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

by William Bernhardt

  “Jones, you old dog. Have you been swapping fantasies with some cybertramp?”

  “Paula is not a cybertramp.”

  “Paula?” Ben’s eyebrows rose. “On a first-name basis, are you?”

  “And what of it?”

  “Oh nothing, nothing.” Ben continued to grin. “Have you actually met this Paula?”

  “Not yet. But we have a date for Friday night.”

  “You’re going out with her?” Ben grabbed Jones by the shoulders. “Have you lost your senses?”

  “It seemed harmless enough.”

  “If she were harmless, she wouldn’t be spending her time in chat rooms! Why do you think people do that? She’ll probably turn out to be a transvestite. Or a psychopath. Or both.”

  “Paula is not a transvestite or a psychopath.”

  “How do you know? She could be an axe murderer, for all you know.”

  “She’s not an axe murderer. She’s a librarian.”

  “Oh, well then.” Ben shook his head. “I’d give this a second thought if I were you, Jones.”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “Maybe not, but I consider you my friend, and I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  Jones frowned. “Maybe you’re right. But I promised her—”

  “Unpromise her.”

  “I can’t do that.” He paused. “But nothing says I have to go alone.”

  “It would be safer if you didn’t.”

  Jones grabbed Ben’s arm. “You could come with me.”

  “Now wait a minute!”

  “C’mon. We’re meeting at that club where you play. You’ll be there anyway. You can just step down from the stage and hang with me for a bit.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “You said you considered me a friend. You said you cared about me!”

  “Well, true, but—”

  “You meant it, didn’t you?”

  Ben drew in his breath. “Yes, I meant it. But—”

  “Good.” He held tight to Ben’s arm. “So I’ll show up a little early. You can come down from the stage during your first break. And we’ll see what happens. Good enough?”

  Ben sighed. “I can’t wait.”

  Chapter 36

  AS SOON AS Ben got out of the office, he headed for the west end of town, across the Arkansas, toward the Buxley Oil refinery. Once you were on the west side of town, it was impossible to miss it; like any other blight on the horizon, it stood out for miles around.

  Tulsa didn’t have much urban sprawl, didn’t have many ugly skyscrapers, didn’t have a high crime rate. But it did have refineries. Big sprawling monstrosities with metal catwalks and huge storage tanks and tall smokestacks that spewed smoke and fire into the air. The rotten-egg smell of refinery was so intense people had been forced to move, unable to bear the odor, especially when the Oklahoma winds were sweeping down the plain. The constant output of smoke didn’t create that much smog, but it did help create an ozone problem so severe that radio DJs tracked it all summer long. The refineries were the dark side of the economic boom that had brought in people from all over the world and made Tulsa the cosmopolitan city it was.

  A small Buxley office building was adjacent to the refinery. The parking lot was not full and Ben was easily able to find a parking place for his van. He held his breath and dashed toward the front door.

  Inside, the air-conditioning was running at high power, presumably to ensure that none of the eye-watering smell outside got inside. Ben opened his mouth and sucked in air in one greedy gulp.

  The receptionist at the front desk smiled. “You made it. Congratulations.”

  Ben looked embarrassed.

  “I’m serious. Sometimes they don’t make it, and I have to call for men with stretchers after they pass out on the steps. That smell is atrocious.”

  “Well, I managed to get in without exposing myself to much of it.”

  “In your lungs, you mean,” the receptionist replied. “Wait till you get home and smell your clothes.” She smiled. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Grady Armstrong. He’s expecting me.” Resourceful as ever, Jones had tracked the man down and made an appointment.

  The receptionist checked her list, then pointed Ben toward the elevators. “Second floor,” she said.

  Ben rode up. He didn’t have to search long. Just outside the elevator doors, he saw a wall sign with Grady Armstrong’s name on it.

  Ben leaned into the office. “Mr. Armstrong? Ben Kincaid.”

  The man behind the desk rose to his feet and gestured for Ben to come in.

