Hate Crime

by William Bernhardt

  “Are you kidding? I love to race.”

  “You seem a little intellectual for this scene.”

  “What, because I went to college I can’t have a little fun?” He paused. “Tony and I used to come out here all the time. It was one of the few places where he could just cut loose and be himself.” He shook his head, eyes glistening. “Who ever thought he’d be killed for that? Being himself.”

  After they’d talked to everyone on the premises, Mike reconnoitered with Special Agent Swift. “I think we’ve done everything we can out here.”

  “Just as well. The thrill is gone.”

  “And by my watch, it’s five o’clock. I’m officially off duty.”

  “And that means?…”

  “I think you know. You won’t tell Chief Blackwell, will you?”

  “Depends. Can I ride shotgun?”

  “I don’t know. How much do you weigh?”

  “Excuse me!”

  He grinned. “All right, but try to sit lightly.” He started sprinting toward the parking lot. “I’m going to show these kids what an old fogy in a borrowed cop car can do.”

  22

  At precisely 12:05, Charlie the Chicken spotted the person he feared most, the one he knew was hunting him.

  The one who would stop at nothing to silence him.

  The day had started like so many others. He’d hitched a ride out to Michigan and One Hundred and God-Knows-What where all the new houses were going in. He’d rung the bell and been introduced to Stacy. Stacy was a contrast to the Ice Princess in about every way possible. He’d complained about the princess’s stick figure, but Stacy cured him of that quick. She was at least a hundred pounds overweight-one of those poor girls who are so short they never really have a chance once middle age sets in and the pounds refuse to go away. She wasn’t quiet like the princess either; she was a big girl with a big noise…

  “Oh, baby baby baaaabay… Yes! Oh God yes. Yes yes yes yes yes! That’s how you do it, baby. Just keep doing it just like that keep it coming. Oh, don’t stop. Don’t ever stop. Oh, you feel so good. Oh, baby. Oh, baaaabay…”

  It was like having the radio on in the background, except he had no means of turning it off, no matter how desperately he wanted to. Stacy differed from the princess in the movement department, too. Meaning, she knew how to. And did so. With great gusto. When she started whipping those huge hips around, she started tidal waves rippling through the mattress, one way then the next, a kinetic sculpture seen from the worst possible angle. Did it never occur to this woman that it was hard to hit a moving target? Probably not-she was too deep in the throes to be aware of anything. He had to wonder, though-was he really turning her on? Or was she doing it to herself?

  Under the big top, he thought, as he crawled beneath the big pink muumuu she was wearing. And that led to the endless portion of tonight’s program. Men talk about women who can’t get enough, but in reality, Charlie had rarely experienced it. Until now. Stacy could not, under any circumstances, no matter what he tried, get enough. She had him where she wanted him, and she was determined to make sure he stayed there, too. With her ample knees pressed against both sides of his head, he couldn’t possibly escape. Minutes seemed like hours. Death by asphyxiation became a real possibility.

  “Strangest thing I’ve ever seen,” the coroner would say. “He suffocated to death.”

  “Suffocated?” Agent Mulder would ask.

  “You heard me. A clear case of death by vagina.”

  Perverse, yes, but he had to amuse himself somehow, until at long last, the ordeal ended. The knee lock broke and he came up gasping for air.

  Well, at any rate, he didn’t have to wonder whether Stacy liked it, and he didn’t get stiffed either. Two hundred big ones, tip included. A few more gigs like this and he’d be home free.

  Or so he thought. Until he saw the face, the one that haunted his nightmares. That changed everything. Until then, his plan had been to lie low, scrape together some cash, and use it to make sure he was never found.

  Too late.

  It couldn’t be a coincidence-that face, out here, driving around in a car, obviously looking for something. He didn’t think he’d been spotted, but even so-how long would he be safe here? Or anywhere? If he could be traced to his work location, then what he did and who he did it for was obviously known. Probably where he had been living. He could no longer pretend that he was safe for the moment. He wasn’t.

  And if he didn’t do something quick, he never would be again.

  23

  Christina was so busy talking on her cell phone during the walk up the drive that she almost didn’t notice where she was. She fired off a long list of instructions to Vicki, the new hire-whose voice was so soft Christina could barely hear it on the cell-then sent Jones off on several new research quests, then conferred with Loving on various schemes to break through the wall of silence he was getting from her client’s fraternity. By the time she finally rang off, she was already on the front porch.

  And what a porch it was. She couldn’t kid herself-just being here made her edgy. She was dead in the heart of the richest section of Nichols Hills. Driving down Sixty-third to get here was like driving through Hollywood Hills; without exception, every house was huge and fabulous-multistoried, pillared Federals and plantation-style estates-with sprawling, perfectly cut green lawns.

  And the Kincaid manor was no exception. It was more than a little startling. She sometimes forgot how utterly different Ben’s upbringing had been from her own. He seemed like such a regular guy-too regular on occasion. And the way that he chose to live-insisted on living, actually-was a marked contrast to the way he was apparently raised.

  She rang the bell. A few moments later, it was answered by a woman who was dressed in essentially the same style as Christina-a professional assistant, perhaps. Christina was escorted into an inner parlor, where Lillian Kincaid awaited her.

