Alibi

by Sydney Bauer

  Heffer opened his mouth only to be silenced by the sound of the end of lesson bell, at which Heath collected his books and dragged H. Edgar toward the far right-hand stairs so that he might make good his escape.

  “Mr. Westinghouse, Mr. Simpson,” Heffer bellowed.

  “Jesus,” said Heath.

  “It’s your fucking fault,” whispered H. Edgar before turning to Heffer to say, “Yes, Professor, how can we help you?”

  Heffer lifted his hand and used his plump pointer finger to beckon them both toward him, the smirk on his face obviously telegraphing the payback Heffer was no doubt brewing in his vindictive little brain.

  “Feeling particularly clever this morning are we, Mr. Westinghouse?” he asked as they approached his desk.

  “No more than usual, sir,” said Westinghouse, not necessarily meaning to be smug but sounding that way nonetheless.

  “I see you two have paired up for my assignment,” said the professor. “You have already devised a business plan, I hope.”

  “Yes, sir,” said H. Edgar before Heath could interrupt.

  “Dare I say I shall be particularly interested in assessing your project,” said Heffer, his cheeks now transformed from a deep mortified mauve to a self-righteous rosy hue. “I did mention the assignment will account for fifty percent of your marks this semester, did I not?”

  “Yes, Professor,” H. Edgar answered again, “which is a shame really, considering the confidence we have in our proposal.”

  “Hmmm,” said Heffer with a haughty little titter. “You’ll need to be focused then, free of distractions. No extracurricular activities and all that.”

  “We’ll be living like monks, sir,” said Simpson, “until our assignment is complete.”

  “Good,” said Heffer with a smirk, and Heath could not help but think the sarcastic swine had something up his sleeve.

  “Off you go then,” he said, prompting H. Edgar to grab his friend’s shirtsleeve and steer him toward the side exit.

  “Oh!” said Heffer just as Westinghouse tugged on the thick colonial doors. “I almost forgot. There are some men here to see you. Two rather impatient Boston Police Detectives, to be exact.”

  “What?” said Heath, letting the door slam before him. Simpson dropped Westinghouse’s arm and swiveled back to face the professor.

  “I told them I would go to find you just before the class began,” Heffer went on. “But forgive me, dear boys, it completely slipped my mind, what with all that cerebral energy emanating from Mr. Westinghouse’s synapses and all. I imagine they are still there though. They certainly sounded very keen to speak with you both.”

  “They asked for us personally?” asked Simpson.

  “Indeed.” Heffer smiled.

  “Shit,” said Heath, unable to hold it in.

  “Nothing to worry about, I hope?” said Heffer, his face now contorted in an expression of mock concern. “No.” He smiled, exposing the ingrained nicotine stains on his uneven overbite. “Of course not!

  “Well, hurry along then. Not very gentleman-like to keep the men waiting—especially when they are two homicide detectives with rather dour demeanors.

  “Good luck then,” he added, at last waving them away like two insignificant insects. “On the assignment, I mean. I am sure your minds will be free to focus 100 percent on the task at hand, and you shall be patenting your brilliant proposal before the year is out.”

  “All right, listen to me,” said H. Edgar to his friend, as they bounded down the corridor toward the law faculty offices. “Don’t tell them anything, okay? Just listen, be polite and let me take the lead.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” asked Westinghouse. “We have nothing to hide. James said they were interviewing a lot of people who were at the Lincoln that night, we are probably just the next two on their list.”

  “Matheson was lying,” said H. Edgar.

  “What?” said Heath, stopping short, turning to face his friend.

  “He was lying, Westinghouse,” said H. Edgar, pushing Heath into a quieter alcove beside a bank of lockers. “And that guy can’t lie to save himself.”

  “He’s our friend,” said Heath. “Why are you . . . ?”

