ROUGH JUSTICE
by William Bernhardt
Three Ben Kincaid Stories
Rough Justice
First Edition
Copyright © 2014 William Bernhardt Writing Programs
Published by Babylon Books
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Other Books by William Bernhardt
The Shine series:
Shine 1- Childhood’s End
Shine 2 – Roses in the Ashes
Shine 3 – Pandora’s Daughters
Shine 4 – Renegades
Shine 5 – Who’s Gonna Stop Me?
The Ben Kincaid Novels:
Primary Justice
Blind Justice
Deadly Justice
Perfect Justice
Cruel Justice
Naked Justice
Extreme Justice
Dark Justice
Silent Justice
Murder One
Criminal Intent
Death Row
Hate Crime
Capitol Murder
Capitol Threat
Capitol Conspiracy
Capitol Offense
Capitol Betrayal
Other novels:
The Code of Buddyhood
Nemesis: The Final Case of Eliot Ness
Dark Eye
Strip Search
Double Jeopardy
The Midnight Before Christmas
Final Round
Nonfiction:
Story Structure: The Key to Successful Fiction
Creating Character: Bringing Your Story to Life
Perfecting Plot: Charting the Hero’s Journey
Dynamic Dialogue: Letting Your Story Speak
The Fundamentals of Fiction (DVD)
Poetry:
The White Bird
For young readers:
Princess Alice and the Dreadful Dragon
The Black Sentry
Edited by William Bernhardt:
Legal Briefs: Short Stories by Today’s Best Thriller Writers
Natural Suspect: A Collaborative Novel of Suspense
Table of Contents
Yuletide Justice
What We’re Here For
After Hours
Note from the Author
Acknowledgements
About the Author
YULETIDE JUSTICE
by William Bernhardt
This story takes place between the events depicted in the novels Perfect Justice and Cruel Justice in the Ben Kincaid series.
Yuletide Justice
Ben Kincaid tried to stay on his feet as he skidded down Main Street toward his law office. Seemed like Tulsa never got snow anymore, especially at Christmas time. What Tulsa did get was ice. Treacherous, nasty, slippery ice. Storms of ice. Not the Jack-Frost-nipping-at-your-nose type. The three-car-collision-phone-lines-down-city-looks-like-a-freezer type.
He hated winter. Not as much as summer, perhaps, when everyone expected you to play tennis or jog or, heaven forbid, buy a boat. He thought winter tolerable when you were safely at home snuggled up in a blanket with a mug of hot chocolate and a blazing fire and a good Trollope novel. But winter was miserable when you had to go out. His car was worthless on the ice and his feet weren’t much better.
Blast Judge Hart for making him come to court, anyway. Did we need to have a preliminary hearing on Christmas Eve? Speedy Trial Act or not, who would complain if she postponed it a few days? The Federal courthouse wasn’t even open. No, it was just Hart’s perverse sense of humor, or perhaps, her perverse sense of poetic justice. She wanted the hearing held on Christmas Eve. Since the defendant was Santa Claus.
He could scarcely believe it when Kris Kringle took the stand, in full red-and-white fur regalia. Like a scene out of Miracle on 34th Street, except this time Santa wasn't being tried for insanity. This time he was being tried for grand larceny. This artful shopping-mall Santa allegedly dipped his hand into Mom's pocketbooks while Junior sat on his lap posing for pics.
Sheesh. `Tis the season...
He rounded the corner onto the side street. It was all downhill from here to his office, so he decided to let himself go. Pushing off from the stop sign, he slid down the icy sidewalk. He extended his hands, trying to maintain his balance. He imagined he looked like a surfer from one of those wild Sixties movies. Dr. Goldfoot and His Icy Legal Briefs, maybe. Very cool.
When he was two-thirds of the way down the street, and speeding increasingly out of control, he noticed the obstacle. The plump red obstacle. Another Santa, this one shaking a bell over a large kettle set up outside Clyde Burris's pawnshop. He was on a collision course with St. Nick and he had no way to put on the brakes.
Santa never knew what hit him. He collided full throttle, knocking the right jolly old elf to the pavement. He fell the other way, banging his head against the metal kettle.
"What in the--” Santa finished his sentence with several colorful expressions that didn't bear repeating during the season of miracles.
"Watch your language, Santa," he replied, rubbing his sore skull.
"Watch where the hell you're going." With some effort, Santa struggled back to his feet. "You all right?"
"I'll live.” He took the man's hand and let himself be pulled to his feet. "Your midsection was more solid than I anticipated."
"Don't use padding," Santa said, as if this was a matter of pride. "Don't need it. Got my own."
"Great.” He picked up his briefcase and brushed himself off. "You're not related to the Santa I just left at the courthouse, are you?"
"What, you think we're all clones?"
"I suppose not.” He started toward his office.
"Since you're here," Santa said, "how about donating a little something for the needy?"
"That would include me."
"No, I mean needy needy. Like can't pay the rent needy."
