Another young uniformed officer walked toward them, leading by the arm a desiccated woman who had to be Crazy Jane. She was short and hunched, as if from spending her entire life huddling for warmth. Her hair was thin and gray and sticking out in every direction. Ben could see she had a prominent bald spot on the back of her head, the first he had ever seen on a woman. Her skin had a cold, blue, steely texture; she had a large red scab over her left eye. A black plastic garbage bag was wrapped around her upper body. A poor woman’s overcoat.
“Did you sober her up, McAfferty?” Mike asked curtly.
The young officer seemed hesitant. “I poured a lot of coffee down her throat, sir, but as for sobriety, well …”
Mike understood. He squared himself in front of her. “How long have you been in this alley, Jane?” he asked.
Her mouth was a straight, horizontal line. “All my life, handsome.”
This was going to be more difficult than he had imagined. “Have you seen anyone in this alley tonight? I mean, other than the deceased?”
She looked at him oddly. “The snowbird done it.”
Mike’s eyebrows raised.
“The snowbird, the white bird of peace. It cum down and took ’em away to the clouds.” She gazed up toward the sky.
Mike and Ben glanced at one another. “I see …”
“It’s heaven!” Suddenly she was shouting. “Great God Almighty open them doors at last!” The woman shook free of McAfferty’s hands “The time has cum. It’s the cummin’ of the Lord! Praise God halley-luah!”
Mike let out a deep sigh. “Well, that’s all we need from you now, Jane. Thanks, though.”
Crazy Jane brought her gaze and her voice back down to earth. “Cert’ly, handsome.” Officer McAfferty led her away.
After they were gone, Ben made a long whistling noise. “Wow,” he said. “What a case. Total crackpotdom. Must be the Oral Roberts influence. Infects the whole city.”
“Yeah, well, you try living on the streets for a while and we’ll see how sane you come out. Those people have a hell of a hard life. Cuddling sewer vents for warmth and scraping garbage bins for food.” He frowned. “If you don’t have any additional insights on this matter, Ben, you may leave.”
“Dam. And just when I was learning to love the north side. So how long till you catch the guy that killed my client?”
“Forever, probably.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“It’s a little early in the investigation to abandon all hope, isn’t it?”
“I’m just trying to be realistic,” Mike said, “and the fact is we don’t have anything to go on. Maybe the lab or the coroner will turn up something, but it’s not promising. The killer was probably some transient loony who took the cash and is now sitting in a motel room in St. Louis.” He glanced at Ben. “What with the business card, you’re my number-one suspect. But I can’t see hauling you downtown. Since you’re family and all.”
“I can’t believe you’re giving up on this before you’ve even begun.”
“Who’s giving up? Tomorrow we’ll go to this breakfast food factory where you say he works, and we’ll quiz everybody who’s spoken to him in the last ten years. We’ll get a subpoena for the Message Unit Detail sheets from the phone company, and we’ll trace every call he’s made from his home or office for the last six months. The physical evidence boys will continue to scour the city. For as long as they can. Until Chief Blackwell decides it’s hopeless, or until the next gruesome homicide comes along.”
Mike was becoming agitated. “Tulsa isn’t New York City, but we haven’t got so little to do that we can piddle away our time on hopeless cases. This murder was a one-man show, possibly a one-lunatic show, and that one lunatic hasn’t left many traces and isn’t likely to confess. Unlike those TV cop shows you grew up on, some real-life cases just can’t be solved.” He paused significantly. “At least not by traditional police methods.”
Ben’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“C’mon, Ben. You’re the shyster; you don’t need me to tell you the law. There’s plenty you can do that I can’t.”
“Like what?”
“Like what happens if I break into a house without a search warrant and take some crucial evidence?”
“It probably can’t be used at trial.”
“And what happens if you do the same thing?”
Ben shrugged. “Nothing. No state action.”
“Well, not exactly. I’d have to arrest you for breaking and entering, but the evidence you found could still be used at trial. Geez, what kind of grades did you make? Maybe I ought to be a lawyer.”
Ben didn’t honor the remark with a reply. “What are you getting at, Mike?”
