Blind Justice (10 page)

“The thought did occur to me,” she said. “Really, Benjamin, there must be a less disagreeable neighborhood somewhere in Tulsa. It is a large city.”

“You don’t start your practice working for the major corporations, Mother. At least not when you’re on your own. You have to start on the ground floor. Build a strong client base overtime.”

“Being a solo practioner must be difficult.”

“You don’t know the half of it. Big firms use their large staff and resources for leverage. Bury their opposition with motions and discovery requests, then stand back and watch the solo guy crumble. They don’t return your phone calls; in fact, they won’t talk to you at all, unless it’s to refer some scumbag client who’s too dirty for them to touch. Judges don’t trust you—they know you can’t choose your clients. You never have anyone to cover for you when you have conflicting court dates. It’s tough.”

“It doesn’t have to be. I could accelerate your progress.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“I’ve talked to Jim Gregory. He’s interested in bringing you into his firm.”

“The only reason he’s interested is because you’re a longtime client and major source of income for him. No.”

Mrs. Kincaid leaned forward. “At least let me assist you financially.”

“No. Never.”

“It’s not as if I have any shortage of money.”

“If that money had been intended for me…” Ben shook his head, eyes closed. He couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Please don’t start misinterpreting your father’s wishes again, Benjamin. Your father wanted his entire family to be well provided for.”

“Bull.”

“It’s true, Benjamin. He—”

“Don’t waste your breath, Mother. I’ve seen the will.”

“You—” She stopped, obviously surprised. “I didn’t know that.”

“Now you do. So don’t bother.”

Mrs. Kincaid fell back against the sofa. “Very well then. What is it you want?”

Ben suddenly wished he could shrink to the size of a microbe. “I…need to borrow some money.”

“Is that all?” She reached into her purse and withdrew her checkbook. “It’s about time you saw the light of day. How much do you want?”

“Fifty thousand dollars.”

“Fifty—” She closed her checkbook. “Benjamin, what have you done?”

“It’s not for me.”

“Is this something to do with a woman?”

“Mother, I’m thirty years old. I think my private life is my own business.”

“That’s what you said before. And you haven’t been the same since that horrible business in Toronto—”

“Mother!” He inhaled deeply, then lowered his voice. “It’s for…a client.”

“You’re covering a client’s gambling debts?”

“No. Helping my client make bail.”

“Make bail? Is it…traditional for an attorney to advance bail money to a client?”

Well, you can’t lie to your own mother. “No.”

“Then I don’t see why—”

“Mother, please. It’s important.”

Mrs. Kincaid gazed at her son for a long time. “Very well. I’ll have Jim Gregory transfer the funds.”

“Thank you. I…appreciate it.” He took a piece of paper out of his wallet and scribbled a few lines. “Here’s my home address. Next time you’re in Tulsa, don’t stay in your car the whole time. Okay?”

Mrs. Kincaid accepted the scrap of paper. “How delightful,” she said. “This is a first. I trust your apartment is in a more respectable neighborhood than your office. Right?”

Ben smiled. “I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

C
HRISTINA CLOSED THE CAR
door. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Ben turned the ignition. “There’s no hurry, Christina. You’re out on bail; you’re not on the lam.”

“The more distance between that jail cell and me, the better. Go.”

Ben pulled out of the parking lot onto Denver. “I’m taking you to the Health Department for a blood test.”

“Wrong. You’re taking me to my apartment.”

“This will only take a few minutes.”

“Home, Ben.”

“It’s vital that we have the test done as soon as possible—”

“Ben, look at me. I’m a wreck. Physically, mentally, hygienically. I’ve spent the last day and a half with the sleaziest people I’ve ever met in my life. I’m talking total human refuse.”

“Christina—”

“I haven’t showered in days, unless you count being sprayed with that sticky disinfectant foam. I reek of lice spray. I have a deep and overpowering
tristesse
that reaches to the core of my being.” She leaned forward, practically nose to nose. “I want to go home.
Now.
”

“Well, if you put it that way…”

“I do.”

“Home it is.” He changed lanes and turned onto Southwest Boulevard, then glanced at his rear-view mirror.

“Christina, did you see a black four-door sedan—a Cutlass, I think, with smoked glass windows—when I picked you up?”

