Alibi (18 page)

“Blah, blah, blah,” said David in disgust as he looked up from the paper, which had allotted a further three pages to this new revelation in the up until now stagnant Nagoshi case. “Jesus, Joe. You and I both know there is no source. This is Katz talking. He would have given Rigotti the quotes on the condition he wasn’t to be attributed.”

Joe said nothing, just gave David a shrug that said
Tell me something I don’t know.

“Is it true though?” David went on. “A reward of millions?”

“Afraid so,” said Joe, his now white-knuckled hand wrapped tightly around what remained of his bottomless cup of Mick’s strong Brazilian coffee. “Nagoshi proposed the reward in the meeting last night, but I managed to stall him, at least until the weekend, giving Frank and me the time to make a few more inquiries about the Matheson kid.

“There were only seven of us in the room, David, including Leo and a Feeb friend, me and Frank and the Nagoshi father and son. The Nagoshis gave me their word they would hold off announcing the reward until Saturday, and I trust them, but Katz was still reeling from my winning a few points with the famous businessman so his bruised ego, and disregard for the law, has blown this case wide open for every fucking lunatic in the city to put up their hand for a playing role.”

“Shit,” said David. “What an asshole.”

Joe said nothing, just gave him the same indignant shrug. At that point Mick came over to their table, placing a second mug of hot black coffee in front of David before slapping Joe on the back and heading back toward the counter. Mick had known the two men for years, and was intuitive enough to sense when they needed to be left alone.

“So what are you going to do?” asked David at last.

“Kick Katz’s ass to hell and back,” said Joe. “I have been trying his cell for the past hour, even got his secretary to try to raise him at home. But the prick is not picking up.”

“No, I meant about the reward.”

“The only thing I can do. Pull everyone I can off normal duty to man the Crime Stoppers line.”

David nodded before going on. “I know you want to burn the Kat, Joe, but your going off the rails is exactly what he wants you to do. Don’t give him the satisfaction. He’s not worth it.”

Joe looked up at his friend then, perhaps realizing he was right. “Since when did you become the voice of reason?” Mannix asked at last.

“Since I dedicated my career to making the Kat sweat,” said David with a half smile.

David picked up his coffee and took a long slow drink, allowing the dark, bitter fluid to warm the chill left by the early morning’s single figure temperatures. He wanted to ask Joe about the investigation—or more specifically his progress regarding his inquiries into James Matheson—but he didn’t want to overstep his . . .

“What’s this shit about China?” asked Joe, interrupting his thoughts.

David put down his mug.

“I don’t want to put you—or any source you may have—on the spot, David,” Joe went on. “But I’m behind the eight ball here.”

David considered him then, wondering how much of Tony Bishop’s conversation he should relay. “I heard there may be some trouble regarding Nagoshi Inc.’s bottom line,” he said. “But not in a negative sense—more like the opposite. According to a friend, the Nagoshi’s Chinese operation is booming, but the numbers don’t add up.”

“And this relates to Jessica’s death . . . how?” asked a frustrated Joe.

“I have no idea. But my friend also says Jessica was being primed as a dual company leader along with her older brother. And the brother is apparently kind of driven.”

Joe looked at him then, obviously wondering if David was insinuating what he thought he was insinuating, before shaking his head to say: “It doesn’t fit.”

“How so?” asked David.

“Jessica was nineteen. Her brother is a little highly strung but I checked him out weeks ago and by all accounts he is a loyal family member—personally and professionally. And according to the father, who was up late making business calls on the night of Jessica’s death, Peter did not leave the main house for the entire evening. I saw him last night, David. The guy may look like an emotional zombie, but he reacted with passion when we told him about the evidence we had been withholding. Besides, this wasn’t about ambition. It was a crime of passion.”

“But there was no evidence of sexual abuse and the girl had no boyfriend and . . .”

“She was pregnant,” said Mannix.

“Oh,” said David, looking Mannix in the eye, nodding his head in understanding.

