The Original Alibi (Matt Kile) Read online

  “That’s Clara. She’s a good lady but she’s jealous of Clarice.”

  “Anyway, the point is you helped her with her case. So, you still dig investigating stuff.”

  “That was different. Clarice was a neighbor and a friend accused of killing her husband, Garson Talmadge. I handled the investigation for her defense attorney.”

  “This case’ll be different too, boss,” he said while picking up the coffee carafe.

  “How many times do I need to tell you to stop calling me boss? It’s not necessary.”

  “Seems right to me, after all I work for you.”

  “You can’t call me Matt, but you can wear my pants?” I held up my empty cup.

  “Now you got it, boss.” He filled my cup with a smirk on his face.

  “The appointment, fill me in.”

  Axel took a seat and poured himself a little coffee. “Not much yet to tell. This guy, Franklin’s his name, Reginald Franklin III, how’s that for a handle, he’s an attorney with a client who needs your help. He freely admitted his client specified Matthew Kile as the investigator he wanted. Admitting that up front told me he ain’t shopping the job, so money’s not an issue. I told him it would be a grand for this morning, just to talk and see if you’ll handle the case. He understands that money’s gone whether or not you join up. He didn’t quibble. He’s bringing the check.”

  I expected Axel would be around during the Franklin meeting. Axel didn’t really have a set schedule. If I needed him, I told him and he’d be there. Otherwise, he came and went as he pleased and when he wasn’t around I fended for myself. Like I said, his duties were evolving. I think Axel saw himself as my Kato or Dr. Watson or some such character. If I had my choice, I’d prefer him to be Archie Goodwin, the able assistant of Nero Wolfe, but then I would fail in comparison to Wolfe. My waistline was likely only half of Wolfe’s girth, not to mention my falling well short of his genius.

  “So what do you have going today?” I asked.

  “After our meeting with Franklin, I’ve got a few close-by errands then I’ll hoof it over and have lunch with the fellas at Mackie’s. Don’t worry, boss, Franklin won’t know I’m around unless you call for me.”

  “You think Franklin could be the real client?”

  “No way, he’s fronting for someone. I could tell by his voice. He wasn’t uptight. He did tell me it was some old case the cops have tossed aside. The dude’s a smoker, so get him out on the balcony if he tries to light up. A pipe, I think. I could hear him inhale and bite down on the stem the way pipers do.”

  After all those years in the big house, as Axel still called prison, he had mastered reading the tone and pace of people’s voices. He can read body language or faces, cons or bulls. All the old timers could do it, at least the ones with an ample helping of brains and judgment.

  “The odds say I won’t take this new case.”

  “Why not? You’ve about done up the book you was working on. And, hey, a grand’s nothing to sneeze at. You know?”

  Chapter 3

  It was the fourth of December, three weeks before Christmas to the day, when I parked my new Ford Expedition in the turnaround in front of the home of General Whittaker, the client of the attorney, Reginald Franklin III. The general’s home, an elegant place with a second floor, looked to be about six thousand square feet, and sat on a small cliff south of Long Beach, California, which backed up to the Pacific Ocean.

  The door was opened by a man approximately fifty-five years of age. He appeared to be house staff. He wore a white shirt with a starched collar, the rest of his dress being black. He was a stout man, but not fat. His pants were hitched up closer to his neck than his navel. His ears reached out from his head like they were expected to catch fly balls rather than words.

  He looked me up and down without disclosing the impression he gleaned from having done so. “Good evening, Mr. Kile. You’re expected.” Seeing my surprise at being recognized, he added, “Your picture is on the dust covers of your books. My name is Charles, Mr. Kile.”

  Few people called them dust covers any longer so Charles was a reader and, apparently, one not yet converted to reading eBooks.

  “Please follow me.” Charles was an average sized man. He looked fit and confident in his ability to do his job. He led me into a wide junction in the hallway, next to a wonderfully decorated Christmas tree, tall enough to grace both the ground floor and the second story which was open overhead. “Please wait here, Mr. Kile, while I let the general know you’ve arrived.”