"You still haven't excluded me. But here.” He scooped all the change out of his pockets, tossed in a few dollars, and dumped it in the kettle.
Santa smiled. His eyes how they twinkled. "Merry Christmas."
"If you say so."
*****
Ben stepped through the front door of his office and was immediately assaulted with a kiss on the cheek.
"What on earth--"
His assailant was Christina McCall, his legal assistant. Her strawberry-blonde hair was drawn back in a holly-shaped barrette. She was dressed in a red-felt elf outfit with bright green shoes that curled at the toes. Haute couture Christina, Christmas-style.
"What is the meaning of this unaccustomed display of affection?" he inquired.
"What do you think?"
"I have to assume your long pent-up feelings of smoldering passion have finally bubbled to the surface."
"Guess again, lover-boy. You're standing under the mistletoe."
He checked the ceiling. Sure enough, there it was. In fact, there was so much of it that it would be difficult not to stand under the mistletoe.
Now that he noticed, his whole office had been decorated in a festive holiday manner: holly wreaths on the doors, a twinkling tree in the corner, and a prop-up standee of Santa and his reindeer in the lobby.
"I assume this is your work, Christina?"
"You assume correctly."
"I am, but that doesn’t mean we can't start celebrating at the office.” She handed him a paper cup filled with something reddish.
“What’s this?”
“Wassail. Give it a try. You’ll love it.” She held up her own cup. "Cheers."
"Likewise.” He took a swig. Sweet, fruity, and heavily laced with alcohol. He nearly gagged.
"So are you coming to my party?"
"Oh, gosh.” He shifted his weight and looked the other way. "I don't know. I really hate all this holiday spirit stuff."
"You could still come. I won't make you sing ‘Silent Night’ or anything."
He squirmed uncomfortably. “Nothing personal, but...I'd rather not."
"Oh," she said quietly. "I see."
"It's just--I find all this Christmas hugga-mugga oppressive, you know?"
"Bah humbug, eh?"
"It isn't that. I don't care what other people do. If they want to be all fake grins and goodwill toward men, terrific. But leave me out of it."
"Ben, you may be mildly neurotic, but I know you're a good person, deep down. Deep, deep down. How did you ever come to be so bitter about Christmas?"
"I suppose it's because my mother always made such a terrific fuss. She bought a pre-ornamented tree, hired professionals to green the house. We were barely permitted to breathe for fear we might mess up the decor. We weren’t even allowed to tear the paper on our presents. We had to pry off the Scotch tape and remove the wrapping in one piece. Then all the relatives we never saw the entire rest of the year came over pretending they thought my rich daddy was the greatest guy in the universe. If that's Christmas spirit, I'll do without."
"So, to summarize, because you had some bad experiences as a kid you don't think Christmas has any value or meaning."
"Oh, I think it has a lot of meaning. Especially if you're in retail.” He surreptitiously hid his cup behind a computer terminal. "I just don't much care for the meaning, that's all."
"Boss! How about some wassail?"
The new voice was Jones, his office manager, standing across the punchbowl from Loving, their private investigator.
"Thanks, but I--"
Jones rushed forward and pressed a cup into Ben's now-empty hands.
"Gee, thanks..."
"Great decorations Christina made, huh?"
"Yeah, great."
"I can't wait to see how she's decorated her apartment. You’re coming over tonight, aren’t you?"
"Unfortunately, I have another engagement.” Ben dropped a pencil on the floor and, while recovering it, unobtrusively deposited his cup in the trashcan.
"Visiting your mother?"
"No. She's in Paris for the holidays."
"Sister?"
"Somewhere in Connecticut, last I heard."
"So...it's going to be you and your cat tonight?"
"Something like that."
"Merry Christmas. Meeeeeerry Christmas."
Loving swaggered over from the punchbowl, all two hundred and fifty pounds of him. He appeared to have drunk a bit too much wassail.
Loving thunked him on the back so hard he fell three steps forward. "Merrrry Christmas, Skipper."
"And to you."
"This stuff’s great. Don't you got some? Here, take mine."
"No, really--"
Loving forced the paper cup into his hands.
"Thanks," he murmured.
Loving hiccuped. "Wassa matter, Skipper? Ain't you got the Chissmassss spirit?"
"Well…I gather you're a big believer in this so-called Christmas spirit?"
"Me? Nahhhh.” His checks flushed red. "It's all a plot by the multinational corporate consortium. Economic sabotage."
"Do tell."
"But who cares?” Loving broke out with a broad grin. "Merrrrry Chrissssmasssss."
Enough already. Time to get home to his Trollope.
"Ben! Look at this!"
He hurried over to Christina’s side.
"Look at all this moolah!” She opened an envelope and spread five hundred dollar bills on the table.
"Where did that come from?"
"Joe Flickinger. You remember, the rancher you did the estate plan for. The guy with all the poultry. He finally paid up. In part, anyway."
He picked up the yellow Post-It note stuck to one of the bills. HAPPY XMAS, it read. DON'T SPEND IT ALL IN ONE PLACE.
