Alibi

by Sydney Bauer

  “Yes, Mr. Baptiste,” said Sonita with her now customary hopeful smile. She was a pleasant young woman, who tried her best, apologized for her shortcomings and thus—buoyed by her genuineness—Kitt had decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and stick with her until the penny dropped, which he knew it had to do . . . eventually.

  Ah the joy of it, thought Kitt as he entered his office and looked out over his expansive Georgetown view. His lunchtime discussions had been most inspiring. According to German and Canadian research, the banks of Grand Cayman were finally getting the respect they deserved. Of course the world’s top financial institutions had appreciated the idyllic Caribbean location as the fine, full-service international investment district that it was for years. But Kitt was at last getting the feeling that the general populace were finally seeing this exquisite strip of sand, surrounded by clear aqua waters, some 480 miles south of Miami, as more than just some glorified tax haven for greedy Western industrialists.

  Of course it was that too—offering a banking system that carried no capital gains tax, corporation tax, withholding tax, property tax, payroll tax or income tax payable by employees to boot, which was also the reason why Cayman was now the fifth-largest financial center in the world, attracting international blue-chip corporations by the bucket load.

  “Mr. Baptiste,” said Sonita who had left her desk to tiptoe up to his door without making the slightest hint of a noise.

  “Yes, Sonita,” said Kitt with a smile, his bright white teeth gleaming against the richness of his dark mocha skin. “What is it? Come on in.”

  “It’s the new American account, sir. I thought you would like to know the money has been wired.”

  “Good,” said Kitt, taking delight in what seemed to be Sonita’s expanding capabilities. “If you will forward the information to me I will make sure it is split into the three accounts as specified,” he went on.

  “No, sir.”

  “No, Sonita?”

  “No, sir. You see a little over an hour ago, while you were at lunch, we received new instructions. It seems the gentlemen concerned only require a two account split—one in the name of Simpson, and the second in the name of Westinghouse. I have all the details here, sir, if you would like to oversee the transaction yourself.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Kitt, finding nothing unusual about this change in instruction. “If you would like to forward me the details of the transfer, I shall make sure all is in order.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Baptiste,” said Sonita with the sweetest of smiles.

  “And well done, Sonita. Well done, indeed.”

  Switzerland

  They call it Glacier 3000, basically because that is exactly what it is—a crisp, flat, perfectly formed glacier floating some 3000 meters above sea level, doused in sunlight, covered in snow and acting as a platform from which you can take in one of the most breathtaking views on earth. Glacier 3000, also known as the Tsanfleuron Glacier, is located in the Les Diablerets or Lake Geneva Region of Switzerland, and as well as the year-round cross-country and on-piste skiing, offers all sorts of activities including snowboarding, hiking, and husky dogsled rides that are said to provide one of the greatest natural highs on the planet—both figuratively and literally.

  And so, with another perfect autumn day almost put to rest, and the promise of sparkling blue skies and optimum skiing conditions predicted for the next week and beyond, Glacier Manager Urs Zubriggen was taken aback with his incredible fortune—a fortune that had grown even richer no less than ten seconds ago when a knock on his door revealed a young woman so sublime he almost dropped his locally brewed brandy on his brand new antique ivory Tabriz rug.

  “Yes?” said Zubriggen before sucking in his modest middle-aged spread with one almighty intake of breath.

  “Mr. Zubriggen?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am sorry to bother you so late, but we just arrived at our chalet and there was a message for me there to contact you immediately.”

  “Ah,” said Zubriggen, gesturing for the girl to come in from the cold. “Yes. Mademoiselle Rousseau, I presume,” said Zubriggen, extending his arm.

  “Yes, monsieur,” she said, taking it and shaking it with the softest of palms. “Is anything the matter?”

  “No, mademoiselle, nothing to worry about. I believe the police in Geneva have been asked by their compatriots in America to track you down, something about a version of accounts or the like. But they assure me there is no reason for concern on your part. They want your help, mademoiselle, and have stressed there is no need for distress.”

  “I see,” said Barbara Rousseau. But Zubriggen could tell the girl was not convinced.

  “From what I am told, mademoiselle, it is a matter to be cleared up over the telephone. You don’t even need to leave the resort,” he smiled. “Can I offer you a drink?”

  “No, thank you, monsieur,” said Barbara, and Zubriggen sensed by the tone in her voice that this girl could also most likely smell a come-on from a mile away.

  “But if you do not mind, I would like to use your telephone,” she said.

  “Of course,” said Zubriggen, being realistic enough to know when a beauté was out of his league.

  “Come, this way,” he said, finally allowing himself to release the breath he had been holding since he answered the door. “I have the number right here. A Sergeant Donders. He gave me his work and private numbers so I am sure he will not mind the lateness of the hour.”

  “Thank you, monsieur,” said Barbara, walking into Zubriggen’s living room to pick up the receiver and make the call.

  Zubriggen moved to the kitchen, just far enough away to give the girl space but close enough to get the gist of her conversation. The girl reached Donders almost immediately, and moments later seemed to be connected to another party in the US. Zubriggen moved toward the coffee machine, just beyond the living room annex, straining his ears to ascertain as much as he could of the exchange.

