Dark Justice

by William Bernhardt

  Ben approached the county building housing his office from the rear, the back alley. He’d learned a couple of days before that the other door just outside his office led to the fire escape, which had an old-style metal ladder that descended to the ground. He’d also learned that the ladder could be easily hooked and climbed from the back alley, which allowed him to get in directly without passing through the gauntlet of secretaries waving phone messages and asking questions.

  It was twilight; the sun was setting and the street lamps were just beginning to flicker on. Magic Valley still had the old-style lamps—tall, wrought-iron posts on every street corner, like the ones in the small Oklahoma town where his maternal grandmother had lived. They had probably been gas lamps originally, in a previous generation. And someday they might be replaced with the high-powered fluorescent lighting one saw all over Tulsa—but he hoped not.

  Ben had almost reached the bottom rung of the ladder when he heard a soft but insistent hissing from somewhere in the muddled darkness surrounding him. “Psst.”

  He whirled around in all directions. He didn’t want to seem paranoid, but after the violence that had been visited on Green Rage earlier this day, almost anything seemed possible.

  “Who is it?” he said, trying to pierce the darkness. “Where are you?”

  He heard a scratching, a sound of movement, but no response.

  “I know you’re there,” Ben said loudly. He was trying to make a show of being brave, but a show was all it was. Inside, he was petrified. If he ran up against a pack of rowdies from Bunyan’s, he knew he wouldn’t stand a chance.

  “I’m dialing the sheriff on my cell phone,” Ben shouted, hoping someone would believe it. “They can be here in seconds.”

  He heard the scratching noise again, and a second later, in the dim light he saw a petite young woman crawl out from behind the Dumpster at the end of the alley. “Don’t call the police,” she whispered, brushing off the sleeves of her tweed coat. “I just want to talk.”

  Ben didn’t know what to do. She didn’t appear very threatening. “Who are you?” he asked. “What’s this all about?”

  “My name is Peggy Carter,” the woman answered. She stepped closer, till they were perhaps ten feet away from one another. “I work for Granny.”

  “In the D.A.’s office? What on earth do you want?”

  “I can explain.” She seemed extremely nervous. Ben was relieved to see he wasn’t the only one. “I just want to talk to you.”

  “If this is some intimidation play, something Granny’s cooked up to scare me off, you can quit before you start.”

  “No, that isn’t it. That isn’t it at all. I want to help you.”

  That took Ben by surprise. “You want to help … me?”

  “Well, perhaps I’m putting this the wrong way. It isn’t that I particularly want to help you. I just don’t feel I have any choice. I won’t let—” She shook her head. “Anyway, if Granny knew I was here …”

  Ben was beginning to get the drift. This was an unauthorized visit.

  He escorted Peggy up the rickety ladder and, after ensuring that the coast was clear, led her down the short corridor to his tiny office. He was glad to see it was unoccupied. Loving must be out investigating, he mused. And Christina is probably out with the sheriff getting an ice cream.

  “What is it you want to talk about?” Ben asked after she was situated in the only chair.

  She swallowed. “Alberto Vincenzo.”

  Ben shook his head. “Should I know that name?”

  “Not unless you’re big into the drug scene.”

  “Drugs?” He paused. “I remember Granny mentioned that Magic Valley was having a surge in drug use. Some kind of new designer drug.”

  “Right. We call it Venom. Twice as fast as crack, with twice the high. And twice as deadly.”

  “And this Vincenzo …”

  “We believe is peddling the stuff. We’ve been alerted by the DEA and local law enforcement that he’s in the area. And he’s known to have some big-time connections to the drug scene.”

  “California?”

  “And beyond. We’re talking South America here. Mucho big time.”

  Ben nodded. “Does this relate to the Dwayne Gardiner murder?”

  “Yes. Or no, but—” She frowned. “The truth is, I don’t know. But we’ve had reports that Gardiner was behaving erratically shortly before his murder—hyper, disoriented, spaced-out.”

  “Like maybe he was sampling the new designer drug.”

