Cruel Justice

by William Bernhardt

  “Well … yes.” The woman licked her lips. “That was a long time ago, though.! quit after just a few months.”

  “I know. But you were there at the time Maria Alvarez was murdered, weren’t you?”

  She made several false starts before answering. “Maria … Alvarez? I don’t think I know her.”

  “Did more than one woman get murdered at the country club that year?” Pull back, Loving, he told himself. It’s too soon to get tough with her. “You must remember when this happened.”

  The woman’s voice seemed to come from far away. “I do recall … something along those lines. Not much.”

  “You don’t remember a murder that happened where you worked? I woulda thought that was all people talked about for days.”

  “But—I mean—you have to understand—it’s been so long—”

  Loving frowned. Something about this woman’s answers made him very suspicious. They just didn’t ring true. He’d had innumerable interviewees lie to him over the years, and he thought he knew what it sounded like.

  “Ma’am, Mr. Kincaid represents Leeman Hayes, a nice young guy who’s been accused of murderin’ this woman. Hayes goes on trial soon. If you know anything about this, you need to tell me.”

  “I don’t know anything about it. How could I? I didn’t see it, did I?”

  Loving wasn’t sure if she was asking the question of him or herself.

  “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.” She began to close the door.

  Loving jammed his foot in the path. “Ma’am, I’ll do whatever I can to protect you. If you’re worried about the newshounds hasslin’ you or the killer comin’ after you or somethin’, don’t. I’ll be your personal bodyguard.” He flexed his impressive biceps. “And I’m pretty good at it.”

  “That isn’t it. I just don’t know anything, that’s all.” She tried again to close the door. “If you don’t move your foot, I’ll have to call the police.”

  “At least take Mr. Kincaid’s card,” Loving said, pressing it through the doorway. “If you think of anything that might be helpful, call. Please, A man’s life is at stake. You may be his only hope.”

  The woman took the card, then slammed the door shut.

  With someone else, Loving might’ve been tempted to get tough and play the bullyboy, but he had a hunch he wouldn’t get anywhere that way with this woman. No amount of badgering was going to change her mind.

  He would just have to wait and hope she changed it herself.

  31

  AFTER DINNER THAT NIGHT, Joey emphatically reminded Ben and his mother that he had not eaten for at least three hours. Mrs. Kincaid prepared a bottle of formula and administered it to her grandson. Against his mother’s protestations, Ben prepared a sleeping bag for himself in the living room, as he had the night before, so his mother could take the bed.

  Once Joey finished the bottle, Mrs. Kincaid tried to rock him to sleep. While she did, she sang to him. Ben was surprised; he didn’t recall ever hearing her sing before, except maybe in church. She had a charming, melodic voice.

  “He doesn’t seem to be dropping off,” Mrs. Kincaid whispered. “Maybe you could play something on the piano.”

  “You’re doing just fine,” Ben said. “I bombed out with lullabies last night.”

  Mrs. Kincaid tried a few more tunes. Ben leaned against the sofa and savored her soothing recital. After several choruses of ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” however, he was astonished to hear her break into a slow rendition of …

  “Flintstones … meet the Flintstones … they’re the modern Stone Age fa-mi-lyyy. …”

  Ben listened in amazement. By the final note, Joey’s eyelids were closed. Mrs. Kincaid rocked him a bit longer, then lowered him into his makeshift crib.

  “This has to be the most astonishing coincidence of all time,” Ben said when she returned. “The first night I had Joey, I was having trouble getting him to sleep, and he wasn’t responding to any of my lullabies, so I started singing the Flintstones song. I don’t know why I thought of that; it just popped into my head.”

  Mrs. Kincaid smiled.

  “I can’t believe we both thought of the same song,” Ben continued. “In fact, I can’t believe you even know the Flintstones song.”

  Mrs. Kincaid began thumbing through a decorating magazine she had brought with her. “It’s not a coincidence.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t you remember anything? I used to sing that song to you when you were just a babe.”

