The Alibi (A John Chance Mystery) – Chapter 37

The last work-in-progress entry for this month. Enjoy!

The Alibi – Chapter 37

Cisily watched the Ngolngol fade away. It left dispersing clouds of smoke in its wake.

She shook her head. This was a fine time for someone to attack SkyHook HQ. She’s seeing a ‘Gin cyclone spirit on the side of a building, a water spirit in Boston Harbor, she sees probably another water spirit of some kind in the water a mile out of harbor and acting like the SkyHook attack is something it knows about or understands.

Jesus Christ, Thorne, get a grip.

Never mind right now.

No SkyHook remotes were transmitting.

This was major.

She signaled the harbormaster of her approach, set the Eglesia on autopilot, and left the pilot house for the captain’s suite.

Screw the business suits. Forget the pushup bra and the screw me now or screw me later thong. She dumped her emergency pack on the king-size bed, put on the plain white sports bra and panties, blue on white rugby shirt, plain grey khakis, and a pair of white cotton blend socks. Reebok asked her to take part in a Women of Boston photo shoot and gave her $2,000 custom fitted blue on white running shoes as a gift. They snugged automatically as the balls of her feet rested in them. She didn’t hesitate.

On deck, she threw some lines to a couple of Harvard’s finest as the Eglesia approached a dock. “Anchor her at my berth and I’ll drown both of you if anything’s missing or broken when I get back.”

The harbormaster warned them. They held the Eglesia secure while Thorne deboarded, covering the distance from deck to dock in one smooth, confident leap. They nodded without looking at her. “Yes, Ma’am.” “Yes, Ms. Thorne.”

The distance from the harbor to SkyHook HQ was five city blocks. Fire trucks, ambulances, and foot patrol officers held vehicular and pedestrian traffic at a standstill. She waved off the Uber driver the harbormaster called for her, ran, and arrived at SkyHook HQ looking like she just stepped out of a Boston Magazine center spread about executive life on the harbor.

Irene Casey, wraparound sunglasses covering her eyes and a regulation short sleeve shirt and matching shorts revealing corded muscles on both arms and legs, stopped her at the crime scene perimeter outside the incident tape.

“I’m Cisily Thorne.”

Casey held up a calloused hand. “I’m the Queen Consort to Prince Charles. Nice to meet you.”

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