“Have you seen Christina yet this morning?” Ben asked breathlessly.
Maggie raised her head slowly and peered at him, squinting her eyes. “I haven’t seen her.”
“Call her at home.”
Maggie shook her head. “Mr. Derek told me to keep the line open—”
Reaching over her typewriter, Ben picked up the phone receiver and shoved it under Maggie’s chin. “Call her!” he shouted.
Maggie’s eyes narrowed. Then, after glancing at the list taped to her desk, she dialed the number. “No answer,” she said after a moment.
Ben pounded his fist against her desk. “Damn, damn, damn!”
Maggie exhaled slowly. “She’s in the library,” she said at last.
“What?”
“She left a note on my desk this morning. She’s in the library.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
Maggie looked down at her magazine. “You didn’t ask if I knew where she was. You asked if I had seen her.”
After two weeks of wondering, Ben suddenly understood how a man could be driven to kill. Suppressing his temper, he ran down the corridor and into the library.
Christina was standing in the stacks beside the Supreme Court reporters, wearing her green Robin Hood outfit.
“Christina!” Ben shouted. Several associates sitting at the reference table looked up. “Thank God you’re here.”
“Ben! How did it go?”
“Fine.” He walked over to her. “Just fine.”
“I called your place late last night but you weren’t there.”
“Yeah, I was—”
“Is something wrong? You look really strung out.”
“I was just worried. “
Christina’s brow knitted. “What’s happened, Ben?”
“Brancusci is dead.”
Christina’s hands slowly dropped to her side. “My God,” she whispered. “Did you get the—”
“No. I think that’s why he was killed.”
Christina looked at him but didn’t say anything.
“Look, Christina, I need your help.”
She nodded. “Serving you always gives me that special joie de vivre.”
“Then find out where Brancusci lived. Go there and wait for the police to arrive. Don’t go in until they get there. It’s not safe. I want you to help them search. Mike will okay it. You know more about this case than they do; you’ll know what to look for. See if you can find those records or anything that might tell us who Brancusci met last night.”
“Got it. Then what?”
“Then go over to apartment 724 at the Malador and wait for me. You know the way. And”—he paused, unable to think of a diplomatic way to put it—“bring some women’s clothing. I don’t know the exact size. She’s a little shorter than you, and about the same weight. Just take some stuff that doesn’t have to fit too well. Everything—from the undies out.”
“Got it.”
And thanks for not asking, Ben thought. “I want you to call Maggie every half hour, on the half hour. Instruct her that if you don’t call on the half hour, she’s to call the police immediately. Understand? Immediately.”
Christina’s lips turned up slightly. “You were worried about me, weren’t you?”
“I just … If the killer knew about me, he could know about you. Be careful, okay?”
“You got it,” she said, smiling.
Ben turned and dashed back into the corridor.
As he passed Maggie, she announced, “Mr. Derek wants to speak to you.”
“It’ll have to wait.”
Maggie was insistent. “He wanted to see you as soon as you came in.”
“Tell him to stick it in his bad ear,” Ben said. “I have something else I have to do.”
39
THE FOUR MEN SAT in Sanguine’s office and stared at one another; Ben and Mike were in the chairs facing Sanguine’s desk, while Tidwell stood faithfully at his master’s side. The atmosphere was thick and heavy. No lawyer jokes today.
“Perhaps you misunderstood one of your professors in law school, Mr. Kincaid,” Sanguine said. “You see, in-house counsel is supposed to be an advocate for the corporation and its employees, not against them.”
“I never accepted that job,” Ben replied bitterly.
“God knows everyone at Raven thinks you accepted it,” Sanguine countered. “You still work for the Raven firm, don’t you? You go where the firm tells you to go and do what the firm tells you to do, right?”
“I never accepted that job.”
“Pity,” Sanguine said, glancing at Tidwell. “You may need a job soon.” He put his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “I’m going to have to have a chat with Dick Derek. Promises were made; gifts were exchanged. God knows I’ve done enough for Derek in his time.”
