Perfect Justice (10 page)

“Yeah. I think my copter blew a fuse.”

“I don’t mean—I mean, is there an emergency?”

“Well, I heard a rumor that you were in a spot of trouble. So I took a leave of absence. And here we are.”

“We?”

As if on cue, Jones and Loving crawled out of the back of the helicopter.

“Jones!” Ben cried.

“In the flesh.”

Ben gestured toward Belinda. “Belinda, this is Jones. Back at my Tulsa office, he’s my secretary.”

“Executive assistant,”
Jones corrected. “Say cheese.” He pointed a black, hand-held video camera at Ben’s face. “I’ve been trying out this minicam I got for Christmas. I recorded the whole flight down here.”

“If you’re going to continue filming,” Ben said, “let me give you a tip. You’re shooting into the sun.”

“Details, details.”

“Also, the lens cap is on.” Loving jumped out of the backseat. “Belinda, this is Loving, my investigator.”

She extended her hand. “Ben, why is it none of your staff members have first names?”

“Don’t ask me. They came that way. Loving, say hello to Belinda Hamilton.”

“Hell-
o
!” Loving eyed Belinda appreciatively. “I dropped everything and flew out with Morelli as soon as I heard you were in trouble, Skipper. Although you look like you’re doing just fine to me.”

Ben turned his attention back to Mike, who had opened the cowling above and behind the passenger area and was tinkering around with the engine. “How’d you get a helicopter? You didn’t steal it from the traffic division, did you?”

“Of course not. After ten years of devoted service the department put her up for auction. Five of my cop buddies and I pooled our bucks and bought her.”

“But—why?”

“To fly, of course. I’ve had my copter certification for years, but in the past I’ve always had to go out to Allied Helicopter or Riverside Airport and rent one just to get in some fly time. Now I have my own Hiller 12SL4.”

“You know, Mike, I humored you when you bought the Trans Am. I remained silent when you bought all that hang-gliding equipment. But a helicopter?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Shouldn’t you at least remove the police-department seals? Since it’s no longer in official service?”

Mike shrugged. “I haven’t been able to bring myself to do it. They look really cool, don’t you think? And it makes it much easier to get a parking space.”

“Don’t you have to file a flight plan, or maintain radio contact with a control tower?”

“Not out here. I just stick to the VFR—Visual Flight Rules—cruise at about fifteen hundred feet, and keep my eyes open.” He grinned. “It’s easy. Want to go for a ride?”

“No thanks. I don’t fly in reputable airplanes, much less that bucket of bolts.”

“Portia could use a bit of work here and there, but she’s not a bucket of bolts,” Mike protested. “That landing did sound bad, though. I think I need to replace her engine block.”

“Portia? You’ve given your helicopter a name? You really have gone off the deep end, Mike. Even your Trans Am didn’t have a pet name.”

“Don’t strain your quality of mercy. It’s a perfectly ordinary name.”

“Spare me the Shakespearean allusions.” Ben leaned over Mike’s shoulder and tried to see what he was doing. “I didn’t know you were mechanically inclined. I thought you spent all your spare time reading the classics.”

“If you can’t repair your own bird, you shouldn’t be flying it. That’s my motto. Mechanics aren’t going to give your baby the tender loving care it deserves. You can’t just treat it like so much metal, you know.” He patted the windshield. “You have to caress it like a woman.”

“I had no idea engine repair could be so sensual,” Belinda said.

Mike grinned. “Now you know.” He closed the cowling. “Portia is going to need spare parts, Ben. Is there a place in town?”

“That carries helicopter parts? Not likely. I think I recall seeing an auto-parts store.”

“That might do, if I use some creativity. I’ll check it out later—” Mike stood up and, for the first time, took a close look at Ben. “What in God’s name happened to you?”

Ben touched his swollen eye. “I had a disagreement with some of the townsfolk. Most of them, actually.”

“Want to tell us about it?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe. I’m thrilled to see you all here. But I’m afraid the vacation is already over. We’ve got work to do.”

Ben gathered Belinda and his staff in a circle around the dead campfire and summarized all he knew about the case to date. While they talked Christina returned from her fishing expedition.

“Jones! Loving!” She dropped her fishing paraphernalia and ran to greet them. Loving spread open his arms to give her a great big bear hug. Since Loving weighed two hundred and fifty pounds and was built like a brick factory, Christina disappeared within his embrace.

