Extreme Justice (14 page)

Tyrone turned away. Ben had the clear impression that he wanted to say something. But whatever it was, it wasn’t coming out.

He checked Mike—he was watching the kid too. Ben knew Mike was biding his time, hoping Tyrone would talk.

“C’mon,” Mike growled, grabbing Earl by the shoulder. “We’ve got things to do.”

“Look”—Tyrone squeezed his eyes shut—”you’ve got the wrong man.”

Another snort from Prescott. “Like hell.”

“It’s true. He didn’t do it.”

Mike took a step toward Tyrone. “And how do you know that?”

“I just know, okay?”

“
How
?” Mike got so close to Tyrone they could swap carbon dioxide. “Is this a confession?”

“No—I—” He hung his head.

“You know, Morelli,” Prescott said, “I think maybe we should bring this one in, too.”

“No!” Tyrone exclaimed. “That’s exactly what—” He stopped, then threw himself dejectedly into a chair.

“Look, kid,” Mike said, “just tell us what you know. In the long run, it’ll be for the best.”

Tyrone let out a long sigh. His face reflected the conflicts and contradictions he was weighing. Finally, he spoke: “It wasn’t Earl. It was the clown in the fake ’fro.”

Ben stepped forward, keenly interested. Of course, he had considered the rug man a suspect. But what did this kid know?

“The rug guy?” Mike asked. “Bushy hair? Beard? So tall?”

“No,” Tyrone said, his face in his hands. “That’s where you’ve got it all wrong. You go lookin’ for some chump with an Afro, you’re gonna fail.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because he was wearing a wig. And since no one else has worn a ’fro for the last twenty years or so, you’re gonna come up empty-handed.”

“Did you see the killer?”

“I think so. I mean, I didn’t know he was a killer at the time. I didn’t know there
was
a killer at the time.”

“But you saw someone in a wig.”

“Right. Watched him take off the wig. Watched him taking off the fake beard, too.”

Mike made a note. “Where?”

“In the men’s room.” Tyrone laughed awkwardly. “Hell, I thought he was some kind of drag queen or cross-dresser. But then he saw me lookin’ at him, and he got all bent out of shape. Started walking toward me like he was gonna kill me. And he was hiding something under his shirt. I think it was a knife.”

“You saw—” Mike scribbled furiously in his notepad. “Why didn’t you tell us this before?”

“I”—Tyrone looked away—“I didn’t want to get involved.”

“What’s your name, kid?”

“I don’t have to answer that.”

“The hell you don’t. You’re a material witness, now. You talk to me here or I’ll haul you downtown and you’ll talk to me there.
Capisce?
”

He swallowed. “My name’s … Tyrone. Tyrone Jackson.”

Mike’s eyes went fuzzy, as if he was trying to dredge up an association buried deep in some fold of his memory. The light slowly dawned. “You’re wanted for something, aren’t you? That’s why you didn’t want to talk.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You knew we’d want to question you, take your prints, run your name through the computer.” Mike nodded. “I think I understand now. C’mon, Prescott. Let’s get out of here.”

“What? You mean—we aren’t takin’ Earl in?”

Mike shrugged. “We have a witness who places another suspect at the scene of the crime with a weapon.”

“You don’t believe him, do you? You should arrest ’em both!”

“I’m not going to make any half-cocked arrests that’ll only blow up in my face later. Frankly, Prescott, I wasn’t very impressed by your case in the first place, but at least there was no other likely suspect. Now, with this kid’s testimony, which Mr. Kincaid is certain to put on at the preliminary hearing, I’m not even sure we have enough to bind the man over for trial. We need time to check this kid’s story.”

“You can’t just let this punk go! He killed someone!”

“If he did, we’ll prove it. In the meantime, I’m not going to bring charges that won’t stick.”

Prescott’s fists balled up. “The Chief won’t like this. He said he wanted an arrest, pronto.”

“I’m not going to waste the city’s resources bringing charges I know will be dismissed just so I can go on the evening news and complain about how the justice system doesn’t work and judges coddle criminals. First we do our job. Then we make an arrest.”

“But—but—”

“You heard me. We’re leaving.” Without another word, Mike walked briskly out of the office, followed by the two officers.

