Blind Justice (19 page)

“They’re not vultures. They’re just doing their job.”

“Easy for you to say. You haven’t been around them, day in, day out, in addition to the hostile Native American protesters. It’s making this place a pressure cooker. I feel like someone’s watching every move I make.”

“You and me both.” Ben sighed. “We have the regrettable pleasure of being Tulsa’s current headline news.”

“Actually, we’re the top story throughout the state,” Jones said. He showed Ben the headline on the day’s
Daily Oklahoman.
The bold black letters covered nearly half the front page:
DRUG PRINCESS TRIAL NEARS
.

“That’s just great,” Ben groaned.

“The shooting death of a linchpin in the Cali cartel—that’s big news. The Texas papers are starting to pick up the story, too.”

“Much as I’ve needed publicity, this wasn’t what I had in mind. Pray for a natural disaster to divert everyone’s attention. Or maybe a small war. By the way, heard anything from Mike?”

“No. He’s dodging me. I keep calling, but he won’t take my calls and he doesn’t call back.”

Ben shook his head. He couldn’t believe Mike was avoiding him, that he was so determined to toe the line he’d let Christina fall through the cracks. Permanently.

“Keep trying,” Ben said quietly. “Anything else we need to catch up on?”

“Yeah. How ’bout I run over and check out the crime scene?”

“How ’bout you stay here and man the telephone?”

“Boss, I want to do some legwork.”

“I’ve been to the crime scene already. Trust me—it wasn’t that enlightening.”

“Easy for you to say. You get all the fun assignments. I have to stay here all day fending off creditors and drunks and reporters.”

“Life is tough.”

“Aw, c’mon, let me go. I can handle myself.”

“I’m sure you can.”

“I
can.
How can I prove myself to you?”

Ben glanced down at the floor, where he saw two chickens, each pecking a shoe. “Well,” he said, “for starters…”

T
HE WHITE LIGHTS THROBBED
on and off at the Cowpoke Motor Inn on I-44, just before the Turner Turnpike tailgates. The marquee informed Ben that there were vacancies (no great surprise) and that a room could be obtained for twelve dollars. He wondered if that was for the night or the hour.

Two muscular men stood in the parking lot, leaning against the tailgate of a pickup truck. Looked like an illicit transaction was going down, but Ben didn’t have time to investigate. He knocked on the door—room 13. How ironic.

The door parted, just the length of the chain. All Ben could see was a beak nose poking through the gap.

“Who izzit?” said the voice behind the door.

“My name is Ben Kincaid. I’m an attorney.”

“I already got an attorney.” He started to close the door.

“I didn’t come here to solicit business.” Ben wedged his foot into the door. “I’m representing Christina McCall.”

“Oh yeah? Prove it.”

“How can I prove it through a closed door? Look, if you won’t talk to me voluntarily, I’ll be forced to get a subpoena. Then the marshal will come out and drag you down to the courthouse, where all the cops hang out, and we’ll all hear what you have to say.”

The pressure on the door eased.

“Of course, while the marshal is here, he might want to take a look around your room. Just to see if he can turn up anything interesting.”

With that, the man unfastened the chain and opened the door. “Ten minutes,” he said. “I got an appointment”

I’ll just bet you do, Ben thought. He walked inside. The room was a sewer. Dirty clothes, newspapers, and fast food containers were strewn across the floor and the unmade bed. The mirror over the dresser was cracked in several places. Ben didn’t know if it was the clothes, the food, the bathroom, or some other horror, but the room stank abominably.

“Swell place,” Ben said, sitting down in the chair closest to the door.

“It ain’t great,” the man said, “but it’s the only motel room under fifteen bucks that gets the Playboy Channel. Just a buck extra.”

“Sounds like a deal.”

“You know it, pal.”

“My secretary had a hell of a time finding you.”

“Good. I’ll give you a little clue, chump. You oughta make yourself scarce, too.”

“Why is that?”

He leaned forward, spitting as he spoke. “ ’Cause there’s certain people, man, who do not want Lombardi’s murder investigated. The kind of people who’d blow your brains out just to relieve a hangnail. And they know who you are.”

Ben tried not to react. “Is that a fact?”

“Yeah, that’s a fuckin’ fact. The only thing worse than a fuckin’ killer is a fuckin’
scared
killer. And these guys are scared.”

