Naked Justice bk-6

by William Bernhardt

  “He was surprised?”

  “No. I’ve seen Bullock surprised before, and that wasn’t it. Oh, it was a good fake, but it didn’t fool me. He might’ve been surprised that I already found out, but he wasn’t surprised to hear that the crime scene was corrupted.”

  “So why the big stall?”

  “The less time we have to examine the evidence, the less time we’ll have to determine the extent of the corruption. He doesn’t want to fight any more evidentiary motions than necessary.” He turned back toward Loving. “How’s your snooping on the city council going?”

  Loving frowned. “Slow. I made a list, talked to some of them. These are high-profile respectable citizen types, natch. No one volunteered that they’d hired a hit man.”

  “Well, that’s no surprise.”

  “I made some notes. Jones said he’d type them up.”

  “Where is Jones, anyway?” Ben turned around. Jones was standing over his desk beside the phone. He seemed stricken. The blood had drained out of his face.

  “Jones?” Ben walked beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

  It took Jones more than a moment before he could respond. “I … just …” He shook his head, licked his lips. “I just got back from lunch.” His eyes drifted down toward the answering machine. “Thought I’d listen to the phone messages.”

  Ben’s brow creased with concern. “And?”

  His voice trembled a bit as he spoke. He was obviously shaken. “Listen.”

  Jones turned the volume up to the highest setting. He pushed the Messages button. After a loud beep, they all heard the same two words repeated in a hushed, guttural monotone.

  “Sick heart. Sick heart. Sick heart. Sick heart. Sick heart.”

  The message was repeated again and again until the caller finally hung up. A harsh beep signaled the end.

  “That’s … odd.” Ben said quietly.

  “That would be one word for it,” Jones murmured.

  “It must be the same creep,” Ben said. “The same nut who shut down your computer. But why? What’s the point? At least the computer trick interfered with our investigation. One message is hardly going to tie up the phone line.”

  Loving shook his head. “He didn’t do this to tie up the phone, Skipper. He did this to scare the hell out of you. This is a threat.”

  “Against Barrett?”

  “No way. It ain’t that hard to get messages into the jailhouse. If he’d wanted it to go to Barrett, he would’ve sent it to Barrett.” He turned and faced Ben. “This was for you.”

  Chapter 23

  DEANNA RUMMAGED THROUGH THE cluttered collection of teenage effluvia on the floor of Martha’s closet. She’d already searched her dresser, her desk, and the pockets of her dirty clothes. She found Martha’s diary, too, but so far she’d managed to resist that temptation. She had a hunch that resolution would not last long, however. Especially if she didn’t find what she was looking for.

  Martha had been given permission to go to the movies—her first time out of the house, other than for school, since their big blowout over Buck. Martha had actually seemed slightly grateful, nice even, although perhaps she was just so relieved to be released from incarceration that she was willing to be kind even to the woman who had “destroyed the only love she ever knew.” Deanna had dropped her at the Eton Square Cineplex, then returned home to begin the search.

  The pile on the closet floor was a mishmash of dirty and clean clothes, old book reports, posters, makeup, shoes, top-secret notes, all piled together like autumn leaves on the carpet. Deanna sifted through it quickly; indeed, it was not long at all before she had found what she wanted.

  A red tank top.

  Deanna had been almost certain Martha had one, but she wanted to be sure. This was important, after all.

  She had thought she might find the blue headband as well, but realistically, that was probably impossible, because it was probably on Martha’s head. It always was. She wore it everywhere.

  Deanna removed the newspaper article from her back pocket and carefully unfolded it. She reread the description given by one of Barrett’s neighbors of the strangers he had seen lurking in the neighborhood prior to the murder. Dark hair, skinny, shaggy, with a goatee and green fatigues. That fit Buck to a tee. And the girl with him? Short hair, five foot two or three, red tank top, blue headband.

  Martha.

  The only part of the description she had been remotely unsure about was the tank top, and now she had confirmed it.

