He had to laugh; who would have expected the deceased to become a media celebrity? But it was all the news folks had at the moment; it was all they could use to exploit this bit of grisliness. Because thus far there had been no arrest.
He pounded his fist down on the end table. What was wrong with the justice system these days? Here he’d gone to all this trouble, setting Earl up with a frame so strong even a blind man could see it, and they hadn’t arrested him yet. Good God, what did it take these days, a live video of the murder? Cops were so stupid it was easier to get away with murder than to get convicted of it. What was the world coming to?
He shut off the radio. Perhaps he was expecting too much too soon. Still, it was troubling. When he thought of all the meticulous preparations—well, it just didn’t seem fair. After all the risks he’d taken. The risk of being caught, the risk of being seen—
A risk that was realized, he reminded himself. Because he was seen. Because that stupid punk in the bathroom got a clear look at his face after the wig and beard were removed. If he started blabbing to the wrong people …
So far, miraculously, he had escaped detection. But he couldn’t count on this state of grace lasting forever. The risk had to be neutralized. The discordant note had to be silenced. That kid was the fly in the ointment, the instrument out of groove.
The melody had to be sweetened, so to speak.
The kid had to be eliminated.
Problem was, he didn’t know where to find the kid. And it would be hard to start making inquiries without provoking undesirable attention.
Well, something would turn up. He was sure of it. He’d made it this far, hadn’t he? Even when plans went sour, when unexpected developments arose, he’d managed to deal with them. Managed to overcome them. And he would again. That was the difference between Earl and himself. He was smart, and he knew what was really important and what wasn’t.
Tomorrow he would start trolling, cruise the streets of the North Side, see if he couldn’t tumble onto that kid. He’d keep an eye on the club, too. And since Earl was still inexplicably on the streets, maybe when he popped the kid …
An ear-to-ear grin spread across his face, almost as wide as the one he had carved the day before. That would work. That would be damned sweet. That would give him something worth living for.
Still smiling, he picked up his instrument and began to play. The lilting jazz riffs floated off his porch and drifted down to the city below that had no idea what was coming.
Chapter 18
BEN WAS NOT exactly surprised when he heard the thunderous pounding on the front door of Uncle Earl’s Jazz Revue. He was surprised, however, when he opened the door and found a friend standing on the other side.
“Mike!” Ben said. “What are you doing here?”
“We’ve come to make an arrest, Ben. May we come in?”
Ben nodded and stepped aside, making way for Mike Morelli, two uniforms, and a silent, sulking Lieutenant Prescott.
“I didn’t think you handled arrests yourself.”
“Normally I don’t,” Mike said, thrusting his hands deep in the pockets of his trench coat. “But I’m still in charge of the Homicide Department. When one of my men tells me his arrest has been thwarted, I get involved.”
Ben stepped between his friend and Prescott. “Look, Mike, I don’t know what the good lieutenant told you, but he breezed in with no warrant, didn’t read Earl his rights, and basically came on like he’d cut the man’s tongue out if he didn’t spill his guts.”
“That’s a filthy lie,” Prescott barked.
“Like hell,” Ben replied. “I’m surprised you didn’t bring a rubber hose.”
Prescott started to respond, but Mike cut him off with a gesture. “Don’t even start, you two. It doesn’t matter what happened before. We’re starting from scratch.” He withdrew a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket. “We have a warrant.”
“Based on what? That Earl happened to be here when the body was found?”
“There’s more evidence against Earl than that, Ben. And there doesn’t seem to be any exculpatory evidence suggesting that he didn’t commit the crime. We have more than enough to justify an arrest.”
“I’ll want the arraignment held as soon as possible.”
“Understood.”
“And the preliminary hearing. I think we can beat this rap.”
“You can take that up with the judge.”
“And I’ll ask the court to set bail.”
Prescott made a snorting noise, but Mike remained placid. “You’re always free to ask. Now where is he?”
