Page 78 of The Alibi Club

Moments later, Detective Sergeant Arliss Roverson entered the room flanked by two armed marksmen and the countenance of a general who had just won a battle.

“Thanks for your patience, folks. We know it’s been a long night. To bring you all up to speed, what we originally perceived as a bomb was in fact merely the explosion of a series of transformers that service most of downtown Manhattan Beach. We apologize for the lock-down, but our objectives were twofold: avoid public panic and track down the perpetrator. Which is also one of the reasons we scrambled the cell service.” He consulted his notepad, and added, “As to the matter of the recently deceased food critic, a one Nigel Spokes, forensics gathered evidence and took photos, so the coroner has arrived and will take over that situation.”

Nigel’s wife sniffled in the corner. Jamie hadn’t been aware she was still there until now.

Rick interjected, “Why blow the transformers?”

“At the moment, it seems that there was a robbery at one of the mansions on the beach. The transformers knocked out power to some of the alarm systems. At this point, the two seem connected.”

“What was stolen?” Holly asked.

“Did you catch the guy?” Shannon added.

“We have one suspect in custody, but we remain convinced this was the job of a small, expert crew,” Detective Roverson said.

Jamie stalked across the room and stood in between Cliff and Detective Roverson. She pointed her finger at Cliff, glared, and declared, “It was you.”

“What?” Cliff’s jaw dropped.

“Don’t look so innocent. You’re not a security expert.”

Cliff countered Jamie’s glare. “Yes, I am.”

She scoffed. “Sure. You might be a security expert, and well-read, and a gentlemen, and a lover of fries in the light of day, but under the cover of darkness, you’re a thief.”

“Jamie, no,” Cliff tried to correct her.

But she was on a roll. She walked toward him and circled him like a cat cornering a mouse. “I wondered why you felt so familiar. What a fool I am. I thought meeting you felt like coming home, like someone I’d known all my life even though we’d just met.”

“I felt that way, too,” Cliff admitted, as he reached for her hand.

She ripped it away from him. “No! I was so wrong. More wrong than I’ve ever been. What an idiot I am.” She shook her head in disbelief.

Cliff’s face said it all. He was at once confused and found out.

Jamie knew then that she was right. “But then when Robey told me there was a theft, actually a heist of epic proportions that required a small, expert crew, it all came tumbling back. I saw your rap sheet. I did an analysis of you over seven years ago. Cliff Weston. Master thief,” Jamie said, now listing all the data she remembered like a laundry list. “You started robbing banks at the age of eighteen when you aged out of the foster care system. You graduated quickly to antiquities and art and orchestrated more elegant heists because you were smart, extremely high IQ, with the manners and class that hinted at private schooling and a life of privilege. Parents both dead. No siblings. Your minor records were sealed so I couldn’t see the root of your criminality, but it matters not. The only thing I, and Detective Roverson here, need to know is that you’re the master thief behind some of the greatest heists in the last twenty years.”

Cliff reached for Jamie, but she dodged him. He spoke quickly, “You cannot think that I did this. Jamie, I’m not a thief, not anymore. I have changed,” he said, exasperated. “You said yourself you have a gift for seeing people. I’m imploring you to use it!”

Jamie remained wary. His influence over her had waned sharply.

Detective Roverson was watching Jamie work. He had taken out his notepad again and discreetly spoke into his walkie-talkie.

Facts crowded into Jamie’s memory as she methodically listed them out. “Jericho’s Cross, Madrid, 2008. The Sapphire Stone, Cannes, 2010. The Diablo Galleons in Bogotá, 2015. All heists attributed to you and whatever crew you assembled, but never fully proven.”

Cliff stood stock-still and dropped his head.

“My bet is you’ve been in prison for the last several years after the botched heist of the Stonewall Diamond, and my guess is you’ve just been paroled.” Jamie spoke quickly now, cornering him. “My guess is that you knew the house in question, that you cased the house in question.”

“I don’t even know which house it was,” Cliff replied, hands out, incredulous. But he was sweating now.

“Detective Roverson, can you describe the house, please?” Jamie asked.

“It’s one of the larger mansions on The Strand, the one that looks like a giant lifeguard shack.”

Jamie looked at Cliff. He paused, squinted, and cast his gaze to the floor, a tactic she knew criminals used when they knew something but would not share it. It was a tell.

“You know that house,” Jamie said quietly. Cliff’s lips went into a thin line. Another tell.