Текст книги "The Last Alibi"

Автор книги: David Ellis

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 31 страниц)

76.

Jason

Tuesday, July 23

“What’s going on?” Alexa asks.

“Nothing,” I say instinctively, as ridiculous a claim as that is. Nothing, just thought I would empty out every file in the room, pull out every drawer, rip the front off my radiator, create an absolute tornado in my office, all in the name of a casual good time.

Joel’s words from yesterday echo between my ears, like something in a movie: She’s not just giving you an alibi. She’s giving herself one, too.

I got a bad feeling about her.

I don’t like it when you talk to pretty girls.

My one-word answer to Alexa—nothing—crashes to the floor faster than Newton’s apple. Things have been odd since I confronted her two days ago about the restraining order and her lie about being an only child, her brother living here in the suburbs. I accepted her explanation. I believed her explanation. But you don’t just brush that whole thing off and pretend like it didn’t happen. There was something accusatory in my bringing it up, there’s no way around it, and it’s hard to walk that back to normal. She’s now been the object of suspicion, like a murder suspect who beats the rap, who is found not guilty, which is different from innocent, and you always wonder what really happened; the taint never fully diminishes.

It’s so obvious that the chaos Alexa sees in my office is something—not nothing—that she can’t bring herself to quarrel with me.

“Deposition got done early?” I ask.

She nods. “I thought you might want to leave early. Looks like you don’t.”

“Right.” I look around the room and shrug.

“You think he planted something in here for the police to find?” she asks.

I nod. I don’t know why I didn’t just admit that up front; it’s pretty obvious what I’m doing. “I could see him doing something like that,” I say.

“That would make sense.” She looks about the room. “Do you want some help?”

A gut-check moment. Either I trust her or I don’t. Do I really think she’s capable of doing these things?

A better question: Am I capable of making that judgment?

“What happened to your hand?” she asks. “Oh my God, your arms.”

“Oh, I’m fine, I’m fine.” Just a little scratching. Or a lot of scratching.

“Oh, Jason.” She takes my arm, then looks up at me. “You’re doing okay?”

“Sure, sure,” I say.

She pauses, chews on her lip. “I’ll leave if you want. If you want to do this by yourself. It’s not a problem, really.”

“No, not at all,” I hear myself say. “I could use the help. But I think I’ve looked pretty much everywhere.”

She surveys the room, nodding her head and humming to herself. “You don’t know what you’re looking for, that’s part of the problem.”

“That’s the main problem, yeah.”

“Mmm-hmm.” She spins around the room. “Did you pull up the carpet?”

“First thing I did.”

“The refrigerator,” she says.

“Check.” But I’m sure I’ll recheck it.

She keeps looking around. “Looks like you checked the heater.”

Check. But will recheck.

“The couch,” she says.

“Check.” But will recheck.

“We should go through your files again, probably.”

“Probably. I looked through them all.”

“Did you check every piece of paper?” she asks.

“Every piece—no. I was looking for things that didn’t belong.”

“It could be a piece of paper,” she says. “We don’t know what it is.”

That’s true. She’s right.

“What about the diplomas and pictures on the walls?” she asks.

“The walls? No.” I shake my head, feeling a surge. Her words trigger a memory.

You played football at State, didn’t you? “James Drinker” asked me.

Yes. Yes. He was standing, admiring my ego wall when I returned from the bathroom after taking the Altoids. I remember now. What is wrong with my brain?

“Haven’t gotten that far yet,” I say. Making it sound like I was just about to head there. I probably would’ve thought of that, eventually. I’d prefer to think so.

“Let’s check those first,” she sings.

There are . . . ten frames on the walls. My college and law school diplomas. Certifications from various courts to practice before those tribunals. Certificates from the public defender and county attorney offices for my work there. A picture of me cross-examining a witness, drawn by a courtroom sketch artist when I was defending Senator Almundo from federal corruption charges. And my favorite, the photograph of me, taken by one of the university photographers, my body angled while airborne, my arms outstretched, my hands closing over the football. I don’t remember if I caught the ball.