“Well, my quick-witted friend, I’m saying if you really want to find the guy who deep-sixed your client, hire a private investigator. Do some investigating yourself. And check back with me from time to time. Unofficially, of course.”
A black-and-white police car slowly cruised to a stop on the other side of the street. Ben could see Bertha Adams sitting in the backseat on the passenger side.
“Does she know yet?” Ben asked.
Mike nodded. “Told her on the phone. But it’s not the same. It never really sinks in till they see the body.”
Ben began zipping his jacket. “I don’t want to be around for this, Mike.”
“Don’t blame you. Consider what I said, though, okay? And stay in touch. Oh. Last thing …” Mike reached into the pocket of his overcoat and withdrew a crumpled bit of white paper. “You can take this with you.”
Ben took the paper from Mike. It was his business card. “Don’t you need this for evidence?”
“Oh, I think I can remember the name.” Mike winked, then thrust his fists into his overcoat. “You know, Ben, I really loved your sister.”
Ben shoved the card into his pocket. “Yeah.” He turned and walked back to his car.
7
“ABSOLUTELY NOT. UNDER NO circumstances. Good God, Kincaid, this was supposed to be a starter case. Simple and cheap. A favor.”
Derek slammed the flat of his hand against his desk. “I can’t believe this happened. I mean, Jesus, I’ve lost clients before, but not like this!”
Ben sat on his hands as Derek paraded around the office.
“How could I justify the expense? This is an adoption case, for God’s sake! Why do we need a private investigator?”
“Lieutenant Morelli told me—”
“Sure!” Derek threw his arms into the air. “Morelli would love for us to do his work for him. But we’ve got work of our own, Kincaid. Lesson one about relatives, kid. If they don’t want money, they want you to perform some legal hocus-pocus for them gratis.”
“Excuse me, sir, but it seems to me this is part of our job—”
“No. Our job was to go through the motions and generate some paperwork so a sweet old couple could try to adopt a brain-damaged wretch they found in a vacant lot. We were not asked to find a murderer, and we were not asked to cast a private dragnet for the girl’s parents, whoever they may be.” He fished around in his shirt pocket for a cigarette but didn’t find any. “Hell, for all we know, the woman may not want to adopt the kid now that … that …” He sputtered for a moment, then waved it all away with a dramatic skyward gesture.
“She does, sir. More than ever.”
“Fine. Just fine.” Derek kicked the wall next to his desk. He grimaced, then grabbed his right foot. He hobbled behind his desk and plopped down into his chair. “Sprained my ankle playing squash last night. Meant to stay off the damn thing.”
He took a deep breath and regained his train of thought. “So do the adoption. That’s your assignment. But no private investigators, no bells and whistles, no tickets to the prince’s ball, understand? I’m not even authorizing you to make long-distance phone calls.” He rubbed his ankle tenderly. “Do you have any idea what a private investigator would cost?”
; “Not really, sir,” he admitted.
“Well, it’s a bundle. Let me remind you, Kincaid, that this job does not actually benefit our client or his business. It’s a charitable gesture on his part. Lots of mega-rich business types like Sanguine want to provide a little employee-oriented charity every now and then. Good for the image. Makes them feel virtuous. But they don’t like the charity to put a dent in the bottom line. You know what I mean?”
“You see, sir,” Ben started, hesitantly, “Mrs. Adams is unlikely to be permitted to adopt Emily by the Department of Public Welfare or the Department of Human services. She’s elderly, she has no child-rearing experience, and now”—he swallowed hard—“now she’s a widow. Adoption agencies have lists of hundreds of couples who satisfy every condition but who nonetheless have to wait years for a child. The only scenario I see that gives Mrs. Adams a prayer of adopting Emily is if we can tell a judge, acting as parens patriae for Emily, that Emily’s natural parents have consented to the adoption. And for that, we need to find a parent.”
Derek drummed his fingers on the table. “What makes you think you can find the parents? Do you know who they are?”