“No.”

“Well, I did.”

“So?”

“So, it’s following us. It’s been following us since we left the municipal complex.”

Christina looked puzzled. “Who would be following us?”

He wheeled into the parking lot of the Riverview apartment complex. “I wish I knew.”

Ben and Christina walked toward her second-level apartment facing the Arkansas River.

“Who was that guy who brought my clothes to the jail?” she asked.

“That was Jones. He’s my secretary.”

“I never saw you as the male-secretary type.”

“What did you see me as?”

“More the Donna Reed type. Some motherly secretary who brings you cookies during trial recesses and lays out your clothes in the morning.”

“Jones was a client,” Ben explained. “I helped bail him out of some trumped-up embezzlement charges brought by his former employer. Basically, Jones borrowed ten bucks from the till for lunch one day and forgot to replace it. The boss decided to make an example of him.”

“A great humanitarian.”

“I got Jones off, but he didn’t have any way of paying my bill. I didn’t have a secretary—Kathy having left me for the third time—so he filled in. It was his idea. I pay him when I can, and he’s slowly paying off his bill.”

“Is he any good?”

“Well, he only types about twenty words a minute, loses things, can’t spell, and can’t use a Dictaphone without erasing half the tape. But his attitude is exemplary.”

“So he’s better than Maggie?”

“By light years, He’s handy with computers, too.”

“Pity you can’t afford one.”

“Yeah. If there’s a problem, it’s that he’s got Sherlock Holmes fever. Always wants to investigate the scene of the crime.”

“You’ll contain him.”

“Oh? I was never able to contain you.”

They arrived at apartment 210.

Christina inserted her key into the lock. “I hope the place wasn’t too much of a mess when Jones came by. How embarrassing. I probably left my underwear lying all over the floor.”

She turned the lock and pushed open the door.

Ben was reminded of the
Time
magazine photographs of the aftermath of Hurricane Bob. Everything in the apartment had been turned upside down, spilled, tossed, shattered. Sofa cushions lay on the floor, tossed in a heap with books, magazines, desk drawers, and upended chairs. Posters had been ripped off the walls; plants had been turned on their sides.

“Well,” Ben said slowly, “I don’t see any underwear.”

“Is this Jones guy what you would call a messy person?” Christina asked.

“Not like this.”

“Then I’ve had another visitor?”

“I’m afraid so.”

They both heard the noise at the same time. Ben whipped around just in time to be body blocked by the man running out of the back bedroom. Ben fell back and crashed against the fireplace. Christina screamed; the fireplace tools clattered to the floor. The man bolted through the still-open door.

Ben pulled himself to his feet and started after him.

“Let him go,” Christina yelled. “It’s too dangerous.”

Ben ignored her. He raced out the door and down the sidewalk to the parking lot. The intruder was already astride his motorcycle, kicking the starter. Ben grabbed him around the waist and pulled him to the ground. The man struggled, but Ben pinned him down with his knees, then tried to remove the man’s black opaque motorcycle helmet.

Suddenly, the man lurched forward, bashing his helmet against Ben’s forehead. Ben fell backward, clutching his head in pain. The man jumped onto his cycle and restarted it. Ben struggled to his feet just in time to see the man zooming away, his long blond hair trailing beneath his helmet.

Ben loped back to Christina’s apartment, his head throbbing. “Got away,” he said, panting heavily.

“You shouldn’t have gone after him in the first place. You’re a lawyer, not a cop.”

“Obviously.” Disgusted with himself, he walked across the room. “At least he didn’t take the French collection,” Ben said, trying to sound upbeat. He examined the evidence of Christina’s Francophilia on her mantel. Travel posters of the Sorbonne, an Eiffel Tower paperweight, matching
chien
and
chat
potholders, Lautrec reproductions. A plastic bubble that, turned upside down, caused snow to fall on Notre Dame.

Ben picked up a thick paperback book and examined the spine.
The Trial of Joan of Arc.
“I didn’t know you were a fan of the Maid of Orleans,” Ben said.

“Now more than ever,” Christina answered. “I feel we have a lot in common.”

“I hope that’s because you’ve both been wrongly accused. Not because you hear voices.”

“Well, actually…” Christina picked up her Garfield phone and put the receiver back in the cradle. “You think we should call the police?”

