The Bare Fax was conveniently located just outside the Tulsa city limits, about a twenty-minute drive from the plush downtown seafood restaurant where the group had eaten dinner. What a deal for a new recruit. A three-hundred-dollar dinner and a strip-joint chaser. How could the guy say no?
The guy—one Dewey Stockton—was at the front of the R T & T assemblage with Tom Melton. Stockton was tall, blond, reasonably attractive, well spoken, and intelligent. Ben had to admit that he seemed like a promising attorney. He had the courage to decline wine with dinner even after Tom selected a bottle and ordered glasses all around. Ben admired Stockton for that. Besides, it was a lousy vintage.
Close behind Donald and Tom were Greg, the grizzled party veteran, and Alvin, the celibate sensation. Ben had witnessed enough winking and jabbing between those two to fill a lifetime. Unlike Dewey Stockton, Alvin had opted to drink wine with dinner. Too much, near as Ben could tell. He suspected Alvin was not accustomed to heavy drinking. Or even light drinking, probably.
Tom did a little negotiation regarding cover charges with the beefy humanoid guarding the front door. A Ben Franklin passed hands, and the man waved the whole group inside. “Treat these fellas extra special, ladies,” he shouted behind them.
The room was smoky, smelly, congested, very noisy, and none of it mattered. When there are eight waitresses running through the room wearing nothing above their waists, Ben realized, one tends not to focus on the ambience. Along the east wall, an old-fashioned wooden bar was situated, with a large single-plate mirror behind it. A young, bearded bartender was working furiously, filling pitchers of beer and sliding them down to the bare-bosomed babes.
In the opposite corner, along the same wall as the entrance, was a small wooden dance floor with a guardrail separating the dance floor from the peanut gallery. A long iron bar in the middle of the dance area ran from ceiling to floor. And coiled around the iron bar, Ben spotted a leggy blonde twisting and gyrating in a pair of leopard-skin panties. And nothing else.
Tom motioned everyone around a vacant table directly in front of the dance floor. The woman currently onstage was not exactly pretty, Ben noted, although pretty generally refers to a woman’s face, a feature barely noticeable with regard to the body in question. She seemed as if she were dancing through a dream, as if she had forgotten, or was trying to forget, that the hooting and howling audience existed. Occasionally, a patron would catch her eye and she would bare her teeth and release an animalistic growl, thereby completing the leopard theme of her presentation.
“So what can I get you, darlin’?”
Ben turned his head. The waitress’s breasts were dangling about an inch from his nose.
“So answer the woman, Kincaid,” Greg said. He gave Ben a shove on the shoulder, which propelled his face even further forward.
She was a redhead, with freckles that seemed to cover her entire body, or at least as much of it as Ben could see, which was quite a bit. She was older than most of the Bare Fax babes—mid-thirties, probably. Her skin drooped a bit in places, as if worn down by constant scrutiny. Thick, caked makeup couldn’t hide the wide half moons under her eyes.
“Uh … what do you have?”
“Beer,” she answered.
“Oh.” Ben leaned back for air. “What kind?”
“Beer,” she repeated.
“Oh. Well, I’ll have some of that.”
“Two pitchers,” Tom shouted over Ben’s shoulder. He slapped Alvin on the shoulder. “We need to get you loosened up, pal.”
The waitress vibrated a bit, pivoted on her gold lamé high heels, and walked back to the bar.
“Third round,” the redhead said cheerily. As before, she insisted on thrusting herself in Ben’s face as she unloaded her refreshments. Ben trained his eyes on the pitchers of beer.
The floor show continued as the waitresses donned costumes and took turns dancing. The leopard woman had been replaced by the fairy princess, the Egyptian cat-woman (played by their waitress, stage-named Delilah), and the schoolmarm. The schoolmarm (Jezebel) had removed her thick eyeglasses and the bobby pins constraining her hair and was currently demonstrating the creative use of a chalkboard pointer.
