Cruel Justice (23 page)

As they passed Pearson’s office, Ben noticed three black teenagers sitting inside. And one of them was distinctly familiar.

It was Booker—Joni’s boyfriend. And, according to Ernie Hayes, a member of a major Tulsa street gang.

The one he said was always hanging around the country club.

Ben was about to ask Pearson about that when the office’s mahogany door abruptly closed, with Pearson on the other side.

Well, Ben thought, you can’t get rid of me that easily.

Checking both ways down the corridor and finding it momentarily uninhabited, he pressed his ear against the door.

It wasn’t that hard to hear, as Pearson was screaming. “What in God’s name are you doing? Coming here in broad daylight!”

The restaurant maître d’ suddenly appeared in the corridor. Ben moved away from the door and tried to act as if he had lost his balance. With the huge golf bag on his shoulder, his performance wasn’t altogether unbelievable.

He hustled back to the pro shop and turned in his gear. It had been a miserable afternoon, but he was glad he’d done it. He’d picked up some fascinating tidbits about the board members. Problem was, the tidbits didn’t add up to a murderer. He was going to have to keep on probing.

Starting with the man on the other side of that mahogany door.

As soon as Kincaid was out of sight, Chris Bentley quietly stepped through the patio doors and ducked down the secluded staircase that led to the private locker room.

Bentley slid into what was called the Golden Room by those in the know. An exclusive hideaway for the board members and a few of the staff. A quick look around told him no one else was here at the moment.

Good. Now, which one was it? Twenty-two, twenty-four … Yes, that was it. He loved these new computerized digital locks. He had arranged for their installation himself. All the boys on the board had a great feeling of security knowing their locker could be penetrated only by entering a four-digit code chosen by and known only to the owner of the locker. Truth to tell, though, Bentley knew the universal access code that would open all of them. But there was no need for anyone else to know about that.

Quietly, with studied stealth, Bentley opened the locker.

There it was. A bright red baseball cap. Boy’s size.

Bentley grabbed the cap and shoved it under his shirt. Christ. Imagine if Kincaid had found this! That would’ve been the end of the world, as he knew it, anyway.

He closed the locker and tiptoed up the stairs. He’d shove it into his golf bag for now, then get it off the grounds. No one need be the wiser.

Back outside, Bentley headed back toward the clubhouse. The sun felt warm and refreshing, and he basked in it, with the happy inner glow of a man who has only narrowly missed being found out.

L
OVING CHECKED THE ADDRESS
again: 6826 South Sandusky.

He checked the number on the curb. Sure enough. This was the place.

He’d had a hell of a time finding it. Jones identified Carlee Toller on the list he’d compiled of people who worked at the Utica Greens Country Club ten years ago, but the Tulsa Metro residential records showed no trace of any such person. Searching the court records, Loving eventually discovered that Carlee Toller had become Carlee Crane about a year after the murder. And Carlee Crane
was
listed in the residential records. She co-owned a house with her husband, David Elroy Crane.

And here it was. Nothing fancy, but a decent spread with a nice view. A lot better than Loving got out the one window of his fleabag apartment on Sixty-first. Seemed like all the lowlifes in Tulsa hung out there. Of course, as far as Loving was concerned, that was part of its appeal.

He approached the door and knocked. A few moments later a young woman with long blonde hair answered the door.

“Yes?”

“Afternoon, ma’am.” Loving squared his shoulders and tried to look reasonably respectable. “I’m a private investigator. I’m workin’ for a lawyer, Ben Kincaid.”

Her eyes darted, just for a fleeting instant. A telltale sign, Loving thought. She recognized the name. “May I ask why you’re here?”

“You worked at the Utica Greens Country Club ten years ago, didn’t you, ma’am?”

“Well … yes.” The woman licked her lips. “That was a long time ago, though.! quit after just a few months.”

“I know. But you were there at the time Maria Alvarez was murdered, weren’t you?”

She made several false starts before answering. “Maria … Alvarez? I don’t think I know her.”

“Did more than one woman get murdered at the country club that year?” Pull back, Loving, he told himself. It’s too soon to get tough with her. “You must remember when this happened.”

The woman’s voice seemed to come from far away. “I do recall … something along those lines. Not much.”