“Definitely. I think this is the murderer’s work. Any idea what he might have been looking for?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“Maybe we’ll figure it out if we take note of what was searched.”

“Ben!”

Ben whirled. “What?”

“My animals! They’ve been drilled!”

Ben surveyed the twenty or so stuffed animals that normally occupied most of the sitting space on her sofa. They were tossed haphazardly onto the floor on the opposite side of the room. Every one had a hand-size hole cut in its belly, with its stuffings falling out.

“I’m sorry, Christina,” Ben said. “I’ve heard smugglers sometimes hide contraband in dolls and stuffed animals. I guess your visitor was checking.”

“What else could they possibly…” A horrified expression suddenly came upon her face. She walked quickly into the kitchen. Everything was silent for a moment, then, suddenly, she cried out.

Ben raced into the kitchen. “Is someone—” He stopped. Christina was kneeling on the floor. “What’s wrong?”

Christina’s hands were pressed against her eyes. “They got my babies.”

Ben saw Christina’s countless ceramic and porcelain pig figurines shattered into pieces on the floor.

“Those…dirty…It took me years to collect all these.” She picked up a small pig shard with the word
cochon
in bold black letters. “They even got my little French piggy! He was my favorite!” Her damp eyes began to swell.

Ben patted her on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, Christina. There’ll be other pigs. Really.” He didn’t know what to do. Murders he could deal with; on ceramic French piggies, he was helpless.

“Hey, look at this,” Ben said, hoping to distract her. He pointed toward a muddy smudge on the kitchen linoleum. The mud retained the clear imprint of the heel of a shoe. “Was this here when you were home last?”

“Of course not. I’m not a total slob, you know.” She wiped her eyes and studied the footprint. “Ben, it’s a clue!”

“Not a very helpful one.”

“If you were Sherlock Holmes, you’d run tests and discover that that particular type of mud is only found in one place in all of Tulsa.”

“Indubitably. But I’m not Sherlock Holmes, and that’s not bloody likely.” He saw Christina’s face droop. “Still, we have nothing to lose. Have you got a paper bag I can borrow?”

Christina seemed to recover a bit from her pig-induced melancholia. The thrill of the hunt, Ben supposed. “I’ll give you a baggie,” she said. “The pros always put evidence into little plastic bags.”

“Wrong. The pros avoid little plastic bags because they retain moisture that can taint the evidence. Pros use paper bags and then transfer the evidence to plastic before trial so it can be viewed more easily by the jury.”

“Is that so?” She opened the cabinet beneath the sink and withdrew a small paper bag. “I guess I could be Mister Know-It-All too if my brother-in-law was a cop.”

“Ex-brother-in-law.” Using his forefinger, Ben brushed the mud into the bag. Inside the mud, he discovered a small leaf fragment about the size of his thumb. “This give you any ideas?”

Christina shook her head. “Sorry. Trees aren’t my forte.”

“Probably a rare leaf only found in one place in all of Tulsa,” Ben said. “I’m going to call the police and report this break-in. You take your shower. You’re already late for a very important date with a lab tech.”

As soon as she was out of sight, Ben took another paper bag from beneath the sink and methodically retrieved every broken piece of the ceramic
cochon.
You never know, he thought. I always was good at jigsaw puzzles.

C
HRISTINA ADMIRED THE LATEST
additions to Ben’s office decor. “Are these eating chickens or laying chickens?”

“Is there a difference?” Ben asked.

“He’s a city boy,” Jones explained.

“Obviously.”

The three of them sat in Ben’s tiny private office, Ben and Christina on the sofa, Jones in the chair behind the desk. Jones held his steno pad at the ready, just in case something important was said.

Ben passed Christina his list of suspects. “Tell me everything you know about these three men.”

Christina examined the list. “Do you really think the murderer is one of these three?”

“Has to be. If Spud is telling the truth.”

“Spud?”

“Lombardi’s dipsomaniacal doorman.”

Christina appeared puzzled. “His desk plate says Holden Hatfield. How does he get—”

“Don’t ask.” He redirected her attention to the list.

“Well, of course I know Reynolds. And I’ve heard of DeCarlo—never met him though. Tony mentioned him a few times. They had some kind of business arrangement.”