Alibi (13 page)

The pair of them watched him go, Matheson’s head down, his steps short and anxious.

“Geez,” said Frank.

“I know,” said Joe.

They realized they were being watched by the scattering of students just leaving the boat shed, so they walked in silence, back up the levee and toward the northern end of campus where the main entrance was located. They were halfway up the bank when Joe stopped, grabbing Frank’s arm from behind before turning him on the spot and gesturing for him to follow him back down the levee.

“I think I dropped my pen,” he said. But he hadn’t, despite the fact that he was now crouching down, sifting aside a leaf or two to examine the mud beneath them. “Nikes,” he said then, pointing to the partial, average-sized shoe print showing the just visible logo in the shape of that famous
swoosh
.

And then Joe saw Frank nod, before he met Joe’s eye and lifted his finger as if to indicate there was one last thing. Frank got to his feet and then walked, jogged, back to the boathouse, which was now, thankfully, deserted. Joe followed him, his feet sliding on the slick autumn leaves, stopping finally on the northern side of the shed, the kayaks and paddles now neatly stacked layer upon layer on the whitewashed exterior wall.

Frank hesitated, saying nothing, taking in the neatly racked sporting equipment before reaching out for the closest paddle and facing his boss once again. Then he proceeded to mimic a kayaker’s action—one, two, one, two—the circular downward motion that forced the streamlined vessels to slice through the water at surprisingly high speeds. And then he did it again, but this time with force, a look of anger and determination on his face. “Wham, wham,” he said.
“Wham, wham!”
he said again, this time louder and faster, the force coming directly from his gut.

“Well I’ll be,” said Joe, looking at his friend as the tiny pieces suddenly fell perfectly into place. “Well, I’ll fucking be.”

“This is the best,” said Jake Davis, fishing another crispy onion ring from the gingham-lined side basket. “Seriously, I haven’t eaten so well in weeks.”

David and Sara had arranged to meet Jake at Antico Forno, a popular gourmet pizza restaurant in the city’s historical North End. The colorful Italian Salem Street eatery was famous for its thin-crust pizzas with a list of topping combinations that read like the
Encyclopedia Britannica
. After fifteen minutes of debate, they had settled for an extra large wood-fired sausage, tomato, mozzarella and ricotta with some garlic bread and onion rings on the side. Topped off with a bottle of merlot, David couldn’t think of a finer meal on the planet—and all for under twenty bucks apiece.

“What is it with guys and pizza?” joked Sara. “It’s like you all have some built-in genetic need for Italian cholesterol at least once a week.”

“They’ll never understand,” said David, smiling at Sara’s younger brother.

“That’s okay,” said Jake. “All the more for us, right?”

And with that Jake lifted his glass to ‘clink’ with David’s, prompting Sara to roll her eyes before grabbing her own glass of red and taking a slow sip.

David enjoyed Jake’s company. So much so in fact that the three of them, sitting there together, relaxed, felt suspiciously like family, which in a way he supposed Jake was—or in the very least, he hoped would be one day. He looked at the brother and sister across the table—nothing and everything alike. Jake with his mop of light blond hair, now combed down and across in an attempt to tame it for his long hours on the conservative corporate beat. Sara and her long, wavy, chestnut brown tresses, her mocha skin glowing, her pale blue eyes shining indigo in the lavender candlelight. They were physical extremes and yet so perfectly attuned to one another, their mannerisms identical, their laughs in sync. He realized then that what he was actually feeling was a slight tinge of envy, for while David was close to his younger, Massachusetts General nursing sister, Lisa, he rarely found the time to catch up with her. And his older brother Sean was . . . well, he was a shipyard worker hundreds of miles away in David’s hometown of Newark.
Hundreds of miles away, and a million miles apart,
thought David, Sean having inherited their late father’s tough, silent edge and David and Lisa more like their idealistic mom.

Was it really almost twenty years ago that he had left New Jersey to study law in Boston? A wide-eyed, sandy-haired, enthusiastic high school grad determined to uphold justice, defend the innocent and kick some serious courtroom butt? He could see his older brother’s face now—the disappointment, the resentment at his having decided against joining the family shipping business. It was as if he was letting them down—and, in a way, he supposed he was.

