The Original Alibi (Matt Kile) (17 page)

Chapter 21

I had taken last night off to have dinner with my ex-wife and our two daughters. That event had been scheduled before I took the assignment for General Whittaker. Back when we set it up, last night had been the only night both our daughters would be home from college and had nothing else they had to do. Rose and Amy, were adults, but of the ages when parents were scheduled in amongst gal pals and love interests.

The evening with them had been pleasant, but not altogether a good night. Don’t misunderstand, seeing my daughters had been an absolute joy. Still, when we are all together things seem, I don’t know, off center, somehow. It had been that way since the divorce and my getting out of prison. Not the easy way it had always been when we lived together as a real family. We all knew those days were behind us. Our daughters wanted Helen and me to be together again. At least that was my read of their feelings on the matter. Yet my ex just couldn’t get over the hump. What I did, shooting the guy, going to prison for it, well, she feels I deserted her, abandoned our family. My pardon meant the state had forgiven me. Helen had not. I understood, sort of.

I’m not sorry I shot the scum. I wish my doing it could be explained with John Wayne’s line: a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. But I doubted Helen would take advice from The Duke. The thug had killed children and their mother, after raping her, and walked out of court free on a technicality. I’m sorry for the impact my flushing that waste had on my family. He deserved to die. About that I’m not sorry. Life is complicated.

After getting home, I sat out on the patio and had an Irish, several actually, but then I stopped. Drinking doesn’t drown your problems, it teaches them to swim.

*

I awoke at seven to find Axel had already left to meet up with Buddha and get on the trail of Eddie Whittaker. They had to relieve the graveyard man at eight. When Axel had asked if I could get along without him around in the mornings, I had looked at him like, “are you kidding me?” He had only been with me a short while, but here I am missing his having made coffee. Don’t tell him that. It’s amazing how quickly we become spoiled. I thought about going to see Clarice at the end of the hall. She would have coffee on, but that woman is a major distraction. I would have stuck around for more than coffee and I needed to get back on the job.

My first stop was a convenience market a few blocks from our condo building. I got a big cup of black coffee and before I got back on the road I had taken my first sip. It hurt, too hot. My mouth protested against it not being Axel’s coffee. A block and two sips later, my stomach voted with my mouth. While stopped at the next intersection, I opened my door and poured it on the pavement. The empty cup went into the dashboard holder until I could find a place for its permanent interment.

Some days you’re the pigeon, some days you’re the statue. So far, today I was a statue. Chunky wouldn’t have the DNA results until the end of the day. I saw the DNA bit as an effort designed to support my claim that I had followed up on even the remote.

I jumped on the interstate and headed toward Buellton to find Michael Flaherty, the retired middle-school principal who had testified seeing Eddie Whittaker in the Pea Soup restaurant in Buellton. He and the Yarbroughs, but the Yarbroughs had rescinded their testimony. I needed to know if this would be true as well for Principal Flaherty.

Through online snooping, Axel had found very little on Michael Flaherty. The man was divorced and lived alone in a tract home with a backyard swimming pool. He was sixty-four, having taken retirement two years earlier with a twenty-year school system pension and reduced Social Security benefits. He had paid enough into Social Security during the years before being employed by the school.

I found Flaherty’s address without difficulty, and guessed the man drove the blue Ford Taurus which sat partway back in the driveway next to a side door, the kind which, on this vintage house usually accessed the kitchen. His car, I figured, because visitors usually parked on the street, as I did, or in the driveway nearer the front of the house. The driveway went all the way back to a detached garage. As I got closer I saw a St. Louis Rams decal in the rear window of his car. The Rams had left Los Angeles many years ago and moved to St. Louis. Flaherty appeared to be a man with a sense of loyalty. I knocked on the front door.

“Can I help you?”

“You Michael Flaherty?”

“That’s me. What do ya need?”

