Филипп Марголин - The Perfect Alibi

At five thirty on a rainy Monday morning in October, Robin Lockwood ran the five miles from her apartment to McGill’s gym in Portland’s Pearl District. For decades, the Pearl had been home to dusty, decaying warehouses. Then the developers moved in. Overnight, most of the grimy, run-down buildings were replaced by gleaming high-end condos, trendy restaurants, and chic boutiques. McGill’s was on the ground floor of one of the few old, brick buildings that had escaped gentrification. It was dimly lit and filled with the rank odor you never found in modern, air-conditioned workout emporiums.

Barry McGill, the gym’s owner, was taciturn, monosyllabic, and profane. Rumor had it that he had mob connections, but people with any amount of common sense were too wise to ask him about it. Salt-and-pepper stubble sprouted on McGill’s fleshy jowls and whiskey-reddened cheeks. He’d fought as a middleweight in the 1980s and had the broken nose and scar tissue to prove it, but his days as a 165-pounder were long past, and the weight he carried in his gut, butt, and thighs had elevated him to the heavyweight division.

“Lockwood,” McGill called out when Robin walked in.

“Yeah?”

“See the kid slacking off at the heavy bag?”

A young man in his early twenties was hitting the bag with lackadaisical punches that barely made it move. Robin judged his weight at welter, around 147 pounds, slightly more than her 140, and she couldn’t see an ounce of fat on him.

“That’s Mitch Healy. He just won his first two MMA fights and his head is swelling. Want to take him down a peg?”

Robin was five feet eight inches, with a wiry build, blue eyes, high cheekbones, and short blond hair. She had earned some of her Yale Law School tuition fighting in mixed martial arts matches and had been ranked as high as ninth nationally. Her straight nose was a testament to her defensive skills as a cage fighter.

“In case you haven’t noticed,” Robin said, “that ‘kid’ is a man, and you just told me that he’s in training.”

“I never took Rockin’ Robin for a pussy,” McGill said, referring to Robin’s ring nickname and the old rock-and-roll song Robin’s fans would sing when she walked into the octagon.

“Fuck you, Barry,” Robin snapped back.

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think you could give him a hard time.”

Robin gave McGill a hard stare. He raised an eyebrow. Robin sighed.

“Are you gonna cover my dental work?” she asked.

“Fuck no,” McGill answered.

“You always were a cheap bastard.”

McGill grinned.

Robin went to the locker room to change.

“Hey, Mitch!” McGill shouted when Robin returned.

“Yeah?”

“Come over here. I got you someone to spar with.”

Healy looked around as he walked over. “Are they in the locker room?”

“Nah. She’s right in front of you.”

Healy looked at Robin. Then he laughed. “She’s a girl, Barry.”

“That’s one brilliant deduction. You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes.”

“I’m not sparring with a girl.”

“You see anyone else around? You been dancing with that bag for the past twenty minutes. Might as well dance with a flesh-and-blood female. Hell, maybe you can give her a few pointers.”

Healy hesitated. Then he gave Robin the once-over and shrugged. “Okay, let’s go.”

Robin had stopped fighting professionally after suffering a brutal knockout on a pay-per-view card in Las Vegas in her first year in law school, but she was still in great shape. Robin could see that Healy had no respect for her, which meant he would underestimate her. When they got on the mat, Robin started moving like a beginner, flicking out slow, sloppy jabs. Healy looked bored and he pawed at her unenthusiastically. Robin moved a little closer. Healy threw another lazy jab. Robin slid past it, spun behind him, threw one arm through his crotch, and encircled his waist with her other arm. Then she grasped the encircling arm with the hand that was between Healy’s legs and lifted him in the air. While Healy thrashed around, Robin aimed his head at the mat and drove him straight down. When he hit the mat, Robin wrapped her legs around him in a figure-four scissors and slapped on a choke hold. Healy struggled for a while, then tapped out.

Robin rolled off Healy and jumped to her feet. Healy sprang up. He looked furious. Robin circled and Healy charged. Robin counted on his anger clouding his judgment. She sidestepped the charge and landed a shot to Healy’s jaw that would have unhinged it if she hadn’t pulled the punch. Healy stumbled and Robin snapped a kick that landed on the side of Healy’s head. She pulled the kick, too, but it still sent Healy sideways.

“Okay, that’s enough!” McGill shouted.

Robin bounced out of range and Healy glared at her.

“I said, that’s enough, Mitch. Now, why don’t you start your workout again. And let’s put some effort in this time.”

McGill rarely complimented anyone, but he nodded at Robin. “Next month is a freebie,” he said as she took off her headgear and walked to the weights.

“Who the fuck was that?” Healy asked.

“A girly girl who just kicked your ass,” McGill answered.

Healy watched Robin for a second before turning back to McGill. “Is she single?”

Robin was still feeling pretty good an hour later, when she walked into the offices of Barrister, Berman & Lockwood. The firm took up one side of the tenth floor of a downtown high-rise, and the waiting room was decorated with glass coffee tables and comfortable sofas and armchairs.

After law school, Robin had gotten a clerkship with Stanley Cloud, the chief justice of the Oregon Supreme Court. When her clerkship ended, her boss had helped Robin get her dream job, a position as an associate with Regina Barrister, the queen of the Oregon criminal defense bar. Shortly after Robin was hired, Regina started showing signs of dementia while she was defending a complex death penalty case. When the case ended, Regina stopped practicing law and turned over her firm to Robin and Mark Berman, her other associate. Justice Cloud was Regina’s lover, and he had retired from the supreme court so they could travel the world while Regina still had the capacity to enjoy the journey.

As soon as Robin walked in, Linda Garrett, the firm’s receptionist, pointed at two women who were seated in the reception area. “They were waiting in the hall when I opened up,” Linda said. “They don’t have an appointment, but they want to see you.”

Robin studied the women. The contrast between them was dramatic. The younger woman looked to be in her late teens or early twenties. She was slender—gaunt, actually—like someone with an eating disorder.

The older woman was so obese that she barely fit in her chair. Fat rolled over the top of her stretch pants, and her doughlike arms and face were rounded and undefined.

The contrast extended to their posture. The younger woman curled up in her chair, and she looked as if she’d rather be anywhere else. The older woman leaned forward aggressively, her anger energizing her to the point where stillness became impossible.

“Hi, I’m Robin Lockwood. I understand you’d like to see me.”