“Sir, I haven’t the slightest idea who Emily’s parents are. But Mr. Adams seemed convinced he could find out. And a few hours after he sets out to do just that, he’s murdered. Sure, maybe it’s just a hideous coincidence, but I find that hard to swallow. Lieutenant Morelli says we can help—”
“If Lieutenant Morelli wants to hire us as lawyers,” Derek interrupted, “and pay us at our usual rates, we’ll accommodate him. Tell him to give me a call—I get a hundred and eighty-five dollars an hour. Otherwise, forget it.”
Derek gently lowered his right foot to the floor. “Look, kid, I know how you feel. On his first day out of school, every new lawyer wants to be Perry Mason. You watch enough television, you start to think the job of lawyers is to solve mysteries. Well, it isn’t. The job of lawyers is to please their clients.”
Ben started to speak, but Derek stopped him with a raised finger. “If you need to do some investigating, fine. Be a lawyer. Use the traditional discovery methods set forth in the Oklahoma Rules of Civil Procedure. But don’t forget about the number of hours this firm expects you to bill. I think Joseph Sanguine will accept five, maybe eight hours being billed to him for this matter. More than that, he’ll balk. So will I.”
Ben opened his mouth to respond. Again, the upraised finger stopped him.
“That’s it, Kincaid. I’ve had two new files placed on your desk, and I want you to be up-to-snuff on them tomorrow morning. One of them involves a motion for preliminary injunction with a very short fuse. It’s another Sanguine matter. We’ve asked for an expedited schedule because of the so-called looming threat of economic disaster by trade dress infringement. Our reply brief is due Monday. That means I want to see it Friday. Early.”
He waved his hand at Ben in a dismissing gesture. “You’ve got a lot to do, Kincaid. So get to work.” Derek pointed at the door.
Clenching his teeth tightly, Ben walked out of Derek’s office.
8
PERRY MASON INDEED! WHAT a jerk!
Ben shuffled a few papers around on his desk and muttered angrily to himself.
“Well, at least you’ve turned your light on. That’s an improvement.”
Ben looked up and saw a woman of medium height not much older than himself standing outside the doorway.
“The last guy who had this office,” she continued, “never turned his light on. Lance Caldwell. Liked to work in the dark. And that’s not the half of it.” She shook her head from side to side with disapproval. “Weird, weird, weird. He finally left. I don’t know if he got fired or disbarred or taken away by extraterrestrials or what.” She leaned further through the doorway. “Aren’t you going to ask me in? I’m Christina McCall. I’m your designated legal assistant.”
Ben smiled. “I’m sorry, please come in and sit down. I’m Ben Kincaid. Pick a chair. Either chair.”
She stepped inside and shut the door behind her. Although Ben could see several barrettes and rubber bands, her long strawberry-blond hair was not arranged according to any coherent plan that he could detect. Her face was soft and thin and pleasant in a natural way, rather than a Vogue magazine way. Her attire was the real eye-catcher, though. She was wearing a brown leather dress that came perilously close to being a miniskirt. And yellow leotards.
She scrutinized the two orange corduroy options. “I hope come bonus time they compensate you for these chairs.”
“Good idea,” Ben replied. “Why don’t you prepare a memo for upper management?”
“Right.” She settled into the chair on the left and crossed her yellow legs. “So, did you and Dickie have a nice chat? It’s not that often we can hear him through a closed door. You two must have a special relationship.” She grinned. “What was he, kicking the wall or something?”
Great. The word was out. “We were discussing a troublesome problem.”
“Right. The adoption-murder case. I heard.”
Ben stared at her. No secrets in this firm, evidently.
“That must be spooky,” she said. “You meet a nice guy, you talk to him awhile, and the next thing you know, he’s in rigor mortis. Brrrrrr.”
Ben didn’t say anything.
Christina changed the subject abruptly. “Are you going to the Raven, Tucker & Tubb dinner and dance gala Friday night?”
“Do I have any choice?” They laughed. “How about you?” he asked.
“Faux pas, faux pas. Legal assistants are not invited. Only lawyers and their chosen companions.”
Ben’s face reddened. “Oh. Sorry …”
“It’s all right. It gave me a chance to speak French. Are you impressed that I know French phrases? I love the way they sound. Especially faux pas. It’s my favorite. I can spell it, too. Can you?”
Ben blinked. “I was never very good at spelling.”
