Silent Justice: A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense bk-9

by William Bernhardt

  “I expect nothing less. I want you to spare nothing, Charlton. I want this case prosecuted to the fullest extent. Do whatever it takes. Everything you can think of. Don’t let these bastards come up for air. I want them to be sorry they ever heard of H. P. Blaylock.”

  “I understand.”

  Mark imagined that he could hear those old bones creaking as the scarecrow pushed himself out of his chair. “Keep me informed, Charlton. I want to know everything that happens in this suit, from now till the day we drive a stake through its heart. And everyone associated with it.”

  “Of course.” Colby rose, removing his glasses. He walked to the door, exchanged a few more remarks with Blaylock sotto voce, shook his head, and bid him good-bye.

  Colby returned to the office. Mark was still in the chair, waiting to hear what the man had to say next.

  “Do I have your complete attention?” Colby asked. He walked to the window and gazed out at his view of Bartlett Square.

  “Of course.”

  “From now until the day this case ends, your ass is mine.”

  “Completely, sir.”

  “Good.” He turned, facing his new amanuensis, and inhaled deeply. “Do you smell what I smell?”

  Mark was flummoxed. He didn’t smell anything. Should he try to fake it? For some reason, he took the safer route and admitted his ignorance. “No, sir. What do you smell?”

  A smile creased Colby’s placid face. “Money.”

  Chapter 7

  CHRISTINA MARCHED INTO BEN’s office and let a flurry of pink message slips flutter down onto his desk. “Word is officially out.”

  Ben scanned the tops of the slips. Channel Two. Channel Six. Channel Eight. A couple of channels he didn’t know existed. And the Tulsa World. “What do they want?”

  “They want to talk to the man,” she answered. “And you’re the man. For the moment, anyway. They want to hear your plan for bringing one of the largest corporations in the state to its knees.”

  Ben frowned. “Pass.”

  Christina slid into the nearest chair. “Ben, I think you should consider talking to them. Just make a brief statement.”

  “No way. Only sleazebags try their cases on television.”

  “You don’t have to deliver closing argument. Just tell them what it’s all about.”

  “The Rules of Professional Conduct strongly disfavor lawyers talking to the media about pending cases. Judges don’t like it. And neither do I.”

  “Ben, think for a moment.” She reached out across the desk. “Once the public gets wind of this suit, the media will be all over Blaylock, trying to find out if they really poisoned the water supply in Blackwood. That’s not going to be good for their public relations—or their stockholders. If you put the heat on them, they’re much more likely to give you a favorable settlement.”

  Ben considered. “A generous early settlement would be nice. I’d give about anything not to have to try this sucker.” He paused. “But I don’t think it’s going to happen. And I won’t do it, in any case.”

  The interoffice phone buzzed. “Very insistent reporter from Channel Two on line one,” Jones said via the intercom.

  Reluctantly Ben picked up the receiver. “I’m not giving interviews.”

  There was a moment’s hesitation before the male voice on the other end of the line spoke. “Oh, I don’t want an interview. I just need a spot.”

  A spot?

  “Yeah. You know, ten seconds. Twenty, tops. Just tell us succinctly why you think Blaylock contaminated the Blackwood water supply and what you intend to do about it.”

  Ben pursed his lips. “You’re looking for a sound bite.”

  “Not a sound bite. A spot.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Sound bites are cheesy and uninformative. This’ll be a first-class feature. It’ll just be short, that’s all.”

  “Sounds like a sound bite to me.”

  “Obviously, you’re not in the industry. I only do spots.”

  “Well … out, out, damned spot.” Ben started to hang up the phone.

  “Wait!” the reporter shouted. “Don’t you at least want to respond to Colby’s accusations?”

  “Colby?” Ben felt his blood quickening. When he had been at Raven, the other lawyers had referred to Colby as “the King.”

  “Accusations?”

  “Sure, haven’t you heard? Don’t you watch television?”

