Alibi (21 page)

“But that’s the beauty of it, Westinghouse. Your father will broker the deal. He’ll demand confidentiality. He will insist James be given the chance to turn himself in quietly—which he will. The supply of our statements will be contingent on an agreement of no public release of information for at least forty-eight hours. James will be protected. No one will ever be the wiser. The terms will be unnegotiable. The money wired to untraceable accounts. The cops will never know about the three-way split and James will walk free, his reputation intact and $700,000 in his pocket.”

Heath stopped then, weighing it all up, ready to be tipped, one way or the other.

“Think about it, Heath,” said H. Edgar at last. “The pure brilliance of it all—a real opportunity to test our superior intellect. I really don’t think this has ever been done before, an accused man claiming his own reward. It is really quite beautiful, don’t you think?”

“But we just told the cops . . .”

“Nothing,” snapped Simpson. “We . . .
I . . .
told them nothing, or weren’t you listening?”

Westinghouse was starting to frustrate him, but he knew he had to tone it down, massage his friend’s anxieties, relieve his fears, appeal to his hatred for . . .

“Heffer’s cause will be lost, his fight defunct. This is nothing if not entrepreneurial.”

“But won’t he just turn us into the police for providing false information . . . which is
what
by the way? How do we hang our best friend when we know he didn’t do it?”

“Details, Westinghouse. It’s all in here,” he said, pointing to his head.

“Look,” he said now, leaning in close. “This is a once in a lifetime opportunity and there is no time to waver, Westinghouse. You are either with us or you are not.”

“
Us?
” said Heath, his own voice now raising a notch. “James already knows about this?”

“Of course. We spoke early this morning.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me as much in the first place?”

“Because I needed you to be calm, focused, in front of those two cops. And the less you knew at that point the better.”

Westinghouse frowned.

“Look, Heath,” said H. Edgar, determined to bring his friend back on board. “There is no way I would suggest this if I didn’t have James’ approval. For without his cooperation, this whole thing turns to shit. So . . .” asked a determined Simpson. “Are you with us or are you . . .”

“You’re
sure
James is down with this?”

“Positive.”

“And Barbara will make this all go away?”

“Straight after we pull off the negotiation of the century.”

And then Simpson saw it, the smile in Westinghouse’s pale blue eyes.

“Fuck it,” he said. “I’m in.”

“I apologize, Detectives,” said Mrs. Humfries with an “f.” “It really is not like Sawyer to be late.”

“You sure he got the message?” asked Mannix, tired of waiting for upstart college kids who apparently thought their precious daily schedule was beyond interruption—even when summoned by the goddamned Boston PD.

“Yes, Lieutenant,” said Humfries, talking to Joe but looking at Frank with that disconcerting smile/wince on her narrow pallid face. “I paged him over two hours ago, when you first arrived.”

“Students have pagers?” asked Frank.

“Some, yes,” said Humfries, who, no doubt thanks to Frank, was a fair bit more “honey” than “lemons” this afternoon. “Sawyer’s role as youth director of Solidarity Global makes him eligible for a university pager, like the ones the faculty carry. He came to the office moments after the page. I told him you wanted to see him and he said he would be back forthwith. Which obviously he . . .”

“Is not,” finished Joe, unable to hide his frustration.

It was now after two—
2 p.m
!—and Joe felt the pressure building up around him. He knew the reward deadline was now invalid thanks to Katz’s selfish “leak” to this morning’s
Tribune
, but he could not help but feel there was another timer at work here—a silent, invisible meter ticking down to zero when they would find themselves squeezed into a corner from which there was no escape.

The interview with Simpson and Westinghouse had been nothing short of extraordinary. The Simpson kid was possibly the most egotistical subject Joe had ever had the displeasure of questioning. He was arrogant, conceited, condescending and cool. The Westinghouse kid was another matter, however, and Joe saw the jitters behind his superior façade despite his friend’s complete hijack of this morning’s conversation. Of course all this would mean jack shit if Matheson’s alibi checked out. And thanks to Mrs. Humfries forwarding address and contact information on Barbara Rousseau, this should be resolved, one way or another, before the day was out.

