Текст книги "The Last Alibi"

Автор книги: David Ellis

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 31 страниц)

30.

Shauna

Thursday, June 20

I shake hands with Rory and Dylan Arangold at the end of a three-hour meeting. We’re doing what you do as you near trial in a civil lawsuit: working on a dual track, considering an acceptable settlement while preparing for a trial if there isn’t one. Yesterday, the lawyers for the city said they’d accept $5.5 million from us to “make the case go away.” But $5.5 million will make Arangold Construction go away. It’s above the surety bond they obtained, and they don’t have that kind of money lying around, not in this economy.

The Arangolds are old-school males in the construction business, hotheaded at times but totally uncomfortable showing fear. Which is why it’s so unsettling to watch them sweat so profusely as we cover every aspect of this case, as Rory taps at that calculator at the various permutations of damages a jury could award, as we consider the risks and rewards of the certainty of a settlement versus the likelihood of victory at trial.

“So you think Jason’ll be at the next meeting?” Rory asks. “Is that trial almost done?”

I’ve created an excuse for Jason, a major trial (the details vague) that has consumed him entirely. I won’t deny that I find it a little insulting that they keep asking for my law partner, but then again, they probably wouldn’t have handed me this case without him. I’ve handled some smaller matters for the Arangolds for years, transactional work and mechanic’s liens and a few smaller contract matters, but I didn’t really expect to get this case. I didn’t expect two guys who still call waitresses sweetheart and who always compliment me on my appearance to hand over this bet-the-company case to someone with a vagina.

And so this lawyer and her vagina would really like to get these cavemen a good outcome.

After we say our good-byes, my associate, Bradley, goes to his office to check his messages. I walk down the hall to Jason’s office and consider asking him to an early lunch. I catch Joel Lightner walking out the door, waving to Marie.

“Fuck!” Jason shouts out as I approach. I don’t usually have that effect on him. “Oh, hey,” he says when he sees me.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“Nothing.” He sighs. “Nothing.”

“You just like to yell ‘Fuck’ at the top of your lungs every now and then?”

He shakes his head absently. “Remember that weird guy, James Drinker?”

“The killer-who’s-not-a-killer.”

He looks out the window, his hands on his hips. “He lied to me. He claimed to have an alibi for one of the murders. His alibi was his mother. He said he was talking to her on his home phone. And now I come to learn that mommy is six feet underground.”

“Are you a cop now? It’s your job to solve crimes?”

He gives me a sidelong glance, an evil eye. “This is different,” he says. “A guy comes into my office and says he committed this crime or that—fine, I represent him, I’d never tell his secrets. But four women have been murdered and there’s no reason to believe there won’t be a fifth, and a sixth, and meanwhile I’m holding my dick in my hands—”

“Jason, it sucks, but you can’t turn in a client. You don’t even know if he’s guilty.”

Halfway through my lecture, he is shushing me with his hand, patting the air. “This from the woman who doesn’t practice criminal law because she doesn’t want to help set criminals free. But it’s okay to sit idly by and watch a serial killer run amok?”

That isn’t fair. There isn’t anyone who’d like to see this guy taken down more than me. But Jason, as always, is forgetting that he’s a lawyer with rules to follow. If he disregards them whenever his conscience bothers him, they aren’t rules at all.

“It isn’t a question of ‘okay.’ It’s a question of what you are ethically bound to do and not do. You can’t just go with some gut feeling and throw away your law license.”

“My law license.” He makes a noise, something between a laugh and a grunt.

I raise my hands. “I know this is tough, Jason. I do. It must be agonizing. I don’t work in your area of the law, so this is new to me. But I have to tell you, it seems to me that the rules are pretty clear.”

“I know.” Jason shakes his head. “I know you’re right.”

My eyes drift to the corner of his office where I left the Arangold materials. They still haven’t been touched, not one file.

“Listen,” I say, “I know this is tearing your hair out, but speaking of hair being torn out—are you going to help me on Arangold or not? It’s almost game time. Let’s end the suspense.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and puts out a hand. “I can’t think about that right now. I gotta figure this shit out, Shauna.”

I take a deep breath. Beneath my anger and frustration is something more. Jason looks terrible. Strung out. Sleep-deprived. Skinny. For the first time, I begin to wonder if there is something seriously wrong with him, if something happened to him while I’ve had my back turned these last six or eight weeks.

“Are you okay?” I ask. Normally, this would be the wrong approach. Jason isn’t your sensitive, sit-down-and-talk-about-your-feelings sort of guy. But I sense a dam about to burst.

