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

by William Bernhardt

  “Oh, don’t patronize me,” Jones said, twisting away. “You said it yourself. No one normal meets in a chat room. She’s probably an axe murderer.”

  “Well … perhaps I was exaggerating.”

  “Maybe you didn’t exaggerate enough. Maybe she’s a stalker who uses chat lines to lure men to their deaths. Maybe she’s really a he!”

  “Jones, come on.” He looked Jones straight in the eyes. “I’ve already agreed to keep an eye on you. This isn’t what’s really bothering you, is it?”

  Jones turned away. “No. I suppose it isn’t.”

  “What then?”

  Jones spoke with the tiniest of voices. “What if she doesn’t like me?”

  Now they were getting to the heart of the matter. “Come on, Jones, buck up. You don’t have any reason to think she won’t like you.”

  “I don’t have any reason to think she will like me, either.”

  “Nonsense. What about all those online chats? You said she was desperate to meet you.”

  “Only because she hasn’t met me. Once she has, that’ll all be over.”

  “You’re being ridiculous. You’re a very likeable person.”

  “I’m a secretary, Boss. Let’s face it. Her heart won’t go pitty-pat over a thirty-two-year-old secretary.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being a secretary. And besides,” he added, “you’re an executive office assistant.”

  “Semantic games aren’t going to help me here.” He stared down at the carpet. His voice dropped to a whisper. “She thinks I’m a private investigator.”

  “What?”

  “I know, I know. Don’t start—”

  “Why on earth would you lie to her?”

  “I didn’t mean to. It was in my online profile. I didn’t know she was going to read it.”

  “Why did you lie in your profile?”

  Jones shrugged. “I just—I started writing about some of your cases. Just to make myself a bit more interesting. It was a game, you know? Pretending to be someone I wasn’t. Then she read it and started asking questions. She kept pressing to know what I did and what role I played and—what was I going to say? ‘Well, I typed the pleadings.’ ”

  Ben shook his head. “This is bad, Jones. Really bad.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “You have to tell her the truth. First thing.”

  “I can’t.”

  “The longer you let the lie fester, the worse it’ll become. If you tell her straight away, perhaps she’ll forgive you.”

  Jones swallowed. “There’s more.”

  Ben covered his face. “More?”

  “I kinda sorta exaggerated my physical description.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Well, what was I going to tell her? That I’m skinny, puny, poorly dressed—”

  “Jones, you’ve really gotten yourself in deep now.”

  “I don’t know what to do. But I can’t show up looking … like I do.”

  “You have to. You made a date. You can’t stand her up.”

  “I know. But I can’t go, either. I thought … maybe I could get someone to take my place.”

  “Oh, right. You’re going to hit the streets till you find someone who matches this imaginary physical profile you invented.”

  Jones coughed. “Actually, Boss … I based the physical description on you.”

  Ben froze, then began slowly moving away. “Now, wait a minute.”

  “It wouldn’t be hard. You’re going to be at the club anyway.”

  “Forget it, Jones. It isn’t going to happen.”

  “You could just meet her. Check her out, make sure she’s on the level.”

  “I’m telling you, Jones, I’m not going to do it. This is not going to happen!”

  “Please, Boss! It would mean so much to me!”

  “Absolutely not!”

  “But, Boss—”

  “No!”

  Ben stood in the lobby of Uncle Earl’s Jazz Emporium watching for a woman wearing a red carnation. At least he hoped it would be a woman.

  Why do I let myself be talked into these things? he asked himself for about the millionth time. But there was no point. It was done, he had relented, and here he was—wearing a tan jacket with a red rose and pretending to be someone named Jones. He hoped she didn’t ask what his first name was, because he didn’t know. He’d asked; Jones wouldn’t tell. Even the paychecks Ben signed had been made out to “O. Jones.”

  Jones tried to brief Ben on his online conversations, but he and Paula had done a lot of talking and it was only a ten-minute drive. Plus, Ben had the distinct impression that Jones was doing a lot of mental editing. Still, even the expurgated version had a lot of seriously hot and heavy content.

