Extreme Justice

by William Bernhardt

  Extreme Justice

  A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense (Book Seven)

  William Bernhardt

  A MysteriousPress.com

  Open Road Integrated Media

  Ebook

  Dedicated to Harry Chapin

  “There only was one choice…”

  The greatest thing in the world

  is to know how to be one’s own self.

  —MICHEL EYQUEM DE MONTAIGNE

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part One - Just Another Night in Babylon

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Part Two - Remember When the Music

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Part Three - Murder and All That Jazz

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Part Four - Freeing the Camels

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Part Five - The Meaning of Jazz

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  SHE HAS NEVER looked more beautiful than she does right now, completely naked and absolutely forever still. He cannot take his eyes off her, cannot part with the sight of her chocolate brown skin, her proud high cheekbones, her smooth velveteen neck. His eyes scan her immaculate body, radiant in the light of the twelve candles encircling her. She is an impeccable creation, a masterpiece; and now, he supposes, she is his masterpiece.

  She is not as young as she once was, he thinks, then chastises himself for having such an unkind thought. Still, he cannot block out the unbidden image of the girl who once inhabited that body—young, fresh, innocent. Time is a cruel master; it keeps no secrets. And yet he is struck by how well she has held her beauty, how her deepening lines suggest character and grace more than age. Surely maturity is as valuable as innocence. Perhaps more so. Or perhaps he is simply being romantic because, no matter how much he tries to deny it, he cares for this woman deeply.

  He is amazed that she can remain so rivetingly attractive with her eyes closed. Wasn’t it Shakespeare who said the eyes are the doorways to the soul? The eyes, more than any other feature, are what make a woman lovely. And yet here she is, those vivid brown eyes concealed, and still every bit the beauty. Her face is still the face—it may not have launched a thousand ships, but in its own way, it moved men to commit acts even more extreme, even more dangerous.

  He wonders: would it be in bad taste to take a picture? He decides to do it—he is the arbiter of taste here, now. He takes his Polaroid and snaps the shot, the flash turning the tiny room inside out, making it an X-ray reversal of what had been before. The square photo juts out suddenly, vulgarly, urging to be released.

  He checks his watch and waits as the requisite minute passes and the photo develops itself. His eyes return to the woman lying before him, like wayward puppies making their way home. He loves the way she cut her hair. Short in the back and on the sides, but full in the front, creating a peekaboo effect as the long bangs dangle flirtatiously over one side of her face. A touch of glamour, a hint of mystery. Now that he thinks of it, he realizes that describes not just her hair but her. Her persona in a nutshell. Her elusive charm.

  The photo is finished, but it is awful. It does not do justice to her splendor. It is too dark in here, and the candles made everything look greenish-yellow and grainy. He tosses the snapshot aside. It seems film is of no help to him on this occasion. He will have to remember everything himself.

  He approaches her quietly, gently, as if afraid he might disturb her peaceful sleep. She is so beautiful! As he draws close, he is overwhelmed by a sudden surge of energy; it courses through him like an electric shock, like a frisson of passion and memory.

  Did he dare touch her? Did he dare not? he answers himself. This is his last opportunity; he cannot let it pass untaken.

  Gently he lowers his hand. His fingers trace the lines of her face, the soft sensual pout of her lower lip, her elegant neckline. He feels the old stirrings, just as he did before. The old affection returns to him; or perhaps it never left.

  His hand moves onward, brushing over her collarbone, tracing the mounds of her shoulders, drawing a line down the tender valley between her breasts. He bends down and kisses them, unable to restrain himself any longer. It is a sweet, cold kiss—just as he remembers it. He can see the soft push of her ribs under her skin, see the soft curve of her hips below a nearly nonexistent waist. God, how he wants to pull her close, how he wants to press himself against her, to roll her over and brush his lips against her back, to curl one leg between hers, to feel the soft cushion of her backside against his groin.

  It is becoming too much for him, not just the yearning, but the sorrow, the heartbreak. How had it come to this? They had made beautiful music together, and he didn’t mean that just as a cliché—they really had. But that was all past now. All gone. And all that remained was, well, what he saw before him now, in the fierce glow of candlelight.

  He casts his eyes one last time upon her perfect face. It is almost as if he had set her in stone, sculpted her, preserved her visage for all eternity. The only thing missing was her smile. She had such an infectious, vibrant smile. It warmed his heart every time he saw it.

  Yes, the smile is important, he realizes. He would have to add the smile.

  Almost without thinking, he bends down and presses his lips against hers, presses hard. He is kissing her for all time now, kissing like there is no tomorrow, which of course for her there isn’t. Sweet angel, he thinks, squeezing her tightly. Now you can be in heaven where you belong. Where you have always belonged. One more kiss, this time a chaste address to the cheek, and then he pulls away.

  He stands over her for a moment and then ritualistically extinguishes each of the twelve candles, leaving the room in darkness. It is time to get on with it. He has much work to do.

  He presses his fingers to his lips and blows her a kiss, casting it out into the black void.