He runs a hand through his hair. “No, I’m not okay. I spend most of my time trying to get people off for things that they did, for which they are totally and completely guilty. I kick the search on Billy Braden’s case so he can walk out of court and start selling drugs again right away. I’m just delaying the inevitable with these guys. I’m just making money. That’s all I’m doing. And now I find a guy who I know is guilty—I know it. Maybe it’s just my gut, but I know it. He’s killed and he’s going to kill again, Shauna, and he’s making me a part of it. I feel like I’m a coconspirator. And I have to sit here and do nothing?”

He sweeps a desk full of papers to the floor, something out of a movie, the disgruntled employee with the asshole boss who’s just had it! and quits.

“Fuck this,” he says, and he comes toward me, like he’s heading out the door.

“Hey, come on,” I say.

He stops and takes my arm. “I’m sorry about Arangold. I really am. But you’re better off without me. Trust me.”

He releases my arm and leaves the office without another word.

31.

Jason

Thursday, June 20

I look through the magazine rack and settle on the current issue of Sports Illustrated, the cover featuring two brothers, twins from South Korea, Hee-Jong and Seung-Hyun Lee, each of them seven-foot, three-inch centers, one a senior at Stanford, the other a senior at UConn. They are freaks of nature, the Lee twins, expected to go number one and two in the NBA draft next week. The headline beneath the two men: “Is the NBA Ready for the Lee Twins?”

I drop the magazine in front of the clerk, along with a box of plain envelopes, multicolored construction paper, a pair of scissors, Scotch tape, and a pair of rubber gloves. I assume I look like a father buying art supplies for his kid, who also likes sports. The rubber gloves might stand out. Probably should have bought some dishwashing liquid or something.

I pull out my wallet for my debit card. I hardly ever use cash anymore. But then I catch myself, slip the debit card back in my wallet, and pay in cash.

When I was a kid, we used to steal the current edition of Sports Illustrated from the local library. Pete, the more handsome and charming of the Kolarich brothers, would chat up the librarian, divert her attention while I slipped the magazine into the back of my pants after ripping off the stamp sensor—or what I thought was a sensor. When I was in high school playing football, I used to dream about seeing my name in that magazine, maybe a photo of me catching a pass in the Super Bowl. I would imagine some kid in a library just like me, stealing the magazine or ripping out my picture to put on his bedroom wall. I want to be just like him. I want to be Jason Kolarich.

Most of my fantasies, illusions of grandeur, used to involve sports, and almost always football. The acrobatic, impossible catch at a clutch moment, the crowd chanting my name, the announcer singing my praises over the roaring crowd. But as I’ve moved into my mid-thirties, it’s sometimes more about coaching, inspiring a group of ragtag kids, given no chance to succeed, and impossibly winning the state championship or a national title. Occasionally it’s a fantasy related to my profession, usually the innocent-man-on-death-row, a last-minute discovery that compels the governor to call the warden and halt the execution.

Lately, I’d be happy just to feel normal.

I check over my shoulder as I leave the convenience store. I’ve taken lately to suspecting that someone is following me. I can’t place why, just a sensation that something is trailing behind me, stopping when I do, starting along with me, shadowing my every move.

I get into my SUV and drive. With the library on my mind and a local branch in sight, I pull into the parking lot and walk in. Over the main desk, there are signs welcoming me in multiple languages—Bienvenidos, Mabuhay, Suswagatham—and notices in vibrant colors for the “Summer Book Club” and “Rock and Read,” an advertisement for a children’s author appearing next week, a program on “The Secret Language of Peruvian Cuisine” that I would love to attend were it not for having to reorganize my sock drawer that night.

I’m not sure why I chose a library, other than the fact that it’s not my home and not my office. Untraceable to me, in other words.

A young African-American woman behind the desk smiles at me. She seems pretty for a librarian, I think, but then I catch myself and realize I haven’t been to a library since I was a punk kid, so what do I know about librarians? Plus, speaking of fantasies, the naughty librarian look—hair pulled up tight, horn-rimmed glasses—was a staple of my adolescence.

I find a carrel in the back corner on the second floor and remove the items from my bag. I find the words I need in the magazine, cut them out with the scissors I bought, wearing the rubber gloves I bought, and tape them onto a piece of green construction paper. When it’s done, the piece of paper says:

It has the chaotic look of such notes, sometimes featuring entire words—James from a story on the NBA’s LeBron, WOMEN from a headline about the WNBA’s fiscal problems, dead from an article about a hockey player who overdosed on amphetamines, Drink from an advertisement for Dewar’s—and sometimes partial words and individual letters and numbers of varying fonts and sizes.