Prescott whirled on Ben. “We’ll be back, Kincaid. Don’t doubt it.” On his way out, he leaned close to Tyrone. “And next time we’ll be coming for you, too.” He slammed the door behind him.

“Thank God that’s over.” Ben turned toward Tyrone. “You and I have a few things to discuss.”

Tyrone’s eyes darted from side to side. “You think it’s true? What that blowhard said, I mean. About them comin’ back for me?”

Ben nodded. “You can count on it.”

A
T EIGHT THAT
evening, Ben was still at the club, barely making a dent in the mess. Most of the staff had gone home some time ago; Earl and Tyrone were up in Earl’s office commiserating.

“Why don’t you go on home, Ben?” Diane said. “It’s late.”

“What, and leave you with this pit to clean up?”

“Hey, it falls in the stage manager’s job description, not the piano player’s.” She smiled, causing her cheeks to crinkle up and spread the spikes of her hairdo. “You have to be careful. Might sprain a finger or something.”

He checked his watch. “Well, I was hoping to get home by nine; NPR’s broadcasting a live John Prine concert. I’ll be back tomorrow to help.”

Diane shrugged. “It’s your funeral.”

Ben was almost out the door when someone shouted at him from behind the bar. “You’ve got a call, Ben.”

Ben scrambled to the phone. “Hello?”

“Benjamin! You gotta come! He’s killing her!”

Ben’s hand gripped the phone receiver tightly. “Who? What? Who is this?”

“Benjamin! He’s beating her to death!”

“Who
is
this?”

“You’ve got to come quickly! He’s killing her!”

Ben listened carefully to the voice. “Mrs. Marmelstein, is this you?”

“Of course it is! What are you going to do about Christina?”

“Christina?” His jaw tightened. “Tell me exactly what’s going on. Start at the beginning.”

She spoke in short broken gasps, never more than a few words at a time. “Your friend Christina called. She’s in trouble.”

“But why would she call you?”

“Would you listen to me? He’s beating her up!”

“Who is?”

“I don’t know his name. Her ex-husband.”

“Ray? The dentist?”

“She was screaming, Benjamin! Crying! I could hear him hitting her!”

None of this made sense, but he was wasting valuable time trying to pry information out of her. “Where is she?”

“At her place.”

“I’m going right there. Can you call the police?”

“Yes. 911.”

“Right. Do it.” Ben slammed down the receiver and raced out the door. He was out of the club in ten seconds, had his van started in thirty.

Fortunately, rush hour was long over, so there was not much traffic on the Broken Arrow Expressway. There was, however, construction work in progress, and it added several minutes to his trip.

As he bobbed in and around the construction cones, Ben punched in Christina’s number on his car phone. He had laughed when Mike had first suggested that he get a car phone for his new van. It seemed like a frivolous nineties bit of frippery to him, but Mike had insisted it was a security issue—you don’t want to be trapped on a dark, lonely road with no way to call AAA when your car breaks down. At the moment, Ben was glad he had it.

The phone rang, but no one answered.
Blast!

Ben banged his steering wheel, as if that might make the rerouted traffic move faster. Finally he exited onto Harvard and barreled south toward Christina’s apartment.

He parked his car on the street outside and ran to the front door, on which he pounded, but there was no answer. Shades were drawn over the front windows; he couldn’t see what, if anything, was going on inside.

Damn! The whole thing didn’t make sense. But if Christina was in there, and she had been beaten, she might be unable to come to the door. She could be unconscious, bleeding—even dying.

He had to try something. There was a fence that divided the front of the apartments, and Ben knew Christina’s place had a back screen door that faced out on the other side. He had told her a million times to keep that door locked, but she almost never did. If he could get over there …

Fortunately, the fence was not too high, only about six feet. He jumped up and grabbed the top with both hands, then hoisted himself over. He flopped down on the other side, landing on both feet. Not bad for an amateur, he thought. He ran around the corner and made it to the back sliding door.

Yes! It was unlocked. Good thing she never heeded his advice. He’d scold her later; today it was a godsend. He threw open the door and raced inside and saw—

Nothing.

