Cruel Justice

by William Bernhardt

  “Half an hour?”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “More? Less?”

  Abie bit down on his lower lip. “About half an hour, I think.”

  Well, that’s something useful, Ben thought. Maybe. He knew that the time estimates of adults separated from their wristwatches were often wildly inaccurate. An estimate made by a kid in a high-stress situation after being drugged was even more suspect.

  “What’s the next thing you remember seeing, Abie?”

  “We went inside another building and walked up those rickety stairs. Then we came to the room where he kept the mattress and the camera.” Abie smiled proudly. “Boy, I really smashed up one of his cameras but good, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, kid. You did a real number on it.” Mike put on a brave smile, but Ben found it patently unconvincing. Truth was, it would be virtually impossible to find the apartment where the creep first took Abie based on this information.

  And there was another truth, one even more unsettling and inescapable. In this pervert’s long and checkered history, none of his victims had ever gotten away before. Abie was the only person alive who could possibly identify him. He hadn’t—but the creep didn’t know that.

  They could hope that he would forget about Abie, would consider him too high a risk to approach now. But no one really believed that. It didn’t fit the profile. Child molesters were obsessive to the extreme. Once they fixed on a particular child, they stayed fixed.

  As long as Sam was a free man, Abie wasn’t safe. Sam would be doing everything he could to find Abie.

  And kill him.

  47

  WHEN BEN RETURNED TO his boardinghouse that evening, he scurried past Mrs. Marmelstein’s room at the foot of the stairs. Fond of her as he was, he had no time for a discussion of who turned off the water or why the electric company expected to be paid on time. He was beat, and he needed to spend at least four or five hours preparing for the next day’s trial.

  Joni was sitting in her usual spot in the middle of the stairs playing an incomprehensible card game. Jacks went atop kings, hearts went atop diamonds. He couldn’t detect any pattern at all.

  “What is this game you’re playing, anyway?” Ben asked.

  She continued to lay down the cards. “It’s called E.R.S.”

  “Does that stand for something?”

  “What a profound insight.”

  “What does it stand for?”

  She placed the queen of hearts on the four of clubs. “Not telling.”

  “Can I guess?”

  “I suppose,” she said, terribly bored.

  “Equal Rights Solitaire.”

  “Hard-ly.”

  “Emergency Room Standoff.”

  “Oh, Ben, you’re so pedestrian. Like Ward Cleaver or something.”

  “I give up. What does it stand for?”

  She lifted her hand as if to brush her hair back, then stopped, remembering that her hair no longer reached her shoulders. “I think it’s best that you don’t know.”

  Ben sat down on the stairs beside her. “Mind if we talk about your boyfriend for a moment?”

  She blanched. “You didn’t tell my parents …!”

  “No, no. But I need to talk to him. Do you think you could arrange it?”

  “Whaddaya wanna talk with him for?”

  “Well … I think he’s connected with some gentlemen I saw at the country club the other day.”

  Joni laughed. “My Booker’s never been inside a country club in his life.”

  “I didn’t say he was. But I did see some of his, uh, clubmates there.”

  Joni’s face darkened. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about his gang. The Demons.”

  Joni scooped up her cards. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Ben took her arm. “I think I do. I saw him a few days ago at the home of my client. And he was wearing a black jacket embroidered with the gang emblem. A swastika with a heart around it. My cop friend tells me that identifies him as a member of the Demons gang, a hot number on the North Side.”

  Joni folded her arms across her chest, but remained sullenly silent.

  “My friend believes the Demons are breaking into drug peddling, challenging the Cobras’ turf. He thinks they’re selling the hard stuff, the junk that comes in from across the border.”

  Joni glared at him. “All this time Jami has said, ‘Don’t be telling your secrets to our Benjamin. He’s just a cop, basically.’ And I always say, ‘It ain’t so. Ben is good people.’ ” Joni’s lips pursed. “But I guess Jami was right.”

