”

“I have to get home to paint my toenails,” I say.

“Jason.” Joel steps out of the booth, blocking my exit. “Sit down.”

“I’m leaving.”

“No bullshit,” he says, raising a hand. “What the hell’s wrong with you? This whole new . . . I mean, everything. You look like you haven’t slept in days and you’re, what, thirty pounds lighter. Your clothes are hanging on you. You don’t cut your hair or shave. You part ways with the best friend you’ve ever had and you act like you don’t even want to be a lawyer anymore. Seriously, man. What’s—Are you—are you sick?” He leans in for the last question, lowering his voice. “Is there something I can—”

“I’m sick,” I say. “I’m sick of helping criminals stay out of prison so they can hurt more people. I’m sick of people expecting everything from me and then being disappointed when I don’t fit into their vision of how I’m supposed to act. Just—just leave me alone, okay? I appreciate the concern, but I’m totally fine and I don’t need anything. Got it?”

Joel looks away, that whole disappointed thing I’ve managed to bring out in so many people, his tongue rolling around his cheek. “Got it,” he says simply.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure, cowboy. You’re totally fine and you don’t need anybody. We’re clear.”

“Good.” I nod at him and walk out of the restaurant.

56.

Shauna

Monday, July 8

“This is a case about incompetency and inefficiency in our city government,” I say, standing at my desk in my office at close to midnight. “This is a case about inefficient and incompetent bureaucrats who were given a job—to hire a construction company to renovate the civic auditorium—but who were totally unwilling and unable to properly prepare for the job. And when it turned out they hadn’t adequately prepared, hadn’t properly informed that construction company about all sorts of structural problems with the existing building and all sorts of problems below ground that affected the structure, it became a game of hear no evil, see no evil. It became anyone’s fault but theirs. It became my client’s fault, a father-and-son operation that’s done business for over thirty years with hardly a blemish on their record.”

I close my eyes and let that sink in. The recent problems the city’s had with the new garbage and waste-hauling contracts have grown more prominent by the day, soaking up the headlines in the Herald. Just today, in fact, Mayor Champion fired the head of Streets and San. So I’m hoping this theme finds a soft landing with my jury. If they live within the city limits, they’ll immediately think about this scandal. If they live in the near suburbs, they’re probably already inclined to think the worst of city employees.

I rub my eyes. I can’t do this anymore. I can hardly concentrate anyway. Why did I pick today to have it out with Jason? And why the hell didn’t he fight me when I told him to pack his stuff and get out? Why did he just accept it without a word? So now I’m alone at work, too? It’s not enough that I’m alone in my personal life, I have to be alone in the professional world, too?

I drop into my chair. I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired of cold beds and pretending that I love my independence. I’m tired of telling myself how proud I am that I haven’t settled for any of those nimrods who think I’m supposed to spread my legs for them because they went to Princeton undergrad or they wear hundred-dollar ties or once worked on the Hill. I’m tired of men who assume that they’re smarter than me because they were born with a penis and me with a vagina, and the moment they realize the scale is tipped the other way, they lose interest.

I’m tired of assuming I’ll have kids. I won’t. It’s time to see that, ma’am, because them are the facts. I’m thirty-five and a galaxy far, far away from a relationship with anyone even remotely—

The front door to our office pops open. Security checks in at night, but the security guy came through an hour ago. And they routinely announce themselves right away, so they won’t send a thrill of terror up the spine of someone working late at night, like me.

“Hello?” I shout.

Footsteps coming my way. I get out of my chair.

“Hey.” Jason stands in the doorway, looking haggard and disheveled, his collar open and his tie missing altogether.

The stranger danger adrenaline subsides, replaced with the Jason adrenaline, a seesaw of emotion.

He didn’t just pack his stuff and leave quietly. He came back.

“How’s your opening coming along?”

“How’s my opening coming along . . . how’s my opening coming along.” I drop my head and make a noise. “Is that what you came here to ask me?”

“No.” He looks down the hallway toward his office, like he’s about to walk away. Since when have we been unable to communicate? When did that happen?

“Sometimes,” he says, still facing the hallway. “Sometimes I wonder if I still want to do this. Be a lawyer. I’m not totally sure I do anymore.”

“Okay,” I say gently, soothingly, but inside it’s like a dagger to my heart.

