Cruel Justice

by William Bernhardt

“That’s true. …”

  “Great.” Ben leaned forward in his chair. “What do you know?”

  “Well, you see …”She swallowed, then fidgeted with her purse. “I know this is going to sound strange, but—I saw it.”

  Ben’s eyes ballooned. “You saw the murder?”

  “That’s right. I was an eyewitness. I was working in the kitchen in the dining room at the country club late that night, trying to build up some overtime. They kept promising they’d promote me to waitress, but the maître d’ was hitting on me, and I wouldn’t play along, so I stayed in the kitchen. It was a crummy job, but I was very poor, and I was trying to save up for a car. …”

  Ben tried to restrain himself. “Pardon me, but could we talk about the murder? I want to make sure I understand this. You actually saw the murder? Like, with your own eyes?”

  “R-right.”

  “Why on earth haven’t you mentioned this before now? Like ten years before now?”

  “Well, this is the really strange, embarrassing part, Mr. Kincaid. To tell you the truth—I forgot about it.”

  “You forgot?”

  “I know that sounds impossible, but it’s true.” She walked across the tiny office to the window. “It was such a shock, such a horrible, horrible thing. I must have just—blocked it out of my mind somehow.”

  “But how could you—”

  “I can’t possibly explain it in any way that makes sense. I just know I didn’t remember. My memory was unreliable. It was playing tricks on me. Can you imagine?”

  Without thinking, Ben withdrew a photograph from his pocket. It was the photo of him, at age three, and his father, tickling him, both of them laughing hysterically, having a wonderful time.

  “I’ll do my best,” Ben said quietly. “Now sit down and tell me the whole story. From the beginning.”

  61

  MIKE TRIED TO LOOK tough as he swaggered down the dark city streets of Tulsa’s North Side. He walked with his hips first, his trench coat flapping, a bounce in his step and a toothpick between his lips. Don’t mess with me, he told the denizens of the night (and they were out there; he knew they were). I’m bad. Very bad. Bad for your health.

  Okay, so maybe the toothpick didn’t add that much, but he had gone almost two weeks without lighting that damn pipe and he wasn’t going to stop now. Personally, he had always thought his pipe smoking inoffensive, even charming, debonair, but it was clear to him that the rest of the world no longer shared his sentiment. He was tired of standing by himself at parties. And it had been months since he’d been out on a date

  Months? Truth to tell, he hadn’t been on a date since he saw Julia the last time, and he wasn’t sure that could be classified as a date. After all, she was his ex-wife. And there was the minor detail that she was still married to another man at the time.

  At the time. No longer. If he lived to be a hundred, he would never understand that woman. Which would be okay, if he could just forget. But memories were funny things. Some of them were gone the next day. And some of them lingered like an albatross, haunting the shadowy recesses of your brain, refusing to set you free.

  Just like Julia herself.

  He had perfected this macho strut (so he hoped) during the time he had spent doing undercover work in many of these same North Side neighborhoods. Then, it hadn’t been just an affectation. It was a survival technique.

  Speaking of survival, if Chief Blackwell found out what Mike was doing, his would be at an end. Blackwell had been giving press conferences all morning announcing that the child molester was dead. All the news shows carried the story. How could they resist? A handsome, wealthy, charity-working socialite turns out to be a pedophile who accidentally kills himself while indulging in deviant dangerous solo sex. A journalist’s dream.

  So now the city of Tulsa assumed the pedophile’s reign of terror was over. Parents breathed a sigh of relief. Mike had already been replaced as Abie’s personal bodyguard, and the watch on Abie was to be terminated, effective nine o’clock tomorrow morning. It was all over. But …

  But what if they were wrong?

  The question continued to haunt Mike.

  There was only one way to know for sure, and that was to find the apartment, the place where the pervert took Abie. If Bentley hadn’t planned to die, he wouldn’t have removed all his pedophilic paraphernalia. There had to be evidence there that would tell them for certain who the man was.

