Alibi Read online

“They told us, Jay,” said David, looking back at his lumbering friend. “It’s a one-off. The freshmen have the field for the rest of the afternoon for some sort of orientation thing.”

  “Since when do a pack of wet-eared freshies take precedent over alumni?” asked Negley.

  “Seems to me you asked the same question in reverse about seventeen years ago,” said David.

  “Yeah, well, at least I’m consistent.” Jay grinned.

  “Anyway, Negley,” piped in Tony Bishop, who was definitely looking fitter than most of his maroon-and-yellow-jerseyed teammates, “no one asked you to pub crawl with your public defender buddies until three a.m.”

  “It was the boss’s birthday. What are ya gonna do?”

  “Work isn’t everything,” said Bishop as they reached the halfway line—a comment that sent David and Jay into fits of laughter considering Bishop, the blue-chip corporate attorney with a big harbor-view office and a paycheck to match, had built an entire lifestyle out of working as many $500-plus billable hours as possible.

  “What?” said Bishop blank-faced before releasing one of his killer smiles. “All right, you got me there, boys.”

  The scrum packed down hard with the usual grunt of testosterone, David and Tony taking their positions in the back row, with Jay—a front row prop—locking shoulders with the equally brawny boys from Northeastern.

  The Northeastern halfback fed the ball into the scrum and watched and waited for his teammates to boot it back for the inside center to receive out the other end and put the ball into play. But Jay managed to hook the ball with his right foot and send it in the other direction, back toward Tony and the rest of the Boston College pack. It was a good move. In a game like rugby, possession was everything. Now if only they could . . .

  Just then a beeping noise cut through the grunts with a sharp high-pitched squeal—and Tony, who obviously felt the vibration of his pager in his right pocket, lost concentration, collapsing the scrum in one almighty heap.

  “Shit!” he said as the ref gave a penalty to the other team. “Shit!” he said again as he read the look of frustration in his fellow teammates’ eyes. “Sorry, boys,” he said as he got to his feet just as the hooter sounded for halftime.

  “So work isn’t everything, hey Bishop?” teased Negley, catching up to his two friends as they left the field for the much needed ten-minute break. “At least I do my sucking up on my own time. Not in the middle of the first game of the season, against one of the better teams in this goddamned . . .”

  “What is it?” asked David, interrupting his speak-before-he-thinks friend. They stopped on the sideline, David grabbing three water bottles from an assortment of iced drinks in a cooler at the edge of the field.

  “What the . . . ,” said Tony, finally getting a chance to read the message on his pager screen. “I don’t believe this.”

  “What’s going on?” asked David again.

  “A client—a big client. His kid has just been murdered.”

  “Murdered? Who?” asked David.

  “John Nagoshi’s kid.”

  “Of Nagoshi Incorporated?” asked Jay.

  “Yeah. His daughter’s a student at Deane, a real looker too . . . I mean, she was a good-looking kid before . . . Shit! I gotta go.”

  “Now hold on, dude,” said Negley. “I’m sorry for the girl and all, but since when do the victims need lawyers? Isn’t that the DA’s job?”

  “Not when the dead girl’s father is CEO and majority share-holder of a multibillion-dollar corporation. When this gets out, the share price could plummet, and believe me this is not one client you want to . . .” Tony was obviously thinking out loud.

  “So where are you going?” asked David, watching Bishop collect his things.

  “Home to shower and change, and then to the office—the partners want to brainstorm.”

  “On the girl’s murder, or its financial repercussions?” asked David, unable to help himself. The debate of dollars versus morality in their chosen profession was an ongoing one between him and his fellow law school alumni.

  Tony said nothing, just rolled his eyes. “Either way, you guys are gonna have to manage without me.”

  “Jesus, Bishop,” said Negley. “You’re gonna pay for this.”

  “Nah,” said Bishop. “Sad but true fact, my man, as of now I am billing Mr. Nagoshi his usual rate. Sorry, guys,” he said again. “But them’s the breaks in the big bad world of corporate reality.”

