Extreme Justice: A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense bk-7

by William Bernhardt

  Getting the package onto his shoulder was no piece of cake, but he managed it. Hell of a lot of work, but it was worth it. He had big plans for this victim.

  A grin spread across his lips. This victim—and the next one.

  On his drive home, Ben timed in to KVOO with Andy O’. It was, admittedly, a country music station, and he had been trying to force himself to listen to jazz, but Andy O’ was a favorite, as was Steve Smith at KBEZ, who had just signed off. The antenna on his van could sometimes pick up the Oklahoma City DJs like Bob & Josh, his personal favorites, but it was too late in the day for their on-air hijinks. KWGS was great for news, of course, but there were times when Ben just wasn’t in an NPR mood.

  Ben loved his new car. After his Honda Accord had bitten the dust, he’d been forced to select a new means of transportation. He chose a Ford Aerostar, a minivan. Although he had no kids to tote, he’d always wanted to drive a van, to have the feeling of something big and powerful surrounding him. And it was very useful for gigs, hauling sound equipment around. He and the band were planning to tour during the summer; when that happened, the van would be invaluable.

  Ben parked the van on the street and hoofed it to the rooming house where he lived. It might not be one of the swankiest neighborhoods in Tulsa, but it was close to Earl’s club, barely a ten-minute drive. He just wanted to change clothes and get a bite to eat before he returned for the anniversary show.

  As he approached the house, he saw his landlady, Mrs. Marmelstein, puttering in her front garden. She was facing away from him, digging up mounds of soft loamy soil with her trowel.

  “Bit late for tulips, isn’t it?” he said, hovering over her shoulder.

  Mrs. Marmelstein glanced up at him and smiled. “Late? Why, Benjamin Kincaid, you don’t know a thing about gardening, do you?” She was wearing a print dress, blue with a white blossom pattern. She had lived eighty-two years, and Ben suspected she’d had that dress for at least eighty-one of them. “They have to be planted in the fall if you want tulips come April.”

  “But, Mrs. Marmelstein”—he leaned closer and whispered—“it is April.”

  “April? But we only just had Halloween.” She frowned. “Benjamin, are you playing a trick on me?”

  No, he thought sadly, you’re playing a trick on yourself.

  It had been like this for the last six months. In September, she had suffered two heart attacks, one right after the other. Although she had recovered, she was not the person she’d been before. Sometimes the change was so profound it frightened Ben. It was like talking to an entirely different person.

  Her speech gradually returned, but the blow to her health had advanced her Alzheimer’s with a vengeance. Granted, she had been a bit dotty for as long as Ben had known her, but during the past few months she had become increasingly senile. Ben tried to help where he could; he ran errands, paid the bills, collected the rent. But he knew his efforts were just a tap dance against time, and it broke his heart.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Marmelstein,” Ben replied. “You’re the gardening expert, not me.” And he could always buy blooming tulips at a nursery and plant them in the garden. She’d never know the difference.

  Mrs. Marmelstein glanced at her watch. “It’s a bit early for you to be home, isn’t it, Benjamin? I don’t think your bosses will appreciate your taking the afternoon off.”

  “Mrs. Marmelstein.” He drew in his breath. What was the nice way to handle it? He could barely remember anymore. “I haven’t worked at the law firm for years.”

  She sniffed. “Well, I’m not surprised. Coming home in the middle of the afternoon. Honestly.” She started back at her gardening, then stopped. “By the way, you have a visitor waiting in your room. A female.” She could not have put more disapproval in her voice had she been saying “she-devil from hell.”

  “That would be Christina, I assume?”

  “Who else?” She eyed him with profound suspicion. “Benjamin, you know I don’t approve of my gentlemen boarders receiving females in their rooms without a chaperone.”

  “Mrs. Marmelstein, we’re just friends. And coworkers. Were, anyway.”

  “I don’t care if she’s your long-lost sister. I don’t like it.”

  “Listen, what if I ask Christina if she’d like to go to the flea market with you this Saturday?” Tulsa had one of the best flea markets in the country, a weekly event at the fairgrounds. And Mrs. Marmelstein had decorated most of her building in flea-market kitsch.

