The Original Alibi mk-1

by David Bishop

  He left the check lying there and flicked his wrist a few times as if shooing a fly. I took this as an invitation to sit down; I did. After looking at his pocket watch, likely the one the articles reported he had carried since his youth, he said, “You are on time; I like that, sir.”

  His study was as elegant as the rest of the house, though more masculine. A massive mahogany desk sat between us, a wall of glass behind him showing off the Pacific Ocean as if it flowed simply to grace his home. The moon glazing the night fog sitting on the horizon gave the sheen of a protective coating. The way the sky looked, we might have another hour of good visibility, depending on the wind. The light in the study had been designed to be soft and indirect. According to the daily column in the newspaper that announces the ages of people they figure the rest of us care to know, the general was eighty-seven. One of the articles on him that I read before coming said he suffered from chronic uveitis, an inflammation of the eye. The condition could explain the subdued lighting.

  The sidewall of the general’s study closest to his desk was mostly bookcases, with some wall area left for photos from his career, the wall on the other side busy with more photos and plaques. One four-shelf bookcase held only VCR tapes. He noticed my looking and said, “Family events mostly, I’ve had the older ones originally in film converted.”

  “I wish I had done more of that. My early family life is mostly in still pictures, but I’ve got a ton of those.”

  The general ran a hand through his thin pepper-colored hair, which each day was surrendering more of its territory to salt-colored hair. “Mr. Kile, if you won’t help me, why in tarnation did you come?”

  “You’re a great American, General Whitaker. It would be disrespectful not to tell you in person.”

  “Call me General. Everybody does, even my daughter. As long as you were kind enough to come, before you leave please do me two favors.” Not used to being opposed, he went on without waiting for my decision. “The first, you should find decidedly easy. Drink an Irish on crushed ice with a lemon twist.” He picked up a handheld bell and rang it. Charles came through the door instantly with a pewter tray centered by a short frosted glass, apparently filled with the whiskey of my Irish ancestors.

  The reports said the general could no longer drink himself, but enjoyed watching others imbibe. If he liked them, he felt he was drinking with them. If he didn’t like them, well, they didn’t get offered the drink in the first place.

  The general gave the impression that being eccentric could be a lot of fun. Of course you had to be somewhat wealthy to be eccentric. If one is poor and unconventional in manner and deed, one is simply considered a bit nutty.

  “You said two things, General?”

  “That I did. While sipping your Irish, read this letter. It is addressed to you. You will notice it is not opened. The letter is from one of my dearest friends, yours too, Mr. Barton Cowen.”

  I took the letter gingerly between two fingertips and held it for a moment, feeling like a mouse eyeing trapped cheese. Barton Cowen was the father and husband of the family killed by the thug I shot dead on the courthouse steps to earn my four years inside with Axel. Bart came to see me every week while he relentlessly inspired public opinion until the governor’s office granted my pardon. Like the mouse, I could not turn from the trap.

  When I finished reading Bart’s request that I help the general, I sat motionless, looking, I suspect, like an envelope without a name or address on its face. But I knew I had no real choice.

  “General, tell me about the case.”

  “The older I become,” he said, “the more impressed I am with what a man is, rather than what he seems. And I like who you are.”

  “Were it not for Mr. Cowen I would have spent three more years as a guest of the state before walking out an ex-con rather than a pardoned man. But you knew that, General. You knew I could not refuse you after reading this letter.” I dropped it onto his desk.

  “What I knew, Mr. Kile … may I call you Matt?”

  “I’d prefer you did, General. Please go on.”

  “What I knew, Matt, was that you were intrigued. Perhaps it was my reputation mixing with your curiosity. Perhaps from the stories, you wished to learn if I would offer you a drink. Then it may have simply been that you are divorced and hoped to meet my celebrated daughter.”

  “Hmmmm.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “It means, hmmmm. But to revise and extend my remarks as you regularly heard members of congress say during your years on the Joint Chiefs of Staff, ‘I had the pleasure of meeting your daughter on the way in. She is a lovely woman.’”