I feel like I’m demanding ransom for some wealthy family’s child or blackmailing a cheating spouse. It’s not that bad, but it’s bad. I’m betraying my oath. I’ve taken some liberties with the rules in the past, but this isn’t a step over the line; this is taking a sledgehammer to a wall. But I’m done with sitting around like some do-nothing chump just because of some stupid rule. Four women are dead, and I’m not waiting for a fifth.

Getting the address is tougher, but just as important. They will print and analyze the envelope as meticulously as the note itself. Detective and Vance and Austin require a lot of cutting of various words, police is easy—the overdosing hockey player story—the street name, Dunning, a challenge, and the zip code a complete nightmare.

When I’m done, I find a mailbox downtown, north of the river, and drop the letter in. The last pickup is at two P.M., and I’m here ten minutes early. So with any luck, this should arrive on the desk of Detective Vance Austin tomorrow.

32.

Jason

Friday, June 21

I overslept this morning, having not fully settled into sleep until about four in the morning, then awakening at six-thirty, then back down until nine. I desperately need some REM sleep, which makes me think of my favorite band and then my favorite person, Shauna. I ditched out on her yesterday, finally turning away the Arangold case, doing her a favor even if she doesn’t realize it, and then ditched out on her literally by leaving the office to author my anonymous note. I noted, when I walked in this morning, a deep impression in the carpet, in the shape of a square, next to my refrigerator, a slightly lighter color on the fabric as well—Shauna had reclaimed the Arangold files that had been sitting there untouched for over a week. I can’t imagine what Shauna is thinking about me right now.

“Nothing,” Lightner tells me over the phone. “James spent the night at his apartment and went to work this morning. Will keep you posted.”

“Thanks, Joel.” At least we’re keeping tabs on the man now.

My intercom squawks. I don’t have any appointments this morning.

“Yes, my love?” I call out to Marie.

“Alexa Himmel to see you.”

Well, then. I figured her for gone after the Altoids incident. If she had an ounce of common sense, she would be.

She carts in her transcription machine behind her like a piece of luggage and leaves it in the corner of my office. She gives me a fleeting kiss, her lips full and wet, just the way I like them, and says, “Sorry to barge in while you’re working.”

“No problem,” I say, especially considering that I wasn’t working at all. I don’t have any trials coming up, and every other deadline I have isn’t imminent, which is a good thing because I’ve been terribly inefficient, unable to focus, often rereading the same passage three or four times. My vision is starting to suffer, too, a shady border framing my eyes, as if everything were in a dream or flashback.

Alexa closes the door behind her. A big talk? I hope not. We’ve talked enough.

“Well, I have something for you,” she says. She is wearing a blouse with frills at the edge of her sleeves and a blue skirt. She cleans up good.

She hands me a manila folder.

“Is this a subpoena?” I ask.

She smiles. “Open it.”

I rip it open from the side and remove three, no, four sheets of foil, each containing thirty small pills.

She puts her hand on my cheek. “Your knee will get better, but until it does, you shouldn’t have to live in pain. Not my man.”

“Alexa . . . This is . . . How did . . .” I lower my voice. “This is . . . illegal.”

She puts her hands on my chest. I like it when she puts her hands on my chest. She gives me a longer, softer kiss, a taste of strawberry on her tongue. I could learn to love this girl.

She puts her mouth next to my ear. “Then maybe tonight,” she whispers, her breath tickling my ear, “you can spank me for being a bad girl.”

33.

Shauna

Friday, June 21

Bradley John, newly deputized as the second chair of the Arangold defense team, finishes arranging our lone conference room, which has now officially become the war room. He has set up the television and DVD player in one corner for the videos of the auditorium construction during its various phases; he has one end of the room devoted to the flooring issue, another to colonnades and shoring, a third to the various internal issues during Arangold’s renovation of the civic auditorium.

“This case is bigger than two lawyers,” I say, as if I’m suddenly realizing it.

“Yeah, but you know enough about this stuff for six.” Bradley smiles at me. I like this kid. A solid mind and a good sense for how and when to say the right thing. This is one of those times.

And he’s right. I’ve learned more about a major construction project than I ever wanted to know. I’ll never walk into a football stadium or concert hall or government building without thinking of tuck-pointing and change orders, soil samples and pre-bid drawings.

