Rough Justice: Three Ben Kincaid Stories (The Ben Kincaid Anthology Series)

by William Bernhardt

  "The final decision rests in the sole discretion of the judge. Me."

  "Ah."

  "That way," Cora explained, "he has the added pleasure of seeing his employees fall all over themselves to lick his boots."

  Burris looked down his nose at her. "And that attitude explains why you weren't even in the running."

  She stuck out her tongue at him.

  "Seventy-two years old," Burris murmured. "And so mature."

  "I still don’t understand why you left your money on the counter."

  "I was about to present the award. I wanted to draw out the suspense."

  "And you went outside?"

  "Needed to take a smoke. And I wanted to give them one last chance to make their case."

  "So you all went outside?"

  "Right."

  "Then the thief had to be someone else. A customer, perhaps."

  "You'd think so. But the shop was empty when we stepped out. And we never left the sidewalk. No customers went in, no customers went out."

  His forehead creased. "Now I see the problem."

  "It's a regular--whaddayacallit--a locked room mystery."

  "Except the room wasn't locked."

  "Well, anyway."

  "Who first noticed the money was missing?"

  "I did,” Cora said. "I heard the phone ring, so I came in. The others followed a few moments after."

  He looked at Burris. "Including you?"

  "Naw. I finished my smoke."

  He tried to think of the most delicate way to say this. "If you came in after them..."

  "You think they did it?"

  "Not that I'd ever suggest that your employees would do anything dishonest…"

  "You think I'd call you in if I hadn't checked them out first? First thing I did. I searched all three of them."

  "You patted them down?"

  "Patted them down? Hell, I strip-searched 'em."

  "You're joking."

  "I wouldn't joke about four hundred dollars."

  "All of them?"

  "Well, 'cept Cora."

  "Thank goodness for--"

  "I had my wife do that."

  "That’s completely inappropriate. And probably illegal."

  "Don't be a weenie, Kincaid. They didn't gripe. They wanted to find the money as much as I did. But none of them had it. I’m certain of that. We searched every nook and cranny."

  “I don’t want to hear about it.”

  "So, super-sleuth, got any ideas?"

  "As a matter of fact, yes."

  Burris appeared surprised. "Really?"

  "Sure. It's simple."

  "Do tell."

  "The secret is to rule out everything that didn't happen. Once you've done that, there are usually only a few possibilities left. In fact, maybe only one."

  "Stop playin' Sherlock Holmes and tell me what happened."

  "It’s possible, for instance, that one of your employees took the money. But your strip search would seem to rule that out."

  "Tell me what I don't know."

  "And it’s possible that you pocketed the money yourself, or never laid it down in the first place, to get out of paying the Christmas bonus. But if that were so, you would never have called me in. You might've reported it to your insurance company, but you wouldn’t have called me."

  "True enough."

  "And if it wasn't you, and it wasn't your employees, it could only be a third party."

  "I told you already. No customers went in or out. I wouldn't pass up a chance to make a sale. It's like an instinct. If a customer had been here, I would've noticed."

  "Ah," he said, raising a finger, "but would you have noticed Santa Claus?"

  Burris appeared thunderstruck. Several seconds passed before he spoke. "Damnation..."

  "When I came back from the courthouse this afternoon, a soliciting Santa was on the sidewalk outside, which I thought a rather odd place for him to plant himself."

  "He's been there all day," Kovack commented.

  "So here's the Final Jeopardy question, folks: did he come into the store while you were out on the sidewalk chitchatting?"

  Burris didn't have an answer. He glanced at his employees, and each of them shrugged in turn. "I don't know. After a couple of hours of that infernal bell-ringing, it got so's we didn't notice him anymore."

  “There’s the solution to your mystery.”

  "Damnation," Burris muttered. "Swindled by Saint Nick."

  "Santa's probably strapped for cash this time of year. Must be a capital-intensive business. Buying toy parts. Running that sweatshop full of elves."

