Alibi (27 page)

And so, with another perfect autumn day almost put to rest, and the promise of sparkling blue skies and optimum skiing conditions predicted for the next week and beyond, Glacier Manager Urs Zubriggen was taken aback with his incredible fortune—a fortune that had grown even richer no less than ten seconds ago when a knock on his door revealed a young woman so sublime he almost dropped his locally brewed brandy on his brand new antique ivory Tabriz rug.

“Yes?” said Zubriggen before sucking in his modest middle-aged spread with one almighty intake of breath.

“Mr. Zubriggen?”

“Yes.”

“I am sorry to bother you so late, but we just arrived at our chalet and there was a message for me there to contact you immediately.”

“Ah,” said Zubriggen, gesturing for the girl to come in from the cold. “Yes. Mademoiselle Rousseau, I presume,” said Zubriggen, extending his arm.

“Yes, monsieur,” she said, taking it and shaking it with the softest of palms. “Is anything the matter?”

“No, mademoiselle, nothing to worry about. I believe the police in Geneva have been asked by their compatriots in America to track you down, something about a version of accounts or the like. But they assure me there is no reason for concern on your part. They want your help, mademoiselle, and have stressed there is no need for distress.”

“I see,” said Barbara Rousseau. But Zubriggen could tell the girl was not convinced.

“From what I am told, mademoiselle, it is a matter to be cleared up over the telephone. You don’t even need to leave the resort,” he smiled. “Can I offer you a drink?”

“No, thank you, monsieur,” said Barbara, and Zubriggen sensed by the tone in her voice that this girl could also most likely smell a come-on from a mile away.

“But if you do not mind, I would like to use your telephone,” she said.

“Of course,” said Zubriggen, being realistic enough to know when a
beauté
was out of his league.

“Come, this way,” he said, finally allowing himself to release the breath he had been holding since he answered the door. “I have the number right here. A Sergeant Donders. He gave me his work and private numbers so I am sure he will not mind the lateness of the hour.”

“Thank you, monsieur,” said Barbara, walking into Zubriggen’s living room to pick up the receiver and make the call.

Zubriggen moved to the kitchen, just far enough away to give the girl space but close enough to get the gist of her conversation. The girl reached Donders almost immediately, and moments later seemed to be connected to another party in the US. Zubriggen moved toward the coffee machine, just beyond the living room annex, straining his ears to ascertain as much as he could of the exchange.

“Lieutenant Mannix,” she said. “This is Barbara Rousseau. I believe you have been trying to reach me and I . . .

“I am so sorry. We have been skiing in areas beyond telecommunications range.

“Of course I do not mind, Lieutenant. Ask away.

“Deane University, that is right. I was there for two years and left for Paris at the beginning of the semester.

“Yes, I heard about it, of course. Jessica was a lovely girl. I am so sorry.

“Yes, whatever I can do to help.”

Zubriggen listened as Barbara continued to answer the American’s questions with a series of definite yesses and nos. And then the girl said nothing for a very long time, and Zubriggen stood there watching her, entranced. He was completely absorbed by her beautiful face and could almost feel her pain when her flawless complexion began to color and her perfect features began to distort in expressions of confusion, and distress, and perhaps a trace of anger.

“No, Lieutenant. Absolutely not. The thing is . . . to be honest, I was sort of interested. James is, well . . . you know, he has a lot going for him. But he had been drinking and seemed a little distracted so in the end I went home to pack. My flight left the next morning and I still had much to do so . . .

“If by friends you mean Heath Westinghouse and his red-haired constant companion then yes, they saw us talking. You have to understand how a place like Deane works, Lieutenant—it is like a small, exclusive club and the law school even more so. Everyone likes to know everybody else’s business—a little . . . what is the English translation? Incestuous? No?

“Yes, I think that James left with Heath and the shorter friend, but then . . . actually he must have come back because I believe I saw him out the front of the club just as I left to hail a taxi.

“Alone? Yes, I think so.

“No, I saw Jessica earlier but not with James.

“Of course I shall provide a statement if that is what you need, Lieutenant. I shall be back in Paris the day after tomorrow and Sergeant Donders said you have my numbers so . . .

“No need to thank me, Lieutenant. But, before you go, I feel I have to say . . .” Barbara hesitated then, and Zubriggen heard her take a breath, before clearing her throat and moving on. “James is a gentleman, Lieutenant, and while I do not know the details, I feel it only fair to tell you that I find this news surprising. James would be the last person I would suspect of being capable of anything such as this.

“But if you are asking me if I was with him that evening—during the same hours that Jessica was killed, then the answer is a definite ‘no.’ I have nothing against James, Lieutenant, but if he is using me as his alibi, then I am afraid he is not the person I thought him to be.”

“Shit,”
said Joe, hanging up the phone.

“Jesus,” said Frank who had listened to the exchange on speaker.

“Shut the door, Frank,” said Joe, now racing behind his birch laminate desk to pick up his office issue phone.

This was an unusual request in itself, given Joe Mannix never shut his office door to his hardworking homicide team beyond. In fact, McKay had a hard time budging the frosted glass paneled door from its permanent resting place of “open.”

The carpet seemed to have grown up around it and McKay had to use both of his hands to yank it from its stubborn two-inch groove.

“What time is it?” asked Joe.

“Six forty-five,” said Frank, glancing at his Timex.

“No way this kid is handing himself in,” said Joe, searching for a number in his notebook.

