Her Lost Alibi David Berens (recommended reading TXT) 📖

to the Tweed account, she had transformed into what might pass for a smartly dressed assistant wearing a simple yellow sundress with bold white flowers on it. She had thrown in a small umbrella and had stopped along the way for a tray of coffees. She opted for a white chocolate latte with two shots of espresso for herself and the same for Mattie. Black coffee, sugars and cream on the side for Tweed.

She placed the simple black coffee on the table. Tweed waved away the other ingredients. As she stirred her latte, her mouth watering with anticipation, she noticed that the Matlock-ian lawyer’s eyebrows were furrowed so tightly, they had almost merged into one.

“What?” She asked. “What’s wrong?”

He took the pipe from his mouth and waved his hand over the piles of papers on the mahogany table. “Are you sure this is all there was to the Morales file?”

“You had it brought over,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “I was … unconscious. Remember?”

He took a deep breath and clucked his tongue a few times. “Then, to the best of my powers of examination, I cannot find a single reference to the contact the detectives made with the alibis.”

“Are you saying they arrested, tried, and sentenced Marcario Morales without contacting any of his alibi witnesses?”

Tweed stood up, walked to the French doors overlooking the street. He pushed open the doors with both hands and turned around. “That is exactly what I am saying.”

“But why not?”

He crossed his arms and shook his head. “Google tells me that all of the alibi witnesses are friends or relatives of Mr. Morales who would say anything to clear his name. That plus the fact that the officers had two witnesses who independently picked him out of a set of mugshots is enough to have them pass on contacting any of these people.”

Amber realized with a jolt that she had taken the list with her last night. She reached behind her to where she’d hung it on the back of a chair, pulled it out of her purse, unfolded it, and smoothed the creases. She took out her phone, but Tweed shook his head.

“Not from a personal line.” He nodded at a phone on the corner of his desk. “Use that one.”

She walked around and plopped down in the leather office chair. It was the smoothest, buttery leather she’d ever felt. She shook her head and reached for the black, plastic receiver.

Tweed puffed on his unlit pipe. “In my estimation, you can skip numbers one through twelve. They are all family or friends of the family. You know what they will say. Start with Latimer Cordell down there. He’s an acquaintance of Morales, but only because he’s a warden at the Everglades Correctional Institution where Marcario spent the better part of a year clearing away a marijuana charge. Amber scanned down the list. She was about to dial the number for Latimer, when she noticed that the last name on the list was blacked out. In the same way a spy document had black bars concealing sensitive information, the handwritten alibi report had one name completely hidden.

“Why would they do this?” She said pointing at the blacked-out name.

“A very good question, Miss Cross.”

“You can just call me Amber, Mr. Tweed.”

“My mother would never approve of such a thing. God rest her soul,” Minter said, looking skyward out the open French doors.

“How can I find out who this concealed person is?”

“There’s only one way, my dear.”

Amber realized with a tinge of sadness that her white chocolate latte had gone cold. “And that is?”

“Naturally, you go to the source,” he said, inclining his head toward the paper. “You will have to visit the presently incarcerated Mr. Morales. Look into his eyes, judge the man, see if you think he’s innocent … or guilty.”

8

Into the Cage

Marcario Morales, known as Marc to everyone except his mother, had spent ten years in prison, bouncing from hellhole to hellhole as the overcrowding of one penitentiary after another forced a shuffling of detainees on a near national scale. Amber flew—on the Tweed & Associates black Amex centurion card again—to New York. After an excruciatingly long Uber ride from the airport, she arrived at the Sullivan Correctional Facility, home of Ronald DeFeo, Jr., the inspiration for The Amityville Horror and David Berkowitz, the “Son of Sam.” The prison was built with plain red brick, tiny windows, and a lot of chain link fencing. It wasn’t particularly ominous, but the stormy, gray skies above didn’t help the growing feeling of unease germinating in Amber’s stomach.

She was checked in by people whose faces looked incapable of smiles, led through cold and sterile hallways that smelled vaguely of urine and strongly of bleach. She entered a small room with nothing but a square wooden table and two chairs in it. The soft bluish white of the cinder block walls peeled in a few places, but for the most part … it was clean. Behind her chair, a four foot by six-foot two-way mirror assured her that security was just a few steps away.

Somewhere outside the door, a buzzer echoed and something metallic clanged. And then, the door swung open and an officer led him in. His jumpsuit was bright orange in contrast with his black curly hair and black chin beard. The officer was smiling and jovial. Marcario was shackled, but he was walking under his own power and appeared to be willing to be here.

“You okay, ma’am?” The officer asked. “Shall I hook him to the floor?”

Amber noticed for the first time that there was a metal ring buried in the floor.

“Oh, um, no,” she said. “That’s fine. I’m fine.”

Marcario Morales sat down in the chair and put his cuffed hands in his lap. His eyes were dark and kind with creases around the corners. He was a man who smiled, even given his years in prison. His hair was shaved close to his head, exposing some kind of tribal tattoo that had surely