  Could it really have been Martha? Deanna knew the poor girl thought she was in love, and would probably have been easily influenced by Buck, thug that he was. But to do something like this? To have stalked the mayor and his family? What if the police were wrong? What if Mayor Barrett didn’t kill his family? What if—

  She pressed her fingers against her mouth. She just couldn’t think about it. Couldn’t even imagine it. Not her Martha. Not her!

  Her eyes returned unbidden to the newspaper article. Something about it clicked in her memory. Her eyes scanned the neighbor’s description. He also recalled that on at least one occasion the man had been carrying a black bag. Bigger than a handbag, smaller than a suitcase. Maybe a gym bag.

  The suggestion, of course, was that the bag might have contained some kind of weapon.

  And the reason it had clicked in Deanna’s memory was that she had seen that bag somewhere in this room.

  Deanna brushed the dirty clothes off her lap and stood up. It wasn’t in the closet. The desk didn’t check out, so she tried the dresser. My God, my God, my God. She could feel the panic rising, her blood rushing to her head. What if Martha was involved with some gangster? What if he carried a gun?

  What if the gun was hidden in Martha’s room?

  She was fumbling now, rushing so fast and with such urgency that she was spilling things, knocking them over. She would never be able to put this back together again. Martha would know she had been searched, that her privacy had been invaded.

  Didn’t matter. This was more important.

  She found the bag under Martha’s bed, tucked away in the far corner. Its presence alone was an infraction of the house rules; Deanna had ordered the return or disposal of all Buck-related items. This meant she was keeping something of his that she planned to return or he planned to return for later.

  Over my dead body. Deanna pulled the bag out from under the bed, unzipped the top flap, and looked inside.

  It was not a gun or any other kind of weapon, at least not in the conventional sense. It was a camera.

  Deanna reached for it, then stopped herself. God, maybe I shouldn’t put my fingerprints on this. She was embarrassed. Starting to think like a character in a dimestore detective novel. Still …

  She grabbed a Kleenex from the bathroom, then picked up the camera, careful not to actually touch it. It was a .35-millimeter camera—high quality, from the looks of it. Not a snapshot camera. Too complicated, too many dials. This was for someone who was serious about it.

  What was Buck doing with the camera? Did it involve Wallace Barrett? Did it involve Martha? Was he part of some conspiracy? Martha had never mentioned that Buck was a photographer, much less that he’d let her borrow his camera. Was he taking … pictures of Martha? Pictures they wouldn’t want her mother to see?

  Enough. Her head was spinning with fear of possibilities. She was sick of speculation. It was time to know.

  She advanced the film in the camera. Easy—there were only a few more shots left. She rewound it, then removed the film cartridge. She’d just get this developed. And then she’d see …

  She clenched her fist around the film. Whatever there was to see.

  Chapter 24

  BEN ASKED CHRISTINA TO come to his apartment that night so they could coordinate their efforts and make the most of the rapidly diminishing days before trial. Christina stopped at Ri Le’s for takeout. Cashew Chicken Delight was a favorite indulgence, but one reserved for ti
mes of special need.

  After dinner, Joni returned to her apartment. Ben played with Joey for a while, tried unsuccessfully to get a reaction out of him, then gave him his bath and got him ready for bed. He turned out the overhead light, turned on the Goodnight Moon night-light, flipped on the baby monitor, and nestled down in the rocking chair with pajamaed Joey in his arms.

  He gave Joey a bottle of apple juice and began to rock. Technically Joey was probably too old to still be drinking from a bottle, but it seemed to comfort him. He drank from a cup during the day, but any variation in the bedroom routine only made the process more difficult than it already was.

  “I know you, I waltzed with you once upon a dream …” Ben began his usual bedtime routine. Joey had tired of nursery rhymes early, but fortunately, Ben’s musical repertoire was vast. They had spent the first three months together singing nothing but the theme song from the Flintstones. Now they had graduated to a series of Disney favorites. Ben liked to start with “Once Upon a Dream,” from Sleeping Beauty, since the music was Tchaikovsky’s and Ben could play it on the piano. Then they moved to Cinderella—“A Dream Is a Wish Your Heart Makes” and “So This Is Love.”

