“Very literary,” Ben replied. “I can see what attracted you to him.”
“So he wasn’t a philosophy major. Tony was a courteous, harmless man.”
“So you thought, anyway. I’m going to interview your boss and the other two as soon as possible.”
“What about Mrs. Lombardi, Tony’s widow?”
“What about her?”
“You need to check her out, too.”
“Why?”
“Just a hunch. Cherchez la femme.”
“Yeah—as long as you’re not the femme.”
The phone rang. Jones picked it up. “It’s the lab.”
Ben took the call. After a few minutes, he thanked the person on the other end and hung up. “Totally inconclusive,” he announced. “We waited too long to have the blood sample taken. Damn. Now I’m going to have to try to get access to the government’s test results.”
“The lab found nothing at all?”
“There were strong residual traces of alcohol in your bloodstream that could indicate you were drugged, perhaps with chloral hydrate, a sedative-hypnotic. It has an elimination half-life of four to twelve hours, depending upon the dosage, so it could easily put you out for six hours. On the other hand, the residual alcohol could just indicate that you were drinking. Which you were.”
“Not that much,” Christina insisted. “I hadn’t had more than a few sips before I was out.”
“But how do we prove that to the jury?” Ben glanced at his notes. “Chloral hydrate is a relatively common drug, something anyone with criminal connections could lay their hands on. It has a sickening sweet taste, but that would probably be masked by the rosé you were drinking. Oh, and it smells like perfume.”
Christina blinked. An errant thought skipped through her head, but it was gone before she could capture it.
“They did a urine test with a barbiturate screen, but it was inconclusive. Again, it came too late.”
“I know I didn’t drink enough to have alcohol show up in my blood almost forty-eight hours later,” Christina said.
“You know it and I know it, but so what? The bottom line is: the test doesn’t prove anything. We have no evidence.” He threw himself back on the sofa. “Are you sure you don’t remember anything else that happened Monday night?”
“My memory’s fuzzy. I went over to see Tony. He wasn’t home. I waited for him.”
“Spud says you seemed upset with Tony.”
“Well, I was a little put out about having to meet him at his apartment. It’s not even within the Tulsa city limits.”
“I see. Did you eat or drink anything in his apartment? Other than the rosé?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Okay. Jones, draft another motion. I want that rosé and the carafe tested.”
“Got it, Boss.”
“What else can you remember, Christina?”
“That’s about it. I watched TV awhile, drank, then conked out. I mean totally. And I had the weirdest dream. Really bizarro. Something about swimming and…Frosty the Snowman.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me. Frosty the Snowman. You know”—she began to sing—“with a corncob pipe and two eyes made out of coal.”
“You’re lucky I’m a lawyer, not a psychiatrist.”
“Yeah. Anyway, you know the rest. I woke up and poked around like an idiot. The FBI goons came in, roughed me up, and hauled me off to the slammer.”
“Got all that, Jones?”
Jones nodded.
“If you think of anything else, write it down immediately, or tell Jones or me.”
“Okay.”
“I need some hard evidence before the hearing on Friday. With any luck, we can shut down this dog-and-pony show before it goes to trial.”
“Sounds good to me,” Christina said. “What should I do in the meantime?”
Ben considered her question. “I think you should either fry them, or collect their eggs, depending on which they are. Jones will know. He’s a country boy.”
Ben held the small brown package about a foot away from him. Although it was somewhat heavy, he preferred not to brace the weight against his body. The further away, the better.
He walked next door to the B & J Pawn Shop and peered through the iron bars. Excellent. Burris was in.
He pushed open the door, ringing the cowbell. The proprietor, Burris Judd (he was both the B and the J), was standing behind the counter.
Burris looked up. His face seemed to contract; his eyes became narrow slits. “What do you want?” The hostility was unmistakable.
Ben plopped his package down on the counter. “You’ll never guess what I got in the mail today, Burris.”
Burris scratched his stubbled chin. “How the hell would I know what you got in the mail?”