  “Nicely said. A man predisposed to be a fighting man learns to do so. A woman predisposed to being a seductress hones her skills similarly. Both arts designed to control the man before them. My daughter is not an excessively promiscuous woman, but, like her mother, she enjoys men and is an unapologetic tease.”

  I recalled a quote from Count Tallyrand, In order to avoid being called a flirt, she always yielded easily.

  The tone in which the general spoke about his daughter suggested he was not stressed in the slightest by her choices or personality. I also guessed he liked the style of woman she had grown to be, or so it seemed from his reference to her mother.

  “But, yes,” he said, picking back up with what he had been saying before discussing his daughter. “I expected you would come. From your history, I knew you felt a responsibility to set things right. Tell me, Matt, what is your opinion on firing squads?”

  “Well, General, they do get the job done. Of course, there are no appeals so one must be certain of the guilt of the person put against the wall.”

  “You were sure when you took out that crud on the courthouse steps, eleven years ago.”

  “Yes, General. I was. He deserved it. Now whether it did more good than harm I can’t really say.”

  “That disgusting fellow would have killed more people. Destroyed more families. What you did was the right thing.”

  “I do think that, General. Yes, I do. Still, it hurt those I love, confused their lives. I didn’t really think about that part of it when I should have.”

  “Now don’t backslide, Matt. America has become much too soft. We need more swift justice. There is a certain discipline society surrendered when we gave up the immediate effectiveness of firing squads and public hangings. As for my situation, I knew you were the right man when I read of your helping your houseman, Axel, get his parole. You’re a smart, tough guy with a heart and that’s exactly what I need.”

  “What I need is another one of these.” I held up my glass. “Then I’d like enough details to determine if I can help. I understand it’s an old case.”

  It has been said that mankind has seven deadly sins. I have eight: curiosity.

  The general rang the bell, and again Charles magically appeared with a tray balanced on his hand, the new glass as frosty as the first. The general’s troops had been trained and strategically positioned. I had come to show respect to a famous retired general. He had welcomed me similarly to how Sitting Bull had greeted General George Armstrong Custer into the Valley of the Big Horn.

  “I am no longer able to project my orders as I once could,” he said, raising the bell, his smallest finger restraining the clapper. “I know this bell appears aristocratic, but it is, unfortunately, necessary. Charles understands, don’t you, Charles.”

  Charles nodded and then stood tall. “Will there be anything else, General?”

  “Nothing, Charles. As always, thank you for your attentiveness and efficiency. Oh, there is something else. Mr. Kile will be looking into that ugly matter some years back involving my grandson, Eddie. His work will require that he learn a great deal about each of us and the goings on within this family. You are to cooperate fully. Answer his questions whatever they may be. And run interference as necessary to gain him access to the individuals and firms that serve this family. We shall trust Mr. Kile’s discretion.�
��

  “As you wish, General.” A slight bow, then Charles closed the door to the study.

  “Charles seems able to read you mind, General?”

  “He should. We’ve been together over thirty-five years. Well, except for about five years, early on, when he pulled some special training and did several ops behind enemy lines for the DOD. He soured on that work and returned to be my right hand. We’ve been together without separation for the past thirty, both in and out of service.”

  “I respect his devotion.”

  “Charles is also my friend and confidant.”

  I took the first sip of the fresh drink; the general licked his lips.

  “You were correct,” he began, “it is an old case. Eleven years tomorrow to be exact. Late that night, my grandson Eddie’s fiancee, Ileana Corrigan, was murdered. She was expecting my great grandson, a tragedy. I doubt you recall the case; it happened during your first year in prison.”

  “Tell me about Eddie’s parents.”

