The Original Alibi mk-1

by David Bishop

  She looked down a moment, then lifted her head and looked directly at Axel. “I’m in.”

  “No rebellious teenager?”

  “I don’t think you’re a very nice man, Axel. What kind of a name is Axel anyway?”

  “Your name is Hildegard and you’re judging my name?” Hillie smiled. “Now that’s better,” Axel said. “And, by the way, my being a nice man was neither part of what you offered on the street nor what I accepted. I’m the boss. That means I can be a nice man or not. You’re free to form your own opinion but keep it to yourself. Last warning, if you can’t handle it, storm back out onto the street where you’ll go hungry, work harder, likely make less, and feel crummy doing it. This here’s fish or cut bait time, girly.”

  Hillie opened her menu. Axel didn’t need the menu. He knew it by heart.

  After a few minutes, Mackie, an average-sized man of around sixty, with a gut that allowed his belt buckle to live in the shade, came from behind the bar and stopped at their table. “What’ll it be, Axel?”

  “First, say hello to my new friend. This is Hildegard. Her friends, which she has temporarily allowed me to be, call her Hillie.”

  “Hi, Hillie. Welcome. My friends call me Mackie and if you’re Axel’s friend, you’re my friend.”

  “Hi, Mackie. I’m pleased to know you.”

  “One tip, don’t play checkers with this old scruffer. He cheats.”

  “Axel,” Hillie looked shocked. “I’m getting a different impression of you now.”

  “I wouldn’t cheat if Mackie played an honorable game like chess.” Hillie perked up when she heard Axel say that. “Do you play?” he asked. She nodded. “You any good?”

  “Probably not any more, I used to play with my dad, after school at his office.”

  “Let me turn that blind some,” Mackie said, “get the sun out of your eyes.” He walked over to the window.

  “Seriously, do you like to play chess?”

  “Love it. I used to anyway.”

  “Wanna play now?”

  “It’s your two hours, remember? You’re the boss,” Hillie said, sipping the water Mackie had brought to the table.

  “No. Chess is an honorable game. Nobody is forced to play chess. At least they shouldn’t be. Only if you want to.”

  “I’d love to play, Axel. It’d be like old times, but where?”

  “Right here. Mackie’s got board games.” Axel looked over to Mackie who was back behind the bar and wiggled his hand in their form of visual shorthand.

  A moment later, he brought over a chessboard and the pieces. “You two gonna order now or wait till after your game?”

  “Now,” Axel said, “the lady is hungry. We’ll get started then finish after we eat.”

  Hillie ordered a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich and Axel ordered a crab louie.

  “Do you want your BL amp;T Axel style or traditional?”

  Hillie looked at both men. “What’s Axel style?”

  “With chunky peanut butter,” Mackie said, “rather than mayo or any other spreads.” Hillie nodded and smiled. Mackie smiled back and then said, “Sweet tea for both of you?” Hillie looked unsure what that was. Mackie explained. “It’s a Southern name for iced tea sweetened.”

  “Yes, please,” Hillie said. Axel nodded. Mackie left.

  “Mackie has hard hands, but a big soft smile,” Hillie said. “He seems to be a friendly man.”

  Axel smiled and nodded. “Okay, Hillie,” he said. “Our food won’t be here for about ten to fifteen minutes. We can get a good start on the game.” They set up the pieces and Axel put one pawn of each color in each of his hands while he held them below the table.

  Before Hillie picked one to start their game, she asked, “Is there anything you want to say to me before we start our game?”

  “You wear way too much eye makeup. It cheapens you and you’re too pretty to do that to your eyes.” Hillie said nothing, just pointed toward Axel’s right hand. He opened it to reveal a white pawn. She moved the center piece from her front line forward one space to start the game.

  After eight or ten moves apiece, Mackie brought their food. He looked at the board and smiled. “I see you got yourself in a real match, Axel. I think the little lady has an edge at the moment.”