Ben leaned up the spiral staircase that led to Earl’s office. “Come on out, Earl.”
Earl had changed his clothes and combed his hair and generally groomed himself. It was obvious that this time he was ready to travel.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” Mike said.
Earl held out his hands. “I suppose you’ll want to cuff me.”
“It’s departmental procedure,” Mike said. “Prescott, read him his rights.”
“But—”
“Do it.”
His lips pursed, Prescott pulled a card out of his shirt pocket and began to read.
While Earl was being Mirandized, Ben saw the young boy he had met earlier entering the club. He stopped several paces from the cops, then turned and ran.
Obviously not a kid who liked rubbing shoulders with police officers, Ben noted. He wondered if Tyrone Jackson’s ties with the Crips had been severed as completely as he had intimated.
To his surprise, the kid stopped at the door. He hesitated, obviously deliberating. After a more than a minute had passed, he slowly made his way back to the center of the club.
“What’s going on?” Tyrone asked.
“Earl’s being arrested,” Ben said quietly.
“For what?”
“For the murder. Yesterday. Lily Campbell.”
“But—”
“I know. We’re going to do everything possible for him.”
“But—”
Mike cocked up one eyebrow. “But what?”
“Why him?”
Prescott sneered. “Because we think he did it, that’s why.”
“But—”
A deep crease lined Mike’s forehead. “Kid, if you have something to say, say it. If you don’t, get out of the way.”
“I—but—” Whatever was on the boy’s mind, he didn’t seem able to spit it out.
Mike’s eyes narrowed. “You know, you look familiar.”
The kid turned away. “I shouldn’t. I’m new in town. I don’t know anybody.”
“Right.”
“I’m not a suspect. I don’t have to answer any questions. Can I go?”
Mike frowned. “I suppose.” Tyrone skittered toward the door. “C’mon, Earl, you’re going downtown.”
“Say goodbye to this pretty club of yours,” Prescott added. “You may never see it again.”
Once again, Tyrone froze. “Now why is that?”
“ ’Cause once he’s charged with capital murder, he ain’t likely to be set free for no amount of money. And once he’s been convicted, he ain’t gonna see nothin’ but a cell. Followed by a coffin.”
Tyrone turned away. Ben had the clear impression that he wanted to say something. But whatever it was, it wasn’t coming out.
He checked Mike—he was watching the kid too. Ben knew Mike was biding his time, hoping Tyrone would talk.
“C’mon,” Mike growled, grabbing Earl by the shoulder. “We’ve got things to do.”
“Look”—Tyrone squeezed his eyes shut—”you’ve got the wrong man.”
Another snort from Prescott. “Like hell.”
“It’s true. He didn’t do it.”
Mike took a step toward Tyrone. “And how do you know that?”
“I just know, okay?”
“How?” Mike got so close to Tyrone they could swap carbon dioxide. “Is this a confession?”
“No—I—” He hung his head.
“You know, Morelli,” Prescott said, “I think maybe we should bring this one in, too.”
“No!” Tyrone exclaimed. “That’s exactly what—” He stopped, then threw himself dejectedly into a chair.
“Look, kid,” Mike said, “just tell us what you know. In the long run, it’ll be for the best.”
Tyrone let out a long sigh. His face reflected the conflicts and contradictions he was weighing. Finally, he spoke: “It wasn’t Earl. It was the clown in the fake ’fro.”
Ben stepped forward, keenly interested. Of course, he had considered the rug man a suspect. But what did this kid know?
“The rug guy?” Mike asked. “Bushy hair? Beard? So tall?”
“No,” Tyrone said, his face in his hands. “That’s where you’ve got it all wrong. You go lookin’ for some chump with an Afro, you’re gonna fail.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because he was wearing a wig. And since no one else has worn a ’fro for the last twenty years or so, you’re gonna come up empty-handed.”
“Did you see the killer?”
“I think so. I mean, I didn’t know he was a killer at the time. I didn’t know there was a killer at the time.”
