Primary Justice (Ben Kincaid series Book 1) (27 page)

“This Brancusci guy had your business card clenched in his fist,” Mike said. “Any idea why?”

Ben told him about his meetings with Brancusci. He also revealed the details about the apartment at Malador and his chat with Harriet. He declined to tell Mike about his return visit.

“Something is going on in that apartment,” Mike murmured. “I’m going to send out a couple of uniforms to check it out.”

“Not yet,” Ben said quickly. “Any bust now would tip off the man in charge. If we wait, we might be able to use the apartment to track down our killer.”

Mike exhaled wearily. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“Do you know how Brancusci was killed?”

“Same as before,” Mike said, with a sort of a grunt. “With a big knife. It’s too early to tell, but it looks like it could be the same knife that was used on Adams. We’ve found no trace of a weapon. I’ve got men searching the general area, but I’m willing to bet we won’t find anything. The killer’s smart enough to take the knife home and stick it back in his roast beef.”

“Who found the body?”

“We’re not sure. We got an anonymous phone call about two in the morning. I’d guess it was another street person, except they probably wouldn’t have a quarter for a telephone call. Did you get a look at the knife wounds?”

Ben swallowed hard. “No,” he whispered.

“Unfinished business,” Mike said. “I’m making a big guess, based on what happened to the Adams corpse and the evidence that the two killings are connected. I’m guessing that our killer got caught in the act. I think he’d made the fatal slice and was just beginning the sicko mutilation when someone cut in. So to speak.”

Ben ignored the morbid humor. “Who could have seen them?”

Mike shrugged. “Anyone. Drunk. Prostitute. Street person. You’d be amazed how many people are running around Tulsa late at night, particularly downtown. Most of them have nowhere else to go. I’ve got guys interviewing to see if anyone saw anything significant.”

“Think you’ll have any luck?”

“Who knows?” Mike thrust his hands in his overcoat pockets. “The homeless aren’t really renowned for their sense of civic obligation. Most of them don’t like cops much, either. Cops are always pushing them around, telling them to get off the streets. As if they could.” Mike paused. “There is one thing in our favor, though. I can’t believe the killer chose this place. My guess is Brancusci lives around here and insisted on meeting somewhere nearby. The way I see it, the killer calls Brancusci up, they agree to meet somewhere, and Brancusci gets knifed. Killer drags the body into the alley and begins to slice.”

Ben rubbed his throbbing temples. “It doesn’t make any sense. When I saw Brancusci last, he was totally on edge. Why would he agree to meet the killer out on the street in the dead of night?”

“The killer probably didn’t identify himself as such,” Mike answered. “Maybe he pretended to be you.”

The churning in Ben’s stomach seemed to explode, like a firecracker in the duodenum. Of course. It made sense. Ben was long overdue. Brancusci would be waiting for him to call so that Brancusci could give Ben the financial records Ben had bullied him into providing.

“Excuse me,” Ben said. He walked down the alley, turned around the corner to the back of the building and fell to his knees to be sick. He retched a futile retch. He realized that he had not eaten since—when? He could not remember his last meal. He had been busy. Busy forgetting about Brancusci.

Slowly, Ben rose, wiped his mouth, and walked back to the alleyway.

“We’ve got to go see Sanguine, Mike, and you’ve got to make him talk.”

Mike guffawed. “Right. Just like on TV. He’ll break down, whimper, and confess.”

“Then scare him. Teach him the fear of God and the criminal justice system.”

Mike fidgeted with his pipe. “I don’t even know what it is we think Sanguine has done. I don’t understand how it all fits together—the fraudulent records, the apartment at Malador, Adams, the little girl. What do we charge him with? Corporate fraud? We can’t tie him to either murder, and it’s not against the law to rent an apartment.”

“Sanguine has to be the killer, Mike.”

“Think you’ve got it figured out, huh, Sherlock?”

“Yeah, I think I do.”

“Know who trashed your apartment? And why?”

“I think Sanguine was looking for the stolen records. Maybe Brancusci wasn’t stupid enough to carry them with him when he got killed. Or maybe Sanguine wanted to see if I had copies.”

Mike looked at Ben and held his gaze firmly for a moment. Then, with an air more of resignation than confidence, he opened the door of his car and slid behind the wheel.