“Hey, Shauna? Just out of curiosity—why the battlefield promotion? I’m not complaining, but Rory keeps asking about Jason, and now he’s getting me. What’s up with Jason?”

I let out a sigh while I organize the depositions in the order I want them. “I was hoping you could tell me,” I say. Then I stop and look at him. “Actually, that’s a serious statement. Have you noticed anything unusual with Jason?”

Bradley gives a Who knows? shrug. “I’ve been like you, boss. Buried in Mariel for the last two months and now into the fire with Arangold. I’ve barely talked to him.”

“I know.”

“But you know Jason,” he says, trying to appease me. “If he’s not on trial, he mopes around. He just had a tough stretch with the knee blowing out, he’s missing the summer marathon season, he hasn’t had a big trial lately—”

“But this is a big trial.” I drive my finger into the table. “This is a bet-the-company case for the Arangolds.”

“He doesn’t want to try this case? He turned it down? Oh.” Bradley pushes his lips out. “Yeah, now that’s unusual. Yeah, I don’t know then.”

My eyes drift off in the direction of Jason’s office, though I’d need X-ray vision to see it from the conference room.

“Be right back,” I say. I didn’t like how Jason and I left things yesterday. He bolted on me and then disappeared for the entire afternoon. The lad is out of sorts, methinks, and needs a friend.

When I reach Jason’s office, I see something I’ve never seen. His door is closed.

I knock weakly with the back of my hand. “Anyone home?”

“Hey, Shauna, come in, come in.” Jason has a big enough office for a couch on the end opposite his desk, which is where I find him and his new lady friend.

“Shauna Tasker, Alexa Himmel.”

“Hi.” She gives me a quick once-over and waves at me from the couch. She could get up. It wouldn’t kill her.

So I wave back. “Nice to meet you.”

Yeah, she’s Jason’s type, all right. Exotic and mysterious, sexy.

“I didn’t mean to intrude. Jason,” I say, feeling like a teacher or my mother, “when you get a second, nothing urgent.”

“No problem. Alexa just stopped by for a minute. Shauna has a huge trial coming up,” Jason says. He’s got that spacey grin on his face again, like he did when I caught him mumbling song lyrics and lighting matches the other day. On his lap is a manila envelope, opened, contents unknown.

“Oh? That’s exciting,” Alexa says, in that way you say something and mean the exact opposite. I mean, surely it can’t be as exciting as, say, spending your days transcribing what other people say. Seriously, trying a multimillion-dollar case with an entire family business on the line is exciting, but basically serving as a human tape recorder—that’s the coolest!

She holds her stare on me, eyebrows raised, as if to say to me, Was there anything else, sweetheart? Or should you be running along?

I clap my hands together, heat rising to my face. “Well, Alexa, nice meeting you,” I say, and for some reason I do a salute. I actually salute like I’m in the military. Why on earth did I do that?

“Aye, aye, Cap’n,” Jason says, saluting me back. He laughs. Alexa laughs. I make a decision right there: It’s okay for Jason to laugh. Not okay for Alexa to laugh, not when she’s basically laughing at me. Not okay for a little Kewpie doll court reporter to wiggle her sweet ass and be more welcome in Jason’s office than his best friend and law partner. Not okay for a little low-rent typist who probably didn’t make it past high school to talk down to someone who graduated law school at the top of her class and then built up her own law firm from scratch when nobody thought she would succeed, nobody—

Wow. Where did that come from?

“Okay, bye then.” I close the door to their continued amusement.

I return to the conference room and tell Bradley to shut up before he can even ask me. “We don’t need Jason,” I tell him. “We’ll win this case, just you and me.”

34.

Jason

Wednesday, June 26

The next several days are like a blur. I ducked out early on Friday and spent the whole weekend with Alexa, most of the time naked, trying out new options sexually, the bad-girl thing she’d whispered in my ear being a particular highlight. I’ve never been into role-playing; the nurse and patient, the cop, the chambermaid, the prison guard, the flight attendant, the college professor—none of that has ever floated my boat. Nor does the rough stuff do anything for me. Aggressive, sure, but not abusive, not hitting or choking.

But every now and then, I like to talk. And so does Alexa. Most of it is merely suggestive, but when we get going, hot and sweaty, that old-fashioned girl gets pretty graphic.

But here’s what we don’t talk about: Never once this weekend did she ask me about my knee, never once about the pills. I don’t like to see you in pain was the only thing she said, which worked for me.