  Farewell, angel, he says aloud, even though he knows she cannot hear. I love you so much. I always have. I wish I hadn’t been the one who had to kill you.

  But I was.

  One

  Just Another Night in Babylon

  Chapter 1

  BEN KINCAID WAS playing the piano and singing with such enthusiasm that he neither saw nor heard the man sitting at the foot of the stage desperately trying to get his attention.

  “ ‘I know I’m going no-oh-where …’ ” Ben belted out his song in a high-pitched adenoidal voice that seemed part Bob Dylan, part Sonny Bono. “ ‘… and anywhere’s a better place to be.’ ”


  Unfortunately, the man offstage couldn’t stand it any longer. He stood up and barked, “Stop!”

  Ben did not hear him. “ ‘I come back with my pa-ay-per ba-a-ag … to find that she was gone …’ ”

  The man slammed his fist down on the nearest table, rattling two beer mugs and a centerpiece candle. “Stop already!”

  Ben froze. He stopped singing. He stopped playing. For a moment he even stopped breathing. “Earl? Were you talking to me?”

  Earl Bonner let out a sigh of relief. “I was.”

  Ben nervously fingered the sheet music propped up before him on the piano. “But… I’m not finished yet.”

  Earl pulled a white handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped his brow. “Not finished? You’ve been compin’ chords for somethin’ like ten minutes already!”

  Ben swallowed. “It’s a long song.”

  “That ain’t no song, son. That’s more like an opera.”

  Ben scooted to the end of the piano bench. “It’s a story song, Earl. It takes a while to lay out the plot, develop the characters—”

  “What’re you talkin’ about? Plot? Characters?”

  “See, it’s a Harry Chapin song—”

  “Harry who?” Earl ambled to the foot of the stage. “Ben, did you happen to notice on your way in what the name of this here club is?”

  Ben cleared his throat. “Uh … Uncle Earl’s Jazz Emporium?”

  “Right. And what do you suppose the most important word in that name is?”

  Ben looked down sheepishly. “Jazz?”

  “You bet your sweet mama’s pajamas. Jazz.” He pronounced the word as if it had about sixteen syllables. “Now what in the name of Thelonius Monk does what you were cuttin’ have to do with jazz?”

  “Variety is the spice of life.”

  “Maybe in vaudeville, but not in Uncle Earl’s Jazz Emporium.” He reached out. “C’mere, Ben. Walk with me.”

  Ben pushed himself to his feet. “Should I bring my music?”

  “Definitely not.”

  Ben jumped off the stage and allowed himself to be swallowed up by the huge black man’s right arm. Earl steered him toward the exit doors on the east side of the club. They stepped out into the sunlight of a bright April day.

  The club was located on the North Side of Tulsa in the heart of Greenwood, the city’s jazz district. Several clubs, studios, shops, and bars flanked Uncle Earl’s on all sides. In one direction, just a few blocks away, Ben saw the time-honored Mt. Zion Church, a cherished historical icon for the black community in North Tulsa. In the opposite direction, he could see the skyline of the ultramodern, spanking fresh campus of Rogers University. Quite a contrast.

  “Now you look here,” Earl said, spinning Ben. around like a top. “I know you can play jazz. You’ve been handlin’ yourself real nice these past few months, ’specially considerin’ you’ve got the only white face in the combo. You’ve got a smooth two-hand rhythm style; you know how to make that piano sing like a canary. So what was that all about?”

  Ben shrugged awkwardly. “I just thought if I was going to audition for a solo spot, I might try something … different.”

  Earl peered at him with eyes like daggers. “You mean somethin’ that means a little more to you than jazz?”

  “No, no,” Ben answered, a bit too hastily. “I love jazz. I do. I mean—”

  “Some of your best friends are jazz players?”

  “Well—yes, they are.”

  Earl laid his hand firmly on Ben’s shoulder and squeezed hard enough to turn grapes into wine. “Look here, Ben. I like you, so I’m gonna take a minute to tell you what’s what. Savvy?”

  Ben nodded.

  “Jazz ain’t somethin’ you do jus’ ’cause you can, or ’cause you need work, or ’cause you like hangin’ out in clubs. If you want to be a jazzman, you got to feel it deep down, in the core of your soul. In the marrow of your bones.”

  “I could feel that.”

  Earl grinned. “I don’t think you’re listenin’ to me, son. It ain’t somethin you could do. It’s somethin’ you do ’cause you ain’t got no choice. It’s a part of you, like an arm or a leg. You got to listen to that jukebox thumpin’ away inside your chest. I mean, really listen!” He paused, licking his broad lips. “Look, son, I don’t know what you did before you came to my club, but I bet it wasn’t playin’ jazz licks.”

  “True.”

  “Personally, I never thought no white boy had any business playin’ jazz anyway. Some of you do a pretty nice imitation, but it ain’t the same, you know? It ain’t the truth. To be a real jazzman, you got to suffer. You got to hurt. You got to hurt so bad you got to work your axe just to send all the pain away for a little while.”