“Don’t sweat it. You’ll enjoy the party. I mean, not that I’d know, ’cause I’ve never been. Don’t let that spoil it for you, though. I’m sure I’ll find something else to do. Of course, nothing could compare with the thrill of going to the Excelsior ballroom and mixing with the Tulsa crème de la crème.” She paused. “More French. Crème de la crème.”
“I noticed.”
“Do you know what it means?”
“I think so.”
“Can you spell it?”
“Ahhh … no.”
“Oh, well. C’est la vie.” She uncrossed, then re-crossed her legs. “Now, if I had a boyfriend, I might consider gate-crashing. The party, I mean. On Friday night. But on my own? No, it would never do.”
Information received and catalogued, Ben thought.
Christina reached into her satchel and withdrew a thick pad of printed paper, then passed the pad across the desk to Ben. “These are your time sheets. There are spaces here for the name of the client, the computer code number of the billing matter, the number of hours worked, and a brief, not-very-informative description of the work performed. This is how we bill clients.”
Ben scanned the billing sheets. “Thanks,” he said. “I was wondering about the mechanics.”
Christina brushed her hair away from her face. “Ben, do you mind if I give you some advice?”
“Thanks, I’ve already had plenty from Derek.”
“Yeah, but this advice will do you some good. I don’t want to be presumptuous, but you seem like a nice guy, not like the usual young lawyer zombies we get around here. You’ve got a certain je ne sais quoi.”
“More French,” he noted.
“Yeah.” Her broad smile flashed again. “Didn’t you formerly work for a legal aid society or something?”
“The D.A.’s office.”
“Well, you’re at a private law firm now, a big one, and the rules of the game are entirely different. Let me tell you what I, based on my five years at Raven, Tucker & Tubb, perceive to be the three principal guidelines for new
associates. If you don’t mind.”
Ben shook his head. “Please. I need all the help I can get.”
“First, fill out your time sheets every day. Don’t put it off till the end of the week or when you think you’ll have more time. If you do, you’ll forget things you did, and you won’t understand your notes, and every minute lost is a minute Raven doesn’t get paid for. The shareholders may tell you they’re concerned with … oh, associate training or family or inner growth or whatever; but when they’re making the decisions about issues that really matter, like raises and bonuses and making partner, shareholders care about two things. Billing big hours and bringing in new clients. You’ve just moved to Tulsa, so barring a miracle, you ain’t gonna be bringing in any big new corporate clients. So fill out your time sheets. Generously. Every day.”
Ben pretended to be making notes. “Time sheets, every day. Got it. What’s rule number two?”
“Lunch at the Oil Capital Club every Thursday. That’s where the shareholders hold their weekly meetings. You can’t go to the meeting, of course, but they can see you on their way in or out. It seems ridiculous, and it costs bucks, but it makes a lasting impression. So remember, rule number two: future shareholders lunch at the Oil Capital Club.”
“I’m pretty fond of Carl’s Coney Island myself.”
“Future permanent associates lunch at Carl’s Coney Island. That’s rule number three.”
“I see.”
“So make a sacrifice for your career.”
“Is this Oil Capital Club a decent eatery?”
“Beats me. No women allowed.”
Ben’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding.”
“Scout’s honor.”
“How could female shareholders attend the meetings?”
Christina offered a thin smile. “Fortunately, that contingency hasn’t arisen yet.”
Ben rubbed his eyes. “Okay. Any other words of wisdom?”
Christina batted her lips with her index finger. “I’m going to offer you a specially tailored rule, because I think you’re subject to special circumstances. You’ve got Richard Derek for a supervising attorney.” She looked over her shoulder and verified that the door was shut. “Derek comes from an oil-rich Tulsa family; he’s the baby boy in a family of five; he’s Harvard-educated; he did a short stint with a Philadelphia law firm, then returned home to Tulsa. He’s well connected and knows a lot of important people. He’s incredibly intelligent and evidently is an effective, if undiplomatic, lawyer. He’s egotistical, imperious, thoughtless, and generally difficult to get along with. He’s made a career out of good looks and a fondness for bullying.” She caught Ben’s eye. “And you haven’t exactly gotten off to a great start.”
Primary Justice Page 5
