Authors: William Bernhardt
“So?”
“Do you know where the mayor lives?”
“No. Why should I?”
“He lives on Terwilliger. Near Woodward Park. Just down the way from Philbrook.”
A tiny flash of light in the corner of Martha’s eyes told Deanna she was beginning to make the connection.
“See if this description rings any bells,” Deanna continued. “The man was tall, thin, grungy-looking. Scraggly goatee, green fatigues.”
Martha blinked, but didn’t say anything.
“The girl was described as being shorter with dark hair. On at least one occasion, she wore a red tank top. And she always wore a blue headband.”
Instinctively, Martha’s hand shot up toward her headband. Her trademark. “That could be anyone.”
“I’ll admit, it could be someone other than you and Buck, although it would be a hell of a coincidence. That’s why I searched your room. I found the red tank top I was almost certain you had. And I found the black gym bag. The neighbor mentioned that, too. Imagine my surprise when I found an expensive camera inside. Far too expensive to be yours.”
Martha didn’t answer, but Deanna did have the satisfaction of knowing that for once in her life, she had her daughter’s full and undivided attention.
“I had the film developed,” she continued. She pulled the photos out of the packet and spread them across the bed. “Could you please explain to me why you were taking pictures of Mayor Barrett’s home?”
Wordlessly Martha gazed at the color pictures spread across her bedspread.
“You’ll notice that the home was photographed from a wide variety of angles. The front, the back. Close-ups of the doors, the windows. Almost as if someone was casing the joint. Planning some kind of … criminal activity.”
Martha stared dumbfounded at the photos.
“Martha, I want you to answer my questions. No lying to me—this is important. Why was Buck taking pictures of the mayor’s home?”
“I don’t know,” she said softly. “I mean, I don’t know who took these pictures. And I don’t know why.”
Deanna ignored the feeble denial. “Were you with him?”
“No. I mean—” She stopped, concentrating. “I never saw him take any pictures. I didn’t know why he had the camera. He likes expensive toys.”
“So you were with him. You did walk with him in the mayor’s neighborhood. You just never saw him take any pictures.”
“Yeah.” Her voice was so quiet it was almost not there at all. “Yeah.”
Deanna sat next to her daughter on the bed. She laid one hand on her knee. “Martha, I’m sorry, but I have to ask this question. I have to. Did you have anything to do with … with …”
Martha turned and stared at her mother, her eyes wide with disbelief. “What are you accusing me of?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything. I just have to know.”
“You think I did it!” Martha screamed. “You think I killed that lady and her two girls!”
“No, Martha, I don’t. I mean, I hope not. I mean—” She grabbed her daughter by the shoulders. “Martha, I don’t know what to think anymore. I want you to tell me. Did you have anything to do with this?”
Tears crept out the corners of Martha’s eyes. She turned her head away. “No, I didn’t.”
“Then Buck did it alone.”
“Buck!” Martha leapt off the bed. “So that’s what this is about. Accusing Buck. I knew you hated him, Mother, but I didn’t know you were desperate enough to accuse him of murder!”
“Honey, I’m just looking at the evidence.”
“Buck wouldn’t hurt anybody. He’s nice, Mother. He’s nice to me.” Her voice was breaking down. “Buck loves me.”
“Martha, please—”
It was too late. Martha bolted out of the room. A few seconds later, Deanna heard the front door slam shut.
Well, Deanna told herself, you certainly handled that well. You practically threw her into that cretin’s arms. And if she wasn’t totally alienated from you before, she certainly is now.
Deanna collected the photos on the bedspread. Still, if nothing else, she did get something. She got an absolute denial from her daughter that she had anything to do with the murder of the Barrett family. She had stated that unequivocally.
Yeah, Deanna thought. Unequivocally.
Deanna slid the photos back into the bag, then pulled out the day’s mail. Maybe there would be some relief from her ongoing misery here. Some sign of happiness in the world. A wedding invitation, perhaps. A graduation announcement.
One envelope caught her attention almost immediately. It was a thin paper preprinted envelope, the kind where you rip off the perforated strips on the edges to get the slip of paper inside. Deanna ripped off the strip and with some effort managed to work out the contents.
