Don't Kill The Messenger (11 page)

Fogle continues. “I’ve got you with no alibi. No one to put you anywhere else at the time the bomb was placed.”

I see it in Rebecca’s eyes that she wants to be that alibi, but she can’t risk saying that she was with me beforehand. Then, something else appears in her expression, an idea, maybe.

“Wait a second,” she interrupts. “You said
at the time the bomb was placed.
How do you know what time the bomb was placed?”

“It was triggered by the car’s ignition,” Fogle explains. “And we know he was at the health club three hours earlier, so he couldn’t have been parked on that street for more than three hours. The bomb had to be placed after he parked it there. So we have a range of time.”

“That’s it,” she says. “That’s it. Tristan, give me your credit card.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Just trust me.”

I pull out my wallet. “Which card?”

“Whichever one you’ve used today.”

I pull out the gold MasterCard I used to buy meals and pay for hotels, and hand it to her. She takes it and hands it directly to Fogle. “Detective, please call the bank’s customer service number. Tell them who you are, and ask them for a detailed transaction record for the past twenty-four hours. You’ll see that the card was used in person to buy meals in central Florida during the timeframe when the bomb was placed. Please, Detective. This is the evidence my client needs to establish an alibi.”

Fogle looks at her and at the card. “Give me a few minutes,” he says, and then he leaves the room.

Once he is gone, Rebecca turns to face me, positively aglow. “Ta da!” she beams.

“Ta da?” I repeat.

“This is it. This is your alibi. You were nowhere near Atlanta during those hours, and the credit card records will prove it. He’ll have to let you go.”

“Credit cards can be used by phone or online,” I remind her. “This might not be the alibi you’re hoping for.”

“The bank keeps a record of whether the card was used in person or electronically. Once they find out you were nowhere near Atlanta at the time, you’ll be set.”

Now I’m officially impressed. “You really know what you’re doing.”

“Kinda cool, isn’t it? You saved me, I saved you. Now we’re even.”

“With all due respect to your optimism, I’ll wait until Fogle comes back and tells me I’m free to go.”

Three minutes later, the door opens and Fogle walks in with my credit card in hand. “You’re free to go,” he says to me.

I can’t believe it. “What?”

“Ms. Traeger was right. Your credit card usage means you weren’t in Atlanta when this happened, so you can’t be held for murder. Your status has been changed to ‘person of interest in this case.’”

Flattering as that sounds …
“What does that mean?” I ask. “What happens next?”

“It means you don’t have to remain in custody tonight,” he says. “You’ll need to stay in Atlanta overnight, while we look into a few more things. I’ll also want a phone number where you can be reached tonight if we have questions.” I write my cell number down and hand it to him. I have to pause a moment to remember the number; I almost never use the thing.

“In the morning,” he continues, “I want you to give me a call at this number.” He hands me his business card. “At that point, I’ll tell you if you’re clear to be on your way.”

“Thank you, Detective,” I say to him.

“There’s still some things I want to know,” he tells me. “Top of the list is how you knew this was going to happen, and how you knew to be there just in time.”

“It’s nothing I can explain,” I tell him honestly. “Sometimes I just know what’s going to happen to people, and I try to keep it from happening.”

“Tell me this,” he says, “am I going to live to see retirement?”

I reach out and take hold of his left forearm with my hand, looking deeply and intently into his eyes. Five seconds pass, then ten. A sober look crosses my face. “No,” I say quietly. “I’m sorry, but you won’t.”

With that, Rebecca and I leave the interrogation room and make our way toward the exit, through the squad room. “That was freaky,” she says to me. “You mean to say you actually know that Fogle is going to die before retirement?”

“No,” I answer calmly, “I can’t see that kind of thing.”

She looks confused. “Then why did you—?”

“I just don’t like the guy.”

She tries hard to contain her astonished laughter. “You are
so evil!
” she says.

“Thank you. I was hoping you might not say that quite so loud as we’re leaving the police station where I’ve just been released as a murder suspect.”

“Oh, sorry. Good point.”

