“I’ve been meaning to have Mattie box that all up again,” he said, surveying the boxes of paperwork scattered about.
“It’s okay,” Amber said, “I’ll have to scan it all anyway.”
“In due time,” Tweed said. “All in due time. For tonight, let us not dwell on the particulars. Tonight, we should smoke sweet tobacco and drink inexpensive grape juice that has gone past its due date.”
Amber smiled as he lifted an empty wine glass toward her. “Did you have bourbon in that?”
“No, my dear. I had a wonderful Pinot Noir,” he said, his words ever-so-slightly slurring. “But I am quite sure it shall not compare to the …”
His voice trailed off as he looked down at the box she was holding. “Oh, yes. This is Franzia. My mother used to drink it. I didn’t think you drank wine.”
“Of course, I do,” he said. “When the bourbon is all gone.”
She laughed. “Then wine it is.”
She reached out to hug him, but he shook his head. “My doctor has advised me, in my current compromised state, that my immunities are better served with reserved contact. Especially with one who has traveled as widely as you have in the past week, Ms. Cross.”
She had no idea what he meant by “compromised state,” but noticed that he didn’t look as rosy as he had when she met him.
He held up the hand not holding his wine glass. “I wash my hands so much now, I’m almost certain my fingerprints are gone.”
She laughed and filled two glasses full of the pale-yellow wine while Minter packed a healthy bit of tobacco into his pipe. “Then we will clink our glasses instead of shake our hands,” Amber said.
They sat on the balcony, the sweet smell of pipe smoke enveloping them. As she sipped her wine, the strong sense of déjà vu hit her. She felt as if she’d been here before, but it wasn’t exactly that. It was more like her memories were layering over what she was going through now. She could almost see the sparkling water of the Chapel Trail Nature Preserve as they ate PB&J sandwiches. Over that, like a layer of transparent film, she watched outside her body as she spread her father’s ashes into the same water. She knew she had eased into that dreamy state just before sleep would take her, that golden hour of floating and warmth and security. She felt safe with Minter nearby, though she was certain he was already asleep. His rocker was still and his pipe had gone out.
The grandfather clock in the conference room behind them began to gong and Amber counted them. …ten … eleven … twelve. And so, the anniversary of her mother’s death … June, 13th passed by for another year. She was glad tomorrow was Sunday. She would spend it in bed, reading, or relaxing, or watching something on—
She sat up, her mind latching onto something that had been eluding her. The date. There was something about the dates and the Morales case that didn’t add up. Even though she was two glasses of wine into the night, she was still coherent enough to realize she’d missed something. But what was it? She jumped up from her rocking chair so quickly that she dropped her wine glass. It shattered on the wooden floor of the balcony, but Minter Tweed only sniffed and went back to snoring.
20
A Box of Wine
She ran back into the conference room, stumbling over the empty cardboard file boxes. She rifled through the stacks of paper, unsure of exactly what it was she was looking for, but she knew something was off with the dates. The statement containing the list of alibi witnesses wasn’t much help. The last name was still blacked out, but she knew now that was her father, Joseph Cross.
She grabbed a notepad and began to jot down important bullet points for the case. The first and most important details were the principals involved:
1) Victim - Eric Torres
2) Alleged Murderer - Marcario Morales/ Innocent
3) Actual Murderer - Joseph Cross
She paused for a moment after writing her father’s name and added “Guilty.” She tapped her pencil on the pad, considered what she needed to know next and continued.
4) Crime Scene - New York
5) Date of Murder - 6/20/2010
She looked at the date. With two glasses of wine in her system, she was slightly intoxicated. The answer was staring right at her, but she couldn’t figure out what it all meant. Morales couldn’t have been the murderer for two reasons: first, he was in Florida based on more than a dozen alibi witnesses including her father and second, her father all but admitted that he’d gone to New York to exact righteous vengeance on Morales. Unfortunately, the two men looked similar and hung out together quite often. Her father had apparently shot Torres thinking it was Morales.
But something still wasn’t quite right. She ran down the list of alibi witnesses again, her finger tracing each name and their details. She stopped on the third one. Gemma.
Gemma Jimenez, married to Jorge Jimenez. He and Morales were old buddies whose criminal history was minor, including a few shoplifting charges and misdemeanor drug arrests. Gemma had straightened Jorge out when she married him, and didn’t like Marcario coming around influencing her man. But when the baby was born, Jorge had insisted that Morales be allowed to come down for the birth.
“Wait,” Amber said aloud. “When was the baby born again?”
She sifted through her own research notes until she found it. Arianna Rita Jimenez, born June 13th,