Jones, always the cooler head, offered Christina a handshake. He was wearing khaki shorts, knee-high socks, and a photojournalist jacket with a million pockets. “Nice to see you looking well,” he told her. “By the way, you smell of trout.”

She tweaked his cheek. “Jones, you old charmer, you.” She gave Mike a quick hug, then found herself face-to-face with Ben.

They glared at each other for a protracted moment. Christina glanced at Belinda, then turned away.

Great, Ben thought. He’d been gone all night, and had returned with a woman she’d never seen before. And she didn’t even appear interested.

Ben began planning their pretrial strategy. “Since it doesn’t look as if we can expect much help from our client, I think we should do everything we can privately to learn more about Donald Vick and his activities since he came to Silver Springs.”

“Does that mean checkin’ out ASP?” Loving asked.

“I’m afraid so.”

“They ain’t gonna like being investigated, Skipper,” Loving replied. “ ’Specially since they think you’re their best buddy and all.”

“Granted,” Ben said. “But we have to try.”

“I’ll do it, then. I’m the only one who has half a chance of coming out of a scrape with those goons with his head still attached.”

Ben wasn’t about to argue with him.

“I’ll hang out at the bars and pool halls—see what I can learn. If I get them gabbing, maybe I can pick up some useful info.”

“Sounds good to me,” Ben concurred.

“How’s the forensic evidence look?” Mike asked.

“I don’t know any details,” Ben answered. “But the DA told Belinda he thought it was conclusive, and he was bragging about it to the newspaper. I plan to go by his office as soon as I finish here.”

Mike stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Good plan, but as you well know, prosecutors tend not to tell the defense anything they aren’t legally obligated to reveal. Is the DA’s office near the auto-parts shop?”

“Within walking distance.”

“I might wander over there myself. Since I’m going that way. See what I can scrounge up. I’ll flash my badge around and play the visiting law-enforcement officer. They might be willing to tell me something they wouldn’t tell you.”

“Worth a try,” Ben said eagerly. What a comfort to have his friends and associates helping him again. Except Christina, of course. She wasn’t even looking at him, much less talking to him.

“Anyone in town have a computer?” Jones asked.

Ben thought for a moment. Jones wasn’t the most skilled legal secretary in Tulsa, but he was a whiz with computers. “Haven’t seen one. Wouldn’t hold my breath.”

“We have one in the Hatewatch office,” Belinda offered. “A Gateway 2000 IBM-compatible.”

“Connected to a modem?”

“You bet—9600 baud.”

“Great.” Jones clapped his hands. “That’s where I’ll start. Let me investigate ASP on-line. I might run a search on Mr. Vuong, too, and some of the other members of Coi Than Tien.”

“That sounds great,” Ben said.

“And it’ll give me an opportunity to film downtown Silver Springs—a rural paradise in America’s heartland.”

Ben hoped Jones spent more time punching the computer keyboard than he did shutterbugging. “And what about you, Christina?”

Christina gave him a stony glare.

“What can you contribute to the investigation?”

Christina’s lips pursed, and her face became almost as red as her hair. She pushed herself to her feet and stormed off without saying a word.

Ben frowned. Bad move. “Excuse me,” he said awkwardly. “I think I’d like to talk to Christina in private.” As if he had any choice.

He followed Christina to her tent and invited himself inside.

“What do you want?” she said icily.

“Christina, I know you didn’t want me involved in this case. Maybe you were right—it’s certainly become more of a headache than I ever dreamed. But the fact is, I accepted the responsibility, and now I need my whole staff behind me or I’m going to get creamed.”

Christina’s expression did not change. “I told you I wasn’t going to help you, and I meant it.”

“Christina—” He looked at her with pleading eyes. “I
need
you.”

“You should have thought of that before you accepted the case.

“What am I supposed to do, ask for your permission before I take on a client?”

“In some instances, yes. You have an admirable sense of ethics, Ben. But sometimes you lack common sense.”

“Someone had to represent Vick.”

“Yeah—but why you?” She stood and looked him square in the eyes. “I’d do almost anything for you, Ben. You know I would. I certainly have in the past. Because I thought I understood you … because I thought you believed in the same principles I believed in. Now I feel like I don’t know you at all.” She inhaled deeply. “I will not help this … racist redneck Rambo. Not in any way.”