“You’d better be right,” Mike said simply.

“Let’s take separate cars,” Ben said.

Mike nodded. “I hope one thing has occurred to you, though,” he added. “Whoever the killer is, he’s apparently killed to lay his hands on misappropriated financial records. That killer may also believe
you
have the same records.”

“So?”

“You know what Shakespeare said, kemo sabe. ‘The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers.’ ”

Ben’s body suddenly turned cold, “Christina knows about the records, too,” he said.

Before Mike had a chance to answer, Ben ran down the street to his Honda, gunned the engine, and pulled out into the street.

B
EN BOLTED OUT OF
the thirty-eighth floor elevator, jogged around the corner, and ran down the corridor to Maggie’s station. Maggie was reclining in her secretarial chair and thumbing through a fashion magazine.

“Have you seen Christina yet this morning?” Ben asked breathlessly.

Maggie raised her head slowly and peered at him, squinting her eyes. “I haven’t seen her.”

“Call her at home.”

Maggie shook her head. “Mr. Derek told me to keep the line open—”

Reaching over her typewriter, Ben picked up the phone receiver and shoved it under Maggie’s chin. “Call her!” he shouted.

Maggie’s eyes narrowed. Then, after glancing at the list taped to her desk, she dialed the number. “No answer,” she said after a moment.

Ben pounded his fist against her desk. “Damn, damn,
damn
!”

Maggie exhaled slowly. “She’s in the library,” she said at last.

“What?”

“She left a note on my desk this morning. She’s in the library.”

“Why didn’t you say so?”

Maggie looked down at her magazine. “You didn’t ask if I knew where she was. You asked if I had
seen
her.”

After two weeks of wondering, Ben suddenly understood how a man could be driven to kill. Suppressing his temper, he ran down the corridor and into the library.

Christina was standing in the stacks beside the Supreme Court reporters, wearing her green Robin Hood outfit.

“Christina!” Ben shouted. Several associates sitting at the reference table looked up. “Thank God you’re here.”

“Ben! How did it go?”

“Fine.” He walked over to her. “Just fine.”

“I called your place late last night but you weren’t there.”

“Yeah, I was—”

“Is something wrong? You look really strung out.”

“I was just worried. “

Christina’s brow knitted. “What’s happened, Ben?”

“Brancusci is dead.”

Christina’s hands slowly dropped to her side. “My God,” she whispered. “Did you get the—”

“No. I think that’s why he was killed.”

Christina looked at him but didn’t say anything.

“Look, Christina, I need your help.”

She nodded. “Serving you always gives me that special
joie de vivre
.”

“Then find out where Brancusci lived. Go there and wait for the police to arrive.
Don’t
go in until they get there. It’s not safe. I want you to help them search. Mike will okay it. You know more about this case than they do; you’ll know what to look for. See if you can find those records or anything that might tell us who Brancusci met last night.”

“Got it. Then what?”

“Then go over to apartment 724 at the Malador and wait for me. You know the way. And”—he paused, unable to think of a diplomatic way to put it—“bring some women’s clothing. I don’t know the exact size. She’s a little shorter than you, and about the same weight. Just take some stuff that doesn’t have to fit too well. Everything—from the undies out.”

“Got it.”

And thanks for not asking, Ben thought. “I want you to call Maggie every half hour, on the half hour. Instruct her that if you don’t call on the half hour, she’s to call the police immediately. Understand? Immediately.”

Christina’s lips turned up slightly. “You were worried about me, weren’t you?”

“I just … If the killer knew about me, he could know about you. Be careful, okay?”

“You got it,” she said, smiling.

Ben turned and dashed back into the corridor.

As he passed Maggie, she announced, “Mr. Derek wants to speak to you.”

“It’ll have to wait.”

Maggie was insistent. “He wanted to see you as soon as you came in.”

“Tell him to stick it in his bad ear,” Ben said. “I have something else I have to do.”

T
HE FOUR MEN SAT
in Sanguine’s office and stared at one another; Ben and Mike were in the chairs facing Sanguine’s desk, while Tidwell stood faithfully at his master’s side. The atmosphere was thick and heavy. No lawyer jokes today.

