Alibi (9 page)

It was early. Peter Nagoshi had only slept for four hours—a routine to which his body had now become accustomed given his increasingly senior role in a multinational company. He had been woken at five by a telephone call, and the information that was delivered had not pleased him. In fact, he was quietly seething with fury—at Mr. Kwon and his inability to control those determined to jeopardize the progress of their manufacturing operations in China.

The Nagoshi heir rose from his bed and retrieved his green silk robe from the antique Japanese oak closet. He put on his matching silk slippers and walked across the plush handwoven rug to the bedroom door. From here he proceeded down the hallway to the stairwell, ignoring the framed Japanese scrolls that hung in chronological order on the corridor walls—scrolls he would often stop to read, admire and draw inspiration from. But not today.

This morning he slipped down the hall of the exceptionally large two story apartment, taking the marble stairs two at a time before going into the kitchen for his ritual morning coffee. It was his only Western vice—coffee—strong and rich and, dare he admit it, effectively filling him with the energy he needed to face mornings such as these.

He gazed out the kitchen window. The city was still a sea of lights—the rectangular expanse that was Central Park cutting a dark divide across midtown Manhattan. His father was still asleep and he did not want to disturb him.

The Chinese. Yes, they were a problem. He had been unwise to underestimate the scope of unrest in Guangdong. Perhaps he should have stopped to read the scrolls this morning after all, for they documented the magnificent victories of the Sino-Japanese War of 1894—of Japan’s mastery in embracing the need for advancement and China’s archaic and self-destructive determination to cling to the world of the ancients. Even then, all those years ago, Japan had been wise enough to drain knowledge from the West and perfect and adapt it to major Japanese advantage, sending hordes of its diplomatic and military officials abroad to evaluate and mimic the strengths of European armies, learning from British, French and German advisors so as to construct their own powerful terrestrial and naval forces.

So, what had started out as a squabble between Japan and China as to the sovereignty of Korea, ended in the massive annihilation of the Chinese forces when the Qing Dynasty’s foolish belief that the Chinese “strength in superior numbers” would be enough to stop the driving force of a modern Japanese military. China’s inability to embrace change, her disdain for the pro-Japanese reformists in Korea, her refusal to acknowledge the need for modernization had seen her stuck in the Third World ditch she still found herself languishing in to this very day. Peter Nagoshi was no fan of the West, but like his astute ancestors before him, he had learned how to absorb their knowledge and discern the relevant from the refuse. He was a Nagoshi after all.

Peter poured himself another cup of coffee before contemplating the irony of it all. The head of his Chinese operations, Mr. Kwon Si, told him it was the West who had forced this problem upon them in the first place, and in many ways he was correct. It was the modern world that demanded “productivity” and “profit” but also cried out for the principles of “solidarity” and “human rights”—two philosophies that do not always sing so harmoniously together. It was true the 300 workers at Nagoshi Inc.’s Guangdong plant were overworked and underpaid. These people were largely unskilled peasants who, in the scheme of things, were fortunate to have any form of employment at all. Peter’s reformist instructions six months ago to cut salaries and increase hours, to base pay on level of productivity and to remove any workers over the age of fifty-five were proving to be extremely profitable. Output was up fifteen percent and costs reduced by twenty, with all earnings going toward the launch of their new automobile initiative—an initiative he had argued should be based in China where land was cheap and labor was industrious.

Now Mr. Kwon, who had seemed only too happy to incorporate Peter’s plans last May (with the promise of a small commission for every percentage point of growth—and a promotion to Senior VP of Operations once his father confirmed China as their major automobile manufacturing base)—had the impudence to suggest that his changes were a mistake, a shift in perspective that only materialized when a small group of American Solidarity Global militants had decided to use Nagoshi as their latest whipping boy.

Peter had acted quickly. He had neutralized the threat by claiming their accusations that the Chinese workers were forced to toil for over twelve hours a day for substandard pay were false—even going to such lengths as allowing three SG activists to enter their plant and interview a controlled number of workers on a specified day and time, so that they might compile their much sought after “employees’ assessment report.” He had done so well, in fact, that his father knew nothing of it. All the senior Nagoshi was shown were the productivity figures to which he had responded with a forceful, “Well done,
segare
.” It was the Chinese growth that had secured him the promise of the company’s US presidency after all, and there was no way he would allow Mr. Kwon’s news of Solidarity Global’s latest requests to hijack his progress.

According to Kwon, they had requested further information regarding the hours of night shift workers and confirmation of additional pay for overtime. They had also told the Chinese manager that their report would not be discussed with Nagoshi Inc. as previously suggested, but released on their website, in the form of an international press release, without warning. In other words, they were leaving Peter no room to negotiate, and the consequences could be devastating.

For once his hands were tied. He had thought the problem died with her—but perhaps, that had been an unwise and potentially costly presumption.

I should have never said it,
thought James Matheson as his paddle sliced through the smooth silver water of the Charles River, enabling his metallic blue kayak to slide over the glassy surface at record speed.
I should never have lied about Barbara. It was a mistake and it will come back to haunt me,
he told himself for the hundredth time. He had suspected it from the outset, and now he
felt
it for sure.