  “Well,” the elderly woman said slowly, “I suppose that would be all right.”

  “Good. I’ll tell you what she says.” He started toward the front door. “Don’t stay out in the sun too long. Remember, it’s still awfully hot for—er—whatever month this is.”

  He bounded up the front steps to the porch and opened the mesh inner door. A glance up the stairs told him Joni Singleton, one of his fellow boarders, was not in her usual afternoon spot. He had to remind himself that she was taking classes at Tulsa Community College this semester. A child development major, if the gossip he got from her twin sister, Jami, was to be believed. Joni’s brief stint as nanny for Ben’s nephew, when Ben’s sister had parked the kid with him, seemed to have had a profound impact on her.

  He took the steps two at a time till he reached his room. He cracked open the door and peered inside.

  Christina McCall was sitting on the sofa reading. Whatever it was, it was holding her attention. Her eyes were glued to the manuscript pages.

  Manuscript pages? Wait a minute—

  Ben burst through the door. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Christina brushed her long strawberry-blonde hair back behind her shoulders. “Hi, Ben. Good to see you, too.”

  Ben stomped across the room. “I don’t recall saying you could read this.”

  “That’s because I didn’t know it existed. Of course, if I had known it existed, and I had asked if I could read it, you would’ve said no.”

  “Damn straight.”

  “So I saved us both a lot of bother.” She grabbed Ben by the shoulders and grinned. “Ben, you wrote a book!”

  He shrugged awkwardly. “Well … I’ve had a lot of spare time on my hands.”

  “True crime. Just like Darcy O’Brien. Very classy. And it’s about one of our actual cases. This is so exciting!” She beamed. “You know, television loves these based-on-real-events things. Maybe you could get a movie of the week!”

  “Well, that would be the be-all and end-all, wouldn’t it?”

  “I love the title. Katching the Kindergarten Killer. I think it’ll sell billions.”

  “Only if my mother buys all the copies.” He snatched the manuscript back and stuffed it in his desk. “What say I find a publisher before you negotiate the movie rights?”

  “I can’t help it, Ben. I think this is tremendous. Here I thought you were wasting all your time plinking on the piano and pretending you weren’t going to practice law anymore—”

  “Pretending?”

  “—and it turns out you’re writing a book! I’m so proud of you.”

  “Well, now my day is made.” Christina was the best legal assistant he had ever worked with, but sometimes she could be downright irritating.

  She ignored him, sweeping around the sofa with unrestrained enthusiasm. “You told me you’d been contacted by some professional ghostwriter and that he was going to write up one of your cases. What happened to that?”

  “What happened was he finished it and it was godawful. So I got rid of him. He played fast and loose with the facts. Took a serious serial murder case and turned it into an episode of Starsky and Hutch.”

  “Really?” Her eyes lit up. “Was I Starsky or Hutch?”

  “Neither. You were the useless female who was only around to scream and be rescued.”

  “Then I’m glad you got rid of him.” She frowned. “If I couldn’t be smart, I hope he at least made me pretty. Did he say I was pretty?”

  Ben covered
his smile. “Radiant.”

  She plopped back down on the sofa. “Well, this is better, anyway. They’re your cases. No one knows them better than you. You should be the one who tells them. Have you sent the manuscript to any publishers or agents?”

  “Dozens.”

  “What do they say?”

  “ ‘Get lost.’ But nicely.”

  “Well, don’t stop trying. You’ll get published. I know you will.”

  “Thanks, but you still didn’t have any business reading my manuscript.”

  “I saw it there on your desk. How could I resist? You should be grateful I come here at all. Your landlady glares at me like I’m a call girl, and your cat tries to kill me.”

  “I guess they’re just protective of me.”

  “Well, so am I, but I try not to go overboard.” She bounced off the sofa and jabbed him in the side. “Enough banter. Let’s go up on the roof.”

  Chapter 3

  JOE WILLINGHAM HUDDLED in the parking lot across from the bus station at Third and Cincinnati. He used his high-powered Ricoh binoculars to scan the motley collection of passengers who stepped off the latest arrival, watching for the right one.