  “Maybe, yeah. And if so, this Vincenzo character might’ve known him.”

  “Or even had a motive to murder him.”

  “I think that’s pretty remote,” Peggy said. “But I can’t altogether eliminate the possibility. So I thought you should know.”

  “I’m appreciative, but why isn’t this coming through official channels?”

  Peggy glanced down at the floor. “Granny didn’t, um, feel production to the defense was warranted.”

  “Why am I not surprised? I’m filing a complaint with the judge.”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  “The prosecution has an obligation—”

  “You don’t have to lecture me about it. Why do you think I’m here?”

  Ben bit his lip.

  “But the fact is, Judge Pickens will take Granny’s side. Believe me, I’ve seen it before. Those two are thick as thieves. All you’ll do is get me fired. And I really can’t afford to be unemployed right now.”

  “I wouldn’t say who my informant was.”

  “She’ll know. It’s not like Kip or Troy ever had a thought of their own.”

  “I can’t believe the judge would ignore—”

  “That judge used to dandle Granny on his knee, as he’s fond of saying in open court. You’re not going to convince him she’s committed prosecutorial malpractice.”

  “Which is why she gets away with this kind of crap.”

  “True. But you have more important things to do than wasting time losing motions.”

  Ben didn’t like it, but he realized she was probably right. First things first. “Do you have anything else you can give me?”

  “I couldn’t get the file. Granny grabbed it the instant I raised the issue, and I haven’t seen it since. I have managed to liberate this photo.”

  She slid the standard Vincenzo mug shot across the table. Ben took one look, then winced. “Man, he is one seriously dangerous-looking man.”

  “Not someone you’d want to meet in a dark alley, huh?” Peggy said, grinning.

  Ben shook his head. Huge pumped-up arms, strapping shoulder muscles, an evil-looking scar across the forehead—wait a minute. He’d seen this man before. In the dead of night, when he was breaking into the bookstore …

  “I appreciate your coming forward,” Ben said, setting the photo down. “I know it probably wasn’t easy for you.”

  “I had to,” Peggy said quietly. “I couldn’t’ve lived with myself.”

  “What you’ve done makes a real difference. Every lead takes me another step forward. Who knows? This may be the piece that saves an innocent man.”

  “I don’t believe he is innocent.”

  “But—”

  “I’ve seen Granny’s case. I don’t see how it could possibly have been anyone else.”

  “Then why?”

  “The only reason I’m helping you is because, stupid as it seems, I still believe in playing by the rules. My mother taught me to play fair, and I try to do it whether I’m on the playground or in a court of law. The law says a defendant gets a chance to use all exculpatory evidence to his benefit, and that everything the prosecution has that might help must be produced. I’m just making sure the rules are followed.”

  “If you came with me to the judge—”

  Peggy cut him short with a wave of her hand. “No. That path would only lead me to the unemployment line. If not immediately, then in time. My little girl depends on me. I can’t
let her down.”

  “Thank you,” Ben said. He pressed her hand. “If there’s anything else you can tell me …”

  She shook her head. “Well, this much I can tell you: I’ve seen the case, and I know Granny. I know what she’s planning. I don’t think you have any idea what you’re up against.” She passed hurriedly through the office door, shaking her head. “I don’t think you have any idea.”

  Chapter 25

  LOVING SIGNALED THE BARMAID to bring him another Moosehead. The short round woman nodded, and a few seconds later a green stub-necked bottle with the cap popped appeared on the table before him.

  He smiled, then tossed a fiver onto her tray. He’d been at Bunyan’s for over an hour now, acting casual, looking for an opportunity to ingratiate himself with some of the local loggers. So far no one had taken the bait. Not that they hadn’t noticed him; he saw the furtive looks, the quick sidelong glances. Manly men trying to decide whether he was neutral, one of them, or one of the tree huggers. Evidently they hadn’t made up their minds; no one had come near him.

  But it was almost eleven now and the place was filling up. He had deliberately sat at a table for four even though he was alone. The three empty chairs at his table were now the only empty seats in the bar. Surely something would have to break soon.

