A Perfect Alibi

By Anne Baines

The job looked like the same old story. Husband thinks wife is cheating, husband hires private investigator... Until someone ends up dead.

As a former police detective turned PI, Sam Arbichaut has seen it all. Having moved from Florida to Portland, Oregon for a new start in life, he spends his days fighting middle-age spread and investigating whatever civilians pay him for.

When his latest job takes a homicidal turn, Sam soon figures out this case is anything but the usual... and finding out what the real story is might just cost him everything.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Publishing
• Release date: Jun 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9781094418742

Anne Baines

Ex-professional poker player and thriller writer Anne Baines spends her non-writing time learning languages, lifting weights, and traveling around the world. She lives in the Netherlands with her husband. She is the author of the Sam Arbichaut mystery series and the Delilah Thrillers.

Book preview

A Perfect Alibi

Sam Arbichaut Mysteries #1

Anne Baines

BRYANT STREET PUBLISHING

Copyright 2018, Anne Baines (AnneMarie Buhl)

This novel is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and incidents described in this publication are used fictitiously, or are entirely fictional.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, except by an authorized retailer, or with written permission of the publisher.

Chapter 1

Sue paced up and down at the back of the motel room, rubbing her arms reflexively to banish a chill she could never get rid of.

Once you had slept out in the cold, you never forgot it.

She’d been so sure that this time, she was ahead of things. This time, she’d do right with the money. She’d grab her chance and be gone, never look back, never bother Nancy again.

Dull, drab Nancy who didn’t understand at all—or understood too damned well. Dull, drab Nancy with her blouses and her dinner parties, who’d settled for the boring man and the boring house, who gave up her art and her fire, who bit her tongue when her stupid husband said stupid things. Nancy, who lived in a prison. Didn’t matter how pretty a prison was if it was still a prison.

Nancy didn’t want anything to do with Sue anymore, and Sue told herself she didn’t want anything to do with Nancy, either. Stupid Nancy. Dull Nancy.

Her eyes strayed to her phone. The screen was black now, but she remembered what she’d seen there: glittering chandeliers and plush carpets, beds covered with thick comforters, manicured lawns as perfectly green as emeralds.

Northstar. The sort of place no one would allow her. The name even meant someplace you could never reach.

But Nancy was worth half of that. That was the bitter truth of everything: for biting her tongue and giving up everything that made her Nancy, she’d gotten a diamond on her finger, and more diamonds at her ears, and yet more at her wrist—and she went to bed at night never worrying where the next money would come from, or who wanted it.

It wasn’t fair. Sue swallowed down a snarl of disappointment. It wasn’t fair that someone should lie all their life, smile when they weren’t happy, pretend to love someone they didn’t love, step willingly into a prison, and they would wind up with everything.

Meanwhile, an honest person found themselves here, in a shitty motel room, with leaves falling from the trees and winter coming back and nowhere to stay, and fucking Davey on their fucking ass about the stupid fucking money.

This one was supposed to be her ticket out. It was supposed to be.

And it would be; she promised herself that. Nancy had more money than she could ever use. She wouldn’t miss it. Her husband would definitely never miss it. Sue had seen him, all dressed up in his suits. The man probably had enough in his wallet right now to get her out of this mess.

The only problem was that Nancy had stopped taking her calls. Oh, things had been good for a little bit. Sue had started slow; she knew how to prime a mark. She went and got coffee with Nancy, and not a mention of the money. She met Nancy for lunch, and not a mention of the money, even though Davey was breathing down her neck and she could have screamed.

It had been weeks now, weeks she didn’t really have, moving slowly and carefully, and then Sue had told her what she needed.

And she hadn’t heard from Nancy again.

Sue’s fingers clenched against her arm, nails digging into the skin.

So they didn’t like each other, but they’d been kids together, hadn’t they? Sue had used her pocket money to buy them orange sodas together, and candy. She’d stuck her neck out when Nancy got beaten up in school because she was too damned weird, the kid who liked to paint and dance around in the leaves on the way home from school.

Hell, if it hadn’t been for Sue, Nancy would never have gone and gotten that degree, would she? She was going straight in the good way, Sue’s little sister. She was always so cautious, and the things she liked didn’t even make sense, but it was impossible to resist the way those eyes lit up when she talked about color and brush strokes.

She’d been Sue’s big sister, for chrissakes. Sue had done everything for her, and now she couldn’t even give a little bit back?

She had to call in Bill. She looked at the phone and bit her lip. Could she trust him? Bill had a tendency to go overboard. He only had two settings, do-nothing and full-on.

She needed him, though. Nancy wasn’t going to talk to Sue, and she had to scare her just a little bit.

Just a little bit. Just a bit, before reminding her that they’d been sisters once.

And then the phone rang. Sue looked over at it, looked at the number on the screen, and looked over at the clock. Four a.m. She answered with a frown.

I was just going to call you.

Chapter 2

Sam Arbichaut took a sip of his coffee, never taking his eyes off the road ahead. The suspect—target, he reminded himself, not suspect—was in a nice, new sedan two cars ahead.

