Deadly Justice bk-3

by William Bernhardt

  “This one guy you mentioned—the head creep. What did he look like?”

  “I don’t know. I heard about him, but I never saw him.”

  “Could you recognize these men if you saw them again?”

  “Oh…possibly. You know, we’re told not to look the Johns in the face, and I think that’s usually sound advice.”

  “Do you remember any of them?”

  “I recognized one of them when I saw his picture in the paper. The one who got killed.”

  Ben leaned forward eagerly. “What was his name?”

  “I don’t remember, but he was the one who used to drive us out to The Playground.” Trixie crossed the room and took a folded newspaper out of the coat closet. “Here it is. I saved the paper.”

  Ben glanced at it; he didn’t have to look long. It was the Tulsa World article about Howard Hamel’s murder. Hamel’s picture was on the top left corner of the page.

  “When you saw this, didn’t it make you suspect you were in danger?”

  “I already knew. I suspected when Angel disappeared.” Her eyes reddened. “He got her the day after her birthday. I’d given her a present—one of those necklaces with a gold heart torn in half. You know, she’d keep one half, I’d keep the other. It was supposed to symbolize being friends for life.” Her eyes focused on the carpet. “Some friendship. The next day, she was gone. And now she’s dead.”

  “What did you do next?”

  “Like I said, I was suspicious when Angel disappeared. But I was certain when they got Suzie and Barbara. I tried to save Bobbie Rae, but I was too late. And then he came after me.”

  “Who?” Ben grasped her firmly by the shoulders. “Who came after you?”

  “I don’t know. I never saw him. But he tried to kill that policeman, and the next day he was all over The Stroll looking for me.”

  “That’s why you went into hiding. It wasn’t the police you were hiding from. It was the killer.”

  “Right. But I didn’t have anywhere to hide out. Sonny was no help—he wanted me back on the street. I didn’t know where to go. I sure as hell wasn’t going to trust the police again. Buddy was the only person who offered to help. He has this place his grandmother left him. He said I could stay here.”

  “Thank goodness,” Ben said under his breath. If Buddy hadn’t gotten her off the street…well, he preferred not to think about it. “Does Buddy live alone?”

  “Yeah, other than me. He used to have this boyfriend, but it didn’t work out. So he had plenty of room for me.

  “When we were looking for you, we were told to follow the pennies. If you don’t mind my asking, what’s the deal with the pennies?”

  Her face flushed; for the first time, she seemed embarrassed. “Oh, that. That’s…nothing important.”

  “I’m curious.”

  “It’s just…see, I try to do nice stuff for people whenever I can, you know? Little rays of sunshine, I call them. Everything is so bad around here, it just seems like…well, any dumb thing might help. Sometimes I swipe change from a John’s pockets and buy flowers for the other girls. Or sometimes I whip up breakfast in bed—I do decent scrambled eggs. And whenever I get pennies, I throw them on the ground. You know, so other people can find them.”

  “ ‘See a penny, pick it up, and all the day you’ll have good luck.’ ”

  “Exactly.” Her cheeks were a bright crimson. “Super dumb, I know.”

  Ben smiled. “I don’t think it’s dumb at all.”

  She shifted awkwardly on the sofa. “Well, we all do what we can.”

  “Let me ask you one last question.” Ben touched his side gingerly. “What was that you stabbed me with?”

  “Oh!” She reached under the sofa cushions. “I was in the kitchen when you came in. I just grabbed the first two things I saw—the blade from Buddy’s electric mixer, and the extension cord.”

  “That blade really stung,” Ben said. “I’m glad you didn’t have time to get to the cutlery.”

  “Gosh, I’m sorry I hurt you. I really am. I was just so scared.” She placed her hand on his leg. “Are you sure there isn’t some way I can…make it up to you?”

  “I’m sure there is.” Ben gently removed her hand and dropped it in her lap. “From now on, lock your front door.”

  42

  BEN TALKED WITH TRIXIE for almost three solid hours, until he had all the information he thought she could offer. Most of it didn’t pertain directly to the case. He knew from past experience, though, that sometimes the facts that turn out to be the most telling don’t even seem relevant at first. He tried to learn everything he could about Trixie, the Kindergarten Club, and life on The Stroll.