  The only trouble was finding it.

  Mike could probably spend his nights, maybe even his days, looking for this place, but he also wanted someone to watch Abie after the police watch terminated. He couldn’t do both. Especially without tipping off Blackwell. Which meant he couldn’t use any of the other men on the force.

  Well, he had until nine before he had to worry about Abie. For now, he was going to try to find the damn apartment.

  Airplanes, Abie had said. I saw airplanes in the sky. Real airplanes. Overhead.

  Assuming that he wasn’t hallucinating, which was possible, since he had been drugged, Abie must’ve been somewhere near the airport, Tulsa International, on the North Side between Sheridan and Memorial. Problem was, the airport was surrounded on all sides by residential and commercial properties of all shapes and sizes. Abie’s description eliminated nothing.

  Well, if police work were easy, then everyone would be doing it, right? Mike had taken a map of Tulsa and drawn a series of concentric circles around the airport, ever widening. He walked the lines systematically, moving outward from the airport. Eventually, he would have to come across the place where the maniac took Abie.

  He just hoped he knew it when he saw it.

  He turned a corner and was immediately approached by an emaciated young woman in a green halter top, short-shorts, and a white billowy scarf. Granted, it was hot, even at night, but her attire was a bit scanty even for August.

  “Wanna have a party?’ she asked, stepping closer to Mike than would normally be deemed appropriate in polite society.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “I’ll show you a good time.”

  “Thanks, but I’m really not interested.”

  “Bet I could make you interested.” She wrapped her scarf around his neck and pulled him closer to her. “What do you say, you handsome devil, you?’

  Of course, Mike thought, the easiest way out of this would be to simply utter three words: I’m a cop. But that would undoubtedly throw her into a panic, and maybe her pimp, too, wherever he was lurking. Vice squads always worked in pairs, and for good reason. Plus, if he identified himself, he had an obligation to haul her in. He didn’t want the word to get around that the cops were soft on hookers. But he didn’t want to mess with an arrest right now; he had more urgent concerns.

  “Look, lady, I’m sure it would be heaven on earth, but I just don’t have time right now.” He gently pushed her away. “I’ll take a rain check, okay?’

  “You’re making a big mistake.”

  “I know. By the way, do you work this area often?”

  “Every night, lover boy.”

  “I don’t suppose … you wouldn’t’ve happened to have seen …”

  “Spit it out, handsome.”

  “Have you ever noticed any trolls in the area?”

  The young woman gave him a long look. “Trolls?” Mike felt his face flushing. “Yes, trolls. You know, cute short little guys …”

  “My man Eduardo is barely five foot. We call him the Stump. That isn’t why, though.”

  “No, I mean real trolls. Like from a fairy tale or something.”

  “You believe in fairy tales, handsome?”

  “Maybe a picture of trolls? A poster? A sign?”

  “Sorry. Doesn’t ring any bells.” She smiled at him again. “You sure you wouldn’t like a quickie? I think you could use some peace of mind.”

  “No, thanks.” He walked past her and conti
nued in the same direction. Poor kid—she was probably a runaway, probably a junkie. A while back he and Ben had had some close dealings with teenage prostitutes. Closer than he ever wanted to have again. It wasn’t a pretty picture.

  He tried to clear his mind. He couldn’t afford to be distracted. He was going to keep at it, until he was done, until he found what he was looking for. Until he knew Abie was safe.

  It was tough being someone’s hero. They expected you to do things right.

  62

  IT WAS DARK BY the time Ben got home that evening, but it didn’t matter. He could have closed his eyes and still found his way to his room. All he had to do was follow his nose.

  “What is this?” Ben asked as his mother slid the plate in front of him.

  “A spinach soufflé, of course.”

  “Is this another of my childhood favorites?”

  Mrs. Kincaid took her place at the other end of the table with a much smaller portion of the same. “I’m afraid not. We could never get you to eat any green vegetables. Actually, we could never get you to eat anything green, period. I had hoped you’d improved your eating habits since then.”