  “Actually, no.” Not entirely true, but there was no reason to confess his secret passion for Buffy the Vampire Slayer to this jackal.

  “Well, turn it on. It’ll run again on the noon news.”

  Ben hung up the phone and walked out to the reception area where Jones kept a small thirteen-inch TV. He switched to Channel Eight and waited.

  He didn’t have to wait long. Not five minutes later, the talking head announced the lawsuit filed against “corporate giant H. P. Blaylock by eleven Blackwood parents.” Then they cut to counsel for the defendant, Charlton Colby, for comment.

  Colby was sitting in a law library, back by shelves of impressive-looking legal tomes in matching colors. His face was calm and handsome, but his voice was one of moral indignation. “These charges are utterly baseless. An unscrupulous lawyer is taking advantage of the vulnerability of grieving parents and manipulating the media to blackmail one of Oklahoma’s finest corporate citizens and line his own pockets. We will not let this happen. We will fight this to the fullest extent.”

  Ben checked his watch. Not bad. Colby pretty much covered all the bases—and he managed to do it in less than fifteen seconds.

  Christina whistled softly. “He really is the King.”

  Ben nodded. “The King of sound bites, anyway.”

  “You see what he’s trying to do, don’t you? He knows that most people’s natural sympathies will go to the parents who lost their children. He’s trying to turn that around by casting them as innocent victims of a crooked lawyer who bullied them into bringing baseless claims.”

  “With me in the starring role.”

  “Yeah.” She punched him on the shoulder. “Shame on you for being such a bully.”

  Jones called out from his desk. “You’re very popular for a crooked bully, Boss. Another call on line one.”

  “Take a message.”

  “No … I think you’ll want to take this one yourself.”

  That sounded ominous. Ben crossed over to Jones’s desk and grabbed the phone. “Yes?”

  “Please wait for Charlton Colby.”

  Ben’s teeth set on edge. In all the world, there were few things he hated quite so much as assholes who were so damned important they couldn’t even dial the phone for themselves.

  “Colby here.”

  Ben tried to suppress his irritation. “Kincaid here.”

  “Yes, Ben. Good to talk to you. How have you been?”

  Ben couldn’t believe it. Did the man actually think they were going to engage in amiable small talk just after he’d called Ben a crook on television? “I’m okay.”

  “Glad to hear it. Don’t see much of you these days, since you left the firm. We should get together sometime, play eighteen holes. Nothing I enjoy as much as spending an afternoon with fellow professionals. Perhaps out at the club.”

  “I’m not a member of any club. I don’t play golf. And if you’re going to spend any time with a lawyer, I’d recommend a libel lawyer.”

  There was a soft chuckling on the other end. “I guess you’ve been watching television.”

  “I guess so. And I didn’t appreciate it.”

  “Now, Ben. You know it’s all part of the game.”

  “I’m not playing a game. I’m representing eleven parents who lost their children because your client couldn’t keep its waste in the trash can.”

  “Now, Ben, I must warn you, if you continue to make accusations of that nature—”

  “Warn somebody who cares. Was there a point to this phone call?”

  “Uh, ye
s. I’m afraid so.” He released a soft exhalation of air, which Ben supposed was intended to indicate regret, although he didn’t believe it for a moment. “I’m calling to inform you that I’m filing a Rule 12(b)(6) motion to dismiss, as a courtesy.”

  As a courtesy? “What kind of crappy tactic is that?”

  “It’s no tactic, Ben. Your Complaint is groundless.”

  “You’re just trying to run up the bill and spin us around. Make things difficult.”

  “Litigation is never easy, Ben. That’s why we get paid the big bucks.”

  “That’s why you do, you mean. You get paid for pleasing your corporate masters by making life miserable for anyone who has the audacity to sue them.”

  “Ben, please. This is all too trite. I just wanted to give you the heads up. I expect a hearing will be set within a week’s time.” He mumbled a few more platitudes, then rang off.

