The Last Alibi

32

Jason

Friday, June 21

I overslept this morning, having not fully settled into sleep until about four in the morning, then awakening at six-thirty, then back down until nine. I desperately need some REM sleep, which makes me think of my favorite band and then my favorite person, Shauna. I ditched out on her yesterday, finally turning away the Arangold case, doing her a favor even if she doesn’t realize it, and then ditched out on her literally by leaving the office to author my anonymous note. I noted, when I walked in this morning, a deep impression in the carpet, in the shape of a square, next to my refrigerator, a slightly lighter color on the fabric as well-Shauna had reclaimed the Arangold files that had been sitting there untouched for over a week. I can’t imagine what Shauna is thinking about me right now.

“Nothing,” Lightner tells me over the phone. “James spent the night at his apartment and went to work this morning. Will keep you posted.”

“Thanks, Joel.” At least we’re keeping tabs on the man now.

My intercom squawks. I don’t have any appointments this morning.

“Yes, my love?” I call out to Marie.

“Alexa Himmel to see you.”

Well, then. I figured her for gone after the Altoids incident. If she had an ounce of common sense, she would be.

She carts in her transcription machine behind her like a piece of luggage and leaves it in the corner of my office. She gives me a fleeting kiss, her lips full and wet, just the way I like them, and says, “Sorry to barge in while you’re working.”

“No problem,” I say, especially considering that I wasn’t working at all. I don’t have any trials coming up, and every other deadline I have isn’t imminent, which is a good thing because I’ve been terribly inefficient, unable to focus, often rereading the same passage three or four times. My vision is starting to suffer, too, a shady border framing my eyes, as if everything were in a dream or flashback.

Alexa closes the door behind her. A big talk? I hope not. We’ve talked enough.

“Well, I have something for you,” she says. She is wearing a blouse with frills at the edge of her sleeves and a blue skirt. She cleans up good.

She hands me a manila folder.

“Is this a subpoena?” I ask.

She smiles. “Open it.”

I rip it open from the side and remove three, no, four sheets of foil, each containing thirty small pills.

She puts her hand on my cheek. “Your knee will get better, but until it does, you shouldn’t have to live in pain. Not my man.”

“Alexa. . This is. . How did. .” I lower my voice. “This is. . illegal.”

She puts her hands on my chest. I like it when she puts her hands on my chest. She gives me a longer, softer kiss, a taste of strawberry on her tongue. I could learn to love this girl.

She puts her mouth next to my ear. “Then maybe tonight,” she whispers, her breath tickling my ear, “you can spank me for being a bad girl.”