Deadly Justice (19 page)

“Aww!” the women wailed in unison. Jenny grabbed the hoop and stepped off the table. She grabbed Ben by the shoulders. “Can I show you my knockers?”

“What?”

Jenny handed Ben and the others small hand-sized wooden blocks. “These are my knockers. When you decide you’re ready to order, just knock.” She giggled. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

She took the drink orders—Cokes for Ben and Rob, two martinis for Bernie King—and scampered away with her friends.

King appeared utterly relaxed and at peace with the universe. “I try to make it out here at least once a week. Robert Crichton first told me about this place. I consider it one of the few favors he’s ever done for me. What do you think, Kincaid?”

Ben looked down at his silverware. “I don’t think you want to know.”

“If I didn’t want to know, I wouldn’t have asked.”

“Well…” Ben inhaled deeply. “Since you asked, I think this place is degrading to women, infantile, sexist, and all-around revolting.”

King smiled. “That’s what I would’ve said, when I was your age. The words would’ve been different, but the sentiment would’ve been the same.” He stretched out, raised his feet onto the booth. “But I’ve mellowed with age. I don’t get upset about the minutiae of political correctness anymore. If someone wants to make me happy, well, who am I to stop them?”

“Joints like this could set women back a hundred years.”

“Perhaps so. And I wonder, would that be so horrible?”

“It would. Especially in the workplace. I’ve already seen behavior at Apollo—”

“Enough, enough. I’m not the CEO.”

“That’s the problem, as far as I can tell. No one wants to take responsibility. We have vice presidents for every conceivable aspect of Apollo’s business policies, but no one is responsible for setting moral policies.”

King smiled again. “Moral policy is not generally a principal concern of the stockholders at the annual meeting.”

“Maybe it should be.”

“Well, enough of this errant philosophizing. I understand you want to talk about the XKL-1 design project.”

“That’s correct.” Ben brought him up-to-date on the litigation, including the discovery that had been conducted thus far. “Andrew Consetti mentioned that you were one of the principal designers on the project.”

“That’s true. Me and Al Austin.”

“Right. That’s one aspect of this affair that seems strange to me. After the completion of that project, you became a corporate VP with your own office in OKC, and Al Austin disappeared from the face of the earth.”

“I like to think my promotion was based upon more than just one project. I’ve been working for Apollo for almost twenty years.”

Ben tried to concentrate on what King was saying, but it was almost impossible with the big screen television flashing in front of his eyes. An exercise program was on, featuring four beautifully formed women in skintight exercise leotards bouncing around under the pretense of physical fitness. Ben liked lovely women as well as the next guy, but this big screen show of sweat and tights was beginning to have a Clockwork Orange effect.

“Can you describe the testing that was performed on the XKL-1?” Ben asked, forcing himself to look away from the screen.

“You name it, we did it. Stress testing, collision testing, front impact, rear impact—every test that could be performed, we performed.”

“Well…I’ve searched the corporate records, as has my legal assistant, and we haven’t found any test reports.”

“Really?” King thought for a moment. “Well, it’s a five-year-old project. They must’ve been thrown out.”

“Hmm.” Ben scrutinized King carefully. “And, you’re certain the design was thoroughly tested?”

“Absolutely certain.”

“And the results were positive?”

He spread his hands across the table. “We put the product on the market, didn’t we?”

“That doesn’t quite answer my question.”

“The quality control department would never intentionally release a product it didn’t believe to be safe.”

“That…still doesn’t answer my question.”

For the first time, King’s dander appeared to be rising. “I’ve answered it several times.”

“No, you haven’t. My question is: did the testing prove the design was safe?”

“Yes, it was safe. It was incredibly, wonderfully safe. God spare me from the persistence of a lawyer.” He leaned back into the corner of the booth. “I thought you were on our side.”

“I am. I just want to know what happened.”

King glanced absently at a group of hostesses building a pyramid with their bodies. “Well, that’s what happened.”

Rob seized the opportunity to jump in and smooth the troubled waters. “Do you have any explanation for what happened to Jason Nelson, Mr. King?”

“How could I know what happened? I wasn’t there.”

