Alibi
Page 21
And he would smile and shake their hands and they would smile and shake his back and then he would move on and they would congregate again and wait until he was just beyond earshot before they returned to the subject on everyone’s “must discuss” list this evening. And then they would feel all noble for not embarrassing him and he would pretend not to hear their faintly disguised whispers—which in the end may have been weak enough to be swallowed by the evening’s festive ambience, but strong enough to tear at his slowly diminishing reserve.
He looked at his OMEGA Seamaster. It was almost seven. He had to leave within minutes if he was to be at Meredith’s on time. He could not let her down. She was Jess’s friend. She had asked him out of respect for Jess and so it was the least he could do.
Minutes later he was straightening his bow tie, securing his cuff links and removing his dinner suit jacket from the dry cleaning plastic before throwing it over his shoulder and moving out the door. And as he left his living room and walked around the pool toward the garage he found himself stopping once again, this time staring at the mosaic-tiled expanse of his own backyard swimming pool. And then he closed his eyes and turned before the water took him back again, to another time when pictures were paintings, the world had color and the girl with the long dark hair swept him away in a current of passion, just as Renoir had described.
37
“Wow,” said David Cavanaugh when his girlfriend emerged from their bedroom at the far end of the apartment. “You look amazing.”
And she did. The dress code for the Deane School of Law’s highly anticipated Halloween Ball was listed on the gilt-edged invitations as “black as night,” and to David, Sara’s long, fitted, sequined gown looked like the best dream he had ever had. She walked toward him then, holding her dark sapphire pendant at either end of its chain before turning around so that he might fasten the clasp at her neck.
“Sara,” he said, securing the clip before bending to kiss her. “I am so sorry—for last night. You have every right to represent the Jones kid and I shouldn’t have spoiled what was a perfect evening.”
She turned to place her long manicured finger on his lips. “Shhh. David, you weren’t the only one at fault. I shouldn’t have been so defensive. Besides, I think fifty apologies in twenty-four hours are enough. Not to mention the fact that you . . .”
“. . . spent at least half of those hours in bed with the most beautiful attorney in Boston,” he said, kissing her again.
“Boston’s a small city, David,” she smiled.
“Hmm, you’re right, let’s throw in Cambridge for the bargain.”
She punched him in the arm then. “You might have at least expanded the parameters to the state border,” she laughed.
“But from what I hear, there’s a really cute tax attorney in Chicopee . . .”
“You wanna break that fine ice you’re skating on, Cavanaugh?” she asked, taking a step back to place both hands on her hips.
“No, ma’am,” he said. “Massachusetts and beyond.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she said, before stepping forward again and reaching up to kiss him.
“I hope so.” And then he held her tight, kissing her again, this time slowly, until time stood still and the previous night’s argument became a distant memory.
It felt good, burying the hatchet. Last night he had fallen asleep on the couch before waking at 3 a.m. and feeling like a right ass for ruining Sara’s evening. Moments later he was moving down his apartment corridor toward the bedroom where he found a similarly wide awake Sara to whom he apologized for his bullheaded behavior and promised never to act like such a selfish schmuck again. In all honesty he was still concerned about her involvement with Jones, and Joe’s suspicions that the kid wasn’t totally up-front. But this wasn’t his case and Jones wasn’t his client and Sara was a big girl who was smart and experienced enough to make her own choices. Besides, he had certainly represented some less than savory characters in his past—so how bad could a nineteen-year-old college geek be?
“We should go,” she said, pulling away to straighten his bow tie before taking a step back to place her hands on her hips once again as if sizing him up for approval.
“Well?” he said.
“You’ll do.” She smiled.
“Geez, is that the best you can do?” he asked, grabbing his jacket from the back of the sofa.
“You want more I suggest you call your tax attorney friend in Chicopee.”
In the early 1900s, the then twenty-year-old Deane University issued an invitation to all its architecture graduates, past and present, to come up with a plan for the university’s first Great Hall. The graduates were issued numbers so that they might submit their designs anonymously—assuring impartiality in choice by a board who, even then, were driven by prestige, politics and power.
The choice was unanimous, in the form of an American Gothic cathedral-style masterpiece submitted by entrant No. 7 who, as it turned out, was the son of the chairman of the board of trustees. While it was widely acknowledged that No. 7 had been a particularly average student, it was also rumored that his father knew of a talented but impoverished designer who had been willing to assist his son in his submission and accept cash rather than kudos as his payment.
If nothing else this cozy arrangement, which saw the university construct one of the most magnificent Gothic structures the nation had ever seen, lent itself to the wonderful myth that the Hall was now haunted by the ghost of its true creator—an unknown genius who sold his soul so that his dream might become a reality, so that his work might be enjoyed for generations of young students to come, and more important, so that his family might have food on the table.
And so, just as David Cavanaugh pulled up at the front of the white gravel circular drive, his Land Cruiser easing to a stop in the slow moving parade of vehicles being met by valet attendants dressed completely in black, Jake Davis warned him and Sara of the unexplained noises and self-shutting doors and the mysterious moaning and baffling vibrations that were said to rock the towering structure from its foundations to its spire.