  Armstrong’s office could only be described as entirely ordinary. It looked like every other oil and gas office Ben had ever seen, and thanks to his brief stint as legal counsel for the now-defunct Apollo Corporation, he’d seen a few. There were tall stacks of paper piled up on the man’s desk and plat maps on the walls—the whole state divided into drilling and spacing units. Photos of recent oil wells hung crookedly on the far wall.

  Grady Armstrong was wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow.

  “Good to see you again,” Ben said. “I’m sorry to interrupt your work. I think my secretary explained that I’m representing Earl Bonner, who’s a suspect in the recent murder of Lily Campbell. Unfortunately, that murder seems to dovetail with the murder of your brother twenty-two years ago.”

  Armstrong nodded. “Right. Just makes me sick to my stomach.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “I don’t know anything about this new murder.”

  “I understand. But since there seems to be a connection between the murders—or someone is trying to suggest a connection—I hoped you could tell me what you know about the first murder. Maybe that will give me some insight on the new one.”

  “All I know is what the police told me.” His head fell; there was a slight catch in his throat.

  “Were you with your brother when it happened?”

  “Oh, no,” Armstrong explained. “We’ve always gone our separate ways, ever since we were old enough to leave home. Earlier, really. You may have heard that we … well, we didn’t have the best home life. Neither of us stayed any longer than we had to.”

  “Your brother George escaped to the New Orleans jazz world.”

  “That’s right,” Armstrong said. He laughed abruptly. “George was the one who had all the talent. I was the boring one. Man, I couldn’t play the kazoo. George tried to train me to beat drums so I could travel with him, but it was hopeless. Just couldn’t keep the beat. So we drifted apart. He went into the glamorous world of entertainment, and I started working my way up in the world of oil and gas.”

  “I see you’re now a Buxley senior vice president.”

  “Right, right. Me and forty other guys. Believe me, I’m not that big a deal. If I were, I’d have an office in the St. Louis world headquarters, not next door to the smelliest refinery in the Southwest. Oh, I’m not complaining. For a boy who started out as a field hand, this is a pretty cushy situation. For my first four years, I was a roughneck for Esso. I worked the wells, traveled from town to town, working all day every day in the oil and muck. Those four years probably put ten on my face. And look what they did to my hands. Still, I didn’t mind. Kind of enjoyed it, to tell you the truth.”

  He leaned back expansively. “I always knew I wasn’t cut out for the kind of life George had. I couldn’t do the things he could do; I couldn’t make people feel the way he could make them feel.” He smiled gently, then shrugged. “But who’s to say which is better, right? He may have had a higher profile, for a while, but I had a lot more steady paychecks.” He paused. “And of course, I lived a good deal longer.”

  “Yes,” Ben said, nodding. “Do you have any insight on your brother’s death? Why it happened?”

  “Like I said, I wasn’t around. I was on the road most of the time. I was a land man by then, always scouting for new oil or gas properties. Even my bosses didn’t se
e me often. I got word about what had happened eventually, but not in time to do much about it. Didn’t even come back for the funeral. Made the arrangements over the phone. Always felt bad about that, but I was in the process of changing jobs and moving to another state and—well, we were living separate lives by then.”

  “Did you ever hear anyone talk about who killed your brother?”

  “Only the police. They were convinced it was your client.”

  “I don’t mean to upset you, sir, but I believe the police were wrong. Did you ever hear anyone express any other theories?”

  “No, I didn’t. Frankly, given what I knew about my brother, it made perfect sense.”

  “It did?”

  “Sure. I hadn’t seen George for years, but he was my brother, and I knew him. Specifically, I knew what a temper he had. He was just one of those guys, you know? Calm as an angel, most of the time. But when he got set off—man, he was a terror. Absolutely uncontrollable.”

  “Are you saying he might’ve provoked Earl?”

  Armstrong shrugged. “I wasn’t there. I’m just saying it’s possible. I know there was more than one time when he made me so mad I could’ve killed him on the spot.”