The weekend became Monday, but I liked the weekend better so I adopted Monday as an unofficial holiday. I didn’t have court, no meetings, no upcoming deadlines, and Alexa had the day off. Here’s a summary: more sex.

I thought that worked pretty well, so Tuesday became a holiday, too, though I did have one meeting that I had to cancel.

In between these sexual escapades and Altoid chewing, I’ve continually kept tabs on James Drinker. I’ve monitored the Herald online for any news of fresh murders by the North Side Slasher, but I didn’t expect any, because Joel Lightner’s team has kept Mr. Drinker on a short leash. Lightner said his surveillance team was about to die from boredom, as our man tended to go straight to work, straight home, then back to work, then back home. On Saturday night, he worked all day, went to a movie at night—Fast & Furious 6—by himself, and then went home. On Sunday, he went to church—Saint Hedwig in his neighborhood—and then picked up some gyros on his way home. Once the week started, it was work and home, work and home.

At two o’clock on Wednesday, I’m reviewing the Brady material on a possession with intent that is up next week for a pretrial in federal court when Joel Lightner buzzes my cell phone. I received the morning report on James Drinker and didn’t expect another call until he leaves work at five-thirty or six. So if Joel’s calling, he must have news.

“Thought you’d want to know,” he says, “that the police just paid our friend James a visit at his auto body shop. They took him to headquarters twenty minutes ago.”

I release a week’s worth of breath. It’s about freakin’ time; I sent that note to the police last week.

“Great,” I say. “That’s . . . great.”

“So that dilemma of yours? You never had to cross that bridge. They must have connected the dots on his relationship with the first two victims.”

Um, right. No reason to tell Joel that I already crossed that ethical bridge and found it wobbly and unsteady.

“Keep me posted, will you? And thanks, Joel.”

I keep my phone close by, cognizant of the fact that James Drinker might be calling any moment. That was the clear direction I gave him, what any lawyer would tell him: Don’t talk to the cops until you’ve called me. But an hour passes and I haven’t heard a thing. Maybe he got another lawyer. Maybe he’s winging it in there. Maybe he’s already given up the whole thing to them, one of those guys who can’t keep his composure once the pressure’s applied.

My spirits now fully revived, I pick up Alexa on the way home from work. We order in Thai food, but I don’t feel like eating. My stomach has been reenacting the Civil War all day. I’ve barely touched any food. At seven o’clock, I get a text message from Joel:

Cops dropped JD back at work 6:40 pm he picked up car drove straight home

So the police let him go. Hmm. I wasn’t sure how that would play out. I didn’t put any details into the anonymous note about his connections to the first victims, Alicia Corey and Lauren Gibbs. I just said, he’s your guy. Maybe that was a mistake. What did I think would happen—they’d sweat him and he’d spill the beans right there? Maybe I did. Wishful thinking.

But he’s on their radar screen now. I’ve been around law enforcement long enough, both as a prosecutor and defense counsel, to know what deters these guys and what doesn’t. And knowing that the police are watching you is usually enough to spook them.

So maybe I’ve stopped the bloodbath, at least. Maybe he’s done. And if he starts getting thirsty again for the blood of young women, Lightner’s team will be watching. The deal we struck was that if anything got to the point of looking imminent—if Drinker was sneaking around houses in the middle of the night, that kind of thing—Lightner’s people would call 911 and expose him, if nothing else to stop anything from happening, even if Drinker got away.

So that’s comforting, I guess.

At nine o’clock, I’m sitting on my bed, doing some online legal research for a suppression hearing I have next week. Alexa is arranging the clothes she’s brought over to wear for tomorrow morning. She’s been going back and forth, picking up items on a daily basis and bringing them to my place, which must be a pain in the ass for her. I’ve offered to stay at her house, but she prefers mine. It’s more centrally located, I guess.

Alexa comes over to the bed, removes my laptop, and replaces it with herself, straddling me. Exploring the parameters of the Fourth Amendment case law on searches incident to arrest can be interesting, but exploring the parameters of Alexa’s sexual appetite has proven more enticing still.

Life can be good. At least I can tell myself it’s good.

Afterward, I’m lying on the bed while Alexa takes it upon herself to tidy up my room, which isn’t necessary, but she does it without asking and says she doesn’t mind. She cooks, she cleans, she satisfies my every sexual desire, she’s cool about that tin of Altoids—what next? Does she like football and poker, too?