“You’re full of shit, Jake,” said David, putting the car into park.
“I know,” said Sara’s brother. “But it’s a good story, and it’s Halloween so . . .”
“So we’re not kids anymore and you can no longer frighten me with your pathetic little brother scare tactics,” said Sara.
“Boo!” yelled Jake so loudly in Sara’s ear that she practically leapt from the car.
“For God’s sake, Jake.” She smiled.
And then the three of them looked up to behold the breathtaking sight before them. The impressive stone and gray slate structure stood high and mighty, set apart from the world around it by a luminous outline of thousands of tiny fairy lights strung high and stretched taut from ground to rooftop, eave to eave.
The front steps—of a rustic, well-worn sandstone—were now covered in a thick carpet of white rose petals, some lifting in the cool evening breeze, caught in the paths of upward tilting spotlights that cast flickering shadows on the lofty Gothic edifice above them. Centered on the steps was a long white carpet, bordered by black rope balustrades, behind which jostled scores of reporters and photographers snapping the who’s who of Boston as they moved toward the grand entranceway like the glamorous movie stars of old.
In fact, if David had not been so mesmerized by the spectacle before him he would have hurried up the smooth white walkway in an attempt to avoid the press who eventually recognized him and called out to say: “Mr. Cavanaugh, Mr. Cavanaugh, looking forward to the night ahead?”
“Sure,” answered an embarrassed David who tended to forget that last year’s Montgomery case had turned him into the local legal icon.
“Mr. Cavanaugh,” called a reporter from Channel 4. “What’s your next big case? Who’s your next client?”
“Ah . . .” said David. “Actually, it’s my partner here who’s getting all the good cases thes
e days. Maybe I can take it easy for a while,” he joked.
The group now focused on Sara who was rapidly building a profile of her own after the seven-figure Sanchez settlement. “Miss Davis, Miss Davis . . .”
But luckily they were almost at the top of the stairs, Sara now dragging David by the elbow, Jake complaining he was the only anonymous one of the three.
Their conversation was cut short at the hand-carved double wooden doors, where they stood back in awe at the sight of scores of suspended strips of billowing see-through fabrics—the finest of black silks falling in consecutive layered rows across the main foyer, wafting around the mesmerized party goers, caressing their frames, slowly lifting and falling in a breeze created by discreet heating fans, and promising light, activity and more surprises at the main stairwell and beyond.
“Unbelievable,” said David as he took Sara by the hand.
“It’s incredible,” she said, as the final piece of silk gave way to reveal the giant marble staircase that was a breathtaking revelation in itself. And there it was before them, what must have been tens of thousands of silver votive candles lined up row upon row on the white marble steps. The tiny candles were set in perfectly aligned rows, enabling the awestruck guests to walk upward without unsettling their flames—their wicks giving off an almost sparkler effect of pure white light, along with a subtle scent of roses that wafted through the air in waves.
They walked slowly upward, beckoned by the music of the mini-orchestra now playing Vivaldi in the main Great Hall. The silver light on the stairwell finally gave way to a burst of color as they took the rise over the landing to behold what could only be described as a sort of Roman-themed extravaganza—the lofty eighty-five-foot-high ceilings now covered in temporary fres coes, the length of the Hall divided by faux marble columns and archways—just like a Roman palazzo with tented lounges, custom-built terraces and a fifteen-foot-high gray marble fountain that had been constructed at the front of the room.
Potted lemon, lime and orange trees lined the venue, bordering a space that now held over one hundred white-clothed circular tables of ten, each with sparkling silver flatware, crystal drinking glasses and jet black placemats offset by center-pieces of full-blown white roses that let off a scent that was sweet without being overpowering. The black-clad orchestra in the far right-hand corner was balanced by a massive vine-covered bar to the left where champagne was flowing, imported spirits were being selected and red and white Italian wines were being poured and ushered around the expansive hall by scores of eager waiters and waitresses dressed completely in white.
It was, without question, the most amazing sight David had ever seen. In fact, he and Sara were so taken aback by the spectacle before them that they failed to see the man approach them from the left. A tall, olive-skinned man in a $5,000 Armani suit and teeth so white they appeared to the part of the black and white décor extraordinaire.
“Counselor,” said Roger Katz, extending his manicured hand to David.
“Roger,” said David through gritted teeth.
“Miss Davis,” said Katz, now taking her hand and raising it to his lips, his eyes absorbing her from head to toe, making David angrier by the minute. “You look stunning as usual. And I read about your recent little victory, by the way. Well done! She’s beautiful and blessed with beginner’s luck, hey, Cavanaugh?” He smirked, now turning back to David. “You’re a lucky man, Counselor.”
“I was,” said David. “Up until about a minute ago.”
“Roger,” interrupted Sara before David could go any further, “this is my brother Jake.”
Katz turned to shake Jake’s hand. “Not another lawyer in the mix?” he said, the sarcasm flowing just as fast as the water that gushed in the huge marble fountain at the front of the room.