I start with that one, because that’s the one “James” specifically referenced. I lift it off its hook and look behind it. Nothing but a flat, smooth wooden frame. I balance it on my knee and twist off the levers that hold the backing in place, removing each piece of the frame, the matting, and the photo itself. He could have stuck something deep within it, after all.

Nothing. Alexa does the same thing with my college diploma.

I go next to the certificate from the county attorney’s office, my name in a thick gothic font on gold paper. If I’m right about this guy, it was my time as an assistant county attorney that brought us together. If “James” has any sense of irony, this is where it will be.

I gently lift the frame off its perch, a horizontal piece of wire resting on a nail, and turn it over.

“Well, lookee here,” I murmur.

Fastened to the back of this frame, with Scotch tape, is a hypodermic needle, the hollow tube with the syringe attached. And from what I can tell, some fluid still inside.

“He’s injecting them with something,” I say to Alexa. “That’s his signature.” And I’d bet any money that this particular needle was used to inject the first two victims, the ones already dead when the man who called himself James Drinker paid a visit to this office.

77.

Jason

Tuesday, July 23

“A needle,” Joel says. “With fluid still inside?”

“Some, not a lot,” I say, perching my cell phone on my shoulder. I’m at my town house now with Alexa. The needle is inside a sandwich bag, resting on my bed. “Maybe a quarter of the vial?”

“Well, that would be a signature, all right. Maybe it’s some kind of incapacitating agent. Or, well, it could be anything. He could’ve injected it when they’re half dead, or all dead, or he could have used it to subdue them in the first place.”

“It could be something meaningful,” I say.

“It’s a milky, cloudy liquid?”

“Yep. Y’know, I’m wondering if I should just take it to the cops. What if there are fingerprints on it?”

“Is that what you think?” he asks. “That this guy went to all this trouble to set you up, but he was dumb enough to put his greasy fingers all over it?”

He’s right. I take this to the cops and I’m in no different position than I was before. I still can’t identify the killer any more than a fake name he gave me. There’s still some unknown evidence out there that “James” has planted at the crime scenes. I’d be in just as helpless a position as before. Correction—worse: Now I happen to be in possession of one of the killer’s weapons, complete with DNA on the needle tip, no doubt, of the skin and blood of Alicia Corey and Lauren Gibbs.

“How are we doing on that other topic? That thing we discussed yesterday?”

Alexa, he means. His suspicions about Alexa.

Alexa’s in the master bathroom right now, the water running, but still I answer in a whisper. “She helped me find this, Joel. I was chasing my tail looking for stuff. It was her idea to check the pictures on the wall.”

“That a fact? It was her idea, was it?” He sounds almost cheerful. He seems to think this proves something.

“You’re delusional,” I say.

I hang up with Joel and get on my knees by the nightstand next to my bed. There is a small drawer and I pull it out completely, removing it from its hinges. I tape the sandwich bag containing the needle to the underside of the drawer and carefully replace it.

“That’s not much of a hiding place,” Alexa says when she emerges from the bathroom.

“Well, hopefully, it won’t need to stay hidden long,” I say. “We’re going to catch this guy. I can taste it now.”

78.

Shauna

Wednesday, July 24

Two o’clock. Bradley and I look at each other with blank expressions. Rory Arangold puts an arm around my shoulder and whispers, “Either way, you were amazing.”

The trial has ended. Closing arguments were completed a half hour ago, followed by instructions from the judge to the jury. The seven women and five men who will decide our fate have retired for deliberations. There is no chance they’ll come back today. They’ll get started today, will elect a foreperson and get organized, maybe will make some introductory comments. Tomorrow, Thursday, will be all day. And they won’t want to carry this case over into next week. Friday, I’m almost positive. Friday, we’ll get the verdict.

The adrenaline begins to drain from my limbs, from my neck and shoulders, my body turning to rubber. Jason, I think to myself. I need to talk to Jason. But I have to see this thing through. The jury shouldn’t take more than two days. Wait for the verdict, be there for the client until then, stay on my game just another day or two, hold my freakin’ breath, and then Jason.