It was before six a.m., but the roads of suburban Portland already had enough cars on them to hide Sam as he tailed the suspect.

Target, he reminded himself again. He wasn’t on the police force anymore, and this wasn’t a criminal case. He was a private investigator now, getting involved in all manner of family and business disputes.

In this case, it was insurance fraud. A worker at a local hardware store had fallen off a rickety old ladder and now he couldn’t work. Of course, he’d fallen in a part of the store where no one else could see or hear him. And he’d left a paper trail documenting his complaints about the ladder. And he’d promptly gotten all of the exact, correct forms filled out for worker’s comp.

The store owner swore to Sam that he’d never seen that ladder before in his life—that the reason he hadn’t fixed the ladders was that the ladders he had were perfectly stable. He didn’t have the money for a worker’s comp payout and a new employee in the meantime, he said, and this employee had never seemed on the level to him. No one believed him—but Sam did, didn’t he?

Sam gave him the standard spiel: it didn’t matter what he believed. In fact, he was paid to believe nothing: You’re hiring me to find out the truth, Mr. Franks. I try to have no preconceived ideas about everything.

It was the type of speech that gave clients a jolt… and then reeled them right in. First they were offended that Sam didn’t believe them out of hand, and then they switched to telling themselves that this was a good thing, that Sam was incorruptible, and that they, too, only cared about the truth.

Of course, most of them sang a different tune if Sam’s investigations turned up nothing, but he was prepared for that.

He liked the speech he gave because it was true. He really did want to get to the bottom of things, and he wasn’t prepared to give incriminating evidence when it wouldn’t be warranted. When he gave information to a client, he believed in it wholeheartedly.

In this case, he had begun to believe that his client was right, and the employee wasn’t disabled at all. Everything was just a bit too perfect, from the forms he’d filed, to the exact injury he’d gotten, to the way he always went out using his crutches. Sam had yet to meet a young man who wouldn’t try to push himself past the limits of his injury, even if it were just to bring a back of trash to the dumpster.

This young man was patient, aware that he might be watched. Sam, however, was even more patient, and he was pretty sure he’d just hit pay dirt: they were driving far out of the target’s neighborhood at a very early hour. If the target was about to screw up, this would be the time.

And screw up he did. He picked street parking and swung himself energetically out of the car, no limp to slow him down. He grabbed a bag out of the car—Sam, parked a few cars away, couldn’t see what—and set off down the sidewalk.

Tailing him, dawdling, making sure to appear absorbed in his smartphone, Sam snapped a few pictures and took a short video. Then he used the map function on his phone to figure out where he was.

Near a park. His eyes narrowed. An idea was forming in his head, the sort of hunch he’d learned to listen to even before he knew the specifics of where it was leading him.

He chose to walk past the street his target had turned down, ostensibly still checking his phone and making his way toward one of the office buildings nearby. He was carrying a briefcase himself, and wearing the sort of nondescript button-down shirt and khakis that could belong to any of a number of professions. He was boring, he wasn’t at all memorable, and he knew enough of young people to know that he was entirely invisible to them.

It wasn’t long after that, having made his way around the block, that Sam looked out over the park and smiled in satisfaction.

The young man was running, dodging between his friends. He wore a mesh scrimmage top, bright orange, and his feet were a blur, kicking a soccer ball with impressive accuracy.

Impressive, and very, very incriminating. Sam snapped a few photos, took another couple of videos, and headed back the way he’d come with another smile.

Patience, logic, and instinct. With those three things, he could solve any problem that came his way.

Two hours later, Sam drained the last of his cup of coffee and stared forlornly down at his plate. The omelet and wheat toast he’d gotten was long gone, the cup of fruit grudgingly eaten, and the bacon he wished he’d gotten smelled divine.

Sure I can’t get you something else?

No thanks, Janice. Sam smiled up at the waitress behind the diner’s long Formica bar. From her tone, he could tell that she’d been watching him stare at his plate. But it’s good of you to offer.

Janice, one of the first-shift waitresses at the diner down the street from his house, had been one of his first proper acquaintances here in Portland. She had once, Sam was sure, been an absolute stunner: tall and slim, with high cheekbones and dark brown eyes set above pouty lips. Now she wore her beauty with an elegance that a younger woman couldn’t match. The grey in her hair seemed earned, the lines around her eyes and mouth were from laughter instead of frowns, and she managed to pass off her everyday tiredness as an artful world-weariness instead of exhaustion.

Now, her dark brows drew together in a severe look.

You leave here every day looking hungry, she informed him as she whipped the plate away from him and put it in one of the busing tubs. That’s not good for business. What are people going to say?

If I’m lucky, they’re going to say, ‘That man is in great shape,’ Sam quipped. He fiddled with his coffee cup until she took that from him too, with another mock glare.

She rolled her eyes at his hopes. They’re going to say you look hungry, she said. Hungry and tired. If you’re going to do all that nonsense with the plates and the bars—a few gestures indicated that she meant weightlifting—you need to eat properly, or you’ll just waste away. Did you even have cheese on your omelet today?

