The Last Alibi

11

Shauna

Saturday, June 8

I dial Jason’s cell at a quarter past eight. It’s early. He might be sleeping. Before the knee problem, he’d have already completed a twelve-mile run or something crazy, whatever that competitive itch he has that he always needs to scratch.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.” I cradle my cell in my shoulder as I scoop butter with a knife. Granola and toast for this working girl. Long day ahead at the office, prepping for the Arangold trial. Jason better not fuck me on this trial. Rory Arangold’s already been asking about Jason. He’s going to be there, right? He’s going to cross-examine their expert?

“You watching the news?” Jason asks.

He knows I am. I’m a creature of habit.

The woman who was stabbed last night in her apartment is Holly Frazier, a young, attractive woman in the photo they put up over the anchorman’s shoulder. A grad student at St. Margaret’s. Midtwenties, looks like.

“What the fuck?” Jason mumbles. “What is it this time? Is she, what, James Drinker’s dog walker or something? His study buddy?”

“Ask him,” I say. “Let’s see if this is another coincidence.”

“I fucking will. Is this asshole playing me, Shauna?”

The notion is out there, of course. “But why would he?” I ask. “You’re his lawyer. Everything he says to you is in confidence. I mean, I hate to say it, but it’s possible he’s telling you the truth, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know. I guess.” He mumbles a few more curse words under his breath. “He said he couldn’t think of anyone who’d do this to him, who’d want to taunt him. Fuck with him.”

“So what?” I say. “It could be anybody. He cut somebody off in an intersection, somebody who turned out to be a sociopath, and he’s paying for it now.”

“C’mon, kid.”

“I mean, yeah, it’s far-fetched, but people are strange, Jase. They just are. Just because he can’t think of anybody who’d want to do him harm doesn’t mean there isn’t somebody.”

I know what Jason’s thinking. I know him better than he knows himself. He’s thinking about three dead women and wondering if there will be more. And wondering if his client, James Drinker, is the one killing them.

And wondering if that means he has to turn him in.

“Hey, sport,” I say. “I hate to be the voice of reason, but you can only turn him in for something you know he’s going to do. Not for something he already did.”

“Right, I know. I know. I can only turn him in if I know he’s going to commit a crime in the future, la-de-da-de-da.”

“That’s not la-de-da-de-da, kiddo. That’s your oath. And you don’t know that he’s killed anybody.”

“I got that part, Shauna. I’m clear on that.”

Snippy, snippy. So it’s Moody Jason this morning. Jason doesn’t like rules. He doesn’t like lines on the road and curbs and stop signs. He likes a fair result, but he doesn’t really care if he has to drive over a few front lawns to get there.

“Listen, Jase, if-”

“Hang on.”

“-you think about it-”

“Shauna, hold up. My other line’s ringing,” Jason says. “Ten bucks says I know who it is.”

“Monday morning, you start on Arangold,” I say to him, but he’s already hung up.