  Noise or movement caused me to step beyond the tree and look up the stairwell to my left. From the balcony, a nubile brunette wearing a black something that aggressively fell within the category of lingerie, said, “You must be Mr. Kile.” It wasn’t a question. Not the way she said it.

  I smiled and nodded. One of the principles I live by is that seeing a woman in skimpy lingerie meant, at the very least, the relationship automatically advanced to a first name basis. I said, “Call me, Matt.” We exchanged smiles, only they weren’t equal. Hers was framed in red and had a gloss that reflected the top light on the Christmas tree.

  “Well, Matt,” she said, “Charles sat a tray on the side table when he went to answer the door. Would you be a sweetheart and finish bringing it up?” She added, “Please,” while leaning her forearms on the banister, her brown hair sliding around her shoulders. At least I assumed her forearms were on the banister. I wanted to be a good sweetheart so I picked up the tray which held one glass and a decanter of something you and I would guess was alcoholic and started up the stairs.

  “This is a lovely home,” I said after advancing a short distance.

  “Yes it is. During the general’s career, toward the end when he was a member of the joint chiefs, this home entertained two U.S. presidents and one pope.”

  “With you wearing a much different outfit, I’m sure.”

  “I was living with my mother then, and a little young during those years to wear something like this.” She stood straight, bust out, and turned slowly to be certain I understood the full meaning of “something like this.”

  I actually preferred her enhancing the banister, but if that sounded like a complaint, you know it lacked substance. I had come not expecting to see anyone more attractive than a long-retired general. I was ten steps from her when Charles silently arrived beside me and took the tray. I stopped, wishing that Charles had waited for me at the bottom of the stairs.

  “The general will see you now, Mr. Kile. Please follow me back downstairs to the study.”

  As we turned, she revealed her red, patent leather heels by coming down the stairs far enough to take the tray from Charles. She was old enough to realize that platform heels and skimpy lingerie went together like me and a warm feeling. Had I worn a hat, modesty would have required I hold it in front of myself as she came closer. She glanced down briefly then looked into my eyes. We exchanged one of those smiles that meant the kinds of things that smilers in such situations are never sure about. Then I switched my attention so as not to ruin her first impression by tripping and rolling down the stairs.

  Her voice slid around me the way hot fudge slides around cold ice cream. “I hope we can continue getting acquainted some other time.” I held the railing and turned to see her again displayed on the banister.

  “I’d like that,” I said. Then I followed Charles down the stairs. Well, I did after wishing I might one day be reincarnated as a banister, but not just any banister, her banister.

  “Matt.” I turned back and looked up at her. “Ditch the tie. You can do better.” Then she turned her head, tossing her brown hair across her shoulders, and retreated into a room with double doors directly behind where she had stood.

  “Charles, who was the lady?”

  “Karen Whittaker, sir, the general’s daughter. She’s thirty-five, in case you’re curious about that. The general was a late-season poppa.” His tone did not disclose disapproval, but I did detect a slight shake of his h
ead.

  “Why, Charles, I understood it was bad form to speak of a woman’s age.”

  “Yes, sir. But not Karen. She’s proud of being thirty-five and looking twenty-five. She works at it. Hard.” We shared those brief looks that men share. I’d explain, but the guys would kick me out of the club because they know women read my books.

  *

  General Whittaker rose from his chair, slowly, but agile for his age. His body looked slender compared to the pictures I’d seen of him in his robust years, yet he still had a military bearing. A burgundy colored jacket, not exactly a smoking jacket, but not a sport coat either, covered a long-sleeved khaki shirt. The jacket had been tailored to expose a matching measure of shirt cuff on each of his arms which were thin enough that the garment hung as cleanly as it would on a store mannequin. He was well dressed and neat except for a tangled crop of white hair freely growing from his ears. His wrists were frail. The skin on the backs of his hands, mottled. Still, his handshake remained mildly firm, yet cool to the touch.

