Silent Justice: A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense bk-9

by William Bernhardt

  Who was he kidding? Every time he took a plaintiff case he ended up losing money—even when he won. And he didn’t do much better with criminal work. He’d been practicing for years now, and at best he’d managed to survive. Whatever the secret of making money practicing law was, he didn’t know it.

  The boiler room was the only part of the ship Ben hadn’t already explored. Normally, mechanical things didn’t interest him, but in this case, he was fascinated. He liked just listening to it—the swish-swish, pump-pump of the pistons, or whatever they were. The hum of the engine. Inhaling the faint but distinct odor of gasoline and oil.

  He noticed the closed hatch at the far end of the room. Probably nothing there, but he couldn’t resist looking. He was in his Curious George mode; a closed door was just an invitation.

  He opened the hatch and found a small closet almost completely filled by a metal tank. Some kind of boiler, he guessed. But something else caught his attention.

  There was a paper bag on the ground, large, and apparently filled. Odd, but he probably would’ve ignored it—if he hadn’t noticed one word written on the side of the bag.

  Blaylock.

  Blaylock? Had Matthews brought some of his work along with him? That diehard. He couldn’t quit working even when the case was won.

  Ben picked up the bag and peeked inside. It was not legal work. Ben was no financial genius, but these appeared to be negotiable bonds, issued by some foreign government. Each one bore a face value of one hundred thousand dollars. And there were lots of them. Lots and lots.

  Ben’s eyes expanded. There must be millions of dollars in bonds here. How on earth did Matthews come by that kind of money? And why would it be tossed haphazardly in the boiler closet?

  He turned—then jumped so high he almost hit the ceiling.

  Matthews was standing right behind him.

  “I really wish you hadn’t found those,” Matthews said.

  Chapter 49

  MIKE BLAZED DOWN THE highway toward town, burning rubber every time he made a turn.

  “Which dock is it?” he growled. “Think!”

  Fred pressed his hands against his forehead. “I don’t remember exactly. I’ve only been there once, and that was years ago.”

  “That’s not good enough!”

  “You’re with the government. Can’t you just … call someone? See where it’s registered?”

  “In the morning, maybe. In the middle of the night, no. So I’m counting on you to tell me what I want to know. Think! Think hard!”

  “I’m trying!” Fred turned and stared out the passenger-side window. “I think it started with an M.”

  “I need more!” Mike pulled the steering wheel around hard, screeching as he made a sharp right turn.

  “If your friend doesn’t know about the bonds, there’s no reason to think he’s in trouble.”

  “There is. Ben Kincaid is like a magnet for trouble. He has an unequalled knack for getting himself into it—and a near total inability to get himself out of it.”

  “Still, there’s no proof that—”

  “I not going to sit on my butt while my friend dines with a mass murderer!”

  Fred withdrew into his seat. “Okay.….”

  “So you’re going to think, and think hard!” Mike bellowed. “I want the name of the dock where Matthews keeps his yacht. And I want it now!”

  Even though he hadn’t begun to fit all the pieces together, Ben instinctively understood that if he didn’t get out of that boiler room fast, he never would. He rushed forward, tackling Matthews around the waist. Unfortunately, there was little room for either of them to move. Matthews slammed back against the opposite wall, still between Ben and the exit.

  He grabbed Ben by the shoulders and thrust him back. For a professor, he was surprisingly strong. Ben slammed against the boiler closet, headfirst.

  “I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I told you I won the lottery,” Matthews said dryly.

  Ben wiped a trickle of blood from the back of his head. “That money came from the Blaylock company.”

  Matthews frowned. “I suppose technically that’s correct.”

  “You stole it. Millions of dollars.”

  “I did not steal it.” His face became rigid. “They owed me!”

  “Owed you? But—”

  “I used to work for them. In the legal department. I was on the fast track to a vice presidency. Till they fired me!”

  Ben glanced at the exit, still blocked by Matthews. Since there didn’t appear to be any way he could get out of here, he might as well stall for time. “Why did they fire you?”

