Alibi (26 page)

“You can appreciate their situation, Mr. Katz,” he said with appropriate furrow in his tanned brow. “They have struggled with the American value of loyalty to a trusted friend versus a responsibility to behave as law-abiding citizens, and have honorably decided to do the right thing. They will give you the name of Miss Nagoshi’s killer and the evidence to put him away, but not until we can come to some form of . . . arrangement.”

“Mr. Westinghouse,” said Joe, who had finally had enough. He stood from his corner perch—a perch he was designated by insinuation, considering there were now only five chairs and five glasses of ice water around Katz’s cherrywood conference table. “Forgive me for being blunt, but these kids are after one thing and one thing only—the reward money. Now, money or no money, just the fact that they are here tells me your son and his, ah . . . companion have information that they have withheld from police.

“Myself and fellow homicide detective Frank McKay have been an active presence on their campus over the past two months and have made repeated public pleas via their university president for all students to come forward with any information they feel may assist us in our investigations.

“Further, we held a private meeting with the two young men less than one week ago during which they denied any knowledge as to their friend’s possible involvement in Miss Nagoshi’s death.” Joe knew his voice was rising, but at this point he didn’t give a damn. “Now, all of a sudden, they have information, coincidentally just as Mr. Nagoshi here confirms the speculation of the posting of a substantial reward. Well, I could be wrong, but in my line of work that adds up to obstruction of justice, and makes these two smart-ass kids a pair of bona fide criminals—”

“Lieutenant Mannix,” said Katz, cutting him off with a stare that shot daggers across the room. “We understand your frustration at not being able to solve this case.”

Joe took a breath.

“But in the end, all that matters is that we find the person responsible for this heinous crime and make sure justice is done. Mr. Nagoshi and his family have been through enough and Messrs Simpson and Westinghouse, despite their obvious initial hesitations, should be congratulated for coming forward to assist us.

Katz went on. “That being said—”

“That being said,” interrupted Gordon Westinghouse, who obviously felt it was time to exercise his high-three-figure-an-hour clout. “The reward money
is
an issue, Mr. Katz. We are all adults here,” he said, looking at Mannix in disdain for referring to his son and his friend as “
kids
.” “And Mr. Nagoshi is a respected and experienced businessman who understands the importance of a mutually beneficial negotiation. So let’s cut to the chase, shall we?”

And so they did.

And less than fifteen minutes later the deal had been struck.

“Now that that is agreed,” Gordon Westinghouse went on, as he arched his back and expanded his chest in what Joe could only describe as an old-fashioned pruning of feathers, “my son and his friend are happy to continue this conversation on the principles of good faith. But we must have your word, Mr. Nagoshi, that the money, which I remind you is
not
refundable if the District Attorney’s Office fails to follow through with a conviction, will be wired to the specified accounts in the Grand Caymans within the hour.

“Finally, my son and Mr. Simpson, who I remind you are protected by the aforementioned clause of confidentiality, will not divulge the said information unless the individual they identify be allowed to turn himself in by the end of the day. My son and Mr. Simpson feel it is the least they can do for the individual in question, so as to eliminate any unnecessary embarrassment on his part.”

“What?” said Joe. “Unnecessary embarrassment? If these boys are right then the so-called person in question is a goddamned murderer. Now call me harsh, but to be honest, Mr. Westinghouse, whether or not the killer is embarrassed is the least of my concerns.”

“I am sorry, Lieutenant,” said H. Edgar, the first words he had spoken all morning. Simpson signaled to his friend’s father that it was all right, he wanted to speak and was not going to offer anything to jeopardize their agreement.

“I am afraid this last request, while grounded in altruism, is not as unselfish as it first seems. You can understand our relationships with our fellow students at Deane are extremely important to us, and we do not want our peers to misunderstand the reasons for our providing you with the information needed to file charges against our friend.”

“You worried this little snitching act might get you scratched off the ‘A’ list, kid?” asked Joe, now standing from his perch. “Is it just me or is this whole fucking scenario getting sicker by the minute?”

Joe locked eyes with John Nagoshi then, and felt an overwhelming embarrassment on behalf of the stoic Japanese businessman. His daughter was dead and here they were haggling over how to maintain the burgeoning health of these two young assholes’ social status. It was beyond repulsive. Joe knew it, and judging by the look of pure despondency on John Nagoshi’s face, the grieving father knew it too.

“You have our word,” said Roger Katz then, ignoring Joe to speak directly with Gordon Westinghouse. “Our detectives will give the young man in question a small window of opportunity to hand himself in—say until 7 p.m. this evening.”

“That will be fine,” said the older Westinghouse, shifting his chin slightly to the left in a gesture of dismissal at Mannix’s obviously “irrelevant” objections. “That being agreed, and as it is . . .” The Italian-suited attorney shifted his Tiffany cuff-linked sleeve to examine his Rolex. “. . . almost noon, I suggest we proceed with Mr. Simpson and Mr. Westinghouse’s statements. The young men will go on record here today so that you might secure an arrest and further agree to repeat their statements in front of a grand jury at your earliest convenience so that you might secure an indictment. Fair?” He looked to Katz.

“Indeed,” said the obviously delighted ADA.

He nodded at the two boys then, H. Edgar taking his natural position as leader by lifting his ice water to his lips and taking the smallest of sips before clearing his throat as if ready to move on. Gordon Westinghouse gave Katz a nod and the ADA reached across the table to press the red “R” button on the rectangular recording device strategically placed in the middle of the conference room table.

“My name is Homer Edgar Simpson,” H. Edgar began, his voice loud and crisp and strong and clear. “And I give this statement of my own free will at the offices of the Suffolk County District Attorney at 11:52 a.m. on Saturday, October 31 in the presence of my attorney, Mr. Gordon Westinghouse, Assistant District Attorney Roger Katz and Boston Police Homicide Unit Commander Lieutenant Joseph Mannix.”