  "How are we gonna track him down?”

  "A description isn't going to do the police a lot of good, is it? Sorry, Burris, but I think you’re hosed. I can call the Salvation Army and some of the other charities. But I suspect your man wasn’t an officially sanctioned Santa."

  "I can't believe it."

  "Try not to let it get to you," he said, doing his best to simulate sympathy. "After all, your employees are the ones who really lost out. One of them, anyway."

  "Jiminy Christmas. I need a drink."

  "I have just the thing," he said, as he made his way to the door. "I'll send over some wassail. Lots of it."

  *****

  Four hours later, just after dark, Cora Anderson locked the door to the pawnshop, picked up her purse, a bag of groceries, and a beat-up Sony camcorder, then walked toward the parking lot. The snow fell heavily now. Several inches layered the ground. The wind swept cold, bitterly cold. She wrapped her coat tightly around herself, but it barely made a difference. The icy wind chilled her to the core and made her bones feel like brittle porcelain.

  She had barely moved three feet down the sidewalk when she saw him peering through the window at her.

  Kincaid. Damn. What was that busybody up to?

  He watched from inside the front window of his office. Why?

  She tried to rush by, pretending she didn't notice him, but the sudden burst of speed unbalanced her. She waved her arms, attempting to right herself, but her hands were full and there was nothing to grab. She crashed down onto the sidewalk, her backside impacting on the powder.

  Ben rushed out from his office. "Are you all right?"

  "I'll be fine."

  "Let me help you up."

  "I can do it," she protested, but after several failed attempts, it became clear that she could not. Without saying another word, he took her elbow and hoisted her gently to her feet.

  She recollected her belongings. "Well, I'll be on my way now."

  "You're sure you're all right?"

  "I suppose you're worried I might’ve broken a hip. That's what happens to us old folks, right? Every time we fall, we break a hip."

  "I just want to be sure you can make it home. This sidewalk is treacherous. So are the roads. Travel advisories are telling people to stay put.” His eyes fell on the camcorder she cradled. "Going to shoot some footage of the grandkids?"

  "I don't have any grandkids. Least none that I see."

  "Who are you spending Christmas with?"

  "I don't see that that's any of your business."

  "I just wondered. Since you've got the camcorder."

  "I'm taking it home to fix. That's what I do. I fix things. ‘Specially old stuff.” She held the black instrument up at eye level and pushed the buttons. Nothing happened. "It won't work, see?"

  “Let me help you to your car.”

  She shrugged him off. “I don’t need your help.”

  "All right. Be careful anyway."

  She brushed past him, stepping cautiously in the snow. "I can take care of myself."

  *****

  Cora spent twenty minutes starting her car. Engine was probably just cold, bitter cold. God knew she was. She eventually got the ancient Chevy running, although the engine made a gasping, wheezing, churning noise that could hardly be described as healthy.

  Well, she thought, that makes two of us.

  She took th
e Broken Arrow Expressway out of Tulsa. She lived in a ranch-style house out in the country between Broken Arrow and Claremore. She owned a good-size house, well worth the long drive to work. Or so it seemed, when Harvey was still alive. When Harvey was alive the house always seemed warm, cozy, just the right size. Now it seemed cold, empty, cavernous. She didn't like living there. It wasn't her home any more.

  Harvey.

  The memory splashed down like a tear in the ocean, sending out tiny ripples that stirred for an eternity.

  This would be her first Christmas without Harvey.

  She took Exit 118 off the highway and plowed through the unlit country roads. The snow banked higher here and the road was slicker. The back of her car weaved back and forth. She cut her speed in half to compensate. The only illumination came from her car’s flickering headlights. The sudden darkness seemed oppressive and terrifying and made driving a thousand times harder.

  Her hands clenched the steering wheel. Her eyes burned down on the road before her, as if tense, fixed concentration would keep her moving forward. The snow still fell and her wipers did a pathetic job of clearing it. Her visibility decreased with every mile.

