The Last Alibi (20 page)

50.

Jason

Sunday, July 7

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

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

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

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

He texts back a minute later: S
O FAR NOTHING.
W
HAT WAS THAT WITH
A
LEXA?
S
HE ALMOST SCREWED THE WHOLE THING UP.
O
R WAS THAT PART OF THE PLAN?

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

N
OT PART OF PLAN, SHE DOESN’T KNOW,
I text back to Joel. J
UST A JEALOUS GIRLFRIEND.

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

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

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

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

“What? We just got here.”

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

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

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

“Well, now you can learn it.”

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

“Sure looks that way.”

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

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

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

51.

Jason

Monday, July 8

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

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

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

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

“You had a bad dream,” she whispers. “Are you in pain? I think the pain causes the nightmares.”

“I . . . yeah, maybe. Why are you up?”

“I heard you waking up,” she says, but she doesn’t look like she just woke up. She looks like she’s been watching me sleep.

She opens her hand. “I got you a pill. There’s water on the nightstand.”

“Oh. Yeah, okay. You don’t have to . . . do that. I mean, I can do it myself.”

“I know you can. I’m just trying to help.”

I take the pill and chew it up. These dreams suck. It would be nice if I could sleep through the night just once, instead of lurching forward in terror every two hours.

“You’re low on pills,” she says. “You know that, right?”

Of course I know that. I monitor those things more closely than anything in my life. “I’ve got it covered,” I say.

I put my head back on the pillow and stare at the ceiling. I should be feeling better soon.

“I’m sorry about what happened tonight,” she says. “With that girl. I get jealous. I guess that’s obvious.”

My breathing evens out. It’s kicking in now, the euphoria, the giddiness. I look over at her, my eyes having adjusted to the darkness, her features becoming clearer now. Is she . . . Has she . . .

“Are you . . . crying?” I ask.

“No, no. No, no. I’m not sad. I’m happy. I’m happy when we’re together. Are you?”

“I’m . . . happy,” I murmur.

“You’d tell me if you weren’t, wouldn’t you?”

“I’m happy. Go back to sleep.” I reach over and touch her arm.

“I don’t like it when you talk to pretty girls,” she whispers to me. “I don’t want to share you. Is that so bad?”

“No . . . no . . .”

And then my thoughts turn into swirls, sideways and inside out, and then I’m falling, falling, falling onto something feathery and warm.

52.

Shauna

Monday, July 8

Team Arangold—me and Bradley plus the client—leaves the courthouse at two-thirty, having spent the last several hours arguing pretrial motions in advance of jury selection tomorrow morning. We are counting time by the hours now, and the tension is showing in all of us. We had a decent afternoon in front of Judge Getty, so we’re off to a good start, but you just never know with this stuff. Twelve people who know absolutely nothing about this case will hear from both sides and pick a winner. To call that prospect unsettling is an understatement of the highest order. The future of a family construction business hangs in the balance.

And yet.

And yet, as Bradley and I walk across the courthouse plaza toward our law firm, all I can think about is my asshole law partner. And that little Barbie doll of his with the Cleopatra haircut and the cute figure and stunning blue eyes.

“What do you think of her?” I ask Bradley. We’ve spent so much time together, going into battle on the
Mariel
trial and now this one, that a relationship has formed beyond the formal employer-employee framework—not that we were ever that formal to begin with.

“She’s hot,” he says.

“Okay, thanks, Bradley. That’s hugely helpful.”

“Should I assume, because you’re asking, that you don’t like her?”

I consider denying the charge, but he’s right—I wouldn’t be asking otherwise. “I’m just not sure that it’s a good fit. And I’m not sure Jason’s in a place right now where he can tell what’s good for him and what’s not.”

Bradley looks over at me, as if to comment, but doesn’t. He just mumbles a
hmph
of agreement, or at least not disagreement.

“Spill it,” I say.

“You’re very protective of him, is all.”

“So what if I am?”

“So nothing. I mean, he’s like that with you, too. If he thought somebody was going to do you wrong, he’d break him in half. You’re very important to him.”

“Not lately,” I say, surprising myself by the injection of self-pity, wishing I could snatch that embarrassing comment out of the air and shove it back into my big fat mouth.

We zigzag across an intersection, walking in shade now, a relief from the stifling heat.

“Let me ask you something,” says Bradley. “What did you think of Tori?”

“Tori? Oh, their relationship was a train wreck.”

“A train wreck in hindsight. But before that. What did you think of her?”

I release a sigh. “I didn’t like her much.”

“Okay. And what about Jason’s wife, Talia?”

“Talia was great.”

“Don’t just say that because she’s dead now. Forget the car crash, the whole tragic part. When she was alive and she and Jason were married—honestly, what did you think of her?”

The wound of that tragedy has scabbed over somewhat, but still hurts. Jason was in incredible pain, however he tried to conceal it, and therefore so was I. No matter what else. No matter how else I felt about that relationship.

The words come to me, but I bat them away, swat at them like a scary hornet.

I was jealous of her,
I would answer if pressed.

“What’s your point, Mr. John?”

“You know what my point is. Nobody’s good enough for your Jason.”

“Now he’s
my
Jason? He’s not my Jason.”

We stop at another intersection. I look over at Bradley, who is smiling widely.

“Okay, have it your way,” he says. The light changes, and we move forward, on to our building, on to the last stages of trial preparation, on to another damn topic.

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.”