Her Lost Alibi David Berens (recommended reading TXT) 📖

over her shoulders and jogged back to her car. She turned the radio on and turned North on the Florida Turnpike and began the long haul back to Savannah.

Her phone rang forty-seven times and forty-seven times she let the calls of condolences go to voicemail. Even Fat Rick had left an awkwardly heartfelt message for her. She would listen to them all when she got home … or maybe she wouldn’t. Time would tell.

Somewhere just north of St. Augustine at The Back 40 Urban Cafe, sipping an incredibly delicious orange cream Fountainhead craft soda and staring into the lively koi pond, she decided she would file an official report detailing the Marcario Morales murder—the true story.

Friday afternoon, after the lunch rush and before the evening party surge, she walked into the Savannah Police Department. She hadn’t gone home to her apartment for fear of finding the roaches had taken over. She hadn’t showered or changed clothes. She walked past Rita in the reception area, ignored whatever smart remark Fat Rick was making, clocked in, sat down at her battleship gray desk, removed her flip flops, and started typing the report. It all felt so foreign, so far away. She hadn’t been in the office since … how long? Was it a week? Maybe two? It didn’t matter now.

She left nothing out of her report. Why would she? At this point, her father had died and couldn’t serve time for his crime. She knew who had killed Eric Torres. Marcario Morales would be exonerated and set free, or at the very least be granted a new trial. She fought to keep tears in her eyes as she reviewed the seven-page report that would put an end to her dealings with the Morales case file and would provide the “open and shut” review for Chief Decker to send to the governor.

As she signed the report and prepared to make the triplicate copies to shuttle off to their respective destinations, Rita walked by and put a note on her desk. Apparently, someone named Olanta Greene had called the tip line after hearing the details of the case on a podcast. Amber’s digging into the matter had rekindled interest in the decade old case and TV Investigator, Russell Blake, had produced a show—aptly titled, Two Witnesses, One Lost Alibi: The Marcario Morales Case. Though Rita’s writing was atrocious, she was able to make out that a regular listener to the podcast had been in New York on that fateful day and remembered seeing Morales hanging out with Eric Torres at a bar—The Oracle Lounge. The two men were arguing and near blows over a girl. Bouncers had escorted the two men out, still yelling and lunging at each other.

Amber crumpled the note and tossed it into the trash can under her desk. She made a mental note to have someone close the tip line and call Russell Blake. The case was solved. She knew very well who did it. That man, Joseph Cross, was at rest … she hoped.

18

Anniversary

The next morning, Amber woke to the sound of birds chirping happily outside the vertical blinds of her luxurious Orchard View apartment. She’d been gone so long, she’d forgotten the smell … the musty, moldy, probably killing her smell of the carpet in the living room. She’d fallen asleep on the couch again with the television on, but the sound turned down. She grabbed the remote, adjusted the volume to tolerable, and headed to the kitchen. She’d made a quick stop at the Circle K on her way home last night to grab a couple of Ultra Violet Zap drinks. That was all that was in her fridge except for a plastic container that she was afraid to open.

Hoda and Jenna were going on and on about a new hurricane in the gulf, the latest on Scarlett Johansson and her new beau, and Matthew McConaughey had a new movie coming out. She popped the Zap and chugged half of it in one swallow. The refreshing jolt of caffeine was a blessing and, in a few minutes, she was feeling better. She hadn’t realized how tired she was, but on her way out of the office, Chief Decker had insisted she take at least the weekend off.

She plopped down on the sofa and turned the TV up a little more. After finishing her drink, her stomach began to growl. Donuts. I need juice and donuts. There was a great little place just around the corner from her apartment called Glo’s Coffee Corner. They had baked breakfast treats to die for. She grabbed the remote. Her finger froze over the red power button. The Today show, as it always did, flashed a huge graphic of the date on screen. Saturday, June 13th, 2020.

Amber fell back onto the couch, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest. How had she not remembered. Today was the anniversary of her mother’s death. She would’ve cried, but she didn’t feel like she had any tears left. She was alone now.

After the opening sting and theme song, Hoda came with an uncharacteristically serious look on her face to announce they had breaking news. The screen switched to a scene Amber recognized immediately. A man was walking through the razor-wired, chain-link tunnel that led out of Sullivan Correctional Facility. The man was smiling and waving, unshackled, to a horde of reporters, clicking cameras, waving microphones, and shoving in as close as they could to the man.

He approached a podium that had been set up just outside in the parking lot. Several other men in suits, and a bevy of police officers were lined up beside the makeshift stage. Governor Jerry Cruz was introduced by the Mayor of New York. He walked to the podium, his impeccable navy suit, crisp white shirt, fiery red tie, and American flag lapel pin made him look like a presidential candidate. He was likely being groomed by the Republican establishment for a future campaign.

She had never met the