Deadly Justice (13 page)

His smile faded, just a touch. “I’m not very good at waiting. I want what I want—now.”

“Look, Romeo, you promised I could have a bath.”

“And you shall,” he said, spreading his arms wide. “You may bathe all night. You may bathe forever.”

“There you go again.” Giggling, she dropped her underclothes and jumped into the steamy tub. “What are you, some kind of poet?”

“I like to think so.”

“Wow. Way cool.” She stretched out in the tub. “I never had a poet before. Most of my Johns are suit-and-tie types. You know, bankers, accountants, architects, lawyers.”

The man’s head jerked. “You’ve had…lawyers?”

“Oh, man. Like you wouldn’t believe. What a nightmare.” She laid a hot washcloth across her forehead. “Believe me, everything people say about lawyers is true, only more so. But never mind—I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t even want to think about it.”

“Have you…talked to anyone else about it?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason. It’s just that—sometimes it helps to talk about what troubles you.”

“Forget it, Romeo. You aren’t paying me that much.”

“How much would I…”

“Would you forget it already? Look, why don’t you get in here with me?” She winked at him, fluttering her long false eyelashes. “It’s a big tub.”

The man thought for a moment. “Perhaps I will. Let me get something first.” He walked out of the bathroom.

While he was out, she took a bar of soap from the dish and began lathering herself. “So what is it you do, anyhow? I figure it must be important, whatever it is. That van you drive looks customized, and I bet it wouldn’t be cheap even without the extras. Then there’s that wad of cash you flash around, and what you offered to pay me for a couple of hours’ work—way over market value, I must admit. Not to mention the way you dress, the way you look. No, I figure you’ve got to be someone at the top, like maybe a car salesman or a politician. Something like that.”

She heard him reenter the bathroom. Clickety-clack, clickety-clack. “So what is it? What do you do—”

Her sentence ended abruptly as his hands clutched her throat. He pulled the black garbage bag over her head, plunging her into darkness. He tied the silken cord around her neck, fastening the bag to her head and constricting her windpipe. She sputtered and gasped, desperately trying to catch her breath, finding none.

She began to struggle. She flailed in the tub, splashing water onto the tile floor. She reached back and grabbed at his arms. Raising himself up, he pressed down on her shoulders, pushing her head, bag and all, down under the water. She tried to fight back, but it was impossible. She couldn’t get a grip on anything. She just kept slipping and sliding, down, down, down, beneath the water.

He had exactly what he wanted, what he needed. She was powerless, totally subject to his control. He pulled the ends of the cord, drawing it even tighter around her throat, causing blood to trickle out.
Sweet Jesus!—
she made him feel so good! He pulled even tighter, savoring the sweet constriction in his groin.

And then—it was over, in one final magnificent climax. He felt a sudden surge, then release. He dropped the silken cord; her body slid lifelessly into the water. The man fell back against the bathroom counter, utterly and deliriously drained.

He picked up her butterfly clip. A dainty thing; it would make a lovely souvenir.

After he had rested, after the afterglow faded and his strength returned, he began picking up the clothes she had carelessly thrown on the floor. He hated people who made a mess.

M
IKE THREW HIS DIRTY
overcoat onto one of Ben’s overstuffed office chairs. “Christ, Ben, you’re turning into a goddamn homicide magnet!”

“Attempted homicide,” Ben corrected. “Crichton survived the attempt.”

“Just barely.”

“Barely means his heart is beating. Ergo, no homicide.”

“Only because you were in the right place at the right time and decided to play Superman off the giant’s ladder. By the way, I’m impressed. What’s next for you, bungee jumping?”

Ben waved his bandaged hands in the air. The rope burns on his hands were deep and slow to heal. “I just did the first thing that occurred to me. I didn’t have time to think about it.”

“Don’t soft soap me, Ben. I think it was a damn gutsy move for a guy who used to get woozy sitting in his high chair.”

“Who told you that?”

“My ex. Your sister. So don’t bother denying it.”

“Yeah, well, those high chairs are damn high when you’re only two feet tall.” He closed the thick evidence treatise he’d been reading to prepare for the discovery motion he was arguing that afternoon. “So how’s the murder investigation coming?”

“Which one? The teenagers? Or Howard Hamel?”

