The Dead Man's Alibi

The wind was coming off the Atlantic hard enough to shake the windows, and I was halfway through my third scotch when the dead man knocked on my door.

I'd been sitting in my study, looking at the newspaper clippings. Thirty-five years of murderers, missing persons, commendations, and convictions. Photographs of me shaking hands with governors and police commissioners, plaques from grateful families, and enough headlines to convince a stranger that Mike Sheehan had been one hell of a detective.

There were other headlines, too.

DECORATED DETECTIVE FORCED INTO RETIREMENT.

EXCESSIVE FORCE ALLEGATIONS DOG VETERAN INVESTIGATOR.

My wife had suggested taking those down. I told her you couldn't pick and choose your history.

She was visiting our daughter, leaving me alone with the Macallan and the one case I could never quite put behind me.

Thirty years ago that night, Frankie Barone had disappeared from his bakery in Newark, leaving enough blood to convince a jury he'd been murdered.

I caught his killer.

At least, that's what everybody said.

Salvatore Amperelli maintained his innocence until the day he died. Three weeks ago, cancer ended his lifelong quest to clear his name.

Before he died, Sal asked me to visit. I didn't go. The jury had convicted him. The appellate courts had affirmed. What was left to discuss?

Still, I wondered what he'd wanted to say. A confession, perhaps. Or another denial.

The knock came again, three sharp raps.

I carried my glass into the hallway and opened the door.

Sal Amperelli stood on my porch. Dark hair, thick shoulders, the same heavy eyebrows over those watchful brown eyes. Not a day older than when I arrested him.

“You're dead.”

“That's what they tell me.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Not quite.” He smiled. “You going to invite me in? It's miserable out here.”

I stepped aside. Sal walked past me as though he'd been coming to my house for years.

“Where's your wife?”

“Visiting the kids.”

“Good. We wouldn't want to frighten her.”

He looked at my glass.

“That scotch?”

“Macallan.”

“Pour me one, would you?”

I followed him, wondering whether I'd finally drunk myself into a hallucination.

In the study, Sal stopped before a yellowed headline.

BAKERY PARTNER CONVICTED IN BARONE MURDER.

“Never did like that photograph.”

“Sal—”

“None of this would've been necessary if you'd come to see me like I asked.”

I poured another whiskey. He settled into my favorite chair and drank. I watched the liquor disappear.

“What?” he asked. “You didn't know ghosts could drink?”

“Maybe you're not a ghost. Maybe you faked your death.”

Sal laughed.

“Funny you should mention that, Detective. I know somebody who did exactly that. Frankie Barone.”

“Frankie Barone is dead.”

“No, Mike. Frankie Barone is living in the Bahamas.”

“That's impossible.”

“So you told me thirty years ago.”

“We found his blood all over that kitchen. Your fingerprints on the knife. Witnesses heard you threaten him.”

“I remember.”

“You had motive, opportunity—every reason...”

“Looked that way. But you convicted the wrong man.”

Outside, the wind rattled the windows.

“All right,” I said. “Start at the beginning.”

Sal settled back in his chair.

“Then you'd better pour us both another drink.”

***

Sal’s Story

Frankie and I had been partners for ten years. At least, I thought we were partners.

We supplied wedding cakes, pastries, and catered meals to half the banquet halls in North Jersey. I handled the baking, deliveries, and employees. Frankie handled the money.

I trusted him.

The trouble started when a banker came by and said we hadn't made a payment on the building loan in eighteen months.

Eighteen months! Our trucks were on the road before sunrise, our ovens never stopped, and I could barely find enough people to fill the orders.

I asked the banker how we could possibly be eighteen months behind. He looked at Frankie. Then he looked at me.

“Mr. Amperelli, I'm afraid this doesn't concern you. You're not a party to the loan.”

Frankie put his hand on my shoulder.

“Sal, go back to the kitchen. I'll straighten this out.”

I shrugged him off.

“This is my building.”

“Sal, you're a baker. Let me handle the business.”

I demanded the books. Frankie promised to show me everything that night. But when I came back, he was gone.

I didn't see him for another month.

He was busy during that month, Mike. Real busy.

I didn't know it then, but he wasn't working on the bakery. He was working on me.

When we finally met, he told me the money was gone. Millions, moved overseas. According to the corporate records, I hadn't owned any part of the bakery in years.

“That's impossible,” I said.

“Prove it.”

“I was your partner!”

“You were my employee, Sal. A very well-paid employee.”

I told him I'd go to the police.

“You always thought you were better than me,” he said. “Sunday school and church brunches. You think those cakes built this business? You know how many bags of cash I carried around this town to get those contracts? You wanted to go home to your wife and kids while I did the dirty work.”

“Frankie—”

“Don't Frankie me! And after everything I did for you, you started sending those emails. Demanding everything be aboveboard. Accusing me of being a crook.”

I remember feeling sorry for him then. Can you imagine that?

“Frank, we can straighten this out.”

“No, buddy. It's you or me now. And when it's you or me, that's an easy decision.”

