Alibi

by Sydney Bauer

  Jesus, thought Joe, did everyone who entered Deane have to pass a course in “Confident as All Hell 101” before they let you in the front gates?

  “It’s nice to meet you, Valerie,” said Frank, no doubt sensing Joe’s frustrations. “I’m Detective McKay and this is Lieutenant Mannix. Is Sawyer with you?”

  “I am afraid not,” she said, now standing close enough to tower over the two men. “But he asked me to give you this,” she said, handing them a recycled envelope with the well known SG logo—a sphere representing the earth with two horizontal lines representing the symbol for equality cutting through it—on the far left-hand corner.

  Joe opened the note.

  “Tomorrow. Noon. New England Aquarium. Shark Tank,” Joe read to himself, allowing Frank to do the same as he looked over his shoulder.

  “Is that it?” asked Joe, looking up at Valerie.

  “Yes, Lieutenant,” said Valerie, sliding her tortoiseshell glasses back up her long slim nose. “And he wanted me to wait so that I might text him your response before I returned to class.”

  Joe glanced at Frank. “Listen here, Long Tall Sally,” he said then, sick and tired of a pack of smart-ass, conceited rich kids trying to run his show. “You have five seconds to tell me exactly where Tom Hanks Junior is skulking before I call in the entire Boston PD to scour this entire campus and have his ass in for questioning.”

  Joe could see the vertically blessed Valerie physically shake in her two flat boots.

  “I . . . he is not on campus,” she managed. “As soon as he gave me this note he packed up and left and said he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow.”

  “Does Jones live on campus?” asked Frank of Lemons.

  “Yes, Detective,” said a now wide-eyed Humfries.

  “But he’s not in his dorm,” said Valerie. “I just called his direct extension before I came in here and there was no answer so . . .”

  “Shit,” said Joe, just as Frank shrugged and pointed to the handwritten note in his hand. “This is crazy,” he added, talking directly to Frank, way past caring if Valerie or Humfries overheard, “the fact that we have to humor this cocky kid by keeping his ludicrous appointment next to a bunch of man-eating fish—at twelve noon tomorrow no less.”

  Frank nodded before turning to Valerie. “Tell him we’ll see him there,” he said at last.

  “All right then, Detectives, I’ll let him know,” said Valerie, nodding at them both before swiveling on the balls of her extremely long feet and running out the door.

  “Fuck,” said Joe, ignoring Lemon’s scowl.

  “Jesus,” said Frank, doing pretty much the same. “But it’s already late afternoon and we got other priorities besides chasing the kid all over Boston for the rest of the day.”

  Joe nodded. “This ride is getting crazier by the minute, Frank,” he said, as they headed toward the door.

  “Couldn’t agree more, Chief. I mean . . . puffers are one thing, but sharks—well, they are a whole different kettle of fish altogether.”

  28

  “Fishermen,” said John Nagoshi as he leaned back in his black leather chair at the head of the long mahogany conference room table. Nagoshi and his son had returned to their New York base early that morning, and had been in an exhilaratingly positive board meeting for most of the day, thanks to Peter’s incredible progress in China.

  “I beg your pardon, Father?” said Peter, sitting straight in his seat at the other end of the now quiet conference room.

  “Fishermen, my son. They used to say the Chinese were born and bred only to fish but they were wrong. It seems they are also more than adept at building cars—and driving them as well. You were right, segare. Basing our first automobile plant in China was an excellent idea.”

  “Thank you, Father,” said Peter, with a bow.

  John Nagoshi was, in fact, more than pleased with the day’s developments. Recently, he had to admit, he had been concerned about his son’s somewhat erratic behavior—especially following the uncharacteristic outburst in Mr. Katz’s office barely twenty-four hours ago (after which Nagoshi found himself extremely grateful that no one else present could speak Japanese). But his performance in front of the board today was nothing short of brilliant. His presentation was confident, well prepared and extremely encouraging. There was no doubt he had allayed any fears regarding his right to the position as company heir.

