Alibi (14 page)

“Sure, my dad’s on the Board of Trustees.”

The President’s Annual Halloween Ball was a massive event for Deane—a black-tie celebration frequented by alumni that included some of the most influential businessmen and politicians in the country.

“You got a date?” she asked.

“I do now.” He smiled, realizing she
was
a knob snob after all and still not giving a fuck.

“Okay then, tomorrow.” She smiled, allowing the sheet to drop ever so slightly below her right nipple. “But tell your creepy little friend he’s not invited.”

“Done,” he said, lacing his hand behind her neck and pulling her close to stick his tongue down her soft pink throat one last time before heading toward the door. “Something to remember me by,” he said, prompting her to drop the sheet, arch her back and place her hands on her hips.

“Just so you won’t forget,” she said in reply. And with that, feeling the front of his pants starting to stand to attention once again, he took one last look before opening the door and bounding out into the hallway.

“Move it, Westinghouse,” said H. Edgar, unable to contain the annoyance in his voice.

“Jesus, H. Edgar,” said Westinghouse as Simpson dragged him out of the side entrance of the lakeside girls’ dorms. “What’s the rush, man? I was just about to ask Charity to . . .”

“We’re late for Heffer’s lecture,” said H. Edgar.

“What?”
Westinghouse threw up his hands, only to have them forced down again as Simpson slammed his friend’s copy of
Law and the Entrepreneur
against his chest.

“You mean to tell me,” Westinghouse went on, “that you dragged me out of the bed of one of the most incredible women on campus just so that I wouldn’t be late for another round of unjustified abuse from that communist asshole.”

“That communist asshole is giving out the details of his assignment today, remember? You know, the one where we are gonna burn his Marxist butt and shit all over his ‘wealthiest’ theories regarding our personal intellectual worth as independent from our parents’ substantial means and influence.” Simpson took a breath. “We miss this lecture, he won’t allow us to submit the assignment. No assignment, no law review, no socialist ass-kicking. You got that so far, or is your bourgeois brain still deferring to your dick?”

“H. Edgar,” said Westinghouse, now keeping time with his friend, “one mention of Heffer shut my poor dick up for good.”

“Good, because you’ll want a clear head when I tell you what else I found out this morning.”

“What?” said Westinghouse, now obviously intrigued.

“The cops were on campus again yesterday.”

“Really?” said Westinghouse, now double-stepping to keep up with his friend as they strode across the main quad. “So did they arrest someone? I always thought the Nagoshi girl was done by one of those quiet intellectual psychopaths. She was smart from what I hear, and those girls always attract the weird ones with the high IQs who are more turned on by a girl’s aptitude than her ass.”

“They were here to see James.” H. Edgar glanced sideways as he said this, trying to gauge his friend’s reaction and, concluded from his expression, that Matheson hadn’t told him either.

“What?”
said Westinghouse, stopping short. “I saw James last night and he said nothing about . . .”

“I know,” interrupted H. Edgar. “I saw him before ‘Agency and Partnership’ this morning and he didn’t mention a thing to me either.”

“What did they want?” asked Westinghouse, starting to move again as Simpson picked up the pace.

“How the fuck should I know?”

“Who told you?”

“Davenport.”

“The senior with no neck.”

“Yeah, that’s him. He was at the boathouse when they sought James out.”

“We gotta find him, H. Edgar,” said Westinghouse, now grabbing his friend’s arm just as they were about to enter a redbrick building monikered “Law 1B.” “We have to find out what they wanted.”

“One thing at a time, Westinghouse,” said H. Edgar, knowing his friend would follow his direction. “First Heffer, then Matheson.”

H. Edgar studied Westinghouse’s face, waiting for it to move through its usual predictable cycle of uncertainty, disappointment and then acceptance.

“All right,” said Westinghouse, at last pushing at one of the front glass double doors before starting to move inside. “But your scheme to fry Heffer better be good. James is our friend, H. Edgar. He may need our help.”

“I know,” said H. Edgar. “But don’t worry, Westinghouse, Matheson knows we’ve got his back.”

“Which we do, right?”

“No question.”

“Because his problems are our problems.”

“Absolutely.”

“And that’s just what friends are for.”

“Right,” said Simpson, checking his watch and walking into Heffer’s lecture room exactly on time. “Whatever it is, we’ll be there for him. In fact, if we three put our heads together, who knows what we can come up with.”

Roger Katz put down the phone and took a long, slow breath. And sure enough, there it was—that sweet, seductive smell attributed to success. All of a sudden the air seemed thick with it, which was no surprise considering the nature of his recent call, and the identity of the person who had engaged him.

Massachusetts Attorney General Patrick Sweeney was nothing short of effusive in his praise for the Acting DA. He had called to congratulate Katz on his “
capable leadership
” in Scaturro’s absence, on his “
impeccable record
” as a dedicated prosecutor, and then had suggested in no uncertain terms that his future was one of great promise.

“The thing is, Roger,”
he had begun,
“if DA Scaturro decides to step down, I want you to know that you have my support. You would be a more than worthy successor to her post, Roger, and the County is lucky to have you. Having said that,”
he had continued,
“I believe I should add that my motives are purely selfish. For ultimately, I know, with a few years of experience as the County’s top law enforcer under your belt, a man like you would be a major asset at the State Attorney General’s office.”