No one was there. There were no signs of a struggle, no overturned chairs or tables. No blood on the white shag carpet. He checked the back bedroom and bath, the kitchen, even the closets. It was all the same.

There had been no brawl, no beating.

It had never made any sense. Christina might not speak all that kindly about Ray, but shed never suggested that he’d been violent to her. And Christina could handle herself pretty well, as he’d seen in any number of situations. All things considered, she was more likely to beat Ray to a pulp than the other way around.

Ben sat down on the sofa and stared into the gilt mirror hanging on the opposite wall just above Christina’s display of French memorabilia. Two possibilities shouted out to him. Either Mrs. Marmelstein was playing a cruel prank … or Mrs. Marmelstein was losing her mind.

Unfortunately, she had never been much of a prankster.

Ben rubbed his face. Even when the doctors had determined that she had Alzheimer’s, he’d thought they could cope with it without much adjustment. But this was different. Hallucinating violent events that never happened, never even came close to happening. He had to face facts.

Her mind was slipping. Fast.

He pushed himself off the sofa and exited through the back sliding door. Poor Mrs. Marmelstein. Through it all, she had always been sweet and good-hearted. She may have periodically feigned her disapproval of Ben, but he knew that in truth she was one of his greatest supporters, someone he could always count on for a kind and caring word. And she knew he had been there when she needed someone. She knew he had taken care of her.

But Ben couldn’t take care of this. He couldn’t be with her all the time, preventing her from hurting herself or making panicked phone calls in the middle of the night. He had a job, a career. The band was planning to go on the road. He couldn’t babysit his landlady all the time.

He jumped up, grabbed the top of the fence, and swung his legs over. He had flopped onto the other side and was just about to scramble down when he heard the staccato static of the police radio.

“Suspect is male, thin, about five foot five with brown hair, balding slightly in the back …”

Ben released his grip on the fence and dropped to the ground.

“
Freeze!
Hands in the air!”

Ben threw up his hands. He whirled around and saw three police cars, red sirens swirling. Officers flanked each car, their guns extended over the open car doors, ready to fire given the slightest provocation.

“I can explain,” Ben said meekly.

“Of course you can,” the officer in front growled as he reached for his cuffs.

Ben suspected he was not going to make it home in time for the John Prine concert.

It was almost midnight before he managed to convince the Tulsa Police Department, Central Division, that he was neither a cat burglar nor Ray, the ex-husband from hell. Mike had dropped by during the interrogation, mostly just to make fun, but he had at least put in a good word.

“Has your landlady made calls like this before?” they asked.

“No. Well, not that I know of.”

“This kind of behavior could be dangerous,” one of his interrogators said earnestly. “People could get hurt, including her. She needs someone watching her.”

“I know.”

They finally let him go with a stern warning about the dangers of breaking into apartments, even your friends’, and after extracting a promise that Ben would try to keep Mrs. Marmelstein out of trouble.

He staggered home. What was this, the third night in a week, home after midnight? It was getting old.

He stopped outside Mrs. Marmelstein’s door. Normally he wouldn’t knock at this hour, but he saw the light was on under the door. He tapped gently.

“Come in,” she said.

Ben pushed the door open and entered. She was sitting in her rocker recliner, an array of sepia-toned photographs in her lap.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” she said, sniffing.

“You’re up late.”

“What are you talking about? I just got up.”

He didn’t bother to correct her. “Can we talk about that phone call you made this evening?”

“What phone call?” She picked up another photo. She seemed to be arranging them into separate piles, although what the distinctions were Ben couldn’t tell.

“The one you made to me. At the club. About Christina and her ex-husband.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She continued her sorting.

“Mrs. Marmelstein, you did call me.”

“Have I ever shown you this photo?” She looked up for the first time, her face bright and sunny, but still a pale reflection of the Mrs. Marmelstein that Ben had known so well. “Daniel and I were at the beach on Long Island. That was before we moved to Tulsa. Before Daniel invested in the oil industry.”

Ben took the photograph from her. It was at least fifty years old. It showed the two of them, so much younger they were like different people, wearing old-fashioned bathing suits and sitting under a huge beach umbrella. Two people from another world.