Suddenly, Alvin, urged on by Tom and many, too many, beers, stood in front of his chair and shouted, “Baby, baby, you’re killin’ me! I’m ready for ya, babe! Come and get me!” A chorus of grunts and cheers echoed Alvin’s sentiment.
Ben stared at him, horrified. “Alvin! Sit down!” he hissed. He yanked Alvin down by his arm.
Tom leaned close to Alvin’s ear. “Loosen up, pal.” He thrust a glass in Alvin’s hand. “Here, drink another beer.”
Ben snatched the glass away, splashing beer on his arm and lap. “No. Definitely no more beer. I think he’s loose enough.”
Greg slapped Alvin on the shoulder. “Don’t get yourself arrested, Al. You still have to take the bar exam come October. The bar examiners tend to frown on lawyers with a criminal record.”
Delilah bent over, cupped her hand around Ben’s ear, and whispered, “Isn’t this silly? I think so. I’m just trying to get enough money so I can go to college and dedicate my life to Christ.” Her freckles bounced before his nose for a moment, and then she disappeared.
What was that all about? Ben wondered. Had she singled out the only guys in the place that were better dressed than the usual jeans and cowboy boot crowd? Dangerous place for suckers.
Ben turned to face his companions. Tom and Dewey were deep in what appeared to be a very serious conversation, although they had to take turns shouting into one another’s ears to be heard over the din. Ben marveled. How can you talk about insurance benefits and profit-sharing plans while you’re staring at a schoolmarm’s G-string?
Alvin was on his feet again. “Baby, baby,” he shouted, stretching his arms out to Jezebel. “Teach me a lesson. Give me some homework.” He grinned a goofy, toothy grin and let loose a high-pitched drunken squeal.
The dancing woman studiously ignored Alvin. She had progressed to working with her clinging, diaphanous shawl. Evidently what she was preparing to unveil was not enormous, so she was making a great show of the unveiling itself.
“Sit down, Alvin.” Ben yanked again at his arm, but Alvin would not obey.
“I said homework, woman! C’mon … do your pedagogical duty.” His tone was becoming abusive. Again, Ben told him to sit down and again, Alvin ignored him.
And then Alvin stepped up onto the guardrail, balancing himself by placing one arm against the wall. He wobbled uncertainly. Instantly, the schoolmarm stopped her undulations and cowered back into the corner of the dance floor. Two muscle-bound toughs emerged from nowhere and barreled toward the dance floor, along with the bouncer from the front door.
“All I wanted to do was say hello,” Alvin mumbled, with a hiccup.
Two thick, hamlike hands slapped down on Alvin’s shoulders. He lost his balance and began falling backward. He waved his arms in large circles, hopelessly trying to regain his balance. He tumbled back onto the table the Ravenites were sitting around. Glasses, pitchers, and beer went flying in every direction. Everyone tried to move out of the way, and no one was quick enough. The table rocked several times before falling over and dumping Alvin onto the floor.
The three bouncers began to close in on him, but before they could, Delilah ran in and knelt beside him.
“Stay back!” she said, motioning them away. “He needs air.”
She brushed his hair out of his eyes and wiped the sudsy, splattered beer from his face. She dabbed her spill cloth against the gash on his forehead.
Alvin blinked several times and groaned. Apparently he was still alive.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I guess so,” Alvin said uncertainly. “I can’t feel a thing.”
“Can you stand up? I have some Band-Aids in my locker in the dressing room. Can you make it?”
“Sure,” Alvin said. He pushed himself upward by the palms of his hands and groaned
. “Oh, my God!”
“You can do it,” she said. She put her arm around him and wrapped his arm around her bare midsection. “That’s it. Easy does it.”
Eventually Alvin was on his feet, more or less. “Come on back to the dressing room, and I’ll get you all fixed up.” She walked him toward the back of the bar. “I’m so sorry this happened. You know, I’m just trying to get enough money to go to college and …” Slowly they disappeared into the background of the bar.
“Oh, well,” Tom said. “Looks like he’s in good hands. Party animals, resume!” He winked at Dewey, and they resumed their serious conversation.