  “Whatdaya know, Mack? Get out of here and leave us alone.” When he left, Axel turned to Hillie. “While we eat, I want your life history. Where you were born. A fair bit about each of your parents and brothers and sisters. Then why you dropped out of school. Not the reason you told your friends back home, but the reason you kept to yourself. Why you ran away. I figure you’re what, seventeen, eighteen?” She nodded when Axel said eighteen. “You got through the eleventh grade maybe?” She nodded again. “You’re no dummy, that’s obvious. So I want the why. Remember our agreement.” Hillie nodded. “Okay, let’s have it. Pull no punches. Tell it straight.”

  Chapter 8

  By late afternoon, I was knocking on General Whittaker’s front door. Charles opened it and led me into the study. On the way, I glanced up the stairwell. Karen Whittaker was neither favoring the banister nor me. When I entered, the general was watching one of his family VCRs. He pointed out his son, Ben, who had died in the engagement known as Desert Storm, and Eddie as a small boy. He used the remote to turn it off, put the tape back in its container and that onto the shelf.

  “Well, you didn’t come to watch an old man wallowing in family pictures. Do you have a report for me?”

  “General. I lost a good part of today learning a big piece of this story that you didn’t bother to tell me. The witnesses against Eddie were paid, so it figures his alibi was also bought. For the alibi, I figure you were the buyer. Wasting my time hurts both of us.”

  “Sit down. I see you didn’t wear a tie today. I like the look.”

  “Folksy doesn’t fit you, General. Why didn’t you tell me that you paid someone to get Eddie released?”

  “Well, Mr. Kile. You are a resourceful man. The police never learned what you have in the first day.”

  “Whom did you pay? How much? Why?”

  “The why is easy. Eddie’s innocent.”

  “That dog don’t hunt, General. To some degree you’re questioning his innocence or I wouldn’t be here. So, why am I here?”

  “Like I told you. I’m coming to the end of my time. I need to know, absolutely know. I always have believed him innocent and nothing has happened to change that belief. But I don’t want to meet my maker while I’m still pushing away any doubt at all.”

  “Okay, that’s why, but what about whom?” I repeated, “And how much?”

  “The who, I don’t know. How much, two million.”

  “Before or after Eddie was released?”

  “After. I refused to pay until she-”

  “She?”

  “It was a woman who called me to make the offer and arrange the payoff drop. On some level, the voice seemed familiar. I keep rerunning that voice in my mind, but I’ve never been able to place it. It stays just beyond reach.”

  “Okay. You were saying?”

  “I refused to pay until she proved she could get Eddie released and the charges dropped. She agreed, telling me that Eddie would not live a week if I didn’t pay.”

  “Where and how did you pay?”

  “She instructed me to contact my bank immediately after Eddie’s release to assure they had time to configure the money the way she demanded. I was to pick it up near closing time on the Friday after Eddie had been released with the charges dropped. I was to speak only with my personal banker and not disclose why I wanted the money. The fact that Eddie had been released had been in all the papers so the bank apparently didn’t connect my wanting the money with his predicament. The cash had to be in unmarked bills. She insisted that half of it be in hundreds, the rest in twenties, and nothing smaller, no fifties. I was told that if the bills were marked, Eddie would die. I was instructed to go and get the money alone. Apparently, she didn’t want an
y younger men with me. I still drove then. Not often, but it wasn’t a problem.”

  “And how did you pay it over?”

  “I was to bring the cash home. She would call me at her choosing. I was told not to grow concerned if I didn’t hear from her for several days, even a week or more, that she would have me under surveillance.”

  “And did you get the call after you got home?”

  “No, before I got home, while I drove the road back here after leaving the bank. From the highway it’s about a mile.”

  “Was it dark by then?”