And there it was—plain and simple—a bona fide “feeler” to gauge Katz’s interest in representing the Commonwealth on a higher, more significant level. The Massachusetts AG was not just the top legal advisor to the state government, but also the chief law enforcement officer in the whole goddamned state. Of course, then Sweeney had gone on to ask about his progress in the Nagoshi case—a juxtaposition not lost on the savvy ADA. And maybe that was why the recall of Katz’s unsubstantiated assurance that “
an arrest was imminent
” was quickly turning that sweet smell sour.

The truth was, he was stuck in a hole—a hole dug by that incompetent Mannix, a pit he must climb from quickly given that the Nagoshis were due in his conference room in a little under an hour. Men like Mannix weren’t forgers of justice; they were weak, sympathetic procrastinators who stalled the criminal process by adhering to some touchy-feely bullshit that apprehending a perp was not justified until they had
proof
said perp committed the crime. But Katz didn’t need proof, at least not at this early stage of the game. He just needed a target, someone for him to work on, someone for the press to name in association with the crime and play their subtle role in convicting a man in the eyes of the great American public long before the suspect ever set foot in a courtroom.

Justice wasn’t about the truth, it was about the most likely scenario. And nine times out of ten that was as close as you were ever going to get. Reasonable doubt was all a matter of opinion, after all, and when Katz tried a case, any “reasonable” notion of innocence was slaughtered about half an hour into the trial—just as the Acting DA sat down, after making his flawless opening statement.

Strictly speaking (and despite Sweeney’s generous reference to him as such) he was not the Acting DA. He was still, at least on paper, the Assistant District Attorney kindly minding his boss’s temporarily vacated position while she was off spoon-feeding some absentminded old bird who had no idea whether she was Arthur or Martha. Scaturro had not physically offered her resignation, but her extended leave was becoming longer than the Great Wall of China and to all intents and purposes he was executing the top job with a lot more skill and finesse than his minority-hugging superior ever had the charisma to achieve. And that’s why Mannix’s disregard for his current level of authority pissed him off so much—that and the fact that John Nagoshi and his cardboard-faced son would be demanding answers by nightfall.

Enough was enough,
he told himself as he picked up his sterling silver letter opener to check his reflection in its narrow polished surface.
Timing is everything,
he reinforced as he lifted the blade upward to check his hair which, as usual, sat slick and flat and stylish, with not a single dark strand out of place.

If he played his cards right, he would be elected DA before the following year was out—a stepping-stone that, with Sweeney’s support, could well lead to a coveted post at the Attorney General’s Office at One Ashburton Place. It was time for Mannix to deliver—not tomorrow or the next day, but now! In fact he made the decision, right then and there, that he would not permit Mannix to leave his conference room without offering up a name. For that is all he would need. One poor sod and he would be on his way to victory—the rest falling neatly and deservedly into place.

“Mannix,” snapped Joe as he picked up his direct line, and David could tell he had caught his friend at a bad time.

“It’s David. You sound busy. I’ll call you later.”

“No. I mean, yes . . . I am busy, but I thought you were Katz so I . . .”

“No need to explain.”

If anyone understood why Joe would be avoiding Roger Katz it was David. He and Katz had a history, a
long
one, that went way beyond their courtroom battles and into the far reaches of their drastically opposing use, and in Katz’s case, abuse, of the law.

“Listen, David. I gotta run,” said Joe. “I’m late for a meeting with the Kat and the Nagoshis.”

David heard the anxiety in his voice, and felt a similar urgency as he sensed how important it was that he tell Joe what he had learned about James Matheson and Peter Nagoshi, before Joe headed downtown for his audience with the overzealous ADA.

“You check out the Matheson kid?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“And . . . ?”

“He owns a pair of Nikes and has one of the best ‘one, two’ kayak motions at Deane.”

David paused. “That’s not enough, Joe.”

“Maybe not, but it’s all the little things put together that end up building a case like this, David.”

David knew Joe was right. “What is he saying?” he asked then.

“All the right things while coming across as guilty as a kid in a candy store. He says he barely knew the girl while another witness claims he was in love with her.”

David paused as he took this in, knowing he had to decide quickly which way he was going to go. “I spoke to Sara’s brother,” he said then, realizing there was no time for procrastination.

“David,” said Joe with a sigh. “I asked you not to . . .”

“Don’t worry,” said David, “I didn’t give anything away, Joe. Jake says Matheson is a good guy. And from what I know of the kid I tend to agree. Jake says he has a heart, and in his opinion there is no way he would . . .”

“We all have hearts, David,” said Joe. “It’s just that some of them beat to a murderer’s drum.”

David paused.

“You got something else to say?” asked Mannix, perhaps sensing David’s hesitancy to elaborate further.

“Has anyone considered Jessica Nagoshi may have been murdered, not because of who she was but because of what she might have become?” David was trying his best to give Mannix “something” without betraying Tony Bishop’s trust. There had to be a way to plant the seed in Joe’s mind, he thought.