  “Look, Joni, I’m not trying to get you or Booker into any trouble. He did that for himself when he joined the gang. But if you’ll let me talk to him, I may be able to help him before he spends the next ten years making license plates at McAlester.”

  Joni eyed him suspiciously. “And what’s in it for you?” ‘

  “He may have some information that could help my client. Like I said, I just want to talk to him. You pick the place.”

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “Come on, you know me better than that. Have I ever lied to you? Have I told anyone about you and Booker? Have I told Jami you wore her Paloma Picasso earrings to the Blue Rose and lost them?”

  “How did you—?”

  “I’m very observant. Come on, Joni. What do you say?”

  Joni stared at him for a good long time, then slid her playing cards back into the box. “No promises.” She stood, then climbed up the stairs to her apartment.

  When Ben walked through the door of his apartment, the first thing he saw was Christina sitting in an armchair rocking Joey. Joey’s tiny eyelids were closed. He appeared to be fast asleep.

  “Ssshh,” Christina whispered. “He’s sleeping.”

  “Ah. Thanks for the tip.” Ben gently dropped his briefcase and sat on the floor beside Christina. “This is a surprise. I didn’t expect to find you here.”

  Christina placed her finger under the collar of Joey’s bright green pajamas and unfolded a crease. “Oh well … I thought you might need help preparing for court tomorrow.”

  Ben nodded. “Which doesn’t really explain why you’re looking after the baby. Something that, as I recall, you complained mightily about when I asked you to do it.”

  “Well, your mother wanted to fix you a nice dinner—”

  “My mom is cooking? Again?”

  “—and someone had to look after the kid, so …” She shrugged. “It’s a burden, but I’m bearing it bravely.”

  Ben glanced at the contented baby in her arms. “You’re hiding your misery admirably.”

  “Well … he’s been pretty good tonight. I think we’re coming to understand one another.”

  “Splendid.” Ben pushed himself to his feet.

  “Ben?”

  He turned. “Yes?”

  “What are you going to do about your mother?”

  Ben frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you have to decide what you’re going to do. She can’t live here in your apartment forever.”

  “I rather assumed she would be heading home soon. …”

  “With the baby, right?”

  “Well …” Ben squirmed.

  “I thought so. That’s exactly what you’re hoping she’ll do.”

  “It shouldn’t be for very long. Jones is still searching for Julia. For all we know, she could come back for Joey tomorrow.”

  “Ben, you’re not being realistic. Julia has no intention of returning anytime soon. If she did, she wouldn’t have left him in the first place.”

  “Well, what do you want me to do about it?” Ben threw his hands into the air. “Christina, I can’t raise a baby! I don’t know the first thing about it.”

  “You’re just making excuses.”

  “My mother is infinitely better qualified to raise children than I am.”

  “Julia left him with you, not your mother.�
��

  “Only because she wasn’t home.”

  “You don’t know that for a fact.”

  “It makes more sense for Mother to do it. She’s had experience.”

  Christina’s eyes seemed to catch fire. “Ben, your mother is sixty-six years old.”

  “So?”

  “So that’s no time to be taking on a major responsibility like a baby. She should be relaxing, taking life easy.”

  “She’ll hire help.”

  “Oh, that’s a great attitude. Let the servants do it.” She muttered under her breath. “You’re no better than those country-club slobs you keep putting down.”

  “That’s hardly fair.”

  “That’s the truth.”

  “Christina, you’re being irrational.”

  “Ben, when are you going to stop avoiding every family obligation? Are you planning to go through your whole life without being responsible for anyone?”

  Ben tried to answer, but he was too slow. Christina took the still-sleeping baby and marched out of the room.

  Reluctantly, Ben entered the kitchen. He found his mother facing the stove, poking a wooden fork into a frying pan. She was wearing an elegant pleated skirt, a silk blouse, and an Oriental jacket. And over it, she had draped Ben’s apron, which announced in big black letters LAWYERS DO IT IN THEIR BRIEFS.