Flaherty would be my countryman, speaking ancestrally, but like me he had no accent. Two Irishmen unknowingly brought to America through the emigration of prior generations. I wondered if he had remained loyal to his homeland in some manner, perhaps, like myself, by favoring Irish whiskey. He could not drink scotch, not while claiming to be a respectable Irishman.

“My name is Matt Kile. I’m a PI, ah, private investigator. I’m working an eleven-year old murder, Ileana Corrigan. Do you recall that killing?”

“Please come in.” He held the screen open. “I’ve never met a private detective before. How do I figure in this?”

I studied his face, his eyes, and then said, “Eddie Whittaker.” He remembered that name. “You testified seeing him in a restaurant here in town.”

“Yeah, in Pea Soup Anderson’s, late dinnertime. I don’t recall much more than that. It’s been a good while, ya know.” He motioned toward the couch and sat in an upright recliner across from me.

“How can you be sure, now? After eleven years, I wouldn’t remember having seen some stranger. Heck, I might not remember after eleven minutes.”

“I saw his picture in the paper a couple days after the murder. He had been arrested. As for remembering, it’s not every day a guy gets involved in a murder investigation, ya know?” I nodded. “I had to speak up. As it turned out, Whittaker did me a good turn.”

“A good turn?”

“That whole thing led to my divorce the following year. This last ten years have been the happiest of my life, well, the happiest since before the old lady and I got hitched.”

“I don’t see the connection,” I said while looking up at a bar type mirror on the side wall that featured the logo for Jamison’s Irish.

“My old lady said, ‘Don’t get involved.’ I told her she wasn’t, I was. I’m the only one who saw Whittaker. But she liked controlling everything and she said, ‘stay out of it, Michael.’ She always called me Michael when she was ticked about anything. Bitch.”

Flaherty and I were both Irish, both drank our nation’s whiskey, and both divorced. Apparently, we felt differently about our ex-wives. These kinds of similarities can only carry so far.

“So, you ignored Mrs. Flaherty and came forward?”

“Had to. You know someone is innocent of a crime you can’t just sit back and let them go to prison for it. No, sir, I had no choice. That’s how I saw it.” I nodded.

“Mr. Kile, I had just finished making a sandwich when you rang the doorbell. Can I make you one?” I politely said no. “Well, come along while I get mine. We can sit out back by the pool. Can I interest you in a beer?” I politely said yes. We walked through the kitchen and out back to a table and four chairs under a shading umbrella near the deep end of the pool.

“A few days ago, in the paper, I saw a small story about a guy found shot dead on the beach by the name of Cory Jackson. As I recall, he was somehow involved in that Whittaker matter. You stopping to see me got anything to do with this Jackson guy getting put down?”

“Cory Jackson was the fellow who claimed he saw Eddie Whittaker kill Ileana Corrigan. Then another guy, who worked at a gas station a few miles away from the murder scene, said he sold Eddie gas. It was your testimony and that of Mr. and Mrs. Yarbrough which resulted in Eddie being released from the charge of murder.”

“I remember now,” Flaherty said. “Was this Jackson killed because of having testified? Am I in any jeopardy as well?”

“The police don’t draw a connection behind Jackson’s death the other night and his testimony eleven years ago. His testimony against Eddie was muted so I don’t rightly see how someone could be angry enough about that to wait eleven years and then kill him. If he, and you for that matter, were in any danger because of that, it would have come calling much sooner. People who are intense enough to kill rarely wait eleven years to act on their anger. An exception might be if that someone was in prison for those years, but no one went to prison. The death of Ileana Corrigan remains unsolved.”

Over his sandwich and our beers we talked about the case for another hour. He didn’t remember the name Tommie Montoya, and did not recall ever having heard about Cliff the chauffeur. He did remember Fidge, describing him as a very large man, not overly fat, just big, with a tiny mustache. Of course he knew of the general, but then so did most of America’s citizens who weren’t brain dead.