  And then he slapped David on the back and punched Negley in the arm before racing across the field, jumping into his 911 convertible and taking off like his life depended on it.

  5

  “Lieutenant Mannix, Detective McKay,” said the middle-aged butler with the Japanese-British accent. “My name is Harold Sumi. Please come in. Mr. Nagoshi is expecting you. I shall tell him you are here.”

  The first thing Joe noted was that the man knew exactly who they were. The second was that he greeted them more like at tendees at an executive conference than homicide detectives about to partake in the details of a young girl’s murder. And the third was that Mr. Sumi was focusing on their shoes, his head making a slight sideways gesture toward the front sandstone steps beside them. It was true, their shoes were a little muddied from their walk in the garden and this discreet gesture was obviously an “invitation” to remove their footwear before proceeding into the house.

  Joe stepped back outside and looked down to see a number of other pairs placed neatly by the doorway—two pairs of worn, black Boston PD uniform issue (the shoeless officers would be doing a routine check of the house to look for any signs of breaking and entering, theft and so forth), and a shiny dark brown pair made from expensive Italian leather. Mannix and McKay discarded their footwear, Frank carefully placing his in symmetry with the other shoes that were lined up like sentries just to the side of the enormous double front doors, and they moved into the entryway, which was a large, limestone floored area with a double-vaulted ceiling.

  The furnishings were a mixture of Asian and Western—cool-colored antique vases sitting on expensive classical European side tables, intricate Japanese artwork hanging over authentic handwoven Middle Eastern rugs, subtle modern downlights complemented by more traditional lantern-style wall illuminations. The effect was rich but not cluttered, ordered but not austere, cultured but not alienating. In other words, it screamed of good taste, international sophistication and an interior designer’s budget from heaven.

  Mr. Sumi bowed again before leading them across the entrance hall to the two hand-carved double doors, which he gently pushed aside to reveal an extensive living area, larger than the entire bottom floor of Joe Mannix’s heavily mortgaged four bedroom colonial in West Roxbury.

  The decor in this larger room was just as impressive—and, despite the massive oriental-style chandelier that hung above them, humble in some way. It was as if all the trappings of Mr. Nagoshi’s obvious wealth were symbolic of a gratitude for his good fortune, as if this man took nothing for granted, and appreciated quality over abundance and humility over the grandiose.

  “Detectives,” said John Nagoshi, who excused himself from what was obviously a private conversation with a silver-haired, shoeless man in an expensive European suit, to walk swiftly across the room to meet them.

  Nagoshi was of medium height, slim build with short dark hair showing not a trace of gray. His steps were light, his manner gracious, but the entire package said “confidence” to Joe, which was a strange first impression given the man’s only daughter had been strangled to death just hours before.

  “Mr. Nagoshi,” said Joe, extending his hand and for some reason feeling an unusual level of vulnerability in the man’s presence—particularly without his shoes. “I am Lieutenant Mannix and this is my fellow homicide detective, Frank McKay.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Nagoshi, bowing slightly as he shook Frank’s hand. “Do come in, detectives. Take a seat, please. This is my attorney, Mr. Gareth Coolidge of Williams,
Coolidge and Harrison.” Joe and Frank shook the attorney’s hand.

  “And my son, Peter,” he said, gesturing toward a serious-faced young man sitting in an armchair at the far corner of the room. Peter Nagoshi nodded without bothering to get up, so Joe and Frank simply raised a hand in acknowledgment.

  “Can I offer you some refreshments?” asked Nagoshi as the detectives took their seats.

  “A coffee. Black, if that’s okay,” said Joe.

  “Same, but with milk and three sugars.” McKay bowed, and Joe wondered if it was contagious. Mr. Sumi immediately left the room.

  All of these social graces were making Mannix nervous. He had seen plenty of unconventional reactions to murder, but this was not a morning tea, nor a civilized business meeting. It was a post-mortem interview following the host’s daughter’s death.