  “Yes. Not fully. But I had turned on the headlights. The call came on my cell phone. The voice said enough for me to know the caller was the woman with whom I made the deal. She ordered me to stop at a certain point in the road and toss the valise over the side. The cliff there drops about thirty yards to the sand. Then she ordered I pull forward another hundred yards and run the car off the road into a ditch and turn off the headlights. About a half mile from the house there’s a patch of ice plant on the ocean side of the road. The ditch is on the inland side across from there. I couldn’t coax the car out of the ditch so I walked the rest of the way to the house. I hadn’t had my cell phone long and I didn’t think to just call Cliff. When I got back, Charles sent the chauffeur to deal with the car. He had to call a tow truck to pull it out.”

  “Since then?”

  “Nothing. Eddie was free. The bitch had the two million. Nothing whatsoever since.”

  “The police department records show that you insisted that paternity tests be run to establish that Ileana’s unborn son was your great grandson. Why did you feel that was necessary?”

  “Eddie was, is, I think this generation uses the term, a player. Ileana seemed a sweet girl, yet they met in one of those clubs that Eddie frequents. She could have been a player as well. I like to be certain. I learned long ago to reconnoiter.”

  “And the results of those tests?”

  “As you know, they confirmed Eddie was the father. The child would have been my great grandson.”

  “And why didn’t you tell me about the payment for the alibi?”

  “You’re a detective. You came highly recommended, but I wanted to see for myself if you were any good.”

  “And?”

  “Apparently you are.”

  “Are we solid now, General? No need for any more games?”

  “We’re solid, Matt. I’m impressed. Get to the bottom of it. Find out for me.” After a moment, he added, “Please.” The way he said it, well, it wasn’t a comfortable word for him.

  “Now that you’ve observed my bona fides, let’s talk about my fee.”

  “We should’ve discussed that the first night.”

  “No, we shouldn’t. You wanted first what you have now.”

  “Your bona fides?”

  “Yep.”

  “State your fee?”

  “Two hundred thousand plus expenses.”

  “Seems hefty.”

  “I worked my last case pro bono, it averages out. You paid two million to get Eddie free. Seems a dime on the dollar is a reasonable fee to find out whether or not you should have forked over the big money.”

  “And if he’s guilty?”

  “That matters to you. Not to me. My fee is for finding out what you said you wanted to know.”

  “You want it in writing?”

  “Give Charles a signed memo and copy me. The fee is due when Eddie or someone else is arrested for the crime of the murder of Ileana Corrigan. Not convicted. Arrested. The rest is outside my jurisdiction. My fee is payable on an arrest and indictment by a grand jury.”

  “Agreed. Charles will have a copy for you the next time you come by.”

  *

  As I left the general’s house, Karen Whittaker met me outside the front door. She had been swimming. If I could’ve licked her, I’d know if she had swum in their pool or in the ocean. Then she took the fun out of it.

  “I just got back from a swim in the ocean. The water was cold.” Her brown hair reflected the setting sun to create a nimbus around her head. She shivered and jiggled. “I’ll go back if you’ll join me.” She stood staring at me, her back to the westerly sun. Her eyes were as soft and inviting as a warm pool with steam rising in the cool air, beseeching me to immerse myself and swim into her soul. At least that’s how I would have written it in one of my novels.

  “Sorry,” I said, reluctantly. “No time. I’m on the job. But how about having dinner with me tomorrow night? I’ve got some questions I’d like to ask you.”

  “I’m here. You’re here. Ask.”

  “Some of my questions need a chance to grow up a little more. Dinner? Tomorrow night.”

  “No.”

  She had been playing up to me so I guess my surprise showed when I stammered, “Why not?”

  “Because you’re just a writer.”

  “But I have a really big Bic.”

  She laughed heartily before running her tongue across the front of her teeth. “On that promise, I’ll pick you up in front of your building at seven.” She turned, went inside and shut the door.

  I stood for a moment staring at the airspace her black bikini bottom had just slapped out of her way.