Ben watched as Alvin and the waitress disappeared behind a bead curtain. He hoped Alvin wasn’t hurt badly. He hoped Alvin wasn’t too drunk to know what he was doing.
He hoped Alvin remembered his oath.
18
BEN ARRIVED AT THE office early, carrying the script for Derek’s opening argument before Old Stone Face. Maggie told him Derek hadn’t come in and hadn’t called, so Ben went to his own office.
He found Mike Morelli sitting in one of the corduroy chairs, puffing his pipe.
“Morning, shamus,” Ben said. “What’s the good word?”
“Shamus?” Mike winced. “You’ve got to stop watching so much television.”
Ben hung his suit coat on the hook behind the door and sat down at his desk. “Give me a break. It’s too early in the morning to take any grief from you. At least I didn’t call you a dick.”
“I’ve got some preliminary reports,” Mike said, ignoring him. “I thought you might be interested.”
“You were right. Shoot.”
“Dr. Koregai thinks he’s determined the cause of death. Adams died from cardiac shock and blood loss induced by rapid-succession knife wounds—”
“No kidding,” Ben interrupted. “How much do you pay this guy?”
“—received by the victim after imbibing a considerable quantity of alcohol.”
“Really?” Ben said. At the Red Parrot? he wondered.
“You’re missing the main point here, Kincaid,” Mike said, fumbling in his coat pocket for a pipe-bowl stamper. “Death was induced by the first two or three knife wounds. This confirms the hypothesis Dr. Koregai made at the autopsy based on the low incidence of bruising. The body was mutilated after death.”
Ben let the words sink in. He suddenly felt weighted, immobile. What were they tracking?
“I haven’t even told you the best part. This is where Dr. Koregai really earns his salary. He found a fingerprint.”
“The coroner found a fingerprint?”
“Yep. Noticed Adams’s wristwatch was smudged. Called Pulaski, my best duster. Sure enough, a beautiful, unsmeared right thumbprint on the watch crystal.” He pulled a police print sheet from his coat pocket. “Based on the unusual position and freshness of the print, our guys think it’s almost certainly the killer. Probably happened during the struggle.”
“That’s great. Have you run the print through the AFIS computer?”
“Of course,” Mike growled. He placed his pipe between his lips and stared at the print sheet for a moment. “We don’t have the killer’s thumb on file. Which tells us that he’s never committed a felony, served in the military, or worked for the government. The other quarter of a million people in Tulsa are still suspects.”
“Rotten luck,” Ben murmured.
“Not really. At least now when we do catch the killer, we’ll have a positive means of ID.”
Ben pulled a legal pad from his desk drawer and made a few notes. “What about hair and fiber analysis?” he asked. “Your guys ever find anything?”
“Not much,” Mike said, relighting his pipe.
“How can you inhale that disgusting crap at seven-thirty in the morning?”
“Breakfast,” Mike mumbled. He puffed several times, then released the smoke. “The hair and fiber guys analyzed everything they could find on Adams. Most of it matches Adams or his clothes or his house or the kid or his wife, but not everything. Two straight black hairs didn’t match up. Definitely human. Definitely male.”
“Might be the assailant.”
“Might not.”
“Right,” Ben said, nodding. He made another note. “Very helpful. What about fibers?”
“A few, all very common. Everything we can positively identify can be traced to Adams’s house or his car or his office.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. We got served a subpoena on the phone company for the MUDs for Adams’s home and office phones. They tell us it will take them a few days to put it all together. I’ll call you as soon as I have something.”
Mike took another hearty drag on the pipe. “Oh. I almost forgot. We think we’ve got a blood sample. Found some blood on Adams’s left hand that didn’t come from him. Maybe Adams managed to cut his assailant before he got shish-kebabed. It would be nice to think so.” He removed a crumpled lab report from his coat pocket and handed it to Ben.
Ben took the sheet of paper and scanned it, trying to remember what little he had learned at the D.A.’s office about blood analysis.
Adams Unknown
Rhesus Pos Rhesus Pos
ABO A O
AK 2-1 (7.6%) I (92.3%)
PGM 1+ (40%) 2+, 1-(4.8%)
Ben made a few notes on his legal pad. “Is the unknown a secretor?”