  Joey was restless tonight. He squirmed in Ben’s arms, as if trying to get away. He twisted and shoved and tried to sit up.

  “Joey, please go to sleep.”

  Ben gently pushed him back into his arms. Joey immediately pushed himself back up.

  “C’mon, Joey. It’s bedtime. Sleep.”

  Joey did not care to sleep. He twisted around, pulling one arm out of his pajamas.

  “Joey, stop that. It’s bedtime.”

  Joey began chattering. Ga-ga-ga-ga and ka-ka-ka-ka. Gurgling and drooling and humming.

  “Joey, Uncle Ben has work to do tonight.”

  Joey was on the floor now, crawling toward his toys.

  “Joey! Tonight I don’t have time to play Pooh Bear.”

  Joey stopped momentarily on hearing the familiar words. Then he continued crawling.

  “I’m serious, Joey. I don’t have time.” He tried to scoop Joey up; instantly Joey began to wail at the top of his lungs.

  “All right! All right, already! We’ll play Pooh Bear.”

  Joey turned his head slightly. One could almost imagine that he was considering the proposition.

  Ben scooped him back into his lap, sat in the chair, and began singing. “Winnie the Pooh—Pooh!” On the second Pooh, he poked Joey in the tummy. Joey stopped crying. “Winnie the Pooh—Pooh!” Ben poked him again. “Chubby little cubby …” Ben continued singing the song, stopping for a poke and a tickle on every “Pooh!” By the end, Joey’s displeasure had disappeared. Even if he didn’t make direct eye contact with Ben, he seemed much happier.

  “All right, Joey, this time you poke me.” Ben pulled up his shirt, exposing his belly button. He sang the song again, pausing after the first Pooh.

  Joey hesitated, still not looking directly at Ben. Then his eyes turned and he reached out and jabbed Ben in the stomach. Hard.

  “Oof!” Ben laughed. He had to. He tried a few more verses, and with each Pooh, Joey supplied a strong and hardy poke, each time a little quicker. They had played out this routine several nights in a row now, and it seemed to get better each time. Although Joey never spoke and was still pretty much in his own world, this was as engaged as he had ever become with Ben.

  After several more pokes, the routine ended. “All right now, let’s calm down. It’s bedtime, you know.”

  This time Joey seemed willing to accept the proposition that the day was at an end. He nestled into Ben’s arms and closed his eyes.

  “Do you know you’re the sweetest widdle boy in the whole wide world? Yes, you are!” Ben rubbed his nose against Joey’s. “You are the sweetest, smartest boy in the world, Joey. I love you so much!”

  Joey smiled, turned onto his side. In a few minutes, Ben heard the soft rhythmic breathing that told him the child was finally asleep. He tiptoed over to the crib and gently laid him down.

  Ben pulled the bedroom door to and joined Christina in the living room. “What are you up to?” he asked.

  “Not much. Reading about our esteemed city council. Come here a sec.”

  Ben’s eyebrows knitted. “Why?”

  “Don’t ask questions. Just come.”

  Ben walked over to the sofa. As soon as he reached Christina, she yanked up his shirt, poked him in the stomach, and chirped, “Pooh!”

  Ben’s face flushed a bright crimson. “Ha-ha.”

  Christina rolled over on her side laughing. Ben looked annoyed and started to walk away.

  “Wait!” she said. “I want to do the whole song!”

  “Fat chance.”

  “Aw, Ben, don’t be a spoilsport.” She segued into baby talk. “You know I think you’re the sweetest widdle boy in the whole wide world.”

  “You’re a laugh riot, Christina.” Ben opened his briefcase and removed his files. “I can’t believe you were spying on us. At bedtime, no less.”

  “I was not spying. I sat here the whole time.”

  “Then how—”

  Christina pointed to the white plastic receiver on the coffee table. “You turned on the baby monitor, remember?”

  Ben whipped open his files. “I hate that thing.”