  “This is insane,” he had told Jones during the drive. “I have serious misgivings about anyone who would seek out conversation of this nature.”

  “Relax, Boss. You can handle her. For Pete’s sake—she’s a librarian.”

  “Yeah. Like you’re a private detective.”

  Watching the front door, Ben saw a petite young woman wearing an elegant black dress … with a red carnation near the neck.

  He stepped forward, already relieved. If nothing else, she was clearly a real live woman. Moreover, she was not at all unattractive. She was small and thin, with a pleasant face and auburn hair cut just above her shoulders. She had obviously gone all out to make herself look nice tonight, and with considerable success.

  He stepped in front of her. “Are you Paula?” he asked.

  “And you must be Fingers.” She giggled. “Jones.”

  Ben smiled, but didn’t say anything. Just to preserve what little conscience he might have left, he was going to avoid out-and-out lies whenever possible. “I’ve got a table waiting. Let me show you.” He took her arm and escorted her to a quiet nook in the back by the spiral staircase that led to Earl’s office.

  “Would you like something to drink?”

  “Yes, please.” She was obviously nervous—who wouldn’t be?—but she was doing a good job of containing it.

  Ben signaled the waiter, who came straight to their table. “What’ll it be, Ben?”

  Paula looked up. “Ben?”

  Ben winced. “Uh—”

  “Oh, of course. Is that your first name?”

  “Um, well, no … I mean—”

  Earl came bounding down the spiral staircase. He brushed against Ben as he hit the landing. “Hey, Ben, how’s it hanging?”

  Ben smiled awkwardly. “Everything’s fine, Earl. Just peachy.”

  Paula tilted her head. “But I thought you said—”

  “Scat’s up in my office,” Earl continued. “Try to see that he ain’t disturbed, okay? Got some big important announcement planned.”

  “You got it.”

  Earl scurried away.

  Paula picked up where she left off. “Ben? I thought you said that wasn’t your name.”

  Ben glanced up at the waiter, who was still standing by. “Well … it’s not that it isn’t … I mean, it isn’t, but …” He wiped his brow. “I only use it here.”

  “You use a different name when you’re at the club?”

  “Yeah. That’s it. You know, like you use a different name when you’re online. Can’t be too careful.”

  “Oh.” She nodded her head slowly. “I see. I guess.”

  “What would you like?”

  “Scotch and soda, please.”

  The waiter nodded. “And for you, Ben? The usual?”

  Ben glanced at Paula. “Yes, the usual.” The waiter scurried away.

  “He seems to know you,” Paula said.

  “I come here often.”

  “Really? You know, now that you mention it, you do look familiar …”

  Ben blanched. “I just have that kind of face. Everyone says that.”

  “Oh.” She glanced up at the waiter, already on his way back to their table. “So what’s the regular? I bet it
’s a margarita. I remember you waxed quite poetic about the sour and salty ecstasy of margaritas.”

  “Uh … right.” The waiter plunked the glasses down on the table, the clear one before Paula, the brown one before Ben.

  Paula stared at his glass. “Chocolate milk? Your usual is chocolate milk?”

  “Funny, huh?” He swallowed. “I don’t like to start on the margaritas before … uh … midnight.”

  “You said you like to take a thermos full on picnics.”

  “I did? Oh, right. But only on midnight picnics.”

  “Midnight picnics?”

  “Right. Under the moonlight. Very romantic.”

  Paula stared at him for a moment, then downed about half of her Scotch. “I never would have guessed.”

  Ben decided it was best to change the subject. “Would you like something to eat? An appetizer, perhaps?”

  She grinned. “I already ordered something special. Just for you!” She waved, and a different waiter appeared out of nowhere with a tray.

  Paula beamed. “Oysters!”

  Ben stared at the contents of the tray, the blood draining from his face. “Oysters?”

  “And all for you!”

  “Actually, seafood makes me break out in—”

  “Ecstasy! I remember you told me that Tuesday night.”