It was a formal document, a summons from the Twenty-fifth Judicial District of the State of Oklahoma. Tulsa County.
Deanna read the message, then gasped.
Jury duty.
L
OVING PARKED HIS CAR
on the street opposite the park. The nearest streetlight was half a mile down the dirt road; all the lights in the park had been busted so many times the city finally stopped bothering to replace them. This was probably the least safe place imaginable to leave personal property unattended; Loving was glad once again that he had never bothered to replace his well-worn Ford pickup truck. It still ran, although it was more than a little beat-up. Not as bad as the Skipper’s car or anything, but it definitely showed its age. Any potential carjackers would immediately realize that this truck wasn’t worth the trouble.
He crept quietly into the park, keeping his eyes open for any signs of trouble. It could be anywhere. O’Brien Park was one of the worst, most notorious sites in North Tulsa. Sort of like a heartland version of Central Park, O’Brien Park was a place no sane or law-abiding citizen went after dark. During the day, it might seem like any other park, except that, given its location, it was patronized almost exclusively by refugees from the poor and mostly black neighborhoods surrounding it. On Sunday nights, however, it was a major youth hangout, sometimes cruised by as many as a thousand people a night, in their freshly waxed cars flowing in off North Lewis or Birmingham Avenue. Some of the kids drove in from as far away as Okmulgee to climb onto the hoods of their cars, drink beer, and chill. Shoot the breeze about women or handguns or gangsta rap. The scent of burning marijuana was so strong it would linger for days. The police considered the whole place a keg of dynamite with a lit fuse; they were just waiting for the explosion.
Even when it wasn’t Sunday night, this was not a place for a lone white guy, even one built like a refrigerator. Loving knew that. But the Skipper seemed to think this was important, so here he was. Truth to tell, he’d do just about anything for Ben. Ben was a good guy, especially for someone who’d spent too much time in college and too little time in real life. He’d done Loving some critical favors on more than one occasion, so Loving was more than happy to return one.
He saw something at the north end of the park, just over the hill between the picnic tables and the baseball diamond. One man—skinny, long haired, standing alone. Waiting, unless Loving missed his guess.
Moving stealthily forward, Loving crawled beneath the stone picnic table nearest the man. He could see through the opening between the table and the bench, but someone would have to be looking hard to spot him. With any luck, if they didn’t whisper he’d be able to hear as well.
About five more minutes passed before the other party to the rendezvous arrived. He appeared suddenly out of the blackness; he must’ve parked his car somewhere else, too.
It was Whitman. Loving was surprised he had come himself. Whatever was bothering him, it had to be serious. So serious Whitman couldn’t trust it to a third party.
He approached the skinny kid with the long hair. They didn’t shake hands. For that matter, they didn’t even seem particularly friendly.
Their first few exchanges were mumbled and Loving couldn’t pick them up. In less than a minute, though, the discussion had become sufficiently heated for Loving to overhear.
“I told you to cut your goddamn hair!” Whitman said through clenched teeth. “Good God, what if someone spotted us together? You think it would take them long to put two and two together?”
“I like my hair the way it is, man.”
Whitman grabbed the dangling tresses on either side of the younger man’s head and jerked it forward. “You’ll get your hair cut or you’re a dead man, you sorry son of a bitch. Do you understand me?”
“Hey, leggo.”
Whitman jerked all the harder. “Do you understand me?”
“Hey, like you ain’t my mother, okay?”
Whitman wrapped the hair around his hands and pulled down so hard it drove the kid to his knees. “
Do you understand?
”
He cried out in pain. “All right, all right. You’re hurtin’ me.”
“I can do a lot worse.”
“Like, chill already. I got the message.”
Whitman released his hair. Strands came off with his fingers. “You’d better.”
The kid brushed the dirt off his knees and stumbled back to his feet.
“I’ve invested a lot of money in you,” Whitman growled. “I’m feeding more of your bad habits than I can count. And in exchange, I expect a little cooperation.”
“Fine, fine. Whatever you want.” Loving noticed that the kid was a hell of a lot more compliant now. Amazing what a little physical pain can do.
“What the hell did you think you were doing?” Whitman said.