Cheese is… Sam closed his mouth, sure he was about two seconds from drooling on the counter. That omelet would have been great with cheese. And a side of bacon. And some hash browns.

That’s it. Janice shook her head. I’m getting you another omelet.

No, no, Sam said hastily. He pulled out a ten-dollar bill and slid it across the counter at her. I really shouldn’t. I need to get to the office.

Uh-huh. Janice leaned on the counter with a wicked grin. Well, I hope she’s worth it.

Huh? Sam stopped, halfway through the act of putting on his jacket. It was only October, but after living in Florida for years, he found he was almost always cold here in Portland.

The girl. Janice straightened up and crossed her arms, still grinning at him. "There… is a girl, isn’t there? She wiggled her index finger at him. That you’re doing all this for?"

Sam flushed. It’s not all about— I mean— She really isn’t—

Janice laughed as she made her way down the counter to where another customer was hailing her.

Hope she appreciates the effort, she called back over her shoulder. See you tomorrow, Arby. She had given Sam the nickname about a week after meeting him, having deemed Arbichaut too much of a mouthful.

Bye, Sam muttered.

He was still blushing as he made his way out to his car.

There wasn’t a girl. Not really, anyway.

Just a neighbor whose cheery hellos seemed to make his entire stomach flip over. From their brief conversations, Sam had gleaned that her name was Laura, she was an ER nurse at a nearby hospital, and she had a daughter who was in her first year at college. It was clear that she lived alone, and Sam had many times wished he had the courage to ask her out for dinner.

To justify the fact that he hadn’t, he told himself that she often worked night shifts, but even he knew that was total bullshit. Up until now, however, he hadn’t questioned his assertions to himself that he was doing a bunch of weightlifting and home renovations for a change of pace. Maybe that, he reflected, was also bullshit.

As he got in his car and stared at the bottles of water, his workout bag, and the folders of old paperwork cluttering the seat, Sam shook his head at himself good-naturedly. Once, his car had been cluttered with fast food wrappers—now the clutter showed a healthier lifestyle, but he was hardly a different person.

Still, he was making some changes: a new city, a new job.

Whistling, he pulled out of the parking lot and made for the highway to get to his office.

The office was, if anything, more of a mess than his car had ever been.

Sam flipped the light switch on and looked around. Half-finished mugs of tea and coffee lay at various places around the room, a mostly finished bag of trail mix was open on the desk, a few sweaters had accumulated over the months, and the desk was covered in mail from home.

The one thing you didn’t see was anything relating to his business. Years in the police force, starting in the cloistered and high-stakes world of homicide, had given Sam ironclad habits around storing files and evidence. Everything relating to his cases was in locking filing cabinets and password-protected folders on his computer.

It was just everything else that was chaos.

Maybe he should get an assistant.

Shaking his head at himself—there wasn’t enough business to warrant an assistant—Sam started carrying the mugs one by one to place by the door. He’d go wash them out in the shared kitchen down the hall, get all this paperwork straightened up, and…

Who was he kidding? He’d get one or two mugs to the kitchen, make himself a new cup of coffee, and get lost in his work.

At least he was good at his work.

He was just easing the door open with his shoulder, hands loaded with mugs, when the phone rang. He looked down the hall, then back to the phone. Down the hall, back to the phone.

With a muttered curse, he set the cups down hastily and backtracked across the rug to pick the phone up.

Sam Arbichaut here.

Mr. Arbichaut. The voice was deep and self-assured. My name is Harvey Straid. I’d like to hire you for a job.

I, uh… Let me check my schedule. Holding the phone between shoulder and ear, Sam pulled out the desk drawer and fumbled for a pen. What’s your number? I’ll call you back shortly with my availability.

Mr. Arbichaut, I assure you, I can more than match the rates any other clients are paying you. Are you at your office?

Yes, but I—

I’ll be there shortly to discuss the job. Harvey Straid didn’t wait for an answer before ending the call.

"Shit." Sam looked around the total mess that was his office.

A new job would come in handy right about now, especially with the insurance fraud case coming to a resolution.

But meeting someone at his office was hardly going to make a good impression—not with the office in the state it was currently in, at any rate. Sam rushed to the door, picked up as many mugs as he could handle, and headed for the kitchen at a run.

He began dumping coffee into the sink with as much speed as he could.

Should’ve hired an assistant, Arby, he muttered to himself.

Chapter 3

The cleaning, such as it was, took ten minutes and felt like it took an hour. Sam dumped the mugs into an increasingly full sink of soapy water, stuffed the mail into a paper bag under his desk, and managed to find hangers in the coat closet—he’d forgotten he had a coat closet—for the sweaters. By the end of it, he was sweaty and already unreasonably annoyed at his client.

He was even more annoyed when Harvey Straid proceeded to not show up for another forty-five minutes.

Sam had

Reviews for A Perfect Alibi

[Leena Aluru · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I liked it . A great start to a series with a really likeable, humane hero. Looking forward to bk 2.