“You don’t remember a murder that happened where you worked? I woulda thought that was all people talked about for days.”

“But—I mean—you have to understand—it’s been so long—”

Loving frowned. Something about this woman’s answers made him very suspicious. They just didn’t ring true. He’d had innumerable interviewees lie to him over the years, and he thought he knew what it sounded like.

“Ma’am, Mr. Kincaid represents Leeman Hayes, a nice young guy who’s been accused of murderin’ this woman. Hayes goes on trial soon. If you know anything about this, you need to tell me.”

“I don’t know anything about it. How could I? I didn’t see it, did I?”

Loving wasn’t sure if she was asking the question of him or herself.

“I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.” She began to close the door.

Loving jammed his foot in the path. “Ma’am, I’ll do whatever I can to protect you. If you’re worried about the newshounds hasslin’ you or the killer comin’ after you or somethin’, don’t. I’ll be your personal bodyguard.” He flexed his impressive biceps. “And I’m pretty good at it.”

“That isn’t it. I just don’t know anything, that’s all.” She tried again to close the door. “If you don’t move your foot, I’ll have to call the police.”

“At least take Mr. Kincaid’s card,” Loving said, pressing it through the doorway. “If you think of anything that might be helpful, call. Please, A man’s life is at stake. You may be his only hope.”

The woman took the card, then slammed the door shut.

With someone else, Loving might’ve been tempted to get tough and play the bullyboy, but he had a hunch he wouldn’t get anywhere that way with this woman. No amount of badgering was going to change her mind.

He would just have to wait and hope she changed it herself.

A
FTER DINNER THAT NIGHT
, Joey emphatically reminded Ben and his mother that he had not eaten for at least three hours. Mrs. Kincaid prepared a bottle of formula and administered it to her grandson. Against his mother’s protestations, Ben prepared a sleeping bag for himself in the living room, as he had the night before, so his mother could take the bed.

Once Joey finished the bottle, Mrs. Kincaid tried to rock him to sleep. While she did, she sang to him. Ben was surprised; he didn’t recall ever hearing her sing before, except maybe in church. She had a charming, melodic voice.

“He doesn’t seem to be dropping off,” Mrs. Kincaid whispered. “Maybe you could play something on the piano.”

“You’re doing just fine,” Ben said. “I bombed out with lullabies last night.”

Mrs. Kincaid tried a few more tunes. Ben leaned against the sofa and savored her soothing recital. After several choruses of ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” however, he was astonished to hear her break into a slow rendition of …

“Flintstones … meet the Flintstones … they’re the modern Stone Age fa-mi-lyyy. …”

Ben listened in amazement. By the final note, Joey’s eyelids were closed. Mrs. Kincaid rocked him a bit longer, then lowered him into his makeshift crib.

“This has to be the most astonishing coincidence of all time,” Ben said when she returned. “The first night I had Joey, I was having trouble getting him to sleep, and he wasn’t responding to any of my lullabies, so I started singing the Flintstones song. I don’t know why I thought of that; it just popped into my head.”

Mrs. Kincaid smiled.

“I can’t believe we both thought of the same song,” Ben continued. “In fact, I can’t believe you even know the Flintstones song.”

Mrs. Kincaid began thumbing through a decorating magazine she had brought with her. “It’s not a coincidence.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you remember anything? I used to sing that song to you when you were just a babe.”

Ben didn’t bother protesting. Even if he didn’t remember, it had to be true. Some neural synapse in the inner catacombs of his subconscious classified this unlikely song as a lullaby. “Why on earth would you sing—”

“You were a horrible baby to put to sleep. Not that you were a horrible baby. On the contrary, everyone adored you. So bright, so funny. But you never wanted to sleep. After all, if you went to sleep, you might miss out on something. You couldn’t imagine the tricks I used to get your little eyes closed.”

“But—why the Flintstones?”

“I don’t even remember. Probably just something I resorted to in desperation one night that worked. Of course, anything that worked I would never forget. Remember, this was back in the early Sixties. The Flintstones were all the rage. Your father and I used to watch it every Friday night.”

“My father!
The Flintstones!
”

“Oh, he loved that show. Especially the pet—what was his name? Dino. Dino would ran in and tackle Fred and your father would just become hysterical. And he loved the song. Sang it all the time.”

