Naked Justice bk-6

by William Bernhardt

  “Out there,” she said, pointing.

  Whitman turned back. “Do we care?”

  Christina sat back in her seat, looking somewhat miffed. “Well, it is the state bird, after all.”

  Whitman stared at her a moment, then turned to face Ben. “Look, I don’t believe a word of this cockamamie fantasy about a hit man. This is some absurd defense you and Barrett have cooked up to cheat his way out of being convicted. Next we’ll be hearing that he couldn’t help himself because his daddy beat him when he was growing up.”

  “Mr. Whitman, I’m taking these allegations very seriously. Are you sure you don’t know anything about this?”

  Whitman slowly rose out of his chair. “What are you suggesting?”

  “I’ve been following a number of leads, and one of them led me to your office. Your phone number, actually.” Not precisely true, but close enough for present purposes.

  “This is an outrage!”

  “I’m Barrett’s attorney, sir. I have to follow up all possible leads.”

  Whitman’s eyes burned. He stepped out from behind his desk, arm extended. “I want both of you out of my office. This instant!”

  “So you’re saying you don’t know this hit man?”

  “I’m saying I want you out!”

  “He’s been described as tall, thin, goateed, with long brown hair. Wears fatigues. Know anyone like that?”

  “Of course not!”

  Ben stood firm. “May I take that as a denial?”

  Whitman grabbed Ben by the shoulders and shoved him toward the door. “You may take that as an eviction. Get out!”

  “But I still—”

  “On the count of three, I’m calling Security! One …”

  “But—”

  “Two …”

  Christina tugged at Ben’s arm. “Ben, I’ve spent the night in jail before, and it wasn’t fun. Let’s vamoose.”

  They closed the door behind them a split second before they heard Whitman’s resounding “Three!”

  “You were in an awful big hurry to get out,” Ben said after they returned to the main corridor. “Aren’t you supposed to be the fearless one?”

  “He wasn’t going to reveal anything else. You told him what you know. If he is connected to this alleged hit man, he’s sure to contact him.”

  “Yeah, except there’s one minor problem. When he does, we won’t be there.”

  “Yes, but being your faithful aide-de-camp, I have prepared for this contingency.”

  They continued walking down the corridor. “If you’re thinking you’re going to try that redial trick again, forget it. We’ll never be allowed anywhere near that office. At least not until he’s gone.”

  “True.” She grabbed his arm again, and ducked into the ladies’ room.

  “Wait a minute!” Ben said. “I can’t go in there!”

  “Sure you can. Tout de suite.”

  “No!”

  “Oh, don’t be so prissy.” She leaned through the door. “Anybody in here?” There was no response. “See? Coast is clear.” She pulled him through the door.

  “Christina! Have you lost your mind? This is the ladies’ room!”

  “And here I thought it was some wacky kind of elevator. Thanks for the clarification.”

  She opened a stall and tried to drag him inside. “Look at you! You’re turning beet red. You get so embarrassed about these guy/girl things.”

  “I do not.” He stood firm outside the stall. “I’m not going in there!”

  “Well, if someone comes in, do you want to be seen?”

  “Good point.” He stepped inside and locked the stall behind them. “So what’s the deal?”

  “The deal is, I want to find out what’s going on in Wallace Barrett’s office.”

  “From here?”

  “Yes.” She set down her huge purse and began rummaging. “With the help of this.” With a flourish, she removed the blue-and-white plastic receiver from her purse and set it on the tank above the toilet.

  “Have you taken leave of your senses?”

  “Nope.” She turned the dial, switching the receiver on. A red light shone on the front; low level static emerged.

  “Why are you carrying that thing in your purse?”

  “Because you threw it at me last night, remember? You told me to take it and I still had it in my purse when we were in Whitman’s office.”

  Ben’s eyes lowered. “Christina, I’m getting a sinking feeling I’m not going to like what you say next.”

  “Remember when I directed his attention to the bird out his window? Except there was no bird?”

  “Ye-es.”

  “That’s when I slipped the transmitter under his desk.”