“I take it you’re referring to your former employers?”

He didn’t answer.

“Can I call you Lennie? That’s what people call you, isn’t it?”

“My friends, yeah. Which you ain’t.”

Ben had heard of people being described as weasely before, but Lennie must’ve been the prototype. He had a pencil-thin mustache and long sideburns. There was something pervasively oily about his complexion and his manner.

“About your late employer, Tony Lombardi. I understand you acted as a…runner for him. On both personal and business matters.”

“That’s true,” Lennie said, stretching. His sleeves were rolled up; Ben could see the tracks on his arms.

“Looks like you occasionally dipped into the inventory.”

Lennie jerked his arms back. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Never mind. What can you tell me about Tony’s business?”

“Which one?”

“The drugs one.”

“Don’t know shit about it. I can’t believe Tony would do something illegal.”

He was nothing if not loyal. Although there was probably a strong element of self-preservation involved as well. “All right, then. Tell me about the parrot business.”

“What do you want to know?”

“It was a front for the drug smuggling, right?”

“I already told you—”

“Yeah, yeah. Forget I spoke.” He tried a different tack. “Did you ever make any deliveries or pickups for Albert DeCarlo?”

“Yes. Both. So?”

“Any idea what was being delivered?”

“Money, sometimes. That always got counted in my presence. On both ends. Just so I didn’t get any ideas, they said.”

“And your belief is that this money being exchanged was for parrots?”

“I never asked what the money was for, and nobody ever told me. It don’t pay to be too curious around Albert DeCarlo. He’s a bastard.”

“You sound as if you know him well.”

“I do. Since he was a little shit. I worked for the DeCarlo family back when his father was in charge.”

“DeCarlo told me he’s making big changes in his daddy’s business. Making it more wholesome.”

Lennie laughed, then started to choke. “That’s a laugh. He’s changing the business, all right, but it has nothin’ to do with being wholesome. I worked for his papa for twelve years and never had any problems. Albert Junior takes over, and within six months, this.”

He held up his right hand, palm back. The tips of his two smallest fingers had been cut off at the second knuckle.

“What did you do to—”

“Forget it. I ain’t gonna talk about it.”

“Because of the Omerta?”

“You’re goddamn right because of the Omerta! I won’t make that mistake twice.”

“I guess that’s when you quit working for DeCarlo?”

“Quit? I got news for you, pal. You never quit working for DeCarlo. I was reassigned by him to Lombardi. DeCarlo had taken a strong interest in Lombardi, and I think he wanted one of his men on the inside.”

It made sense. If nothing else, it explained Lombardi’s apparent hostility toward his own henchman. Lennie was DeCarlo’s pawn, not Lombardi’s. “Do you know anything about Christina McCall?”

“Nah. What’s to know? Just another dumb bitch.”

Someone should set this man on fire, Ben thought. “Do you have any idea why he asked her to meet him at his apartment?”

Lennie shrugged. “Just dumb luck, I guess.”

“Then you don’t think she killed him?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t there. It’s possible. But when a guy has as many enemies as Tony had, there’s no reason to jump to any conclusions. Hell, Tony was especially weird when it came to women.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“I saw Tony with his wife a hundred times, but if I hadn’t already known, I never would’ve guessed they were married. Cold as ice.”

Ben shifted positions in his chair. He couldn’t get comfortable. He leaned to one side…and realized he was sitting on something. He yanked it out from under him. It was a pair of Lennie’s underwear, soiled and rank. A wave of revulsion swept over him; he tossed it onto the floor.

“Sorry about that,” Lennie said.

“Yeah.” While leaning forward, Ben noticed a phone number scrawled on the cover of the motel room phone book. “That’s the local FBI office, isn’t it?”

Lennie grabbed the phone book and threw it to the other side of the room. “That’s nobody’s business but mine.”

Ben’s eyes narrowed. “Are you planning to turn state’s evidence? Is that your ticket out of town?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Your ten minutes is up.”

Ben stood, but he did not leave. “What do you know that you haven’t already told me?”

“I don’t know nothin’. I told you to leave already.”

Ben walked toward him, eyes like stone. “Goddamn it, you slimy worm. The feds wouldn’t be interested in you if you didn’t know something that helped their case. Tell me what you know!”