“That’s your final word, then?”

“Yes. It is.”

“Fine.” He pushed open the tent flaps. “I thought I could count on you, Christina. I guess I was wrong.” He marched outside.

Ben stood in the glaring sunlight and kicked at the dirt. Why had he done that? Christina didn’t deserve to be treated so harshly, even if she wasn’t cooperating.

He turned back toward her tent, then froze just outside the entrance. He heard a soft trembling inside. Was she crying? Oh, no … He moved in closer.

Christina nearly knocked him onto the ground. “Get out of my way.” She marched past him carrying her rod and reel.

“Christina, wait—”

“Bug off, Ben. I’m going fishing.” She kept on walking without looking back until she was out of sight.

B
ELINDA DROPPED BEN OFF
outside the DA’s office on the far end of Main Street. Swain’s office differed from the DA offices with which Ben was familiar in two principal respects: first, Swain didn’t have a secretary or receptionist, and second, he had a portable playpen set up behind his desk.

Swain didn’t see Ben come in because he was busy reading a story, or describing it anyway, to his daughter.

“See, Amber,” Swain said, “Carl takes the baby and the puppy to play in the flowers.” He turned the page. “And—oh, no!—the puppy squirts Carl with the garden hose!”

Amber pointed at the picture in the book and giggled.

Ben glanced over Swain’s shoulder and saw that the Carl in question was a huge black dog. “Every baby should have a rottweiler for a playmate,” he said.

Swain turned around. “Mr. Kincaid! I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Don’t let me interrupt.”

“Oh, no. It’s office hours. I just—” He suddenly became embarrassed. “My wife Marjorie works part-time at the hardware store, so I keep Amber on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

“That must make it hard to get any legal work done.”

“You ain’t kiddin’. Fortunately there isn’t that much to do. We’ve never had much trouble in Silver Springs. At least not until your boy and his buddies came to town.”

“Do you mind if we discuss this case?” Ben tilted his head toward the back of the office. “It might be best if we talked in private.”

“Oh. Right. Of course.” Swain smiled down at Amber. “Honey, Daddy has to talk to this nice man. Why don’t you look at the book by yourself for a minute?”

Amber’s lower lip protruded. “Wead.”

“I will, honey. As soon as we finish talking, I’ll read it to you. Twice, if you like.”

“No!” Amber said emphatically. “Wead!”

“Honey, I can’t.”

“Wead! Wead! Wead!”

“Honey, no.”

Amber ran to the side of the playpen and pressed her face against the white mesh like a pint-sized prisoner of Alcatraz. She began to wail at an earsplitting pitch.
“Weeeeead!”

“Honey!” Swain leaned in close to her. “If you’ll be good for a few minutes, I’ll give you a nice bottle of milk.”

“No!” she screamed back. Her face was a puffy crimson. “Wead!”

Swain looked at Ben and shrugged helplessly. “Okay, if you don’t want milk, I’ll give you some apple juice.”

“Wahhh!”
Amber wasn’t even responding now. She just wailed.

“Okay, okay. If you’ll just be good for a minute, I’ll let you have some”—his voice dropped to a whisper—“Coca-Cola.”

As abruptly as it had begun, the caterwauling ceased. Swain turned around quickly and checked Ben’s reaction. Ben did his best to look as if he hadn’t heard.

Swain sprinted to the mini-refrigerator in the back of his office and took out an aluminum can of Coke Classic. “Normally, of course, I would never let her near this stuff.”

“Of course not,” Ben said. “That’s why you keep a case of it in your office.”

“Well … I drink it, too.”

While Swain emptied the can into a plastic bottle, Ben checked the contents of the cupboard. Chocolate-chip cookies, graham crackers, cheese puffs, and Honey-nut Cheerios. “I guess this nutritious stuff is for you, too?”

“Sometimes I get hungry during the workday,” Swain murmured. He passed the soda-filled bottle to Amber. She snatched it eagerly, popped it in her mouth, and nestled down in the playpen with her book.

“Whew.” Swain wiped his forehead. “Well, that’ll keep her occupied for two or three minutes, anyway. What did you have on your mind, Mr. Kincaid?”

“I’d like to see the evidence you have against my client. If you’d like, I can file a motion to produce—”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary. I’ll show you my whole case file.” Swain went to his desk and opened the topmost drawer. “What do you want to know?”