  Ben stared at his plate. “Well …”

  “Don’t bother lying. I’ve been through your kitchen cabinets.”

  “You looked through—”

  “Don’t protest. It’s a mother’s prerogative.”

  Ben took a bite of the soufflé. It was actually quite tasty. Barely tasted of spinach at all.

  “Something seems different,” Ben commented.

  “About the soufflé?”

  “No. About my apartment.”

  Mrs. Kincaid looked back at him innocently. “Such as what?”

  “I’m not sure. Can’t quite put my finger on it.”

  Mrs. Kincaid shrugged, then changed the subject. “How is the trial going?”

  Ben shook his head. “You don’t want to know.”

  “Benjamin, if I didn’t want to know, I wouldn’t have asked.”

  Ben drew in his breath. Mothers. “I start putting on defense witnesses tomorrow morning.”

  “Who are your witnesses?”

  “Well, I’ve got a new eyewitness who forgot that she was an eyewitness for about ten years. Her testimony could be critical, but to make it credible, I’m going to need an expert on memory loss who can explain this phenomenon to the jury. Jones is currently scouring the countryside for such an expert. And if that doesn’t work, I may call some of the country-club board members, none of whom are going to want to tell me anything.”

  Mrs. Kincaid took a tiny bite of her soufflé, chewed it thoroughly, then swallowed. “Perhaps I can help.”

  Ben smiled politely. “I hardly think so.”

  “Why not? I’ve been dealing with wealthy, high-society sorts for half my life. What kind of men are they?”

  “I didn’t know there were different kinds.”

  “Of course there are. They can be divided into two main categories: those who worked hard and earned their money, and those who inherited it. Which are these?”

  “The latter I think, with one partial exception, and he’s dead. What difference does it make?”

  “It makes all the difference in the world, if your plan is to trick them into saying something they don’t want to say. That’s what lawyers do, isn’t it?”

  “Well … I wouldn’t put it quite like that. …”

  “These men are probably well educated, right?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “So you’re not going to outthink them. Nothing personal, Benjamin.” She batted a finger against her lips. “You need to make them want to talk to you.”

  “And how do I do that?”

  “What you have to understand is that men who inherit money have enormous insecurity complexes. If you’ve earned a tub of money, that’s one thing. You can feel good about that. You can have a feeling of personal accomplishment. But a man who has just been given everything, through no virtue of his own, even though he never accomplished anything of value in his whole life, is going to feel terribly inadequate. He will worry about what other people think of him.” She paused. “He thirsts for the opportunity to brag about himself.”

  “And how am I going to use that in court?”

  “Think about it, Benjamin. If your man sees an opportunity to strut, he’s much more likely to say something a cooler head would realize shouldn’t be said. Don’t you see that?”

  Ben tapped his fork on the rim of his plate. “That’s not bad. I’ll give it some thought.”

  Mrs. Kincaid beamed. “What do you know? Perhaps your old mother isn’t as out of touch as you thought.”

  Perhaps not. “I still think there’s something odd about my apartment.”

  “I’d say there are many odd things about it,” Mrs. Kincaid replied dryly.

  “No, I mean—” He snapped his fingers. “I’m not sweating!”

  “I’m so pleased, Benjamin.”

  “No, I mean—that’s it! For the first time in weeks I’m not sweating.”

  Mrs. Kincaid began to look somewhat uncomfortable. “Oh, really …”

  “I know the temperature hasn’t dropped. …” Ben walked into the living room. The answer was perched in the window. “There’s an air-conditioning unit! Someone put a new air conditioner in my window.”

  “Indeed?” Mrs. Kincaid said absently. “My goodness …”

  “You did this.” Ben stomped back into the kitchen. “You had an air conditioner installed.”

  “Well, it has been terribly hot. …”

  “How dare you!”

