The Last Alibi (19 page)

47.

Jason

Tuesday, July 2

I pick up Alexa on my way home. She has two suitcases and a bag with her, plus her stenography equipment. When we get to my house, she unpacks everything, hanging dresses and blouses and pants in the second bedroom’s empty closet, lining the floor with shoes of all kinds. She puts lingerie and underwear in two of the drawers in the bedroom dresser. She puts makeup and toiletries in the master bathroom.

She’s moving in with me. Neither of us has said so out loud, and even if we did, we’d recognize it more as an act of necessity than a progressive step in our relationship—I’ve begun joking that I should introduce Alexa not as my girlfriend but as my “alibi”—but none of that changes the fact that she’s moving in with me.

“You doing okay?” she asks as she rearranges some things in one of the dresser drawers while I sit on the bed. “How do you feel physically?”

“I’m fine,” I say. Which is true, unless you count the dull pain over my eyes, or the incessant itching on my hands and forearms. Or the fact that I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in three months. Or my stomach, which is about as volatile as democracy in Egypt.

A clearheaded man might think that his body is telling him something. But clarity of thought is not something with which I have a lot of experience lately. I’m trying. Lord knows, I’m trying, because I need to get ahead of my murderous client, and I’m miles behind. I feel like I’m running in place. I feel like I woke up in a strange place, unsure of how I got there and not sure how to find my way back.

“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” Alexa asks me.

“Shit, I’m always thinking about him.” I’ve been checking the
Herald
online on an hourly basis, looking for any updates on the investigation or any word of another murder committed by the North Side Slasher.

“Did you get your list of old cases to Joel?”

“Yeah. This morning. For what it’s worth.”

“It’s not worth much?”

“I can’t possibly go back and retrieve all the cases I worked on. We don’t have a system like the PACER system in federal court, where cases can be sorted by attorneys’ names. We don’t have that.” I fall back on the bed. “Do you have any idea how many cases I handled? From cattle-call courtrooms when I started, to juvenile and abuse-and-neglect cases that are now sealed? Arraignments and bond hearings I handled before turning the cases over to older prosecutors for trial? The major crimes I prosecuted, yeah, I can remember a decent number of them. But the rest? There’s no record. And they all blur together for me. And here’s the best part: He might not be
any
of those guys. He might be a friend of a guy I prosecuted, or a brother. I’d—I’d have better odds trying to guess the winning lottery ticket tonight.”

“Oh, it can’t be that dire.” She closes up a drawer and looks over at me. “Since he’s such a violent person, it was probably a big-deal crime you caught him doing. Probably not a traffic violation, for example. Right?”

She’s right, of course. And luckily for me, the really violent cases are the ones I remember best. “But most of the time I spent prosecuting violent crimes was in the gangs unit,” I say. “And this guy who came to visit me didn’t look like a member of the Tenth Street Crew or the Insane African Warlords or the Columbus Street Cannibals.”

“Okay, well, still. Anything you can do to narrow it down. And you said it’s likely to be someone who was recently released from prison?”

“That’s where Joel’s starting, with violent ex-cons released in the last year,” I say. “It’s the obvious place to start. But . . .”

“But what?”

“But this guy is intelligent. He’d know that. Somehow, I don’t think it applies to him.”

Alexa finishes up, claps her hands, and sits next to me on the bed. “Be optimistic,” she says. “You’re doing everything you can.”

“It’s worth a shot,” I agree. “I’ll give Joel a week or two and see what comes of it.”

She looks at me, confused. “What does that mean, you’ll give him a week or two? What happens in a week or two if he can’t find anybody?”

“I turn myself in,” I say.

Her hand, caressing my leg, suddenly stops. She grips my calf. “You
can’t
be serious.”

“I’m totally serious. I’ll go to the police and tell them everything. Maybe he’s bluffing about how he’s framed me with physical evidence. And if he’s not, if he really did plant chewed-up pens and whatever else at the crime scenes, then maybe I can still convince them I’m a patsy.”

“Maybe you
can’t
. Then you go to prison for something he did.”

I shrug. “I’m not going to let him kill anybody else. I’m not.”

She wags her finger at me, but decides not to argue the point. We still have a couple of weeks to battle out that issue. And as long as Alexa stays by my side night after night and provides me a rock-solid alibi, so our theory goes, “James” will not kill anybody else.

So our theory goes.

“Okay, then, how about that present you promised me after I unpacked?”

“I probably built it up too much,” I say. “It’s not that exciting.”

“Whatever. What is it?”

I fish it out of my pocket. It can’t be that much of a surprise.

It’s a house key. A key that opens all three doors of my house—front, back, and side/garage.

She smiles at me, touches her nose to mine. “Wow, my very own shiny silver house key.”

“It set me back four bucks,” I say. “So if you don’t like it, let me know and we’ll exchange it for a nicer key.”

She kisses me and runs her fingers through my hair. She’s always touching me, my hair, my neck, my arms.

“You sure know how to charm a girl,” she says, pulling me on top of her.

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.