  The older woman stood and extended her arms, the picture of graciousness. “Christina! How good to see you again.”

  Christina took her hands. “Great to see you, too, Mrs. Kincaid.”

  “Please call me Lillian.” She guided Christina to a chair. “Cup of tea? It’s Earl Grey.”

  “Um, sure.”

  Her hair was grayer than the last time Christina had seen her, but that didn’t mean much, since Christina knew she colored her hair. It was a fashion choice, not a sign of aging. To the contrary, she looked wonderful. She was well into her seventies, but she looked much younger. The only signs of true age were stylistic; she still wore big beauty shop hair, as she probably had done since the Fifties.

  After she poured the tea, Lillian leaned forward and squeezed Christina’s hands. “I haven’t seen you since you received your law degree. I am so proud of you.”

  To her surprise, Christina found herself blushing. “Well, thank you.” Ben had always described his mother as remote and austere, but Christina had never found her so. Formal, perhaps. But there was definitely a soul in there.

  “And I was pleased to learn you’d joined Ben’s practice.”

  “Really? You didn’t feel like I was trying to horn in on his business?”

  “Please. I was relieved. You know how I worry about Ben, and his practice, if you can call it that. With you there to look after things, I thought there was a chance he might, well…” Her fingers danced in the air. “See some improvement.”

  “I know exactly what you mean. I’ve encouraged Ben to focus on marketing. To get out and network. But-you know how that goes.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Things are looking up, though,” Christina said. “This has been our best year yet. We’re actually making some money. If we can just keep Ben from spending half his time on clients he knows can’t pay.”

  “That must be intensely frustrating.”

  “Well, I’m used to it. Ben has a good heart.” She laughed suddenly. “As if I need to tell you that.”

  “No, please do.
You know how little he gives me. We talk more frequently now than in years past. I think he’s finally gotten over… well, his troubles with his father. But he still doesn’t open up. Doesn’t confide. Not like his sister.”

  “How is Julia doing, by the way?”

  Lillian’s eyes went heavenward. “Oh, don’t ask, please. Sometimes I think I must’ve been the world’s worst parent.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Julia will work her life out in time. And even if he doesn’t say it, I know Ben loves you very much.”

  Lillian looked down at her teacup, smiling faintly. “Perhaps so.” She leaned forward, and her eyes sparkled. “Anyway… you know what I want to hear. Have you and Ben?…”

  Christina knew her face was flushing now. “I’m not sure…”

  “Has he asked you out?”

  Christina craned her neck. “Oh.” She swallowed. “Ye-es… in a vague sort of way.” She sighed. “We play Scrabble.”

  “Scrabble?”

  “Scrabble.”

  Lillian shook her head. “I blame Edward for this one. I told him a million times. Talk to your son. Give him the facts of life. Take him to New York and buy him a high-dollar hooker.”

  Christina’s eyes ballooned. “Lillian!”

  “But of course he never did. Too busy with work. Saving other people’s lives and tinkering with his inventions. And you know what that got us.” She set down her cup. “As much as I’d love to swap girl talk with you, I know that isn’t why you’ve come. What’s happening?”

  Christina’s eyes wandered about the exquisitely furnished room. The matched burgundy sofas flanking the Oriental table were perfectly chosen, perfectly arranged. The objets d’art on the end tables were placed with precision, each oriented just so. On the other side of the room, the black Steinway was polished and glistening. Is that where Ben learned to play the piano? she wondered. What must it have been like, growing up in this house?

  “It’s Ben. He’s been acting very strangely lately. I’ve got a new case that he refuses to have anything to do with.”

  Lillian’s long fingernails tripped along her cheekbones. “Must be potentially profitable.”

  “No, that’s just it. The client has no money, the defendant is incredibly unpopular, all the evidence indicates he’s guilty, and the DA is desperate to convict. It’s a textbook Ben Kincaid case. But he won’t come anywhere near it.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “No. He won’t talk about it.”

  “Do you have any idea what his problem is?”

  “Not really. Well… a suspicion.” Christina paused, gathering her strength. “Do you by any chance know a woman named Ellen Christensen?”

  She pondered. “Christensen… Christensen… No, I don’t think-” She stopped abruptly. Her hand pressed against her lips. “Oh, no.”

  “What? What?”

  “That must be her married name. I didn’t realize…”

  “Then you do know her.”

  “I’ve never met her. This all happened years ago, when Ben was living in Toronto on that Rotary Fellowship.” She paused. “But eventually I found out what happened-what she did. To Ben. And why he’s been suffering ever since.”

  Nothing worse than going over the quarterly statements. All this accounting mumbo jumbo gave Ben a throbbing headache. Jones had tried to teach him how to read these things, but it never took. For all he understood, they might as well have been written in Urdu. Which would explain why his firm was in the financial shape it usually was.

  He heard the door open and threw down his pencil. “Paula, you can just leave the report-”

  He stopped short. Mistaken identity.

  Ellen Christensen was standing in his office, just inside the door.

  He did not get up.