Chapter 8
 

It feels good to be back in the fresh air outside of the police station. Though I know I am innocent and the department’s case is weak, I also know that innocent men have gone to prison … or worse … for crimes they didn’t commit. Rebecca has saved my bacon.

“Long night, huh?” she says.

“Long
day,
” I reply.

“Well, we have to stay in Atlanta. You want to find a little place to spend the night?”

“No,” I say. “I want to find a big place to spend the night.”

Tonight is all about a good night’s sleep, after everything that’s happened today. Rebecca leads us to the parking garage where she stashed the Sebring; we pay the car’s ransom and drive about a mile to the Atlanta Hilton downtown. I don’t even care what it costs. Tonight I need comfort, elegance, and cleanliness.

I park under the overhang outside of the office, and we both walk up to the reception desk. A very proper, very pleasant-looking woman greets us. “Welcome to the Hilton. Checking in?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Do you have a reservation?” she asks.

“No,” I reply, “but we’re hoping you have two rooms …”

Rebecca quickly interrupts. “One room. We just need one room, with two queen beds, if you have it.” I look at her with curiosity and surprise, and she says to me, “I want to be there, in case something happens. A call or a new assignment.”

“Are you sure?” I ask her.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

The desk clerk checks the computer and finds what we’re looking for. “Just one night?”

“To start with, yes,” I reply.

“It’s 279 for the night,” she says. She could have said ten thousand and I would have agreed to it.

I bring out my gold MasterCard, the card that kept me from having considerably grimmer accommodations tonight, and hand it to her. She runs the card and presents me with the form to fill out.

“I hope you enjoy your stay with us tonight,” she says sincerely.

“I think it’s a pretty safe bet,” I answer.

Ten minutes later, the Sebring is in a proper parking spot, and Rebecca and I are in our sixteenth-floor room, with a view of downtown Atlanta greeting us through the window. The room is immaculate and even smells good. A mini-bar refrigerator holds the promise of indulgent, overpriced goods, and I want every single one of them.

Rebecca gravitates to the window. “Look at this view!” she gushes.

“I’m just happy for a window with no bars on it,” I tell her. “And I have you to thank for that. You were pretty incredible back there.”

She bobs her head, grinning a bit. “Yeah, I kinda was, wasn’t I?”

“So will you continue on with law when you go back to school?”

She is caught off guard by the question. “I really hadn’t thought about it. I suppose I will. With everything that’s gone on the past two days, I kind of put school out of my mind. Still, it felt good to use what I learned.”

“Definitely an A-plus on your practical exam tonight.” With that, I go to my briefcase and open it. I reach inside and discreetly get what I need. Once it’s finished, I tear it out and hold the piece of paper out to her. “I want you to have this,” I tell her.

Quite surprised, she looks at the check. “Five thousand dollars? Are you kidding me?”

“Not in the least. I figure that’s fair recompense for keeping me out of prison. I assure you, my attorney would get at least that much, and would’ve taken longer to spring me. Consider it your first legal fee. Use it to pay for school.”

She’s visibly stunned by my gift. “Tristan … I can’t … I can’t take your money.”

“But you’ve earned it,” I insist.

“What I did tonight—helping you that way—I think that was the greatest feeling I’ve ever had in my life. And as far as money for school goes, my father said if I needed money, he’d pay for the whole thing anytime I wanted to go back. So … thank you for this. Really, I mean that.” She tears up the check and hands it back to me. “But you have to believe me that the end result was reward enough.”

Just when I think I’m starting to figure her out …

“Fair enough,” I tell her, “but if you change your mind, I can write you another one.”

“Thank you,” she says.

“Well, now that the legal part of our evening is over, would you mind terribly if I took the first shower?” I ask.

“Be my guest.”

There are baths and showers in mythology and legend that are said to have magical, otherworldly, even healing powers. All of them pale in comparison to the feeling of hot water and tiny hotel soap upon my body this night. Bear in mind that my day began in Marathon, Florida, included a trip to Tarpon Springs, far too many hours spent driving, then arrival in Atlanta, watching a man get blown up while nearly being blown up myself, followed by two hours in a warm police station. This shower is epic. Songs could be written about this shower. When at last I emerge, I feel almost human again.