“But . . . I do know one thing.” He turns to me. “As long as I practice law, I want to do it with you. I love you, girl.”

My eyes instantly well up. I come around the desk but stop short of him. “Okay,” I say, choking out the word. I’m not going to cry. I’m not. Maybe I am.

His expression softens. “Okay.”

“Okay,” I say.

His eyebrows curl in, serious-face. “About this other thing—”

“Shut up. I don’t want to talk about that now.”

He takes a deep breath and nods. “Okay. Well, so . . .” He gestures to the hallway. “I should probably—”

“Stay,” I say.

“Oh. You want some company?”

“I want you.”

To stay. Finish the sentence. I want you to stay. Not just, I want you.

“You . . . want me?”

“I want you,” I say again, and then my mouth is on his, my hand in his hair, and for an instant, for an insane, horrifying instant, I think that he’s going to draw back, reject me, and if he does we’ll never be the same, nothing will ever be the same, and then he kisses me hard and he lets out that moan, Jason’s moan, and then he yanks my blouse out of my skirt and runs his hands underneath, and then we’re tearing at our clothes and his rib cage is so prominent, skeletal, but he’s still Jason, big and strong Jason, with Jason’s soapy smell, Jason’s big hands, and we fall to the ground, right there in the threshold between my office and the hallway, and he rolls me over and my head bangs against the door and we both laugh and then he’s on top of me, running his hands everywhere, his tongue on my neck, then lower, then he’s pumping hard and moaning, and I close my eyes and grip the back of his hair and cry out into his ear—

“Wow,” he says, falling over me when it’s over, panting, his heart beating against my shoulder.

“Wow,” I agree.

He rises up and sits on the carpet, facing me, his hair all in his face, stuck with sweat. And there I am, up on my elbows on the office carpet, my skirt hiked up, panties curled around one ankle, semen dripping down my leg.

“Where did that . . .” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to. But he could smile. He could look pleased. He could look moderately happy.

“I’m not sure,” I say. Then I say, “Maybe I just needed to release some stress.” Playing defense, giving him an out, giving myself an out. Hating myself. Lobbing the ball gently onto his side of the court.

“Yeah, right.” He isn’t smiling. He isn’t saying, I’ve always loved you, Shauna. He isn’t saying, This feels right.

Maybe Alexa was right. He never picked you. You went a couple of rounds with him over the years, but somehow, he never picked you, did he?

“It doesn’t mean anything,” I say. Despising myself. When did I become such a coward?

“Yeah, no, I . . . I mean, it was great,” he says.

I scrunch up my face. That was great, the high school senior said to the other high school senior. See how far we’ve come! Maybe we can talk about R.E.M. music next.

“I should probably get back to my opening,” I say. “And you should go home to Alexa.”

We put our clothes back on in silence, no eye contact. He gets himself together and isn’t sure what to do. At this point, if he tries to give me the obligatory kiss, I’m going to vomit, so I walk back around my desk like I’m about to start reciting my opening again right away.

“Shauna,” he says.

I make a point of shuffling some papers before I look up, my eyebrows raised, holding back emotional responses that are aching to come out.

“Yes, Jason, what?”

“I just . . .” He thinks it over a moment, his jaw working but no words.

“Yes, Jason?”

His expression softens. He lifts his shoulders. “Just wanted to say, good luck tomorrow. Which courtroom?”

“It’s 2106.” As if either of us believes he’s going to stop by to watch.

“Good, great. You want me to walk you to your car?”

“Security will. I’m fine. I’m going to stay a while longer.” I finger-comb my hair, try to compose myself.

He nods. “Don’t stay too late,” he says. “You know when you’re on trial, you always stay up too—”

“Jason, you should go,” I say, not interested in his attempt to recapture some intimacy. Even our associate, Bradley, knows I deprive myself of sleep while on trial. If that’s the best he can do, he should hit the road. And that’s clearly the best he’s going to do tonight. Ever.

He didn’t pick you.

“Okay. Good luck.” He taps the door and exits.

And just like that, our conversation went from I love you, girl to a Grand Canyon between us. I clean myself up with some tissues, feeling like a two-dollar whore. Well, I wanted him to fuck me, and he sure did fuck me.

I take a deep breath and steel myself. “This is a case about incompetency and inefficiency in our city government,” I say, before my throat chokes closed.