  “Mr. Kile,” he said, “as you stated in one of your books, I like people better than principles, and people without principles best of all. From what I’ve learned, you should be one of my favorites. And I like your tie, but you didn’t need to wear one on my account.”

  So far I had learned that my ties were a matter that could divide families. I agreed with the general, I liked the tie, but I doubted I would ever wear it again. Women who show cleavage don’t fully realize the power they possess over mortal men, and please don’t tell ‘em.

  “Are you married, Mr. Kile?”

  “Once.”

  “Divorced?”

  I nodded without hiding my irritation at his questions.

  “Too bad.”

  “My ex-wife would disagree with you.”

  “Kids?”

  “With due respect, General, that’s enough of that. This isn’t a lonely hearts meeting.”

  He smiled. His face revealed that he did not often smile.

  “Before we get started I want to return the check your attorney, Mr. Franklin, gave me yesterday.” I put it on his desk. “I can’t help you with your case.”

  He left the check lying there and flicked his wrist a few times as if shooing a fly. I took this as an invitation to sit down; I did. After looking at his pocket watch, likely the one the articles reported he had carried since his youth, he said, “You are on time; I like that, sir.”

  His study was as elegant as the rest of the house, though more masculine. A massive mahogany desk sat between us, a wall of glass behind him showing off the Pacific Ocean as if it flowed simply to grace his home. The moon glazing the night fog sitting on the horizon gave the sheen of a protective coating. The way the sky looked, we might have another hour of good visibility, depending on the wind. The light in the study had been designed to be soft and indirect. According to the daily column in the newspaper that announces the ages of people they figure the rest of us care to know, the general was eighty-seven. One of the articles on him that I read before coming said he suffered from chronic uveitis, an inflammation of the eye. The condition could explain the subdued lighting.

  The sidewall of the general’s study closest to his desk was mostly bookcases, with some wall area left for photos from his career, the wall on the other side busy with more photos and plaques. One four-shelf bookcase held only VCR tapes. He noticed my looking and said, “Family events mostly, I’ve had the older ones originally in film converted.”

  “I wish I had done more of that. My early family life is mostly in still pictures, but I’ve got a ton of those.”

  The general ran a hand through his thin pepper-colored hair, which each day was surrendering more of its territory to salt-colored hair. “Mr. Kile, if you won’t help me, why in tarnation did you come?”

  “You’re a great American, General Whitaker. It would be disrespectful not to tell you in person.”

  “Call me General. Everybody does, even my daughter. As long as you were kind enough to come, before you leave please do me two favors.” Not used to being opposed, he went on without waiting for my decision. “The first, you should find decidedly easy. Drink an Irish on crushed ice with a lemon twist.” He picked up a handheld bell and rang it. Charles came through the door instantly with a pewter tray centered by a short frosted glass, apparently filled with the whiskey of my Irish ancestors.

  The reports said the general could no longer drink himself, but enjoyed watching others imbibe. If he liked them, he felt he was drinking with them. If he didn’t like them, well, they didn’t get offered the drink in the first place.

  The general gave the impression that being eccentric could be a lot of fun. Of course you had to be somewhat wealthy to be eccentric. If one is poor and unconventional in manner and deed, one is simply considered a bit nutty.

  “You said two things, General?”

  “That I did. While sipping your Irish, read this letter. It is addressed to you. You will notice it is not opened. The letter is from one of my dearest friends, yours too, Mr. Barton Cowen.”

  I took the letter gingerly between two fingertips and held it for a moment, feeling like a mouse eyeing trapped cheese. Barton Cowen was the father and husband of the family killed by the thug I shot dead on the courthouse steps to earn my four years inside with Axel. Bart came to see me every week while he relentlessly inspired public opinion until the governor’s office granted my pardon. Like the mouse, I could not turn from the trap.