  “I’m trying to help him, you idiot,” snapped Simpson. “For some reason these detectives have it in their brains that James had some connection with Jessica Nagoshi. And they’re right. I saw them together last semester, one night at the pool. He didn’t know I was there.”

  “What? Were they . . .”

  “Not at that point but my guess is they did, and had been for the best part of the summer.”

  “Fuck. Why didn’t he tell us?”

  “I have no idea. At the time I suppose it did not seem relevant.”

  “So do you think the cops think James is involved somehow?”

  And then Simpson saw his friend’s eyes light up—like he had a solution to all of their problems.

  “Hold on a second. James was with Barbara that night, remember? He has an alibi.”

  “I know,” said Simpson. “But Barbara is somewhere in Europe and it will take them time to find her. If James is arrested his reputation will be ruined forever. Do you think your father’s firm would employ someone who was even remotely connected to a murder—and a high-profile one at that? Think about it, Heath. We have to play this thing carefully.”

  Heath nodded. “Maybe we should call my dad,” he offered, referring to his powerful attorney father. “Maybe we shouldn’t talk to these guys without an attorney in the room—an attorney with our best interests at heart.”

  “No!” bit out H. Edgar. “At least, not yet.”

  Simpson looked at his friend then and realized he would have to calm him before they spoke to the police. Westinghouse was one clever son-of-a-bitch but he had no diplomatic censor whatsoever. With Westinghouse it was a case of what you see is what you get, which he was sure the women found endearing, but Simpson saw it as a major flaw that would no doubt impede his friend’s progress in the legal world where discretion, tact and subtlety were everything.

  “Listen, Westinghouse,” he said again, grabbing his friend’s forearm in an effort to stress the point. “You saw this morning’s paper.”

  Simpson had collected his own copy of the Tribune off his front lawn at dawn, and his brain had been ticking ever since. As soon as he arrived on campus, he had dragged Westinghouse to the Law School coffeehouse so that he might read it for himself. Westinghouse had grabbed the last copy on the stand (with word of mouth already spreading that today’s issue was a “must read” for all at Deane) but, considering they were already running late for their class with Heffer, they had not yet had a chance to discuss it—meaning Simpson knew he would have to get Westinghouse up to speed, and quickly.

  “The cops are embarrassed, red faced, humiliated by their failure to find Jessica Nagoshi’s killer. And these half-assed excuses for law enforcement personnel have one agenda, to make an arrest and clear their names before any more shit hits the fan. They don’t give a fuck who it is, Westinghouse, just so long as it is a warm body they can parade in front of the media to justify their pathetic existence.” H. Edgar looked into Westinghouse’s blue eyes then and knew he was coming around.

  “No, if this thing needs to be handled, it will be handled on our terms. So just shut the fuck up and let me do the talking, okay?”

  “All right,” said Heath, shaking his right arm free from Simpson’s grip.

  “But H. Edgar, you do know what you’re doing, right? You have a plan?”

  “A plan?” said H. Edgar, now signaling for the somewhat calmer Westinghouse to follow him up the hallway. “I always have a plan, Westinghouse. And this one,” he said with a slight sideways smile, “this one is big enough to blow them all away.”

  24

  “Did you know that we are standing on an international landmark?” asked Sara, removing her red overcoat, allowing the midday sun to soak through her white fitted shirt and obviously e
njoying this impromptu lunchtime escape to Boston’s historic Public Gardens.

  “My feet are international landmarks?” asked David.

  “No, this bridge,” said Sara with a smile as she pointed downward at the picturesque sandstone and blue-painted bridge that crossed the garden’s pond at its narrowest point. “It’s the smallest suspension bridge in the world.”

  “Wow,” said David, throwing his arm around her. “Let’s hope it holds then. I am not wearing my swim trunks and I hear that swans are very territorial.” He pulled her into a hug and she squeezed him right back.