Now all they had to do was wait for the soapbox kid to show his mop of a head and come clean on his cryptic dialogue of a few days ago. After all, he was the one who told them James was in love with Jessica.

“Detectives,” said a voice from the door, and in that second Joe could have sworn it was the voice of the soapbox kid. But he was wrong, this kid had the same confident tone but he was a she—and over six feet tall.

“Hello,” she said, moving forward. “My name is Valerie Winston-Smith and I am Deputy Youth Director of Solidarity Global—Sawyer’s 2IC.”

Jesus,
thought Joe,
did everyone who entered Deane have to pass a course in “Confident as All Hell 101” before they let you in the front gates?

“It’s nice to meet you, Valerie,” said Frank, no doubt sensing Joe’s frustrations. “I’m Detective McKay and this is Lieutenant Mannix. Is Sawyer with you?”

“I am afraid not,” she said, now standing close enough to tower over the two men. “But he asked me to give you this,” she said, handing them a recycled envelope with the well known SG logo—a sphere representing the earth with two horizontal lines representing the symbol for equality cutting through it—on the far left-hand corner.

Joe opened the note.

“
Tomorrow. Noon. New England Aquarium. Shark Tank,
” Joe read to himself, allowing Frank to do the same as he looked over his shoulder.

“Is that it?” asked Joe, looking up at Valerie.

“Yes, Lieutenant,” said Valerie, sliding her tortoiseshell glasses back up her long slim nose. “And he wanted me to wait so that I might text him your response before I returned to class.”

Joe glanced at Frank. “Listen here, Long Tall Sally,” he said then, sick and tired of a pack of smart-ass, conceited rich kids trying to run his show. “You have five seconds to tell me exactly where Tom Hanks Junior is skulking before I call in the entire Boston PD to scour this entire campus and have his ass in for questioning.”

Joe could see the vertically blessed Valerie physically shake in her two flat boots.

“I . . . he is not on campus,” she managed. “As soon as he gave me this note he packed up and left and said he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow.”

“Does Jones live on campus?” asked Frank of Lemons.

“Yes, Detective,” said a now wide-eyed Humfries.

“But he’s not in his dorm,” said Valerie. “I just called his direct extension before I came in here and there was no answer so . . .”

“Shit,” said Joe, just as Frank shrugged and pointed to the handwritten note in his hand. “This is crazy,” he added, talking directly to Frank, way past caring if Valerie or Humfries overheard, “the fact that we have to humor this cocky kid by keeping his ludicrous appointment next to a bunch of man-eating fish—at twelve noon
tomorrow
no less.”

Frank nodded before turning to Valerie. “Tell him we’ll see him there,” he said at last.

“All right then, Detectives, I’ll let him know,” said Valerie, nodding at them both before swiveling on the balls of her extremely long feet and running out the door.

“Fuck,” said Joe, ignoring Lemon’s scowl.

“Jesus,” said Frank, doing pretty much the same. “But it’s already late afternoon and we got other priorities besides chasing the kid all over Boston for the rest of the day.”

Joe nodded. “This ride is getting crazier by the minute, Frank,” he said, as they headed toward the door.

“Couldn’t agree more, Chief. I mean . . . puffers are one thing, but sharks—well, they are a whole different kettle of fish altogether.”

“Fishermen,” said John Nagoshi as he leaned back in his black leather chair at the head of the long mahogany conference room table. Nagoshi and his son had returned to their New York base early that morning, and had been in an exhilaratingly positive board meeting for most of the day, thanks to Peter’s incredible progress in China.

“I beg your pardon, Father?” said Peter, sitting straight in his seat at the other end of the now quiet conference room.

“Fishermen, my son. They used to say the Chinese were born and bred only to fish but they were wrong. It seems they are also more than adept at building cars—and driving them as well. You were right,
segare
. Basing our first automobile plant in China was an excellent idea.”

“Thank you, Father,” said Peter, with a bow.

