Alibi (10 page)

“You an art major?” he asked, putting his towel around his waist from some instinctive need to cover himself in front of her.

“No, pre-law actually, the art is a welcome diversion. My father is John Nagoshi,” she said matter-of-factly, like it was part of her makeup—just as she had black hair, brown eyes, straight teeth and long, porcelain-skinned legs.

“Why do you like being alone so much?” she asked, surprising him again with her frankness.

“Who says I like to be . . . ?”

“Of course you do. That’s why you kayak and swim and spend so much time sitting in the back row at tutorials.”

“Maybe all the front-row seats are taken,” he said, now walking up the bank toward her.

“No. They’re not,” she said.

And then she said nothing, as if waiting for him to go on.

“I like the water,” he said after a time, perhaps trying to justify himself. “It makes me feel . . .”

“At one with the world, I know,” she interrupted him again. “Did you know water is one of the five Japanese
Godai
, the great elements of life? It represents all things flowing, formless and constant—like our emotions, our adaptability, our suppleness and even our magnetism.”

“Ah . . . no, I didn’t.”

“Well, you do now.”

He stood there for a moment, now right in front of her, the only sounds coming from the water that dripped from his body onto the fallen maple leaves that covered the levee in a choppy sea of red.

“I have to go,” she said, grabbing her things and rising to her feet so quickly that his natural impulse was to take a step back. Which he did not do.

She smiled at him then and he found himself studying her—her flawless skin, perfect narrow face and clear almond eyes. And then he opened his mouth to ask her something—a question he knew he needed to ask before his brain even registered exactly what it might be—only to have her cut him off again.

“Don’t worry,” she said as she raised her slender right arm and flicked a random fallen leaf from his left shoulder. “I’ll be back. This was nice.” And then she turned and started walking up the hill.

“I am glad to finally meet you, James Matheson,” she said without turning around. “You are just as I expected.”

“Jesus Christ, Frank,” said Joe Mannix, turning to face his detective partner who was bent over and seated next to him on the plush purple sofa just outside of Dean Brian Johns’ expensively decorated office. “What the hell are you doing?”

Detective Frank McKay tilted his neck and looked up at his boss with his usual “
no capisce
” expression as he retrieved the red tartan lunch box from his faux leather briefcase and proceeded to open it up.

“What?” said McKay, proceeding to undo the neatly applied cling wrap on his tuna salad sandwich. “Didn’t you hear the bell, Chief? It’s lunchtime. The Dean’s secretary said he’d be at least fifteen minutes. You know what I’m like if I miss a meal, boss. And tracking down this kid could take all afternoon.”

“For Christ’s sake, McKay. The bell wasn’t meant for you. You’re a detective, not a freshman whose mom still packs his lunch in some quaint little carry case. And it smells like shit by the way. So just can it, okay?”

“All right already,” said McKay. And Joe knew he had gone too hard on the annoyingly endearing detective who usually amused Joe with his unconventional take on “appropriate.” But he guessed Frank knew his short temper had more to do with this case than with the tuna because he packed up the fish and put it away without another word.

They waited a full twenty minutes, listening to Brahms, Handel or one of those other European geniuses whose music seemed to go on forever. And then, when Johns was finally available, waited a further fifteen while he consulted once again with Deane’s legal advisors before giving his official permission for them to reenter the grounds and further question the students.

Once that was done—and Mannix and McKay reinforced their promise not to “request that any student accompany them off campus without full permission from the school and the said students’ parents or guardians”—they were allowed to check with administration as to the whereabouts of one James Matheson who, it was soon revealed, was currently at kayak training and could most likely be contactable once he returned to the campus boathouse.

“Do you want me to leave a message for him to come to the Dean’s office as soon as practice is over?” asked Johns’ administration coordinator, a tall, thin, pinched-faced woman whose hair was the color of a rusty drainpipe.

“No thanks,” said Mannix, preferring to catch the boy off guard. “If you could give us directions we’ll save Mr. Matheson the trip and meet him at the boat shed.”

“It’s a boathouse, not a shed, Detective, and you may proceed as you wish,” said the woman with a fresh squeeze of lemon on her lips. “Here’s a campus map. The boathouse is on the southern side of the campus past the Medical School and the College of Humanities. But if you intend on walking I’d hurry. Practice finishes at one, and Mr. Matheson will most likely want to shower before his afternoon classes.”

“He lives on campus?” asked McKay.

“No, in Brookline. But the sports complex on the western side of the campus has an extensive shower area where many of our athletes like to freshen up after training.”

“Right,” said Frank. “Well, that’s a lot of helpful information Mrs. . . .”

“It’s Ms. Humfries—with an ‘f,’ ” said “Lemons.”

“Well, thank you, Ms. Humfries with an ‘f,’ ” returned Frank with a smile. “It’s been a pleasure.”

Humfries, perhaps taken a little aback by Frank’s impressive manners, also managed a smile—at least Joe thought it was a smile—barely one notch up from a wince.

“Not a problem, Detective,” she said. “And please don’t hesitate to call if there is anything else you require.”

“Will do,” said McKay who gave Ms. Humfries another appreciative nod before following his boss out of the office.