“But you are familiar with the case.”

“I read the case summary Crichton sent over.”

“Can you speculate as to what happened?”

“Well, anyone can speculate. Perhaps the kid was drinking. Perhaps he was necking with his girlfriend and lost his balance. Perhaps he just wasn’t paying attention.”

“The Nelsons strongly believe that what happened to their son was Apollo’s fault.”

“Because that’s what their attorney has told them to think. You think they dreamed up this defective leaf spring theory on their own? Of course not. That’s the lawyer’s work. He’s looking for a deep pocket. After all, if the accident was the kid’s own fault, the parents are not going to get any money from anyone. And that lawyer is probably working on a contingency fee.”

“The Nelsons don’t strike me as particularly greedy—”

“It’s not just greed. It’s expiation. How horrible they must feel—they were with their son when it happened. They permitted him to ride on that flatbed—probably encouraged him to do it. Can you imagine the guilt they must feel? How much better if they can blame a third party, and transfer all their guilt to them.”

Ben had to admit there could be some truth in what King said. He had seen attempts at absolution through litigation before. “Last question, sir. Do you know where Al Austin is today?”

“No,” he said hastily.

“Any idea at all?”

“None whatsoever.”

Was it just that Ben didn’t like the man, or was there something more? For whatever reason, Ben had a distinct mental image of the man’s nose getting longer with each denial. “Can you explain why he left Apollo?”

“I doubt that even Al could explain why he left. I liked Al, I really did, but he was the kind of guy who was never happy with whatever he was doing. Always looking for something better. For all I know, he left to discover America, or write the great American novel, or climb the mountains of Nepal.”

“I hope not,” Ben said. “I doubt if I can get a subpoena served in Nepal.”

“Leave Al alone,” King said wearily. “He’s of no use to you.”

“Yeah. That’s what I keep hearing.”

Jenny bounced back to their table. “What’s wrong? You haven’t knocked.” She giggled and jiggled. “Don’t you have an appetite?”

Innuendoes for an appetizer. Neat. “I do,” Ben said. “I’d like some Buffalo wings.”

“We don’t have that,” she replied. “But if you like, Megan will do the funky chicken on your table.”

“That’s quite all right. What do you have?”

“Hamburgers.”

“What else?”

“Nothing else.” She winked. “Except knockers, of course.”

Ben sighed. “Hamburgers it is, then. By the way, is there any chance you could change the channel on that television?”

B
ACK AT HIS OFFICE
, Ben finished dictating his notes on his meeting with Bernie King. There was something there, but he wasn’t sure what. One thing he was sure of, though—he was tired of all these calm, placid faces telling him not to worry, not to investigate, not to stir things up. Millions of dollars were potentially at stake, and everyone in the company was going out of the way to appear blasé about learning what really happened. That just didn’t ring true.

After a few more moments’ thought, Ben picked up the phone and dialed his old office on the North Side. Loving answered the phone.

“Loving? This is Ben. How’s business?”

He heard a noise on the other end of the line that he took for sullen grunting. “Aww, I’m making ends meet, Skipper. Been tailing naughty husbands, mostly. It ain’t the same since you left, though. You brought in such weird clients. There was always someone I could extract information from.”

Usually by terrorizing them and threatening to make their lives a misery, Ben reflected. Ben had first met Loving after he’d represented Loving’s wife in their divorce. Loving had burst into Ben’s office one day, enraged, ready to do some damage. He was so grateful afterward when Ben didn’t press charges that he offered to help Ben out with his fledgling practice. Eventually, he began working full time as Ben’s private investigator. He was generally effective, although his methods were as a rule less than subtle.

“Did you ever figure out where the ex-husband in the Crawford case hid all his money?” Ben asked.

“Oh, yeah. Days ago. Piece of cake.”

“What’d you do? Trace his bank transfers through computer networks?”

“Nah. I held him upside down over a swimming pool till he volunteered the information. You know, dip his head under for a minute, pull it out for a second. You’d be amazed how willing he was to talk after a while.”

No doubt. “Well, I’ve got a new case for you.”

“Really?” His excitement was evident. “You mean that hotshot corporation you work for is going to hire me?”