  Ben didn’t bother protesting. Even if he didn’t remember, it had to be true. Some neural synapse in the inner catacombs of his subconscious classified this unlikely song as a lullaby. “Why on earth would you sing—”

  “You were a horrible baby to put to sleep. Not that you were a horrible baby. On the contrary, everyone adored you. So bright, so funny. But you never wanted to sleep. After all, if you went to sleep, you might miss out on something. You couldn’t imagine the tricks I used to get your little eyes closed.”

  “But—why the Flintstones?”

  “I don’t even remember. Probably just something I resorted to in desperation one night that worked. Of course, anything that worked I would never forget. Remember, this was back in the early Sixties. The Flintstones were all the rage. Your father and I used to watch it every Friday night.”

  “My father! The Flintstones!”

  “Oh, he loved that show. Especially the pet—what was his name? Dino. Dino would ran in and tackle Fred and your father would just become hysterical. And he loved the song. Sang it all the time.”

  “My father—sang?”

  “Oh yes. And I believed he played it on the piano.”

  Ben stared at her. “My father played the piano?”

  “Of course he did. Played a little guitar, too. He was never as accomplished as you—never had the time. But he loved it. Why do you think we had that lovely grand piano?”

  “This can’t be true.”

  Mrs. Kincaid rolled her eyes. It was an expression that really annoyed Ben, principally because he recognized it as an expression he frequently used himself. “I know. I’m just a coldhearted society matron who only cares about appearances. And your father was just a hard-hearted right-brained arch-conservative who only cared about his pocketbook. Well, Benjamin, we all have to grow up sometime.”

  This was the third time Ben had been told that in as many days, and he didn’t like it any more now than he had before. “I don’t recall my father ever showing the remotest interest in music.”

  “Your father loved music. But he had a keen sense of responsibility, too. After all, he had a wife and two children who depended on him. Not to mention parents who had rather demanding expectations.”

  Ben didn’t recall his grandparents, either. They were all dead before he turned ten. “The way I remember it, every time I sat down to listen to a record or play the piano, my father gave me some stupid chore so I wouldn’t be ‘wasting my time.’ And he just about blew a gasket when I told him I was going to be a music major.”

  “He was afraid that you wouldn’t be able to make a living. That you’d never accomplish anything and boomerang back to us every time we turned around. You certainly wouldn’t be the first rich kid who didn’t turn out well.”

  “So all those angry lectures and slaps up the side of the head were for my own good, is that it?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.” She paused thoughtfully. “You have to understand, Benjamin—your gifts were so great, your father couldn’t stand to see them go to waste. You know, your father had quite a struggle to become a success in his medical practice. Just between you and me, he wasn’t half as smart as you are, but he made up for it with hard work. He wanted to make sure you didn’t fail to realize your potential because you never learned how to work, never learned how to accomplish anything. And he wanted to make sure you’d be able to support yourself. He wanted to make sure you wouldn’t be left wanting.”

&nb
sp; “That’s pretty ironic,” Ben said bitterly. “Given what he did in his will.”

  Mrs. Kincaid’s back stiffened. “That, of course, resulted from an entirely unrelated matter. As well you know.”

  Ben’s face tightened. “My father couldn’t abide my decision to pursue law instead of medicine. He couldn’t abide my not following in his exalted footsteps.”

  ‘That’s so foolish. Your bitterness is blinding you.”

  “It’s true, and you know it.”

  “It’s true that your father wasn’t pleased with your career choice. He didn’t consider law a particularly honorable profession. But that played no part in his decision to change his will.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” Ben pushed himself to his feet. “I can’t believe my father played the piano. And I never even knew.”

  “You knew once. You used to sit on his lap and sing songs with him. Don’t you remember? What were your favorites? ‘This Old Man.’ ‘Three Blind Mice.’ ‘Pease Porridge Hot.’ I can’t remember them all.” Her eyes closed, and a warm smile emerged. “You were the happiest little boy in the world when your father sang and played with you.”