“But you saw someone in a wig.”
“Right. Watched him take off the wig. Watched him taking off the fake beard, too.”
Mike made a note. “Where?”
“In the men’s room.” Tyrone laughed awkwardly. “Hell, I thought he was some kind of drag queen or cross-dresser. But then he saw me lookin’ at him, and he got all bent out of shape. Started walking toward me like he was gonna kill me. And he was hiding something under his shirt. I think it was a knife.”
“You saw—” Mike scribbled furiously in his notepad. “Why didn’t you tell us this before?”
“I”—Tyrone looked away—“I didn’t want to get involved.”
“What’s your name, kid?”
“I don’t have to answer that.”
“The hell you don’t. You’re a material witness, now. You talk to me here or I’ll haul you downtown and you’ll talk to me there. Capisce?”
He swallowed. “My name’s … Tyrone. Tyrone Jackson.”
Mike’s eyes went fuzzy, as if he was trying to dredge up an association buried deep in some fold of his memory. The light slowly dawned. “You’re wanted for something, aren’t you? That’s why you didn’t want to talk.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You knew we’d want to question you, take your prints, run your name through the computer.” Mike nodded. “I think I understand now. C’mon, Prescott. Let’s get out of here.”
“What? You mean—we aren’t takin’ Earl in?”
Mike shrugged. “We have a witness who places another suspect at the scene of the crime with a weapon.”
“You don’t believe him, do you? You should arrest ’em both!”
“I’m not going to make any half-cocked arrests that’ll only blow up in my face later. Frankly, Prescott, I wasn’t very impressed by your case in the first place, but at least there was no other likely suspect. Now, with this kid’s testimony, which Mr. Kincaid is certain to put on at the preliminary hearing, I’m not even sure we have enough to bind the man over for trial. We need time to check this kid’s story.”
“You can’t just let this punk go! He killed someone!”
“If he did, we’ll prove it. In the meantime, I’m not going to bring charges that won’t stick.”
Prescott’s fists balled up. “The Chief won’t like this. He said he wanted an arrest, pronto.”
“I’m not going to waste the city’s resources bringing charges I know will be dismissed just so I can go on the evening news and complain about how the justice system doesn’t work and judges coddle criminals. First we do our job. Then we make an arrest.”
“But—but—”
“You heard me. We’re leaving.” Without another word, Mike walked briskly out of the office, followed by the two officers.
Prescott whirled on Ben. “We’ll be back, Kincaid. Don’t doubt it.” On his way out, he leaned close to Tyrone. “And next time we’ll be coming for you, too.” He slammed the door behind him.
“Thank God that’s over.” Ben turned toward Tyrone. “You and I have a few things to discuss.”
Tyrone’s eyes darted from side to side. “You think it’s true? What that blowhard said, I mean. About them comin’ back for me?”
Ben nodded. “You can count on it.”
Chapter 19
AT EIGHT THAT evening, Ben was still at the club, barely making a dent in the mess. Most of the staff had gone home some time ago; Earl and Tyrone were up in Earl’s office commiserating.
“Why don’t you go on home, Ben?” Diane said. “It’s late.”
“What, and leave you with this pit to clean up?”
“Hey, it falls in the stage manager’s job description, not the piano player’s.” She smiled, causing her cheeks to crinkle up and spread the spikes of her hairdo. “You have to be careful. Might sprain a finger or something.”
He checked his watch. “Well, I was hoping to get home by nine; NPR’s broadcasting a live John Prine concert. I’ll be back tomorrow to help.”
Diane shrugged. “It’s your funeral.”
Ben was almost out the door when someone shouted at him from behind the bar. “You’ve got a call, Ben.”
Ben scrambled to the phone. “Hello?”
“Benjamin! You gotta come! He’s killing her!”
Ben’s hand gripped the phone receiver tightly. “Who? What? Who is this?”
“Benjamin! He’s beating her to death!”
“Who is this?”
“You’ve got to come quickly! He’s killing her!”
