Mike pushed to his feet. “I also brought something for you.”
“What now—crystals?”
“I brought a somewhat more practical form of protection.” He picked up a wooden box resting on the coffee table. He turned it toward Ben and slowly lifted the lid.
Inside the box, wrapped in a velvet form-fitting compartment, was a brand-new bright and shiny handgun.
Christina gasped.
“This is for you,” Mike announced, pushing it toward Ben. “It’s a Sig Sauer .38, probably the best, most lightweight, most accurate small pistol in existence. I want you to take it.”
Ben pushed it away. “No way.”
“Take it!” Mike insisted. He shoved the box forcefully into Ben’s lap. “And if the situation arises, use it.”
“But I can’t—”
“I’ve already taken care of the license and registration. As you know, thanks to the NRA and its gun-fondling friends, carrying a concealed weapon is legal in Oklahoma now. So you should have no problems.”
“But, Mike,” Christina said, “Ben’s clueless about guns. He doesn’t know how to use it. He’ll shoot his foot off. Or worse.”
“Thank you very much,” Ben replied.
“I intend to teach him how to use it,” Mike answered. “I’ve reserved time for us at the firing range down at Eastern Division headquarters.” He handed Ben a piece of paper. “Here are the times. Be there.”
“I won’t come,” Ben said firmly.
“Then I’ll arrest you, put the cuffs on you, and drag you there!” His whole body shook as he spoke. “Your choice!”
Ben gingerly touched the weapon resting in the purple velvet. It gave him the willies just being near it. “I don’t think I can—”
“You can and you will,” Mike said firmly. “Pick it up.”
Hesitantly, his hand trembling, Ben lifted the weapon out of the box. He folded it into his palm the way he imagined you were supposed to, at least as far as he could tell from TV cop shows. He squeezed the weapon, feeling it in his hand. All at once, he felt sick to his stomach.
He dropped it back into the box like a hot potato. “I’m telling you, Mike: I can’t do this.”
“You can and you will. Now take this schedule. I expect to see you at the firing range.”
“Mike—”
“Listen to me!” His voice exploded with frustration and anger. “I’m not asking you to become Charles Bronson. I just don’t want to have to explain to your sister why your carcass is lying on a slab at the county morgue!”
Ben realized resistance was futile. In his own way, Mike was just showing that he cared. He took the paper and tucked it into his pocket. “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to learn a little something about firearms.”
“Thank God for small favors.” Mike pushed himself off the couch. “And I was thinking a little self-defense training might not be such a bad idea, either. Maybe a little kung fu.”
“Now wait a minute—”
“I’ll send you that schedule as soon as I get it worked out.”
Ben turned toward Christina. “Christina, would you tell him he’s over-reacting? Tell him he’s being ridiculous.”
She shook her head. “Sorry, Ben. I’m just dying to see you in one of those cute belted pajama outfits.”
“Oh, ha-ha.”
“Relax. You can’t look any sillier than you did in that teeny little terrycloth towel.”
“Wait a minute. You went back to the car before I changed.”
“I sure did.” A grin crept across her face. “But it’s amazing what you can do with a pair of high-powered binoculars.”
Chapter 34
HE PICKED UP another plate and tossed it across the room, watching it shatter into a thousand pieces as it crashed against the opposite wall.
Goddamn it all to hell!
What was happening to him, anyway? Why couldn’t he finish a simple matter like this without creating so many complications?
He hurled another plate across the room. The sound of the impact, the sight of the destruction, had a soothing effect on his soul—but not nearly soothing enough. Why was this so hard? When he had done it before, it had gone without a hitch. And now it seemed everything he did led to one more screw-up, one more loose end needing to be tied, one more person who had to be killed.
And Earl Bonner still wasn’t behind bars!
He grabbed the entire stack of plates and flung them across the room. They didn’t make it all the way. They went down in the middle of the living room, crashing down on a glass tabletop, shattering everything, sending porcelain and glass shards flying in all directions. It made a terrible, soul-satisfying noise, one he was sure all the neighbors could hear as well.