  “I don’t recall him ever playing—anything—with me.”

  She shook her head. “More’s the pity. That’s when you fell in love with music, Benjamin. It was a gift your father gave you.”

  Ben didn’t know what to say. This didn’t accord with his memory at all. But he knew his mother wouldn’t lie to him. “For instance … what else did we sing?”

  “Oh, you name it. Hundreds of songs. Nursery rhymes. And your father loved all the old standards.”

  Ben felt his chest tighten, like fingers clutching at his heart. Or was it his memory? “What was his favorite?”

  Mrs. Kincaid looked at him with genuine surprise. “Don’t you remember? It’s such a silly song. ‘Polka Dots and Moonbeams.’ ”

  32

  “AND YOU DIDN’T EVEN ask him?”

  “Well, we were getting along so well, I didn’t want to spoil everything. …”

  “So you just let it go.”

  “For the time being …”

  Rachel Rutherford leaned sideways against the wet bar, a Bloody Mary crooked in her hand. “So let me get this straight. You saw a strange man talking to Abie on the street corner, apparently offering him a ride … and you didn’t even ask Abie who it was? What kind of miserable father are you?” She hurled her drink across the room; it shattered against a full-length mirror.

  “I was trying to be a good father,” Hal Rutherford said defensively. What a crappy way to start the day this was. Barely out of their separate beds and already fighting. “That’s why I didn’t say anything. We were having a good time. Abie seemed to be responding to me. I didn’t want to spoil everything by turning the ball game into the Spanish Inquisition.”

  “And what if this man shows up again, huh? What then?”

  “Keep it down,” Rutherford said, waving his hands. “Abie’s probably awake. He might hear.”

  Abie was, in fact, hearing every word. He had learned long ago that they didn’t realize how loud their voices were. And when he hunkered down next to the air vent in his bathroom, he could hear every word they said downstairs.

  “I’m not going to let something horrible happen to my son, Hal. We went through too much hell to get him. I won’t let it all be for nothing.”

  “Rachel, you’re exaggerating this situation wildly out of proportion.”

  “How do you know?” She stood so close to him he could feel the alcoholic spray on his face. “Answer me that, Mr. Know-It-Fucking-All. How do you know?”

  “If it will make you happy, I’ll go talk to Abie.” Rutherford sighed. He really hated to do it. They had actually had a pleasant time together, first at the ball game, then afterward at Baskin-Robbins. For the first time in months he felt like his family was on the road to recovery. Unless, of course, his wife destroyed all the goodwill he had created.

  “Does it have to be, now? This instant?”

  She glared at her husband. “What are you waiting for? Until it’s too late?”

  “Fine. I’ll do it now. Bitch.” He trudged unhappily up the long winding staircase.

  Abie, of course, heard him coming. He scrambled away from the vent and pretended to be emerging from the bathroom.

  He met his father in the hall. “Hi, Dad. Wanna shoot some baskets?”

  “Uh, no, son. Not right now. I need to … ask you some questions, okay?”

  Abie tried to walk past him. “I’m not in the mood right now.”

  Rutherford placed his hands firmly on his son’s shoulders. “I’m sorry, son. We can’t put this off any longer. Who was that man I saw you talking to when I drove up in your mother’s car?”

  “What man?” Abie wasn’t exactly sure why, but for some reason, he didn’t want to tell his father about Sam. For one thing, Sam had asked him not to. Even beyond that, though … it seemed wrong, somehow. Besides, he was certain his father wouldn’t understand, and would probably make a big deal out of it. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “Now, Abie, don’t be contrary. I saw you talking to him. Who was he?”

  Abie twisted underneath his father’s grasp. “He’s just a friend, okay? So leave me alone.”

  His father did not release him. “How did you meet this friend?”

  “He helped me out one day, all right?” Abie shouted. “He saved me from two moron bullies from school.”