  “Eddie’s father, Ben … Benjamin, my son, was forty-five when he was killed in Desert Storm. That engagement did not kill many of our boys, but it did my son. His mother, my wife Grace, died from breast cancer when Ben was twenty-four; that was in ‘70. My grandson Eddie was born to Ben and his wife, Emily, in ‘79, so Eddie was twelve when his father was killed. Emily never enjoyed motherhood. After Ben died she wanted to leave. I gave her some money, she signed what my attorneys required and Eddie came to live with me. Truth was Eddie had been with me whenever Ben was overseas, which was about half the time. Emily would take off until Ben came back, so I have largely raised Eddie with the help of Charles.”

  “I’m sorry for your difficulties, General.”

  “Yes. Well. We all have our troubles. But let’s get back to the matter at hand. Sergeant Terrence Fidgery was the homicide detective who handled the murder of Ileana Corrigan, my granddaughter-in-law to be. I understand you and he are great pals.”

  General Whittaker had launched his attack against Fort Kile with a letter from the one man I could never fully repay, and then closed his entrapment with a reference to the case being one of Fidge’s unsolved. In between he served Irish whiskey, and likely arranged for his daughter to extend her, what shall I say, enticing welcome to the family Whittaker. I felt like the deer tied across the hood of a pickup truck. And I didn’t yet know jack about the case.

  The general smiled. If tonight had been a chess game, this would be the point where I leaned forward and tipped over my king. But I had no king to tip over. Instead, I illustrated my capitulation by leaning forward and picking up the check for the thousand dollars.

  Like Axel had said, a grand’s nothing to sneeze at.

  Chapter 4

  The fog had silently come ashore before I left General Whittaker’s house, dressing the outdoors in wet. Everything obscured as if veiled in the angel breath that adorned the general’s Christmas tree. The time to drive home was twice what it took to get there.

  I had lingered an extra fifteen minutes to visit with Charles, mostly just to get his cell number so I could reach him later when I was ready to talk. I quickly learned he was more than the general’s houseman. He also served as administrative assistant, with his own assistant, a maid and cook for the pure household duties. He gave me the numbers and names for the general’s CPA, banker, and investment broker. Charles agreed to call ahead to clear the runway for me to get in and get answers. The general’s attorney, Reginald Franklin III, and I had already met.

  Charles also told me about Cliff, who drove for the general. Cliff had been a sniper in the Marine Corps when on duty, and then as now a hard drinking man off duty. One night, off the base, Cliff had gotten into an argument with a superior officer. The confrontation was not Cliff’s first altercation over a woman’s favors. When it was over Cliff had nearly killed the officer. He spent some time in the brig before being dishonorably discharged.

  *

  I walked in my door at eleven to find Axel waiting up like a nervous mom on the night of her daughter’s prom, taking his self-proclaimed duties as case nanny a bit too seriously.

  Before Axel got paroled I had considered getting a shell parakeet. They are well known talkers. There are times when I’m so slammed writing a novel that I want to hear a voice other than the characters that live in my head, but a voice that wouldn’t demand any more of my time than I cared to give at the moment. A voice I could shut off by simply dropping a dark cloth over its cage. Another advantage, one I hadn’t considered previously, the parakeet would not wear my trousers, but then I don’t need to clean the bottom of Axel’s cage. So, I imagine on balance things had worked out well enough.

  Last week, I bought Axel a one-bedroom in my condo building on the floor below mine. In any event, a decent investment as the prices had dropped along with the rest of the ugly real estate market. Axel spent most of his non-sleeping hours in my place, at least those hours he didn’t spent in Mackie’s, a local bistro and watering hole owned and operated by one of his ex-prison pals. Mackie’s prison term had expired the year before I went in, so I had only recently met Mackie. The year after he got out he received a significant inheritance, a portion of which went to buy a seedy bar in a good neighborhood a few blocks from our building. After remodeling, Mackie’s opened and immediately became a gathering place for ex-cons. Mostly older ex-cons who had retired from whichever careers had incarcerated them. Mackie and Axel had been inside together for twenty-five years; they were tight.

  “I knew you’d take the case, boss. Give me the dirt. All of it.”