  “For telling the truth.”

  “There must be more to it than that!”

  Matthews made a snorting noise. “I expected better from you, Kincaid. After all you’ve been through with Blaylock.”

  Ben’s eyes crinkled around the edges. “Are you talking about the blue report?”

  “Of course I’m talking about the blue report!” he shouted. “I wrote the blue report! And it cost me my job!”

  “You,” Ben whispered. “It was you.”

  “Damn straight it was me. I told you I did some work for Blaylock in the past, remember? Small wonder I was anxious to join your team and go after Blaylock. I knew damn well they poisoned the water supply. They knew it, too; they just didn’t want to admit it.”

  “But why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I couldn’t. I signed a confidentiality agreement when I left the company, in exchange for a measly severance package. If I had violated the agreement, the report would’ve been excluded. And I would’ve been kicked off the case. Maybe you, too.”

  “But you still had the report?”

  “Yes. They thought they confiscated all the copies, but I still had one. And when it became clear we were hosed without it, I dug it up and sent it to Colby’s associate. I’d watched him in the courtroom; I knew he was wrestling with his conscience. I sent it to him—anonymously—and he sent it to you, the same way. No one knew I was involved.”

  “So you were the source?”

  “True. You owe your whole great success to me.” He lowered his gaze. “Now give me that merchandise.”

  “Merchandise?” Something clicked in the back of Ben’s brain, something he’d wondered about for many months, since that fateful day he’d agreed to fill in for The Tiger.…

  “Give it to me,” Matthews insisted.

  “This is the merchandise?” Ben held tight to the bag. “You were in on it. With Fenton, and The Tiger.”

  “Don’t be too smart for your own good, Kincaid.”

  Ben’s lips parted as the horrifying truth set in. “You killed them. All those Blaylock employees. You killed them for the same reason James Fenton held us hostage. You were after the contents of this bag. The merchandise.”

  Matthews rushed him. Ben was knocked back against the metal tank. His head slammed back, making a harsh clanging sound.

  “Why did you have to be so goddamn clever?” Matthews said, grabbing Ben by the collar. “Why couldn’t you just drink your champagne and keep your nose out of other people’s business? Do you think I want to kill you? Don’t you know how tired of this I am?”

  Ben tried to push him away, but he hadn’t the strength.

  Matthews brought back his fist and knocked Ben in the jaw, hard. “Stupid meddling son of a bitch.” He stood up, then reached for something inside his coat.

  A long, sharpened knife.

  “I had expected to use this on dinner,” he said, taking a deliberate step toward Ben. “Dinner will have to wait.”

  ”Mermaid!” Fred said triumphantly. “Mermaid Lagoon. Or something like that.”

  Mike gritted his teeth. “ "Something like that," isn’t good enough.”

  “I’m sure that was it,” Fred said. “Pretty sure, anyway. I remember they had a masthead with a redheaded mermaid. Cute, busty little thing.”

  Mike pulled over to the nearest convenience store and sl
ammed on the brakes. Just outside, he saw a pay phone which, mercifully enough, still had its phone book intact. He flipped over to the Ms, found what he wanted, and tore the sheet out.

  He raced back to the car. “Could that possibly be Mermaid Cove?”

  Fred’s eyes brightened. “Yes. Exactly. Isn’t that what I said?”

  “It’s on something called Pontoon Plaza. Got any idea where that is?”

  “Jeez, it’s been so long since I came out this way—”

  Mike grabbed him by the shirt and shook him. “My friends are in the hands of a homicidal maniac. Do you think you can get me there?”

  Fred swallowed. “Of course I can. Let’s go.”

  Matthews was moving toward Ben, knife at the ready. Ben was still lying on the floor, pinned against the closet. He saw only one possible opening. Trite as it was, it was his only shot. He clenched both hands together and brought them up as hard as he could in Matthews’s groin.