  “Lieutenant Mannix,” she said. “This is Barbara Rousseau. I believe you have been trying to reach me and I . . .

  “I am so sorry. We have been skiing in areas beyond telecommunications range.

  “Of course I do not mind, Lieutenant. Ask away.

  “Deane University, that is right. I was there for two years and left for Paris at the beginning of the semester.

  “Yes, I heard about it, of course. Jessica was a lovely girl. I am so sorry.

  “Yes, whatever I can do to help.”

  Zubriggen listened as Barbara continued to answer the American’s questions with a series of definite yesses and nos. And then the girl said nothing for a very long time, and Zubriggen stood there watching her, entranced. He was completely absorbed by her beautiful face and could almost feel her pain when her flawless complexion began to color and her perfect features began to distort in expressions of confusion, and distress, and perhaps a trace of anger.

  “No, Lieutenant. Absolutely not. The thing is . . . to be honest, I was sort of interested. James is, well . . . you know, he has a lot going for him. But he had been drinking and seemed a little distracted so in the end I went home to pack. My flight left the next morning and I still had much to do so . . .

  “If by friends you mean Heath Westinghouse and his red-haired constant companion then yes, they saw us talking. You have to understand how a place like Deane works, Lieutenant—it is like a small, exclusive club and the law school even more so. Everyone likes to know everybody else’s business—a little . . . what is the English translation? Incestuous? No?

  “Yes, I think that James left with Heath and the shorter friend, but then . . . actually he must have come back because I believe I saw him out the front of the club just as I left to hail a taxi.

  “Alone? Yes, I think so.

  “No, I saw Jessica earlier but not with James.

  “Of course I shall provide a statement if that is what you need, Lieutenant. I shall be back in Paris the day after tomorrow and Sergeant Don
ders said you have my numbers so . . .

  “No need to thank me, Lieutenant. But, before you go, I feel I have to say . . .” Barbara hesitated then, and Zubriggen heard her take a breath, before clearing her throat and moving on. “James is a gentleman, Lieutenant, and while I do not know the details, I feel it only fair to tell you that I find this news surprising. James would be the last person I would suspect of being capable of anything such as this.

  “But if you are asking me if I was with him that evening—during the same hours that Jessica was killed, then the answer is a definite ‘no.’ I have nothing against James, Lieutenant, but if he is using me as his alibi, then I am afraid he is not the person I thought him to be.”

  “Shit,” said Joe, hanging up the phone.

  “Jesus,” said Frank who had listened to the exchange on speaker.

  “Shut the door, Frank,” said Joe, now racing behind his birch laminate desk to pick up his office issue phone.

  This was an unusual request in itself, given Joe Mannix never shut his office door to his hardworking homicide team beyond. In fact, McKay had a hard time budging the frosted glass paneled door from its permanent resting place of “open.”

  The carpet seemed to have grown up around it and McKay had to use both of his hands to yank it from its stubborn two-inch groove.

  “What time is it?” asked Joe.

  “Six forty-five,” said Frank, glancing at his Timex.

  “No way this kid is handing himself in,” said Joe, searching for a number in his notebook.

  “No. No, I guess not.”

  “Damn it,” said Joe, rifling through the pages. “Where is his goddamned number?”

  “Whose number, Chief?”

  “Nagoshi’s. I need to stop the transfer of that reward money. Those kids played us for fools, Frank, and now they are two million dollars richer.”

  “Maybe they didn’t know Rousseau would . . .”

  “Of course they knew. They can’t have it both ways, Frank. They say Matheson killed Jessica and if that’s what they believe, then they had to know that his alibi—the same one they gave to us in the first place—was a total fabrication.”

  “You think they knew we’d have trouble reaching the French girl?”

  “Trouble enough for them to score themselves a quick two mill.”

  “Jesus, Chief. That sounds like a stretch even for them. And besides, it was Nagoshi’s idea to give the money away. You can’t blame yourself for . . .”

  “Sure I can. I should have stood up to Katz. I should have forced Nagoshi to give us more time. I should have waited until we spoke to Barbara Rousseau and then we might have nailed the Matheson kid without the help of his two so-called friends.”

  “But they have a confession.”

  “So they say.”

  “They are risking their precious social status by going down this road,” countered Frank.

  “Yeah—and they can spend all their lonely nights counting all that money.”

  “They knew about the shoes, Chief.”

  And there it was. They knew about the shoes—and whatever else they were, Joe knew this one fact made them privy to information that no one else had access to.

  Joe put down the phone.

  “It’s almost seven, boss, the money’s gone,” said Frank, his tone one of pure consolation. “As hard as it is, we have to put those two assholes on the backburner for the moment, and do the job we set out to do from the get-go.”

  Joe said nothing, just rested his knuckles on his paper-strewn desk, looked down at his feet and nodded.

  “We need to go find Matheson, Chief, and arrest his lying ass before he has a chance to disappear. We need to go out and get him, boss, and we need to do it now.”