“Forget you, asshole.”

“Tell me now!”

In a heartbeat, Lennie reached under his pillow and withdrew a small caliber pistol. “All right, you son of a bitch. I warned you! Now just get the hell out of here!”

“Not again!” Ben slowly backed away. “I am sick and tired of having guns pulled on me!”

“I tried to be Mr. Nice,” Lennie said. His arms were shaking. “But no, you had to push me around. Everyone pushes Lennie around. Well, a guy can only push so far!”

He fired the pistol. The gun flared and the bullet smashed into the wall just over Ben’s head. This time it was the real thing.

“Now are you gettin’ out of here or what?”

“I’m leaving, Lennie. See? I’m opening the door.”

“Count of five, man. One, two…”

By five, Ben was already back on the interstate.

H
E HAD HOPED SHE
wouldn’t be there.

But of course, she was. Marjorie sat at the front desk in Swayze & Reynolds’s office lobby, typing away. If she had been ten months pregnant before, she was at least twelve months pregnant now. She greeted him by name.

Well, it was encouraging that she remembered. Sort of. “Hello, Marjorie. I’m here to see Mr. Reynolds.”

“I don’t see you on his appointment schedule. Perhaps you called while I was at my Lamaze class?”

“No, I don’t have an appointment. But it’s urgent that I see him.”

She frowned, then punched a button on her intercom and whispered into the box. After a few moments, she said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Kincaid. He says he’s busy—”

“Tell him if he’s not out in five minutes, I start smashing Lalique.”

He was out in two.

“I’m sorry for the delay,” Reynolds said, as he escorted Ben back to his office. “I was on the telephone with my wife. The judge.”

No kidding. I thought maybe it was your other wife. Ben walked into Reynolds’s office and, to his surprise, found Margot Lombardi sitting at the conference table.

Margot spared Reynolds the ordeal of a graceful introduction. “Mr. Kincaid and I have met,” she explained. “And I behaved disgracefully. I had no right to burden you with my problems.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Ben said.

“There’s no excuse for such a public display. On the contrary it’s time for me to stop feeling sorry for myself and get on with my life. That’s what Mr. Reynolds is helping me do. He’s the executor of Tony’s estate.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“The FBI is determined to link Tony’s assets to drug smuggling,” Reynolds said. “If they are successful, they can confiscate the assets. In the meantime, the estate is frozen.”

“I don’t know why they’re doing this,” Margot said. “What have I ever done to them?”

“Don’t fret,” Reynolds said, patting her on the shoulder. For a moment, Ben thought, he almost sounded human. “Everything will work out in time.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt.…” Ben said, suddenly regretting his door-smashing tactics.

“Not at all,” Margot said. “I was on my way out.”

Reynolds helped her out of her chair, then escorted her to the door. When he returned, he and Ben sat at the center table.

“How’s Polly?” Ben asked.

“Oh, she’s…as she always is.”

Ben examined the parrot, almost motionless in her tiny cage. She was not as she always was. She was still a regal purplish blue, but the colors seemed faded since his last visit. Her reddish brown tail feathers were almost black. At the bottom of the cage, he saw a small bed of feathers.

“She’s feather-plucking!” Ben cried.

“She’s what?”

“Feather-plucking. Clayton Langdell was telling me about it.”

“Clayton Langdell is…something of an extremist,” Reynolds said, in his slow, pained manner.

“Maybe so, but he knows his parrots. Feather-plucking is an abnormal behavior pattern—the parrot goes crazy and starts mutilating itself.”

“That hardly seems likely.”

“That’s exactly what’s happening. You’ve got to set this bird free. Or turn her over to someone trained to care for birds.”

“Mr. Kincaid. Do you have any idea how valuable that bird is?”

“I don’t really care. This isn’t Waterford crystal you’ve got locked up there. It’s a living creature. A fellow animal.”

Reynolds seemed vaguely amused. “Have you been spending an inordinate quantity of time with Mr. Langdell?”

“I’ve been reading his brochures.”

“That explains a great deal. Now, were there any
legal
matters you wished to discuss, or are you simply here to admire my parrot?”

“I’ve come to renew my request that you permit me to examine Lombardi’s financial records.”