Her Lost Alibi by David Berens (best memoirs of all time .TXT) 📗

2010. Her brow furrowed in confusion. She turned a few more pages over and back until she found the original statement Morales had given to police with the alibi witnesses listed.

He had told them he was in Florida at the time of the murder and that his friends, Gemma and Jorge had just had a baby and he was there for … wait … what was he there for?

She glanced at the scrawling handwriting on the police report. The first letter was definitely a “B,” but the rest of the word was completely illegible. She walked over to Minter’s desk and found that his computer was thankfully not password protected. She ran a quick internet search of the baby’s full name and her birthdate.

She got a hit in a local paper called the City Connect serving Pembroke Pines.

Mr. and Mrs. Jorge Jimenez are honoring the birth of their child, Arianna Rita Jimenez, born 6/13/2010 with a christening ceremony to be held at the St. Mark Catholic Church on Flamingo Road. She scrolled up and saw the date of the paper. It was the Saturday edition, 6/19/2010. The date of the christening ceremony was Sunday, 6/20/2010.

“The same day Eric Torres was shot.”

She looked back at the police report. He claimed he was in Florida for … the birth? Or the baptism? If he was in Florida for the christening, his alibi checked out. But if he was only in Florida for the birth …

She went back to the table and stared at the piles of paper. There had to be something in that mess of information that would nail this down. If Morales had been in Florida for the birth, all of the witnesses could very well confirm his alibi for the 13th, but if he had left before the christening (or as the police officer might have noted, the “baptism,”) his alibis would be useless.

She rubbed her eyes; it was late and she was intoxicated. This probably wasn’t the best time to work this out. Minter was still snoring loudly on the balcony and Amber decided maybe that was the best thing to do at this point. Maybe she’d have one more glass of her mother’s favorite wine and call it a night. It was after midnight now, so the anniversary had come and gone again and—

Amber froze, staring at the clock. 2:47 a.m. She pulled her phone from her pocket. She verified today’s date: June 14th, the day after her mother had passed all those years ago.

The pieces clicked into place. She was the lost alibi. When she had gone to Florida to talk to her father about the case, she had suddenly remembered the traumatic events that had happened. And she was certain of the date because it had been the anniversary of her mother’s death. The sermon her father had given that day had been about death … and about life. The new life that had been given to Gemma and Jorge Jimenez. The baby had been born on that day and Marcario Morales had been in town.

So, one thing was certain, Morales had been in Florida on June 13th, 2010. But was he still there on the 20th, the day that Eric Torres was shot and killed in New York?

21

Compulsive Behavior

For the second time that she could remember ever doing so in her life, Amber Cross woke up with her face pressed to the table. She had drooled a little, making a wet ring of saliva on the yellow legal pad she had been scrawling out her thoughts on last night. Her handwriting looked as if a three-year-old had transcribed as she dictated, revealing that she might’ve been a bit more intoxicated than she realized.

Luckily, she could decipher most of it and was able to get back to her post-midnight train of thought.

“Well, well,” a voice chimed from the door of the office. “Sleeping Beauty has arisen from her magical slumber.”

In the doorway stood Minter Tweed. He was wearing the same pale blue suit he’d had on the night before … or maybe he actually had a closet full of similar suits, she couldn’t be sure. His face was bright and cheery, showing no sign of the amount of alcohol he had surely consumed last night. In his left hand, he held a cardboard drink tray with three paper cups issuing steam. In the right, he held a small, white paper bag, the top carefully folded over three times. She glanced at the grandfather clock and saw that it was just past ten o’clock. The sun beaming in from the balcony proclaimed that the weather had turned and it looked like it was going to be a beautiful Savannah day.

“I’m sorry, Minter,” she said, her voice hoarse from his second-hand pipe smoke on the balcony last night. “I didn’t mean to crash here. I guess I was tired.”

“No need for apologies. I have done much the same thing when on the trail of truth and justice.” He sat the paper bag in front of her and placed one of the cups next to it. “This ought to get the veritable engine of the mind going again. Let me deliver this to Mattie. I shall return.”

She took a sip of the coffee. It was delicious and the hot liquid soothed her throat. She took a few minutes to simply sit and eat without thinking about the case. She needed a mental clean slate before she dove in. Minter returned and sat across the massive table from her. He placed his coffee on the table and put his palms face down on two stacks of paper in front of him.

“What shall we begin with today?” He asked. “I have a feeling you were onto something last night.”

“I think so, but I’m not sure where to start,” she said, shuffling through a file folder. “I think I need to go back to the beginning.”

“Hmmm,” Minter steepled his fingers across his lips under his formidable mustache. “That is