  Why was she doing this? Why did she bother?

  She reduced her speed even more, moving ten miles an hour at best. Barely enough to push the Chevy through the snow. But she was afraid to go any faster.

  She had traveled more than fifteen miles at this snow-snail's pace when the Chevy finally quit. The churning, growling, grunting slowed, then stopped. The wheels spun futilely in a slushy rut. Finally the heap fell silent.

  She pounded her fist against the steering wheel. Please, not here. Not in the middle of nowhere, with no help in sight.

  She tried the ignition again and again, but it was useless. This car would not move.

  She zipped up her coat and cracked open the car door. The sudden wind thrust the door wide. The bracing wind chapped her face and sent an icy wake-up call to the marrow of her bones. Her lips parted and she gasped, literally gasped, trying to catch her breath in the brunt of the sudden blast.

  She stepped out of the car slowly and steadied herself, pressing one hand against the frame. Seemed pointless to open the hood. The one thing she had never learned to repair was an automobile. She walked toward the trunk, taking baby steps, letting her feet rest gently in the snow.

  All at once, her legs disappeared out from under her as if they had been cut off at the knee. She tumbled sideways, down into a ditch by the side of the road. She fell face forward into the wet white bramble.

  She lay there, not moving, for more than a minute, like a defrocked snow angel. How had this happened? Why was she doing this? Why did she bother?

  Eventually, she lifted her head out of the snow. She was freezing now. Her face felt icy and numb, though not so numb that she didn't realize she was cut and bleeding. I can't get up, she thought to herself. I can't go on. She pressed as hard as she could with her arms and legs, but nothing happened.

  A full five minutes passed before she rose to her hands and knees. She knew if she tried to stand she would only fall again, so she didn't try. She crawled. She crawled up the steep slope out of the ditch, then she crawled past the length of her car, her fingers blue and increasingly useless. Finally, when she was beside her car and could wrap her hand around the door handle, she painstakingly pulled herself to her feet, and waited.

  No cars came. This road was never heavily traveled. Only the local residents would use it, and most of them appeared to be following the traffic advisories and staying inside. The snow continued to fall, faster and faster with each passing minute, pelting her in the face till she was near insensible, till she could think of nothing but how cold she was, how much she wanted to be warm, to be anyplace, anything, anywhere else.

  Fifteen minutes passed before she saw another car. The bright headlights, suddenly illuminating the inky blackness, frightened her, made her cover her eyes. She thought of Bethlehem, of the glittering Christmas star. No, she told herself, this is something else, something far more earthly, far more useful.

  She shouted for help, but her delicate voice was drowned out by the howling wind. Taking careful baby steps, she moved to the side of her car, waving her arms for attention.

  "Help me!" she cried. "Please help me! I'm so cold. So cold..."

  The car whooshed past her. Its wheels flung icy sludge onto her face.

  "Please help...” Tears mixed with snow and sludge to form a crystalline layer on her face. The car did not stop. She watched as it moved steadily down the road, eventually disappearing into the darkness.

  Thirty minutes passed before she saw another car. She felt so cold she could barely move, could barely think. At first she was certain the car would stop, but it glided past her on the icy country road, weaving erratically on both sides as it passed. In a matter of seconds, it had disappeared into the dark and hazy horizon.

  Barely able to move, she clawed her way back into her car. She didn't think she would ever be warm again, couldn't even remember what it was like. She couldn’t wait any longer. She couldn’t last any longer.

  The realization came to her all at once, like a fully formed, completely reasoned plan. She couldn’t wait. Why should she? Who did she think she was waiting for? No one would miss her, no one except Armand, and who gave a damn about him?

  She opened the glove box.

  It was still there.

  Harvey's service revolver. It looked shiny and polished, despite the fact that no one had touched it in more than a year. She almost laughed, remembering how she had despised the thing, how they’d argued because she didn't want it around. He insisted they keep it for protection. In case of an emergency.