“Like I said, you’ll never guess.” Ben started to open the box.
Burris’s eyes lit up. “Now wait just a cotton pickin’ minute. What do you think you’re doin’?”
“You don’t want me to open this in your shop, do you? Kind of odd, since you don’t know what’s in it.”
“I’ve got customers to attend to, shyster. If you’ll excuse me.”
Ben scanned the small, otherwise empty pawn shop. “Looks like it’s just you and me from where I’m standing, Burris.” He pointed at the box and whispered. “It’s a gopher.”
“That a fact.”
“Yup. What’s worse, it’s a dead gopher.”
“Do tell.”
“Yup. Somebody shot it dead. With a Smith and Wesson .44. Can you imagine?”
“Nope.”
“What I really liked, Burris, was that it was sent Fourth Class—Book Rate, so it could decompose for at least two weeks before it arrived.”
“Don’t know what you’re botherin’ me for, Kincaid. Probably a gift from one of your low-life clients.”
“I have some strange clients, Burris, but I’m not aware of one with a gopher fetish. And I can’t imagine why a client would want to kill a gopher, much less send it to me.”
Burris rolled his tongue around in his mouth. “Them gophers is a pernicious breed. They’ve been raisin’ hell in my backyard.”
“So I’ve been informed. And that, coupled with your access to about five hundred or so Smith and Wessons right here in your shop and your predilection for juvenile terrorism, made me think it was just possible you were my mystery correspondent.”
“And what if I am?”
“Transporting dead gophers through the U.S. Mail is against federal law.”
“What law?”
“I don’t exactly know, but I’m confident that if I spent an hour or so in the library I could find one.”
“Wouldn’t be surprised if you did take me to court. You ain’t shown much judgment about selecting your cases in the past.”
Ah, the truth at last. About three months earlier Ben had represented a deadbeat named Hal Utley who was being sued by Burris. Utley bought a used black-and-white television from Burris on credit, sold it, then stopped making his payments. Burris sued in Small Claims to collect the debt. Ben managed to salvage Utley’s case, principally because Burris had lost the paperwork and was charging a legally unconscionable rate of interest. It was his own fault, but of course Burris didn’t see it that way.
Ever since the day of the trial, Ben had been the victim of Burris’s adolescent assaults. Toilet paper, eggs. Shoe polish on Ben’s car. One day a confused handyman showed up to install a Jacuzzi in Ben’s office; another day eighteen pizzas were delivered within half an hour. The gopher gambit was the most creative stroke yet.
“Tell you what, Burris,” Ben said. “You answer some questions for me, and I’ll forget about this incident.”
“I don’t know nothin’ about nothin’.”
“Ah, but this question falls squarely within your field of expertise.”
“And what might that be?”
“Smuggling.”
Burris pointed
toward the door. “Git out of here, Kincaid.”
“Now calm down, Burris. I’m not suggesting that you’d be involved in anything illegal yourself. It’s just that a man in your profession, a man who deals in…valuable goods, is bound to hear about certain nefarious activities. Even if he doesn’t want to.”
“Like what?”
“Like Tony Lombardi’s smuggling pipeline.”
Burris didn’t reply.
“And Albert DeCarlo’s connection to Lombardi’s connection, whatever that was. What do you know about Lombardi?”
Burris gave him a long, stony stare. “And if I help you, you’ll forget about the gopher?” He paused. “Whoever did it.”
“Scout’s honor.”
Burris took a step back from the counter. “I do know that a lot of the boys who worked for Lombardi from time to time used to head out for Creek territory every other Monday night or so. Some of ’em’d come by here beforehand to gun up.”
“And you never asked what they needed guns for?”
Burris examined his fingernails. “Figgered they was goin’ rabbit huntin’.”
I’ll just bet you did. “When you say Creek territory, do you mean the tribal lands where Lombardi was killed?”
“No. Further north.” He unfolded a map of Oklahoma and pointed. “Out in the wild country. No roads, no houses. No witnesses.”
“Have any idea what they were doing out there?”
