Murder One (11 page)

Some of the light faded from Christina’s eyes. “I know,” she said, as she gathered up her briefcase and headed toward the jailhouse. “I know.”

For some reason, Ben thought, as the officers shoved him down the corridor and repeatedly violated his personal space, not to mention his bruised and tender body, the police department did not seem as delighted as he was by the fact that he was being released. His jailer—Joe McNaughton’s best friend, at least according to him—was downright surly. His eyes were cold and harsh. Most of the other officers’ expressions were about the same.

“Yup,” Ben said, as they handed him back his clothes, “I’m going to miss this place. And I’m going to miss all you sweet, good-hearted men. But most of all, I’m going to miss these lovely orange pajamas.”

Once he was dressed, they took him to the Property Room and returned the belongings taken from him when he was arrested.
Almost
all of them—his wallet was empty and someone had drawn a mustache on the photo on his driver’s license. But he wasn’t about to complain.

The jailer personally led him to the exit. Through the window, Ben could see Christina waiting for him.

“Well, that’s it then,” Ben said, smiling. “Have a good life.”

“You forgot something.” Ben turned and, in the blink of an eye, the jailer landed a solid punch in the pit of his stomach. Ben doubled over, clutching himself.

“One to remember me by,” the jailer whispered. “This isn’t over,” he added, as he unlocked the heavy steel door. “Not by a long shot. I’ll be watching you.” He paused, making sure Ben caught the malicious expression in his eyes. “We all will be.”

K
IRK HIT THE STREETS
of the city at midnight, an hour when all good respectable folks are tucked away in bed—leaving the territory wide open for everyone neither good nor respectable. Just the place for me, Kirk thought miserably. Walking the streets with the rest of the Great Unwashed. The Unclean. The Unforgiven.

He was making his way down Brady when he saw three street punks collecting in front of a pawnshop. They were all wearing matching jackets. Were they Crips or Bloods? Or some local variant? He couldn’t remember. They never had this sort of thing back in Stroud.

He knew they were bad news, no doubt about that. Anyone with half a brain in his head, anyone who didn’t want trouble, would give them a wide berth.

Kirk kept walking.

The three punks, teenagers all, were acting casual, talking the talk, punching each other playfully, doing a little hip-hop dance. They were trying to act as if their presence here was strictly coincidence, but Kirk could see through that without any problem. He watched their eyes, gliding over the storefront window, inventorying its contents. He saw one of them position himself behind a wire mesh trash can next to a telephone pole.

Kirk knew what was going down. They were waiting until the moment was right, the street was clear. Then one of them would toss the trash can through the window, shattering it. Another one would grab the television in the window, and maybe some of the jewelry or whatever else he could stuff into his pockets. And then they’d run like hell. The whole thing would be over in twenty seconds. There was no way they could be caught. No alarm on earth could get the police here in time. The little thieves would get away scot-free. And there was nothing he or anyone else could do about it, not without getting seriously lacerated in the process.

Which did not deter him in the least. This is exactly what I need, Kirk realized. This is what I’ve been searching for.

I need to be punished.

He sauntered forward, just as he saw the punk in the rear laying his hands on the rim of the trash can. “ ’Scuse me, gentlemen,” Kirk said, affecting a lighthearted confidence he did not feel. “May I suggest that you give your plan of action a second thought?”

The punk in the middle, the largest and meanest looking of the lot, growled at him. “Get the hell out of here.”

“You know,” Kirk continued, “property crime is a terrible thing. It causes taxes to go up and strains the economy. It drains money away from valuable state endeavors like schools and libraries.”

The kid at the trash can reached into his jacket pocket. A flash of silver emerged. “Last chance, punk. Leave!”

Kirk stared at the switchblade. Clearly, if he were going to make a break for it, this would be the time. If he wanted to escape the punishment.

But what would happen if he did? Would he be turning away from his only hope for redemption? Would he be thwarting God’s plan for him? Let this cup pass from me, O Lord …

No, he couldn’t do that. This was right. This was the path.

“I’m staying,” Kirk said. “You’re leaving.”