“No. No, I guess not.”

“Damn it,” said Joe, rifling through the pages. “Where is his goddamned number?”

“Whose number, Chief?”

“Nagoshi’s. I need to stop the transfer of that reward money. Those kids played us for fools, Frank, and now they are two million dollars richer.”

“Maybe they didn’t know Rousseau would . . .”

“Of course they knew. They can’t have it both ways, Frank. They say Matheson killed Jessica and if that’s what they believe, then they had to know that his alibi—the same one they gave to us in the first place—was a total fabrication.”

“You think they knew we’d have trouble reaching the French girl?”

“Trouble enough for them to score themselves a quick two mill.”

“Jesus, Chief. That sounds like a stretch even for them. And besides, it was Nagoshi’s idea to give the money away. You can’t blame yourself for . . .”

“Sure I can. I should have stood up to Katz. I should have forced Nagoshi to give us more time. I should have waited until we spoke to Barbara Rousseau and then we might have nailed the Matheson kid without the help of his two so-called friends.”

“But they have a confession.”

“So they say.”

“They are risking their precious social status by going down this road,” countered Frank.

“Yeah—and they can spend all their lonely nights counting all that money.”

“They knew about the shoes, Chief.”

And there it was. They knew about the shoes—and whatever else they were, Joe knew this one fact made them privy to information that no one else had access to.

Joe put down the phone.

“It’s almost seven, boss, the money’s gone,” said Frank, his tone one of pure consolation. “As hard as it is, we have to put those two assholes on the backburner for the moment, and do the job we set out to do from the get-go.”

Joe said nothing, just rested his knuckles on his paper-strewn desk, looked down at his feet and nodded.

“We need to go find Matheson, Chief, and arrest his lying ass before he has a chance to disappear. We need to go out and get him, boss, and we need to do it now.”

Four Months Earlier

 

The next time he saw her was from behind.

She was standing still, her black glossy hair pouring straight down her long narrow back like a slick of the darkest satin.

He approached her slowly, his shoes making that customary
click
that seemed to be handed out at the door when you entered any major international art gallery—New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art, better known as “The Met,” was obviously no exception.

He found her in the Robert Lehman wing, a pyramidal structure of glass and limestone that was decorated more like a Central Park mansion than a display center for some of the world’s most famous European masterpieces—an observation she later told him was actually quite astute, given that this extraordinary two-story triangular adjunct was designed to evoke the ambience of Lehman’s own house on West Fifty-fourth.

“Have you been here before?” she asked without turning around, making him wonder how she managed to distinguish his footfalls among the sea of others.

“Ah . . . yeah,” said James, stopping short. She still did not turn so he answered her question from behind. “Once, as a kid. My father brought me to New York for a weekend not long before I moved to Sydney with my mother. It was like he would not let me go until America was imprinted on my soul—and he is a banker so to him, America and New York are one and the same.”

“He appreciates art?” she asked.

“He appreciates its value,” he answered. “I remember he made me stand in front of this one painting—a Van Gogh I think it was—something with a field and trees and . . .”

“
Wheat Field with Cypresses
,” she said, still facing forward.

“Yeah, that was it. He told me some guy had bought it for almost $80 million and then lent it to the Met for the world to share. He said art was the most colorful money in the world, and one of the safest long-term investments available in a volatile marketplace.”

She laughed then as she turned suddenly to take his hands and kiss him on the cheek. “A real philanthropist, your dad,” she said.

“My father is all for the voluntary promotion of human welfare, as long as his welfare is catered to first.”

“Does that make you sad?” she said, a look of pure curiosity on her face.

“No. Should it?”

“Probably,” she said, turning back to the painting that had been the focus of her attention just prior to his arrival.

“I like it,” he said, looking at the smallish portrait of a pretty nude girl with long red hair.

“Why?” she asked.

“I don’t know, because it’s nice to look at.”

“The best answer yet,” she said, still focusing on the painting before her. “It’s called
Young Girl Bathing
and it’s a Renoir—1892. Do you see what she’s doing?”

“Well,” said James, moving closer to the rectangular artwork before him. “She’s bathing I guess—by some river.”

“Yes, but more than that. See how her eyes are focused downward, on her feet?”

“You can’t see her feet, the picture ends at her calves and . . .”

“First up, James, it’s not a picture it’s a painting and you don’t need to actually see her feet to know they are in the water. She is looking at them, probably running her toes in and out of the polished pebbles that line the riverbed. The water is cool and clear and reflecting the hundreds of shades of reds and greens and ochres that Renoir uses here,” she pointed. “She feels free and content and at one with the world. She’s lucky, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, I guess she is.”

They stood there then, a foot apart, hands by their sides, staring straight ahead at the lucky nineteenth-century French girl with the contented smile and cooling feet.

“You know,” Jessica said at last, “Renoir was once asked what he tried to achieve with his art. What makes it special, what gives it life, what allows it to grow beyond the flat surface of the canvas and move those who stand here—like us—as humble, admirers of his talent.”

“And what did he say?” said James, drawing his eyes away from the masterpiece before him to take in the even more exquisite vision at his side.

“He said: ‘The work of art must seize upon you, wrap you up in itself and carry you away. It is the means by which the artist conveys his passion. It is the current which he puts forth, which sweeps you along in his passion.’ ”

“You do that to me,” he said, the words spoken before he even had a chance to consider how she might take this simple, powerful admission.