“Nope. Nor would I care to speculate.”
Ben realized he had extracted as much information as he was likely to get. “Burris, I appreciate your assistance. It was right neighborly of you.” He turned toward the door.
“Wait a goldarned minute,” Burris shouted behind him. “You forgot your package.”
Ben didn’t stop. “Gophers are like pigeons, Burris. They always come home to roost.”
16
BEN ENTERED THE OFFICE lobby of Swayze & Reynolds on the tenth floor of the Oneok Building at two 6 o’ clock sharp and introduced himself to the receptionist, an attractive young woman seated behind a large word-processing terminal.
“Please have a seat,” she said, smiling. “I’ll tell Mr. Reynolds you’re here.”
Ben sat. He watched the receptionist whisper into her intercom. Then she said aloud, “Mr. Reynolds is in conference at the moment, but he’ll be out as soon as he can.”
Liar, Ben thought. He’s going to make me wait just to show what a bigshot he is. Oh well, it’s not the receptionist’s fault. He smiled back.
He scrutinized the exquisitely color-coordinated office. The walls were covered with an ornate burnished wallpaper, muted red with gold flecks, and waist-high wainscoting. Heavy curtains on the windows. Every little expensive doodad and geegaw seemed to be exactly placed. Against the far wall, Ben saw a cabinet displaying several eye-catching objets d’art. He noticed a particularly striking crystal vase, probably Lalique, beside a Baccarat shell sculpture. No doubt about it—this office reeked of money.
Ben continued scanning the room. After a moment, his eyes alighted on the receptionist. She’s looking at me! Ben suddenly realized.
“Can I get you something?” the receptionist asked, still smiling.
“Uh, no,” Ben said.
“All right. But if there’s anything I can do to make you more comfortable, just let me know.” She reached forward for a pencil on the far end of her desk, giving Ben a generous view of her generous cleavage.
This woman is coming on to me! Ben thought, with a sudden flash of happiness and horror. He forced himself to his feet and walked to her desk. He felt his face flushing red. “So…have you been working for Mr. Reynolds long?” Ben could have kicked himself. What lame small talk!
“I just started today,” she said. She had a luminous smile. “Mr. Reynolds was kind enough to give me a job when I needed one.”
“I see. Tell me…” He searched her desk for a name plate.
“Marjorie,” she said.
“Marjorie. Of course. Tell me, Marjorie, do you ever…go to movies or anything like that?”
A tiny wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows. “Sure.” She giggled. “I love movies. Why?”
“Well, I just…” He cleared his throat. “I thought that perhaps you and I—”
A deep voice interrupted Ben’s badinage. “Mr. Kincaid.”
Ben turned and saw Quinn Reynolds standing in the hallway.
“Mr. Reynolds,” Marjorie said, “he’s your two o’ clock.” She rose to her full height.
Ben almost gasped. Marjorie was pregnant, very pregnant. He would’ve guessed ten months, if he hadn’t known that was biologically impossible. She looked perfectly normal from the cleavage up, but once she stood…
“Is something wrong, Mr. Kincaid?” Reynolds asked.
“No, no, no,” Ben said, trying to bring some coherency to his whalelike sputtering. “I just—it was—” He took a deep breath. “Could we go somewhere and talk?”
“Certainly.” Reynolds gestured for Ben to follow him down the long wainscotted hallway.
“I…assume your visit concerns the Simmons case.” Reynolds spoke in a slow, pained manner. Perhaps it was just too terribly hard for him to commune with the commonfolk. “Was there a…problem with the settlement agreement?”
“No. I came to ask you a few questions.”
Reynolds looked at him expressionlessly. “Questions? Hmm.” Listening to Reynolds was like being stuck in traffic. “What…kind of questions?”
“I was curious why you went to Tony Lombardi’s apartment Monday night.”
Even given his slow-as-molasses delivery, Reynolds’s surprise was evident. “I—mmm.” He folded his arms across his chest, flashing his French cuffs, studded links, and Rolex watch.