John Nagoshi was, in fact, more than pleased with the day’s developments. Recently, he had to admit, he had been concerned about his son’s somewhat erratic behavior—especially following the uncharacteristic outburst in Mr. Katz’s office barely twenty-four hours ago (after which Nagoshi found himself extremely grateful that no one else present could speak Japanese). But his performance in front of the board today was nothing short of brilliant. His presentation was confident, well prepared and extremely encouraging. There was no doubt he had allayed any fears regarding his right to the position as company heir.

Jessica was gone, but her killer would soon be arrested. Nagoshi was sure that Roger Katz had leaked the reward to the press for personal gain, and he had left a message at Lieutenant Mannix’s office assuring him he had kept his word. But in all honesty he was not disappointed with the early release of the story. If anything, it might help Mannix confirm this young boy’s guilt and finally enable them to put Jessica—and her unborn child—to rest.

“It is late,” said Nagoshi at last. “I am going to call for the car. Will you accompany me home, my son?”

“No thank you, Father. I still have some matters to address.”

Nagoshi nodded. “Do not stay too late,
segare
. The week has been long.” And then he got up to leave.

“Peter,” he said, turning away from the magnificent backdrop of the Manhattan skyline in front of him to face his son front on. Nagoshi and his offspring had a strong relationship, but he feared the lack of motherly love and Peter’s seeming inability to show emotion had left their bond somewhat devoid of any physical displays of affection. He loved his son, as he had his daughter, and now, while he still ached at the loss of one, he was mindful to acknowledge his feelings for the other.

“I am sorry, son, about Jessica. But please, do not be angry with her. We are all allowed mistakes in our lives and this child, well . . . no matter how it was conceived, it was still my grandchild.”

“It is not your fault, Father,” said Peter, now standing from his seat, his face stoic, focused, clear.

“I asked the lieutenant,” Nagoshi went on. “Before we left last night, I asked him if my grandchild was a boy or girl.”

“Yes, Father.”

“It was a boy, Peter. I was going to have a grandson—and you a nephew.”

“I see. I am sorry, Father.”

“Do not be, my son,” said Nagoshi before walking across the room to place his hands on his only living child’s shoulders. “For there will be others. You will lead this company to greatness—you and your children and their children after that.”

And then John Nagoshi did something he had not done in years. He extended his arms to reach behind his son’s shoulders and pulled him close in a firm, if not somewhat awkward, embrace. “I love you,
segare
. Never forget that is true. For you are a Nagoshi and I am proud to call you my son.”

As soon as his father had left the room Peter Nagoshi took a long, slow, deep breath. He then straightened his suit of the creases left by his father’s unexpected show of emotion, and began walking across the mocha-colored carpet toward the expansive eastern windows at the far side of the room. The lights were dimmed, but all about him was clear—the room now saturated by the illuminations of the never sleeping city beyond. And in that moment, just as he reached his father’s end of the boardroom table, he found himself turning the larger chief executive chair around so that he might sit in the president’s berth and replay the day’s victory while looking out on a world over which he reigned as a prince destined to be king.

His father was right. His performance had been remarkable. China was a stroke of pure genius and he had done the research, studied the statistics and presented the information with just the right combination of confidence and humility. He had begun with the history—the fact that over twenty years ago Germany’s Volkswagen became the first foreign car manufacturer to enter the Chinese market, closely followed by General Motors Corp and later Japanese companies such as Honda, Suzuki and more recently Toyota.

And then he spoke of the problems—of how these foreign manufacturers faced two major struggles. The first in the form of stringent joint production quotas set by the Chinese government, which meant all foreign companies had to enter into agreements with local car makers who had little experience at running and maintaining large automobile manufacturing plants. And the second a reflection of the local market itself—and the fact that it was virtually nonexistent. Until recently, fewer than ten in 1000 Chinese people of a driving age owned a car and the prospects for a profitable local market looked grim.

Next came the good news—the impressive actuality that fresh research showed the rate of car purchases in China was growing at twenty percent per annum, with the forecast for such growth now stretching to the year 2020 and beyond. In other words, Nagoshi Inc. would be entering the industry at a time when manufacturers no longer had to export the great majority of the automobiles made cheaply in their increasingly experienced Chinese plants.