  “Mr. Nagoshi,” he began, now anxious to get started. “We are sorry for your loss but often the period immediately following a serious criminal offense such as this one is critical. Fresh crime scenes provide the most reliable evidence, and I am afraid the same goes for post-crime interviews.”

  “I believe you are right about the importance of haste, Lieutenant Mannix, and you can obviously appreciate my level of dedication to solving this matter.”

  Mannix said nothing. He had never heard a parent refer to a child’s murder in such a way before.

  “Right,” said Joe, clearing his throat. “So as you can appreciate, I need to ask some questions—of you and your son and your wife, and anyone else who lives in, or was here, at your house last night.”

  Nagoshi nodded. “Peter and I are at your service, Lieutenant, but my wife passed away seven years ago.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t . . .”

  “No need to apologize, Lieutenant. It was after her death that we moved to the United States—to New York. We have an apartment there where my company has its American headquarters, and six years ago I purchased this home here in Wellesley so that I might be close to my children while they attend university.”

  “And Peter,” Joe said, raising his voice a little so that the young man, who had made no attempt to join the group around the coffee table at the center of the room, might hear him. “You were home last night?”

  “Yes,” said Peter Nagoshi, still not moving an inch. “I have my own private study adjoining my bedroom. I was working for much of the evening.”

  Joe noted the boy’s accent was even stronger than his father’s.

  “And you did not hear or see anything untoward?”

  “No,” he said, before looking at his watch and returning his arm to his lap once again.

  Joe stole a glance at Frank, who raised his eyebrows ever so slightly in return.

  “I am sorry,” said Nagoshi then, and Joe was not sure if he was apologizing to him for his son’s standoffish behavior or to his son for holding him up. “I am afraid Peter has some rather urgent business calls to make on my behalf, so if you will excuse him briefly I am sure he will make himself available to answer any further questions as soon as the calls are completed.”

  Joe nodded as a determined Peter Nagoshi stood and left the room.

  “I hope you do not object to my attorney being present during these interviews,” John Nagoshi went on, gesturing at Coolidge who had made himself at home on an antique embroidered armchair.

  “No, sir,” said Joe, because at this point there was nothing else he could say.

  “All right then.”

  “Okay,” said Joe, shifting in his seat. “I need you to tell me as much as possible about your daughter, Mr. Nagoshi—and more specifically what you know to have been her movements in the past twenty-four hours. Do not discount anything as insignificant or too trivial to divulge,” Joe went on. “And please make sure your answers are completely frank and devoid of any family censorship, which of course is a natural response when trying to protect the memory of a child.”

  Mannix met Nagoshi’s eye but saw nothing but intense concentration.

  “Please be assured,” Joe continued, “that any sensitive information you share will be treated with the utmost discretion, but also know that if our investigation requires us to dig up some family dirt, then that is just the way it’s got to be. In return I can assure you we will do anything and everything within our power to find Jessica’s killer.” They had been in the room for almost fifteen minutes and this was the first time anyone had said her name. “And that, Mr. Nagoshi, is a promise.”

  “I understand, Lieutenant,” said Nagoshi without hesitation. “You did not know my daughter so I appreciate you might assume there may be some . . . ah . . . dirt to be excavated. That will not be the case, but regardless of this, I can assure you, we are at your service.” Nagoshi nodded again. “Please proceed.”

  And so it began.

  6

  Three hours later, just as the “freshies” were “taking over” the Boston College fields, another first-year orientation ceremony was taking place on the hallowed grounds of Deane. And impressive they were.

  Deane University—named after the Massachusetts-born and -educated Nobel Prize winner Richard Cleaver Deane and spread over some four hundred acres of stately pines and rolling hills—was located in Wellesley, only twelve miles from downtown Boston. Cited as one of the “Most Beautiful Campuses in the Country” by the respected Princeton Review, the university was built around a surprisingly clear lake where canvasback ducks and black swans cruised under wooden bridges beside the whitewashed gazebos that dotted the extensive grounds like ornaments. The labs and lecture halls were housed in historic redbrick buildings with freshly painted shutters and granite entryways. Every classroom was fitted out with the latest technological facilities, and every dorm took in a view of what could only be described as “College Utopia.”

