The Last Alibi (10 page)

23.

Jason

Saturday, June 15

“Hey there.” Alexa shows up at my door ready to go in an ice-blue running shirt that matches her eyes, black shorts, and Nikes. What’s not to like about a sexy woman in athletic clothes?

I keep my tongue in my mouth and say, “Hey. Want to come in?”

“Sure.”

I grab the new running shoes I purchased at Runner’s High and lace them up. “That was fun last night,” I say.

“Good. I thought so, too.”

I focus on my shoes and wait for a shoe of another kind to drop. But it doesn’t. I look up at her. “Hey, sorry I bolted like that last night.”

“No worries.” She waves me off. “Nice house,” she says.

There’s not much to see in the foyer. I live in a typical city town house, at least in this neighborhood: narrow and vertical, three stories. Other than a small back room, the only things on the ground level are the foyer and staircase. Which, for the record, was murder when I had one knee that didn’t work.

“You want a tour, or do you want to hit it?”

“Let’s hit it,” she says. “I can have a tour later. If you play your cards right.”

Nice. Dangle a carrot in front of the man. Well played.

“Remember, all I can do is walk,” I remind her.

“I’ll try to slow down for you.”

Nice again. This one is going to keep me on my toes.

We head east and then cut up north to Ash, which will take us to the lakefront. It’s not quite as hot today, and the brisk lake winds provide even more relief. The sun is high, the birds are chirping, I’m getting a good sweat, the beach is filled with volleyball players, the promenade with runners and bikers and skateboarders, my knee doesn’t hurt at all, and I’m walking with a woman who gives men whiplash. The world is in balance. For another ninety minutes, that is.

“You thought I’d be pissed off that you left last night,” she says to me between breaths. We’re doing a decent pace for a walk.

“I wasn’t sure. I said I’d stay and I didn’t.”

“I don’t smother people,” she says. “That’s not how I roll.”

“That’s not how you roll, huh?”

“Not how I roll.” She’s rolling along quite well right now, I have to say. I’m tempted to tell her to slow down, but then I’d be admitting I can’t keep up, and that’s not how
I
roll.

We stop about two miles down, close to where we started our walk along the beach last night. We sit for a moment on one of the steps down to the beach.

“Is this okay for you?” she asks.

“Sure, great.”

“Don’t be a guy. You had knee surgery. It’s okay to say it hurts or we need to slow down or whatever.”

Actually, it feels better than I expected, so I get up and start the walk back home. She hops back up and joins me again.

“You are
such
a guy,” she says.

I’d argue if I could. The hike back is just as enjoyable. I miss adrenaline and sweat as much as I miss mobility. It’s nice to know I’ve turned a corner.

When we get back to my town house, we walk in silently and head up the stairs. The tour isn’t much of one. We skip the second floor, a typical open-floor layout of kitchen and great room, and head straight up to the bedroom. She smells like sweat, and her moist, salty skin tastes like it. I ease her out of her running shirt and shorts, leaving only a running bra and undies. All good. She goes to work on me and we saddle up for round two.

It’s better than the first time, as I expected, more familiar and decisive, less hesitant, and I let out a loud moan into her mouth, our teeth clacking, when it’s over. We lie exhausted, panting like animals, for a long time before she suggests a shower is in order. At first, I take it as an insult, but then I realize she’s talking about a shower for two.

When we have carefully ensured each other’s cleanliness—and that would include round number three, thank you—we collapse on the bed. We lie there quietly for a time, Alexa’s breathing dissolving into faint, rhythmic sighs. I ease my arm out from under her and walk to the bathroom. I open the cabinet beneath the sink, reach for the box of allergy medicine, and pop out a pill and chew it up. Then I cup some water out of the sink to swallow the granular remnants.

I rejoin her, trying to ease back into our position, but I awaken her. She adjusts herself so her head is on my chest, her fingers drawing on my abdomen. I close my eyes, and within minutes, the euphoria spreads through my veins.

“So you’re an old-fashioned girl,” I say. I’m wondering in what era they did some of the things we did in that shower.

“I
am
old-fashioned,” she says into my chest. “I want my man to be happy.”

“So I’m your man, am I?”

“If you’re okay with that. But if you aren’t, no problem. No pressure. Really.” She remains motionless, like she’s holding her breath.

I run my fingers over her back. My eyes dance beneath my eyelids. I am swimming in goodness.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m more than okay.”

24.