Screw the neighbors. He needed this. He needed it.
He ran through the entire chain of errors in his mind. He’d managed to kill Lily and plant her in such a way as to make Earl Suspect Number One, but not without being spotted by that pipsqueak Tyrone Jackson, and not without losing something that could lead them all to his doorstep. He’d had to take care of the kid, but that had led to being spotted—again—by that piano player out on the highway. He wasn’t sure, but it was just possible the asshole could identify him.
The piano man had to be dealt with.
His hands clenched down on the kitchen cabinets. He wanted Jackson, wanted him so bad he could barely stop thinking about it. It was what he lived for now. It was the only music that soothed his savage breast.
And the final triumphant coda would come when he found that punk—the one he should’ve strangled to death last night in his own van. When he found that punk again, he would play the fucker’s farewell fugue.
Chapter 35
PAULA1>I don’t know why you’re acting this way. Was it something I typed?
FINGERS>Of course not. Our chats have been the most wonderful thing to happen to me for I don’t know how long.
PAULA1>Then why are you saying no?
FINGERS>I don’t want to rush things, that’s all.
PAULA1>I’m sorry. I don’t understand. :(
Jones pushed himself away from his keyboard. Truth was, he didn’t understand himself. He wasn’t just feeding her a line. These online chats were what he looked forward to more than anything else in his life. He couldn’t get enough of them. They chatted for hours every night, till he could barely keep his eyes open any longer. Now they were chatting during the day, during the lunch hour or her coffee breaks at the library. No matter how much they chatted, he always wanted more. So why was he withdrawing?
PAULA1>I just don’t think our relationship can go any further on the keyboard.
FINGERS>You mean (gasp)—
PAULA1>You know what I want. Face time. No more cyber-snuggles. The real thing.
PAULA1 >I don’t know if it’s wise. But IMHO, it has to happen. It’s the next step on the evolutionary ladder of our relationship.
FINGERS>Relationship?
PAULA1>Does that word scare you?
FINGERS>I didn’t expect it, that’s all.
Jones wiped his brow. What was happening here? He wanted to meet her just as much as she seemed to want to meet him. Didn’t he? So why was he holding back?
Of course he knew the answer to the question almost before he asked it. He was holding back because he was afraid. Afraid that once he left the security of the CPU and actually met her face-to-face—she wouldn’t like him.
After all, what was there to like? Honestly, he was a skinny geek with a big nose and eyeglasses with lenses as thick as the bottoms of Coke bottles. No one could fall in love with that.
And there was the tiny matter of his profession. He hadn’t meant to mislead her, but she thought he was a private investigator. She thought he lived some glamorous life solving mysteries and tracking down archfiends. But he didn’t; he couldn’t even get Ben to let him help with the investigation. When Paula found out he was a secretary, and a currently unemployed one at that, she was bound t
o be disappointed. She would never want to see him, much less chat with him.
When all was said and done, as much as he desired to meet her, he couldn’t bear the thought of losing her, even in the limited capacity he had her now. He couldn’t take the risk.
PAULA1>I’m disappointed, Jones. And I don’t understand. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t meet. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. We both live in the same city. We’ll just arrange to be somewhere at the same time. If it’s awkward, you can leave.
FINGERS>I don’t know…
PAULA1>What about Uncle Earl’s Jazz Emporium? They’re reopening Friday night. I know you like music.
FINGERS>(despondent) I don’t know. I just don’t know.
For a long time, the screen before Jones remained blank. Apparently, Paula had exhausted her stock of ways to persuade him. Or perhaps she had decided it wasn’t worth the effort.
Finally, the talk line on his screen came back to life.
PAULA1>It’s because you don’t think I’m sexy, isn’t it?
FINGERS>No! (forcefully) That’s ridiculous.
PAULA1>It’s because I’m a librarian. Everyone knows librarians are timid, mousy creatures with their hair all pulled up in a bun who run around shushing people all day, right?