  “No!”

  She beamed. “Wouldn’t you say resourcefulness is my dominant characteristic?”

  “I’d say insanity is your dominant characteristic. What if he finds it?”

  “Shush.” She turned up the volume and adjusted the antenna till she got the best reception. There was a pronounced knocking noise, then a softer shuffling sound. “He’s pacing,” she interpreted. “Thinking. Pounding on his desk. Trying to decide what to do next.”

  Ben took her by the shoulders. “Christina, this is eavesdropping.”

  “I suppose that would technically be correct.”

  “It’s like wiretapping. It’s an invasion of privacy.”

  “I don’t see anything wrong with listening in here and there to gather useful information.”

  “You and Richard Nixon. Look, this is probably illegal. Almost certainly immoral.”

  “And necessary.”

  “Christina—”

  “Ben, listen to me. Did you think Whitman was telling us the truth?”

  “Well—”

  “No. Of course not. He knows much more about this than he’s willing to say.

  “But—”

  “Ben, zip it up and listen. If he is involved in this, the fact that we came to his office and spilled what we know is bound to make him worry. Maybe enough to do something stupid.”

  “I still don’t think—”

  “Shhh.” The shuffling noise coming over the monitor had ended. For a few moments, they heard nothing but the hissing of the air-conditioning. Then they heard several rapid-fire clicking noises. About a minute later, the phone rang.

  “Whitman.” Given the circumstances, the reception was excellent. They could hear every word he spoke into the phone. “Where are you?” A short pause. “Good. Stay that way. No, I don’t want you anywhere you can be seen. Especially not here. That’s right, that’s what I said, so you do it, you sorry son of a bitch. Don’t give me any crap. I pay you the money, you do what I say.”

  Ben and Christina exchanged a meaningful look. Christina nudged up the volume on the receiver.

  “Good. That’s better. Now listen to me. The first thing I want you to do is get your goddamn hair cut. Better yet, dyed. Shave the crappy beard. And get rid of those idiotic fatigues, for God’s sake. Burn ’em.”

  More static. More air-conditioning noise.

  “You want to know why? I’ll tell you why. Because you were spotted, you stupid pea-brained stooge. Haven’t you read the papers?”

  Another long silence. They could hear a faint twitter of the voice on the opposite end of the line, not nearly loud enough to distinguish the words.

  “Listen to me, jerk-off. You need to get rid of anything that could link us to that neighbor’s ID. Yeah, clothes, too. What about the camera, and all those pictures you took? You what? What?”

  The receiver exploded with noise. A smashing, then a clattering to the floor. “Threw the phone across the room,” Christina whispered. Ben nodded.

  Several seconds passed before Whitman spoke again. His voice was low, and the thin, even tone did not disguise the threat that lay behind every word. “Listen to me. You get it back.” Pause. “Don’t make any excuses. Get it back.” Whitman cut the voice on the other end off. “You get
it back or I’ll break your fucking neck! Understand?”

  His shout reverberated through the baby monitor receiver. “Good. I’m glad we understand each other. Now I’ll tell you something else. I want you to meet me. Tonight. Don’t give me any excuses, you just meet me. That’s right. Midnight. Yeah, I know where O’Brien Park is. Fine. I’ll meet you there. And bring the goddamn camera!”

  The phone smashed down into its cradle. Six fast stomps, followed by a slam.

  “He’s out of there.” Christina turned off the monitor. “I hope he stays gone for a while. I need to get that transmitter back.”

  Ben crooked open the stall door and surveyed the scene. “We need to get out of here and call Mike. He’ll want to be at this midnight rendezvous.”

  “Think, Ben. Mike is a policeman. Policemen work for the prosecution.”

  “But this is Mike—”

  “And Mike is a good cop, but he still works for the prosecution. We need someone who works for us. Someone we can put on the stand.”

  “Well, I don’t think it should be us. Do you know where O’Brien Park is? It’s one of the worst thug hangouts on the North Side.”

  “Sounds like something Loving might enjoy.”