  Chapter 9

  For now, the cops were working the homicide of Cory Jackson, while I was working what I saw as the Eddie Whittaker case, but in the Long Beach Police Department they had it booked as the homicide of Ileana Corrigan, cold case. My job was to find out who killed her so General Whittaker would absolutely know it wasn’t his grandson Eddie, or that it had been Eddie. That would likely kill the old man, but I would do my job.

  I anticipated Fidge would drag his feet some to allow me to keep my shrinking lead on the department. But, at some point, Fidge would need to act out discovering the link of Cory Jackson to the Ileana Corrigan case, and my head start would begin to evaporate. To press my temporary advantage I headed for the address in the file for Tommy Montoya, the gas station attendant who claimed he sold Eddie gas a few minutes after someone had permanently ended Ileana Corrigan’s problems and pleasures.

  The address in the file was no longer good. According to the retired lady who lived in the duplex next to where Tommy Montoya had lived, Tommy had moved about a year ago. She first shared her opinion that Tommy should be spelled Tommie, with an “ie” rather than a “y.” Then she did something useful. She dug a crumpled note from the drawer in her small kitchen desk. It had Tommy’s new address. We chatted a while longer and she didn’t ask for the scrap of paper back, so I left with it. Taking it might allow me to stay ahead of the cops for a few more hours. It wasn’t Fidge’s job to help me, not officially, but the death of Ileana Corrigan had been a case that lodged in his craw. He couldn’t work it, but he knew that case sat on top of my list.

  I found Tommy’s new address with the help of a little boy with two lanes of glazed snot traveling from his nose to his upper lip, where his tongue came into play. I said Tommy Montoya and the boy pointed with his left hand, using his right hand to hold his hair above his eyes while he looked up at me.

  Through the apartment window I saw a man sitting with a blonde. They were on the couch facing the TV, starting to watch a movie. The title on the screen, Debbie Does Dallas, a classic for folks who cotton to that style of entertainment. What looked to be a blank white business card attached to the screen door with a pushpin had his name printed in block letters: Tommy Montoya. The screen was unlatched; I turned on the recorder and walked in.

  Tommy was tall and thin with a nose broken often enough to permanently point it toward his ear. I gave my name and extended my hand; he shook it like it wasn’t worth the effort. Offsetting these negatives, he had beautiful hair, dark and wavy, with a healthy sheen. He had bluish-green eyes that didn’t seem to belong in his face.

  The bleached blonde wore a dull look that told me that her bra size exceeded her IQ, which despite her abundance left her not very smart. I said nothing, just stared at the b
londe. After a couple of minutes she clearly got uncomfortable, which was my reason for staring. She got up to go, likely disappointed she wasn’t going to watch Debbie work her way through Dallas. Tommy patted her backside as she went out. Then he turned his attention to me.

  “Who the fuck are you?” His voice didn’t go with his look. It went with his nose but not his hair and eyes. His diction was bad and he swore too much.

  “I’m your conscience. I’m here to give you a chance to die without that load of guilt you’ve been carrying around for the past eleven years.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about? I’m not telling you jack until I know just who the fuck you are.”

  “Then die with a guilty conscience, your choice.” I pulled out Quirt Brown’s gun. Tommy responded by sticking both his hands in the air, like we were acting out a stagecoach robbery in a 50s B-western.

  “I’ve got a few questions I need you to answer. If you don’t cooperate you have no more value to me than did Cory Jackson.” I showed him the picture still in my cell phone of Cory lying in the wet surf with a hole in his forehead. “The picture doesn’t do him justice,” I said. “You can’t see the sea water pooled in the hole.” I paused to grin. “Cory didn’t tell me shit. But then, from now on he won’t be telling anybody anything. So, which way are you going to play it, tough or smart?”

  Montoya’s eyes kept flittering between my face and the hole in the end of the gun that I held pointed at his heart. It’s fun to tell the truth in a way that makes the listener feel he heard something different than what you said. Everything I told Tommy Montoya had been the truth. In listening, he added two and two together to come up with a total that to him meant I had punched Cory’s ticket. Being a PI could be so much more fun than playing under cop rules.