  He hoped so, because in the meantime he was dying of boredom. Appearances to the contrary, this really wasn’t his kind of place. He wasn’t quite as black and white as everyone in the law office thought he was. Granted, his idea of a good time wasn’t a night at the opera or listening to some of those endless folk songs the Skipper favored. But he also didn’t much care for drinking his life away at some sleazy hole-in-the-wall. He liked to meet people, talk to them, swap ideas. And a good Arnold Schwarzenegger flick from time to time was okay, too.

  He gazed up through the smoke at the neon shrine to Paul Bunyan. Obviously the patron saint of the bar, if not the whole community. A manly man if ever there was one. Except why, Loving wondered, if he was such a manly man, was there no Mrs. Bunyan? Or even a willing woman back at the logging camp? Paul was never seen with anyone except that big blue ox.

  Loving shook his head. Now that was a sobering thought.

  He was distracted from his reverie by the sound of the front door opening. Perfect—a group of three. And unless he misjudged, they were all loggers.

  He tried not to watch them as the men scouted the bar and determined what he already knew—that there were no vacant seats except the ones at his table. He waited, absentmindedly admiring the cut of Paul Bunyan’s jib, as he sensed one of the men coming closer.

  “You using these chairs?”

  Loving looked up abruptly, as if he had been deep in some profound thought. “What? Oh, no. Help yourselves.”

  The three men took the vacant seats and ordered drinks. One of them was older than the rest; flecks of gray were apparent in his hairline, particularly around the temples. The other two Loving guessed were in their early thirties, not much younger than Loving himself.

  Loving didn’t push it. He spent the first ten minutes or so gazing off into space, paying no attention as the three buddies chatted among themselves. They didn’t introduce themselves, and he never caught their names, so he assigned names to them—Huey, Dewey, and Louie. Louie was the senior member of the troupe.

  Only after a significant time had passed did Loving subtly turn his attention in their direction. He could tell their conversation (mostly about sports teams they wanted to win and women they’d like to boink) was running out of steam. These men probably came to this place every other night; they didn’t have much to say to one another anymore.

  Loving inclined his head toward the man closest to him—Louie. “Any of you boys have a dog?”

  They glanced among themselves, as if not sure which should answer first. One of the younger ones—Huey—nodded noncommittally. “Sure. Bird dog.”

  “Irish setter,” offered Dewey.

  The senior member of the team jumped in. “Three Rottweilers. Why?”

  Loving shrugged. “Oh, no reason. Got me a damned fine dog. Great Dane I call Rex. Good as any person I’ve ever known. Better’n most. I’ve been on the road for three weeks now and—well, hell. I miss my dog.”

  Huey smiled. “Oh, sure. That’s rough. Three weeks. Hell of a long time to be apart.”

  “Got a wife?” Louie asked.

  “Oh yeah,” Loving answered. “But I miss my dog.”

  There were a few grins, and a few moments later, they were all laughing. Politics and women made for risky conversation starters, Loving thought. But dogs worked every time. “You boys from around here?”

  Huey nodded. “Lived here all my life. You?”

  Loving knew there was no point trying to bluff a man who’d lived in this tiny burg forever. “Nah. Just passing through.”

  Huey nodded. Loving could sense the prickles of suspicion rising. “We don’t get that many strangers through here. ’Cept the ones we don’t want. What’s your line of work?”

  “Trucker,” Loving grunted. He thought that would sound convincing; he’d done it for about five years, after all, before he met the Skipper. “Got a load of cranberries. Taking it to market in California.”

  “Oh,” Huey said. Loving could sense him relaxing. Being a trucker was okay. Not as good as being a logger, but acceptable.

  Huey glanced at his nearest buddy. “He’s a trucker.”

  “I heard,” Dewey said. “I’m excited. Gonna be here long?”

  “Nah. Just putting up for the night. I was going to drive straight through, but—I dunno. I got curious.”

  “Curious?” Dewey said. “About Magic Valley?”

  “Oh yeah. Been a lotta talk about this little town.”

