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

by William Bernhardt

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Have you played that game often?”

  “Yup. Lots of times.”

  “I expect you’re pretty good at it by now.”

  Scout shrugged. “S"pose so.”

  “A game like that—it probably takes a lot of imagination, doesn’t it?”

  “I guess.”

  “You have to do a lot of pretending—pretending things are there that really aren’t there.”

  Ben could see where this was going, but there was nothing he could do about it.

  “Like for instance, you pretend there’s a monster chasing you—even though it’s really just a little boy. Right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You make everything more exciting and mysterious than it really is, don’t you?”

  “I guess so.”

  “I’m glad you’re willing to admit it, Scout. Because I’m wondering if that’s not what’s happened here. With your testimony in this case.”

  Scout frowned. “Whaddaya mean?”

  “It’s probably fun being a witness, isn’t it? Feeling important. Having grown-ups cater to you. Having Mr. Kincaid wine and dine you.”

  Scout glanced at Ben. “I didn’t get no wine.”

  Colby grinned. “You know what I mean. I’m wondering if your testimony is what you really saw—or if maybe you used your imagination a bit. Made things more interesting than they really were.”

  “I told you what I saw.”

  “Yes, Scout, you did. But I know for a fact that isn’t what happened.”

  Scout glanced at Ben. His breathing grew rapid. “I told the truth, mister. Just like it happened.”

  “Scout,” Colby said calmly, “we’ve had something like two dozen men testify in this case. Important men. Grown-ups. Executives. And every one of them has said something different than what you did. They say the drums were carried away. No one said the drums were buried.”

  “Well, they were.”

  “You’re saying all those men were liars, and only you are telling the truth?”

  “Well …”

  “Why would all those men lie, Scout?”

  The boy looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I dunno …”

  “They wouldn’t. And I’m sure you didn’t mean to lie. You just let your imagination get away from you.”

  “That’s not so.”

  “I’m sure it makes the story more interesting. It’s sort of like finding buried treasure your way, isn’t it?”

  “I’m telling the truth!”

  “Let me show you some photographs of the area behind the plant.” Colby pulled the relevant photos out of the shared document file. “Now, you were down here in the ravine, weren’t you?”

  Ben could see that Scout was treating Colby much more warily than before. “Yeah.”

  “So you were downhill from the plant at the time you watched the Brush Hog working.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But the crane of the Brush Hog was dipping down on the other side. Past the crest of the hill.”

  “Okay.”

  “You couldn’t see the crane once it dipped out of sight.”

  “ ‘Course not.”

  “So you never actually saw the drums come out of the ground.”

  “Well, not the instant it happened. But it was obvious—”

  Colby’s voice became hard and cold. “You didn’t actually see it, did you?”

  Scout scrunched down in his chair. “No, sir.”

  “Don’t let him intimidate you, Scout,” Ben interjected. “You tell what you saw.”

  “But what did you see?” Colby jumped in, not missing a beat. “You only saw the drums after the crane hauled them into the air. You thought they were coming out of the ground, but in fact the crane was simply picking them up off the surface and moving them to a different location so they could be picked up by the delivery truck.”

  “I don’t think so. I saw the dirt dug up—”

  “Scout, you said you didn’t actually see the drums come out of the ground!”

  “Right.”

  “Is it possible that what I said was what really happened?”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Listen to the question, boy.” His voice was loud and harsh; his eyes accusing. “Is it possible that what I said is what really happened?”

  Scout’s reply was tiny, but audible. “I guess it’s possible, but—”

  “So what you actually saw happen might have been exactly what every single other witness said happened. Right?”

  Scout squirmed. “I guess it’s possible, but—”

  “Thank you, Scout. I appreciate your honesty. And I don’t blame you for this … error in your testimony.” He glanced up at Ben. “I blame the grownups who were exploiting your innocence for their own personal gain.”

  Colby rose to his feet, smiling. “Any more surprise witnesses, Kincaid?”

  Ben’s lips were pressed firmly together. “No.”

  “Pity. I do love surprises. You’ll get my summary judgment motion tomorrow morning. Then we can finally put this travesty of a lawsuit to rest.”

  Chapter 20

  “STOP!” MIKE SHOUTED BREATHLESSLY. He was running as fast as he could, which in street shoes and a heavy overcoat was not all that fast. The man he was chasing was staying ahead without even trying hard.

  “I said, stop!” He raced down the trail, no time to admire the scenery, panting, sweating like a pig. His right hand pressed against the stitch in his side. “Stop! Police!”

  The man stopped. He cocked his head to one side, then slowly turned around. “Were you talking to me?”

  “Of … course … I … was …” Mike said, gasping for breath between each word. He limped forward till he caught up with the man. “I’m … Lieutenant Morelli. … Tulsa PD. Now … don’t run off again or … I’ll”—he bent forward, gasping, hands on his knees—”have to get … rough…”

  “Now, now, take it easy. Relax. Breathe naturally. You’ll only make it worse if you start hyperventilating.”

  “I don’t need your help. I’m in top shape.”

  “Uh-huh.” The man, who was wearing a color-coordinated gray running suit with a neon pink headband, did not appear convinced. “Do you by any chance smoke?”