  Ben slammed the phone back into its cradle.

  “What was that all about?” Christina asked.

  “Colby’s coming after us. Motion to dismiss.”

  “Son of a bitch.” She fell soundlessly into a chair. “What kind of game is he playing?”

  Ben could answer her with a single word. “Hardball.”

  Everyone had their own standards, Mike supposed, when it came to evaluating who they liked in this world and who they didn’t. His father, for instance, God bless his soul, never trusted any man who had voted for Nixon—and would cop to it. His pal Ben Kincaid never trusted any man who liked to do a lot of hugging. His ex-wife, Julia, née Kincaid, had never trusted anyone who used a calculator to compute tips. And Mike himself? He never trusted anyone who was just too damn friendly.

  Like the vice president in charge of operations for Blaylock Machinery, Ronald Harris. The man currently welcoming Mike into his office.

  Harris had more teeth than a game show host, and they all seemed to be constantly on display. Frankly, most people weren’t all that enthused when a homicide detective wanted to see them. Judging by the look on Harris’s face, though, you’d think Mike was his long-lost billionaire uncle.

  “Please come in,” Harris said, escorting Mike to a comfortable sofa at the side of the office. His hair was slicked back in a sort of Reaganesque pompadour, and his handshake was of the manly bone-crusher variety. “I can’t tell you how sorry we are about what happened to Harvey. And his family.”

  Mike made no comment. “I don’t suppose you have any idea what happened to him.”

  Harris’s reaction was a caricature of cluelessness. “Me? Jeez, no. I assumed it was a robbery. Weren’t some of their possessions missing?”

  “Some.”

  “You seem unconvinced.”

  Mike shrugged. “Burglars don’t usually hang around for half an hour torturing the burgled.”

  Harris winced. “Tortured? Gosh—was it as bad as the paper seemed to suggest?”

  “Much worse. Someone was really out to get him.”

  “Harvey? That astounds me. There’s never been a sweeter guy.”

  Mike didn’t know what to think. It was possible this was simply the usual deification that accompanied someone’s passing, but somehow he didn’t believe a damn word this unctuous clown said. “Can you give me some background on his work here? Tell me what he did?”

  “Harvey was a headhunter.”

  “A headhunter.” Mike scribbled nonsense into his notepad, just to keep his hands moving. “I gather that means he worked in personnel.”

  “Right. He was in charge of recruiting new executive talent.”

  “How long had he been here?”

  “Let me check that.” Harris thumbed through a file on his desk. “Yes, that’s right. Twenty-three years.”

  Mike’s eyebrows rose. “That long? Was he the head of his department?”

  “No, no. Just a regular working stiff. I think he preferred it that way.”

  “He preferred being a grunt?”

  Harris didn’t lose his smile. “Of course, we don’t use words like that here at Blaylock. Every one of our employees is an important part of the production chain. No, what I meant was, I don’t think Harvey would’ve liked the pressure that comes with promotion. He was a quiet fellow. Simple, in his own way. Reserved. And he was earning a good salary. I think he preferred his relatively anonymous place as one of many hard workers in personnel.”

  Hard to believe anyone could be as contented as Harris made this poor stiff seem. “Did he have any problems?”

  “None of which I’m aware. I see no notations in his evaluation file.”

  “Any conflicts with any of his coworkers?”

  “No. Not here at Blaylock. We have finely honed our employee relations and dispute-resolution techniques. Frankly, that sort of thing just doesn’t happen anymore. We don’t allow it.”

  Mike frowned. The more he heard about this Stepford corporation, the less he liked it. “So you don’t know of any motive anyone would’ve had to kill Harvey?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t. I can’t even imagine.”

  Mike decided to try another approach. “Did he have any friends?”

  “I would assume so.”

  “Do you know who they were?”

  “Sorry. No.”

  “Would you object if I spoke to some of the other employees in his department?”