I kept leaving the case and talking about whatever, he also had two daughters and no son, and then abruptly returning to the case. I asked him various questions separated by other discussion to see if his answers matched up. They did and Flaherty remained at ease through the whole thing. A CIA counterterrorist expert in deep cover might have pulled off such an act, but not a retired middle school principal. It was my judgment that Michael Flaherty had either seen Eddie Whittaker or truly believed he had.

Driving out of Buellton, I admitted that if Flaherty had really seen Eddie Whittaker as he believed, then Eddie had to be innocent of the murder of Ileana Corrigan. So, the unanswerable question of the day became, did Michael Flaherty really see Eddie Whittaker in the Buellton restaurant, or did he simply mistake him for someone else he did see?

*

It was five of five when I pulled into the lot in front of the building where Chunky had his testing lab. A lady working in the lab said Chunky had left to deliver something, but that there was an envelope for me in case I came in before he got back. Back in my car I pulled it open to find several pages paper clipped behind a hand written note from Chunky, both were attached to one of my books. “It was good to see you again, Matt. Don’t be a stranger.” Then a P.S. “Forgot to tell you, my wife loves your novels. When I told her you were coming by, she insisted I bring this one down and ask you to autograph it.”

Right then, I heard a knock on the rear fender of my car. It was Chunky. He had just pulled in after making his delivery. I motioned him around to the passenger door. He got in.

“I see you got the book. I’ll get no sweet time for a month if you don’t sign that thing.”

“Well,” I smiled and nodded, “we can’t be letting that happen can we?” I got her name and wrote an inscription to her, signed it, and gave it to Chunky.

“I owe you, Matthew.”

“What’s this Matthew stuff? You been talking to Fidge?” He laughed. “Seriously, it’s my pleasure. I appreciate your wife reading my books. It is I who owe her.”

*

Two hours later, back at home, I went out to sit on the patio with some Irish and Chunky’s report on the DNA samples I had obtained from Karen Whittaker’s sleepover, and from General Whittaker’s bathroom.

Chapter 22

Fidge called to say the department had officially drawn the conclusion that the murder of Cory Jackson was not connected to the Ileana Corrigan case eleven years before. As soon as I hung up, my oldest daughter, Rose, called to say her mother had cried after I left following dinner at their home.

I wanted to call Helen, tell her I hoped she had not cried because of me. I didn’t want to be the reason for her being sad, but I guess I was. When in hell will that woman forgive me? After pouring a cup of coffee, I dumped it in the sink, turned off the pot, tossed Chunky’s still unread report on the counter and went out. I was hungry and didn’t feel like preparing anything at home, there wasn’t much to prepare even if I did. The truth was my daughter’s call had rattled my cage and I couldn’t sit still.

It would have been a good morning to have Axel around. Many nights he had indulged me in our cell while I talked about Helen. Why she had never come to see me, whether some day she might. It would appear the governor’s pardon had no impact on the sentence she had given me. She would keep me emotionally incarcerated as long as she felt it appropriate. I doubted she knew any more than I how long that might be.

In the lobby I ran into Clara Birnbaum, an old maid retired elementary schoolteacher with dried crust on her personality. She lived three doors down from Axel’s small condo on the floor below mine. We were both there to pick up our mail. Axel had been doing some grocery shopping for her. When he picked up our mail, he got hers as well and dropped it off at her condo. This morning he left before the mail carrier arrived so Clara and I both made our own mail runs. Maybe Axel was becoming indispensable, certainly Clara would say so. In return, Clara had promised Axel she would bake us a pie every other week, whatever kind we wanted on condition Axel bought the fixings.

I explained why Axel didn’t get her mail. Clara replied, “Then why didn’t you pick it up for me, Mr. Matthew Kile?”

“Well, I don’t know, Clara. I just didn’t think about it I guess, Axel not being here and all. Besides, Axel offered to get the mail for you, I didn’t.”

“In return I baked an apple pie and promised to bake a pie every other week, apple, cherry or cream. Did you eat part of the apple pie and do you plan on eating some of the future pies, Matthew?”

“Well, yes, ma’am, I do.”