Филипп Марголин - The Perfect Alibi

“Okay, well, thanks,” Jeff said as he stood up. “You’ve got my card. If you think of anything, give me a call.”

Rex Kellerman’s second wife let him keep the house when she divorced him. Her dentist boyfriend had a much bigger house. Besides, the house wasn’t anything to brag about. It was just a serviceable ranch in a decent middle-class neighborhood. The nicest feature was a back patio that had a view of the mountains. The rain had let up for a few days, and the weather had been unseasonably mild. When the detectives came to arrest him, Rex was on his patio nursing a glass of Scotch.

Even those who detested Kellerman agreed that he always looked as if he had just stepped out of a men’s fashion magazine. Not today. The man Carrie Anders and Roger Dillon found on the patio sported a ragged three-day growth, unwashed hair, and was dressed in a sweatshirt, a worn T-shirt, and soiled jeans.

Kellerman had stopped shaving and showering when the fifth firm he’d interviewed with told him that they thought he was a hell of an attorney, but they just weren’t hiring. That’s when the light went on. He was persona non grata. Someone had talked. How else could you explain the lack of interest in a lawyer who, Kellerman firmly believed, was one of the best litigators in the state?

The disgraced assistant district attorney was so deep in his sea of misery that he didn’t hear the detectives approach.

“Afternoon, Rex,” Dillon said.

Kellerman wrenched sideways, startled, almost spilling his drink. When the identity of his visitors registered in his soggy consciousness, he smiled. “Hey, Rog, Carrie. Pull up a chair. Wanna drink?”

“Not right now, Rex,” Carrie answered.

“Come on.” Kellerman extended his arm and pointed toward the perpetually snowy summit of Mt. Hood. “What’s the sense of having this view if you don’t take advantage of it? Pull up a chair, let me get you a drink, and let’s enjoy the day.”

“I’d love to, Rex,” Dillon said, “but we’re here on serious business.”

“Oh? What’s up?”

Dillon held out an official document and Rex read it. Then he laughed.

“Is this a joke, Rog? Did you and Carrie cook this up?”

“It’s no joke. We’re here to arrest you for the attempted murder of Doug Armstrong.”

Kellerman stared at the detective. Then he broke out laughing again. “Okay, who put you up to this?”

Carrie stepped in front of Kellerman and showed him her handcuffs. “It’s time for you to get serious, Rex.”

It suddenly registered that the detectives weren’t the only law enforcement personnel on his patio. Two burly cops had moved behind him.

Kellerman stood on shaky legs. “You are serious?”

“Please turn around and put your hands behind your back so I can cuff them. Roger, read Mr. Kellerman his rights.”

“It’s that bitch Cole, right.”

“I don’t want to use force. Please don’t resist,” Carrie said.

“All right, all right, but I am going to sue her ass. I was promised. Paul promised.”

Roger Dillon had read Rex his Miranda rights, but the detectives had not tried to question him, because they knew he wasn’t sober enough to waive them. Rex had sobered up a little as soon as it dawned on him that he was in handcuffs, in the back of a police car, charged with a crime serious enough to land him in prison.

Kellerman’s first instinct was to try to make the detectives understand how ridiculous the charges were, but he had been on the other side in enough interrogation rooms to know that talking to the police was the quickest way to kill any chance of being cleared. There was, however, one word he knew he had to say, and he said “Lawyer!” loud and clear. The detectives allowed him his call as soon as he was booked in.

Carrie made sure that Rex was put in isolation. She was afraid of what would happen to him if the inmates discovered a DA in their midst. Rex lay on his bunk, staring at the ceiling, too scared to sleep, even though he was certain that he would be released on bail when he was arraigned in the morning. Hell, the charges might even be dismissed. Who had ever heard of such a thing? Charging a district attorney with attempted murder for trying to bring a killer to justice? Vanessa was insane. She should be behind bars for even thinking of throwing him in jail for pursuing Armstrong. He would definitely sue her when this was over. He would get her disbarred. Thinking about bringing down the haughty bitch made Rex feel a little better, but his good mood soon faded when an inmate began screaming, prompting other inmates to howl like banshees.

When the guards restored order, Rex made a serious attempt at sleeping, but imagining everything that could go wrong kept him awake. What if he ended up in prison? No, that couldn’t happen. He’d hired Les Kreuger, and Les Kreuger was brilliant. The charge was as flimsy as a spider’s web, and Les would rip right through it. Rex took a deep breath. Everything was going to be okay. He was going to be okay. But what if…?

Blaine Hastings had been hiding in the bushes at the edge of the bar’s parking lot for an hour before the back door opened and a man staggered out. Several men and women had gone to their cars while he waited, but they had been in groups. He needed a lone drunk, and he got one just after one in the morning.

The man leaned over the driver’s door and made two unsuccessful attempts to insert his key into the door of an old Ford pickup. He was making his third attempt when Hastings hit him with a metal bar. As soon as the man collapsed on the asphalt, Hastings grabbed his wallet and ran. When he was far enough away from the bar to feel comfortable, he went through the wallet. There were thirty-four dollars and some credit cards. He took the cash and tossed the wallet with the cards into a Dumpster.

Hastings was very hungry. He’d been reduced to rolling drunks for cash because he didn’t dare use a credit card. He’d been sleeping on the street in Seattle and Tacoma. He couldn’t risk going to a shelter or a soup kitchen for fear of being identified.

This was his first evening back in Portland. He had gone to Mexico briefly and sent a letter to his parents, hoping it would be intercepted so the police would think he’d left the country, but he had planned to make his way back to Portland to kill Randi Stark, the lying bitch who was responsible for destroying his life.

After getting a burger, fries, and shake at a McDonald’s, Hastings made his way to the Starks’ house. He had spent a long time deciding what he would do when he got there. He was wearing a hairnet under a hoodie, and he’d shaved off his body hair in a gas station bathroom. He also had gloves and long sleeves to cut down on the possibility of leaving trace evidence for the cops to find.

When he got to the Stark residence, he would break in and beat the bitch and her mother to death. His only regret was that he’d have to kill them quickly. He would have loved to torture them for hours to avenge what they’d done to him. But the important thing was killing Randi.

Hastings had been to the house before, but the cops had been called and he’d had to run. This time he would be more careful. It took him three quarters of an hour to walk from the restaurant to the house. He noticed that there were no lights on. He tried the doors and found them locked. He didn’t think the Starks could afford an alarm system, so he broke a pane in the back-door window and waited a minute. When no alarm screeched, Hastings reached through the window and opened the door from the inside.

When he was inside, he crept up the stairs to Randi’s bedroom. He knew where it was because he’d seen Randi looking down at him the first time he’d been outside the house. He turned the doorknob slowly. Then he slid into the room. His hand closed on the iron bar he’d used to fell the drunk, and he walked to the bed. He wanted to stun Randi with the first blow so she could see who was going to beat her to death. Only he didn’t get the chance, because the bed was empty and neatly made.