Cruel Justice

by William Bernhardt

  Ben opened the front door. Mrs. Marmelstein was wearing a green print dress with a lace collar. Her silver-gray hair was tied back in a bun.

  She looked at him sternly. “Benjamin Kincaid.”

  “That’s me,” Ben said amiably.

  She wagged her head back and forth. “Ben-ja-min Kin-caid.”

  “Is there going to be more to this conversation? You know, it is rather early. …”

  She made a tsking noise. “Did you think I wouldn’t hear?”

  “Ah … hear what?”

  “Benjamin, I’m sixty-nine years old. I know what a baby sounds like.”

  “Oh, the baby!” His voice dropped to a whisper. “That reminds me, could you talk a little softer?”

  “And what may I ask would you be doing with a baby?”

  “Well, that’s kind of complicated. …”

  “No doubt.” She folded her arms disapprovingly. “You know, Ben, I’ve been very liberal with you. I think we both know I’ve … shall we say … relaxed my standards where you’re concerned. I’ve allowed your police friends to tromp through my house on several occasions. And I’ve permitted unchaperoned visitation by that … redhead.”

  Ben suppressed a smile. He wasn’t sure if Mrs. Marmelstein disapproved of Christina because she was a single working woman, because she dropped by Ben’s place at all hours of the day and night, or simply because she was a redhead. “You’ve been very generous to me, Mrs. Marmelstein. No two ways about it.”

  “Well, of course, you’ve helped me here and there as well.” Here and there wasn’t the half of it. Since he had moved in, Ben had taken over the management of her beleaguered finances, which typically involved cooling off creditors (a task with which Ben was singularly familiar), juggling bills, and occasionally slipping a few bucks of his own money into her petty-cash envelope. Unfortunately, even though Ben knew Mrs. Marmelstein wasn’t rich anymore, Mrs. Marmelstein hadn’t quite figured it out yet. “And I have always been grateful for your assistance. But now I simply must draw the line.”

  “At what?”

  “At …” Her head trembled. “Babies.”

  “You don’t allow babies? The Singletons have two!”

  “Yes, but that’s different, isn’t it?” She leaned forward. “Benjamin Kincaid, we both know that you are not married!”

  The corners of Ben’s mouth slowly turned up. “Mrs. Marmelstein, allow me to explain—”

  She raised a hand. “That’s hardly necessary. I know how babies come into the world. And I know boys will be boys. But I expected a bit more discretion from you.”

  “Really, Mrs. Marmelstein, it isn’t at all—”

  “Even if such an … accident had to occur, you should have done the decent thing and married the poor girl. It was that redhead, wasn’t it?”

  “Mrs. Marmelstein, Christina and I are just good friends and coworkers. The baby belongs to my sister, Julia. Joey’s my nephew.”

  “He’s—” Her expression could not have been much different if she’d been hit by a truck. “Oh. Well, that changes things, doesn’t it?” She shuffled her hands awkwardly. “Why are you keeping the baby?”

  “I’m not entirely clear on that myself. …”

  “How long will he be staying?”

  “I’m not sure. It may be a while.”

  Mrs. Marmelstein frowned. “Well, if he’ll be here longer than a week, let me know. There’ll have to be a rent adjustment, you know.”

  “Naturally.”

  Her expression seemed to soften. “If you have time, you might stop by my room later. After you get dressed, of course. I’ve made a new fruitcake.”

  “Ah, well, I’m actually very busy today—”

  “Speaking of that baby, I think I hear him.”

  Ben held his breath in suspense. Sure enough, the plaintive wail with which he had become so familiar during the night was rattling the walls. “Right you are.” He sighed. “By the way, Mrs. Marmelstein, I don’t suppose you know how to change a diaper. …”

  Mere seconds after Christina pushed the door buzzer, Ben flung it open, his face marked by panic and desperation.

  “Do you know what butt is?” he asked urgently.

  Christina blinked. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Butt. Butt!” Ben waved his arms wildly in the air.

