Octopus Alibi by Tom Corcoran Read Free Book Online Page B

reading well. Who’s shitty now?”
    “It wasn’t your first time in the outdoor shower,” I said. “You knew what you were getting into.”
    “Like I had a choice.”
    “You were forced into sharing my home?”
    “You want me gone?” she said.
    “I wasn’t saying that.”
    “You weren’t reading a recipe for key lime pie.”
    “And you weren’t complaining about mosquitoes and scorpions.”
    “You’re right,” she said. “It’s the end of a long day, Alex. Are you joining me and Whit?” She waved her hand at a small yellow car parked a few yards up Petronia. My eye followed her gesture. I hadn’t noticed the man in the BMW Z-3. He tilted his head to drink from a clear plastic water bottle.
    “Whit?” I said.
    “His name’s Whitney Randolph. People call him Whit, which is ten times better than Whitney. You want to meet him now?”
    “No. Just tell me where and what time.”
    They were headed for drinks at Louie’s Backyard, then an eight-thirty reservation at Camille’s on Simonton. I told her I would try to make it.
    She stepped aside and relinquished possession of the scooter. She said, “I don’t think Steve Gomez was suicide.”
    Was this neurosis or the judgment of a criminologist? “Did you voice your opinion?”
    She considered her answer. “Not in so many words.”
    “Like, ‘no’?”
    “Like, no one wanted to hear it.”
    “I do,” I said.
    Her eyes bored into mine. “No matter what happens tonight, let’s have coffee on the porch in the morning.”
    I told her that was a splendid idea. I wondered what would happen tonight that would qualify as “no matter.” The BMW drove away. I stayed at the curb and ate the whole sandwich before I started home.
    Three messages waited at the house. One for a photo job that conflicted with my trip to Grand Cayman. One from Sam asking me to call when I got home, to wake him from a nap. Marnie must’ve gone to her office to write the Gomez story. Jack Spottswood’s law office also called—no reason given—but his office closed at five, and I couldn’t respond until morning.
    I called Sam. He caught the second ring and said, “Nothing like Añejo rum and a heavy nap.”
    I asked him to call me on Teresa’s cell phone in forty-five minutes. His call would give me the option of faking an excuse and bailing out of dinner. He said I was a whiz at contingency planning. I laughed, but it made me think of Detective Marlow’s remark about Sam’s military training. Marlow had hit the nail on the head. I had seen several occasions when Sam had confronted danger, thought ahead, considered all possible actions and reactions. Each time he had prevailed. He was one of the lucky ones for whom time slowed in moments of peril.
    I showered and caught myself stupidly worrying about which brand of shampoo to use. I chose the one closest to hand, neglected to shave, put on shorts and a long-sleeved shirt, and rode my bike to Camille’s. The night had brought a chill; there would be cooler, clear weather in the morning.
    I reminded myself to take the high road. Whit Randolph was a friend of a friend. He was in town for a short time and, I needed to presume, had not come just to connect with Teresa. If I were to cause a scene, make a big deal of the man’s presence, it might self-fulfill and throw me a situation I didn’t want. He wasn’t a threat to my status quo, I thought, then wondered why “status quo” had come to mind rather than “happiness.”
    At the Truman light I stopped behind a bunch of young people in a funky old hearse. The bumper sticker on its back door read, FRIENDS HELP YOU MOVE. REAL FRIENDS HELP YOU MOVE BODIES.
    *   *   *
    Teresa introduced her friend as Whitney, then called him Whit after that. We shook hands like opposing captains at midfield, though his grip was limp fish. Randolph, up close, was not what I had expected. I had imagined some square-jawed buff stud with a beaming smile and Devo hair. I found myself