“So is James Matheson the . . .”

“No idea,” pre-empted Joe. “And even if he is, it doesn’t mean he killed the girl.”

“No,” said David. “It doesn’t. In fact, it could mean the opposite. You said the kid came across as nervous during your interview. Maybe he’s just shook up, from the loss of it all.”

“Or maybe the girl pressured him and he decided to get rid of Jessica and her little bundle of baggage before they could interrupt his all too perfect life.”

They sat quietly for a while, choosing not to speak while a group of young workers hovered over the table next to them before deciding on a bigger booth at the far end of the increasingly busy café.

“Matheson says he has an alibi. Says he was banging some girl.”

And David shook his head. “And does the alibi check out?”

“I’m about to find out.”

Joe finished his coffee and the two men sat silently for a moment before Joe looked up again. “You asked Sara’s brother about Matheson, right?”

“Yeah. He said he was straight up.”

“And from what you know of him . . . ?”

“He seems like a good kid—enthusiastic, interested, grateful.”

“He ever talk about his friends?”

“No, but Jake mentioned them. Apparently they are a band of three—all rich, smart and connected.”

“I need the friends to help me corroborate Matheson’s alibi. I want to get to them before I speak to Matheson again—catch them off guard, do it low-key.”

“Don’t know how low-key you are gonna get after this morning, Joe,” said David, pointing toward the newspaper. “My guess is the
Tribune
is already doing the rounds of Deane’s hallowed dorms and cafeterias.”

“Then I’d better make tracks,” said Joe, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair and throwing a ten dollar bill on the table.

“Joe?” said David as his friend put on his coat. “Let me ask you something. And you don’t even have to answer if you don’t want to. But my gut tells me you’re worried the Matheson kid is in danger of being played—because the Nagoshis need someone to blame and Katz needs his much celebrated day in court.”

Joe said nothing.

“You think he’s innocent?”

“I have no idea,” said Joe. “But everyone deserves a fair trial, David, and I am afraid whoever we arrest is gonna be branded guilty before we even have a chance to clip on the cuffs.

“Let’s face it,” Joe continued, shaking his head, “Matheson is the sexy option. We arrest him and Katz has his perfect nemesis. He’ll go to town trying to prove the District Attorney’s Office—under his leadership—does not discriminate between rich and poor. Matheson will become the poster boy upon which he will launch his coup to take over Scaturro’s job permanently. I don’t trust him on this one, David. He’s got something up his sleeve, and that scares the hell out of me.”

David nodded. There was no doubt in his mind that Joe was right, and it scared the hell out of him too. He knew his friend was worried about the nature of this case—and the fact that it could well turn into one of those terrifying public phenomena that take on a life of their own, leaving the accused high and dry and making a mockery of “innocent until proven guilty” and the so-called impartial system of justice.

“It’s too early to worry yet, Joe,” said David, trying to alleviate his friend’s fears as much as anything else. “Matheson’s alibi will probably stick.”

“Yeah, well, the kid’s got something to hide.”

Heath Westinghouse was repulsed. There was really no other way to put it. Here he was, one of the nation’s elite, sitting in this overcrowded lecture hall, inspired by the water-struck redbrick walls, walnut-grain desks, classic amphitheater structure and impressive stained glass windows that turned the white morning light into a rainbow of colors as if by magic—and he was forced to look at him!

Professor Karl D. Heffer was undoubtedly the most unattractive human being Heath had ever laid eyes on. His physical repulsiveness was made all the worse by his poor sense of dress in a university where even the scholarship students were self-aware enough to spend a decent proportion of their meager earnings on clothing. It really was deplorable—so much so that he was considering sending an e-mail to the dean suggesting the man’s current personal appearance was at such a level that it detracted from his ability to . . .

“Mr. Westinghouse,”
boomed Heffer, Heath refocusing just in time to see the shower of spit fly from his yellow-toothed mouth like the gush from a sperm whale’s blowhole. “Perhaps you could offer a comment on my previous hypothesis? I have no doubt your designer ears have teamed up with that brilliant brain of yours to trigger the necessary synapses required to reason, evaluate and respond to my layman’s supposition.”