  It was a talent he had developed over the years—an art, really. He could tell at a glance if a person would be susceptible to the scam. Of course what he ideally wanted was someone who would not merely fall for it, eventually, given much time-consuming effort and persuasion, but someone who would fall for it with great aplomb and enthusiasm, someone who could not only be pushed but would tumble head over heels into the abyss. And someone who, in the unlikely event the ruse fell apart, would not be in a position to put up any opposition. The perfect patsy—that was who everyone working the con hoped for. And Joe Willingham knew how to find him.

  He continued scanning the passengers until he saw exactly what he wanted. The instant the black kid in the bib overalls and straw hat stepped off the bus, Joe knew he’d found his mark. It was not even something he had to think consciously about. Years of experience had made it instinctive. Truth was, Joe thought, he was the best scam artist in Tulsa—probably the best in the whole damn state. Perhaps his self-estimation was immodest, but facts were facts. He was the best.

  He eased out of his crouched position and started slowly across the street. Judging from the rube’s garb, he was from some hick town west or south of Tulsa—Henrietta or Poteau or some backwater burg like that. Probably saved up his money all year long so he could treat himself to a weekend in the big city—see a show, go to a bar or club, maybe transact a little business with one of the hookers on Eleventh Street. One of the first things Joe had spotted through his binos was the fat wallet in the back pocket of the kid’s overalls.

  Joe smiled. The kid was perfect. Just the way Joe liked them—unsophisticated, gullible, and loaded with cash. This would be easy pickin’s.

  He waited until the kid walked a fair distance from the bus station. Better to ply one’s trade on the anonymous and unpopulated downtown streets. It was after five; all the lawyers and bankers had gone home. The sun was setting. Soon they would be able to have a conversation in near seclusion and relative darkness.

  Just after the kid crossed Main Street, Joe began shouting. “ ’Scuse me! ’Scuse me!”

  The black kid in the overalls slowed. He glanced back over his shoulder, checking out the source of the commotion. He did not stop walking.

  “Hey, wait!” Joe shouted again. “You! In the overalls!”

  He could hardly pretend he didn’t know he was being accosted. He stopped, but his expression made it clear that he did so only with extreme reluctance.

  “I don’t want any trouble,” the kid mumbled, obviously nervous.

  “Neither do I,” Joe said as he panted up to his prey. “But I’ve sure got it.”

  “Well, I’m sorry …” The kid tried to slip away, but Joe jumped in front of him, blocking his path.

  “Please, sir. You’ve got to help me.” Joe brought all his acting talents to bear, slathering on the sincerity and earnestness. It was a flawless performance—really, he ought to be up for an Oscar. “I’m in a desperate situation.”

  Something about what he said or the way he said it caught the kid’s attention. These country boobs were all the same. Mama raised them to be good Samaritans and all that hogwash. “What happened?”

  “I gave my friend all my money,” Joe said. He reached into his pockets and pulled them out, showing that they were empty.

  “And he spent it?” the kid guessed.

  “No, man, he’s still got it. He’s waitin’ for me. I just ain’t got no way to get to him.”

  The kid began shaking his head. “I don’t have a car. I came in on the bus.”

  “It ain’t transportation I need,” Joe said, leaving the important part of the sentence unspoken. “He’s holed up at this country club, Utica Greens. It’s clear across town. I got no way to get there. Plus, they ain’t gonna let me in dressed like this. Hell, I hear they won’t let anyone in unless they cough up a hundred bucks at the door.”

  “A hundred bucks?” The kid swallowed.

  “That’s right. Sad, ain’t it?”

  “Maybe you could call him. Get him to meet you somewhere else.”

  “Don’t you think I thought of that already? No can do.” Joe shoved his hands dejectedly into his pockets. “He’s not near a phone. And they don’t take messages for nobodies like me.”

  “Gee,” the kid said. Joe could detect the slow sashay of his feet moving away. “That’s tough, but…”

  “Please.” Joe grabbed the nearest bare arm poking out of the overalls. “You’ve got to help.”

  The kid shrugged him off. “Don’t touch me.”

