Alibi (20 page)

“This Heffer,” Joe began as the boys pulled over two wooden chairs and placed them side by side in front of the now closed door. “He ride your ass?” It was a simple question, but one that would establish many things.

Firstly, it suggested Joe was open to setting himself on their level, sympathetic to their situation as students, but also as adults—he was not here to lecture but to discuss. Secondly, it showed them Joe meant business—no euphemisms, no pleas antries, man to man, straight up. Thirdly, it begged some sort of explanation as to their tardiness—like did the professor demand they stay until his class was over or was the delay a tactic on their part? And finally it enabled Joe to gauge a sense of the boys’ attitudes, or more specifically their level of respect for a man like Heffer who, despite his obvious eccentricities, was older, more experienced and “superior” to them, at least on the ladder of Deane academia.

“Professor Heffer is new to this university, Lieutenant,” said H. Edgar after a pause. It was as if the kid was also gauging Joe’s motives, and reading every one to a “T.” “And I am afraid he sometimes gets a little flustered. It was he who failed to notify us of your presence, if that is what you are asking, at least until after class, when we made haste to prevent you any further inconvenience.”

“That’s very nice of you,” said Joe with a half smile, as if in appreciation for Simpson’s thoughtfulness. “But you didn’t answer my question. Does the Professor ride your ass?”

“No, Lieutenant,” said Simpson returning the smile. “Our ‘asses,’ as you so aptly put it, are generally unrideable.”

“A pair of bucking broncos, eh?” said Frank.

“Not exactly, Detective.” H. Edgar smiled. “If you want to consider an equine analogy I suppose you would say we are two Arabians, steered only by those we believe will enhance our personal development.”

“I see.” Frank nodded as if enlightened. “Come to think of it, I do remember reading that Arabians pick their owners rather than the other way around.”

“Exactly,” said Simpson.

This kid had balls, thought Joe, no doubt about it. He was telling them in no uncertain terms that Messrs Simpson and Westinghouse were not to be trifled with. They were masters of their universe, directors of their destinies, bastions of their own incredible strength of mind.

“Forgive me, Lieutenant . . . Detective,” H. Edgar went on, “but I am sure you did not invite us here to ponder Professor Heffer’s ability or lack thereof to intimidate his students. Correct me if I am wrong, but I believe you are here to discuss Jessica Nagoshi—and more specifically her relationship with our good friend James Matheson. Am I right?”

Joe glanced at Frank. This one was a doozie.

“I thought so,” said Simpson, not waiting for a reply. “Well, let’s be clear from the outset, shall we? Obviously you can appreciate we came here on our own recognizance, and as you can see, there is no lawyer present to advise us in regard to any statement we might provide. That is our decision, Detectives, a show of good faith, because as you may or may not be aware, Mr. Westinghouse here comes from a line of respected attorneys, including his father, Mr. Gordon Westinghouse of Westinghouse, Lloyd and Greene. And if we felt we needed such representation, this meeting would not be taking place, at least not now, in this . . . ah,” he said looking around him, “. . . most uncomfortable of settings.”

Joe said nothing. This kid was too good. He wanted him to go on.

“So, you may ask us about James and we shall tell you what we know. But if we feel our rights, or those of our friend, are being compromised, we shall get up and leave the room without hesitation. Agreed?” he asked with one of the most conceited, self-righteous expressions Joe had ever seen—and that was saying something.

“Anyone ever tell you you’d make a good lawyer, Edgar?” asked Joe, knowing full well the kid was obviously arrogant enough to take this comment as a form of admiration.

“Yes, sir.” Simpson smiled. “And it is H. Edgar, by the way.”

And so they began.

Within minutes Simpson and Westinghouse’s one word/ same phrase answers had established that these two boys were exactly what they purported to be—smart. Their use of one word definitives and repeated references to lack of recall were the responses of seasoned legal experts.