He crossed and uncrossed his legs, with an exaggerated air of ease. “Well then, gentlemen, let’s see the evidence. I’m not going to try to obstruct justice. Show me the proof. Show me this corruption festering in the bowels of my company.”
Ben clenched his teeth. The man knew damn well they didn’t have the financial records. At best, they had a coded summary that could be interpreted by Sanguine flunkies to say anything. Sanguine was just playing games with them.
“We’re not prepared to preview our case at this time for your amusement,” Mike replied. “But I can assure you that I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think the evidence against your company and against you personally was substantial.”
“In other words, no evidence,” Sanguine said, making a check mark with a pencil on his desk blotter. “Got any witnesses?”
Ben could not restrain himself. “There’s no one left who can testify against you, you bloodsucker. You’ve taken care of that. But you won’t stay lucky forever. We’ve found Catherine.”
Sanguine displayed no outward emotion. “Catherine?”
“Yeah, we’ve found that disgusting little hovel at the Malador where you’ve been keeping her. She’s in pretty pathetic shape. She’s scared to death—afraid to go out, even afraid to talk. You did a fabulous job on her.” Ben took a deep breath. He had gone too far to stop. “It won’t last, though. We’re going to trace the rental payments on the apartment back to you, if we have to subpoena every check you’ve ever written. We’re going to work with Catherine, too. She’ll recover—I know she will. And when she does, she’ll start to talk.” Ben pushed himself forward in his chair. “Then where will you be, Mr. Sanguine?”
Sanguine went through the motion of stifling a yawn. “Tidwell,” he said, drowsily, “get me the file on rental properties maintained by the corporation.”
“Certainly.” Tidwell scurried out of the office.
Sanguine returned his attention to Ben. “Do you have any idea how much real estate this company owns?” He paused. “Well, you should. Your firm secured most of it for us. And a lot of that property is rental property. We use some of it for storage, some for branch office space, some for staff support and low-cost staff residences. I employ over three thousand people in Tulsa alone, Mr. Kincaid. Maybe we do rent some space at the … what is it? … Malador Apartments. Frankly, I haven’t the slightest idea. Do you really suppose that I know who’s living at every single property?”
“I think you know who’s living in this one,” Ben said quietly.
Sanguine stretched out his arms and propped up his feet. “You really should have become in-house counsel here, Kincaid. It would have yanked you out of this caped-crusader mindset and given you a strong dose of reality, something you sorely need.”
“I think this is getting away from the point,” Mike said. “Mr. Sanguine, two of your employees have been murdered in a two-week span. Surely you can understand our concern. One man was slain just as he was about to provide documentary evidence to the police—”
“Is Kincaid here with the police now?”
Mike hesitated. “He’s … working as a special investigator. Doesn’t t
he coincidence strike you as the least bit suspicious, Mr. Sanguine? Two of your employees in one month? Victims of very similar murders?”
Sanguine shrugged his shoulders. “As I said, Lieutenant Morelli, I employ over three thousand persons. I’m sorry two of them have died, but I hardly think it’s evidence of a gigantic conspiracy. And I don’t see how you became convinced the trail leads back to me. I barely even knew this last man, this …” He searched his memory for the name unsuccessfully. “… the accountant. And I can’t help it if Jonathan Adams liked to hang out in chain-and-leather biker bars.”
Ben felt his blood beginning to boil. “Someone lured Adams to the Red Parrot,” he said evenly. “Someone set up a meeting there. Someone with dark hair.”
Sanguine laughed heartily. “Oh well,” he said, wiping his eyes. “That proves it was me.”
“Mr. Sanguine,” Mike said coolly, “I suggest you take this matter seriously.”
“Why should I take this seriously? You barge in here in the middle of the working day, making the most outrageous accusations with a straight face, and you haven’t got the slightest shred of evidence. And no witnesses. You haven’t got anything but one snot-nosed kid who’s supposed to be on my payroll who doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about!”