“No, sir,” said Jake. “I work for Credit Suisse.”
“Ah,” said Katz, and David could not help but wonder why the ADA was so damned amicable tonight—a quality that, at least on Katz, always made him nervous.
“Well, it’s a pleasure, Jake. But I must say, I would never have picked you two for siblings. Well, obviously. But I did read somewhere, did I not, Miss Davis, that you were adopted?”
David had had enough. “Forgive us, Roger, but I can see my boss and his secretary at the front. We’re a little late and I want to check in.”
“Of course,” said Katz. “Don’t worry, Counselor, I am sure you’ll make partner one of these days and won’t have to raise your hand for roll call.” Katz raised his right hand in mock schoolboy fashion, his monogrammed cuff links catching the light of the crystal chandeliers.
But David didn’t respond, just took Sara’s hand and walked as quickly as possible toward the bar at the front of the room.
“Jesus,” said Sara.
“What a wanker,” said Jake.
“I need a drink,” said David.
38
Roger Katz could not contain himself. He was floating in fucking bliss!
It was almost as if the universe had aligned itself, as if everything he had ever wanted was slipping into place and feeling every bit as rich as the black label whiskey that now slid down his throat like liquid velvet, warming his ambitions and firing his desire to make the most of every single second of it . . . right down to kicking Cavanaugh’s middle-class ass in front of his dark-skinned girlfriend and her Benetton commercial brother.
Cheers!
Moments before he spotted Cavanaugh and his United Nations companions, he had hung up a call from his so-called boss Loretta Scaturro—the MIA DA who, as luck would have it, “could not see herself returning before the end of the year.”
Better still, Attorney General Sweeney was expected at this shindig momentarily, giving Katz the perfect opportunity to mention the extension of Scaturro’s embarrassingly long leave before updating him on the progress of his now “firing” prosecution of the Jessica Nagoshi case.
McKay had promised to alert him by seven if there was a problem at hand, and given it was almost eight, and given the stars were fucking fixed over his goddamned head this evening, and given he felt so freaking good and looked even better, he saw nothing but success in his future—a success that would begin with the wall-to-wall coverage of Matheson’s arrest in tomorrow’s papers and grow with the Nagoshis’ eternal gratitude (although Katz would be sensitive enough not to bring up the issue of district attorney campaign donations until at least the beginning of the trial), and consolidate itself with his victory in one of the most high-profile cases this state—hell, this country—had ever seen.
And then, as if another sun had decided to slide into his perfect procession of personal endowments this evening, Katz saw John Nagoshi enter at the back of the hall—his son at his right, his lawyer at his left, the Japanese-American now the center of attention as he shook hands and bowed to the many similarly bobbing sycophants around him. Seriously, he didn’t understand how those people managed to avoid banging heads—the trivial thought had popped into his head like a happy little aside. Katz had had to duck and weave at least twice at their past few meetings and the ridiculous social custom seemed, at least to him, to appear both comical and . . . a touch effeminate. Still, tonight was his night and he would bow if he had to, he thought as he swallowed the last of his aged double malt in a flourish. It was a small price to pay.
“Anyway,” said Heath Westinghouse, now downing his fourth imported beer in the past half hour, “so then Wes corners me after lunch and asks me what my intentions are. He said Charity’s designated fat ugly friend told him I had cut his grass—that I had moved in on Charity before they broke up.
“So then I told the jerk to go fuck himself, and that if I was as fucking ugly as him I would count myself lucky to have slept with someone as hot as Charity in the first place.”
H. Edgar took a breath. Westinghouse was getting drunker by the moment—slipping into that moronic freshman vernacular that was, in all honesty, incredibly immature and way beneath him.
“Jesus, Westinghouse,” said H. Edgar, who was now getting more than a little worried about his friend’s hastened state of inebriation. He knew Westinghouse was hyped after today’s rather intense negotiations, but he didn’t think his friend would be stupid enough to get pissed in front of this loaded crowd—no pun intended—especially one that included their beloved benefactor John Nagoshi and the goddamned ADA.
“Tone it down, will you? There is nothing to worry about. By now James is in custody and, with any luck, will be released by morning. The money is in the bank, Barbara will confirm his alibi and we’ll be sitting pretty. Just don’t blow this by acting like a lush.”
H. Edgar paused then to shake hands with one of his father’s retired corporate friends before leading Westinghouse off to the side of the bar and looking him directly in the eye.
“Look around you, Westinghouse. This room is filled with opportunities. These are not the people you party with but the people you impress. ‘Puck fuck, lacrosstitute’—what the hell is that? You are selling yourself short, Westinghouse. Now act your age and sober the fuck up before ADA Katz comes to shake your hand for being the fine upstanding citizen that you are. Don’t embarrass me, Westinghouse. Pull yourself together.”
And then he saw it, if only for a second, the slightest slither of anger in his blue-eyed friend’s expression. It was there, and then it was gone.
“I know what you’re saying, H. Edgar. But I gotta tell you. This doesn’t sit right. It’s clever, brilliant, fucking genius even, but something inside me says . . .”