  “This stuff is confidential, Axel. These are real people, not characters in my novels.”

  “Hey, I’m your assistant. Telling me is like, well, telling yourself.”

  “Except I’ll keep it to myself.”

  “Who would I tell, boss?”

  “Half the ex-cons in Long Beach, that’s who, your pals at Mackie’s Bistro.”

  “Hey, there’ll be times you’ll need my pals. Trust me on that one. There’s a lot of talent in Mackie’s, people who know how things really go down. The whos of the whats and whens. They’ll be cases where-”

  “Not cases. This is an exception, one case.”

  “Talmadge was one case. This here’s number two.”

  “Okay. One more case. But that’s it. After this one I’m a writer, period.”

  “Sure, boss, whatever you say. Still, every professional shares stuff with their staff; I’m your staff. I won’t repeat nothin’. Well, nothing touchy anyway. I was never no snitch inside. You know that. The same thing goes on the outside, with your cases.” I frowned. Axel revised his comment. “Okay, your case, singular. Just one, now open up.”

  So I cracked like an egg and gave up what I knew. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but Axel had been right. As the poets often write, no man is best alone. Everybody trusts somebody and there’s no place you get to know a man better than in a cell. Nothing I ever told Axel came back to me in the yard, so, okay, Axel was my staff, well, sort of. He always said. “Our cell’s our home and home stuff don’t get repeated in the yard.” Our current home was much nicer than the one we had in those days, but that principle seemed one of Axel’s core beliefs.

  “Actually, I don’t know all that much,” I began. “I’ve called Sergeant Fidgery. I’m taking him and his family to lunch tomorrow. He made copies of the relevant police files. We’ll get into those at his house in the afternoon. The department is carrying the Whittaker case as an unsolved … for them it’s the Ileana Corrigan homicide case, but they haven’t done anything with it for more than ten years.”

  “He’s the one you told me all about while we were inside? One of those two guys who came to see you a lot. Fidge, right?”

  “Yeah. Ten years we were together.”

  “So, what do you know at this point?”

  “The pregnant fiancee of the general’s grandson, Eddie Whittaker, was murdered in a house she rented on the beach up the coast toward
Malibu. There were two witnesses. One who claimed he saw Eddie in the house doing the killing. The other said he saw Eddie in the immediate area fifteen or so minutes later. The cops arrested Eddie. A week or so later, witnesses came forward saying they had seen Eddie in a different location. The D.A. dropped the charges and Eddie walked. I’ll know more after I talk with Fidge. I’m going to bed. Let yourself out.”

  “Where are you meeting Fidge?”

  “At noon at Red Robin, I’m taking his whole family to lunch. Then we’ll go back to his place. He has a great family so it’ll be a nice Saturday.”

  “Okay, boss, but I’ll want a full report.”

  “Maybe. The odds will improve if you’re wearing your own pants when I get back.”

  Chapter 5

  Fidge and I had, if anything, grown closer since I left the force. More accurately, since the department tossed me, and the system threw me in prison with Axel. Not that I blame them. I shot a man in plain sight of the cops and the press so I got what I deserved, I suppose. But then so did the guy I shot.

  Fidge had never seen a form of exercise he didn’t enjoy watching, a meal he couldn’t eat, or a beer that didn’t meet his standards. He also lusted after his wife, Brenda, a hunger she returned in kind. She was a great mom, a super cook, and a solid friend. I always suspected that in a former life Brenda had been a braless bar wench serving the King’s musketeers while wearing a revealing top stretched out over the ends of her bare shoulders. In this life, she was Fidge’s Dulcinea. Fidge adored her. For that matter, so did I. Brenda was a man’s woman, and a friend’s wife, and she knew more naughty jokes and double entendres than anyone I knew.

  After we had Red Robin burgers, a stack of onion rings, and milk shakes all around, Fidge and I walked his wife and children to their SUV. Brenda was driving their teens to the homes of their friends. Then she planned to fill her afternoon with errands.