  Matthews screamed. Ben scrambled forward on all fours, moving out of reach just seconds before the knife fell.

  Ben crawled as fast as he could, but Matthews grabbed the heel of his foot. Ben fell forward, flat on his face. Matthews was still wincing with pain. Ben took advantage. He rammed his elbow back into Matthews’s face. Matthews screamed again, and Ben got the half-second he needed to jump to his feet and run.

  He raced through the bulkhead door, carrying the bag of bonds with him, and onto the metal deck, toward the gunnel. He knew Matthews had the edge. It was his ship, after all, he knew it much better than Ben. For all its spaciousness, there weren’t that many places to go. And Ben couldn’t leave the ship—they were parked somewhere in the middle of the ocean. He could try to swim to shore, but he knew the odds of making it were slim. Especially if Matthews started up the yacht and mowed him down.

  No doubt about it—he was trapped but good.

  Ben clambered up the ladder, moving so quickly he banged his head on a metal panel. The pain made his vision blur, but he ignored it. He had to figure some way out of this. Somewhere to go, something to do …

  “I’m coming after you, Kincaid!” He heard the voice below him and it chilled his blood. “There’s nowhere you can go.”

  Ben threw open the door to the main cabin and ran inside.

  “Christina!”

  She wasn’t there, damn it. The two candles were still burning bright on the tabletop. A half-empty champagne flute indicated where she’d been.

  “Christina!” He had to let her know what they were up against. Besides, she was the smart one in the team. Surely she could think of some way out.

  “Christina!”

  She was gone. Worse, his shouting would lead Matthews straight to him. There were few enough hiding places on this boat without him helping the killer locate him. He started back toward the door—

  Just in time to see Matthews coming at him, barely five feet away. Ben tried to slam the metal door shut, but Matthews got his shoe wedged into it.

  “Give it up, Ben,” Matthews said, just outside the door. “There’s nowhere you can go.”

  Ben strained with all his might, but he couldn’t close the door. Desperate, he reached over to the table and grabbed one of the candles, still lit, and shoved it through.

  “Ow!” Matthews’s foot withdrew. His hand shot out, knocking the candle out of Ben’s hand. Ben shoved the door closed, then tried to turn the friction handles to seal it. Before he could turn them, though, he felt the pressure on the other side remounting.

  Matthews was slamming himself against the door.

  Ben glanced over his shoulder. The candle had landed on the table. The tablecloth was burning.

  “It’s no use!” Matthews bellowed. “Give it up!”

  “The cabin’s on fire!” Ben cried back. “If you don’t stop, your yacht will go up in flames!”

  “I want those bonds!”

  “If you don’t put away the knife, I’ll toss them into the fire!”

  Matthews’s only response was to pound against the metal door all the harder. Ben clenched his teeth and tried to hold firm, but he knew he couldn’t keep this up forever. Eventually, Matthews would break through.

  The fire was spreading. Ben wanted to put it out while there was still time, but he couldn’t let up on the door.

  An idea came to him. It was inevitable that Matthews would get in. Maybe he should bow to the inevitable—at least for a moment.

  Ben gave it up. He released the pressure on his side of the door.

  The door began to open. Ben waited until he saw Matthews’s hand cautiously slip through the opening …

  Then slammed the door shut, hard. Right on Matthews’s hand.

  Matthews screamed like a banshee. Which was fine with Ben. Besides the fact that it meant Matthews was in pain, which was good, Christina would surely hear it and know something was amiss.

  “You’ll pay for this, Kincaid!” On the other side, Ben heard the clanging of heavy footsteps on the metal floor.

  Ben braced himself, waiting for the reprisal. But nothing came. The pressure on the other side of the door was gone.

  What was the son of a bitch up to now?

  After a long moment, he cracked the door open. Matthews was gone, both he and the knife. Why?

  The answer hit him like an atom bomb.

  He was going after Christina.

  Where was she? He peered through the glass ceiling to the deck above. He couldn’t see it all, but what he did see did not contain Christina.