  “Do you mind if we talk?” She didn’t wait to be invited to sit. “It’s been a long time, Ben.”

  “Yes.”

  “I came by your apartment. I knocked on the door for several minutes.”

  “I must not have been home.”

  The room fell silent, so silent Ben could hear the plumbing, water rushing through unseen pipes, air-conditioning hissing through the vents.

  “I suppose you’re here to meet Christina?” he said finally.

  “Actually, no. I understand she’s in Oklahoma City.”

  Ben raised an eyebrow.

  “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “To me? After all this time? Why?”

  She looked at him levelly. “I think you know why.”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “I’d like for you to get involved in my son’s case.”

  “There’s no need. Christina has it well in hand. She’s a superb attorney.”

  “I don’t doubt it. But you’ve got years of experience on her. Everyone says you’re one of the best. You know the courts, the judges, how the system works. It was clear to me, when I watched Christina at the pretrial hearing-”

  “You shouldn’t judge anything by that,” Ben said, cutting her off. “That hearing was lost before it began. The fact that Christina got as far as she did shows how resourceful she is.”

  “Nonetheless,” Ellen continued, “everyone I’ve talked to tells me you’re one of the most gifted criminal trial attorneys working today.”

  Ben snorted. “Christina must’ve paid bribes.”

  “I heard that even before I hired Kevin Mahoney. But I-” She frowned. “Well, to be truthful, I couldn’t bring myself to call you. It would be so… awkward. But this is different. It’s crunch time, as my late husband used to say.”

  “True enough.”

  “There are obviously some forces who want to see my son dead. They almost succeeded once. And how many others are there out there, maybe lurking in the jury or in a judge’s robe?” She paused, gathering her breath. “I need the best there is, Ben. I need you.”

  Ben drummed his fingers on his desk, not even realizing he was doing it. “Well, now. This is quite a role reversal, isn’t it?”

  Her head fell. “Ben, isn’t there any way we can… let the past be the past?”

  “That would be the noble thing, wouldn’t it? Pity I’m not that noble.”

  “Please, Ben. I’m begging you.”

  “I recall doing a little begging myself.”

  “Ben…” She pressed her hand against her forehead. “I did the right thing. At least-I thought I did. You don’t know what would’ve happened if-”

  “I know you wouldn’t have a hatemongering bastard for a son!”

  Ellen looked as if she had been slapped in the face, which in a very real sense, she had. After a long while, she spoke. “Is there nothing I can do to change your mind?”

  “Nothing short of a miracle.”

  “I believe in miracles,” Ellen said quietly. “And there was a time when you did, too.”

  Ben made no reply.

  “I wish I could tell you, Ben, that you haven’t changed. That’s what people always say. You haven’t changed a bit.” She stopped, her eyes not quite reaching his. “But you have.”

  “It’s been a long time,” he answered. “Everyone changes.”

  “Perhaps. But you were so sweet and innocent and trusting and… and…” Her eyes wandered helplessly. “And I can’t help but ask myself if this is my fault.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I know I hurt you, Ben. I understand that. But if you could just try to understand what I was going through.”

  “I don’t want to have this conversation.”

  “But I can see that you’re still hurting-”

  “You’re making too much of this.”

  “Ben, please! At least-” She paused, her face twisted with emotion. “Peanut butter and jelly, Ben.”

  “Stop.”

  “Peanut butter and jelly.”

  “That was stupid.”

  “You didn’t used to think so.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

 
“Not that long,” she said quietly. She held out her arms toward him. “One embrace. Just to remember.”

  “I’m sorry, Ellen. I’m not trying to be mean or vengeful. I just-can’t.”

  Her arms fell, and she looked as tired as a person could possibly be and still go on living. “Is there nothing I can do?”

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, too.” She took her purse and rose. “But I wish you the best, Ben. I mean that. I always have. I-I understand. Really I do.”

  A moment later, she had disappeared down the corridor. And Ben’s office door was shut tight. And locked.

  If only he could shut his mind as easily. If only he could block out the thoughts, force himself to forget. What she was, what she had become.

  What her face looked like, smeared with blood.

  He remembered everything. Especially that day on the subway. What he thought would be the last time he ever saw her.

  One of the great advantages to living in Toronto, in addition to the clean streets, the cultural opportunities, and the low crime rate, was the subway system. The best in the world, some said. You could get anywhere you needed to go in no time at all.

  Except sometimes Ben wished it wasn’t so easy to get so far so fast. Sometimes he wished the whole world would slow down. And give him a chance to catch up.

  “I don’t care what the doctors say,” Ben said. He was not a child, damn it, and he was not going to cry. “I want to be with you.”

  “It won’t be the same.”

  “I don’t care if it’s the same. I don’t care if it’s a day.”

  “I’m not planning to drop dead tomorrow.” Ellen checked herself. It was a crowded subway car; she lowered her voice. “Maybe not at all.”

  “Then what-”

  “I’m going to be sick, Ben. Very sick.”

  “I don’t care. I want to be with you.”

  “Would you stop thinking about yourself for one damn minute?”

  Ben felt his heart pounding, as if beating a path out of his chest. “I-I don’t understand. I thought we loved each other.”