  “I’m afraid I don’t quite follow. …”

  “He keeps saying butt.”

  “Who does?”

  “Joey! Who else? I think it’s the only word he knows!”

  “That seems unlikely. …”

  “He keeps looking at me like I’m supposed to do something, like I’m the stupidest uncle on earth because I don’t know what butt is. He wants something, but I don’t know what it is. You wouldn’t believe some of the things I tried.”

  “I don’t want to hear about it.”

  Christina looked past Ben into the front room. Joey was trying to pull himself up on the side of the laundry basket. He was indeed chirping the same word over and over again. “It does sound like butt,” she admitted, “but unless Julia has an unusually perverse sense of humor, it must be something else.”

  She began rummaging through Joey’s enormous diaper bag. “Aha!” she cried a moment later. “Bert!”

  “Bert?”

  She withdrew a small stuffed doll from the bag. It was a longish, yellow, vaguely humanoid creature.

  “What is that?” Ben asked.

  “It’s Bert, you ninny.”

  “And what is Bert, some sort of mutant?”

  “He’s a Muppet, you ding-a-ling.” She put the doll in Joey’s little hands. He hugged the doll under his chin and quietly sat down in the basket.

  Christina reached back into the diaper bag and pulled out a shorter, rounder, orange-faced doll. “This is Ernie.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “How can I tell? He just … is. I can’t believe you don’t know them. These characters are world-famous. Didn’t you ever watch Sesame Street?”

  “No.”

  Christina stared at him. “How did you learn the alphabet?”

  “Actually, I had a private tutor.”

  She slapped her forehead. “God save me from rich kids.”

  With Christina’s assistance, Ben changed Joey’s diaper (after being instructed that the end with the Sesame Street characters goes on top), filled a bottle, warmed it so it was not too hot and not too cold, and gave Joey his morning feeding. For such a tiny slip of a thing, he could pack away a lot of formula.

  While Joey chowed down, Ben told Christina about the videotape.

  “Sounds like we’d best get started tout de suite,” she said. That was Christina—always ready to take on the least desirable chore and to do whatever was required. Ben only hoped that continued to prove true today. “Have you got assignments ready?”

  “Well … I’ll have Loving start investigating the country club. All the members, all the staff. And Jones should dig up all the written accounts of the murder from ten years ago. Any additional information would be welcome, especially any information he can find about the victim. I’m going to check out the scene of the crime. But don’t tell Jones that. He’ll want to come.”

  Christina nodded. “What should I do?”

  “Well … to tell you the truth … I need you to look after the baby.”

  “What?” Christina rose to her feet. “How dare you!”

  “Christina, someone has to—”

  “Someone, yes. Do I look like an au pair? This is so sexist.”

  “You know me better than that. But you’re the only person in the office who knows anything about babies.”

  “I still don’t see why—”

  “What else can I do? Leave the baby with Jones?”

  Christina frowned.

  “Loving?”

  Christina blanched. “All right already. I’ll look after the baby. But not forever.”

  “Understood. Just until I can make other arrangem
ents. I’ll call some child-care centers. Maybe they can rent me a nanny.”

  “You can’t afford them,” Christina replied succinctly.

  “I’ll see what I can do, anyway.” He pulled out a chair. “Make yourself at home. Do anything, eat anything. Pretend it’s your place.”

  “I may take you up on that. I overslept and didn’t get a chance to shower.” She ran her fingers through her tangled red hair. “But tell your concierge to stop giving me those looks every time I come up the stairs.”

  “Mrs. Marmelstein gives you looks?” Ben asked innocently.

  “Yes, she does. I feel like a tainted woman.”

  “I’ll talk to her. Thanks, Christina. I really appreciate this.”

  “Like I had any choice,” she muttered. “Either I spend all day with the baby, or I leave him in the clutches of someone who doesn’t know Bert from Ernie.” She pulled out a clean diaper. “Such a life I lead.”