  He left the cabin and raced down the ladder. Most likely Christina had retreated to one of the private bedrooms. Maybe she had a headache, needed to lie down. He raced across the scaffold, opening every door and peering inside.

  No Christina. And no Matthews, either.

  Panic was setting in. He felt his heart pounding, practically beating its way out of his chest. What had he done? What had he done to Christina?

  He smelled smoke; the fire in the main cabin must be spreading. Damn! As if they didn’t have enough problems already.

  He spotted the ladder that led to the upper deck. Maybe Christina was up there; maybe she wanted to stargaze or commune with her inner self or some such.

  He clambered up the ladder, checking behind him with every other step. Still no sign of Matthews. But Ben knew he couldn’t be far away.

  He reached the top of the ladder and threw himself on top of the deck.

  “Hello, Ben. Glad to see you.”

  It was Matthews. He was ahead of him. Just as he’d been all along.

  He was holding Christina tight, one arm pinned behind her back.

  And the knife pressed against her throat.

  Mike pounded on the door. “Wake up! Police!”

  Fred stood nervously behind him. “Maybe there’s no one in there.”

  “There is someone in there,” Mike growled. “He just doesn’t want to come to the door.”

  “That might have something to do with the fact that it’s the middle of the night.”

  “I don’t give a damn if it’s the middle of Armageddon.” Mike pounded again, so hard the door almost splintered. “Wake up!”

  A few moments later, an elderly man in a bathrobe hobbled to the door. “Yes?”

  Mike didn’t hold back an instant. “Are you in charge of this dock?”

  The man’s eyes, barely open to begin with, narrowed. “We’re not open. Come back at eight.”

  “I can’t wait till eight.”

  “We’re not open!”

  Mike whipped out his badge. “If I say you’re open, you’re open.”

  The man bristled. “What’s this about? If this is about that goddamned Sam Bullfinch and his fishing license—”

  “It isn’t. Have you got a yacht owned by a man named Jack Matthews?”

  “He docks here, yeah.”

  “Where’s the boat? Show me.”

  “Can’t. He took it out tonight.”

  Mike’s head felt so tight he thought it
might explode at any moment. “Where? Where did he go?”

  “How the hell should I know? I’m just a dockmaster. They don’t have to file a flight plan before they take off.”

  Mike laid his hand firmly on the man’s shoulder. “Listen to me, sir. This is very important. I need to know where that boat is.”

  The man put his hands on his hips. “And I’m telling you, mister, I don’t know where it is. And all the badges in the world ain’t gonna change—” He paused, glancing over Mike’s shoulder. “Well, hell, mister. Isn’t that her?”

  Mike whirled around. “What? Where?”

  The man pointed past him, toward the ocean. “Over there. "Bout a thousand yards out or so. See her?”

  Mike squinted. The fog obscured his vision, but when he strained, he could see something in the moonlight. Some kind of ship. A big one.

  “How do I get out there?”

  “Well, I’m no expert,” the old man said dryly. “But I think you probably need a boat.”

  “Where do I get a boat?”

  “Beats me. The boat store?”

  Mike leaned in to the man so close he had no room to hide, barely enough to breathe. “Listen to me, old man. This may be amusing the hell out of you, but I’m not laughing. I’m not laughing because my friends are on that boat and they’re in danger. And so help me, you will get me out there, if I have to strap oars to your sides and row you like a boat!”

  The old man drew his head back. “Well, jeez Louise,” he muttered. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

  I’m sorry it has to end like this,” Matthews said, his knife still firmly pressed against Christina’s throat. “I enjoyed working with you, and hoped we’d do it again. And I’m tired of killing. I admit, it was fun for a while. It was a release, a release of so much that had been pent up so long. But I thought it was over. I hoped never to do it again.”

  The bizarre thing was, the man actually sounded sincere. “Then don’t,” Ben said. “Don’t kill anyone. Most especially, don’t kill Christina.”