  Jessica was gone, but her killer would soon be arrested. Nagoshi was sure that Roger Katz had leaked the reward to the press for personal gain, and he had left a message at Lieutenant Mannix’s office assuring him he had kept his word. But in all honesty he was not disappointed with the early release of the story. If anything, it might help Mannix confirm this young boy’s guilt and finally enable them to put Jessica—and her unborn child—to rest.

  “It is late,” said Nagoshi at last. “I am going to call for the car. Will you accompany me home, my son?”

  “No thank you, Father. I still have some matters to address.”

  Nagoshi nodded. “Do not stay too late, segare. The week has been long.” And then he got up to leave.

  “Peter,” he said, turning away from the magnificent backdrop of the Manhattan skyline in front of him to face his son front on. Nagoshi and his offspring had a strong relationship, but he feared the lack of motherly love and Peter’s seeming inability to show emotion had left their bond somewhat devoid of any physical displays of affection. He loved his son, as he had his daughter, and now, while he still ached at the loss of one, he was mindful to acknowledge his feelings for the other.

  “I am sorry, son, about Jessica. But please, do not be angry with her. We are all allowed mistakes in our lives and this child, well . . . no matter how it was conceived, it was still my grandchild.”

  “It is not your fault, Father,” said Peter, now standing from his seat, his face stoic, focused, clear.

  “I asked the lieutenant,” Nagoshi went on. “Before we left last night, I asked him if my grandchild was a boy or girl.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “It was a boy, Peter. I was going to have a grandson—and you a nephew.”

  “I see. I am sorry, Father.”

  “Do not be, my son,” said Nagoshi before walking across the room to place his hands on his only living child’s shoulders. “For there will be others. You will lead this company to greatness—you and your children and their children after that.”

  And then John Nagoshi did something he had not done in years. He extended his arms to reach behind his son’s shoulders and pulled him close in a firm, if not somewhat awkward, embrace. “I love you, segare. Never forget that is true. For you are a Nagoshi and I am proud to call you my son.”

  As soon as his father had left the room Peter Nagoshi took a long, slow, deep breath. He then straightened his suit of the creases left by his father’s unexpected show of emotion, and began walking across the mocha-colored carpet toward the expansive eastern windows at the far side of the room. The lights were dimmed, but all about him was clear—the room now saturated by the illuminations of the never sleeping city beyond. And in that moment, just as he reached his father’s end of the boardroom table, he found himself turning the larger chief executive chair around so that he might sit in the president’s berth and replay the day’s victory while looking out on a world over which he reigned as a prince destined to be king.

  His father was right. His performance had been remarkable. China was a stroke of pure genius and he had done the research, studied the statistics and presented the information with just the right combination of confidence and humility. He had begun with the history—the fact that over twenty years ago Germany’s Volkswagen became the first foreign car manufacturer to enter the Chinese market, closely followed by General Motors Corp and later Japanese companies such as Honda, Suzuki and more recently Toyota.

  And then he spoke of the problems—of how these foreign manufacturers faced two major struggles. The first in the form of stringent join
t production quotas set by the Chinese government, which meant all foreign companies had to enter into agreements with local car makers who had little experience at running and maintaining large automobile manufacturing plants. And the second a reflection of the local market itself—and the fact that it was virtually nonexistent. Until recently, fewer than ten in 1000 Chinese people of a driving age owned a car and the prospects for a profitable local market looked grim.

  Next came the good news—the impressive actuality that fresh research showed the rate of car purchases in China was growing at twenty percent per annum, with the forecast for such growth now stretching to the year 2020 and beyond. In other words, Nagoshi Inc. would be entering the industry at a time when manufacturers no longer had to export the great majority of the automobiles made cheaply in their increasingly experienced Chinese plants.

  And so the timing could not have been better. In fact, timing was the key, and it was on this point that Peter had taken a considered gamble by proposing something he was yet to discuss with his father. He suggested that to hesitate was a mistake, that they must announce this foray into the automobile industry now. The Guangdong plant had already produced twenty-five vibrantly colored prototypes of the Nagoshi “Dream” CC250—the company’s first compact car—which would be shipped to motor shows all over the world as a public relations pre-runner to the automobile being released on the open market early next year.