  “That’s a crazy idea.” Ben began to smile. “Crazy in a wonderful sort of way.”

  ‘Well,” Christina replied, “insanity is my dominant characteristic.”

  Ben’s lips turned upward at the edges. “It’s one of them.”

  “One? What’s the other?”

  Ben stroked her chin. “Guts.”

  Chapter 27

  DEANNA PARKED HER CAR in the driveway and walked to the front door. She stopped to get the mail, sliding it into the bag they had given her at the drugstore. She’d read it later. She had more pressing business now.

  She ran through all the possible approaches again in her mind. “I’m only doing this because I’m your mother and I love you.” Possible—but so trite it turned her stomach. “I’m sorry, Martha, but you’re my child and I have to protect you.” Nah. No teenager wants to be protected. “Martha, you’re an adult now, and being an adult entails not only privileges but responsibilities.” Well, it did have a certain flattering appeal, but Deanna suspected that it wouldn’t get her far in the long run, and the consequences of declaring that Martha had new privileges could be disastrous.

  Damnation. What was the point? Whatever approach she chose, she knew they’d be off the script the first time Martha opened her mouth. Face the facts, she told herself. You’re stalling. And who could blame her? She didn’t know what would happen, but the one thing she was absolutely sure of was that it would be unpleasant.

  She braced herself, took several deep breaths, and stepped inside the house. “Martha! I’m home!”

  No response. And after all, what did she expect? “That’s lovely, Mom. Good to see you.” Not likely.

  “Martha, I want to speak to you,” she shouted to a closed bedroom door. She’d give the girl a minute to respond peaceably before she commenced hostilities.

  The minute passed. Determined not to lose her resolve, Deanna walked down the hallway. As she approached, she heard Martha talking into the Princess phone in her room.

  “I can’t find it,” she was saying. Her words were perfectly understandable through the door. “I did. I looked everywhere. I don’t know what happened to it. It isn’t here anymore.”

  It didn’t take three guesses to figure out to whom she was talking. Damn. Should’ve had that thing disconnected a long time ago.

  “I will. I promise. What—” There was a pause, then a gasping sound. An instant later, Deanna heard the call hastily being disconnected.

  “Martha?” There was a flurry and rustle. Deanna gave her a few moments, then opened Martha’s door. “I said I wanted to talk to you.”

  Martha was sprawled across her bed reading an R. L. Stine book. “I heard.”

  “It wasn’t optional.”

  “I’m reading.”

  “Not anymore.” Deanna lifted the book out of Martha’s hands and closed it. “We have to talk.”

  Martha folded her arms defiantly across her chest. “We don’t have anything to talk about.”

  “I think we do. I found the camera under your bed.”

  Martha’s lips parted. She appeared astonished. Apparently, the possibility had never occurred to her. “But it was in my room.”

  “Right. And I found it, and I took the film out, and I had it developed.” She withdrew the photo packet from her purse.

  “But this is my room!”

  “Right. In my house.”

  Martha’s eyes enlarged, wide and angry. “That doesn’t give you the right to invade my privacy!”

  “I think it does.”

  “What is this, Nazi Germany? I’m an American. I have rights.”

  “Not in my house.”

  “You can’t treat me like you own me!” she screamed. “You can’t just come in and … and take things that aren’t yours!”

  “When I’m in my house, I can do whatever I want.”

  “Fine. Then I’ll move in with Buck.”

  That rejoinder gave Deanna pause. Which, of course, was exactly what it was intended to do. “Look, a civil rights discussion isn’t what I had in mind.”

  “You’ve been spying on me!”

  “I haven’t been spying on you.” Deanna pressed her hand against her brow. How did this always happen? How did Martha always manage to do this to her? She came in with a perfectly reasonable plan to elicit information, and now she was on the receiving end of a teenage firing line. “I had to know if it was you.”

  “If what was me?”

  “The girl. The one in the papers. The one the neighbor saw.”

  Martha’s eyes crinkled. “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t you read the papers? No, of course you don’t. Well, where can I start? Are you aware that the mayor’s family has been murdered?”