  17

  THE UTICA GREENS COUNTRY Club was without question Tulsa’s oldest, most famous, most prestigious, and most exclusive playground for the rich and pampered. Built on land formerly owned by the Phillips family, it occupied two city blocks. It was conveniently located in the ritziest part of town, less than a mile from the Utica Square shopping emporium and Philbrook, the former Phillips mansion, now converted to a sprawling museum and cultural center.

  As soon as he drove up to the front guardhouse in his beat-up Accord, Ben knew he was going to have problems. The paint had chipped and rusted in so many places he had long since stopped worrying about it, and the engine made a loud churning noise all the time. Well, not all the time. Only when the wheels moved. Despite several repair attempts, the muffler still hung low and tended to scrape the pavement every time he hit a bump. To be fair, the Accord had been a great car in its day, but its day had ended roughly about a hundred and fifty thousand miles ago.

  The security man in the guardhouse stared at Ben as if he might have dynamite strapped to his chest. Eventually, after giving the guard everything from his Tulsa County Bar number to his Book-of-the-Month Club membership card, he was grudgingly admitted onto the club grounds.

  The road wove its way through the gentle hills separating the thirteenth and eighteenth greens. Ben couldn’t believe anyone would be playing golf in this sweltering heat, but there they were, in their pastel cotton shirts and spiffy checkered caps. He watched an all-male foursome play through; they looked hot. Once again, Ben was grateful that he had never taken the game up, despite the fact that one is never really taken seriously as a Tulsa lawyer until one has played Utica Greens with a one-digit handicap.

  Ben was not looking forward to this visit. All this privileged, exclusionary, keep-them-away-from-us stuff struck a little too close to home. He’d grown up, after all, in the ultrarich Nichols Hills, which some people considered an overgrown residential country club. When he was young, Ben’s father used to drag him to a place not unlike this on a regular basis so he could “get out in the sun and get some exercise.” As Ben drove through the club grounds a cascade of unpleasant memories returned to him. The golf shoes with the stupid floppy ties, the afternoon martinis, the chatter about “keeping the country pure.”

  Like it or not, though, this was the scene of the crime. Moreover, according to the file, only four men, the four members of the country club’s controlling board, had keys to the caddyshack where Maria Alvarez was murdered. The shack should have been locked that late at night. Therefore, once you eliminated Leeman as a suspect, the question of who could have killed Maria Alvarez necessarily led to the question of access—who could’ve gotten in there?

  Inside the main building, Ben found the office of the club’s chairman of the board, Ronald Pearson. As he learned from the sign on the man’s desk, Pearson worked under the title of CAPTAIN PEARSON, although somehow Ben doubted this represented a military rank.

  Ben was lucky enough to find the man in his office. He was a large burly sort, mildly overweight, with a deep ruddy complexion and a large speckled nose. He was on the phone when Ben arrived.

  Pearson covered the receiver with his hand and whispered, “Just a moment. I’m on the line with the employment agency. Trying to get new help for the dining room.”

  Ben nodded, then took the nearest chair.

  “Yeah,” he heard Pearson say, “let me talk to Mary. No, not Maria. Not Rochelle. That’s right. Thanks.”

  Ben scanned the office. The walls had a rich mahogany finish and were ornamented with fishing and golf trophies.

  “That’s fine,” Pearson continued. “Let me have suites fifteen through twenty-five. Yes, that would be very attractive.” Pearson mumbled a few more words, then hung up the phone. “Damn. It’s getting harder to run a country club every goddamn day.”

  “Really. Why is that?”

  “Oh, ever since Southern Hills had the PGA tournament, everybody acts like it’s the only country club in town. Hell, any lowlife with thirty thousand dollars to burn can get in Southern Hills. You call that exclusive?”

  He looked up and seemed to notice Ben for the first time. “I don’t recognize you,” he said to Ben, frowning. “Are you a member?”

  “Uh, no. My name is Ben Kincaid. I called ahead and made an appointment with your secretary.”

