Perfect Crime
Page 3
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Returning south on I-5, I battled fatigue by popping pills, singing to the radio, and opening the window to let the cold desert air keep me awake. I was low on gas after Bakersfield as I headed into the most desolate stretch of my drive. I stopped at a Mobil station in Castaic, a pitiful place that had looked like a bombing range when I had passed by the previous evening. After getting gas and munching on a sandwich, I saw the first glow of sunrise at 5:45 a.m. coming over the San Bernardino Mountains. At 6:30, I rolled into Burbank, ten minutes ahead of schedule.
I parked in the theater parking lot at 6:47 a.m., walked to the hotel in my jogging outfit and baseball cap, and entered via the side entrance. As I headed up the steps, a colleague spotted me on her way to breakfast.
“Hi, Cheryl. Out for a run?”
I waved on my way upstairs. “Every morning. See you at breakfast,” I chirped.
In my room, I stripped, turned on the shower, and relaxed under the hot needles with my eyes closed and my head against the wall to drain fatigue from my weary body.
I lurched and grabbed the railing. I had dozed off for a few seconds. The hot shower was making me too relaxed. I needed to wake up and face my day. Time to pop another pill. I had a busy day ahead of me, but one that would not require me to do much except stay awake in the media room and coordinate the presentation. No meetings where I had to speak; I could yawn and stretch whenever I wanted.
I got out of the shower and looked in the mirror, wet hair plastered against my forehead, a grin on my face.
My plan had worked! I had my perfect alibi for a perfect crime.