  “Bullies? I didn’t hear anything about this. When was this?”

  “What difference does it make? Sam was there when I needed him. Unlike you!”

  Abie squirmed out from under his father’s hands and started to run, but his father grabbed his arm and jerked him back.

  “Now, look here, son. You may not like it, but I’m your father, and when I ask you a question, I expect an answer.”

  “Let me go!”

  “Not until you tell me everything about this … Sam.”

  “I won’t! I won’t tell you anything. I hate you!”

  Like the first bolt from a gathering storm, a sudden rage swept through Rutherford’s body. It was everything working at once—Abie, Rachel, the booze—

  He wasn’t sure what caused it, but suddenly he was consumed with an anger he could not contain. He reared his hand back and slapped Abie with all his might.

  Abie’s head jerked backward. His head ached; he felt as if it might snap off his neck. It was a long moment before he felt sufficiently oriented to talk.

  “I hate you!” he shouted, when he could. “I hate you and I always will.” With the same fury Rutherford had shown a moment before, Abie bent down and bit his father’s hand. His father cried out. Without wasting a second, Abie tore away from him and raced down the stairs.

  He passed his mother as he bolted through the living room, but he didn’t stop to talk. He didn’t look back; he knew his father would be close behind him. He had seen the expression on his father’s face when he bit him. Abie knew that if his father got a hold of him now, something terrible would happen.

  Abie raced out of the house and across the wide, well-trimmed front lawn. Just as he passed the tall hedge that lined the perimeter of their property, a familiar face emerged.

  “Sam!” Abie shouted. He was so overwhelmed with relief and joy he could have cried. He ran up to the man and hugged his legs. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was bringing you this.” He held up the boy’s blue book bag. “You left it in my car yesterday.” He crouched down to Abie’s level. “You look scared. Is something wrong?”

  “It’s my dad. He already hit me once, and he’s trying to do it again. He’s gonna kill me!”

  “Not if I can help it,” Sam said resolutely. “Come with me.”

  Abie glanced over his shoulder. His father hadn’t come out of the house yet. Maybe Mom slowed him down. Still, there was no time to waste.

  Abie eagerly took Sa
m’s hand. “Where are we going?”

  “My car is parked just down the street. I’ll get you out of here.”

  Together, they jogged down the street. “I sure am glad you were here,” Abie said breathlessly, once he was in the car. “You saved me from the bullies before. I should’ve known you’d save me again.”

  The man smiled. “Just relax. I won’t let your father hurt you.”

  Abie believed him. Hadn’t Sam always been there when he needed a friend? Unlike his father. “You’re the greatest.”

  “Thanks. So are you.” The tall man snapped his fingers. “Hey. I know a really fun place we could go. What do you say?”

  “Whatever you want,” Abie answered. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

  “That’s good to hear,” the man said, his eyes twinkling. “That’s very good indeed.”

  33

  FIRST THING IN THE morning, Ben stopped by his office to check on what progress, if any, his associates were making. Christina was hard at work preparing exhibits and witness examinations for the trial. He hadn’t actually asked her to do that, but he was relieved to see it was getting done. He had been concerned that he would never be ready when the trial started, especially since he was spending most of his time investigating, but seeing the amount of quality work she already had managed to generate gave him a glimmer of hope.

  Jones had prepared a report summarizing all the information about the murder he could glean from newspapers and other written records, which he presented to Ben in a spiffy plastic folder with a spiral binder. If they were in high school, Jones would definitely get an A. The contents of the report were excellent, too. Jones even found some video footage in the local TV news morgues. He also prepared a streamlined statement of facts and chronology.

  Ben took out his pencil and made a few crucial additions to the chronology based on the information he had gathered during the past few days. It raised many questions, but provided very few answers.

  On his way out, Ben bumped into Loving. “How’s the investigation going?”

  “Not so well, Skipper. I’ve been interviewing all the potential witnesses Jones and Christina came up with: Or trying, anyway. They’re not very cooperative.”