Mike raised his eyebrows. “I’m impressed. Maybe you did learn a thing or two in OKC. Yeah, he’s a secretor, not that that gets us far in this kind of case. We’re not likely to stumble across any sperm samples.”
“Still,” Ben said, “a blood match gives you a second means of positively IDing the killer.”
Mike nodded. “Once we find him. But enough about me. What have you been up to, Ben?”
“Nothing very productive. Why?”
“Funny thing. A burglary occurred two nights ago at the Sanguine offices. Someone got in—we don’t know how. There’s no sign of forced entry. Burglar escaped through a second-story window. Damn near got caught.”
Ben stared intently at his legal pad. “Did they take anything?”
“Why do you say they? I just mentioned a burglar.” Mike smiled. “Nothing taken that we know of. That makes it even stranger. You don’t know anything about this, do you?”
Ben spoke nonchalantly. “Of course not. How could I?”
“I had to ask. Matter of procedure.” He removed the pipe from his lips and stared at it. “Frankly, if it had been you, I wouldn’t want to know, because then I’d have to ask if you found anything, and if you did I’d have to ask what. I’d be exposed to illegally obtained evidence, and some jerk lawyer would make a fruit-of-the-poisonous-tree argument and I’d never get a conviction in this case. True, the police didn’t break into the office building, but some shyster might suggest that I urged my brother-in-law to do this dastardly deed.”
Message received and understood, Ben thought. “Ex-brother-in-law,” he said.
“Right.”
“Anything else?” Ben asked.
“Nope. Just keep me posted, and I’ll do likewise. I’m going to send some more men with Adams’s picture around the neighborhood where we found the body. See if anyone recognizes him.”
“You mean anyone in that neighborhood who will talk to the boys in blue. Lotsa luck.”
“Yeah, exactly. Well, I’ll see you around.” He started out the door. Ben followed him.
“You have a message,” Maggie said as Ben stepped out of his office. “Mr. Derek called in twenty minutes ago. He says he’ll meet you at the courthouse.”
“Twenty minutes ago? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Maggie fluttered her eyelids. “You were in conference.”
Ben rolled his eyes. “Great. See you around, Mike.” He dashed back into his office, grabbed his suit coat and script, and ran for the elevator.
19
BEN DASHED INTO JUDGE Schmidt’s courtroom, briefcase in hand, coat slung over his ar
m. Christina was waiting for him at the plaintiff’s table …
“Where’s Derek?” she asked.
“You mean he’s not here yet?” Ben threw his briefcase and coat in a chair by the table.
“Don’t worry. He works well on his feet. Just get the script out.”
A tiny blonde in a plain red dress walked up to the table. Her hair was disarranged, and she looked as if she hadn’t slept in several nights. Mascara had been applied to her eyes with an unsteady hand.
“Where is he?” the woman asked.
Ben looked up. “Mrs. Derek!” He corrected himself. “Louise.”
“Where is he?” she repeated.
“You mean Mr. Derek?” Ben exchanged a glance with Christina. “He’s not here yet. He’s still … not here yet.”
Louise released a short, bitter laugh. “He’s not at home. He hasn’t been home all night.”
“I see,” Ben said, nodding his head. He drummed his fingers on the table. What to say, what to say? “Can I … give Mr. Derek a message when he arrives?”
Louise was staring at Christina. “You’re the one, aren’t you?”
Christina pressed her hand against her chest. “Me? No, I’m not … I mean, I don’t know what you mean, but whatever you mean, it isn’t me.”
Louise repeated the bitter laugh. “I don’t suppose you’d admit it if you were. I couldn’t even expect him to commit adultery in an honorable fashion.”
She returned her gaze to Ben. “Yes, you can take a message. On one of those little pink sheets of paper. Check the box labeled no return call required. This is my message: don’t come home—we don’t want you.” She took a deep breath. “Ever.”
With that, she pivoted on her heels and marched out of the courtroom.
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