  “Trixie, I have to leave for a short while, but I don’t want you to be here by yourself. How long till Buddy comes back?”

  Trixie glanced at the clock on the wall. “He’s already late. Probably stopped for coffee or something. I’m sure he’ll be here any minute.”

  “I’m not leaving you alone,” Ben said flatly. “I’m going to call a friend of mine to stay with you until I return.”

  A fearful expression returned to her face. “Not a cop. I don’t want any cops.”

  “Trixie, it’s for your own protection.”

  “That’s what they said before. And the next thing I knew I was getting beat up again. For all I know, this killer is some sex pervert cop.”

  “Trixie, I don’t think—”

  “If you call a cop, I’m running out of here as fast as I can. And you won’t be able to stop me.”

  Ben sighed. “All right. How about a woman, then? Not a cop. Someone I know we can trust.”

  Her head tilted a fraction. “That might be all right. Who is it, your girlfriend?”

  “Just a friend. But a very good one.”

  Christina arrived about half an hour later. Her eyes were cloudy, and her strawberry blond hair was a jumbled mess, but she was there. She was wearing a gray sweatsuit and sneakers.

  “Ben, do you have any idea what time it is?”

  “Of course I do. It’s almost four A.M.”

  “It was a rhetorical question, Ben.” She nodded toward the girl eyeing her carefully from the sofa. “Is that—?”

  “Yes. The long-sought Trixie.”

  “I figured as much. I’m impressed. Regular Dick Tracy you’re turning into.”

  Ben introduced them, then let them chat a few minutes until Trixie appeared reasonably at ease with Christina. Christina soon had Trixie thoroughly engaged in an animated discussion of rock groups and music videos. Ben wrote out his name and his home and office phone numbers and addresses.

  “I’m going to my apartment,” he explained to Trixie. “I need to call my office and tell them I won’t be in today, and then call…a friend of mine and tell him what I’ve been doing. And I need to feed my cat. As soon as I’ve taken care of all that, I’ll be right back here.”

  “Great.” Ben was pleased to see Trixie smile a bit. She was beginning to trust him.

  On his way out, Ben motioned for Christina. “She’s scared to death of the police,” Ben whispered. “That’s why I haven’t called Mike yet. But I will as soon as I get to my place. If you see anything suspicious, or anyone other than Buddy tries to come through that door, I want you to call the police immediately, whether Trixie likes it or not.”

  “Understood.”

  “Don’t take any risks.”

  “The biggest risk here, Ben, is that I’ll return to the slumber my body so keenly craves.”

  Ben pointed at Trixie. “If Christina’s eyelids begin to droop, poke her with that mixing blade.” Ben grinned at Christina. “Take my word for it. You won’t fall asleep.”

  Night still blanketed the streets of Tulsa. As Ben headed home, the lights surrounding the TU campus cast a blue glow across his windshield. What a night it had been! Ben couldn’t believe he’d been up so long. It was worth it, though—the pieces were finally starting to come together. Hamel, the Kindergarten Club, the ac
cident at Camp Sequoyah—it was all beginning to make a twisted sort of sense. He still didn’t know who the killer was, but the choices were definitely narrowing.

  He turned onto Lewis. A few minutes later, he pulled up to the curb just outside his boardinghouse. Not a legal parking place, but who could be particular at this hour of the morning? He got out of his car and stretched; he was stiff from stem to stern. Maybe he would indulge in a shower and shave before he called Mike, just to clear the cobwebs out of his brain.

  He froze halfway across the front yard. That was odd—the window to his upstairs room was open. He didn’t remember doing that. In fact, he never opened it; among other reasons, he didn’t want Giselle to get out. Would Mrs. Marmelstein have opened the window? As far as he knew, Mrs. Marmelstein never even went in unless he was home.

  He approached the house and stood directly under the window. That’s when it became clear: the window wasn’t opened; it was smashed.

  Ben raced through the screen door and bolted up the stairs. He hesitated for a moment in the hallway—what if the intruder was still there? Never mind. He would just have to take his chances.