Shauna

Sunday, June 16

I fish around my desk looking for the transcript. “Where’s the Flynn dep?” I ask.

Bradley John is on the couch in my office reviewing another deposition. He’s been with us over a year now, and is four-plus years removed from law school. He may look like a teenage rock star with that goofy hair, but he works as hard as anyone I know. He works as hard as me.

“I have it on the system,” he says, gesturing to the laptop computer resting beside him. He looks up at me. “But you want a hard copy.”

He knows me well by now. Technology has created a sea change in the practice of law, but when I’m preparing for trial by reviewing deposition transcripts, I want them in my hand, with my notes scribbled in the margins and Post-it tabs sticking out everywhere.

“Jason would have a copy,” I say. I push myself out of my chair. My trial is about three weeks away, and I’m pretty much there in terms of the big-picture prep, but now we’re getting down to the microscopic level, the nuance. “And where is our Mr. Kolarich, I wonder?” I say aloud. Jason hasn’t been in the whole weekend. I know what he’d say: We have plenty of time. But I make mistakes when I rush things, and he probably does, too. We aren’t flying by the seat of our pants in this trial. Rory Arangold’s company is depending on it.

I walk down to his office, where the lights are off and Jason appears to be enjoying his weekend, unlike the rest of us. Now where would the
Arangold
files be? I dropped all of them in the corner by his fridge—

Oh. There it is. The entire stack of folders. Exactly as I placed them.

Jason hasn’t reviewed a single page.

I dial him on my phone. No answer. “Hey, tough guy,” I say to voice mail, “don’t know if you’re coming in today, Sunday, but I need to schedule a meeting this week with you and Rory Arangold. So hopefully you’ll be prepared by maybe Tuesday?” I think of ending the message there. But I don’t. “If you’re not able to work on this file, if you’re busy with other stuff or whatever, tell me now, Jase. Not the day before trial.”

I punch out and stare at those untouched files. He knows how important this is to me. He knows how nervous I am. Normally, he’d be right here with me, watching my back.

I let out a long sigh. He’ll be there. He’s just doing his typical procrastination. He’ll waltz in and he’ll decimate their expert.

“You okay?” Bradley is standing in the doorway.

“Oh, sure, sure,” I say. “Let’s get back to it.”

25.

Shauna

Monday, June 17

I shake hands with my clients, new owners of a single-family home on the city’s northwest side. They are beaming, excited about their new home and their family. He is an accountant and she’s an elementary school teacher with a bun in the oven, their first child, who is scheduled to arrive in this world in about six weeks.

“Thanks for everything, Shauna. This was so easy.”

“Best of luck to you.” I walk them out of the title office, where the house closing took place. House closings are no fun, but once you learn how to do them, they’re easy, and it’s a steady stream of income in small bites that helps the firm keep motoring.

I put them in a cab, the husband in his suit, the wife in her maternity outfit, her stomach protruding, and watch them drive away.
Someday, maybe,
I think.
But,
as my mother always gently reminds me,
the window is closing.

Our firm is just a few blocks away. I enjoy being outside, even for a brief walk, having lost most of my weekend at the office. When I get in, Marie hands me some messages and a couple of letters she’s put on letterhead for me. Marie functions as our legal secretary and receptionist. Both Jason and I can type, so we can share a secretary, and Bradley John is more proficient on the computer than all of us combined.

“Is Jason in?” I ask.

“Just got in.”

It’s mid-afternoon. He just got in? Maybe he had court. It’s not my job to keep tabs on him. But it
is
my job to make sure he’s pulling his weight on
Arangold
.

I walk down the hallway to his office and, just before I stick my head in, I hear Jason’s voice. “I’ve got tar on my feet and I can’t see,” he says. “All the birds look down and laugh at me.”

And then I smell smoke—or not smoke, but—

I poke my head in and see Jason shaking a lit match and tossing it into a styrofoam cup. He is startled when he sees me, but then he smiles at me.

“What the hell are you doing?” I say.

He chuckles and spins in his chair.

I’ve got tar on my feet and I can’t see . . . All the birds look down and laugh at me.

“Just keeping myself awake,” he says.

“You’re just keeping yourself awake by lighting a match until it burns your fingers? That’s why your fingernails are black?”

“Relax, kid.”

“And what were you saying? Is that—Was that from ‘Let Me In’?”

He wags a finger at me. “Good memory. I heard it on my way in,” he says. “Stuck in my head.”