Rory mentions dinner, Bradley says something about a stiff drink, but I tell them I have an appointment and I’ll try to meet with them later. I have a feeling that I won’t. I’ll make up an excuse, a headache or something, and by then they’ll be so drunk they won’t care. A rain check, I’ll say. We’ll celebrate after the jury gives us the good news.

That should be my focus right now, the verdict, this case. I’ve kept my focus thus far. I’ve stayed on program. I haven’t missed a single beat. We’ve done everything we wanted to do, from start to finish, for better or for worse. It’s a good feeling, in itself, knowing that you have no regrets about your performance.

But I’m not in a place right now to feel good. I just want to get out of here, make my appointment, and go home.

The Arangolds aren’t finished with me, hugging me and shaking my hand and filling me with praise. They are good people, and they deserve to keep their business. They deserve to win this case. I tell them all of that, knowing that they won’t be hearing these words from me later tonight over wine or something stiffer.

Jason, I think to myself. I need to talk to Jason.

Two more days. It can wait two more days.

79.

Jason

Friday, July 26

My office is a wasteland. Everything that Alexa helped me put back together I have taken apart again. I’m taking no chances. I’m going back over this entire office to make sure that the hypodermic needle I found behind my framed prosecutor’s certificate is the only thing that my friend “James” planted. I’ve tossed my car, as well, though there’s never been a sign of anyone breaking into it. No chances. Taking no chances.

I’m drifting hard, trying to keep my spirits high, focusing on the fact that I’ve checked at least one move that “James” has made, but realizing that there is a bad side to my discovery, too—it proves that my tiny glimmer of hope that “James” was making this whole thing up about a frame-up was wasted prayers, that, in fact, he is doing that very thing. And that means that even if I discover who he is, and I turn him in to the police, I’m going to have some explaining to do of my own. Not an insurmountable climb, I hope, but the truth is, I don’t know what lies ahead for me. I don’t know what “James” has planted at the crime scenes.

Which means that I could be sprinting toward my own execution squad.

My eyes pop open, and I realize I’ve drifted off—not an uncommon occurrence these days, during lulls of stress—when I hear the celebratory voice of my associate, Bradley John.

“Not guilty on all counts!” he shouts. “Not guilty on all counts!”

Marie’s voice now, whooping it up, too. I pop a pill from my Altoids tin and push myself out of my chair, glancing at the clock. It’s just after ten o’clock. The jury must have announced first thing this morning.

“A complete and total defense verdict,” Bradley is saying to Marie. “Four counts, all in our favor. And here she is,” he says, taking Shauna’s hand as she appears in the hallway. “Hey!” he says when he sees me. “Defense verdict, all the way around!”

I give my congratulations, a high five to Bradley and a quick friends hug with Shauna. Defense verdicts in a plaintiff-happy forum like our civil courts is cause for mass celebration. There will be a long, liquid lunch that will turn into a long night. I’m hardly in the mood for this, but they deserve it. Shauna did it. She took on the city and knocked their teeth in.

“I need to talk to you,” Shauna whispers to me, but she allows for the merriment to continue for a while. There’s no alternative. This is a major, major win for our law firm, one of the biggest.

It’s early enough that lunch is premature, so everyone agrees to hold off on the heavy celebration for an hour or so, Shauna actually mentioning that her stomach is bothering her and she may want to postpone the festivities. That would be fine with me.

I walk back to my office, Shauna following me. Instinctively, I take a seat behind my desk, a bit more formal than the couch we’d usually share, without giving it any thought. Maybe that’s saying something right there. Shauna, for her part, chooses not to sit at all. She is wearing a solid frown. Someone who just won a heater case, who just saw two years’ worth of grueling work lead to a spectacular result, is frowning at me.

“Could I have one of those mints?” she says to me, nodding to the small tin of Altoids. Shit. I left them out. I was in too much of a hurry getting up to congratulate them.

“Sure.” As casually as I can, I bring out the other tin—the real Altoids—and open it up.

