“Save the exposition,” Samuels said. “Get to the bottom line.”
“Fine. We went. We were there for the banquet lunch, we were there for Coben’s speech, we were there for the evening panel discussion at eight PM, we spent the night. Ev and Debbie had single rooms, but I split the cost of a double with Billy Quade. That was his idea. He said he was building an addition on his house, and had to economize. They’ll vouch for me.” He looked at Ralph and lifted his hands, palms out. “I was there. That’s the bottom line.”
Silence in the room. At last Samuels said, “What time was Coben’s speech?”
“Three o’clock,” Terry said. “Three o’clock on Tuesday afternoon.”
“How convenient,” Samuels said acidly.
Howie Gold smiled widely. “Not for you.”
Three o’clock, Ralph thought. Almost the same time that Arlene Stanhope claimed to have seen Terry putting Frank Peterson’s bicycle into the back of the stolen white van, and then riding away with the boy in the passenger seat. No, not even almost. Mrs. Stanhope said she’d heard the bell in the Town Hall clock announce the hour.
“The speech was in the Sheraton’s big meeting room?” Ralph asked.
“Yes. Right across from the banquet room.”
“And you’re sure it started at three.”
“Well, that’s when the TSTE chairman started her introduction. Which droned on for at least ten minutes.”
“Uh-huh, and how long did Coben speak?”
“I think about forty-five minutes. After that he took questions. It was probably four thirty by the time he finished.”
Ralph’s thoughts were whirling around in his head like loose paper caught in a draft. He could not remember ever having been so completely blindsided. They should have checked Terry’s movements out in advance, but that was Monday morning quarterbacking. He, Samuels, and Yune Sablo of the State Police had all agreed that questions about Maitland ahead of his arrest would risk alerting a very dangerous man. And it had seemed unnecessary, given the weight of evidence. Now, however . . .
He glanced at Samuels, but saw no immediate help there; the man’s expression was a mixture of suspicion and perplexity.
“You’ve made a bad mistake here,” Gold said. “Surely you two gentlemen see that.”
“No mistake,” Ralph said. “We have his prints, we have eyewitnesses who know him, and pretty soon we’ll have the first DNA result. A match there will clinch it.”
“Ah, but we may also have something else pretty soon,” Gold said. “My investigator is on it as we speak, and confidence is high.”
“What?” Samuels snapped.
Gold smiled. “Why spoil the surprise before we see what Alec comes up with? If what my client told me is correct, I think it’s going to put another hole in your boat, Bill, and your boat is already leaking badly.”
The Alec in question was Alec Pelley, a retired State Police detective who now worked exclusively for lawyers defending criminal cases. He was expensive, and good at his job. Once, over drinks, Ralph had asked Pelley why he had gone over to the Dark Side. Pelley replied that he’d put away at least four men he later came to believe were innocent, and felt he had a lot to atone for. “Also,” he’d said, “retirement sucks if you don’t play golf.”
No use speculating about what Pelley was chasing this time . . . always supposing it wasn’t just some chimera, or a defense attorney bluff. Ralph stared at Terry, again looking for guilt and seeing only worry, anger, and bewilderment—the expression of a man who has been arrested for something he hasn’t done.
Except he had done it, all the evidence said so, and the DNA would put the final nail in his coffin. His alibi was an artfully constructed piece of misdirection, something straight out of an Agatha Christie novel （or one by Harlan Coben）。 Ralph would begin the job of dismantling the magic trick tomorrow morning, starting with interviews of Terry’s colleagues and moving on to a back-check of the conference, focusing on the start and end times of Coben’s appearance.
Even before beginning that work—his bread and butter—he saw one possible gap in Terry’s alibi. Arlene Stanhope had seen Frank Peterson getting into the white van with Terry at three. June Morris had seen Terry in Figgis Park, covered with blood, at around six thirty—the girl’s mother had said the weather was on the local news when June left, and that pegged it. That left a gap of three and a half hours, which was more than enough time to drive the seventy miles from Cap City to Flint City.