“You’re not denying it, are you?”
“No. Why should I? I was just…surprised that you were aware of the fact. My wife suggested that something like this could happen. I should have listened to her; she’s the judge.”
Ben wondered how many times in the course of the average conversation Reynolds managed to mention that his wife sat on the Supreme Court. “You are aware that Mr. Lombardi was killed Monday night, aren’t you?”
“Oh yes.” Reynolds unfolded his arms and pressed a finger against his long, thin face. “But why does that concern you, Mr. Kincaid?”
“Didn’t Marjorie tell you? I’m representing your employee, Christina McCall.”
“I see.” Now that Reynolds had the key information, that Ben was handling one of those nasty criminal things, he was able to put Ben into perspective.
Ben glanced at the chairs surrounding a round conference table. “Do you mind if I sit down?”
“How inhospitable of me,” Reynolds said, without much conviction. “Please.” He gestured toward the table.
Reynolds apparently eschewed the traditional desk, with its hierarchal I’m-behind-the-desk, you’re-not implications. He favored the open forum feel of a large round table. How very modern of him, Ben mused. The table was bare, except for a stained glass-paneled lamp and an art deco clock. As he sat, Ben glanced at the feet of the mahogany chairs. He had read somewhere that clawed feet were the indicia of high-quality antique furniture. These chairs qualified.
“I see you’ve noticed the chairs,” Reynolds said. “They’re Chippendale, nineteenth century.” He sighed. “Many people think they’re Louis the Fourteenths, not that the two are at all alike. I much prefer these. French furniture is so…” He waved his hand limply in the air, then shrugged his shoulders. “Well, you know.”
Ben didn’t, but he wasn’t about to admit it. “Is that a Tiffany lamp?”
“Oh yes,” Reynolds said wearily. “Almost required, isn’t it? The clock is an Erte design. My wife commutes to Oklahoma City on a regular basis…when the Court is in session…and she always takes the opportunity to shop the antique dealers.”
That’s two, Ben thought. “Can you tell me what your relationship with Mr. Lombardi is?”
“Was, don’t you mean?”
“Was,” Ben corrected.
“I acted as his attorney.”
“I know you handled that automobile accident litigation. Did you draft his will?”
Reynolds nodded.
“Care to tell me what’s in it?”
“I’m afraid I can’t disclose that.”
“Not even a hint?”
“I can tell you this. I’m the executor of his estate.”
“That means you’ll be receiving all his financial and business records.”
“I already have them. I acted as his …business adviser in many respects. When he was alive.”
“What can you tell me about Lombardi’s business?”
“What…would you like to know?”
“Almost anything would be helpful. I understand he imported parrots?”
“Not exclusively parrots. Many exotic birds.”
“Doesn’t seem like much of a business.”
“How naïve of you. The retail bird business is worth $300 million in gross sales per year, with a sixty percent profit margin at every level. Tony did handsomely by it. There’s quite a demand for rare birds.”
“Did you ever see any of these alleged parrots?”
Reynolds stared at Ben as if he were utterly brainless. “Did you not notice?”
“Notice what?”
“My bird, of course. Behind you.”
Ben glanced over his shoulder. There were several more antiques in that corner of the office, but even more noticeable was the large blue-and-green parrot in a small cage.
“You have a parrot,” Ben said.
“Obviously. It was a gift from Tony. An Imperial Amazon. A. imperialis. The emperor of parrots. Very rare.” Reynolds almost smiled. “He said that nothing but the rarest of birds could possibly fit in my office.”
Ben took a closer look. The parrot’s head, neck, and abdomen were purplish blue; its crown feathers were dark green with black edges. Its tail was a deep reddish brown; the irises of its eyes were orange. The parrot was at least nineteen or twenty inches in length. “What’s his name?”
Reynolds’s eyes tossed about in their sockets. “It’s a her.”
“Okay, what’s her name?”
“I—” He sighed. “It was my wife’s idea. She insisted. She named her for a fellow member of the court. Polly.” He frowned.
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