  36

  Four Months Earlier

  The next time he saw her was from behind.

  She was standing still, her black glossy hair pouring straight down her long narrow back like a slick of the darkest satin.

  He approached her slowly, his shoes making that customary click that seemed to be handed out at the door when you entered any major international art gallery—New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art, better known as “The Met,” was obviously no exception.

  He found her in the Robert Lehman wing, a pyramidal structure of glass and limestone that was decorated more like a Central Park mansion than a display center for some of the world’s most famous European masterpieces—an observation she later told him was actually quite astute, given that this extraordinary two-story triangular adjunct was designed to evoke the ambience of Lehman’s own house on West Fifty-fourth.

  “Have you been here before?” she asked without turning around, making him wonder how she managed to distinguish his footfalls among the sea of others.

  “Ah . . . yeah,” said James, stopping short. She still did not turn so he answered her question from behind. “Once, as a kid. My father brought me to New York for a weekend not long before I moved to Sydney with my mother. It was like he would not let me go until America was imprinted on my soul—and he is a banker so to him, America and New York are one and the same.”

  “He appreciates art?” she asked.

  “He appreciates its value,” he answered. “I remember he made me stand in front of this one painting—a Van Gogh I think it was—something with a field and trees and . . .”

  “Wheat Field with Cypresses,” she said, still facing forward.

  “Yeah, that was it. He told me some guy had bought it for almost $80 million and then lent it to the Met for the world to share. He said art was the most colorful money in the world, and one of the safest long-term investments available in a volatile marketplace.”

  She laughed then as she turned suddenly to take his hands and kiss him on the cheek. “A real philanthropist, your dad,” she said.

  “My father is all for the voluntary promotion of human welfare, as long as his welfare is catered to first.”

  “Does that make you sad?” she said, a look of pure curiosity on her face.

  “No. Should it?”

  “Probably,” she said, turning back to the painting that had been the focus of her attention just prior to his arrival.

  “I like it,” he said, looking at the smallish portrait of a pretty nude girl with long red hair.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, because it’s nice to look at.”

  “The best answer yet,” she said, still focusing on the painting before her. “It’s called Young Girl Bathing and it’s a Renoir—1892. Do you see what she’s doing?”

  “Well,” said James, moving closer to the rectangular artwork before him. “She’s bathing I guess—by some river.”

  “Yes, but more than that. See how her eyes are focused downward, on her feet?”

  “You can’t see her feet, the picture ends at her calves and . . .”

  “First up, James, it’s not a picture it’s a painting and you don’t need to actually see her feet to know they are in the water. She is looking at them, probably running her toes in and out of the polished pebbles that line the riverbed. The water is cool and clear and reflecting the hundreds of shades of reds and greens and ochres that Renoir uses here,” she pointed. “She feels free and content and at one with the world. She’s lucky, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, I guess she is.”

  They stood there then, a foot apart, hands by their sides, staring straight ahead at the lucky nineteenth-century French girl with the contented smile and cooling feet.

  “You know,” Jessica said at last, “Renoir was once asked what he tried to achieve with his art. What makes it special, what gives it life, what allows it to grow beyond the flat surface of the canvas and move those who stand here—like us—as humble, admirers of his talent.”

  “And what did he say?” said James, drawing his eyes away from the masterpiece before him to take in the even more exquisite vision at his side.

  “He said: ‘The work of art must seize up
on you, wrap you up in itself and carry you away. It is the means by which the artist conveys his passion. It is the current which he puts forth, which sweeps you along in his passion.’ ”

  “You do that to me,” he said, the words spoken before he even had a chance to consider how she might take this simple, powerful admission.

  She looked at him then, her eyes bright, her head tilted slightly to the left as if examining him with a new sense of curiosity. And then she did something that he would never have anticipated. She did something that perhaps was the most erotic, exhilarating interaction he had ever encountered with another human being in his whole entire life. She leaned forward, and reached up, so that her full, red lips were mere millimeters from his ear. And then she took a long slow breath, exhaling sweetly before stretching her perfect narrow neck that fraction further to whisper. “I want to feel what she feels, James,” she said, referring to the girl in the painting. “I want to be cool and fresh and free and lucky. I want you to bathe with me, James.”

  And just as she said this, she retreated slowly, her lower lip tracing the line of the edge of his ear.

  “Where?” was all he could think of to say.

  “Where else, silly?” she said as if she found the question ridiculous.

  “This is New York, James. We are going to the Plaza.”

  And so, as James Matheson realized the water had run cold, as he registered the sting the now icy flow was delivering to his freshly shaven face, he lifted his hand to turn off the faucet. He grabbed a towel and stepped from the shower, his skin on fire despite the cold, his eyes having trouble focusing on the living area of his pool house apartment at the back of his father’s Brookline home—his own little corner of Ivy League comfort.

  “Jess,” he said aloud in some pointless attempt to call her from beyond. But that was not to be and he was still alone, knowing this entire evening would be defined by loneliness and misery and the countless feigned attempts not to mention the unmentionable.