  “N-nooo,” Harris said, with decided hesitation. “But I don’t think you’ll learn much.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because for the most part, Harvey kept to himself. As I said before, he was an introverted man. Reserved.”

  No doubt, Mike thought. The question is whether he was reserved for a reason. “Anything else you can think of that might be of assistance?”

  “I’m sorry, no.” His plastic smile, however, did not admit a trace of sorrow. “This all comes as such a shock. Harvey was such a nice guy. Harmless, really.”

  “Harmless. Huh.” Mike made another note. “Can you suggest anyone else I might talk to? Perhaps someone who knew Harvey better?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t. Like I said—”

  “He was reserved. Right. I got that.” For all his smiles, Mike thought, Harris was being decidedly unhelpful. “You know, I really wanted to talk to your CEO. Blaylock. But I was told he was busy.”

  “Yes, very busy, I’m afraid. There’s been a … legal development these past few days that I’m sure is occupying his time.”

  “Legal development?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss it at this time. It has nothing to do with Harvey’s murder, though.”

  So you say. “Well, I’d still like to talk to the top man.”

  “I’ll let him know. Next time I see him. Which may well not be for some time.”

  “I see.” Mike glanced up. Through the glass dividing wall behind Harris, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a face. Before he had a chance to focus, though, it was gone. “Who was that?”

  “Who was who?” Harris twisted around, trying to look in the direction Mike was facing. “I don’t see anyone.”

  “He’s gone.” Mike frowned. “I think it was a he, anyway.”

  “Someone you recognized?”

  “No. Someone I did not recognize. But someone who was watching us.”

  “Watching us?” Harris drew up his shoulders. “Probably just idle curiosity. Someone wondering who’s in my office. Wondering if perhaps you’re going to be a new member of our family.”

  Or perhaps someone who knew Mike was a cop, wanted to talk to him, and was wondering how to do an end run around Harris. Mike leaned into the hallway and craned his neck, but he found no trace of the person he had seen before. Which was odd, because he had the distinct and creepy feeling that he was still being watched.

  “I see. Well, I think that’s about all I wanted to ask you.” Mike pushed himself to his feet. “If you could show me where Harvey worked. I’d like to take a look at his desk.”

  “Sure.” Harris rose and
gestured toward the back door.

  Mike followed, already planning how he was going to shake this walking, talking Ken doll. He knew he’d never learn anything as long as Harris was part of his entourage. He wanted to find out more about Harvey—who he knew and what he was doing. He wanted to know why the CEO was so busy he couldn’t make time for the investigation of the murder of one of his long-term employees.

  And most of all, he wanted to know who was watching him.

  Damn everything, F thought, as he ducked into the kitchen. Did the cop spot him?

  He thought he had been protected, hidden away by the combination of glare and fake foliage. And then all at once his eyes met the cop’s, and he knew perfectly well he’d been made. He’d darted away as quickly as he could.

  But was it quick enough? That was the critical question.

  Fred had recognized the cop as soon as he’d walked onto the floor. He’d seen his picture in the paper a dozen times. He couldn’t remember the man’s name, but he knew he was some kind of detective, someone who was supposed to be pretty good at what he did. Someone who might actually be able to figure out what had happened to Harvey.

  Which was the last thing Fred wanted right now. He had enough on his mind, worrying about the killer who would be inexorably making his way toward Fred. He didn’t need some super sleuth dogging his heels, digging into the past, figuring out how this whole bizarre mess got started. What it’s all about. Who’s going to die next.

  And most important of all, who had the merchandise.

  Fred grabbed a paper cup and poured himself some water out of the cooler. This was the good stuff, the Culligan water that was supposedly purified of all foreign substances that sometimes made their way into the water supply. His hands were shaking as he held the cup under the spout. Damn!

  He glanced casually over his shoulder, wondering whether anyone was watching. Happily, no one was. He had to get a grip on himself. He couldn’t give himself away. He didn’t want to go down in flames—another failure, courtesy of Fred the Feeb. He would not let that happen.