The Perfect Alibi

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At five thirty on a rainy Monday morning in October, Robin Lockwood ran the five miles from her apartment to McGill’s gym in Portland’s Pearl District. For decades, the Pearl had been home to dusty, decaying warehouses. Then the developers moved in. Overnight, most of the grimy, run-down buildings were replaced by gleaming high-end condos, trendy restaurants, and chic boutiques. McGill’s was on the ground floor of one of the few old, brick buildings that had escaped gentrification. It was dimly lit and filled with the rank odor you never found in modern, air-conditioned workout emporiums.

Barry McGill, the gym’s owner, was taciturn, monosyllabic, and profane. Rumor had it that he had mob connections, but people with any amount of common sense were too wise to ask him about it. Salt-and-pepper stubble sprouted on McGill’s fleshy jowls and whiskey-reddened cheeks. He’d fought as a middleweight in the 1980s and had the broken nose and scar tissue to prove it, but his days as a 165-pounder were long past, and the weight he carried in his gut, butt, and thighs had elevated him to the heavyweight division.

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