  “It was a gift from Christina,” he blurted out.

  Mrs. Kincaid turned and stared at him oddly. “This fork?”

  “No, the—never mind. What are you doing?”

  She smiled. “Fixing your dinner.”

  “Again? What is it?”

  “Well … I’m not entirely sure yet. Chicken and something. I’m a bit rusty on my recipes, you know.”

  “I still can’t believe you can cook!”

  Mrs. Kincaid breathed heavily. “I always told your father we should take more pictures. Maybe even movies. ‘Little boys don’t remember,’ I told him. But he said, ‘Nonsense. A boy always remembers his mommy and daddy.’ ” She shook her head sadly. “I was right.”

  She fumbled for a moment in the pocket of the apron. “I’ve been carrying a picture around in my purse. I thought you might be interested.”

  Ben took the small black-and-white photo from her. The man in the forefront was Ben’s father, although he was much younger than Ben ever recalled seeing him before. He was leaning over a little boy, tickling him.

  A little boy with light brown hair and a thinnish face.

  The boy was laughing hysterically, and gazing up at the man with loving eyes.

  Ben’s eyes.

  Ben shoved the picture in his pocket. “You didn’t need to cook dinner—”

  “I wanted to do it. I used to be a wonderful cook. People raved about my food. Why do you think the relatives always came to our house on Thanksgiving?”

  “I rather suspected they hoped to be included in the will. …”

  Mrs. Kincaid ignored him. “We didn’t hire Rhiana until you were almost eight, when we needed more help, mostly with you, because you kept sneaking out of the house and going to the library or whatever when you were supposed to be doing your chores. But Rhiana was a splendid cook and it was easier to just let her do it.”

  She smiled, then returned her attention to the frying pan. “That’s why I’m enjoying my stay at your place so much. I have to admit, I was planning to just take the baby and leave, but I’m having such a good time I’ve decided to stay.”

  “Do tell,” Ben murmured.

  “It’s just like life was for your father and me, back before he’d had a lick of success. Very primitive. And very fun.”

  Ben stared blankly at her, trying to reorder reality in his brain. “Well, I need to prepare for trial. …”

  “Of course.”

  “I probably won’t eat much.”

  “Of course.”

  “Actually, I may play the piano a little while, just to—”

  “To help you focus. Of course.”

  Ben drew in his breath. “Mother, why do you keep saying of course? Am I so predictable?”

  She smiled again, and patted his cheek. “You’re not predictable, Benjamin. But you’re just like your daddy.”

  Ben’s face twisted up in a knot. “You must be kidding! Me? Like my father?”

  “He would work all night sometimes when he was preparing for a test or, later, a big operation or a new procedure. He wouldn’t eat much, because his mind was focused on his work. He’d listen to Herb Alpert albums to block out distractions and help him concentrate. Personally, I hated that insipid trumpet music, but it seemed to make him happy.”

  “But—I’m not anything like my father!” Ben protested. “I—I hate trumpet music.”

  “Whatever you say, dear.” She resumed her tossing and stirring.

  Ben left the kitchen. Christina wasn’t in the living room; just as well, probably. He sat down at the piano and picked out the first few notes of “Venus Kissed the Moon,” one of his favorite Christine Lavin songs. It was a beautiful tune, but he was tired, and there were too many random thoughts vying for his attention. He grabbed his briefcase and headed toward his bedroom.

  He entered the darkened room and flipped on the overhead light. He started to fling himself onto the bed—then screamed.

  Christina rushed into the room. “What? What happened?”

  “On the bed.” Ben pointed, grimacing. “A dead animal!”

  “What, someone put a horse’s head in your bed? This case is nastier than I realized.” Together, they gazed down at the covers. And saw the tiny carcass of a dead mouse.

  “Oh, yuck,” Christina said succinctly.

  “Double yuck,” Ben echoed.

  “Giselle?”

  “Well, I hardly think it was my mother!”

  Christina backed out of the doorway. “What are you going to do with it?”