  The word Ben had been planning to pronounce was hives, but he could hardly say that now. “To tell you the truth, I’m not terribly hungry.”

  “You don’t—I mean—You won’t—Well, of course, you don’t have to.”

  “All right,” Ben said, closing his eyes. “Maybe I could try just one.”

  “That’s more like it.”

  Ben reached out, careful to stifle the trembling, and took one of the oysters from the tray. “So how exactly do you eat this?”

  “Well, you have to open the shell.”

  Thank goodness for that. He pried open the shell and stared at the goopy contents. “And … you eat this?”

  “I thought you loved oysters.”

  “It’s just been a while, that’s all.” He took a deep breath and poured the oyster down the hatch. The instant the slimy contents touched his tongue, he made a gagging noise and reached for his chocolate milk.

  “Now that’s disgusting,” Paula remarked as he guzzled the drink.

  Out of the blue, Denny came stomping down the aisle, shaking his fist. “Damn! Damn him to hell!” He spotted Ben. “Do you know what he just did?”

  Ben squinted. After their previous encounter, it almost seemed strange to see Denny wearing … well, anything. “Who?”

  “Earl. Our Uncle Earl.” Sarcasm dripped from his voice. “He took away my solo. I’ve been practicing that for months. And he took it away.”

  Ben could feel Paula’s eyes bearing down on him. “Did he say why?”

  “Yeah. He’s giving it to Scat. Can you believe that? Giving my solo to Scat. Those two sons of bitches are conspiring against me!” He stomped away.

  Paula peered across at Ben, obviously waiting for an explanation. “People here seem to have no trouble confiding in you.”

  Ben laughed nervously. “Isn’t that strange? I guess I just have one of those faces people trust. I’m sure it won’t happen again.”

  He had barely finished his sentence when Diane came racing up to their table. Her lipstick was smeared and her hair was even more of a mess than usual. “Earl’s changed the schedule, Ben,” she said, almost out of breath. “We’re on in twenty minutes.”

  “Uh, okay.”

  “Don’t be late. We’re gonna try the ‘Sweet Georgia Brown’ set again. Hope we get further than we did last time.” She skittered away. “Gotta tell the rest of the guys.”

  Ben turned back to find Paula gaping at him. “You’re a musician?”

  Ben cleared his throat and laughed awkwardly. “I guess there’s no point in denying it, is there?”

  “I never pictured you as a musician. You never mentioned it.”

  “Well …”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? You know I love music.”

  “I guess it never came up.”

  “Never came up? We’ve spent hours talking about—” She snapped her fingers. “That’s where I’ve seen you. You play the piano!”

  “Well … yes.”

  “You’re the one who found the corpse the other night!”

  “You were here?”

  “Of course I was. Remember? That’s why I was late for our first private chat date. The police held us for questioning. But—if you were here too, you must’ve also been late.”

  “Uh … yeah. I guess I was.”

  “But you said you’d been waiting for me for more than an hour.”

  “Did I?” Ben could feel red splotches starting up his neck. “I have a tendency to exaggerate.”

  “Exaggerate is not the word I would have used.” She lifted her glass and finished the Scotch in a single gulp. “Never mind. Doesn’t matter.” She leaned forward, a mischievous smile illuminating her face. “All right, Jones. Ben. Whatever. Tell me your fantasy again.”

  Ben felt his throat go dry. “My … fantasy?”

  “Your guilty pleasure fantasy.” She leered. “You remember. The one with the cucumbers. And the grapes.”

  “Cucumbers and grapes? Is this a fantasy or a recipe?”

  She jabbed him in the side. “You remember. The cucumbers and the grapes. And the vestal virgins.”

  Dizziness began to set in. Ben gripped the edge of the table. “Vestal virgins?”

  “Right. And then I come in riding the unicorn.” She giggled. “Stark naked.”

  “Oh, that fantasy.” He signaled for the waiter, who appeared almost instantly. “I’m going to need something a little stronger.”