  He turned the doorknob and flung the door open. And gasped.

  His apartment had not been ransacked. He had seen places that had been ransacked before, and this was not what they looked like.

  His apartment had been destroyed.

  43

  BUDDY AWOKE TO FIND himself strapped to a chair. His hands were tied down on something—a table, perhaps? It was dark and he couldn’t tell for sure what it was. Or where he was. Or what, the hell had happened to him on his way home from The Stroll.

  “Ah. Sleeping Beauty awakes.”

  Buddy heard the steady clickety-clack of heels crossing the floor, drawing closer to him. “What’s going on here? What happened to me? Why am I tied up?”

  There was a click, and then the room was flooded with light. Buddy still couldn’t tell where he was. A cheap motel room? He couldn’t be certain. A man Buddy had never seen before in his life hovered over him. The man was dressed entirely in black, down to the tips of his cowboy boots.

  “Taking your questions in reverse order,” the man said, “you’re tied up so that you can’t get away; I clubbed you over the head when I saw you on Eighth Street; and you’re about to tell me where Trixie is.”

  “Trixie? Who is this Trixie? People have been asking about her all week, and I don’t know the slightest thing about her.”

  The man smiled handsomely. “My sources say otherwise.”

  “Well, your sources are screwed in the head. I don’t run with women. Especially hookers.”

  “Really. And how did you know she was a hooker, since you don’t know the slightest thing about her?”

  Buddy hesitated for just a second. “Well, it stood to figure—”

  “Don’t bother. Your face betrays you. And your mouth.”

  “Look, I know a guy on The Stroll who knows every hooker who’s been through here for the last twenty years. I’ll fix you up with him and—”

  “Shut up.” The man leaned across the table. “Are you right-handed, or left?”

  “Left. Why?”

  The man took Buddy’s left hand and grasped his middle finger. “Where’s Trixie?”

  “I told you, I don’t know any—”

  The man pressed the finger back as far as it would go without breaking. “One last chance. Where’s Trixie?”

  Buddy’s breathing quickened. He tried to block out the pain, the fear. He tried to wrest his hand free, but it was not possible. “I told you. You need to talk to—”

  The man pressed the finger all the way back. The tiny bones shattered, and Buddy’s finger dangled limply in the middle of his hand.

  Buddy screamed. The pain was excruciating. He had never felt such agony before in his life, never even imagined that anything could hurt so much. His entire left arm began to shake; he couldn’t steady it. Every nerve ending was on fire. He screamed again and again and again until he was breathless from screaming.

  The man sat on the other side of the table and waited patiently. “Ready to talk yet?”

  Buddy stared helplessly across the table. He couldn’t speak, even had he wanted to. His lips mouthed words, but no sounds emerged.

  “No?” The man shrugged. “As you wish.” He took Buddy’s right hand and grabbed the middle finger. “You may wonder why I’ve switched hands. Truth is, I believe your left arm is already as convulsed with pain as it could possibly be. There are limits to the amount of pain the brain can process, the amount of shock the nervous system can endure. And we don’t want you passing out prematurely. So it’s time to start fresh.”

  He leaned into Buddy’s face. “That way you can feel twice the pain you feel now.”

  Buddy shook his head back and forth, his eyes pleading, mouthing the word no. Tears were streaming down his face.

  “Losing your enthusiasm for secrecy? I don’t blame you. No cheap piece of teenage twat is worth this.” He pressed the middle finger all the way back. The bottom knuckle strained against his white flesh. “Where’s Trixie?”

  Buddy began inhaling raspily, breathing in quick short gulps. “Please, no. Please—”

  The man pressed even harder. Buddy could feel the tension on the bone, could feel it beginning to snap.

  “Last chance. Where’s Trixie?”

  Buddy cried out, a loud piercing wail. He was making short whimpering noises, like a pathetic oil-slicked seal. “Don’t…know….”

  The man broke his finger. Buddy shrieked, a loud hideous endless cry. The pain was unimaginable, unendurable. He prayed for unconsciousness, for anything that would remove him from this living nightmare. But there was no release. Nothing except the man in the black boots, his malevolent smile, and the unbearable pain.

