The Last Alibi

45

Jason

Tuesday, July 2

Alexa and I leave Joel’s office and head to the elevator in silence. I don’t like to talk on elevators, so I wait until we’re clear of it, actually until we’ve walked out of the lobby. Joel has given me homework-figure out what it is that “James” might have done to set me up, a smoking gun that will implicate me in these murders. Maybe we’re giving James too much credit, but I don’t think so. Underestimating him has become a hazardous exercise.

The sky continues to spit rain, enough for some people to don umbrellas, but neither Alexa nor I have one. We head into a coffee shop-not a Starbucks-grab some java, and find a table in the lounge, near the foggy window.

I lean in close to Alexa. “I’ve given this a lot of thought since last night,” I say. “About my whereabouts on the nights of the murders.”

I sound like someone in an old courtroom drama or Dragnet. Can you account for your whereabouts on the night of the murder? I think the word whereabouts exists in the English language purely for the purpose of establishing an alibi to a crime.

“You and I weren’t together any of those nights,” I say. “Not a single one.”

Alexa, stone-faced, raises her eyebrows, the look of a stubborn girl who’s being told something she doesn’t want to hear.

“Holly Frazier, the third victim, was killed on the night of Friday, June seventh,” I say. “That was the day you came to my office with the court transcript. The day I asked you on a date for the first time. But we didn’t get together again until Sunday.”

In fact, I recall with no shortage of dread, it was right after my trip to Runner’s High, when I bought shoes and running gear from Nancy Minnows, that I first met Alexa at that outdoor cafe, Twist. It was definitely Sunday, June 9.

“And Nancy Minnows was murdered on Tuesday night, June eighteenth,” I continue. “That morning, you and I had that. . fight, or whatever you call it. The Altoids incident?”

She allows the smallest and briefest of smiles.

“You made us breakfast, then you left in a cab. I was home by myself that night. And the night after that, and the night after that. You and I didn’t speak again until last Friday, Alexa. And the last girl, the librarian, Samantha Drury. She was killed last Thursday night, and we both know we weren’t together. That was the night we did our own things. Remember? It was your idea. We’d spent, like, almost a whole week together, and you said, ‘Seven days in a row is practically marriage,’ or whatever you said.

“And the first two victims, Alicia Corey and Lauren Gibbs? They were murdered in early May, before you and I even knew each other.”

Throughout all of this, Alexa’s expression remains tight, uncompromising.

“You and I were together every one of those nights,” she says. “I would swear to that under oath.”

“You. .” I take her hands in mine. “Honey,” I say. I’ve never called her any kind of a pet nickname like that. I’ve never said anything but her name, Alexa. It jars me for some reason, like it means something.

“You can’t do that, Alexa. You could get in serious, serious trouble.”

“But I won’t.”

“You will, if it ever comes to that. If they set their sights on me and you give me an alibi, they’ll scour the earth to prove it wrong. They’ll pull your home phone records, they’ll ping your cell phone calls, they’ll look at your computer, credit cards, movies you watched on pay-per-view, food you ordered in, whatever. They’ll ask your friends. They’ll have twenty ways of figuring out whether you were actually with me those nights.”

“I was home, by myself, each of those nights,” she says. “Nobody will say that they were with me. Nobody knows where I was, any of those nights. So as far as I’m concerned, I was with you.”

Crazy. This is crazy.

“I’ve already thought about this, too,” she continues. “When I’m alone, I read. Or I work. I don’t make calls from a landline because I don’t have a landline, just my cell phone. I don’t even use my cell phone much. I don’t go on the Internet, and even if I did, I have a laptop. I could have been with you when I was using it.” She looks up at me. “I don’t even know how to order a movie off the television. And I never, ever have food delivered. Except when I’m with you.”

“Seriously, Alexa-”

“Seriously, no one will be able to say I wasn’t with you. Trust me, Jason.” She runs her hand up my arm, soothing me.

“Really?” I don’t hide my skepticism. “And how do we explain how we even knew each other before that court hearing on June fourth, when I was representing Billy Braden? What’s your story there? How is it that we didn’t meet until June fourth, but somehow we were dating in May when the first two murders occurred?”

“We met on April twenty-fifth,” she answers, not missing a beat. “People versus Kerry Alexander.”

I draw back. I remember the case, of course. My guy was charged with attempted criminal sexual assault. He was convicted on the lesser-included offense of battery, which meant he got nine months inside instead of nine years. That goes down as a loss, but he called it a win. Yeah, that was late April, that sounds right.

“You were there? Two months ago in court?”

“Yes, I was. I was the court reporter when the jury came back.” A sheepish smile crosses her face. “I wanted to introduce myself to you then, but I didn’t. You were pretty caught up with everything. Your client sure seemed happy with the verdict. You didn’t, though. You seemed. . troubled, I guess. Like something was bothering you.”

This is the first I’ve heard of a previous time we were together in court. She never mentioned this. She first knew of me in April?

“I never had a reason to bring it up before,” she says, reading my thoughts. “But it’s a matter of public record. Anyone can look it up. So,” she says with a shrug, “we could point to that and say that we started seeing each other at that time. Late April, not early June.”

I shake my head. “Even if we could theoretically pull this off-”

“We could. We easily could.”

“-but even so, I’m not making you lie for me, Alexa. That’s not happening.”

She runs her hand up my arm, soothing me. “You’re not making me do anything. Last I checked, I’m a big girl.”

I pull away from her. “No. It’s very sweet, but no.”

“Sweet?” Now she objects, recoiling. “This is no time for sweet. This is serious. And I’m serious. You didn’t kill those girls, and I’m not going to let anybody say that you did. I appreciate your moral objection, but this will get us to the right result, which is that you’re innocent.”

I don’t have the energy to fight about this right now. It’s not something we have to decide immediately, or hopefully ever.

She seems to understand how I’m feeling. She doesn’t push the subject. She sits with me quietly, caressing my arm. “Is your knee bothering you?” she asks. “It seems like it is.”

I look down at my dress shoes, which I haven’t polished for months. There was a time when I’d keep those things spit-shined, like mirrors. “Actually,” I say, “it’s killing me.”

“You should take a pill, then.” Still running her hand up and down my arm.

So I do, removing the Altoids tin, popping in a tablet and chewing it up, letting out a long sigh.

“I hate that you’re in so much pain,” she whispers. “But I’m here. I’m here for you, Jason. For anything. You know that, right?” She takes my hand and interlocks her fingers with mine.

We sit in silence. We don’t check our e-mail on our phones. We don’t sip coffee. We don’t even look at each other. We just sit, heads together, holding hands, until relief finally comes, heat pouring through my body like warm syrup.

“We have to stay together,” she says. “Every night. You see that, don’t you? Any night that you’re alone is a night that ‘James Drinker’ can pull some stunt and try to frame you. We have to be together every night, Jason.”

I’m not even thinking about that right now. At this moment, I am weightless; my feet have left the ground.

“Okay,” I say.

“We have to go everywhere together.”

“Okay.”

“We have to do everything together.”

“Right.”

“Good,” she says. “We’ll get through this, honey. We’ll get through this together.”