  He detected a narrowing in Louie’s eyes. “Talk? What kind of talk?”

  “ ’Bout that dude who got himself killed.”

  Huey nodded. “Dwayne.”

  Loving acted surprised. “You knew him?”

  “Oh, yeah. We all knew him.”

  “Really? Damn.” Loving adjusted his chair slightly. “What happened to him?”

  “Goddamn tree huggers, that’s what happened to him.”

  “Tree huggers?” He knew the men were watching him, measuring his reaction.

  “Eco-warriors, they call themselves. People who love Mother Nature but will shoot their fellow man dead in his tracks.”

  “I hate that,” Loving said, careful not to overplay his hand. “People should come first, you know?”

  “Yeah, I know.” Huey grimaced. “But the guy who plugged Dwayne, he didn’t know.”

  “I heard the guy got burned up. Like, while he was still alive.”

  Dewey nodded his head grimly. “Poor Dwayne. Poor, poor Dwayne.”

  “Damn. That’s rough. The guy have a wife? Kids?”

  “Yeah. He had a little boy. And … Lu Ann.” A look passed from Dewey to both of the other men.

  “Lu Ann?” Loving tried not to seem too eager, even though he was finally moving the conversation to a topic the Skipper had particularly wanted him to investigate. “That his wife?”

  Dewey nodded.

  “Man, that’s sad. She must be pretty torn up.”

  Another look passed among the three men. “You can check that out for yourself. She’s sitting in the booth behind you.”

  Loving looked surprised, and the surprise was genuine. Subtly, trying not to attract attention, he turned till he faced the row of booths in the back.

  He knew who they had to be talking about. She had long, wild auburn hair and was dressed in a tube top and tight white jeans. She wasn’t crying, but the man she was with nonetheless appeared to be offering his comfort.

  “Shouldn’t she be, like … in mourning or something?” Loving asked.

  “Lu Ann isn’t the mourning type,” Louie said—another curt pronouncement of wisdom from the senior team member. “As you can see, she has a busy social calendar.”


  Loving looked away. “Even before her hubby got charbroiled?”

  “Long before. It was what you’d call a troubled marriage. Because she was what you’d call trouble.”

  She was what he’d call trailer trash, Loving thought. Or out here, maybe it should be treetop trash. “She have anyone special?”

  Huey shrugged. “From time to time. Till the next one came along.”

  Loving watched surreptitiously as Lu Ann’s escort’s hands groped for the most accommodating parts of her anatomy. “Who’s she with now?”

  “Fella called Doug Curtis.”

  “He a logger?”

  “Yeah. Well, not exactly.” Huey corrected himself. “Used to log. Now I understand he works for a man called Slade.”

  Is that a fact? Loving thought.

  “Why are you so interested in Lu Ann, anyway?” Dewey asked. A sharp line formed across his forehead.

  “Oh, I’m not really.” Loving turned quickly. Obviously, it was time to cool it. “Or maybe just a little. Like any other rubbernecker.”

  “Dwayne’d been actin’ some kind of funny for several weeks, up until the burnin.’ That woman had him on the ropes.” Louie shook his head. “Well, less said about that the better.”

  “Agreed,” Loving replied. He knew he couldn’t push any harder without arousing suspicions. “You boys ready for another round?”

  A quick glance, a shrug, a why not?, and another round was ordered. And Loving knew that once he paid the tab, their newfound friendship would be sealed.

  An hour and a half later, Loving was buying his sixth round, and everyone at the table was beginning to act more than a little toasted—including himself. Truth was, he didn’t drink that much anymore; he was getting too old for that nonsense, and besides, it was making him fat. He wasn’t used to this level of consumption and it was making him woozy.

  “Whad I don’t unnerstand is how these tree huggers get away with it,” Loving said. The word slurring was a nice touch, he thought, and at the moment it didn’t require any acting. “I’d think you boys’d pound ’em into pulp.”

  “They hide,” Huey said. He was leaning slant-wise on one elbow, commiserating. “They strike when no one’s lookin’, then run away and hide.”