  When I finished reading Bart’s request that I help the general, I sat motionless, looking, I suspect, like an envelope without a name or address on its face. But I knew I had no real choice.

  “General, tell me about the case.”

  “The older I become,” he said, “the more impressed I am with what a man is, rather than what he seems. And I like who you are.”

  “Were it not for Mr. Cowen I would have spent three more years as a guest of the state before walking out an ex-con rather than a pardoned man. But you knew that, General. You knew I could not refuse you after reading this letter.” I dropped it onto his desk.

  “What I knew, Mr. Kile … may I call you Matt?”

  “I’d prefer you did, General. Please go on.”

  “What I knew, Matt, was that you were intrigued. Perhaps it was my reputation mixing with your curiosity. Perhaps from the stories, you wished to learn if I would offer you a drink. Then it may have simply been that you are divorced and hoped to meet my celebrated daughter.”

  “Hmmmm.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “It means, hmmmm. But to revise and extend my remarks as you regularly heard members of congress say during your years on the Joint Chiefs of Staff, ‘I had the pleasure of meeting your daughter on the way in. She is a lovely woman.’”

  “Nicely said. A man predisposed to be a fighting man learns to do so. A woman predisposed to being a seductress hones her skills similarly. Both arts designed to control the man before them. My daughter is not an excessively promiscuous woman, but, like her mother, she enjoys men and is an unapologetic tease.”

  I recalled a quote from Count Tallyrand, In order to avoid being called a flirt, she always yielded easily.

  The tone in which the general spoke about his daughter suggested he was not stressed in the slightest by her choices or personality. I also guessed he liked the style of woman she had grown to be, or so it seemed from his reference to her mother.

  “But, yes,” he said, picking back up with what he had been saying before discussing his daughter. “I expected you would come. From your history, I knew you felt a responsibility to set things right. Tell me, Matt, what is your opinion on firing squads?”

  “Well, General, they do get the job done. Of course, there are no appeals so one must be certain of the guilt of the person put against the wall.”

  “You were sure when you took out that crud on the courthouse steps, eleven years ago.”

  “Yes, General. I was. He
deserved it. Now whether it did more good than harm I can’t really say.”

  “That disgusting fellow would have killed more people. Destroyed more families. What you did was the right thing.”

  “I do think that, General. Yes, I do. Still, it hurt those I love, confused their lives. I didn’t really think about that part of it when I should have.”

  “Now don’t backslide, Matt. America has become much too soft. We need more swift justice. There is a certain discipline society surrendered when we gave up the immediate effectiveness of firing squads and public hangings. As for my situation, I knew you were the right man when I read of your helping your houseman, Axel, get his parole. You’re a smart, tough guy with a heart and that’s exactly what I need.”

  “What I need is another one of these.” I held up my glass. “Then I’d like enough details to determine if I can help. I understand it’s an old case.”

  It has been said that mankind has seven deadly sins. I have eight: curiosity.

  The general rang the bell, and again Charles magically appeared with a tray balanced on his hand, the new glass as frosty as the first. The general’s troops had been trained and strategically positioned. I had come to show respect to a famous retired general. He had welcomed me similarly to how Sitting Bull had greeted General George Armstrong Custer into the Valley of the Big Horn.

  “I am no longer able to project my orders as I once could,” he said, raising the bell, his smallest finger restraining the clapper. “I know this bell appears aristocratic, but it is, unfortunately, necessary. Charles understands, don’t you, Charles.”

  Charles nodded and then stood tall. “Will there be anything else, General?”

  “Nothing, Charles. As always, thank you for your attentiveness and efficiency. Oh, there is something else. Mr. Kile will be looking into that ugly matter some years back involving my grandson, Eddie. His work will require that he learn a great deal about each of us and the goings on within this family. You are to cooperate fully. Answer his questions whatever they may be. And run interference as necessary to gain him access to the individuals and firms that serve this family. We shall trust Mr. Kile’s discretion.”