  Today’s little “do” was being held in the School of Law’s main reception hall, where the large glass bifold doors had been slid aside to their perimeters, allowing the sunshine and fresh air to flood into the sanctified meeting place. Here first-year law students could show the appropriate degree of awe at the wood paneled, honor roll-decorated walls, and older students, academia and trustee members could congratulate them for being among the privileged “chosen few.”

  “I am sure you have all read the blurb,” said the Law School’s dean, Brian Johns, who was standing at the ornate black oak lectern, front and center and elevated on a stage at the top of the room, “that Deane University is a premier private liberal University featuring highly selective undergraduate and graduate programs in numerous areas of the arts and sciences, business and law. But Deane—and its highly respected law school in particular—is more than that, as you are about to discover.

  “True, you are 500 of the 5000 who applied, many of you having already completed an undergraduate degree at Deane, and others gracing our very special campus for the very first time. True, you come from colleges where you were ranked as some of the most academically gifted in the country, and true your Law School Admission Test scores were some of the best in the nation.

  “You have achieved with the best of them and therefore deserve the best from us—and you shall receive it, in the form of state-of-the-art amenities, technologically advanced research facilities and, most importantly, a faculty made up of some of the most brilliant academics ever to come together with one all-important common goal.”

  Johns paused for effect, his jolly round face flush with the wonderment of it all.

  “We are determined to give you—and our statistics tell us we will give you—every chance of graduating to become leaders in your chosen fields and trailblazers for those who follow. But . . . ” Johns took a breath, obviously savoring the silence in the overcrowded room, continued, “more importantly, you are now members of the Deane School of Law family—a family dedicated to nurturing good citizenship, compassion and all-around decent Americans dedicated to using their already considerable talents and soon-to-be accumulated skills for
the betterment of themselves, their family, their fellow students, their country and the international community as a whole. These are the qualities we seek in you . . .”

  “Along with about seventy grand in fees and another big fat bundle in ‘compulsory donations,’ ” whispered Heath Westinghouse into James Matheson’s ear.

  “And I know you will not disappoint us,” finished Johns as the crowd clapped and cheered enthusiastically before moving outside to enjoy a sumptuous afternoon tea on the expansive lakeside lawns.

  “What a load of crap,” said Matheson, who had been dragged by Heath to this beginning of semester routine. “Why the hell did I agree to skip kayak practice in favor of this nauseating sales pitch?” he asked, grabbing a fresh apricot pastry from a white tableclothed trestle.

  “Because you are my friend, and my father is on the Board of Trustees and he is partner in one of the most respected law firms in Boston, and you are third-year law, and . . .”

  “Yeah well, after this afternoon I am not sure I want to spend my life in an office next to you, Westinghouse,” said Matheson, who had just completed a summer internship at his friend’s father’s prestigious firm, practically guaranteeing him a permanent position with the blue-chip establishment when he graduated next spring. “And besides, like I told you last night, David Cavanaugh offered to help me out with my studies. Maybe he’ll convince me to go with criminal law instead of . . .”

  “Cavanaugh may be your goddamned hero, Matheson, but something tells me the close to six-figure first-year income my dad will be offering might convince you that there is more money in live bodies than dead ones,” said his tall, blond-haired friend looking out at the picturesque scene before them.

  “Well, Mr. Westinghouse,” said James in his best Boston Brahmin accent, “if I wasn’t such an honest man, I would take offense at such a comment.”

  “Who’s taking offense?” said a well-dressed, pale-skinned, red-haired young man from behind them.

  “No one,” said Matheson, shaking his friend H. Edgar Simpson’s hand. “Heath just called me superficial. That’s all.”