He upped his rotation, pushing his aching arms even farther, forcing his screaming shoulders to rise to a new plane of pain where his picturesque surroundings slipped past him in a blur and the burn of lactic acid sent the self-admonishment away, at least for a while. He shot under the Anderson Memorial Bridge at record speed, leaving his fellow kayak team members far behind, before at last starting to slow. He could not do this forever and eventually he would have to face what he had done—or rather failed to do in the wake of her death.

He had spent the past six weeks convincing himself that it did not matter—that Jess was gone and would never know what had come to pass. But deep down he knew that hiding from the truth was not the answer, and at the very least he should honor her memory by telling the police what he knew.

James lifted his paddle from the water and allowed the kayak to glide. He closed his eyes and tilted his neck backward, feeling the icy wind bite at the perspiration on his brow and sting the reality of the situation into his brain. He went over that night again, wondering if anyone could have picked up their connection. If anyone could sense, feel, see what they had meant to each other purely by their proximity in a large but crowded room. The secrecy had been difficult from the outset, especially in those early days when he could think of nothing else. But it was as she wanted, and so he had obliged, for she was strong and beautiful and persuasive and in the end he knew she had been right.

He took a breath, his brain now trying to focus on the one immediate priority he knew he had to face—that if the police came to question him, his alibi would not stick. He knew this and yet was still afraid to come forward and tell them the truth about what she had meant to him. For when it came down to it, he was honest enough to admit, he was terrified beyond all imagination that his “perfect” life would end.

James Matheson’s privileged existence had started the minute he was born. He grew up the only child in a reasonably happy home, spent summers at the Cape and winters in Aspen and attended the best private schools his affluent parents could afford. His parents had an unusual relationship in that they were still together but had lived apart at various intervals to further their respective careers. In fact, when he was twelve he had moved to Australia with his mother who was offered the chance to study for a doctorate in psychiatry at the respected University of New South Wales.

In Sydney he attended an exclusive boys’ school, lived in a harborside home and trained with some of the best swim coaches in the country. He spent his mornings at squad, his weekdays studying to get the grades required to gain international admission to Deane and his weekends catching waves, playing rugby, downing schooners and chasing some of the prettiest girls on the face of the planet. As soon as he finished his Higher School Certificate, scoring a near perfect 99.9, he made the trip back to his father’s home in Brookline where he took up residence in the renovated pool house. His mother stayed on in Sydney, making regular trips to the US, her career having soared to the point where she was currently considered one of the most experienced psychiatrists in the South Pacific region.

Since graduating with an economics degree at Deane, he had breezed through the first two years of law, slid through three “appropriate” relationships with attractive, intelligent and “connected” girls, achieved regular personal best times in the pool and kicked ass on the river in his blessed blue kayak. His life was, in a word, perfect. It was as if his own personal screenplay had been written even before he was conceived. And he had made sure that it never wavered from the script; in fact he had embellished it with overachievements—personally, academically, athletically.

And then he had met her, Jess Nagoshi, the girl who entered his world like an unexpected summer storm and changed his life forever. She was like no one he had met before—and most likely would ever meet again.

James shut his eyes once again as he felt the anger well up inside him—the now familiar heat of rage rising from the dead weight in his stomach to constrict the breathing in his chest.
It is the ultimate paradox,
he thought, the fact that on one hand he knew what he had to do—what a man such as he was meant to do—and on the other was hesitating for fear of upsetting the balance of his predictably flawless existence. A catch-22 with the best of them. A lose/lose when all he had ever known was win/win and win again.

But in the end he realized there was only one answer, only one way to save himself from a life of never-ending regret. And so he turned his kayak around and headed back to the Deane University boat shed, wincing as his now stiff limbs cried out in protest. And then he picked up the pace . . . one, two, one, two . . . until his brain was doused in the comfort of the mind-numbing repetition and his body comforted by the growing sensation of pain.

Six months earlier

 

“Are you trying to set some kind of record?” she had asked. They were the first words she had ever spoken to him, in that calm, inquisitive voice.

He had not even noticed her. It was early, before seven, and he had just returned to the boat shed following a solo paddle down the river.

He loved this time of morning, the solitude of dawn, those moments between darkness and light when, somehow satisfied with their allocated allotment, the shadows gave way to a rising sun and the ever-promising possibilities of what lay ahead.

“I’m sorry?” he said, squinting up the levee to where she sat, knees to her chest, a sketchbook and pencil discarded beside her. “You took it out pretty hard this morning,” she said, “like you were in a hurry, running to, or away, from something.”

“It’s called training,” he said, placing his kayak and paddle on the rack before grabbing a towel from his gym bag. “The Compton Cup is in a couple of weeks so . . .”

“So you like to win,” she interrupted.

“I, ah . . . I suppose I do. Anything wrong with that . . . um . . . ?”

“Jessica.” She smiled. “And no, there is nothing wrong with that, James Matheson, just so long as you gain more than the kudos. You know, so that it makes a difference,” she said bringing her palm to her chest. “In here.”

He looked at her then, not knowing what in the hell to say. She was so still, so perfect that she might have formed the cen terpiece of some classic Asian masterpiece.

“Do I know you?” he asked, realizing she had referred to him by name.

“No. I come here mornings, you know, to sketch the dawn. I’m studying Renoir and he was a master at light and how it soaks the world in color and clarity.”