The mean one in the middle grunted. “Case you haven’t noticed, asswipe, there’s three of us, and only one of you.” He jerked his head toward the kid with the knife. “Waste him.”

The kid lurched forward, carving a path for himself with his knife. Kirk tumbled backward, trying to get out of the way. The kid kept coming. Kirk moved as fast as he could, till he backed up against a telephone pole.

“You history, shit-for-brains.” The kid grinned a little, then lurched forward like a soldier with a bayonet.

At the last possible moment, Kirk whirled out of the way. He did a complete circle, and as he came back around, he raised one leg and kicked the knife out of the kid’s hand.

The kid fell down onto the pavement, surprised and knocked loopy by Kirk’s slick move. He dove after his knife, but Kirk stopped him with another well-placed kick. He tumbled down, his chin thudding on the concrete. Another kick from Kirk and he was out of commission.

“Da-aamn,” the big thug said, watching with a discernible degree of admiration, “this punkass can fight.”

“Not two Crips at once,” his companion replied. Another flash of silver, and he, too, was armed and ready.

This time, Kirk didn’t wait for them to come to him. He knew his only chance was to go on the offensive, to take out the weapon and disable his attackers as quickly as possible. He’d studied martial arts, tae kwon do and kick-boxing especially, but he knew that fancy-schmancy stuff wasn’t always helpful in a no-holds-barred street fight.

He launched himself toward the one with the knife, trying to knock it out of his hand. But this kid was ready for him. He moved himself and his knife out of the way, then slashed backward as Kirk flew past.

Kirk cried out in pain. The knife jabbed him just under the ribs. Not fatal, not by a long shot. But still plenty deep enough to hurt.

Kirk whirled around, trying to stop whatever came at him next. It was the big boy this time, reaching out with his bare hands. Kirk dropped, rolled, and managed to plant a solid punch in the soft part of his stomach. The kid felt it, too, but it wasn’t enough to slow him down. A split second later, one of those massive fists came crashing into Kirk’s face.

He felt the skin over his left eye split. Blood spurted out, obscuring his vision. Another blow caught him between the legs, and he was down on his knees, coughing blood.

From that point on, it was a massacre. The punks kept coming at him, never stopping for a moment. Kirk was helpless, powerless to stop the relentless assault on every part of his body. Heavy boots crashed into his ribs, sending shock waves of pain throughout his body.

He felt something hard and metallic smash down on his head, knocking him flat against the sidewalk. After that, he couldn’t feel the individual blows, just the horrible unending wave of pain and the salty bitter taste of his own blood.

“C’mon, man,” he finally heard one of them say, “he’s had it. Let’s blow.”

“One minute,” his friend said.

Kirk felt his head being lifted up by the hair. Through blurred vision, he saw a cold blade sweep across his face. He cried out as, all at once, he experienced pain more intense than anything he had felt in his life, as the flesh of his forehead was rent apart.

“Now we can go,” the kid growled. He let Kirk’s head thud down onto the pavement.

Kirk heard the footsteps move away from him. The pummeling ended, but he could feel no difference. Cascading ripples of agony coursed through his abused and mutilated body. The blood streaming out of his head wound blinded him.

Have I suffered enough? he wondered. He wanted to cry out but couldn’t find the strength. Have I been sufficiently punished? Is it over?

But there was no answer. No matter how much he pleaded, he got no response. No one was listening.

He began to cry, not because he hurt so badly, although he did, but because he realized now that it would make no difference. There would be no relief, no redemption.

He had suffered, but not nearly enough. Not for what he had done.

He still had to be punished.

W
HEN BEN ARRIVED AT
his upstairs apartment, he found two envelopes tucked halfway under the door. Fan mail from some flounder? More likely death threats from an anonymous member of the Tulsa P.D. But when he opened the envelopes, he was pleasantly surprised. They contained the best of all possibilities: money.

Probably not a contribution to my legal defense fund, Ben mused, as he counted through the bills. Of course—today was the last day of the month, wasn’t it? Time for all good tenants to pay their rent. And Mr. Perry had done so, promptly and invisibly, as always. The man had been in this building the entire time Ben had, and he had yet to meet him face-to-face. Mr. Perry was sort of like gravity; you knew it had to exist, but you never actually saw it.