What time did you arrive at the Lincoln?
11:15 p.m.
What time did Jessica Nagoshi arrive?
They did not recall
. Was she drinking?
They did not recall.
Were they drinking?
Yes.
Was she with a male companion?
They did not recall
. Did they see anyone make advances toward her?
No.
What time did she leave?
They did not recall.
Did she leave alone?
They did not recall.
Was James Matheson talking to her?
They did not recall.
Did James Matheson have a previous relationship with her?
They believed the two to have been acquaintances.
Had they seen Jessica and James together on previous occasions?
They did not recall.
Did James leave with them?
They left the Club premises together, yes.
At what time?
1 a.m.
But did he then go home with somebody else?

This last one stopped them in their tracks. Joe saw a slight tic at the corner of Simpson’s left eye and knew that whatever was about to come out of his mouth was most likely going to be a lie.

“Lieutenant Mannix,” said H. Edgar after a pause, “I know you most likely did not attend a university.”

A put-down if there ever was one,
thought Joe.

“Your prerogative, of course. Indeed if it weren’t for the fine work of our esteemed police force us budding lawyers would be out of a job before we even sat for the bar.” Cue smile. “But I am sure that your experiences at the police academy were not that different to our experiences here at Deane—in a social, interactive sense I mean. You studied, you trained, you tolerated your superiors and you made friends. You shared confidences, developed trusts and no doubt swapped stories of your conquests in regards to the female gender.

“It happens everywhere, Detectives, young men in the prime of their lives boasting or commiserating, depending on their success or failure.” H. Edgar looked at his tall blond friend then, and Westinghouse responded with a nod as if their testosterone bond was proof of Simpson’s “universal theory.”

“James did go home with someone else that night,” said H. Edgar. “Her name is Barbara Rousseau—a French exchange student who has since returned to Paris. I am sure if you contacted her she would be able to confirm this. I am not sure of her exact whereabouts but I am confident you fine investigators will be able to track her down.”

Frank took down the girl’s name while Joe’s eyes remained fixed on the two boys in front of him.

“Now if there are no other questions, Detectives, I believe we are late for our next tutorial.”

“Nothing else,” said Joe. “Unless your silent partner here has anything else to add.”

“No, sir,” said Westinghouse. “Mr. Simpson and I are on the same page. I agree with everything he has said and once again, we apologize for keeping you waiting.”

“No problem,” said Joe.

And then the pair turned to leave—just as Frank thought of one more thing to ask.

“Hey, kid,” he said, calling to Simpson who turned just as he was about to walk out the door.

“Yes, Detective?”

“What’s with the H?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The H, you know, in H. Edgar.”

“My mother has a PhD in philosophy, Detective. She graduated from Harvard magna cum laude. I was named for one of her academic forefathers—a Greek philosopher, one of the greatest intellectual minds in history.”

And then Frank smiled—a smile that grew until it exploded onto a beam on his wide, rosy-cheeked face.

“Your name is Homer—Homer Simpson!” he said at last. And now, despite himself, Joe found he was smiling too.

“Yes, Detective, and I am proud of it, sir.”

“Well, obviously.”

“I tell you what, H. Edgar,” whispered Heath Westinghouse as they moved quickly down the law faculty corridor. “You may be a little odd sometimes, but you kick ass like nobody I have ever met.”

“Shut up,” said H. Edgar.

They slowed their step as they saw one of the faculty approaching from the other end of the hall, and did their best to look for all the world like two respectful young intellectuals returning from a visit to one of their learned superiors.

“Good afternoon, Professor Todd,” said Simpson, nodding at his Advanced Torts teacher.

“Mr. Simpson, Mr. Westinghouse,” said Todd in acknowledgment.

H. Edgar’s heart was racing. He had done it! He had opened the fucking door and taken one huge step through, allowing it to close behind them. There was no going back now. The plan was in motion, and it was inspired. No! It was more than inspired, it was unparalleled, exceptional—downright fucking
brilliant
! Of course, it was extremely complex and must be carried out with the greatest of focus and commitment. But he had been over it a million times since he first read the article a little after 6 a.m.—that was barely seven hours ago and already all of his ducks were in a row. Now it was just a matter of telling them where to march.

“This way,” he said to Westinghouse, steering him toward a closed office door with the name
Toni Mansfield—Professor of Law, B.A., M.A.T.
painted on the front glass. Simpson grabbed the handle, pulled Heath inside and shut the door behind him.