  “Benjamin, it was miserable in here! Think of the baby—”

  “If you needed an air conditioner, you should’ve told me. I would’ve bought one.”

  “Well, Benjamin, I know you’ve been financially strapped. …”

  “That’s beside the point.”

  “But I have more money than I—”

  “I’ve told you repeatedly that I don’t want any of my father’s money!”

  “It’s my money—”

  “It’s his money!” Ben pulled the snapshot out of his pocket and threw it on the table. “His! And if he had wanted me to have it, his will would’ve read quite a bit differently.”

  “All the will said was—”

  “I don’t want to rehash it!” Ben realized he was shouting, and realized that he had no business shouting at his mother, but he couldn’t stop himself.

  “Benjamin, you’re being irrational. It’s just an air conditioner.”

  “This is not about an air conditioner. This is about whether I’m going to be in charge of my own life!”

  “Oh, Benjamin—” Her voice cracked. “That’s so … stupid!”

  “Right. Now you’re going to make me feel guilty, like you and my father have all my life.”

  Mrs. Kincaid drew her head erect and threw her shoulders back. “I’ll have the air conditioner removed.”

  “Good.”

  “While I’m at it, I’ll remove myself also.”

  Ben hesitated only a moment. “Well …”

  Too late. She marched out of the kitchen.

  “Mo-ther—” But she was gone.

  Ben slumped down in his chair. He hadn’t meant to yell at her. He really hadn’t. She was right. He was being stupid. Irrational. But he just couldn’t help himself. Somehow, for some reason—

  Damn.

  He picked up his fork and took another bite of the soufflé, but the taste had gone out of it.

  63

  EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, with Joey bundled in his arms, Ben stopped by his office to see if Christina and Jones had accomplished their missions. Unfortunately, on his way in, he nearly tripped over the man from the air-conditioning company.

  “Are you still here?” Ben said. “Get a life already!”

  “I told you, I’m not leaving till this bill is paid. I’m on permanent assignment.”

  “What is it with you? I’ve admitted t
hat I owe you money. I’ve told you I’ll pay it as soon as I can. What more do you want? Just repossess the damn thing and get it over with. Or file a lawsuit, like everybody else in the country.”

  “A fine attitude for you to take. I’m not the deadbeat who missed a payment. If you’ll just pay me what you owe, I’ll be gone.”

  “Look, I’m in the middle of a murder trial, and what’s worse, I’m losing. I need an expert witness that I haven’t got, my mother is mad at me, I’m stuck with my sister’s baby, and my cat keeps dropping dead animals in my bed. I didn’t get a lick of sleep last night, and frankly, I don’t have time for this. So get out of my face!”

  Unfortunately, Ben’s diatribe woke the baby. Joey’s tiny eyelids opened, and he began to sob.

  Christina emerged from the back room and took the baby from him. “Now look what you’ve done.”

  “He was sound asleep a moment ago.”

  “Right. Till you started in with the air-conditioner man.” Christina waved him toward a chair. “Sit down and collect yourself.”

  “I do not need to collect myself!”

  “Right.”

  Ben allowed himself to be dragged to a chair. Christina got the formula out of the diaper bag, poured it, and plopped a bottle in Joey’s mouth. The caterwauling subsided.

  “Do you need a massage?” Christina asked.

  “Is this one of those deals where you draw concentric circles around my temples and mutter the secrets of the cosmos into my ear? No, that’s not what I need.”

  “True. What you need is a major sedative, but all I can offer is the massage.” Ignoring him, she began massaging his scalp with her free hand. “What are you doing with Joey? You’re due in the courtroom in less than an hour.”

  “Mother left.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “I don’t know. When I got up, she was gone.”

  “I can’t believe she would leave you with the baby when you’re in the middle of a trial—” Christina stopped, then her eyes narrowed. “Ben, did you do something crazy?”

  “I most certainly did not.”

  “She just decided to pack her bags and say au revoir, with no provocation.”

  “Well, I didn’t say—”

  “Ben, how could you?”