After I receive a playful and much-deserved teasing by my traveling companion about being in there for so long, she takes her turn in the mystic waters. Though she doesn’t spend as much time in there as I did, she does take a leisurely shower, giving me time to change into a T-shirt and boxer shorts and then look out at the lights of the city. A few minutes later, she joins me at the window, dressed as she was the night before, and looking just as good now.

“Feel better?” I ask.

“Yeah. How about you?”

“Amazingly enough, I do.”

“Please tell me every day isn’t like this for you,” she says.

“No, this one was pretty extreme, even for me. But hey, look at where we are: It’s just after midnight, we’re safe, we’ve got a great room with an amazing view. And my legal counsel helped me to beat the rap, so that’s something.”

“Well, it kind of helped that you weren’t guilty.”

“Would you have defended me if I was?”

“Hmm, an ethical question. I don’t know, did you have a good reason for doing it?”

“He needed killin’.”

“Ah, the Texas murder defense. Interesting. Yes, I suppose I’d still defend you. You’re an upstanding citizen, and he was clearly shady.”

“Yeah,” I say quietly, “I get that feeling too.”

“Who do you think killed him?” she asks, suddenly serious.

“I don’t know. He mentioned somebody named Wolfson, and some unspecified ‘organization.’ I think this guy was a criminal—maybe organized crime—and some rival group had him eliminated.”

“You remember what Fogle said about Casner’s trip being canceled? His fishing trip to the Keys? We got that room in Marathon last night because a man canceled—a man from Atlanta, the desk clerk said.”

“That could be anybody,” I remind her.

“But what if it
was
him?” she asks. “What if they’re watching us? Following us? This could be the danger that you were sent to warn me about.”

“What would they want with you? You’ve never met these people.”

“I know that, but the way things are happening … maybe I’ve done something to them and I don’t even know it. It scares me, not knowing.”

“I understand. But even on the off chance it is related to you, we’re staying ahead of them.”

She steps away from the window and over toward one of the beds, standing at the foot of it. “If Casner
was
the threat,” I say, “then I doubt that I would also be sent to try to protect him. This may all be coincidence.”

“I don’t even know what to think anymore.”

I walk over to her and put my arms around her in a comforting way. She accepts and puts her arms around me, holding on tightly to me. I’m a few inches taller, so her head ends up on my shoulder. Her hair smells wonderful, like fruit and flowers, thanks to the fancy shampoo the hotel provides. In the silence of the room, I can hear her breathing. I don’t want to let go, and I absolutely don’t have the words to tell her that I’m almost as scared as she is. What I’ve seen today will be with me for the rest of my life. Right now, she needs reassurance.

“I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe,” I whisper to her.

In response, she lifts her head from my shoulder and looks into my eyes in the half-light of the room. I’m sure there are a thousand things her expression is saying to me, but I can’t make them out. All I see is this woman, a stranger to me two days ago, who has now run an emotional marathon with me. She’s such a surprise—smart, strong, capable, yet still vulnerable in the way we all are. I wish to God I knew the right thing to say at this moment, to ease us out of this prolonged silence that’s been created between us. But as I am searching for those perfect words, Rebecca completely amazes me by moving closer to me and touching her lips to mine.

Every honorable fiber of my being wants me to pull away, but I can’t. I’m no virgin, nor am I a naïve prude, but when she kisses me, it feels like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. It feels right, and I know it’s something I’ve wanted from the first moment I saw her. I return the kiss and initiate many more, on her lips, her face, her neck. I run my eager fingers through the softness of her hair and concentrate on the sensation of how every curve of her body feels pressed against mine as we stand at the foot of that bed. And she kisses me just as enthusiastically, clutching my back and my arms. It is a prolonged moment of insurmountable bliss that suddenly becomes very real when I feel her remove my shirt.

In an instant, I am snapped out of the moment. I step back from her as my T-shirt hits the floor. “What are—” I start. “What are we doing?”

She looks confused. “What do you mean? I thought this is what you wanted. It’s what I wanted.”