  Ten minutes later, Ben was still trying to reconstruct Jones’s guilty pleasure fantasy. “So then, after I rescue you from the fire-breathing dragon, I sweep you off your feet and carry you into the cave. Without saying a word, you remove that tall pointed hat, unfasten a single button, and your gown drops to the ground, revealing you wearing nothing but a sheer diaphanous teddy.” He wiped his brow. Although the air conditioner was pumping away, he seemed to be sweating profusely. “You look me in the eyes and pull me toward you, and I’m powerless to resist—”

  He realized she was pouting. “What’s the matter? Did I say something wrong?”

  “You’re leaving out all the best parts.”

  “The best parts? I worked in the vestal virgins.”

  “But you left out the body paint.”

  “Did I? How careless of me.”

  “And Merlin’s medieval petroleum jelly.”

  Ben cleared his throat. “That too?”

  “And the edible underwear.”

  “The—” Ben rose to his feet, his knees trembling. “Jones!”

  Paula stared at him as if he were a few fries short of a Happy Meal. “Have you totally taken leave of—”

  “Jones!” Ben’s face was flushed red. “I’m not doing this anymore!”

  A moment later, Jones slithered out of the crowd. “You called, Boss?”

  Paula looked more confused by the second. “Jones? Boss? What in the hell—”

  Ben grabbed Jones by the shoulders. “Paula, this is Jones. Fingers. Whatever you want to call him. This is the man with whom you’ve been spinning fantasies on the Net.”

  “But you—”

  “You heard me correctly. It was him. Not me, him. I had nothing to do with it. Ben is my name, not his. I’m a musician, he’s not. He was the executive office manager at my former law office. A fine human being. But he had some crazy idea you might not like him, so he asked me—”

  “You mean it wasn’t you?” She slowly rose out of her chair. “The man I chatted with online. It was him.”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  Paula looked at Jones. “Is that true?”

  Jones averted his eyes. “Mm-mmm.”

  “Oh, than
k God.” Paula fell forward and clutched Jones’s shoulders. “Oh, thank you, God.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I was just so distraught.” Relief washed across her face. “I was so looking forward to this meeting. And then to find that the words I had fallen for”—she held her hand limply out toward Ben—“came from this … this …”

  “I beg your pardon?” Ben said.

  “Well, I mean, really.” She grabbed Jones’s hand and pulled him down to the table. “I can’t tell you how happy this makes me.”

  Jones peered up at her. “It does?”

  “I knew something was wrong the second I saw him.”

  “You did?”

  “I’m sure he’s a fine person and all that, but when I heard he was a musician—brrrr!” She did a mock shiver from head to toe. “Musicians are so self-absorbed, you know? Always looking for the limelight. Never giving a moment’s thought to other people’s needs.”

  “I’m not like that at all,” Ben said, but he had the distinct impression no one was listening.

  “I like men who are down-to-earth. Men who are doing things that really matter.”

  Jones swallowed hard and closed his eyes. “I’m—” He took a deep breath. “I’m not really a private investigator.”

  She waved her hand dismissively. “Of course you’re not. We were just playing around. Sharing fantasies.”

  “We were?”

  “Sure. But you don’t have to pretend anymore with me. I just want you to be who you really are. So you’re an office manager?”

  Another deep breath. “I’m a secretary.”

  “Really!” She squeezed his hand. “So you work with words, too. I should have known—you’re so literate.” She scooted her chair closer to his. “You know, Jones, I have a very good feeling about this.”

  “Well,” Ben said, “I guess if I’m no longer needed …”

  Paula didn’t look up. “Don’t you have some piano-playing to do?”

  Couldn’t be much less subtle than that, Ben thought. “Right. I’ll go … tune my piano.”

  Ben started toward the stage. He met Gordo on his way up. “How’s it hanging?”

  “Not well. This is craziness, man.”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  “This place is nuts. Nuts. No one’s promise is worth anything. No one can be trusted. Death is in the air.”