All of which made him think of another law student with, no doubt, similar visions of grandeur. He had not spoken to Mannix in the past twenty-four hours, but he knew his detective friend would have tracked down James Matheson today in an effort to discover what, if any, role he played in the Nagoshi girl’s demise. Strangely enough, he felt an all-consuming hope that the boy was innocent. That the enthusiastic, intelligent, passionate student he had, truth be told,
enjoyed
sharing his thoughts and theories with had nothing to do with the violent actions that took place in that greenhouse several weeks ago—which made his mind take another tack to Tony Bishop, and his suspicions about . . .

“A penny for . . .” said Sara, reaching across the table to lay her hand on his.

“Oh, sorry,” said David, squeezing her hand before turning to Jake. “I was just thinking about that kid—you know, James Matheson. I gather Sara told you we hooked up for a coffee. He had some questions about criminal law and evidence that I attempted to help him out with.”

“Sure,” said Jake, taking another huge bite of the stringy wedge in his right hand. “In fact, James told me you’d been great—and that he was going to call you up for another chat sometime soon. But what made you think of him?”

David hesitated, knowing it was not his place to give too much away. “Nothing really. I was just thinking of the night that we met and how I felt really old because these days, more often than not, I limit myself to a few wines over dinner.” He lifted his glass. “While guys such as yourself and Matheson can drink ’til dawn and still function perfectly well the following . . .”

“Uh-uh,” said Jake, shaking his head. “I had a wicked hangover after that particular drinking fest. And the guys from Deane, well, don’t you remember? That was the night the Nagoshi girl was killed so they were all pretty upset the following day.”

“You spoke to James the next day?” asked David.

“Yeah, he called to try and lock me down for a tutoring time. He said everyone was crushed.”

David nodded.

“It’s weird how things work out, isn’t it?” said Sara, stealing a sideways glance at David. “You know—Jake tutoring Matheson, Matheson meeting you, Matheson knowing the Nagoshi daughter, our friend Joe investigating her murder, you catching up with Joe . . .”

David sensed what she was getting at. Sara knew that he had had a drink with Joe the previous evening and the fact that he had not been particularly forthcoming about the nature of their “chat” had probably piqued her curiosity. She respected the fact that he and Joe shared a mutual trust, but, considering where Joe and David’s hidden confidences had led them during the Montgomery trial, she also tended to get a little nervous when David chose not to divulge the nature of their conversations.

“Hang on a minute.” Jake smiled. “Is this some game of ‘Six Degrees of Separation’? Because if it is you only have two degrees left before you have to get to Kevin Bacon. And seriously, man, I really can’t see where this one is going.”

“Very funny,” said David.

Sara looked directly at him, that familiar
you know something you’re not telling me
expression on her flawless face.

“Spill it, David,” said Sara. “What gives?”

“It’s nothing. I had a beer with Joe and he told me they were scrambling for leads on the girl’s murder. I just thought Jake’s friend might have known her. I mean, he was going to the Lincoln Club that night and Jessica Nagoshi was seen there before she was . . .”

“You’re helping Joe with the investigation,” said Sara. A statement, not a question.

“No, Sara. Seriously, I’m not.”

“Hmmm.” She narrowed her eyes and took another sip of her wine before, to his relief, looking at him with a smile. “Why is it I find that hard to believe?”

“I have no idea.” He returned the smile.

“Well,” interrupted Jake, “James Matheson is one smart bastard but there is no way he had anything to do with Jessica Nagoshi’s murder—
if
that is what you are suggesting. He’s actually a very likable guy. I get the feeling there is a heart under all that Ralph Lauren. Which is more than I can say for his friends who are . . .”

“Are what?” asked David.

“Two rich wankers named Westinghouse and E. Ledger or H. Edgar or something like that. The Westinghouse kid is okay, just believes his own publicity. But the other one is a conceited piece of work. So far up himself he practically eats his own breakfast for dinner.”

“Jake!”
said Sara, ever the older sister.