“Perhaps you misunderstood one of your professors in law school, Mr. Kincaid,” Sanguine said. “You see, in-house counsel is supposed to be an advocate
for
the corporation and its employees, not against them.”

“I never accepted that job,” Ben replied bitterly.

“God knows everyone at Raven thinks you accepted it,” Sanguine countered. “You still work for the Raven firm, don’t you? You go where the firm tells you to go and do what the firm tells you to do, right?”

“I never accepted that job.”

“Pity,” Sanguine said, glancing at Tidwell. “You may need a job soon.” He put his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “I’m going to have to have a chat with Dick Derek. Promises were made; gifts were exchanged. God knows I’ve done enough for Derek in his time.”

He crossed and uncrossed his legs, with an exaggerated air of ease. “Well then, gentlemen, let’s see the evidence. I’m not going to try to obstruct justice. Show me the proof. Show me this corruption festering in the bowels of my company.”

Ben clenched his teeth. The man knew damn well they didn’t have the financial records. At best, they had a coded summary that could be interpreted by Sanguine flunkies to say anything. Sanguine was just playing games with them.

“We’re not prepared to preview our case at this time for your amusement,” Mike replied. “But I can assure you that I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think the evidence against your company and against you personally was substantial.”

“In other words, no evidence,” Sanguine said, making a check mark with a pencil on his desk blotter. “Got any witnesses?”

Ben could not restrain himself. “There’s no one left who can testify against you, you bloodsucker. You’ve taken care of that. But you won’t stay lucky forever. We’ve found Catherine.”

Sanguine displayed no outward emotion. “Catherine?”

“Yeah, we’ve found that disgusting little hovel at the Malador where you’ve been keeping her. She’s in pretty pathetic shape. She’s scared to death—afraid to go out, even afraid to talk. You did a fabulous job on her.” Ben took a deep breath. He had gone too far to stop. “It won’t last, though. We’re going to trace the rental payments on the apartment back to you, if we have to subpoena every check you’ve ever written. We’re going to work with Catherine, too. She’ll recover—I know she will. And when she does, she’ll start to talk.” Ben pushed himself forward in his chair. “Then where will you be, Mr. Sanguine?”

Sanguine went through the motion of stifling a yawn. “Tidwell,” he said, drowsily, “get me the file on rental properties maintained by the corporation.”

“Certainly.” Tidwell scurried out of the office.

Sanguine returned his attention to Ben. “Do you have any idea how much real estate this company owns?” He paused. “Well, you should. Your firm secured most of it for us. And a lot of that property
is
rental property. We use some of it for storage, some for branch office space, some for staff support and low-cost staff residences. I employ over three thousand people in Tulsa alone, Mr. Kincaid. Maybe we do rent some space at the … what is it? … Malador Apartments. Frankly, I haven’t the slightest idea. Do you really suppose that I know who’s living at every single property?”

“I think you know who’s living in this one,” Ben said quietly.

Sanguine stretched out his arms and propped up his feet. “You really should have become in-house counsel here, Kincaid. It would have yanked you out of this caped-crusader mindset and given you a strong dose of reality, something you sorely need.”

“I think this is getting away from the point,” Mike said. “Mr. Sanguine, two of your employees have been murdered in a two-week span. Surely you can understand our concern. One man was slain just as he was about to provide documentary evidence to the police—”

“Is Kincaid here with the police now?”

Mike hesitated. “He’s … working as a special investigator. Doesn’t the coincidence strike you as the least bit suspicious, Mr. Sanguine? Two of your employees in one month? Victims of very similar murders?”

Sanguine shrugged his shoulders. “As I said, Lieutenant Morelli, I employ over three thousand persons. I’m sorry two of them have died, but I hardly think it’s evidence of a gigantic conspiracy. And I don’t see how you became convinced the trail leads back to me. I barely even knew this last man, this …” He searched his memory for the name unsuccessfully. “… the accountant. And I can’t help it if Jonathan Adams liked to hang out in chain-and-leather biker bars.”

Ben felt his blood beginning to boil. “Someone lured Adams to the Red Parrot,” he said evenly. “Someone set up a meeting there. Someone with dark hair.”

Sanguine laughed heartily. “Oh well,” he said, wiping his eyes. “That proves it was me.”

“Mr. Sanguine,” Mike said coolly, “I suggest you take this matter seriously.”