FINGERS>That’s absurd.
PAULA1>No it isn’t. It’s what people think. Librarians are frigid virgins.
FINGERS>You’re being ridiculous.
PAULA1>Don’t humor me. That’s the stereotype and I know it. (Pause) But the stereotype is wrong. I can be sexy.
FINGERS>I don’t know what you’re babbling about.
PAULA1>Close your eyes.
FINGERS>Paula, I’m at my office.
PAULA1>Just humor me for a minute. Concentrate—block out everything—everything but me. Narrow your vision till you can’t see anything but the computer monitor.
Jones couldn’t say no to her now. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, blocking out all thoughts of the office and the case and Loving hovering much too nearby. Once he had shuffled all that debris out of his brain, he slowly opened his eyes, just letting in enough light that he could see the screen.
FINGERS>Okay, done.
PAULA1>Good. Now, imagine that it’s Friday night. We’ve been to the club, and we loved it. Jazz is the sexiest music, you know. The tinkling of the ivories. The doleful wail of a solo saxophone. It speaks to something inside all of us. Makes the blood pump faster. It hurts just a little, but it’s a good hurt. It makes us remember. It makes us desire.
FINGERS>Paula …
PAULA1 >Just listen. The show is over, and we’ve gone back to my apartment.
FINGERS>We have?
PAULA1>I go to the bedroom to change into something more comfortable. You sit on the sofa in the living room. When I return, I turn out all the lights. You sit motionless, just watching, waiting, as I slowly light a candle. First one, then another, until the room is bathed in candlelight.
FINGERS>I like candles.
PAULA1>In the golden glow of the candles you see that I’m wearing something white and diaphanous. It has a shimmering quality—or is that just the light? You can see through it, but just barely—all you get are impressions, shadows.
FINGERS>You’re wearing a toga?
PAULA1>I’m wearing a negligee. A sheer silk one from Victoria’s Secret.
FINGERS>Oh. Wow.
PAULA1>I approach you. You start to speak, but the words catch in your throat. All you can think about is us, here, now. Your heart is pounding in your chest. Your palms are sweating. You’re about to explode.
FINGERS>(heart pounding, palms sweaty) What’s going to happen next?
PAULA1>I lean across you on the sofa and without so much as saying a word press my lips against yours. Hard. I mean to hold back, but I can’t. My desire is too strong; my need is too great. I’m kissing you now, just as hard as I possibly can. Can you feel it?
FINGERS>Oh, yes.
PAULA1>We’re still kissing, but now I’m running my hands up and down your back, just lightly brushing against you, tickling your spine.
FINGERS>My goodness.
PAULA1>You begin to reciprocate. You put your arms around me and pull me close. I can feel your strong arms drawing me near, pressing me against your chest. I can feel your strength, your hardness. Then I pull away—
FINGERS>Don’t!
PAULA1>—and begin unbuttoning your shirt, one button at a time, slowly, carefully, kissing each patch of newly revealed skin as it is uncovered. I remove your shirt and run my hands all over your manly chest.
FINGERS>I love it when you do that.
PAULA1>I feel your fingers on my back, rising to the occasion, searching for my buttons. They find them, and a moment later I feel my negligee flutter to the floor. I stand before you naked, vulnerable, wanting—
FINGERS>You and me both.
PAULA1>You pull me to you in that strong manly way that tells me that we were meant to be joined, that now that we’re together you will never let me go. That I’m your personal love slave, now and for all time, and that whatever you want me to do, I will do without question. Come to me, Jones.
FINGERS>I’m coming, I’m coming.
PAULA1>You take control. I groan with ecstasy. We’ve gone too far to turn back. Your hands find my sweet spot, the button that turns me into a mindless ball of uncontrolled desire. I part my lips, searching for a target. And then—
There was nothing more. Jones lurched forward, typing frantically into the keyboard.
FINGERS>Yes? What happens next?