  “We must not allow this announcement to be foreshadowed,” he had said, knowing his father would pick up on Peter’s reference to the impending news of the arrest of his sister’s suspected killer. “We must lead with this positive and allow other similarly fortunate announcements to provide closure on previous matters and consolidation of our new direction, progress and profit for the near future and beyond.”

  And his father, who had perhaps been somewhat taken aback by his son’s daring at putting this suggestion to the board before discussing it with him first, had nodded in agreement, proving to Peter that his calculated risk was not so precarious after all.

  Solidarity Global were a non-issue. He had spoken to Mr. Kwon that very afternoon, who had assured him the only contact the international do-gooders had made in the past week was a ludicrous but informative phone call from the pathetic American boy named Jones. According to Mr. Kwon, Jones said that SG’s extensive study on Nagoshi Inc.’s Chinese operations would soon be released on their website—and the report would clear Nagoshi Inc. of any impropriety, describing their Chinese operation to be both “efficient and fair.” But this boy, the same youth Peter knew had used his sister to try to undermine Nagoshi Inc.’s progress, claimed he did not accept the report’s findings and was set on unveiling the company’s injustices to the world. Jones said he knew the study was compiled under contrived circumstances and that he would make it his life’s mission to prove it. Good luck to him, thought Peter. Let him try.

  Jessica was a fool, for she had opened the gates to this disaster, not realizing the consequences of her actions. Somehow the Jones boy had hoodwinked her with his rhetoric on the downtrodden unskilled and she had boasted of her father’s dedication to just and reasonable management. She wanted to use Nagoshi Inc. as the prototype for honorable employment and in doing so had intruded into Peter’s initiatives without asking his permission, and discovered what she was not meant to find. Her false face did not fool him. She was a Nagoshi in name but not in soul. She was making many mistakes, mostly due to her willingness to be seduced by the self-servedness of Western society and for this she, and her illegitimate unborn child, had paid the ultimate price. It was true that news of the child had unnerved him at first, but fate had its own path, and the demise of the bastard child was unavoidable once the course to eliminate its mother was set.

  29

  “Well done, Sara,” said Nora Kelly, their Irish-born, fifty-something office assistant who was dedicated, hardworking and blessed with a sharp Gaelic wit that served to soften her prim façade with just the right amount of humor and heart. “It’s a glowingly justifiable report,” she added, looking over Sara’s shoulder at the article on page five of this morning’s Tribune. “To think, your first pro bono civil suit for this firm and you managed to settle for . . .”

  “One point five million dollars,” said Arthur from behind his antique mahogany desk. “Amazing, dear girl. Just amazing.”

  “It all happened so quickly,” said a smiling Sara, now dropping the newspaper on the coffee table to pace around the office. Her adrenaline was pumping, the feeling of legal victory still fresh in her veins. “We didn’t think Mr. Finch would settle but the man was apparently terrified of having to face his day in court. The one point five was really just a throwaway figure. I never dreamed he would accept.”

  Sara was referring to a man named Freddy Finch, the sleazy proprietor of a Mattapan restaurant and bar known as Tequila Mockingbird. Sara had represented a waitress named Aresha Sanchez and some of her fellow workers in a sexual harassment suit against Finch—who surprised them all by accepting the one point five million dollar proposal.

  “Of course the jerk accepted,” said David. “Even an idiot like Finch is smart enough to avoid facing Sara Davis in court. Am I right, Nora?”

  “For once, lad,” smiled the witty Irishwoman, who enjoyed nothing more than a verbal spar with the younger of her two “bosses.” “You are 100 percent correct.”

  “So what next?” asked Arthur, getting them back on track. This regular Friday morning meeting was a forum to summarize cases active and pending, giving them a chance to bounce ideas off one another.