“That’s not a happy song, Jase.”

He shrugs. “Okay, next time I’ll whistle something more upbeat. Would that please you? How about something from
Mary Poppins
?”

I raise my eyebrows.

“What?” he says. “Don’t look at me that way. Since when have we limited our R.E.M. repertoire to happy songs?”

I raise a hand. “Okay, fine. Fine. It’s perfectly natural that you’re sitting here in the middle of the day in your office, setting your fingers on fire—”

“I’m not setting them—”

“—and singing a song about suicide.”

“—on fire, first of all. And second of all, you like the song, too. I listened to
Monster
on the way in to work, that’s all. Jeez.”

Enough. Surrender. I look at my watch. “I have to jump on a conference call with Rory Arangold,” I say. “Did you get my voice mail?”

Jason seems to appreciate the segue, but not so much the new topic. “I did, yeah. I did.”

“And? Are we a go on
Arangold
?”

“Yeah, sure.” He gives me a wide smile. “I’m on it. I’ll start on it today.”

I eye him with suspicion, not trying to hide it. But he doesn’t seem to care. His eyes drift to the window and he smiles again, even chuckles to himself.

“Are you . . .
drunk
?” I ask.

He waves me off. “Just high on life.”

Yeah, right. The day that Jason Kolarich is high on life is the day that gravity ceases to exist.

“Okay, sport. If you’re sure. Want to get dinner tonight?”

He shakes his head. “Can’t do it, girl. Got plans.”

Jason and I have had our moments, so I’m entitled to a little ambivalence when a woman enters his life. And make no mistake, a woman has entered his life. Whenever he gets vague about his personal life—
Got plans,
he said—it means it’s somebody he cares about.

“Do tell,” I say.

“That court reporter? Alexa? Nice girl, it turns out.”

I saw her briefly when she stopped in a couple of weeks ago. She was striking, as I recall. And Jason, the bastard, is tall, dark, and handsome, even if he doesn’t realize it. And what court reporter personally delivers a transcript? So I guess it isn’t a grand surprise that there were fireworks.

“That’s nice to hear,” I say. I start to leave, but look back in at him. “Seriously, you’re—you’re okay?”

“Sure. I’m fine. No worries.”

He’s not fine. But I don’t comment further. Anytime I get near the subject, he swats my hand away.

You’re not his mother,
I keep reminding myself. I’ve got a client and three lawyers holding on a conference call right now, waiting for me, so that will have to do for the time being.

26.

Jason

Tuesday, June 18

My head pops off my pillow before my eyes even open. My heart is racing and I shake away the fading whispers of the dream, insects attacking my skin in swarms. I scratch my forearms and knuckles and palms, but it doesn’t take away the itch. I look at the clock. It’s half past four. I push myself out of bed as Alexa, lying next to me, releases a breath and moans softly. She was out with friends last night and came to my house afterward, about eleven. We had a nice hour of sex before we collapsed on the bed.

In my bathroom, I grab a pill from the box of allergy medicine. I’m getting low and will need to replenish soon.

I close my eyes and they dance beneath my eyelids. I let out a deep sigh as the warmth spreads through me . . .

It’s going to be okay. I’ll figure something out. Sleep is what I need.

I crawl back to bed, hoping not to wake Alexa, but she turns over as soon as she hears me. It’s clear that she’s been awake.

“Are you all right?” she asks.

“Sure, sure.”

“That’s the second time you’ve gotten up.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, it is. You got up at two and again just now, at four-thirty.”

“So you’re keeping tabs on me?”

She puts her hand on my chest. “Don’t say it like that. I’m just wondering if you’re in pain.”

“I’m fine.” I reach over and kiss her. “Go back to sleep.”

She nestles into me and quickly drifts off. We fit together nicely in sleep. I breathe in the fruity scent of her shampoo and run my fingers over her back as she softly moans.

I jerk awake in that same cocoon, like I never slept at all save for the dream, birds feasting on the hair on my arms, grasping tiny hairs in their beaks and yanking them off. I squint at the clock. It’s seven o’clock. I sit up in bed. My shoulders are tight. My hands are shaky and itchy. My stomach is considering a revolution. I get out of bed and walk to the bathroom for another pill.

“Morning.” Alexa walks into the bathroom rubbing her eyes, the back of her hair standing up. She is wearing a gray T-shirt of mine and silk underwear. If I were in the mood, I’d enjoy the view.