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I pick it up and see an unknown caller. My heart skips a beat. Lately, that has only meant one person. I figured he would call.

“This is Jason,” I say.

“Well, well.” James Drinker breathes into the phone. “You . . . prick.”

“Who is this?” I ask, because in all fairness, any number of people would like to say that to me.

“This is your client,” he says.

“Is this—James?”

“That’s right, Jason. It’s James. James Drinker. The client you just stabbed in the back.”

I won’t deny I’m enjoying this, but the even keel to his voice is unsettling.

“I don’t know what you mean, James.”

“No?”

“No.”

Silence. Alexa stops what she’s doing and looks over at me.

“I just had a nice visit with the police,” he says. “Detectives. They yanked me down to the police station and questioned me for . . . I don’t know, two or three hours.”

“Where are you?” I ask, playing dumb. “Are you at headquarters?”

“Oh, no. They let me go, Jason.”

Yes, I should have been more explicit with my note. I should have cut out enough words from the Sports Illustrated to say dated Alicia Corey and friends with Lauren Gibbs. But they’ll get there, eventually. He’s in their sights now.

“Well, we knew they’d pay you a visit sooner or later,” I say. “How did it go? You were supposed to call me, James.”

Dead air, save for his breathing, slow and steady.

“Did you call the cops on me, Jason?”

“No, I didn’t.” Which is technically true.

“Are you sure, Jason? Because I think you did.” Still with that slow and steady tone, though I detect a slight tremble of anger.

I clear my throat. “You have a connection to the first two victims. You dated Alicia and you were friends with Lauren. We always knew the police would talk to you.”

Silence. He is stewing. What I’m saying is correct, though. I told him, all along, that the cops would get to him sooner or later, and probably sooner.

“I never dated Alicia Corey,” he says. “I didn’t even know her or Lauren Gibbs.”

A burn spreads across my chest. Didn’t see that one coming.

“You know what that means, Jason?”

It means the only reason the police would pay him a visit is because I tipped them off. He caught me. He got me. Was that his plan all along? Was he testing me?

And if so, why?

“It means you lied to me,” I say. “You shouldn’t do that.”

“True,” he concedes. “But it also means that you told them about me. And you really shouldn’t do that.”

“I wish I could help you, James. Even if you didn’t know any of the victims, there’s plenty of reasons why they might contact you. Who knows what evidence they followed that led to you.” Like the fact that you killed those women, you maggot.

“They didn’t follow any evidence,” he says. “They just asked me if I knew those women. They asked me twelve different ways, but in the end, that’s all they asked me. They were fishing. They didn’t have anything on me. Why would they pluck me out of the blue and bring me in? There’s only one reason. That reason is you, Jason. You told them about me.”

“We’re going in circles, James. Should I assume you no longer want to retain my services?”

“Do you think I killed those women, Jason? Do you think I’m a . . . psychopath?”

Sociopath, actually, but why split hairs?

“Do you?” A taunt to his voice, a dare. “Do you think I like to cut women up with a knife? Do you think I like to torture them? Watch them suffer? Listen to them beg for their lives, smell their blood as the life drains from their eyes? Do you?”

The shadows framing my vision seem to darken and thicken, narrowing my sight line. My hand begins to itch. I’m not going to give this asshole the satisfaction of thinking he’s getting inside my head—which, of course, is the first step in letting him do that very thing.

Silence, save for his labored breathing. Alexa is pretending not to listen, picking up clothes off the floor, but keeping one ear to my conversation.

“Because if that’s what you think about me, Jason, I have one more question for you.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Am I really someone you want to piss off?”

I bounce off the bed, adrenaline surging through me. I may not be a hundred percent these days, but there are still a few things that can light my fire.

“You know where I work, James. Stop by anytime. I’ll even give you my home address if you like.”

“Oh, I already have it, Jason, but thanks. It’s a nice town house, by the way.”

“Are you threatening me, James? Because that’s a bad idea.”

He clucks his tongue, tsk-tsk-ing me, scolding me.

“Relax, my friend,” he says. “I didn’t kill anybody and I’m not going to kill anybody. You believe me, don’t you, Jason?”

“Whether you did or not,” I respond, “you better watch yourself now. You’re now officially on the cops’ radar.”

“Boyyy, it sure didn’t seem that way,” he hums. “I have to tell you, by the end of the interview, they sure seemed like they felt this was a waste of their time. They even apologized to me for the trouble. No, I think I’ve been crossed off their list.”