  Christina pressed her hands against her chest in mock offendedness. “How could you? I gave it to you.”

  “Yes, and if I’d known you were going to use it for covert surveillance, I would’ve given it back. In fact, I think I will.” He grabbed the baby monitor and tossed it to her. “Here. Take it with you when you leave. The transmitter, too.

  “Ben, it’s a safety device. So you can hear Joey crying in the night.”

  “Are you kidding? He sleeps ten feet from where I do and he has lungs like a whale. I’ve never had the slightest trouble hearing him cry.”

  Christina was still laughing. “Whatever you say. After all, you’re my pwe-cious, pwecious widdle baby boy!”

  Ben threw his files down on the floor. “Why do I get the distinct impression we are not going to get any work done tonight?”

  Christina gasped for breath. “Because you’re the sweetest, smartest boy—”

  “Stop already!”

  She smiled. “Next to Joey, of course.”

  Chapter 25

  THE NEXT MORNING, CHRISTINA led Ben and Loving through the confusing city hall building to the large room in which the city council held its meetings. At the front of the room, the members of the city council were seated behind a table and arranged in a semicircle, with the current chairperson in the center. Microphones amplified their comments and conveyed them throughout the room, as well as over the airwaves of the local cable channel that broadcast the meetings.

  They took seats near the back of the gallery. Christina had brought the file she and Jones had assembled with background information on the current city council members.

  Christina passed the briefs to Ben. “Since 1989, each member of the council has been elected by a separate Tulsa district. The city government was restructured that year. You may have heard something about it, even though I know you only take the paper so you can tell when movies start.”

  “I recall overhearing some discussion at the time,” Ben said dryly.

  “The restructuring came as the result of a thirty-five-year battle, not to mention an NAACP lawsuit. Voters finally approved a change most comparably sized cities had made years before. It was a major brouhaha. Under the old city commission system, the majority of the councilpersons came from affluent white south Tulsa. Now, under the mayor-council system, each equally apportioned city district elects its own representative to the council. This was supposed to make city government more representative and efficient and responsive, although as a practical matter, it hasn’t made a heck of a lot of difference.”

  “Who are these people?” Ben asked, scanning the semicircle before him. “I expected the most prominent citizens in the city.
The movers and the shakers.”

  “The movers and shakers are out moving and shaking. City council is for politicians.”

  “I don’t see any faces I recognize.”

  “Yeah. Of course you probably wouldn’t recognize Hillary Clinton if she was up there. But you’re right; these are not, with a few exceptions, the rich and famous. Most were single-issue candidates with a particular political axe to grind. Something that got them elected, or something that made them want to run in the first place. After all, would you want to be on the city council?”

  “Well … no.”

  “Of course not. Who would? It’s a lot of work for little gratitude or satisfaction. You’ve got the press watching you all the time, only reporting when you do something wrong or they uncover some bête noire or lurid secret from your past. And the city council level is too small potato to attract any of the— what’s the right word?—benefits that accrue to politicians at a higher level.”

  “Someone must be running. I see bodies up there.”

  “Right. The zealots, the extremists, one-issue wonders. Socially accepted monomaniacs.” Christina pointed toward the stage. “See the guy on the extreme left?”

  Ben noted the tall man with the shaggy hair and full beard. He wore a T-shirt and jeans with a hole over one knee. “The one who looks sort of like Grizzly Adams?”

  “Oui.”

  “What’s his issue? Bad hygiene?”

  “No. The environment, natch. Brian Erickson. Deep south district. The wetlands that are being paved over for the turnpike extension.”

  “Let me guess. He’s against it.”

  “Very insightful.”

  Ben’s eyes shifted over a seat to a medium-size, middle-aged black woman. She was dressed in professional garb and carried herself with a serious, distinguished air. “Who’s she?”

  “Loretta Walker,” Christina explained. “Activist lawyer. North Side district. Grew up in a poor family of eleven. First member of her family to go to college. Graduated Order of the Coif from OU law school.”

  “And her cause?”

  “What do you expect? She wants the North Side to look more like the South Side.”