  “Used to. Gave it up.”

  “Good for you. When you smoked, you were flirting with death.”

  “Yeah. But I was a lot happier.” He pulled himself up and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Why didn’t you stop sooner? I started chasing you half a mile back there.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t hear you.” He pointed to the Discman strapped to his belt. Headphones dangled around his neck. “Smashing Pumpkins.”

  “Wonderful. Are you George Philby?”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “Good. Can I talk to you for a moment?”

  “I suppose. But I’m on my lunch break. I have to be back by one.”

  Mike nodded. They were standing on a jogging trail that wove through a forest not far from the Blaylock headquarters office building. “It’s about Margaret Caldwell.”

  “I figured you weren’t here to root out financial irregularities. You’ve been talking to a lot of people in the office, haven’t you?”

  “Yeah. And they tell me you were one of Margaret’s best friends. Probably her best friend at work.”

  “That may be so.” Philby was in his late forties or early fifties, but he still had a full head of thick brown hair and the waistline of a nineteen-year-old. The result of spending lunch running instead of snarfing cheeseburgers, Mike supposed. “God, I still can’t believe she’s gone.”

  “Any idea why someone might want to get rid of her?”

  “No. Margaret was a precious person. Sweet. Kind. Good-natured. Generous. Those qualities aren’t that common anymore. Especially in the legal department.”

  “But Margaret wasn’t a lawyer, right?”

  “Right, right. She was what we call an executive a
ssistant. Fancy term for a glorified secretary, really. But Margaret was great at what she did. One of the best ever.”

  “Now, you are a lawyer, am I right about that?”

  “Guilty again.”

  “But you hung out with a secretary?”

  “I hung out with Margaret, and Margaret was as smart and witty as any lawyer. More so than most. She could’ve practiced law, if she’d wanted. I wasn’t going to hold a grudge against her just because she didn’t spend three miserable years in law school.”

  Mike nodded. Couldn’t fault the man for that. “Was there anyone who didn’t like her?”

  Philby took a moment, but he didn’t come up with anything. “I can’t think of anyone. And if there was someone, I think I’d know about it.”

  “What did the two of you do together? When you weren’t working, I mean.”

  “Well, our friendship was largely work-based. But we did meet occasionally outside the hallowed halls of H. P. Blaylock. You know. Friday night happy hour. Birthday parties. And we went on fishing trips together. That woman loved to fish.”

  “Did she? That seems unusual. For a woman, I mean.”

  “Not really, Lieutenant. You’ve got to chuck those sexist attitudes. I know lots of women who like to fish. It’s peaceful. Calming. Meditative.”

  “So, was it just the two of you on these meditative excursions?”

  “Oh, no no no no.” He held up his hands. “I hope people haven’t given you the wrong idea. There was never anything … intimate between us. “We were just good friends. There would usually be other work friends along on these occasions.”

  “Uh-huh.” Mike scribbled something into his notebook. “What was she working on? At the office, I mean.”

  “Oh, everything, really. Whatever came through the door.”

  “Was she working on that toxic waste case?”

  Philby arched an eyebrow. “I see you stay informed on the latest and greatest in the legal world.”

  Mike shrugged. “I have a buddy who keeps me up to date.”

  “Like most big corporations, Blaylock farms big litigation matters to outside counsel. We in-house lawyers monitor, but we don’t do much of the work.”

  “That must rankle a bit.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You guys are permitted to handle the grunt work, but if something important comes along, they take it elsewhere.”

  Philby shrugged. “It’s the way of the corporate world. Whenever any significant dollars are at stake, they send the case out. It’s the greener grass syndrome—corporate bigwigs always assume the best lawyers are the most expensive ones.”

  “And that’s not you?”

  “If I was into glory and prestige, I’d be working in a big skyscraper in downtown Tulsa.” He smiled. “Look, I know what mountains I have and haven’t climbed. I decided a long time ago how I was going to live my life. I intentionally chose a job that would pay less—but would leave me more time for a real life. A family. So, no—my ego isn’t bruised by this sort of thing.”

  Darn mature of him, Mike thought. But he wondered if anyone could possibly be that mature. “So you don’t know of anyone who would have a reason to kill Margaret?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Was she acting … unusually? Before she was killed, I mean. Was she … doing anything odd?”

  “No. Everything seemed absolutely normal. Until she disappeared, of course. She was gone for some time before her body was discovered in that waste drum.”

  “Yeah, I know. What about that, anyway? Why would anyone want to stick her body in a steel drum?”

  “I can’t imagine. Just convenient, I suppose. They’re always lined up outside, behind the plant. Anyone could’ve gotten to them.”

  “Great. I’ll narrow my list of suspects to "anyone."” Mike shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “Can you think of anything else that might be helpful?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t.” He paused. “The article in the paper seemed to suggest that her death was very … unorthodox. Grisly, even.”

  “I’m afraid that’s true. I’m not at liberty to discuss the details.”

  Philby’s voice slowed, as if he was suddenly choosing his words more carefully. “Do you think her death … is connected to … that other employee who was murdered not long before?”