Shauna looks at me. “No, I want one from the red tin,” she says. “The peppermint.”

“What’s the difference?” I shake the blue tin in my hand for emphasis.

“I want the peppermint kind,” she says again, her eyes growing hot.

“Shauna—”

“I’ll give you a thousand dollars for one of the peppermint ones that you just slipped back in your pocket.”

“What the fuck, Shauna?”

“What the fuck, Jason? I’m serious.”

We stare at each other. This isn’t going well. My cell phone buzzes—Alexa—but I let it go to voice mail. This is not the time for evasion. Shauna has busted me, and we both know it.

“That’s what I thought,” she says, barely above a whisper. “Now, listen to me, Jason. Are you listening? I mean, really listening?”

My face is hot, my eyes stinging. I don’t answer.

“I’m not going to let you throw your life away. You are going to get off those pills, and I’m going to be there with you. We’re going to do it together. But it doesn’t work until you admit it.”

I laugh, like the whole thing is ridiculous, but nobody in this room is fooled. “So this is, like, an intervention? Where’s my brother, on the other side of the door? Where’s Lightner? Where’s Dr. Phil?”

“It’s just me,” she says. “It’s me. The person who cares about you more than anyone in this world. It’s me, Jason.” She pats her chest for emphasis. “I’ve got all the time in the world to help you. I’ll do whatever you need.”

“There’s nothing to do, kiddo, and this is getting redundant. We’ve been over this before. If this is going to be you hectoring me about a problem I don’t have, then it’s going to be a short conversation. Go out and celebrate, and leave me alone. I’ve got enough to deal with right now,” I say, and now the emotions are starting to build. “I’ve got a damn serial killer who, as far as I know, is scouting out his next target right now, and who’s apparently setting me up for the crime. And I can’t find out who he is. I can’t, Shauna. It’s—well, it’s taking up a bit of my time right now, okay? So please, take your touchy-feely intervention and conduct it on somebody else.”

Shauna watches me, almost clinically, like she’s observing me for an objective evaluation. Then, without warning, her eyes begin to fill. Her expression doesn’t change. If anything, it grows stonier. But those eyes always give her up.

“I’m pregnant,” she says.

80.

Jason

Friday, July 26

I search Shauna’s face, uncertain I heard the words correctly, but surer every second, as the tears roll down her face, as she picks at a fingernail, her eyes casting downward.

“I’m pregnant,” she says, “and I’m terrified.”

“No. No.” I am out of my chair now, coming around my desk.

I approach her, and she weeps silently, the way she always does, her shoulders bobbing, and when she looks back up at me she has to blink away tears furiously, her mouth in a scowl.

Something clears inside me, not a sudden jolt but the slow rise of the sun, something long dormant waking up and rearing its head, stretching its limbs, clearing its throat, reasserting itself. Now I remember, I realize. Now I remember.

And it surges through me, shaking me so hard that the hand I raise to her cheek is trembling. I wipe at her tears with my thumb, pull her in close to me.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“No. Don’t ever—”

And then my throat chokes up, and I press against her, and everything is different, because it has to be different, I want it to be different, I’ve wanted it to be different for so long now that I’ve forgotten what it felt like, what it looked like.

“I’m addicted to OxyContin,” I say. “I don’t know how I let it happen, but I did. I thought I could take as much of it as I wanted, as often as I wanted, because I was strong. But I’m not strong. Not strong enough. I . . . I want to stop, Shauna. But I need help.”

“Then you will,” she whispers. “I’ll help you. We’ll do it together.”

I press my lips into her hair, run a hand over her back. “I promise you I’ll beat it,” I say, my voice gaining strength again. “I won’t let you down. Ever, Shauna. I won’t ever let you down again.”

She slowly draws back, puts her hands on each side of my face, looking at me. “I know you won’t,” she says.

81.

Jason

Friday, July 26

Alexa opens the door to her home. Her smile disappears as soon as she sees the look on my face.