“Morning.” I put away the pills and close the cabinet.

She sits on the toilet to pee. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m sure.” I splash some water on my face and look into the mirror, but quickly avert my eyes. Not good. Ghoulish and mangy.

We lie around for a while and then go downstairs to the kitchen to scrounge up breakfast. I pretty much never cook anything that doesn’t require a microwave, but I still have lots of cookware and utensils left over from when Talia was in charge of the cooking. What I lack, however, is ingredients for anything interesting like French toast or pancakes—not that I have the appetite for it, either.

“You should go back to the doctor and tell him your knee hurts,” Alexa says as she beats eggs in a pan. I do have eggs, and lots of meat, and really good coffee beans.

“My knee’s fine.”

“Okay. Whatever.” She’s doing something fancy with the eggs. I don’t want to prolong this conversation and can’t think of anything clever to say, so I walk through the great room—I actually hate that term, but that’s what they called it when I bought the place, not a living room or family room but a “great” room—and press my face against the window overlooking the street. People are walking their dogs or starting out runs. An old couple is slowly walking down the street, the man wearing a beret, the woman with her arm in a sling, casting their eyes upward at the sky, getting in their stroll before the temperatures reach sauna level.

“Okay, well, then, here,” Alexa says. I turn back. She is fiddling in her purse, which rests on the elongated breakfast bar. She produces a tin of Altoids and places it on the counter. “You left these at my house the other night. Thought you might need them.”

Need
them, she said. Not want them.

“What are those, mints?” I ask, a different kind of warmth passing through me.

“Sure. Fine. They’re
mints
,” she hisses, turning her back to me again, going to work with a little more fury on those eggs. They aren’t going to be scrambled; they’re going to be annihilated.

Finally, after an awkward silence of I don’t know how long, my chest burning, she spins back in my direction. “Look, I like you, Jason. I really do. But I had a guy I really liked and he burned me really bad because he kept secrets. I don’t need to know your life story, okay? But if there’s something that really affects you, yeah, I’d like to know about it.

“Sooo . . . it seems to me, just sayin’,” she says, waving her hands with exaggerated caution, “that your knee still hurts you really badly, and for some reason I can’t figure out, you don’t want to admit that to me. So you’re hiding pills in an Altoids container and you’re getting out of bed every few hours at night, too.”

“So you’re checking
up
on me.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” She throws down the large wooden spoon she was using. It actually lands on the corner of the counter and snaps back at her. “I thought they were mints! I almost put one in my mouth! What are they? Vicodin? Something for pain.”

I look back at the window, at the treetops and the town houses across the street. I place my palm on the window and feel warmth.

“If something is hurting you that badly,” she says, “then it’s affecting you. And if we have some kind of a relationship, then that means it’s affecting me, too. And if we
don’t
have a relationship, then that’s fine, too, but then what the
hell
am I doing cooking you eggs?”

“Getting out your aggression, it looks like.” That’s me, when shoved into a corner. Start with sarcasm. If that doesn’t work, it can get uglier.

She leaves the kitchen without another word, heading upstairs. She is quiet up there, but I assume she’s gathering her things to leave. This is what they call the moment of truth. Cue the dramatic organ music.

“Okay,” she says when she comes back down the stairs, fully dressed, her purse slung over her shoulder. “You’re a nice guy, Jason. Maybe if we’d—”

“My knee hurts,” I say. “It hurts all the time. It should be better by now. It’s June. It’s been, like, six months. But it’s not. It’s not better.” The words just spill out, as if someone else were saying them. “My doctor doesn’t believe me so he stopped prescribing me OxyContin. So I have to buy these pills illegally.”

I’m looking out the window when I deliver this monologue. The fact that I ended with the truth seems, for some reason, to make the rest more palatable. There is a gentle but consistent ringing in my ears:
Wrong, not right.

“He won’t give you pain medication?” she asks, her tone gentler now. Her guard still up, but not quite as high.

“What did I just fucking say?”

She doesn’t say anything. Neither of us does. Silence. The abrupt lurch of the fan, the air-conditioning kicking on. The smell of sweat on me, steamy and rancid. Then I hear her back at the stove, the wooden spoon on the pan, a cabinet closing, the freezer opening, bacon grease crackling in the pan.

Me, I don’t move, staring out the window, watching the slow movement of the elderly couple down the street, grateful that I can’t see my reflection.