  “Next we oversee the distribution of the money,” said Sara, now stopping in front of Arthur’s desk, “the bulk of which will go to Aresha with the remainder to be divided among the other staff who had agreed to partake in the joint action.” Sara was on a roll and it felt good.

  “I do, however, have a list of potential clients’ names sitting in a wad of message slips on my desk. I am afraid this morning’s story has opened the floodgates to all and sundry who have a gripe against their boss. The problem will be sorting the wheat from the chaff. And Arthur . . .” she said before hesitating.

  “What is it, Sara?” asked her casually dressed superior, who preferred open-necked shirts and khakis over the usual lawyer garb of dark gray suit and complementary tie.

  “Well, I know you have been kind enough to . . . ah, give me a lot of leeway when it comes to pro bono causes. But I also know this is a business and I want to make sure I contribute financially.”

  “Sara,” said Arthur, removing his wire-rimmed glasses to rub the red groove on the bridge of his nose, “the publicity you have given this firm this morning is worth its weight in gold—and I hope you know me well enough by now to understand my view of ‘business’ may not be the same as a lot of other attorneys’ in this commercial driven metropolis. Besides,” grinned Arthur, craning his neck to look at David who was sitting on the couch across the other side of the room, “David is the designated company cash cow. In fact, I am sure he is on the brink of signing his first multimillion-dollar client as we speak.”

  Sara turned to face David, but she saw that he wasn’t listening. He had pulled the cover section off the coffee table and was now absorbed by a story on the Tribune’s front page.

  “Perhaps if we offer him a bale of hay with his morning coffee we might get his attention,” said Nora.

  “What?” said David, looking up at the three faces now focused on him. “Sorry, I was just . . .”

  “What is it?” asked Sara, now moving behind him to study what looked to be a major piece taking up most of the coveted page one.

  “It’s the Nagoshis. According to Marc’s story, Nagoshi Inc. is about to announce a major foray into the automobile production business with their manufacturing plant based in China.” He looked up at Sara, and she recalled their earlier discussion about Tony Bishop and his suspicions regarding the Nagoshi son. “Rigotti’s report also says an arrest in the J
essica Nagoshi murder case is imminent. He even quotes a source at the DA’s office who predicts they’ll have a suspect in hand before the week is out.”

  “James Matheson,” said Sara.

  “Who?” asked Arthur, now obviously confused, and David took a moment to summarize what he knew about the case for Arthur and the equally as discreet Ms. Kelly.

  “Dear Lord,” said Nora. “Is that distasteful Mr. Katz trying to bully yet another young innocent?” This was not the first time they had been aware of the Kat’s disregard for the truth in favor of a conviction and all the political kudos that went with it.

  “Probably,” said David. “But I’m not sure how he’s going to pull it off. The last time I spoke to Joe he was on his way to Deane to question Matheson’s friends. Maybe the kid’s alibi didn’t hold up after all.”

  “Whatever the case,” said Arthur, and in that moment Sara knew her wise and caring boss had seen it too—the spark in David’s eye, his need to right the wrongs, his determination to defend those being railroaded by a system set on finding someone to blame, “I understand you took a liking to the boy, David, but at this point at least, it is no concern of ours.”

  David nodded.

  “But all this talk of Deane did remind me of one other matter,” Arthur continued. “I expect to see you all at the President’s Halloween Ball tomorrow night.” The Deane School of Law function was a social must for the city’s leading legal fraternity. “If I am going to suffer the evening trapped in a monkey suit and swapping anecdotes with a bunch of socially aware blue-chip barristers, then I expect you all to do the same.”

  David looked up at Sara again and she sensed that going to this ball—a “chore” he would have done anything to get out of a few weeks ago—was now something he felt compelled to do.

  “We’ll be there, Arthur,” she said, just as Nora nodded her confirmation before leaving the room to take a call from her desk immediately outside Arthur’s office. “In fact, Jake is going too. His new bosses at Credit Suisse want to introduce him around. My little brother is being ‘networked.’ ” She smiled. “Wonders will never cease.”