  “I don’t know. The M.O.s are significantly different, but still …” He cut himself off. No reason to explain his hunches to this fellow.

  “Some of the guys at the office say Blaylock is cursed. That’s why all these people are dying.”

  “And why would Blaylock be cursed?”

  “Beats me.” Philby winked. “Revenge of the Blackwood water wells?”

  Mike didn’t smile. “Here’s my card,” he said, pulling it out of his pocket. “If you do think of anything—”

  “I’ll call you immediately.”

  “I’d appreciate it. I’d really like to catch this killer. As soon as possible. Thanks for your time.” Mike turned away, then stopped. “Oh—one other thing I wanted to ask. Do you know whether Margaret knew Harvey Pendergast?”

  “Harvey … Pendergast?” Creases formed across his forehead. “He was the first victim, wasn’t he?”

  “Right.”

  “I think I read … Did he work in Personnel?”

  “That’s right. Did she know him?”

  Philby shrugged. “I don’t know. Why would she?”

  “What about you? Did you know him?”

  “Me?” He pressed his hand against his sweat suit. “Why would I know him?”

  Mike noticed that Philby had suddenly started failing to give yes or no answers. “Does that mean you did or you didn’t?”

  “Didn’t. I didn’t know him at all.” He cleared his throat. “Don’t think I ever met the man. It’s a big plant, you know. Thousands of employees.”

  Mike peered deeply into the man’s eyes. There was no objective reason to doubt what he was saying. And yet …

  “Well, I’ll stay in touch,” Mike informed him. “I may have more questions later. If I do—I’ll try to catch you when you’re not running. My heart can’t take much more of that.”

  “Now that you’re off the smokes, you should take up jogging. It’d be good for you. You’ll live longer.”

  “Says you. I have a theory. I think we’re all born with so many heartbeats. So why waste any of them?”

  “Well, who knows? You might be right.”

  “Exactly.” Mike tucked his notepad into his back pocket. “And in this world of uncertainty, I prefer to take the options that don’t involve getting sweaty.”

  The green-eyed man peered through his binoculars from behind the trees and brush about a hundred feet from the jogging trail. He was well hidden; they couldn’t have seen him if they’d been looking, which they weren’t. He was totally safe, as long as he didn’t step out. Which, unfortunately, he had almost done.

  He was planning to put the snatch on Party Member Number Three today—his old pal George Philby. A lunchtime snatch seemed not only audacious but unexpected enough to escape detection and distinctive enough to confuse the cops. He had transportation all arranged, as well as a big surprise for George when they got back to his apartment. Something new and exciting.

  He smiled. And shocking.

  But then the damn cop had put in his appearance. Of course, he’d grown accustomed to seeing his plodding figure circling around the plant. That was all right, he supposed. The man was only doing his job, and not doing it particularly well.

  But this was different. Instead of cleaning up the mess after he was gone, this time, the cop was talking to his next intended. Why? Was it just dumb luck? It could be coincidence; he knew the cop had been talking to damn near everyone in the company. Or was there something more? Had he actually uncovered the connection?

  Of course not, the man reassured himself. How could he? There was no way it could happen. Unless one of them talked. And he was
in the process of systematically ensuring that never occurred.

  Still, he had to admit it was a bit unsettling. What if the cop had arrived a few moments later, after he’d started the snatch? That could have led to some seriously unpleasant consequences. Sure, he could’ve handled it, he thought, as he reached deep into his coat pocket and fingered the handle of his trusty ball-peen hammer. But unexpected events like that were not his specialty. Careful planning had been the hallmark of his success. Advance planning. Research. When plans began to unravel … anything could happen.

  He would have to keep a close eye on Lieutenant Morelli. And he might have to step up his timetable. But he would stick to the master plan. Get the job done. Recover the merchandise.

  And if Morelli tried to get in his way …

  Well, he’d keep his hammer polished. Just in case.

  Fred the Feeb raced down the jogging trail back toward the plant. This had been a stupid idea from the get-go. Stupid, stupid, stupid. And now it threatened to turn into a full-fledged disaster.

  He had known it was risky, trying to talk to George. But, Jesus Christ, what were they supposed to do? Sit here like cattle and get slaughtered one after the other? Maybe if they conferred, banded together, they could figure out what to do. Of course, he would’ve had to lie to George. Pretend he wasn’t the one who had the merchandise. But that was okay. George would never suspect, even if there was no one else in their little group left alive. Who would ever suspect Fred the Feeb?

  Just as he was about to approach George, he saw the cop. Christ, wouldn’t that have been great? He’d been ducking that lug since Harvey was killed, and now he almost blundered right into the man’s lap.

  He stood on the sidelines for a moment, acting like he was admiring the scenery, not paying any attention to them. He was there long enough to hear George tell the cop he hadn’t known Harvey, that he couldn’t imagine what connection there might be between the victims. What bullshit. And he did it all with a straight face.

  Before he attracted too much attention, Fred had turned and headed back in the opposite direction. But not so fast he didn’t see … something else. Just a glimpse, a blurry image as he swerved around on the trail. But it was definitely something. He hadn’t imagined it.

  Someone was hiding in the brush just beyond the trail. Watching.