  “Would you mind telling me about it?”

  “Which time? I was on the wrong side of his temper more than once. I pity anyone who had the same experience.” He shook his head. “In fact, the last time I saw George, we had a fight that probably registered on the Richter scale. Our father had just died. Turned out, to everyone’s surprise, the SOB had accumulated some money. I don’t know how he got it; some way the IRS wouldn’t approve of, I suspect. Anyway, the point is, he left it all to me. You may have heard—George and our father never got along too well. It shouldn’t have been a surprise but—well, I guess it was. George just went mad, I mean totally crazy mad. Lost all control, all sense of perspective. He ranted and raved—even took a punch at me. It seems silly now, but at the time, I thought the man might kill me if he had half a chance. So I left.” He sighed heavily. “And I never saw George again.”

  “Do you know anything about the dispute that supposedly led to his murder?”

  “George could be a raving lunatic when it came to women. Absolutely caveman territorial.”

  “Earl says that both he and George were … interested in Lily.”

  Armstrong spread wide his hands. “Well, there you go. Nothing set George off faster than the thought that someone else was moving in on a woman he considered to be rightly his. Unfortunately, he considered all women to be rightly his.”

  Ben made a few notes in his pocket pad. Some of this was new information, and it was sparking a few ideas he hadn’t considered before.

  “Anything else that’s relevant? To either murder?”

  Armstrong shook his head. “Not to my knowledge. If I do think of anything, I’ll let you know.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  “I want to help if I can. I just heard from your secretary yesterday afternoon—this all comes as a surprise. Let me think on it for a while and see if I remember anything more.”

  “Thanks.” Ben pushed himself out of the chair. “Oh. There’s one other thing I wanted to ask. I almost hate to, but”—he swallowed—“you know, both corpses were … disturbed. After they were killed.”

  “Yes, I know. The smiles.”

  “Do you have any idea what that means? Where it comes from?”

  Armstrong lowered his head. “No. How could I?”

  “I just wanted to—”

  “There is one story, though. I don’t know that it relates, but—” He stopped, started again. “I mentioned my father. He was a drunk, he beat us till we bled. And he used to make us smile.”

  Ben took a step closer. “Excuse me?”

  “He was a petty tyrant. He didn’t have anybody else to push around, so he took it out on us. He ordered us to smile. I don’t know why. Maybe it was his way of pretending we were all one big happy family. You know, by forcing these fake Ozzie and Harriet smiles on our faces. All the time. Like when we’d sit down to dinner. ‘Smile!’ he’d bellow. Or when he came to kiss us good night, long past midnight, with that disgusting smell of whiskey on his breath. Even after he beat us. He’d hit us so hard we were barely conscious, then he’d order us to smile. ‘You will smile!’ he’d shout. ‘You will!’ ”

  Armstrong’s hand pressed against his forehead. “I could always manage to plaster that fake smile on my face, no matter how much it hurt. But George couldn’t. Or more accurately, wouldn’t. He wouldn’t give our father that satisfaction. He could beat George till he bled, but he couldn’t make him smile. So Father would beat him some more. Beat him till he was senseless. But he never made George smile.”

  Armstrong’s head rose, and Ben could see traces of tears in the corners of his eyes. “Poor George. Is it any wonder he ran away from home? Any wonder he got hooked on drugs, the only thing that could make him forget?” He brushed the moisture from his face. “I like to think that, for a while anyway, George found a little bit of peace. A little bit of happy.” His eyes clenched shut. “Until someone took all that away from him. Until George had the misfortune to run into someone who truly could make him smile.”

  Chapter 37

  BEN MET CHRISTINA back at the office and provided her with an update on his day. Afterward, they stopped by Ri Le’s for takeout and headed back to Ben’s place.

  As they stepped inside the main corridor of the rooming house, Ben saw the light on in Mrs. Marmelstein’s apartment.

  “Looks like she’s still up,” Ben said quietly. “I’d better check on her.”