“Jesus, H. Edgar,” said Heath. “What’s with all this cloak and dagger shit?”

“We are meant to be in Mansfield’s class right now,” said H. Edgar. “So we know we won’t be interrupted.”

“What’s to interrupt?” asked Westinghouse, obviously now completely confused and perhaps a little tired of being pushed around.

“How much do you want to get back at Heffer?” asked Simpson, gesturing for Westinghouse to move away from the door so they would not be spotted through the frosted glass.

“More than anything. You know that.”

“And how committed are you to burning that bastard’s ass?”

“Like I said.”

“Then what do you say about us taking his assignment to a new level and making some real money—to the tune of around $700,000 apiece?”

“What?”
Now Westinghouse was smiling. “How the hell are we going to do that?”

“You trust me, right?” said Simpson.

“Sure.”

“And our friendship is . . .” H. Edgar stopped to rephrase. “I mean, you and me and James are . . .”

“Tight. Brothers. You know that.”

“All right then. Now listen to me. We don’t have much time. Maybe forty-eight hours at the outset.”

“What?” said Westinghouse again, his face now a contortion of pure bewilderment. “Why forty-eight hours?”

“Because I figure that’s how long it will take for the cops to find Barbara and confirm James’ alibi. It would have been less of course. It’ll take those detectives two minutes to get her forwarding address and phone number from admin. But she’s not in Paris right now. She’s in Switzerland on some cross-country skiing thing with her friends from the Sorbonne. I rang this morning, checked it out. Her little trip buys us some time.”

“Wait. Slow down. What are you saying H. Edgar?” said Westinghouse, shaking his head. “I thought this was about Heffer?”

“It is—at least in the sense that the satisfaction we get from . . .”

“Then why did you check on Barbara?” interrupted Westinghouse. “And what has any of this got to do with James?”

“James is the key to all this,” said H. Edgar, now thinking aloud. “Listen to me, Westinghouse. Tonight I have arranged for us to meet James at The Fringe. We need to be seen there together, but after that you must not talk to him. You cannot see him. No contact, nothing, at least until the cops confirm his alibi.”

Westinghouse was looking more uneasy by the minute. Simpson knew he may have missed that much underestimated “manipulation” gene, but he was sharp, and the reality of what Simpson was saying was no doubt slowly coming together in the recesses of his brain.

“Saturday morning,” said Simpson. “We’ll need your father.”

“Saturday night is the President’s Halloween Ball, dude.

Everyone who is anyone is flying into town. My dad will be schmoozing all day. He . . .”

“We leave it any longer, Barbara steps up, and our window of opportunity closes.”

And then it hit him. Simpson could see it in his eyes. The pure genius of it all.

“The reward money!” he said at last. “The two million split . . .”

“Three ways,” said Simpson.

“No way, H. Edgar. James will never forgive us. He will be . . .”

“Cleared of suspicion as soon as those two detectives track down Barbara,” finished H. Edgar. “Cleared of suspicion and $700,000 richer.”

“We’re going to claim the reward?” said Westinghouse. “You and me and . . .”

“Matheson.”

“He’ll never go for it.”

“Yes, Heath. Yes, he will.”

“He doesn’t need the money.”

“Neither do we.”

They stood there for a moment, saying nothing, Westinghouse taking it all in, Simpson watching him come around, little by little, bit by bit.

“No. It doesn’t add up. The police will know we are riding them as soon as they talk to Barbara.”

“Yes, but we trade our information with conditions—that what we give them is enough for an arrest, not contingent on a conviction.”

“Arrest?”
said Heath at last, shaking his head. “This is way beyond anything we discussed. I don’t know if we should do this. We could be branded as snitches of the highest order, money hungry Judases who are willing to sell out their friend for . . .” Westinghouse took a breath before going on. “An hour ago you told me James could not afford to be arrested, at least publicly, and you were right. It will ruin his potential career. Shit like that sticks, H. Edgar, even if you are as innocent as a virgin in a nunnery.”