  “But you’ve got to help me. I don’t have any money. I don’t have anyplace to stay.”

  “I’m sorry, but—”

  “Do you know what it’s like, living on the streets? The bums, the thugs, the cops. They might murder me in my sleep.”

  “I don’t see what I can do.”

  “The police might arrest me as a vagrant. Can you imagine? Here I’ve got ten thousand bucks just waiting for me, and I get arrested as a vagrant.”

  The kid paused. “Ten thousand—”

  Joe nodded. “That’s what my cut is. Me and my buddy, we won big down at the Remington track in OKC. I just need a way to get to my money!”

  “And you say you’ve got ten thousand—”

  “Hell of a note, ain’t it?” He stopped suddenly and put that glassy-eyed I-just-got-a-brilliant-idea look on his face. “Hey, I just thought of something. If you could lend me some money—”

  “Oh, I don’t know …”

  “It would only be temporary. Till I get my stash.”

  “But I’ve got plans—”

  “Look. Here’s what I’ll do. You give me a little stake—say, two hundred bucks—so I can get my money, and I’ll pay you back five hundred.”

  The kid’s eyes widened. “Five hundred?”

  “Right. For your trouble. Hell, what do I care? I’ve got ten thousand. I can afford to be generous.”

  “Well, I don’t know …”

  “C’mon. Think of it. You can turn two hundred into five hundred in just a few hours. Maybe less. And there’s no risk. If you don’t trust me, you can come to the country club.”

  The kid squirmed. “I’m not sure …”

  “Please, I’m beggin’ you. You’re my last hope.”

  The kid pressed his lips firmly together. “No, I don’t think so.” He whirled around abruptly and started walking away.

  Damn! Joe thought. What did he do wrong? He thought he had this one hooked and reeled. He raced after his quarry. “Wait! Don’t go!”

  The kid continued walking, accelerating his pace. “Leave me alone.”

  Joe reached out and grabbed the kid by the arm. “Please stop! You’ve got to listen!”

  The kid whirled around. “I told you not to touch me!”

  Joe sque
ezed all the harder. “But you’ve got to help me!”

  All of the sudden the kid screamed. “Oh my God! You touched my blood!”

  “What?” Joe looked down and saw that his hand, tightly gripping the kid’s arm, had rubbed off a large Band-Aid covering what appeared to be an open sore. The red, mucousy surface of the wound touched his thumb.

  “Wh-what’s that?” Joe asked. His voice began to tremble. “Come on, tell me. What is it?”

  “It’s the plague!” the kid shouted. “I got the plague!”

  Joe became paralyzed with fear. “You don’t mean—”

  “Worse! I got that thing from Africa, you know. That Ebola virus!”

  “No!” Joe vaguely remembered hearing something about that on television. “But… I thought you came from a farm—”

  “Farm? I just came in from Africa. And I’ve got the plague! His eyes widened, filled with panic and fear. “And now you’ve got it, too!”

  Joe’s mouth went dry. He could barely speak. “B-b-but there must be some mistake.”

  “There ain’t no mistake, man. I’m dying! My internal organs are meltin’! My whole body is turnin’ into a big mess of flesh soup!”

  “Th-there must be something you can do—”

  The kid shook his head gravely. “Maybe if they’d caught it earlier. But it’s too late for me now.”

  Joe’s face went wild. “But it ain’t too late for me. I just got it! What can I do?”

  The kid continued shaking his head. “It’s hopeless. There’s an antidote, but by the time you got to a doctor—”

  Joe could feel his joints stiffening. It was getting harder to breathe, harder to think. Damn but this thing worked fast! “Where can I get the antidote?”

  The kid looked away. “I’ve got one vial left, but I’m savin’ it for myself.”

  “For you? Why?” Joe’s eyes were watering. He was having a hard time focusing. Everything was beginning to spin around in dizzy circles. He knew he didn’t have much time. “You’re already doomed, you said so yourself!”

  The kid looked away. “Still, it cuts the pain—”

  “Please, I’ll do anything.” Joe ripped his wallet out of his inside jacket pocket. “Look, I’ll pay you.”