  “I don’t recall being told….”

  “I’m a lawyer. I’m representing Leeman Hayes.”

  Pearson continued to look at him uncomprehendingly.

  “He’s the man who’s been accused of killing Maria Alvarez. In your caddyshack.”

  Pearson removed his wire-rim shades and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Christ. Won’t we ever hear the end of that? One lousy murder of one wetback, and we’ve got cops and cameras crawling all over us for the next ten years.”

  “All I want to do is tour the grounds and view the place where the murder occurred. And maybe have a chance to talk to a few people who were here way back then.”

  Pearson threw himself back in his chair. He was wearing a captain’s cap and a blue blazer with an anchor embroidered over the pocket. He looked like Dick Cavett gone to seed. “Do you have a court order?”

  “No,” Ben answered.

  “Well, then I can’t allow you on the course.”

  “Sir, if I may—”

  “Let me tell you something, son. We have people calling in days in advance to schedule a game. These are members who pay sixty thousand smackers down and five thousand more every year to have a nice place to play a round of golf. I’m not going to let you prance around and screw up everyone’s tee times.”

  “Sir, it’s just a game. This is a murder—”

  “What do you mean, it’s just a game?” Pearson’s temper appeared to be on full boil. “Let me tell you something, sonny. The members of this club run this town. This state, really. Important deals are made out on that course. Decisions that affect the economy. Decisions that affect the well-being of everyone. To my mind, that’s about a million times more important than your pointless little investigation.”

  Ben tried to remain cool. “If you want me to get a court order, I will. It won’t be hard. This is a capital murder charge, sir.”

  “Damn it all to hell.” Pearson slammed his hand down on his desk. “As if I didn’t already have enough to do.” Ben surveyed the man’s barren desk and wondered what it was exactly that he did. “I guess Mitch might be able to show you around. He’s the operations manager.”

  Operations manager, Ben thought. Read: the one who actually does the work around here.

  “Of course, he’s not a member, you understand. But he can give you a tour of the toilets or whatever the hell it is you want.” He picked up the phone on his desk and pushed a single direct-dial button. “Mitch? Captain Pearson. Get your butt down here. I need you to give the grand tour.”

  A short pause. “Prospect?” he chuckled. “Not hardly. Some kind of lawyer. Yeah. You and me both. Well, you can give him the short version, anyway. See you in a minute.�
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  He hung up the phone. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t take you around myself. We’ve got a board meeting in less than an hour. I have to prepare.” His oversized chest rose and fell heavily. “I don’t know why I let the board stick me with this captaincy, year after year. I barely have time left over to manage my business.”

  “What business is that?”

  “I’m an oilman, natch. One of the last of the true believers. One of the men who put this cowtown on the map.”

  “And you’re still working? I thought the oil-and-gas business had all but dried up.”

  “Maybe for the schmucks. Not for me. I drilled thirty-five gas wells last year.”

  “And you found someone to buy the gas?”

  “Hell, yeah. I got Dick Crenshaw to make me a sweet deal. I had the gas companies over the barrel with a lot of long-term, take-or-pay contracts when the price went bad. After we beat them over the head with lawyers for a few years, they agreed to my terms. I’ll have a buyer for my gas for the next ten years. Even the sour gas. Even the foreign stuff. Canadian, Peruvian. I can sell anything.”

  The office door opened and a tall, dark-haired man entered. “The tour bus is leaving,” he said.

  “This is Mitch Dryer,” Pearson said. “Mitch, this is … the lawyer.” He had obviously forgotten Ben’s name. “Show him around.”

  “Anything he wants to see?” Mitch asked tentatively.

  Pearson peered back at him. “Within reason. But make it quick. Because … I need you at the board meeting. Don’t be late.”

  Right, Ben thought. And that gives Mitch the perfect excuse for rushing through the tour, and maybe omitting a few key locations. So he can hold Pearson’s hand at the board meeting.