  “Couldn’t we eat first?” Christina implored. “My tummy is crying out for Szechwan noodles.”

  “In a minute.” He knocked quietly on the door. “Mrs. Marmelstein? It’s Ben.”

  “Come on in.”

  He entered the small apartment, Christina close behind. Mrs. Marmelstein wasn’t in the living area. His nose told him to turn the corner, pass the Reader’s Digest Condensed Books and the twenty-four volumes of the Warren Commission Report and enter the kitchen.

  “Fixing a late-night snack?” Ben asked.

  She looked up, her face a mixture of dismay and despair. She was wearing a blue print dress, but the dress was overlaid with her underwear, all balled up and backwards. She was wearing socks with sandals. Her lipstick was a thick red smear across one side of her face.

  “I just wanted a little breakfast. But I can’t get these fool eggs to scramble. I put in the milk and I stirred and stirred. I don’t understand it.”

  Breakfast? It was practically bedtime. Ben took a few steps forward and looked into the frying pan. He saw the mixed and stirred residue of three eggs, shells included. Small wonder the eggs wouldn’t scramble.

  “Mrs. Marmelstein,” he said gently, “I’m no cook, but I think you’re supposed to throw away the shells.”

  “The shells,” she echoed. Her voice was a wispy nothing, caught in the air then quickly swept away. “I—” She stopped, either unable or unwilling to complete the sentence. As Ben peered into her eyes, he saw the dawning of the realization of her mistake. And the utter humiliation that followed.

  “You know,” Ben said quickly, “I hate it when that happens.” He lifted the frying pan off the stove and turned down the heat. “I must’ve done this a thousand times. Any more, I just stick to Cap’n Crunch.” He opened the cabinet under the sink and poured the sticky remains into the trash.

  “Those were the last eggs I have,” Mrs. Marmelstein whispered.

  “Tell you what, Mrs. Marmelstein. Christina and I picked up some Vietnamese on the way home. There’s more than enough for you, too.”

  She shook her head sadly. “I couldn’t—”

  “Please.”

  “No, I mean it. I couldn’t. Too spicy for me.”

  “Oh. Well, I think I have some eggs in my refrigerator. Why don’t you let me get you some, then I’ll come back and—”

&
nbsp; “No,” she said, wandering out of the kitchen. “That’s kind, but all of a sudden I feel very tired.”

  Ben nodded. She was sundowning, he realized. At times she could still be perfectly rational. But after the Alzheimer’s kicked in, she had no idea what she was doing. “Why don’t you let me help you get ready for bed, then?”

  “No, no, that wouldn’t be right.”

  “Or Christina could do it. She knows all those girl-things, don’t you, Christina?”

  Christina forced a smile.

  Mrs. Marmelstein drew a hand to her bosom. “Thank you, no.”

  “I hate to leave you here alone. Did you call that number I gave you?”

  She looked at him sternly. “Benjamin, I’m an adult, not a child. I do not need anyone to take care of me. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, but I still wish—”

  “Benjamin, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get ready for bed.”

  It was evident to Ben that his clumsy charity had served only to embarrass her. “If you need anything, call me, okay? You have my number. Or just let out a yell. I’ll hear you, I promise.”

  “Good night, Benjamin.”

  “Good night, Mrs. Marmelstein.” He escorted Christina to the door and left the apartment.

  Ben noticed that Christina ate with great vigor, as usual, but didn’t speak a word to him, which was most unusual.

  “Is something bothering you?”

  She eyed him with great irritation. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. Tell me.”

  “Don’t play dumb.”

  “I’m serious. I don’t know what your problem is.”

  “I’m worried about Mrs. Marmelstein.”

  “So am I. So why are you being hostile to me?”

  “She needs help.”

  “I know that! I’m trying to find a home—”

  “You know that isn’t what she wants.”

  “She needs someone to look after her.”

  “She wants you.”

  The room fell silent.

  “You don’t know what you’re asking,” Ben said finally.

  “I do. It would be difficult. Incredibly difficult.”