“You should just report to me. This is somewhat…unofficial.”

“Even better. Just like the good ol’ days.”

“This is a tough assignment, Loving. I don’t know…maybe I’m expecting too much from you….”

“Whaddaya mean? You saying it’s too tough for me? Just let me at it.”

Perfect. “I need you to find a man named Al Austin. All I know about him is that he used to work in Tulsa for the Apollo Consortium, in the engineering and design department. He worked on a suspension system design project called the XKL-1 about five years ago, but disappeared before the product was released onto the market. I don’t know why and I don’t know where he’s gone. I’m sorry—I realize that doesn’t give you much to go on.”

“Apollo employee, huh? I know some Apollo guys. They like to hang out at the Bull-N-Bear on Harvard—you know, shoot some pool, have a few brewskies. I’ll see what I can find out.”

“Great. Call me as soon as you learn something.”

“Will do, Skipper.”

“You know, Loving, I’m not your Skipper—er, boss, anymore.”

“Aww, heck. You’ll always be the Skipper to me.”

“Well, that’s nice. I guess.”

“We’re keeping your office just like it was when you worked here. Kind of a memorial.”

“That’s really not necessary.”

“We’re still waiting for you to come back. Christina says it’s just a matter of time.”

“Oh, does she? Well, she may be in for a big—”

“I better get started on this. Thanks for calling.”

No sooner had Ben hung up his phone than another familiar face from his previous life strolled through his office door.

“Jones! I wondered why you didn’t answer the phone at the office.”

“You called to check on us?” Ben’s former secretary beamed. “Remembering the people you met on the way up. Who knows, you may need us again on your way down.”

“My way—Have you been talking to Christina, too?”

“Face it, Boss. Christina is always right.”

“Not this time. I’m very happy with my spiffy office and regular salary, thank you. The boss seems to respect me and I’ve successfully completed all my assignments. Look at this—I’ve even got my own desktop computer.”

“I know. That’s why I came by. Christina told me you’ve barely figured out how to turn it on.”

“Well…I haven’t had much time to devote to trivial office details.”

“Uh-huh. That’s why I’m here. Time for a primer. Computers 101.”

“I hardly think that’s necessary”

“Oh? Fine. Show me how you use your computer.” Jones flipped the power switch on the back of the machine.

“Now where exactly is that switch?” Ben asked. “I couldn’t find it before.”

“Here, I’ll put a yellow Post-it on it that says
TURN ME ON.”
The monitor was illuminated with a blue screen. “This is your menu. It tells you what programs the corporation has already stored in your hard disk. What do you want to do?”

“Oh…I don’t know. What are my choices?”

Jones rolled his eyes. “Sheesh.” He brought the cursor to the top of the screen. “How about word processing? Lawyers do a lot of writing, right?”

“I’ve heard of that. That sounds good.”

“Push
W
, and you’ve entered the word processing program, already installed on your hard disk. Now, you want to be able to store any documents you create. You can probably store them on the hard disk, but you should also keep an extra copy on diskette. Where do you keep your diskettes?”

“My what?”

Jones shook his head. “Lucky I came when I did. You’re in sad shape, Boss.” He rifled through Ben’s desk drawers, eventually finding a box full of preformatted diskettes. He removed one small, square plastic 3 x 5-inch disk. “This,” Jones said, “is a diskette.”

Ben stared at the object in his hand. “That’s it.”

“I know it is. That’s what I just told you. Ben, you’re not paying attention.”

“No, you misunderstand. That’s
it
—that’s what I saw but couldn’t remember. That’s what Hamel had in his hand when his body fell on top of me.”

“Boss, are you on any medication?”

Quickly, Ben filled Jones in on what had happened during the past few days—finding Hamel’s body in his office, then losing it, then finding it again in the alley behind his house.

“Boss, you’re becoming the Typhoid Mary of premeditated murder.”

“This is a major breakthrough,” Ben said, ignoring him. “Why was Hamel clutching a diskette? And what was on the diskette? Was someone trying to get it?”

“But the police searched the area after the body disappeared, right?”

“Right.”

“And there was no diskette?”