“Let’s start with the teenagers. I saw in the paper that the killer claimed another victim.”

“Right. His fourth.” Mike slammed his fist into his hand. “Goddamn it, I’d like to catch that bastard. Four victims now, and we’re still virtually clueless.”

“There must be some leads. Some pattern.”

“Other than the obvious—all his victims are teenage girls—no. Or at least, none that we’ve detected.”

“What about the mutilation?”

“Repeated on this victim as well. No head, no hands.”

“I don’t want to hear about it.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“What’ve you got on the Hamel murder?”

“What’ve
I
got? You’re the one who’s supposed to be cracking that case wide open. What’ve
you
got?”

“Well, I think I flushed out the killer. From sixty feet in the air.”

“Quite possible.” Mike paced agitatedly across Ben’s office. “The lab finished its microscopic analysis of Crichton’s belay line. No doubt about it—it was cut. We searched the area, as you know, and searched everyone on the site. We didn’t find anything. And unfortunately, you didn’t see who did it.”

“No, but I’ve got an office building full of suspects. Man, you wouldn’t believe this Apollo crew. What a collection of back-stabbing, butt-licking—”

“Hey, don’t complain to me. You’re the one who thought this job would solve all your problems.”

“I did not—oh, what’s the use? Has Koregai finished his autopsy report on Hamel?”

Mike tossed himself into a chair and plopped his muddy boots on Ben’s desk. “He says Hamel was strangled to death. Hamel was wearing a high-collar shirt, you’ll recall—that’s why you didn’t see any marks on him. While the killer was relocating the body, Hamel cut his hand on something—that’s the source of the blood in your car. The cut must’ve occurred fairly soon after the murder—otherwise there wouldn’t have been so much bleeding.”

“Did your men turn up any physical evidence?”

“Nothing that appears useful. We not only searched the Apollo building, we searched the alley behind your boardinghouse and scoured the entire neighborhood. And Jesus, what a neighborhood you live in. I could’ve found more people willing to talk to cops at the penitentiary. We didn’t learn a damn thing.”

“I saw Hamel’s office roped off with yellow crime scene tape. Find anything there?”

“Nothing that held any significance to me. You’re welcome to take a look yourself.”

“Thanks, I will. What about Hamel’s house?”

“The widow’s been giving us some trouble there. Normally I’d be able to get a warrant in a heartbeat, but it turns out Judge Carter is a personal friend of the family and is making a lot of noise about us not intruding on her grief with an unnecessary search. He refused to sign the warrant and put out the word that he’d consider it a personal affront if any other judge did. And he is Chief Judge this term.”

“And to think people blame lawyers for the slow wheels of justice.”

“Yeah. And it’s only true about ninety percent of the time. Don’t worry, we’ll get the warrant eventually.”

“Great. Call me as soon as you do. I’d like to help.”

“I think I can arrange that. Especially since Chief Blackwell has practically deputized you.”

“Yeah, with a threat of life imprisonment. You think he’s serious about hauling me in at the end of the week?”

“I’m afraid so. Deadly serious.”

“Swell. My time is running out. So call me as soon as you get the warrant.”

“Will do, kemo sabe. I’ll be in touch. And Ben?”

“Yeah?”

“I picked up a brochure you might be interested in. Have a nice day.”

Ben glanced at the brochure Mike had placed under a paperweight on his desk:
SAM AND JERRY’S FLYING CIRCUS—SKYDIVING ON THE CHEAP.

B
EN HAD HOPED TO
spend the remaining hour until his hearing preparing. Unfortunately, only seconds after Mike left, Crichton sailed in.

“Mr. Crichton!” Ben said, jumping out of his chair. “I didn’t expect to see you in the office today. How are you feeling?”

Crichton waved the attention away. “Don’t make a fuss, Kincaid. I’m fine. The ER docs told me to take it easy for a few days. I was just shaken up, that’s all.”

“If I had fallen fifty feet only to be jerked back a few seconds before impact, I’d be more than just shaken up.”

“Well, I’ve had close shaves before. I’ve known all along I wasn’t going to live forever.” He glanced back at the doorway. “Who was that man in the trenchcoat I saw leaving your office?”

“Oh, that was my brother-in-law, Mike,” Ben hedged. “Er, ex-brother-in-law. He’s a friend.”