Jesus,
thought Joe.

“Myself and my friend Heath Gordon Westinghouse are here to share information we feel relevant to the investigation into the death of Jessica Nagoshi. In other words, gentlemen,” he said, and Joe could have sworn he was in the process of constricting the beginnings of a smile, “we know the identity of Jessica’s killer and we have evidence to support such a claim.”

The room went quiet then, as if H. Edgar wanted his moment in the sun to last as long as was humanly possible. The antique clock ticked, the air-conditioning hissed and the five people present seemed to hold their breath in anticipation of what was to come out of the Simpson kid’s voice next.

“Who was it, son?”
said Roger Katz at last, his words gushing forth in an eruption of uncontainable excitement. He was obviously unable to hold back with the question he had been dying to have answered for weeks.

And then Joe saw it, the corner of Simpson’s lips lifting in an expression he could no longer suppress. “James Matheson,” he said at last. “Our friend, James Matheson, killed Jess Nagoshi with his own bare hands.”

“And you have proof?” interrupted Katz.

“Yes,” answered Simpson.

“In the form of . . .” urged the ADA.

“A confession,” said H. Edgar.

“A confession?” asked Katz, obviously savoring every word. “How? Matheson told you he . . . ?”

“As good as,” said H. Edgar, now smiling quite unashamedly. “Admittedly he was slightly under the weather at the time, but the information came right from the horse’s mouth, Mr. Katz.”

“No,” interrupted Joe, determined to put a stop to Katz’s feeding frenzy before it got even further out of control. “A confession is not proof, Roger, it’s hearsay. How do we know Simpson here is not lying? How do we know Matheson was not just shooting off his mouth during some emotional college drinking fest?”

But then he looked at Simpson, and he could see the boy had anticipated Joe’s cynicism and was, as always, on the ready with a reply.

“He took her shoes,” said Simpson, his eyes now focused on Joe, his expression pure delight at having dropped a bombshell on the detective’s attempts to discredit him.

“He whacked her over the head, strangled her with his bare hands, laid her on a rock and took her shoes. Does that qualify as proof, Lieutenant?” He studied Joe then, relishing in the shock in his expression. “Yes,” he said at last, his victory now complete. “Yes, I thought so.”

The Grand Caymans

 

Grand Cayman Island Caribbean Trust and Banking Corporation financier Kitt Baptiste was a very happy man. He was one of those “glass half full” human beings who saw the light beyond every shadow, the rainbow beyond every storm and the good in everyone—even his new assistant Sonita De Paisa who, despite having received two weeks of intensive training, still found it difficult to grasp what Kitt thought to be the simplest of tasks.

“A beautiful day,” said Kitt as he arrived at his office after attending a rather pleasant outdoor lunch meeting with representatives from Deutsche Financial and the Royal Bank of Canada.

“Yes, Mr. Baptiste,” said Sonita with her now customary hopeful smile. She was a pleasant young woman, who tried her best, apologized for her shortcomings and thus—buoyed by her genuineness—Kitt had decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and stick with her until the penny dropped, which he knew it had to do . . . eventually.

Ah the joy of it,
thought Kitt as he entered his office and looked out over his expansive Georgetown view. His lunchtime discussions had been most inspiring. According to German and Canadian research, the banks of Grand Cayman were finally getting the respect they deserved. Of course the world’s top financial institutions had appreciated the idyllic Caribbean location as the fine, full-service international investment district that it was for years. But Kitt was at last getting the feeling that the general populace were finally seeing this exquisite strip of sand, surrounded by clear aqua waters, some 480 miles south of Miami, as more than just some glorified tax haven for greedy Western industrialists.

Of course it was that too—offering a banking system that carried no capital gains tax, corporation tax, withholding tax, property tax, payroll tax or income tax payable by employees to boot, which was also the reason why Cayman was now the fifth-largest financial center in the world, attracting international blue-chip corporations by the bucket load.

“Mr. Baptiste,” said Sonita who had left her desk to tiptoe up to his door without making the slightest hint of a noise.

“Yes, Sonita,” said Kitt with a smile, his bright white teeth gleaming against the richness of his dark mocha skin. “What is it? Come on in.”

“It’s the new American account, sir. I thought you would like to know the money has been wired.”

“Good,” said Kitt, taking delight in what seemed to be Sonita’s expanding capabilities. “If you will forward the information to me I will make sure it is split into the three accounts as specified,” he went on.

“No, sir.”

“No, Sonita?”

“No, sir. You see a little over an hour ago, while you were at lunch, we received new instructions. It seems the gentlemen concerned only require a two account split—one in the name of Simpson, and the second in the name of Westinghouse. I have all the details here, sir, if you would like to oversee the transaction yourself.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Kitt, finding nothing unusual about this change in instruction. “If you would like to forward me the details of the transfer, I shall make sure all is in order.”

“Certainly, Mr. Baptiste,” said Sonita with the sweetest of smiles.

“And well done, Sonita. Well done, indeed.”

Switzerland

 

They call it Glacier 3000, basically because that is exactly what it is—a crisp, flat, perfectly formed glacier floating some 3000 meters above sea level, doused in sunlight, covered in snow and acting as a platform from which you can take in one of the most breathtaking views on earth. Glacier 3000, also known as the Tsanfleuron Glacier, is located in the Les Diablerets or Lake Geneva Region of Switzerland, and as well as the year-round cross-country and on-piste skiing, offers all sorts of activities including snowboarding, hiking, and husky dogsled rides that are said to provide one of the greatest natural highs on the planet—both figuratively and literally.