He told me what the police would find. Bank accounts in my name. A two-million-dollar insurance policy on his life. Witnesses who'd heard us arguing.

“They'll know you thought I cheated you. And then they're going to find the blood.”

“What blood?”

Frankie took one of the long knives we used to cut wedding cakes and drew the blade across his forearm.

“Jesus, Frankie!”

I grabbed for the knife. He shoved me away, smearing blood across my shirt.

“They'll come looking for my body. And when they don't find it, they'll come looking for you.”

He was smiling.

“After they see everything I've left for them, you can tell them whatever you want. It isn't going to make much difference, is it?”

***

“The next person I saw was you, Mike. My wrist cracked when you forced it back for the cuffs.”

Sal flexed his hand.

“You remember?”

I remembered.

“I was angry that night. It wasn't the first time.”

“Is that how you lost your job?”

“It was later. The mayor wanted something. I wouldn't bend. Threw a chair. Got in his face. That was the excuse they needed.”

The room went quiet.

“Frankie's alive, Mike. If you want to put something right before you're done, I know where to start.”

***

A tractor-trailer thundered past my Lincoln on the Parkway, throwing water across the windshield. A gust pushed me toward the shoulder. I corrected too sharply.

That wasn't like me. Thirty-five years as a Newark cop, and a couple of trucks shouldn't have bothered me. I'd chased suspects through these streets at ninety miles an hour, sometimes with bullets flying.

But tonight my mind was somewhere else.

I'd built a career on my instincts. I rarely charged anyone with murder without a body. But the evidence against Sal was overwhelming, and his explanation was preposterous.

I'd never doubted it for a second.

Now I was wondering whether I'd made the biggest mistake of my career.

I believed in evidence. In logic. In the conclusions a man could draw from a lifetime of experience.

I believed in God. I was a good Catholic, after all. I sure as shit had plenty to answer for.

But ghosts?

“Give me a goddamn break,” I said aloud.

I glanced at the empty passenger seat. Nothing. I wasn't sure whether I was relieved or disappointed.

Yet here I was, calling in one of my last favors based on a conversation I'd had with myself in my study.

“Danny, I need another look at the Barone file. And see if you can pull ATM surveillance from Nassau, Bahamas.”

“Nassau? What's going on, Lieutenant? You see somebody come back from the dead?” Danny laughed. “Both the victim and the perp kicked the bucket. You know that, right?”

“Just do what I ask, Danny.”

***

Danny pulled me into a conference room at the precinct.

“Mike, I've got to show you something. You're not going to believe this.”

He turned the monitor toward me.

A silver Mercedes convertible stopped beside the curb. Out stepped a gray-haired man in white linen, a flamingo-pink shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, and a Panama hat.

Brown leather loafers. The same swagger.

Frankie Barone.

He withdrew a wad of cash from the ATM, then stopped a woman in a sundress. He took off his sunglasses and smiled.

A man I'd been certain was dead for thirty years, flirting outside a bank.

“Can you get the plate?”

“We've got something better.”

Danny slid over a name and an address.

***

Our Nassau Airbnb was a cheap second-floor apartment. Paper espresso cups littered the counter. The news murmured on the television. I sat with a map spread out in front of me.

Sal sat opposite me, staring at the surveillance photograph.

“Thirty years inside while he drank rum and chased women.”

I folded the address into my jacket.

“Getting him arrested won't be simple.”

“Then what are we doing here?”

“We're going to get him to tell us what happened.”

“How?”

“I think it's time Frankie Barone saw a ghost.”

***

Frankie sat overlooking the harbor when I approached.

“Frankie Barone.”

“I'm sorry?”

“I'd recognize your face anywhere.”

“Maybe I just have one of those faces. I don't know you from Adam.”

His sleeves were rolled up.

“That's quite a scar. Sal Amperelli told me about it.”

“Lots of people have scars.”

“But I bet your fingerprints would match a certain Frank Lewis Barone. You had a record when you were young.”

“Are you arresting me, Officer?”

“No.”

“Then I assume you'd like me to come down to the station voluntarily?”

“I think that would be a good idea.”

“That's what I thought.”

He stood and picked up his hat.

“You don't carry a badge anymore, do you? If the actual authorities have questions, I'm sure they'll be in touch.”

He put on his sunglasses.

“Ciao.”

***

Frankie arrived twenty minutes late.

I'd arranged a private room at a waterfront restaurant. I'd told him there was something he needed to see before I went to the authorities.

“The detective who won't take no for an answer.”

“Have a seat.”

“I'll stand.”

“Suit yourself. There's someone who wants to talk to you.”

“Who?”

“An old friend.”

The door opened. Sal stepped inside.

The smile disappeared from Frankie's face. He stared at Sal, then at me, then back at Sal.

“Hello, Frankie.”

Frankie stumbled backward against a chair.

“No. You're dead.”

“I am, Frankie. Cancer got me three weeks ago.”

Frankie looked at me.

“What the fuck is going on?”

“You recognize him, then?”

Sal stepped closer.