Things have been on a downward slide between us, a slow and steady decline. It’s the kind of thing that neither party to a relationship openly acknowledges, but each one recognizes. This visit, this moment, can’t be entirely a surprise to her. But there is so much that goes unsaid in a relationship that sometimes you don’t know until you do it.

“Something’s wrong,” she says to me, backing up, letting me into her home, but not taking her eyes off me, her facial expression telling me that she sees it coming.

“My life has been wrong for a while now,” I say. “I have to turn it around. I’m going to turn it around. Right now.”

“You’re . . . pale,” she says, reaching for me, but I recoil. “Is it your knee?”

I resist the impulse to smile. “I think we both know my knee is fine, Alexa. I’ve become a drug addict. And if I don’t change that, I’m going to wind up in the gutter.”

“Okay, okay,” she says, coming to me again. “Let me help.”

I take her by the wrists, blocking those hands that caressed me so often. “You deserve better than this. I know that. But I have to start fresh. I have to end this between us right now. I’m very sorry, but that’s the way it has to be.”

She doesn’t take it well. She pulls back from me, shaking her head, breathless, wagging a finger like she’s warning me, no no no. She doesn’t speak. It’s as if the wind has been stolen from her. Like a child gearing up for a loud cry.

“Are you going to be okay?” I ask, trying to strike the proper balance between concern and dispassion. I need to keep some distance now. It won’t make it any easier for her if I touch her, soothe her, take her in my arms one last time.

“Am I . . . going . . . am I . . .” She staggers into the living room, bracing herself against the love seat.

I consider all sorts of platitudes. It’s for the best. I think you’re great. You’re going to find someone special. It’s just not the right time. Empty words, all of them. Words to ease the discomfort of the deliverer of the bad news more than the recipient. She is suffering now, and my feelings for her were genuine, too, at least on some level. But I can’t separate our relationship from the pills. I’m not sure there was a relationship without those pills. So I’m not going to coddle her with some mouth candy that I think I’m supposed to utter. I’m not going to pretend that this is going to feel better for her tomorrow.

She has made it to the couch, where she sits. I fetch a glass of water, not that she requested it, and place it on the table next to her. She is trying to breathe.

“Alexa, I’m worried about your safety,” I say. “With this killer out here who has a hard-on for me. Can I . . . Would you let me buy you a plane ticket somewhere? Anywhere. You name it. I can put you up in a hotel somewhere where you’re far away—”

“Oh, wouldn’t that be convenient,” she spits. “You dump me, then ship me off to another state.”

“I’m serious, Alexa. When we were together all the time, I didn’t worry about you. But now . . .”

She raises her eyebrows.

“I don’t want anything to happen to you, and I can’t protect you except to get you out of town for a while. Just until we figure out who this guy—”

“I’m not a charity case. I don’t want a plane ticket. I want you.” She looks up at me.

I open my hands. “I can’t give you that. I have to start over. I’m sorry.”

“I thought you loved me,” she whispers.

I squat down. “Alexa, I haven’t been right in the head. It’s not fair to you, but it’s true. Of course I have feelings for you, but when you’re addicted to drugs, that becomes your love affair. I know it’s hard to understand.”

Actually, I think she understands it quite well. Shauna, I think, had it right about her. She liked that I needed help, that I was struggling, that I needed her. Amazing, really, what a wake-up call can do for your sense of reality. The truth is that Alexa was a part of my spiral, she was enabling the spiral.

“I’m going to get help,” I say. “And I’m going to move on. And I hope you can move on, too.”

She hiccups a laugh. Something has risen inside her and reached her eyes, turning them hard. “You’ll be back. I’m the best thing that ever happened to you.”

I draw back, surprised at the abrupt change. But there’s no handbook for this kind of thing.

“I have to leave,” I say. “I’m going to leave now. Take care of yourself, Alexa.”

I stand and try to think of something appropriate to do or say. Failing that, I head for the door.

“Who’s going to be your alibi?” she says, regaining some composure now, standing at the couch. “Who’s going to keep you out of prison?”

I flap my arms. “You were never my alibi,” I say. Then I turn and leave.