Christina grabbed his shoulder. "With all this loot, you can fly out to Connecticut to see your sister."
He slid the cash-filled envelope inside his jacket. "I don't think so.” Truth was, although there had been some improvement in recent years, he was still estranged from his family, especially his sister. He hadn't seen her in years. He didn't even know what city she lived in.
"Ben...Christmas is for family."
"Is that right?” He shrugged. "Thank goodness I have a cat."
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. I don’t have a family, Christina. I don’t even know what the word means.”
The bell on the front door clanged. He turned and saw Clyde Burris, the owner of the pawnshop next door. Relations with Burris had been chilly ever since Ben represented a deadbeat Burris sued for overdue payments. They'd become mildly cordial of late, but were still anything but friendly.
"Kincaid, I need some help."
"I've thought so for years."
"Ha ha. Look, I keep hearin' about what a great problem-solver you are. Think you could step over for a minute and solve one for me?"
He considered his options. He couldn’t get too worked up about Burris's problem. On the other hand, if he stayed here any longer, someone was bound to force more of that wassail on him.
"All right," he said, setting down his cup. "Let's go."
*****
Outside, snow fell like sheets of satin. Seemed the forecasters were wrong. This was going to be a white Christmas after all. Ben was glad he didn't have far to go. Snow on ice was not a good combination. Mix in darkness, rush hour, and a lot of stressed-out Tulsans who didn't know anything about driving on ice, and you had an extremely dangerous situation.
They half-walked, half-groped their way to Burris's shop. As they approached, the electric eye lit and the front door swung open--barely. Despite being thin, he was just able to squeeze through.
"Kind of narrow, isn't it?"
"That damned door hasn’t worked right since I put it in."
"I know a handyman—"
"So do I. But I kinda like it this way. Keeps people from sneakin' out with a television when I ain't lookin'."
Whatever. He slid into the pawnshop and took a quick look around. The place was even more cluttered than he remembered. Perhaps pawnshops stocked up for the holidays like everyone else. The shelves spilled over with televisions and VCRs and camcorders and sound equipment. A layer of dust covered every surface.
He noticed three other people, apparently employees, huddled in the corner, eyeing him. “What happened?"
"It’s a mystery. I had four hundred dollars, four crisp Ben Franklins, and I laid them down on this here counter and stepped outside. And when I come back, they were gone."
His eyes narrowed. "Let me see if I've got this straight. You left four hundred smackers in plain view, in a pawnshop, and they disappeared."
"Right."
"And you call this a mystery?"
"Well, ain't it?"
"The only mystery is how you could be dopey enough to leave that kind of money lying around."
"It wasn't mine. Not exactly."
"Whose was it?"
"My staff's.” Burris motioned, and the three individuals in the corner stepped forward. "This is Howard Kovack.” Burris indicated a tall, angular man. The living embodiment of John Carradine, ready to shoot a horror flick of his own. "He handles the cash register."
That alone should've been enough to prevent any thefts. "Do you handle the money?"
"No
rmally...yes.” Kovack had a protracted, lugubrious way of speaking that suited him well. "I...take it in all day...and I count it up...at closing time. But...this money...didn't come from the cash register."
"Where did it come from?"
"My pocket," Burris explained. He pointed to the fair-haired man standing beside Kovack. "Ben, this is Wayne Eddings. He's the stock boy. Stocker and stacker."
Despite the fact that Burris referred to him as a boy, Eddings was at least in his mid-thirties, probably older. "Nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you, too.”
"And this is Cora Anderson. She's our handyman and fixer-upper."
He did a double take. "You're the handyman?"
"That's right," Cora said. "What of it?"
"I just...I mean—"
"I'm seventy-two years old, sonny, if that's what you're dancing around. And I can fix up a roof like a young pup of sixty."
"No doubt, but--"
"Don't believe me? Want me to bring a few shingles over to your place?"
"No thanks. I rent."
"Cora's been a big help to us this past year," Burris explained.
"It's given me something to do.”
"So the stolen money belonged to all of you?" Ben asked.
"Oh, no," Burris replied. "Only one of them."
"Only--Which one?"
"That's just it. They didn't know."
He pulled out a chair for himself. This was obviously going to take a while. "Forgive me for being dense, but I'm not following at all."
"It's like this," Burris explained. "I wanted to give Christmas bonuses."
"Very commendable."
"But I couldn't afford to give one to every employee."
"I thought you told me your business was a huge success?"
"You don't get to be a huge success by giving all your money away."
"Ah. Proceed, Ebenezer."
"So I set up a little competition. Kind of an employee-incentive plan. Top employee receives the Christmas bonus. They get a chance to make some money, and I get to see my employees work their butts off."
"You're a true humanitarian, Burris. But all three employees do different things. How can you decide who's most productive?"
Rough Justice: Three Ben Kincaid Stories (The Ben Kincaid Anthology Series) Page 1