“You mean—”
“I mean dragging some stupid girl into this. Have you lost your mind?”
The kid smirked. “Is that what you’re so uptight about, man? Then relax. She’s cool.”
“She should never have been involved.”
“I thought she’d make me less conspicuous, okay? Instead of some hood casin’ the neighborhood, we just looked like a couple of sweethearts out for an evening stroll. It was perfect. No one even noticed us.”
“Someone did, you asshole. Someone told the police.”
“Not her.”
“Maybe not, but what if someone recognizes her, huh, punk? What then?”
The kid fell silent.
“Have you got the camera?”
The kid passed the camera to Whitman. Which reminded Loving that he had a tiny camera of his own, with an infra-red filter, and he should be using it to record this little meeting.
As soon as Whitman got the camera, he ripped open the back. “Where’s the film?” he barked.
“Ah. Well … that’s a bit of a problem.”
Whitman rose to the tips of his toes. “What do you mean?”
“It seems that Martha’s mother developed the film. Found the camera under her bed and took the film and developed it. I mean, can you imagine? What a prying bitch.”
In a flash, Whitman brought his fist around and hit the kid so hard it literally knocked him off his feet. He fell to his hands and knees.
Whitman grabbed his neck and shoved his face into the dirt. “I want those pictures and I want them immediately. And the negatives. Do you understand?”
The kid sputtered dirt.
“That film could lead the cops to you, and from you to me. I don’t want that to happen. Got it?”
The kid tried to speak. “But how can I—”
Whitman rammed his head against the ground hard. “I don’t know how you can do it, and frankly, I don’t care. You can threaten her or torture her or kill her. I just want that film. Very soon. Otherwise, I’m going to threaten and torture and kill
you
!”
Whitman shoved the kid’s face down again into the dirt. The kid rolled over onto his back, groaning. Loving could see blood and dirt smeared on his face.
Whitman yanked his wallet out of his back pocket, ripped out several bills and let them flutter down onto the kid’s prostrate form. “Here’s some spending money. Just make sure you do whatever you need to get the job done. Got it?”
The kid nodded his head, trembling.
“Fine, asshole. I don’t want to hear from you again until it’s done.” Whitman turned and disappeared into the darkness.
Great. Loving shoved the camera back under his shirt. He’d gotten more than a sufficient number of photos of this meeting. This would break the case wide open. Whitman was totally hosed.
Loving was so pleased with this development that he didn’t hear the footsteps behind him until it was too late. He reacted immediately, but forgetting where he was, he sprang upward, slamming his head into the underside of the concrete picnic table. While he reeled from that blow, he saw something jabbing in at the side. He ducked; it barely missed his head. And he knew now what it was—a baseball bat.
Loving forced himself forward, scrambling to get out from under the table. As long as he was pinned down here, there was no way he could fight back. The bat came at him again, this time catching him square against the back and knocking him over. His spine ached; he just hoped it wasn’t severed. He heard the whooshing sound that told him the bat was coming at him again. But there was nothing he could do about it. He closed his eyes and prayed for the best. A few seconds later, the bat swung again. His face was knocked forward into the dirt and he saw nothing but darkness.
W
HEN BEN ARRIVED AT
the county jail the next morning to visit his client, he was surprised to find Christina already there.
“Have you heard from Loving?” she asked the instant she saw him.
“No, but I haven’t been into the office yet.”
“I have,” she said, “and he isn’t there.”
Ben read the concern in her face. “I’m sure he’s fine. What could possibly hurt him?”
She frowned. “We always act as if we can ask him to do anything, as if he’s indestructible. But he isn’t.”
Ben laid a hand on her shoulder. “If he doesn’t turn up soon, I’ll ask Mike to put out an APB. He’ll turn up.” He turned his attention to Wallace Barrett. He looked well—exceptionally well, given the circumstances. Shaved and groomed, he was wearing a tailored suit rather than the usual prison garb. He even looked as if he’d been working out. “Is there some occasion I don’t know about?” Ben asked. “I assume you didn’t get all spiffed up for me.”
“That’s true.” Barrett didn’t quite make eye contact. He glanced at Christina, then down at the floor.