“Sorry, sis.” Jake grinned.

“He’s probably right, Sara,” said David, taking it all in. “I knew kids like that in college.” And then he said nothing, just picked up another pizza wedge and bit into the thick topping.

“What?”
he said, realizing Sara’s eyes had not left him since he brought up the Matheson boy.

“Nothing,” she said.

“Come on, Sara,” said David with a grin. “I was just shooting the breeze. I’m curious by nature. You know me.”

“You’re right,” she said, leaning across the table to wipe a stray string of cheese from his chin and kiss him squarely on the lips. “I
do
know you, and that is exactly why I know we haven’t heard the last of this.” He kissed her back.

“Did you know Kevin Bacon went to Deane?” he said at last.

“That’s bullshit,” said Jake.

“Yeah,” said David. “But it was worth a shot.”

Heath Westinghouse was totally pumped. It was only 9:52 on a Wednesday morning and here he was, flat on his back, his hips elevated, moving back and forward to a rhythm set by one of the most beautiful girls on campus by the name of Charity Summers. And there she was, rocking away, her perfectly shaped double D-cup breasts bouncing up and down like two taut miniature basketballs above him. Her long blond hair lashed his chest intermittently as she arched her back and stretched her long pale neck, releasing bursts of “oohs” and “ahs,” reminding him that he was the definition of a young American alpha male, in a sea of similarly blessed, but not quite as exceptional, beings at the hallowed university around him.

No doubt about it
, he thought as Charity bent to run her long pink tongue down his hairless buffed chest, those glorious breasts now rubbing back and forward against his flexed torso and making it hard for him to maintain the thought his brain had just begun to contemplate which, he believed, went something like this . . .

The last time he saw Charity she was seeing some rich senator’s arts major son named “Wes.” In fact, every time he had seen her, she had been either on Wes’ puny arm or “towing an anchor”—which was freshman talk for being shadowed by some fat, unattractive girlfriend who never left her side when Wes was not around. Heath even suspected Wes was paying the “anchor” to play bodyguard while he was mixing it with his equally as inferior arts degree friends, which would be typical of the ball-less billionaire asshole who thought his dad’s DC address and Capitol Hill connections won him a woman like Charity and all the kudos that went with it.

Of course he had heard Charity was a “knob snob”—the type of girl who only went for rich or powerful guys because of the money and connections they could provide. But seriously, even if she was, who gives a fuck?

I sure as hell don’t
, he managed to finish his rambling, pleasure-driven train of thought just as Charity sat up and drove those strong narrow hips down upon him resulting in his experiencing the best goddamned orgasm he had had since . . . well, since the last time he banged Charity about a week ago.

And then, there was a knock on the door.

“Who is it?” called Charity, which was her prerogative given they were going at it in her dorm. It was probably that pesky “anchor” he had thought about earlier. She was probably hoping to keep the towing gig until the next rich asshole came along and put her right back on the payroll.

“Westinghouse,” said the voice behind the door, prompting Heath to feel both pleased (that it was not the anchor) and pissed (at being interrupted) all at the very same time. “Westinghouse, if you are in there I need you to get the hell out here.”

“H. Edgar,” said Heath, recognizing his friend’s voice and rising to his elbows to shake the post-beating bliss from his brain. “Fuck off. I’m busy.”

“No way. Tell little Miss Charity you can renew your donation later.” Westinghouse had to muffle a laugh at that one. “I need to talk to you now.”

“Your friend’s a prick,” said Charity, climbing off him, her substantial breasts now covered by the sheet she dragged along with her.

“I know.” Heath smiled, jumping up to put on his pants.

“I don’t know why you stay friends with him,” she said. “I mean, he’s nowhere near as hot as you, or your other friend for that matter.”

“Honey,” said Heath. “No one is as hot as me.” He said this tongue-in-cheek so as not to sound smug, but was pretty sure she agreed with him just the same. “I have some free time tomorrow morning. What do you say, same time, same place?”

She looked at him then, as if unsure how to answer, before cutting to the chase. “You got invited to the President’s Halloween Ball, right?”