The second envelope was not nearly as thick as the first. That would be from Mrs. Singleton, Ben surmised. Sure enough, at the back of the woefully inadequate envelope, there was a note:
I.O.U. $220. Sorry—short this month. Will pay when can.

Which, of course, would be never. Ben’d been here before. If he could collect all the money that woman owed him, he could probably buy a country club membership. But he understood. Since her husband left her, Mrs. Singleton had been the principal means of support for her twin daughters, one of whom was now in college, and two younger children besides. The room they rented was no bigger than Ben’s; where all those people slept he had no idea. Mrs. Singleton worked in a factory assembling bits and pieces of machinery without even knowing what they were, and in the evenings, she took in laundry for extra cash. Making ends meet was a day-to-day struggle for her.

Ben took the I.O.U. and crumpled it in his hand. The last thing on earth this woman needed were worries about the rent. Mental note: If he ended up doing time on this trumped-up obstruction charge, Mrs. Singleton got the vacant room.

He shoved the two envelopes in his pocket and fumbled for his keys. Becoming a landlord had been an eye-opening experience. He had never imagined himself doing anything like this. He’d never imagined himself having investments, much less ones that actually earned money. And certainly not ones that put him in such direct and intimate contact with other people’s lives. How was it, he wondered, that a person who was so pathetically poor at interacting with others could ever end up as a landlord—and a lawyer? Both jobs immersed him in other people’s problems on a daily basis. Although there was this to say about landlording—it had never gotten him thrown behind bars.

Ben had lived in this upstairs apartment for years before he became the landlord. The original owner, Mrs. Marmelstein, had been a sweet, gentle, elderly woman. A little dotty, yes, even before the Alzheimer’s set in, but Ben had loved her dearly. She’d been one of his earliest friends and supporters—in her own way—after he moved to Tulsa. She meant a lot to him. And in her declining years, Ben had been her principal means of support, both emotionally and financially.

Still and all, no one had been more surprised than Ben when Mrs. Marmelstein left him the boardinghouse in her will. All at once (or as long as it took to clear probate, anyway), he was transformed from a barely surviving attorney to a landed property owner. Actually, the impact on his bottom line was slight, but somehow, it made
him
feel more substantial, just knowing he owned something real and tangible. It had given him a sense of security, of location, that he had not previously known. It felt good.

Of course, Mrs. Marmelstein had known it would. Which was why she left it to him, God bless her sweet-hearted soul.

“Did they let you out, or are you on the lam?”

Ben glanced over his shoulder and spotted Joni Singleton, one of the Singleton twins—the college student and, at present, Ben’s part-time handyman.

“I’m out on my own recognizance, pending the preliminary hearing on the charges.”

“Oh.” She stood for a good long moment before asking: “Is that good?”

“Well, it’s better than spending another night in the holding cell.” He pushed open his door. “Wanna come in for a minute?”

She considered. “You still got some of those little cheese puff things?”

“Tons.”

“Totally rufus.” Joni glided into his apartment, her overloaded tool belt bouncing around her slender hips. After several experiments, some more successful than others, her naturally curly brown hair had settled at just below shoulder-length, which, if Ben recalled correctly, was exactly where it had been before she started experimenting. She was an attractive young woman, just turned twenty. “Nothing like junk food to comfort a troubled soul.”

Ben walked into the kitchen, retrieved the bag of cheese snacks, and poured them into a bowl. “Something wrong with the house?”

“No big. I fixed that flickering light in the hallway, oiled the creaking back door, and got Mrs. Slotznik’s electricity running again.”

“Sounds like a successful day in the life of a handyman. Handyperson. Whatever. So what’s the problem?”

“It—doesn’t have anything to do with work.”

“School?”

“Nah. Boring, but bearable. Thanks to you.” She gave him a quick wink. “No, it’s boy troubles, I’m afraid.”

“Something wrong with Boomer?”

“Boomer? Ben, get with it. He’s like, three, four boyfriends ago.”

“Sorry. I can’t keep track.”