  “I suppose I’ll clean it up.” He sighed. “What a shock. Now I’ll probably never get to sleep.”

  Christina patted him on the shoulder. “There, there, Ben. Just get rid of the carcass. Then I’ll come sing you the Flintstones song and rock you to sleep.”

  Ben did not smile.

  48

  CARLEE CRANE SAT UPRIGHT in bed eating Blue Bell Rocky Road ice cream. She was making a mess of it, getting it on her hands and the sheets. She didn’t care. She wanted ice cream. She needed ice cream. That’s what she kept telling herself, anyway.

  As she ate, her husband Dave entered their bedroom. She watched him undress for his shower. The camping trip had done him good; he’d picked up some sun, and he looked as if he’d dropped a few pounds. Not that he needed to.

  She watched silently as he dried himself off, then put on the blue pajamas he almost never wore and crawled into bed beside her.

  They had not spoken all evening.

  There had been no fight, nor any need for one. Ever since the camping trip, something had been … different. Their relationship was strained in a way it never had been before.

  It wasn’t that Dave resented what had happened to her, or what she was going through. He didn’t know what to do; he didn’t know how to respond. He was lost. She was certain he still wanted to be a good husband. He just didn’t know how.

  And so he remained silent. Once or twice she had tried to raise the issue, had tried to get him to talk, but each time he ignored her, or glared at her with that “not in front of the kids” expression of his. Now that the boys were in bed, it seemed too late, too far gone.

  Too much damage done.

  Well, hell. She wasn’t giving up that easily. She put away her ice cream. He was facing away from her, curled up in a ball, safely tucked away in his blue pajamas.

  “Dave?”

  He made a muffled mmmm noise.

  “That trial began today.”

  Silence. No mmmm, no nothing.

  “The trial of that black man. Leeman Hayes. The one who’s accused of killing that foreign woman ten years ago.”


  “I know,” he said, without turning around.

  “A man who works for the defense attorney came to the house and asked me if I knew anything about the murder. He said they needed witnesses for the trial in the worst way. And now the trial has started and according to the news they still don’t have any witnesses.”

  “You shouldn’t watch the TV news,” Dave said evenly. His voice seemed distant and muffled. “It just upsets you.”

  “Dave, I’m almost certain that poor man didn’t kill that woman.” She paused. “Forget the almost. I know he didn’t do it.”

  “Then who did?”

  “I don’t know. But I know the killer was taller, and older. And he wasn’t black.”

  “And you acquired this sensational knowledge from a vision you had while we were camping in the mystical Arbuckle Mountains?”

  “It wasn’t a vision, Dave.” She leaned over his shoulder. “It was a memory.”

  “A memory that you totally forgot about until now.”

  “I realize that must seem strange to you. It seems strange to me, too. I can’t explain it. But that’s what happened. I saw what I saw.”

  “How could you have seen the murder?”

  “You know I used to work at that country club. I must’ve been working late one night … yes, I’m sure that’s it. I was working late. I was working overtime, cleaning the kitchen after it closed down at eleven. My creepo boss kept saying he’d promote me to waitress if I put in enough overtime. I was so poor back then, I would’ve done almost anything for a little extra cash. I walked home from work, because I didn’t have a car. I was crossing the grounds on my way home that night, and I heard this scream and I ran to the window and … and … that’s when I saw it.”

  “What did you do afterward?”

  “I—I just don’t know.” She shook her head violently, as if trying to dislodge the memory trapped up there somewhere. “That’s still a total blank. I remember thinking I had to tell someone, I had to report this …”

  “But you didn’t. Right?”

  “I’m … not sure.”

  “Did you talk to the police?”

  Carlee’s head tilted slightly. “I … don’t think so.”

  “Great.” Dave pounded his fist into the pillow. “What’s the first thing you do recall?”

  She shook her head. “I recall being at home afterward. I guess I went on as if nothing had ever happened. I—I didn’t remember it.”