  It had been Sara’s idea to get out of the office, grab an early lunch and go for a walk through Boston Common down to America’s oldest public park. She had been working flat out on the sexual harassment civil suit and David knew she felt bad about spending every spare second at her office. They made their way toward Commonwealth Avenue and the Arlington Street entrance where the George Washington statue rose high above the manicured flower beds. From there they circled north toward Beacon, toward the famous Make Way for Ducklings miniature bronze statues that waddled in suspended animation as a tribute to the Robert McCloskey children’s story of the same name.

  “So what is it?” asked Sara at last, swinging David’s hand as she held it tightly in her own.

  “Sorry?” asked David.

  “What’s on your mind?” she said, squinting into the early afternoon sun to look up at him. “Something is bothering you, David, has been all morning and experience tells me your breakfast with Joe may have everything to do with it.”

  David said nothing.

  “Come on, David,” she said. “Last year we made a promise never to keep things from each other, remember?”

  And he did. It was during the Montgomery case when his first wife, Karin, had asked him to represent her husband, noted Washington heart surgeon, Professor Stuart Montgomery, who had been accused of killing the vice president of the USA.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re right. Joe is in trouble—caught between a rock and a hard place on this Nagoshi thing.”

  “Is it the reward—the one they speculated on in the paper this morning?”

  “Partly,” said David.

  “Wanna talk about it?” she asked, and he could tell she was trying her hardest not to push. But in her voice he heard that familiar tinge of fear—fear that he was walking down that lonely road where he shut her out, jeopardized her trust, and all with the misguided belief that she needed protecting from the big bad evils of the world.

  “It’s about James Matheson,” he said at last, knowing Sara, who Joe also trusted 110 percent, deserved to hear what was bothering him. “I am afraid the kid is in a whole heap of trouble.”

  “I knew I hadn’t heard the end of that,” she said, shaking her head as she looked up at him again. “So tell me everything—from the beginning.”

  And so he did, starting with Joe’s frustration with his inability to identify a bona fide suspect, before moving on to the lifelike portrait in Jessica Nagoshi’s sketch pad. He told her of Tony Bishop’s insinuations, Katz’s determination and Joe’s fury at the Kat’s “leak” of the supposed seven-figure reward in this morning’s Tribune. He spoke about Joe’s description of Matheson’s nervousness, his choice of sneakers, kayaking abilities and alibi claims and Joe’s current whereabouts—being Deane University where he was most likely in the process of questioning Matheson’s friends. He ended with Joe’s concerns that Matheson, guilty or not, was on the fast track to becoming public enemy no. 1, given what he knew would be Katz’s personal passion to use the kid as a stepping-stone to the permanent position of district attorney.

  “At the moment, at least from Joe’s point of view, it’s all just a big fat bundle of frustrating ‘what-ifs,’” finished David. “What if Matheson’s alibi does not stick, what if he is the baby’s father, what if Katz managed to get a quick grand jury indictment and nail Matheson to the wall for what will be portrayed in the press as a heartless murder of a young, pregnant girl?”

  Sara stopped then, before turning to him, her expression pure affection with perhaps a touch of pride. “He ask for your help?”

  “No. Not that there is anything I can do except listen.”

  “That’s a help in itself.”

  “In this case, I’m not so sure.”

  “You’re a good man, David,” she said at last, pulling him toward her. “And don’t worry. Joe is a smart guy. He’ll do everything he can to make sure this thing plays out fair and square.”

  “You’re right,” said David, kissing her on the forehead, finally managing a smile in return. “Joe’s one of the best detectives in the country—and I’ll bet, before the week is out, he’ll have this whole thing totally under control.”

  25

  “I feel like one of those fish,” said Frank McKay, shifting in the musty green leather chair in the corner of Professor Karl Heffer’s office.

  The small room was a mess—a dusty, cluttered conclave that belied the spacious lecture halls and expansive grounds around it, as if proudly establishing itself as the most congested corner in the entire university complex.

