Page 6 of The Alibi Club

While Jamie secretly acknowledged that she and Rip weren’t exactly delivering on her dreams and probably had dipped a toe into the pool of dysfunctional, she felt she was a far cry from scandalous. God, this woman.

“I’m always my best self at weddings. Ask any bridesmaid,” Rip said with a smile.

Jamie squinted into the distance, finally finding her words. “We have to worry about scandal? Wasn’t he investigated by the FBI?”

Elaine glared. “Enough. Barry has three perfectly happy, married children and a gaggle of grandchildren. Where are my grandchildren? Hm? Quite frankly, you two are an embarrassment.”

Jamie smirked. She already did not like Barry Bonavico or his perfect family. In her experience dealing with sociopaths, perfect usually meant psycho.

Rip chuckled and murmured, “You’re crazy, woman.”

Elaine took a swig of champagne. “Be that as it may, here it is.” Her voice dropped an octave lower. She pointed a perfect, polished finger down toward Jamie and Rip as if she were an evil sorceress damning newborn children. “You shall bring a suitable date—no neck tattoos, no derelicts, no fuckwits, no floozies—to my wedding in ninety days, or you will be cut out of my substantial will. Remember, I’m doing this for your own good.”

Elaine Cromwell Frisco stood up, adjusted her enormous hat, and walked toward the front door. She looked back and said, “Time to grow up, kids.”

Jamie’s mouth fell open.

Talk about embracing the crazy.

She let herself out and left Jamie and Rip sitting there with empty champagne flutes, a shitload of croissants, and high anxiety.

Sometime after midnight as Jamie lay in bed, lamp on, novel open, it dawned on her that she’d read the same paragraph seven times. Wise-cracking Detective Larrabee had latched on to a theory about the killer, but she had no idea what it was. She couldn’t concentrate. Her mind kept jerking her back to the harsh realities foisted on her that morning. She took each piece and mulled them over one by one.

Her mother. Her insane mother demanding attention the only way a psychotic control freak can, with fear and threats. God forbid she tried love and support. Jamie learned long ago never to expect that from Elaine Cromwell Frisco. If you found yourself in some life-threatening crisis, like a level-five hurricane or a multivehicle traffic accident, she was your girl. Firefighters and FEMA could learn a thing or two from her mother’s commanding organizational skills. But when it came to wiping away tender tears caused by tiny skinned knees or easing the first emotional pains of not being invited to a sleepover, her mother was about as consoling as the statue of Medusa.

Then there was her ex, Nathan, happily ensconced in a relationship that was about to bear him a child. This was laughable considering when they were together he couldn’t commit to attending a four-day weekend wedding in Sedona of a mutual friend, let alone any real commitment. Now he was opting in for fatherhood and domesticity. The news had stirred up some squirmy, unnamable fear in Jamie, something simmering under the surface of her nonchalant facade. She tried to put her finger on it, to name it, so she could quell the unsettled feelings. But no answer came. Only a tangled knot of fear that threatened her sleep.

Earlier that day when the sun was up, which made everything still seem possible, Jamie had assessed herself with pluck and sarcasm. But now, in the dark when everything was too quiet, the long tendrils of worry seemed to seep into her mind and implore certainties from a harsher perspective, like a tiny distress signal of an unloved heart about to shut down. All the terrifying truths came at her like blow darts dipped in emotional poison. She was forty-one. Certain doors begin to quietly close at forty-one, some rites of passage gone forever.

It was as if she’d been jarred awake from her lackadaisical existence by a very cold slap in the face. Here she was. No kids. No house. No prospects. Nothing but a rented cottage, a fledgling new job she had to admit she didn’t really like, and a head full of reliving alternate paths she could have taken. Nathan, that prick. How could he still get to her? She was furious with herself for allowing her mind to drift into a jumble of regret, longing, and confusion.

Just then, Jamie heard a faint sound in the distance. She did not move, but looked to her left, toward the half-open bedroom window. It was the middle of the night. But somewhere in the dark, a sound echoed down her alley from behind her bungalow. It was the forlorn echo of someone crying.

A terribly sad, low tenor of pain cut through the quiet night. The kind of cry that silences everything and everyone around it. Jamie listened to the anguished solo song of grief. Or regret. Or heartbreak. She didn’t know the reason, but she knew it was the kind of cry you can only have alone.

Jamie sat in the dark and listened for a long time.

CHAPTER FOUR

Nothing Good Happens After Midnight

CLIFF

At precisely four fifteen AM when the moon was setting into the Pacific Ocean and most of the citizenry of Manhattan Beach were enjoying an Ambien-fueled slumber, the computer-driven security system of Pasha’s Fine Jewelry was doing a routine maintenance update.

For Cliff, a recently paroled convict and ex-master thief, it was the opportunity he had been waiting for. As the software updated, Cliff stood over the power panel in the alley behind the store, hovering. He looked at his watch, just as the second hand touched twelve. 4:16:00 AM. The update created a three-second window, nearly as fast as an F1 pit stop, that allowed Cliff to snip a green wire and disarm the entire alarm system. He let out the breath he had been holding. He was in the “blank space,” a tick of time thieves referred to as the moment you’re in, undetected, but before you grab the loot. The point of no harm; also the point of no return.

Cliff slipped into the back room of the jewelry store and sized up the vault. The latest Casoro-Million TL15 model. Two tons of American-made steel, six feet tall, dense, immovable, and burglary-tool resistant. It had a three-wheel combination lock, a heavy handle, and four plated door bolts. He smiled. It was identical to the one he’d been practicing on in his rented garage, on loan from an ex-con friend who now sold vaults for a living.

Cliff was a great listener. Which came in handy with quality women and imposing vaults. Hands gloved, he tacked two delicate microphones to the vault’s face, put his earbuds in, and began twirling the dial slowly until he heard the first faint tick of a tumbler drop. Forty-five seconds and two tumbler numbers later, Cliff opened the heavy door and relieved Pasha’s Fine Jewelry of three velvet-lined boxes filled with roughly $2 million worth of precious gems, including a five-carat perfect cut diamond engagement ring.

Cliff briefly admired the ring and wondered what it would be like to give such a piece to a woman who deserved it. It had been a long time since he’d been in love—if ever. He’d had women, sure. Women like the waitress from OB’s, as his brand tended toward emotionally unstable types who’d seen their fair share of hell. He’d come to understand that he liked the role of protector. He liked being needed, and that worked for a long time. But as the great ball spins, so did his changing needs.

He wanted an equal. With flaws, and decency, and a point of view. He needed a woman willing to give a shit. Real love with a real woman was messy, and full, and joyfully complex. The only kind of love that was worth it. The only kind he’d stop for.

Loneliness could be solved in the short term. Evidenced by his dalliance with Amber. He had no answer for the long term. Maybe Amber should be a last stop. Maybe he should get off that train? Or maybe he should meditate on it. He’d met a guru named Gautam Chodron in the joint who was doing time for embezzlement and claimed meditation was the only way to find what one seeks. Cliff made a mental note to try it later that night before stuffing the diamond ring in his backpack with the rest of the goods.

He gently closed the vault, careful not to disturb anything else. He knew the backup alarm system would alert the police as soon as the computer realized it had been turned off, which was exactly thirty seconds from now. He turned quickly, slung the backpack over his shoulder, and headed for the door when he heard a sound. He stopped in his tracks and peered into the dark recesses of the jewelry store. He crouched down to make himself small.