PAULA1>(licking her fingers) I don’t know. Want to meet me Friday night and find out?
FINGERS>Yessssssssssssss!
PAULA1>The club opens at seven. I’ll meet you there about seven-thirty. Bring your candles. ;)
The line disconnected. The scroll bar on the right told Jones he was now alone in the chat room.
He took a personal inventory. He felt as if he had just finished running the Boston Marathon. He was drenched in sweat; dark patches showed through his shirt. His hands were equally sweaty and trembling slightly.
He pushed himself to his feet and stumbled toward the bathroom, thinking he would strip off his shirt and splash cold water all over himself. If they didn’t have cold showers here, he would have to improvise one.
Ben stepped out of the elevator and headed toward Jones and Loving’s office on the seventh floor. To his surprise, he met Jones in the hallway. He seemed a bit shaky on his feet and his face was devoid of color.
“You feeling all right?” Ben asked.
Jones looked up, startled. “Oh—I’m … fine. Must’ve been something I ate.”
Something he ate? It was only ten in the morning. And he knew Jones never had breakfast.
He opened the door and they walked into the office. “What about you?” Jones asked. “What’s with the big bandage on your nose? Christina said you ran into some trouble.”
Loving leaped out of his chair. “Are you okay, Skipper? Should you be on your feet? Here, take my chair.”
Ben waved him away. “I’m fine. Promise. I just wanted to see how your investigation is going. From what I hear from Mike, the police are likely to file charges against Earl at any moment.”
“Didn’t have any luck tracking down the Rug Man,” Loving grunted. He was obviously disgusted with himself. “I can tell you this—he ain’t workin’ for any of the honest-to-God carpet companies or rug dealers in town.”
“What about the van?”
“None of the rug companies reported a missing van. I also checked the rental agencies, but I came up with nada. I think it must be a privately owned van that our man just dressed up for the occasion. And probably repainted as soon as he was done. Even if we could peer into every garage in town, we wouldn’t find it.”
“What about paint companies? There can’t be that many places around that sell auto paint.”
Loving snapped his fingers. “You’re right, Skipper. There
ain’t.”
“Good. Check ’em out. Maybe you can work up a sketch based on the disguise he wore to Earl’s club. Maybe he wore the same disguise when he bought the paint.”
“But even if I find the place where he bought the paint—what good will it do us?”
“Who knows? Maybe he said something to the salesperson that might help us track him down. Maybe they took down his address for the receipt or their computer records. Maybe he paid with a credit card.”
“All right.” Loving grabbed his coat. “It’s a long shot, but I’ll give it a go.” He hustled out the front door.
Ben turned back toward Jones. “As for you—”
“I could help out on the investigating,” Jones said quickly. “Let me do a little fieldwork. I might turn up something.”
“Actually,” Ben said, “I have some more pleadings I need you to type. And I have a list of cases I’d like you to pull off Lexis.”
“Ooh, how exciting.”
Ben frowned. “Is something going on I don’t know about?”
“No, nothing.” Jones folded his arms unhappily. “It’s just—well, sometimes I get tired of the same old drudgery. I’m underutilized.”
“No doubt. Have you finished your report on the first smile-murder?”
“Natch. On my desk.”
Ben picked up the computer printout and skimmed through the first few pages. He began to read aloud: “ ‘I can feel your strong arms drawing me near … I can feel your strength, your hardness …’ ” He looked up. “What on earth is this?”
Jones’s jaw dropped. “Give me that.”
Ben moved it out of his reach. “ ‘I’m your personal love slave … whatever you want me to do, I will do without question.’ ” He flipped through the next few pages, grinning. “This came out of one of those chat rooms, didn’t it?”
Jones snatched the printout from Ben. “That is absolutely none of your business.”
“Jones, you old dog. Have you been swapping fantasies with some cybertramp?”
“Paula is not a cybertramp.”
“Paula?” Ben’s eyebrows rose. “On a first-name basis, are you?”
Extreme Justice Page 21