Ben listened carefully to the voice. “Mrs. Marmelstein, is this you?”
“Of course it is! What are you going to do about Christina?”
“Christina?” His jaw tightened. “Tell me exactly what’s going on. Start at the beginning.”
She spoke in short broken gasps, never more than a few words at a time. “Your friend Christina called. She’s in trouble.”
“But why would she call you?”
“Would you listen to me? He’s beating her up!”
“Who is?”
“I don’t know his name. Her ex-husband.”
“Ray? The dentist?”
“She was screaming, Benjamin! Crying! I could hear him hitting her!”
None of this made sense, but he was wasting valuable time trying to pry information out of her. “Where is she?”
“At her place.”
“I’m going right there. Can you call the police?”
“Yes. 911.”
“Right. Do it.” Ben slammed down the receiver and raced out the door. He was out of the club in ten seconds, had his van started in thirty.
Fortunately, rush hour was long over, so there was not much traffic on the Broken Arrow Expressway. There was, however, construction work in progress, and it added several minutes to his trip.
As he bobbed in and around the construction cones, Ben punched in Christina’s number on his car phone. He had laughed when Mike had first suggested that he get a car phone for his new van. It seemed like a frivolous nineties bit of frippery to him, but Mike had insisted it was a security issue—you don’t want to be trapped on a dark, lonely road with no way to call AAA when your car breaks down. At the moment, Ben was glad he had it.
The phone rang, but no one answered. Blast!
Ben banged his steering wheel, as if that might make the rerouted traffic move faster. Finally he exited onto Harvard and barreled south toward Christina’s apartment.
He parked his car on the street outside and ran to the front door, on which he pounded, but there was no answer. Shades were drawn over the front windows; he couldn’t see what, if anything, was going on inside.
Damn! The whole thing didn’t make sense
. But if Christina was in there, and she had been beaten, she might be unable to come to the door. She could be unconscious, bleeding—even dying.
He had to try something. There was a fence that divided the front of the apartments, and Ben knew Christina’s place had a back screen door that faced out on the other side. He had told her a million times to keep that door locked, but she almost never did. If he could get over there …
Fortunately, the fence was not too high, only about six feet. He jumped up and grabbed the top with both hands, then hoisted himself over. He flopped down on the other side, landing on both feet. Not bad for an amateur, he thought. He ran around the corner and made it to the back sliding door.
Yes! It was unlocked. Good thing she never heeded his advice. He’d scold her later; today it was a godsend. He threw open the door and raced inside and saw—
Nothing.
No one was there. There were no signs of a struggle, no overturned chairs or tables. No blood on the white shag carpet. He checked the back bedroom and bath, the kitchen, even the closets. It was all the same.
There had been no brawl, no beating.
It had never made any sense. Christina might not speak all that kindly about Ray, but shed never suggested that he’d been violent to her. And Christina could handle herself pretty well, as he’d seen in any number of situations. All things considered, she was more likely to beat Ray to a pulp than the other way around.
Ben sat down on the sofa and stared into the gilt mirror hanging on the opposite wall just above Christina’s display of French memorabilia. Two possibilities shouted out to him. Either Mrs. Marmelstein was playing a cruel prank … or Mrs. Marmelstein was losing her mind.
Unfortunately, she had never been much of a prankster.
Ben rubbed his face. Even when the doctors had determined that she had Alzheimer’s, he’d thought they could cope with it without much adjustment. But this was different. Hallucinating violent events that never happened, never even came close to happening. He had to face facts.
Her mind was slipping. Fast.
He pushed himself off the sofa and exited through the back sliding door. Poor Mrs. Marmelstein. Through it all, she had always been sweet and good-hearted. She may have periodically feigned her disapproval of Ben, but he knew that in truth she was one of his greatest supporters, someone he could always count on for a kind and caring word. And she knew he had been there when she needed someone. She knew he had taken care of her.
Extreme Justice: A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense bk-7 Page 11