“You took everything from me, you bastard. Thirty goddamn years. I watched my kids grow up through a visiting-room window. Birthdays, Christmases, graduations. And you were down here living the life you stole from me.”

“What do you want?”

Sal's voice began to shake.

“I want you to pay.”

For a moment, Frankie looked genuinely frightened. Then something changed.

Frankie straightened his jacket.

“How? You're dead. The case is closed.” He turned toward me. “And you've got this washed-up detective helping you? Everybody knows what happened. The drinking. Roughing up one too many suspects.”

“Shut your mouth.”

“They finally get tired of covering for you?”

I stepped forward.

“There he is. There's the Mike Sheehan I remember.”

I reached beneath my jacket and drew my revolver.

“Whoa. Easy, Detective.”

“I ought to settle this right here.”

Sal stepped between us.

“Put it away, Mike.”

“Get out of my way.”

“No. Not like this.”

“After what this son of a bitch did to you—”

“I know what he did. I lived with it for thirty years. Don't throw away what's left of your life because of him.”

My hand trembled. Then I lowered the revolver and holstered it.

Frankie let out a nervous laugh.

“That's right, Detective. Listen to your friend.”

“You know something, Frankie? Some people are so poor, all they have is money. You've got everything a man can buy. But not one person who'll shed a tear when they put you in the ground.”

“You don't know a goddamn thing about me.”

“Fancy clothes. Expensive cars. A big house overlooking the ocean. Everything you have can be bought and paid for. Who's going to miss you?”

“That's what I can't stand about people like you. Always telling everybody how to live.” He pointed at Sal. “Even dead, he's trying to make me feel guilty.”

“For stealing my life!” Sal said.

“What life? You worked ten hours at the bakery, then went home and did whatever your wife told you. Fix this. Paint that. Take the kids here. Take the kids there.”

“That's called having a family.”

“That's called being a slave. I wanted to see the world. When I saw my chance, I took it.”

“You stole the money,” I said.

“It was my business too!”

“And when Sal found out?”

“He threatened to go to the police.”

“So you framed him for murder.”

“I did what I had to do.”

“You let me rot in prison,” Sal said.

“At least you could read a book without somebody nagging you. Nobody asking you to fix the goddamn sink.”

“You think I was better off in prison?”

“Look at me. I go where I want. I answer to nobody.” Frankie leaned forward. “And I'd do it again.”

I opened my jacket and showed him the recording device.

“I'm wearing a wire. The Bahamian police are outside. They've been listening.”

“You son of a bitch.”

He looked toward the door, then back at me.

“You've been talking to somebody who's been dead for three weeks. Who's going to believe a retired cop with a drinking problem, waving a gun around and talking to ghosts?”

“You're right about one thing, Frankie. Somebody here has been seeing ghosts.”

Frankie turned.

Sal was gone.

“Where'd he go?”

I said nothing.

“Where the fuck did he go?”

I opened the door.

“That's something you can explain to the police, Frankie.”

***

I rang the doorbell with a heaviness in my throat.

Rose Amperelli opened the door. I recognized her immediately, but the years had not been kind. Her hair was gray, the lines around her eyes deeper than I remembered.

“Detective Sheehan? What are you doing here?”

She started to close the door. I put out my left hand.

“Rose, please. There's something I've got to tell you.”

“What could you possibly have to say to me?”

“Your husband was innocent. He was telling the truth all along.”

Her eyes filled.

“Now? After he's gone? What good does that do me?”

“I guess it's not much, Rose, but it's all I've got.”

I looked down at my feet.

“The authorities in Nassau caught up with Frankie Barone. He's been living there all these years. He faked his murder and framed Sal. We have his confession.”

She brought a hand to her mouth.

“Your husband's name has finally been cleared. I'm sorry that I got it wrong.”

“I always knew,” she whispered. “I always knew Sal wouldn't hurt anybody.”

“I know you did.”

I lifted the wooden chest we'd recovered and handed her the envelope containing Sal's share of the money.

“This belongs to your family. It should have been yours a long time ago.”

She didn't open it.

“But I know what meant more to Sal were these other things.”

I took out his father's brass compass, nautical globe, service pin, and medal. Beneath them were photographs, including one of Sal beside his father as a boy.

“Oh, my God.” Rose ran her fingers over the picture. “I haven't seen this in years.”

She looked at the compass and the medal.

“These were his father's.”

“I know.”

I placed the chest inside the foyer.

“He wanted you to have them.”

“Who did?”

“Sal.”

She studied my face, then looked down again.

“Would you like to come in for coffee?”

“No, Mrs. Amperelli. I just wanted to apologize, pay my respects, and return these things to their rightful owner.”

I paused.

“Sal was an honorable man, just like his dad. I've got to be going now.”

Walking back to my car, I saw Sal across the street, looking toward the house. Our eyes met. He gave me a small nod. I nodded back.

Sal turned and began walking down the street toward the setting sun.

As he walked, the outline of his body slowly faded.

Until all I could see was sunlight on the dark pavement.