  “Maybe I should’ve worn a cast to the audition.”

  “I think I’m not makin’ my point.” Earl swayed when he talked, as if he was speaking to the beat of some unheard syncopated rhythm. “Let me ask you a question, Ben. Do you understand the meaning of jazz?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Do you get it?”

  Ben squirmed awkwardly. “Mmm … well … maybe you could explain it to me.”

  Earl held up a finger. “Now you see, that’s the problem. It’s like ol’ Satchmo said, ‘If you gots to ask, you’ll never know.’ ”

  “Not even a hint?”

  “I wouldn’t know where to begin. Sure, it’s about sufferin’, but everyone suffers. It’s more than that. It’s about findin’ the answers, findin’ some peace within yourself. It’s about knowin’ who to trust, who’s lookin’ out for you. It’s about harmony, about findin’ out what really matters in the cosmic scheme of things. It’s about learnin’ to believe.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Look, it ain’t somethin’ I can explain. It’s somethin’ where you just wake one morning, and all of the sudden you know.”

  “Look, Earl, I can learn any piece of music you give me—”

  “I know you can, Ben. Like I said, you got a real nice way with that keyboard. You remind me of some of the all-time great piano professors—Tuts Washington, Huey Smith, Allen Toussaint, Art Tatum. But that ain’t the point. If your heart tells you you’d rather be playing this … this … Harry …” He wiped his brow again. “Oh, hell. What do you call that stuff anyway?”

  “Folk music.”

  “Folk music?” Earl began to laugh, a deep hearty bowl-full-of-jelly laugh. “Well, blow me over. That’s one I ain’t heard in a while.” He tried to suppress his grin and get serious, although Ben could see it was a struggle. “So anyway, if your heart says you should be playin’ this … folk music, that’s what you got to do.”

  “This isn’t exactly a renaissance period for folk music.”

  “It don’t matter, son. Listen to me. It don’t matter what the other folks are doin’. It don’t matter what they want you to be. You got to be who you are.” He jammed his handkerchief back in his pocket and steered Ben toward the club. “Your problem, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so, is that you ain’t figured out yet who you are.”

  Ben tried to smile. “Thank you, Uncle Sigmund.”

  Chapter 2

  BY THE THIRD time he had dropped the corpse, he was ready to call it a day. Nothing could possibly be worth this much trouble. Could it?

  It wasn’t as easy as it looked. He had learned that the hard way. When she was still alive, even just barely, when he stripped her clothes and put her on the bed within the circle of candles, he had no trouble moving her. But something happened to bodies once that last vestige of life trickled away. Once the fonky cat played her last note and Gabriel’s horn started beckoning, the body changed. It became heavy, unmanageable, all loosey-goosey. It flipped, it flopped, and it weighed a ton.

  Getting her down the stairs had been the worst. He should have just rolled her down, but at the time, that had seemed a bit callous. Her natural beauty would undoubtedly have been marred by a deadweight run down two flights of stairs. Of course, now it was apparent that h
er natural beauty was fading fast, stairs or not. By tonight, by the time of the big show, he expected she would be something altogether gruesome.

  Anyway, she was down the stairs, but he still had to get her into the van and into the club. He had to set the stage carefully to produce the desired effect. He needed some way to contain her, some way to make her more manageable.

  He laughed. Not that she had ever been particularly manageable—even when she was alive. She had always had the upper hand. But now that she was dead, dead, dead, he had a distinct advantage.

  He noticed the area rug in the center of the living room. Hadn’t he seen that in a movie once—rolling a corpse up in a rug? It seemed like it would work. It would keep her tragic deterioration from prying eyes, and it would hold her together so he could get her where she needed to go. It would require some alteration of his cover story, but so what? With all the hustle and bustle surrounding the anniversary show, he was certain no one would take much notice.

  He bent down, placed one hand against her back and the other against her buttocks, and pushed. Fortunately, the hardwood floor had been recently varnished; she scooted along smooth as Red Tyler’s fingertips. Soon he had her positioned on the rug, and a few minutes after that, he had the rug wrapped tightly around her.

  He stood and marveled at his work. She was completely invisible. As long as he didn’t give any indication that the package was heavier than it looked, no one would ever suspect that this innocent rug was a nightmare meat enchilada. It was perfect.

  Getting the package onto his shoulder was no piece of cake, but he managed it. Hell of a lot of work, but it was worth it. He had big plans for this victim.

  A grin spread across his lips. This victim—and the next one.

  On his drive home, Ben timed in to KVOO with Andy O’. It was, admittedly, a country music station, and he had been trying to force himself to listen to jazz, but Andy O’ was a favorite, as was Steve Smith at KBEZ, who had just signed off. The antenna on his van could sometimes pick up the Oklahoma City DJs like Bob & Josh, his personal favorites, but it was too late in the day for their on-air hijinks. KWGS was great for news, of course, but there were times when Ben just wasn’t in an NPR mood.