  This was the emergency.

  She took the gun into her trembling hands and examined it. She popped open the cartridge and saw that it was loaded. Good. No muss, no fuss. It would all be over in an instant.

  She wasn't quite sure how to go about it. In books, people always held the gun to their temples. But that seemed so risky, so uncertain.

  She opened her mouth and a gust of warm breath fogged the front windshield. She laid the cold barrel of the gun between her chapped lips and closed her eyes.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  Her eyes opened. What in God's name was that?

  Knock, knock, knock.

  Could it be--?

  Someone was tapping on the window. The glass was so obscured with snow and ice she couldn't see who it was.

  She hid the gun in the glove compartment. She knew the windows were frozen and would not roll down, so she opened the door a crack. The wind whistled into the car, bringing with it a soft voice. "Mrs. Anderson?"

  It was that lawyer, that baby-faced kid. Kincaid.

  "Can I help you? You seem to be stuck."

  Her lips and mouth were so frozen she found it difficult to speak. "Where did you come from?"

  "I just passed you. I didn't see you right away and it took me a while to stop my car. Sorry. I've been meaning to get new brake pads, but..." He paused. "Why don't you walk with me back to my car? The heater’s working."

  "I don't know," she said hesitantly. "I don’t like to be a bother. What are you doing out here?"

  "I think you know," he said quietly. "If you won't come out, could I come in and talk with you for a moment?"

  She shrugged. He walked to the other side of the car and, with some effort, got in on the passenger side.

  "You’ve been following me, haven't you?"

  He nodded. "Since you left the pawnshop. But about thirty seconds after we left the highway, my car slid off the side of the road. I had to dig out some boards and wedge them under the wheels before I could get out of the ditch. Took me a while to catch up to you. I was probably going too fast, which is why I couldn’t stop when I finally found you.”

  "What do you want?"

  "I wanted to give you a chance to return the money voluntarily."

  Her chapped lips parted wordle
ssly.

  "It would be better that way. Burris need never know. He'll get his money back, and that's all he cares about."

  "You said you thought it was Santa..."

  "I just said that to cool Burris off. Another klepto Kris Kringle? Perish the thought.”

  "But--"

  "I bumped into that Santa earlier today. He was seriously padded, and the padding was real. I could barely get through that malfunctioning front door. Santa would never have made it."

  "How did you know it was me?"

  "I didn't. But you were the first one to go back into the store. It had to be one of the employees, and since the money wasn't on their persons, it had to be stashed somewhere. I waited to see who left the shop carrying something that wasn't theirs. You left with a camcorder."

  "It didn't work," she said feebly.

  "And I suspect that's because you stuck the money in the battery case. Right?"

  "I had to pay Armand. He said if I didn't, he'd...hurt me."

  "Gambling debts?"

  She lowered her head. "I don't know how it started. After Harvey left me, I didn't know what to do with myself. I started going out to that Creek Nation bingo parlor, like some of the other old ladies."

  "I know the place.”

  "That led to betting on the horses, out at Blue Bonnet and Remington Park. Then football games. Interstate lotteries. People were always willing to take my money. Or loan me money. Up to a point."

  "And you reached the point."

  "I reached the breaking point. And I was going to be broken."

  "Surely you could've borrowed money. Friends? Family?"

  She peered at her rigid hands. "Harvey was my family. And my best friend. After he left...I was lost. I tried to fool myself, tried to pretend I could occupy myself with roof-fixing and lawn mower repair and never notice the difference. But I did. No matter what I tried, there was a gaping hole inside that nothing could fill. It's more than just being without a companion. Losing Harvey was like losing a limb."

  He hesitated. "Mrs. Anderson...I saw the gun."

  She looked away, but didn't speak.

  "Do you have anyone to spend Christmas with?"

  Her lips soundlessly formed the word no.