“My father—sang?”

“Oh yes. And I believed he played it on the piano.”

Ben stared at her. “My father played the piano?”

“Of course he did. Played a little guitar, too. He was never as accomplished as you—never had the time. But he loved it. Why do you think we had that lovely grand piano?”

“This can’t be true.”

Mrs. Kincaid rolled her eyes. It was an expression that really annoyed Ben, principally because he recognized it as an expression he frequently used himself. “I know. I’m just a coldhearted society matron who only cares about appearances. And your father was just a hard-hearted right-brained arch-conservative who only cared about his pocketbook. Well, Benjamin, we all have to grow up sometime.”

This was the third time Ben had been told that in as many days, and he didn’t like it any more now than he had before. “I don’t recall my father ever showing the remotest interest in music.”

“Your father loved music. But he had a keen sense of responsibility, too. After all, he had a wife and two children who depended on him. Not to mention parents who had rather demanding expectations.”

Ben didn’t recall his grandparents, either. They were all dead before he turned ten. “The way I remember it, every time I sat down to listen to a record or play the piano, my father gave me some stupid chore so I wouldn’t be ‘wasting my time.’ And he just about blew a gasket when I told him I was going to be a music major.”

“He was afraid that you wouldn’t be able to make a living. That you’d never accomplish anything and boomerang back to us every time we turned around. You certainly wouldn’t be the first rich kid who didn’t turn out well.”

“So all those angry lectures and slaps up the side of the head were for my own good, is that it?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” She paused thoughtfully. “You have to understand, Benjamin—your gifts were so great, your father couldn’t stand to see them go to waste. You know, your father had quite a struggle to become a success in his medical practice. Just between you and me, he wasn’t half as smart as you are, but he made up for it with hard work. He wanted to make sure you didn’t fail to realize your potential because you never learned how to work, never learned how to accomplish anything. And he wanted to make sure you’d be able to support yourself. He wanted to make sure you wouldn’t be left wanting.”

“That’s pretty ironic,” Ben said bitterly. “Given what he did in his will.”

Mrs. Kincaid’s back stiffened. “That, of course, resulted from an entirely unrelated matter. As well you know.”

Ben’s face tightened. “My father couldn’t abide my decision to pursue law instead of medicine. He couldn’t abide my not following in his exalted footsteps.”

‘That’s so foolish. Your bitterness is blinding you.”

“It’s true, and you know it.”

“It’s true that your father wasn’t pleased with your career choice. He didn’t consider law a particularly honorable profession. But that played no part in his decision to change his will.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Ben pushed himself to his feet. “I can’t believe my father played the piano. And I never even knew.”

“You knew once. You used to sit on his lap and sing songs with him. Don’t you remember? What were your favorites? ‘This Old Man.’ ‘Three Blind Mice.’ ‘Pease Porridge Hot.’ I can’t remember them all.” Her eyes closed, and a warm smile emerged. “You were the happiest little boy in the world when your father sang and played with you.”

“I don’t recall him ever playing—
anything
—with me.”

She shook her head. “More’s the pity. That’s when you fell in love with music, Benjamin. It was a gift your father gave you.”

Ben didn’t know what to say. This didn’t accord with his memory at all. But he knew his mother wouldn’t lie to him. “For instance … what else did we sing?”

“Oh, you name it. Hundreds of songs. Nursery rhymes. And your father loved all the old standards.”

Ben felt his chest tighten, like fingers clutching at his heart. Or was it his memory? “What was his favorite?”

Mrs. Kincaid looked at him with genuine surprise. “Don’t you remember? It’s such a silly song. ‘Polka Dots and Moonbeams.’ ”

“A
ND YOU DIDN’T EVEN
ask him?”

“Well, we were getting along so well, I didn’t want to spoil everything. …”

“So you just let it go.”

“For the time being …”

Rachel Rutherford leaned sideways against the wet bar, a Bloody Mary crooked in her hand. “So let me get this straight. You saw a strange man talking to Abie on the street corner, apparently offering him a ride … and you didn’t even ask Abie who it was? What kind of miserable father
are
you?” She hurled her drink across the room; it shattered against a full-length mirror.