“I think you might have made yourself a friend, Frank,” said Joe, now realizing he was smiling as well.

“Nah,” said McKay. “I just figure a woman like that goes about her job professionally and efficiently, day in day out, without so much as a thank-you. She’s just looking for a little respect.”

“Aren’t we all, Frank?” said Joe, himself now grateful for Frank McKay’s unique view on life. “Aren’t we all?”

The kid was on a soapbox—literally, on a soapbox. It even had the branded logo of “Imperial Leather” on its side, and Joe guessed his elevated position was not so much so that he could be heard—because his bullhorn speaker was taking care of that—but more so that he could be seen.

“What the hell is going on there?” asked Frank, who had talked his boss into grabbing two coffees and a matching pair of doughnuts at the campus canteen before striding south across the dewy emerald lawns of Deane.

“Some sort of rally,” said Mannix, his breath blowing clouds of condensation into the chilly fall air. “Check out the master of ceremonies.” Joe stopped to look at the freckle-faced kid on the soapbox. “He can’t be more than . . .”

“Twelve by the looks of things,” finished McKay.

Joe knew they would have to make quick time to catch James Matheson at the boat shed, but there was something about this kid that was compelling. He had placed himself, and said box, smack in the middle of the campus courtyard, a thoroughfare for students leaving what must have been a total of six or more buildings congregated around the campus in a semicircular formation. He was loud without sounding aggressive, his tone sympathetic but forceful, so much so that Mannix found himself readjusting his hearing to tune in to the boy’s soliloquy—something about workers’ rights and Third World degradation.

“In Taiwan, children as young as six are toiling in retail factories owned by multimillion-dollar companies whose executives spend more on a tie than they do on the annual wage of their Asian workers,” said the boy. “In China, toy manufacturers who make annual profits of over forty million dollars per year are paying their staff twelve cents an hour per fourteen-hour day. In Thailand, Burmese migrant garment factory workers are being paid fifty baht—that’s less than two American dollars—per day to work in filthy, dangerous, overcrowded conditions where factory fires have killed over 1200 people in the past twelve months. And in Indonesia, a multibillion-dollar sporting goods company operates a factory where young female workers have been asked to trade sexual favors to gain employment . . . and the list goes on.”

The boy stopped to shake his mop of unruly light brown hair, his words obviously hanging heavy on the shoulders of the fine young elite who stood, cell phones pocketed and textbooks hiked, stock-still in front of him.

“The thing is,” said the boy, now scratching his head before moving on. “The only person, the only
single
,
solitary
human being who can help these workers and their families, is
you.
”

The boy looked up then before extending the thin arm not supporting the bulbous bullhorn toward the growing crowd of students who were now obviously mesmerized by the content and delivery of his emotive oration.

“You, and you, and you, and
you
,” he said pointing at individuals as he went. “Each and every one of you can impact upon these people’s downtrodden existence. A small contribution of your time, and maybe your spare change, is all it takes to raise awareness and make a difference.”

The kid lowered his speaker and raised both hands in a “that says it all” gesture before nodding the shaggy mop once again and continuing.

“As Bono says: ‘Where you live should no longer determine whether you live’ and ‘distance should not decide who is your brother and who is not.’ ”

“We all come here to feed our brains. We all come here to pad out our resumes. We all come here to fill our social calendars, but that doesn’t mean we can’t satisfy our souls at the very same time. So grab a brochure, fill in a membership form, make a donation, give whatever you can and help get the word out that it is not okay to treat workers like slaves just because they happen to be born on a continent that has fallen prey to the rampant greed of the multinationals.” The boy paused again, the silence around him deafening. “Make a difference,” he said, before smiling at the crowd in front of him. “Make a difference for them—and more importantly for yourselves. Thank you.”

“Who the hell is Bono?” asked Frank, diverting Mannix’s attention away from the boy who had jumped from his wooden podium to hand out the brochures.

“Jesus, Frank,” Joe rolled his eyes. “Where have you been for the past fifteen years? He’s Irish, the singer—U2.”

“No, Chief, not me. Can’t hold a tune to save myself, and my father was Scottish.”

“For fuck’s sake,” said Joe, realizing it wasn’t worth the effort and pulling his partner back on route toward the southern end of the campus. “Sometimes I wonder if you’ll ever come down from Planet McKay and grace us with your company in the real world.”

Joe was interrupted by a voice from behind and turned to see the soapbox kid running down toward them. The kid extended that skinny arm again, and gave them both a double pump, an almost ludicrously “grown-up” greeting that surprised Joe with its intensity.

“Sawyer Jones, Solidarity Global,” he said.

“Frank McKay, Boston Municipal,” returned Frank.

Joe gave Frank a sideways glance. He could see the kid was rubbing his fellow detective the wrong way—and he had to admit, despite the kid’s obviously noble motives, he was coming off a little cocky.

“I’m sorry, detectives. I recognized you from your previous visits,” said Jones unfazed. “I saw you watching me. The subject of workers’ rights interest you, Detective?” he said, turning to Joe.

“A lot of things interest me, Sawyer,” said Joe, turning to move on and indicating if the kid wanted to press this, he would have to stay with them. “But ninety-nine percent of them I don’t have the time for.”