  “Still not ready to talk? Amazing. The systemic shock must be incredible.” He reached down toward Buddy’s face and laid his fingers over Buddy’s eyes.

  Buddy twisted away from him, throwing his head to one side. It was no use—he was firmly tied down. He could not get away. He had no use of his arms whatsoever; both were shaking uncontrollably.

  “Please stop. Please…”

  “I will stop, Buddy. I will.” The man caressed the side of Buddy’s face. “I want to stop. Truly. Do you think I enjoy this? I don’t. It’s just that I need information, that’s all. And I need it quickly. Too many people are poking their noses into my affairs. If I don’t address the Trixie situation soon, there could be some serious complications. Do you understand?”

  He leaned forward and kissed Buddy on the cheek. “Won’t you please tell me where she is?”

  Buddy looked back at the man through blurry, clouded eyes. He couldn’t control his own hands, much less wipe the tears from his eyes. The pain was not subsiding. No, it was getting worse with every passing second. Blood drained out of his veins; his hands were swelling and felt as if they might explode.

  “Please,” Buddy whispered. He was begging. “Don’t hurt my fingers….”

  “Worried about the fingers, eh? ‘Doctor, if I survive, will I be able to play the piano? Oh yeah? I never could play the piano before!’ ” He laughed uproariously, then slapped Buddy on the back. “Funny, huh? I didn’t see you laugh, though. I like it when people laugh at my jokes.”

  Buddy tried to smile, but found he hadn’t the strength.

  The man’s grin faded. “I’m not going to hurt your fingers, Buddy, because I don’t think they can take any more pain without inducing unconsciousness, and I very much want you awake. So I’ll take a different approach.”

  The man reached into his jacket, unsnapped a holster and withdrew a long, thick knife. “I’m in the mood for a little surgery, Buddy. Nothing too major. Just the removal of a few unimportant organs. Nothing you’re likely to miss.”

  He pressed his nose against Buddy’s. “I’m not going to bother asking anymore. You know what I want to hear. When you’re ready for me to stop, j
ust start talking.

  He reached down and loosened the belt around Buddy’s pants. “Let’s see. Where shall I begin?”

  Buddy sobbed and shrieked, venting his anger and desperation. His entire body was cold and trembling. He felt horrible. It wasn’t the pain, although the pain was agonizing.

  He felt horrible because he knew he was going to tell.

  44

  BEN STARED AT HIS apartment in amazement and dismay. It was a shattered arena of destruction and debris. Everything that could be broken had been broken. Chipped pieces of Plexiglas from his stereo system littered the floor. Sofa cushions had been ripped open. The lid of the piano was up. He looked inside. Sure enough—the son of a bitch had gutted it.

  His bedroom was just the same, and the kitchen was even worse. There were so many easily broken objects in the kitchen. And yet, through all the rubble, he saw precious few indications that his apartment had been searched. He knew the usual signs—rifled drawers, dumped files—and he didn’t see any of them.

  This wasn’t a search. This was a warning.

  Ben slapped himself on the side of the head. Giselle!

  “Giselle? Sweetie?” He made a clicking sound with his tongue. “C’mere, kitty.”

  No response.

  “Kitty kitty kitty. C’mon. Daddy’s home.”

  He watched for some stirring, some indication of life. Nothing.

  Ben felt a deep hollow in his heart. That poor cat. He bent over and crawled through a stack of broken records, ripped books, and torn linens. Maybe she was buried under here somewhere. Maybe she was pinned and couldn’t get out.

  Wait a minute. He shouldn’t jump to any conclusions. He knew how to test for cat life. He ran into the kitchen, burrowed through the cabinets—now a jumbled mess—and retrieved a can of Feline’s Fancy. Giselle’s favorite.

  He opened the can and waited as the aroma filled the apartment. Not that it ever took more than a few seconds. She was normally prancing around beneath his feet before he had the lid off. He waved the can around the kitchen, trying to deny the obvious, trying to pretend it hadn’t been too long yet.