  Martha snorted. “Yes, Mo-ther.”

  “And are you aware that one of the mayor’s neighbors said he spotted some suspicious-looking strangers casing the neighborhood prior to the murder?”

  “So?”

  “Do you know where the mayor lives?”

  “No. Why should I?”

  “He lives on Terwilliger. Near Woodward Park. Just down the way from Philbrook.”

  A tiny flash of light in the corner of Martha’s eyes told Deanna she was beginning to make the connection.

  “See if this description rings any bells,” Deanna continued. “The man was tall, thin, grungy-looking. Scraggly goatee, green fatigues.”

  Martha blinked, but didn’t say anything.

  “The girl was described as being shorter with dark hair. On at least one occasion, she wore a red tank top. And she always wore a blue headband.”

  Instinctively, Martha’s hand shot up toward her headband. Her trademark. “That could be anyone.”

  “I’ll admit, it could be someone other than you and Buck, although it would be a hell of a coincidence. That’s why I searched your room. I found the red tank top I was almost certain you had. And I found the black gym bag. The neighbor mentioned that, too. Imagine my surprise when I found an expensive camera inside. Far too expensive to be yours.”

  Martha didn’t answer, but Deanna did have the satisfaction of knowing that for once in her life, she had her daughter’s full and undivided attention.

  “I had the film developed,” she continued. She pulled the photos out of the packet and spread them across the bed. “Could you please explain to me why you were taking pictures of Mayor Barrett’s home?”

  Wordlessly Martha gazed at the color pictures spread across her bedspread.

  “You’ll notice that the home was photographed from a wide variety of angles. The front, the back. Close-ups of the doors, the windows. Almost as if someone was casing the joint. Planning some kind of … criminal activity.”

  Martha stared dumbfounded at the photos
.

  “Martha, I want you to answer my questions. No lying to me—this is important. Why was Buck taking pictures of the mayor’s home?”

  “I don’t know,” she said softly. “I mean, I don’t know who took these pictures. And I don’t know why.”

  Deanna ignored the feeble denial. “Were you with him?”

  “No. I mean—” She stopped, concentrating. “I never saw him take any pictures. I didn’t know why he had the camera. He likes expensive toys.”

  “So you were with him. You did walk with him in the mayor’s neighborhood. You just never saw him take any pictures.”

  “Yeah.” Her voice was so quiet it was almost not there at all. “Yeah.”

  Deanna sat next to her daughter on the bed. She laid one hand on her knee. “Martha, I’m sorry, but I have to ask this question. I have to. Did you have anything to do with … with …”

  Martha turned and stared at her mother, her eyes wide with disbelief. “What are you accusing me of?”

  “I’m not accusing you of anything. I just have to know.”

  “You think I did it!” Martha screamed. “You think I killed that lady and her two girls!”

  “No, Martha, I don’t. I mean, I hope not. I mean—” She grabbed her daughter by the shoulders. “Martha, I don’t know what to think anymore. I want you to tell me. Did you have anything to do with this?”

  Tears crept out the corners of Martha’s eyes. She turned her head away. “No, I didn’t.”

  “Then Buck did it alone.”

  “Buck!” Martha leapt off the bed. “So that’s what this is about. Accusing Buck. I knew you hated him, Mother, but I didn’t know you were desperate enough to accuse him of murder!”

  “Honey, I’m just looking at the evidence.”

  “Buck wouldn’t hurt anybody. He’s nice, Mother. He’s nice to me.” Her voice was breaking down. “Buck loves me.”

  “Martha, please—”

  It was too late. Martha bolted out of the room. A few seconds later, Deanna heard the front door slam shut.

  Well, Deanna told herself, you certainly handled that well. You practically threw her into that cretin’s arms. And if she wasn’t totally alienated from you before, she certainly is now.

  Deanna collected the photos on the bedspread. Still, if nothing else, she did get something. She got an absolute denial from her daughter that she had anything to do with the murder of the Barrett family. She had stated that unequivocally.