He pointed angrily toward Mike. “I’ll tell you what, Lieutenant. I’ll give you what you want. I will take this seriously, and deal with it like I would any other threat to my business. I’m calling my lawyers in now, and they’ll spin you and your gang of civil servants around so fast you won’t know what hit you. A lawsuit for harassment, just for starters, with maybe some civil rights claims thrown in for good measure. Your department will wish you’d never been born.”
He jerked his finger in Ben’s direction. “And you! I’m going to file a bar complaint against you, Kincaid. You’ve been acting as my lawyer and trusted counselor and at the same time using my privileged confidences to nail me to the wall. I’d call that a serious conflict of interest and I think the committee will, too. You’ll never practice law again, kid.”
He returned the threatening finger to Mike. “Which reminds me, Lieutenant. I’m registering a formal complaint against you with your superior officer. That would be Chief Blackwell, right? Guess what? The chief and I are old fishing buddies. We play golf together at Southern Hills several times a year. You may be on permanent traffic duty real soon, pal. Or walking the beat with the street cops. And I have friends on the streets. They’ll be watching for you.” He reached into the humidor on his desk for a cigar. “This might be an advantageous time for you to consider another line of work. Maybe you could get into law school, Lieutenant.” A quick look at Ben. “They’re evidently not too particular these days.”
Ben closed his eyes. How in the name of God did this happen? They came in here from a position of strength to force Sanguine to talk, but it was clear that Sanguine had the upper hand. He was twisting them around like Silly Putty.
A beeping noise emerged from the telephone on Sanguine’s desk. Still washed with fury, Sanguine punched a button on the phone and turned up the volume on the intercom. “What the hell is it?” he shouted.
A female voice emerged from the speaker box. “Uh … I have the report on the Phoenix franchise you requested, sir.”
Ben sat upright in his chair. A sudden chill shot through his body.
“My God, we’ve got to get out of here,” Ben said, rising to his feet and grabbing his coat.
“What are you talking about?” Mike asked. “We can’t leave now. Don’t be such a—”
“I can’t wait,” Ben said, already halfway out of the office. “It may be too late already.”
40
IN HIS MAD DASH from the office, Ben neglected to have his parking ticket validated by the receptionist. As a result, he wasted nearly ten minutes before the parking guard would let him out of the Sanguine parking lot. He drove crosstown like a lunatic. Heavy lunch-hour traffic was just beginning to clog the main streets. Every light seemed to turn the wrong color at the wrong time and sometimes Ben even stopped for them. He raced through the intersection of Sixty-first Street and Riverside Drive and sped north onto Riverside. He heard an angry cacophony of horns and squealing tires behind him. He didn’t look back.
He drove his Honda beside the parking garage of the Malador Apartments and swerved sideways, blocking the only exit from the garage. He leapt out of the car, hopped over the brick wall, and ran toward the elevator shaft. How long had he and Mike been at Sanguine’s office? Almost an hour now. Damn. He pushed the UP button and waited, barely able to hold still. Come on! He would have shouted if he’d thought it would help.
A bell sounded, and the elevator doors swung open.
Tidwell was in the elevator, in front of a large, middle-aged woman with a beehive hairdo and an enormous purse. Tidwell saw Ben and froze. Ben stepped into the elevator. The woman standing behind Tidwell did not understand. Finally, when Tidwell didn’t move out of the way, she tried to move around him.
Tidwell stretched his left arm across the elevator, blocking her path.
“Let her off,” Ben said evenly.
Tidwell dropped his arm, and the woman stepped around him. Suddenly, Tidwell grabbed the woman by her right arm and, placing his foot at the base of her spine, kicked her toward Ben. Ben fell backward but braced himself by stretching his arm across the opening of the elevator. Tidwell tried to rush out under his right arm, but Ben grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him back into the elevator. Tidwell’s head banged against the wall, and his body fell. The elevator bell rang again, and the doors closed, trapping the three of them together.
“Please don’t hurt me,” the woman said, her face washed with fear. She was crouched in the corner, trying to hide behind her purse. “I just want off.”