“He’s the cop.”

“Well, yes.”

“Came to talk to you about Howard’s murder.”

“Right.”

Crichton sat down in one of Ben’s chairs and pressed” a finger to his lips. “Ben…I think your interest in Howard’s unfortunate demise is admirable. I really do. But I’m concerned that it might distract you from your duties here at the office.”

“I’ve been timely with all my assignments, Mr. Crichton.”

“I need more than just timely compliance from you, Ben. I need your total concentration. An absolute, twenty-four-hour devotion to your client.” His eyebrows knitted. “You know, I have a family, and I love them dearly, but my job comes first and they know it. They understand. I mean no disrespect to Howard’s memory. But the Apollo Consortium is at a critical juncture now—the proposed acquisition of ConSteel, the Ameritech venture, and a dozen other equally important deals. We can’t afford the distraction—or the negative publicity—of a damaging piece of litigation. I’m counting on you to nip the Nelson case in the bud.”

“I’m doing everything I can, Mr. Crichton. As I told you, the Nelsons’ testimony was convincing and consistent. The average Oklahoma jury will be sympathetic to them. If we’re going to beat them, we’re going to have to do it on a legal issue. Before trial.”

“Then find me a legal issue, Kincaid.”

“I’m working on it, sir, but discovery is still ongoing. Tomorrow, Abernathy, the Nelsons’ attorney, is deposing one of our design team vice presidents. After that, if all goes well, I may know enough to put together a convincing summary judgment brief.”

“See that you do.”

“Even if I write the best brief in the world, though, there’s no guarantee Judge Roemer will grant it.”

Crichton gazed over his strategically placed hands.

All Ben could see were his eyes burning across the room. “Ben, is it my imagination, or are you making excuses for your failure before the motion has even been filed?”

“Not at all, sir. But as you know, there are no guarantees in the world of litigation. Sometimes people assume that if their cause is just, that automatically means they will be successful in the courtroom. Of course, that isn’t always the case.”

Ben could feel Crichton’s eyes burrowing into his forehead. “See that it
is
the case in this lawsuit, Kincaid. Understand?”

Ben shifted uncomfortably. “I understand.”

“Good.” Crichton removed his hands. “So tell me about this hearing this afternoon.”

“Well, as you know, we produced an enormous quantity of documents to Abernathy last week.”

Crichton grinned. “I know. We threw in stuff from twenty years back that didn’t even relate to the XKL-1. I expected that small-time practitioner to be buried for months.”

Without commenting on Crichton’s tactics, Ben continued. “He hired emergency support staff from a temporary agency and completed the job in a few days. He’s figured out our internal numbering system, and by tracking the numbers, he’s deduced that ten pages are missing. He filed a motion to compel production of the missing pages, and asked the court for an emergency hearing before the documents are lost or destroyed.”

“This entire hearing is about a lousy ten pages? Good grief, we must’ve given him a hundred thousand pages!”

“True. And now he wants the other ten.”

“What makes him think those ten are so important?”

Ben ran his fingers across his desk. “Principally, the fact that they are missing, I would imagine. I’ve talked to Imogine, the supervisor in Document Retention, but she says she doesn’t know where the documents are or what information they contained.” He chose his words carefully. “I…don’t suppose you do, by any chance?”

To Ben’s surprise, Crichton leaned across his desk and smiled. “As a matter of fact, I do. I remember removing ten pages myself. They didn’t have anything to do with the XKL-1. They contained a design for a new suspension system—frankly, one that would remedy some unrelated problems we’d experienced. It would have no bearing on the alleged leaf spring defect the Nelsons are complaining about. I didn’t mean to create any problems—we just considered the new design top secret. Do we have to produce that?”

Ben thought for a moment. “Well, there is a legal doctrine protecting proprietary information. Companies are not required to disclose trade secrets, especially where, as here, they have no relevance to the lawsuit.”

“Makes sense to me.”

“There’s also a rule excluding evidence of subsequent repairs. The theory is that, if evidence of repairs made after an incident were admissible at trial, no one would ever make repairs, for fear that the fact of the repair would make it appear at trial that they acknowledged the fault. As a result, more people would be harmed. So the courts have made a policy decision to exclude evidence of subsequent repairs.”