“Ah,” began Heath, obviously having no idea what Heffer had been talking about. “I agree, sir,” he said, not being able to think of any other valid response. But then he sensed the mood around him—the disappointment! The loss of opportunity! He had let the masses down with his pathetic response and so promptly made up for it with a quick: “I agree I have damn fine ears, Professor, and my synapses are firing just fine this morning. Thank you so much for asking.”

Heath knew it was childish but he did take delight in the familiar shade of purple now blossoming on Heffer’s spotty cheeks. He could tell H. Edgar, who was shaking his head ever so slightly in the seat beside him, was wavering between stifling one of his conceited little laughs and kicking Heath for aggravating the professor to the point where repercussions would be unavoidable. But Heath was beyond caring. The man was disgusting, faculty fuck of the month or not.

Heffer opened his mouth only to be silenced by the sound of the end of lesson bell, at which Heath collected his books and dragged H. Edgar toward the far right-hand stairs so that he might make good his escape.

“Mr. Westinghouse, Mr. Simpson,” Heffer bellowed.

“Jesus,” said Heath.

“It’s your fucking fault,” whispered H. Edgar before turning to Heffer to say, “Yes, Professor, how can we help you?”

Heffer lifted his hand and used his plump pointer finger to beckon them both toward him, the smirk on his face obviously telegraphing the payback Heffer was no doubt brewing in his vindictive little brain.

“Feeling particularly clever this morning are we, Mr. Westinghouse?” he asked as they approached his desk.

“No more than usual, sir,” said Westinghouse, not necessarily meaning to be smug but sounding that way nonetheless.

“I see you two have paired up for my assignment,” said the professor. “You have already devised a business plan, I hope.”

“Yes, sir,” said H. Edgar before Heath could interrupt.

“Dare I say I shall be particularly interested in assessing your project,” said Heffer, his cheeks now transformed from a deep mortified mauve to a self-righteous rosy hue. “I did mention the assignment will account for fifty percent of your marks this semester, did I not?”

“Yes, Professor,” H. Edgar answered again, “which is a shame really, considering the confidence we have in our proposal.”

“Hmmm,” said Heffer with a haughty little titter. “You’ll need to be focused then, free of distractions. No extracurricular activities and all that.”

“We’ll be living like monks, sir,” said Simpson, “until our assignment is complete.”

“Good,” said Heffer with a smirk, and Heath could not help but think the sarcastic swine had something up his sleeve.

“Off you go then,” he said, prompting H. Edgar to grab his friend’s shirtsleeve and steer him toward the side exit.

“Oh!” said Heffer just as Westinghouse tugged on the thick colonial doors. “I almost forgot. There are some men here to see you. Two rather impatient Boston Police Detectives, to be exact.”

“What?”
said Heath, letting the door slam before him. Simpson dropped Westinghouse’s arm and swiveled back to face the professor.

“I told them I would go to find you just before the class began,” Heffer went on. “But forgive me, dear boys, it completely slipped my mind, what with all that cerebral energy emanating from Mr. Westinghouse’s synapses and all. I imagine they are still there though. They certainly sounded very keen to speak with you both.”

“They asked for us personally?” asked Simpson.

“Indeed.” Heffer smiled.

“Shit,” said Heath, unable to hold it in.

“Nothing to worry about, I hope?” said Heffer, his face now contorted in an expression of mock concern. “No.” He smiled, exposing the ingrained nicotine stains on his uneven overbite. “Of course not!

“Well, hurry along then. Not very gentleman-like to keep the men waiting—especially when they are two homicide detectives with rather dour demeanors.

“Good luck then,” he added, at last waving them away like two insignificant insects. “On the assignment, I mean. I am sure your minds will be free to focus 100 percent on the task at hand, and you shall be patenting your brilliant proposal before the year is out.”