Ben pushed the button for the seventh floor and turned to face Tidwell, still lying on the floor next to the wall. “What have you done, you son of a bitch?” He grabbed Tidwell by the collar of his jacket and shook him.
In one smooth continuous motion, Tidwell reached into his inside jacket pocket and withdrew a large kitchen knife. The woman screamed. It was the knife, Ben realized. Ben grabbed Tidwell’s wrist with both hands and slammed it against the wall of the elevator. Tidwell’s grip held tight.
Once more the elevator bell rang, and the doors opened.
The woman screamed and bolted out of the elevator.
“Help!” she screamed. The couple waiting to get in saw the two men wrestling in the elevator and, after a second, hurried away.
“Call the police!” Ben shouted, trying not to lose his grip. His knees were beginning to buckle under the strong downward pressure. Tidwell was a hell of a lot stronger than he looked.
Tidwell tightened his free hand into a fist and smashed it against Ben’s right ear. Ben cried out. His grip involuntarily loosened. Tidwell twisted his wrist free and brought the blade of the knife down into the soft underside of Ben’s upper right arm. Ben screamed in pain. Light bulbs seemed to flash in front of his eyes, and he felt himself falling. He fell backward, as if seating himself on the floor of the elevator. Tidwell stepped toward him and pulled back his knife to strike.
At that moment the bell rang, and the elevator doors began to close. Tidwell turned his head and, stretching his knife hand between the doors, he slapped the safety bumper and reopened the doors.
Ben didn’t waste a second. Pulling himself up by the metal rail, he rose to his feet and, while Tidwell’s hand was still outside the doors, he swung his fist into Tidwell’s nose. Tidwell yelled. Blood began to spurt from his nostrils. The elevator doors opened, and Ben raced through.
Holding his bleeding arm close against his body, Ben ran to the closed door of apartment 724. The door was unlocked. Ben ran inside and tried to bolt the door, but before he could, the full force of Tidwell’s body slammed against the other side of the door, knocking Ben back into an end table next to the sofa. A large brass lamp fell onto
the floor with a crash.
Ben ran backward into the living room, combing the room for a weapon. He remembered how, years ago, Mike had tried to teach him some rudimentary jujitsu and how Ben had laughed at the macho pretense of it all. Times like this he could use some macho pretense.
Tidwell came through the door, his knife poised above his right shoulder. His face was wet and transformed into a grotesque death mask. Sweat was dripping from the dunning hair on the sides of his head. Tidwell wiped the blood from his face with his sleeve, but it continued to trickle out of his nostrils. Dark shadows were forming beneath his eyes. If Ben had not already known who he was, he would not have recognized him.
Ben grabbed the brass lamp from where it had fallen next to the sofa, yanked the cord out of the wall and pulled off the shade. He smashed the end of the bulb against the table, leaving cut and jagged pieces of glass and tungsten exposed. He held the base with both hands and swung the lamp between Tidwell and himself. His right arm was weak with pain and could barely support the weight.
He gritted his teeth and held tight to the lamp. As stupid as he felt brandishing a lamp, Ben realized that the lamp had more reach than Tidwell’s knife.
Tidwell stopped creeping forward and smiled. “I could throw the knife,” Tidwell said, smiling grotesquely, with blood-smeared teeth.
“You’ll have to kill me on your first throw,” Ben said. “Because if you miss, you’re a dead man.” He realized how heavily he was breathing and tried to control it. “Where’s the nurse?”
Tidwell continued to smile. “I gave her the day off.”
“Catherine!” Ben shouted. “Get out of here!” There was no response.
The two men stared at one another across the room, both breathing with loud, heaving gasps. Tidwell ran his palm across his face again, wiping away the excess sweat and blood. The blood was beginning to dry and coagulate beneath his nose; it was turning a sickening black color.
Ben was suddenly aware of the steady flow of blood from his own upper right arm. The blood had saturated his shirt sleeve and was beginning to drip onto the carpet. His right arm was tingling and becoming numb. He knew he wouldn’t be able to hold the heavy lamp in midair for long. All Tidwell had to do was wait.
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