David Bishop - The Original Alibi

“General, why?”

“For the past year I’ve been watching you and a few others drink, enjoying it vicariously. I’m sure Charles told you that the doctor estimates I’ve got maybe a week, give or take. So what the hell is drinking this going to do? Drink up, Matt. Let’s have one together.”

The general leaned forward, his glass in hand. I got up and leaned across his desk to clink our glasses together. Man’s ritual, born in ancient times and shared since without change other than an evolution from ceramic or pewter mugs to modern glass. I sat back down and watched him take in a modest sip. You could see it ease down his withered throat. His eyes closed. Then he smiled and uttered a slight, “ah,” the two expressions so close I couldn’t tell which preceded the other. Both expressed joy. A moment later, he opened his eyes and took a second sip, this time without the ritual.

“Now, as I was saying. The death of Cory Jackson argues that Eddie killed Ileana. He had to. My grandson knew I hired you to begin mucking about. You met with him. He saw in you a capable man who would be relentless. His killing Jackson eliminated the only person who saw him kill Ileana. There was no other evidence or witnesses who could connect him.”

“Yes, General, I’ve toyed with that thought myself. Still, there are a couple things arguing against it.”

“Such as?”

“Cory Jackson had already sworn to seeing Eddie. When the D.A. dismissed Jackson’s claim, in reliance on the testimony of Mr. and Mrs. Yarbrough and the retired school principal, Jackson’s eyewitness account was nullified. Jackson was no longer a significant threat.”

“What about those three witnesses? Have you talked with them? Confronted them?”

“Yes. The Yarbroughs admitted lying. They were coerced with threats of violence against other members of their family.”

“What? By whom?”

“They don’t know.”

“What about Flaherty?” the general asked while excitedly ringing his bell.

“Flaherty is solid. He is certain he saw Eddie in Buellton that night, just as he told Sergeant Fidgery eleven years ago. With Flaherty in his corner, Eddie should never again find the cops on his porch.”

“What’s your read on this Flaherty?”

“He was straight with me. He saw Eddie or believes he did. And if nothing has shaken that belief in eleven years, I don’t see him ever changing his mind.”

Two more light knocks preceded Charles entering with two more glasses. I took mine. Charles paused without stepping toward the general. “Damn, it, Charles, bring me my drink.”

Charles stepped toward him and leaned in, the tray just above the desktop. The general took the glass, licking some of the frost from the outside before taking a sip. His eyes were closed in pleasure as Charles latched the door shut. I waited until the general finished savoring the swallow, then he spoke.

“When the Yarbroughs recanted, it became Flaherty against Jackson and this Montoya fellow who claims he sold my grandson gas right after Ileana’s murder. No. It figures now that Eddie removed the only direct danger, the eyewitness.”

“General, you’re pulling a milk wagon with a race horse. Slow it down. The police see no connection between the murder of Ileana Corrigan and the killing of Cory Jackson. Jackson has a history of drug arrests, including one for selling. It appears he had cleaned up his addiction to drugs, but not to gambling. When he was killed he owed some bookies. Conjecture says it’s more likely those activities caused his death, totally unrelated to the murder of Ileana.”

“Are you telling me you think my grandson is innocent?”

“I’m not saying that either, General. Eddie could well be guilty. Eddie could well be innocent. I don’t know yet. Give it more time. Okay, General?”

After that I gave him more details about how the witnesses had been bribed to get Eddie arrested, and how the Yarbrough were set up to alibi Eddie, after the general paid the two million for the alibi.

The general didn’t speak, but he nodded, a new dose of hope showing in his eyes.

I got up to leave. With my hand on the doorknob, I turned back. “General, I’d like you to be around at the finish line. If you’d like to be, knock off the drinking.”

Reginald Franklin the third had an office in one of those high rise buildings all dressed up in glass and concrete. The kind that said step lightly, be respectful, I’ll be here long after the world has consumed your bones.

I leaned into the shiny, L-shaped chrome handle pushing open the glass door and entered the two-story lobby. From there I walked on a tan terrazzo floor to the bank of four elevators across from the gift shop. The directory on the wall before the elevators showed Franklin’s office to be on the seventh floor. Elevators spooked me, but I was running late so I decided to face my fear. I pressed the button for seven, then for four after being asked to do so by a young lady wearing a black and white polka dot dress with red heels and purse. Her hair looked like she had come to the building directly from her hairdresser. Her lipstick matched her purse and heels. She could have been a secretary, a wife, a professional in her own right, or a high-end hooker making an office call. I couldn’t tell. She looked over and casually wet her lips. Her tongue, several shades lighter than her lipstick, appeared bumpy along the side I could see. She wore no wedding ring. I couldn’t tell her age closer than early thirties maybe. The modern woman could be asked if she was wearing a bra, but it remained tacky to ask her age, so my guess would have to do. I considered telling her I was a writer, not telling her I had been in prison, and asking for a lunch date. At the fourth floor, she got out before glancing back. I fumbled in my pocket, and then extended my hand holding one of my business cards. My arm aborted the door’s effort to close our relationship before it opened. She took the card, looked at it, then at me, then again at the card, then the elevator door closed on her smile. I had no idea how to reach her. It would be up to her whether this had been one of life’s vignettes or the start of something big.

I like women who make the first move, although this strategy, if it can be called a strategy, can result in long periods of celibacy.

Franklin’s office was no less grand than the building lobby except it lacked the two-story ceiling. The built-in front counter and desk combination was backed up by a lady with her hair stacked on top of her head and held there by a couple of those things that look like chopsticks. She was no less pretty than the lady in the elevator. Her outfit held no polka dots, but she did have cleavage. You know me well enough by now to realize that I would trade polka dots for cleavage any day. What man wouldn’t? I mean, I like Polka dots, but it’s no contest. After four years in a prison of men, I no longer took my appreciation for the female form for granted, honoring it at every sighting. I gave her my name and took a seat in the lobby hoping that Franklin and I would become great friends so I would have a reason to frequently visit this building. There are so many lovely ladies assaulting your senses at every turn. It’s like wanting an apple and waking in an orchard.

After a few minutes, Franklin came out to get me. I recognized him. He recognized me, although Charles had made that easier by calling ahead to remind the attorney that the general wanted everyone to fully cooperate with me. Keep no secrets from good old Uncle Matthew, especially anything you know that might shed light on who murdered Ileana Corrigan.

After chatting back and forth about everything and nothing, we took coffee in china cups brought in by the cleavage from the front counter. Styrofoam in this office would be a crime punishable by banishment from the ranks of the employed.