  “What?” said Joe Mannix, pushing several copies of heavy texts titled International Business Practice and Theory of the Modern Corporation aside so that he might gain a better view of his fellow homicide detective, who sat looking out the window on the far side of the room.

  “One of those fish—you know, the ugly fish.”

  “I am not sure I want to hear this,” said Joe, glancing at his watch again. It was 12:15 p.m. They had been waiting for over an hour and a half.

  “When Kay and I were on our honeymoon in Hawaii,” Frank went on, “we went to this bar where they had one of those huge fish tanks behind the bar—you know, one of those big tropical numbers where the water is warm, the fish all pretty colors and the coral glowing like neon at the bottom of the tank.”

  Joe did not comment. There really wasn’t any point.

  “Anyways,” said Frank, “Kay glances up over her pina co lada and says, ‘Frank, get a load of that ugly fish!’ and by George she was right. In fact, she was being kind to the little brown bastard. This thing was one of the most unattractive specimens of marine life I had ever seen and it stuck out among all the beautiful fish like a turd in a rose garden.”

  Jesus, thought Joe.

  “So Kay says to the guy behind the bar, ‘I feel sorry for that little one, the one that looks like a scrunched up cigar. He looks all alone. None of those pretty fish want to play with him.’

  “And the barman says, ‘Don’t feel sorry for him, ma’am. He’s a puffer fish. He may be butt ugly but when he gets riled he expands to ten times his normal size and kicks some serious butt. The tropicals are scared to death of him. They may not want to admit it, but the puffer is in control, 100 percent.’ ”

  Joe looked at his friend then, realizing that in his own way McKay was trying to ease his fears. Joe knew he was drawing an analogy from their affluent surroundings—the tank being Deane, the picturesque fish being the beautiful young things that paraded around campus like princes and princesses. And they were the puffer fish, all disheveled and jaded and out of place—but holding an unspoken power over the privileged of Deane, as representatives of the law and all that it represented.

  “It just hit me,” said Joe, wanting to express his gratitude but realizing the only way to do so was to slip into the banter they knew so well. Joe had known Frank for years and had always admired his ability to diffuse a situation with his own special “Frankness.”

  “What is it, Chief?” asked Frank.

  “Your wife. Her name is Kay.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Kay McKay.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nothing wrong with that,” said Joe after a pause.

  “No, Chief. Nothing at all.”

  Seconds later they were interrupted by the click of the door and the subsequent entrance of two of the “beaut
iful people” themselves—their expressions all earnestness and sincerity, their gait purposeful and self-assured. The shorter red-haired boy entered first, his arm extended in a gesture of cooperation before pumping each detective’s hand with determination. “Detectives, we are so sorry to have kept you waiting. My name is H. Edgar Simpson and this is my friend Heath Westinghouse. Please, retain your seats and tell us exactly how we can help you. We are at your service, gentlemen. What is it you need to know?”

  “This Heffer,” Joe began as the boys pulled over two wooden chairs and placed them side by side in front of the now closed door. “He ride your ass?” It was a simple question, but one that would establish many things.

  Firstly, it suggested Joe was open to setting himself on their level, sympathetic to their situation as students, but also as adults—he was not here to lecture but to discuss. Secondly, it showed them Joe meant business—no euphemisms, no pleas antries, man to man, straight up. Thirdly, it begged some sort of explanation as to their tardiness—like did the professor demand they stay until his class was over or was the delay a tactic on their part? And finally it enabled Joe to gauge a sense of the boys’ attitudes, or more specifically their level of respect for a man like Heffer who, despite his obvious eccentricities, was older, more experienced and “superior” to them, at least on the ladder of Deane academia.

  “Professor Heffer is new to this university, Lieutenant,” said H. Edgar after a pause. It was as if the kid was also gauging Joe’s motives, and reading every one to a “T.” “And I am afraid he sometimes gets a little flustered. It was he who failed to notify us of your presence, if that is what you are asking, at least until after class, when we made haste to prevent you any further inconvenience.”