Extreme Justice (32 page)

“It’s blood!
Blood!
”

Ben raced offstage and blitzed through the tables, pushing gawkers back into their seats.

It was Paula. She was right where he had left her, but she was screaming, near hysterical. Her face was contorted by panic and fear.

And there was blood splattered all over the table, all over her hands, all over her face.

Another thick dollop of blood appeared out of nowhere and splattered down on her chest. She totally lost it. Her scream sliced through the club, sending the crowd leaping to its feet and rushing toward the door.

“Not again!” he heard someone scream as the stampede started. “Not again!

Jones wrapped his arms around Paula, trying to calm her, getting fresh wet blood smeared all over himself.

What was going on? Ben wondered, trying to keep his head about him. He had left only moments ago and everything had been fine. Now the table looked as if it had been the site of some sick ritual sacrifice.

The screaming was infectious. Some saw Paula, saw the blood-spattered table, and began to panic. Some screamed just because others were screaming. Tables and glasses crashed to the floor. People rushed onto the stage, into the wings, trying to escape they knew not what. In less than a minute, the club had descended into chaos.

Ben knew the blood had to be coming from somewhere. But where? No one appeared to be wounded.

He looked up. Sure enough, there was a huge red spot on the ceiling; something red and unmistakable was seeping through the plaster.

Blood. Lots of it.

Ben hit the spiral staircase running. He raced up, taking the stairs two at a time, till he reached the door to Earl’s office. He threw the door open and ran inside.

Scat’s remains lay in a crumpled heap, blood forming a huge puddle on the floor beneath him. He had been stabbed in more places than Ben cared to count. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

The worst of it was, he was smiling.

“Mike, you’re making a mistake!”

“I’ve already made the mistake,” Mike said, snapping the cuffs over Earl’s wrists. “What I’m doing now is making sure I don’t repeat it.” He pinned Earl’s arms behind his back and began reading him his rights.

Ben followed close behind as Mike pushed Earl toward the door. “Mike, listen to me. Just because the corpse was found in Earl’s club doesn’t mean he committed the murder.”

Mike kept marching. “What about the fact that the body was found in his private office? What about the fact that Earl specifically told you not to go looking for Scat? What about the fact that about a dozen people saw Earl hurrying out of that same office minutes before the blood started dripping through the plaster? Including you.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.” Ben turned sideways, cutting a path through the crowd, trying to keep up. “There are other ways out of the office. There’s a window. And a back door leading to the stage.”

“Which no one saw anyone suspicious pass through. Ben, give it a rest.”

“But what about Tyrone Jackson? If he testifies—”

“Last I heard, you didn’t know if Jackson was dead or alive. Even if he’s alive, he’s not here tonight, so he’s not going to be able to alibi your client out of this one.”

“But, Mike—”

“And frankly, I don’t think the testimony of some career hood is going to change anyone’s mind at this point. After one circumstantial murder, maybe. After two, no way.”

“Just let me find him. We’ll see what—”

“Sorry, Ben. It won’t wash anymore.”

“But what about the rug man? What about the man who attacked me in my car?”

“I don’t know who that was, Ben, or what he has to do with these crimes. But I do know that every scrap of evidence we have points to Earl Bonner as the murderer of Lily Campbell and Scat Morris. I should have arrested this man a long time ago.” He pushed the front door open, Earl in tow. “I’ll be back to supervise after I make sure this suspect is in custody. Tomlinson?”

Mike’s right-hand man appeared at his side. “Yes, sir?”

“Secure the crime scene and make sure no one contaminates it. Send in the video crew and tell the other evidence teams to get ready. Start some of the uniforms circulating through the crowd. Find out what if anything anyone knows.”

Ben wedged himself in between them. “Mike, you’re making a big mistake.”

Mike pushed Ben out of the way. “And if Kincaid here gives you any trouble, sit on him.”

Tomlinson suppressed his reaction. “Got it, sir.”

They both watched as Mike and Earl left the club.

“Wanna watch the video team work?” Tomlinson asked after they were gone.

“No, thanks. I’m going downtown.” As soon as they finished processing Earl, Ben would be waiting for him. He would guide Earl through the ropes, try to put him at ease. And he would bully all concerned to get an arraignment set as soon as possible. And there was the matter of setting bail. Bail was always a long shot in capital murder cases, but he had to try.

“Mike told me not to let anyone leave until they’ve been identified and questioned.”

“Mike can question me all night if he wants. I expect I’ll be spending it in his jailhouse.” Ben walked outside into the parking lot. Damn! They needed Tyrone—even more desperately than before. Even if Tyrone couldn’t help Earl on the new murder, he could go a long way toward stopping the chain of circumstantial evidence that was piling up.

Ben slid into his van and started the engine. He was assuming, of course, that Tyrone was still alive. No one had seen any trace of him. Loving had been checking the underside of every rock in Tulsa, but he hadn’t turned up a lead. Ben hated to admit it, but in all likelihood, Tyrone was dead.

And if Tyrone was dead, poor Earl already had one foot in the grave.

Tyrone switched off the radio. It had happened, just as he’d feared it might. The maniac had struck again. He’d killed Scat—poor helpless Scat!—and framed Earl in the process. Now Earl was in custody, certain to be charged. Hell, certain to be convicted.

Unless Tyrone came forward. Unless he told what he knew—and showed what he’d found.

Not that that was any guarantee Earl would walk. But at least he’d have a chance. Which was more than he had at the moment.

Tyrone closed his eyes, trying to shut out all the noise, the confusion, the conflict. He’d been holed up here for days, here with the homeboys in the gang headquarters that used to be his ace hang spot, back before he liberated himself. He’d almost gotten to spend the rest of his life here—as a corpse. When he’d been running from that crazy, and he heard that sound behind him—well, he’d been certain that was the last sound he would ever hear. Turned out it wasn’t the crazy at all, it was Momo, coming to make their appointment, which Tyrone had somehow managed to forget all about after being hunted by the knife-wielding maniac. Momo guided him through the maze of Rockwood till he was safely ensconced in the gang’s hideout.

And that was where Tyrone had remained ever since. No reason to go out there and risk getting cut by some smile-carving sicko, right? No reason to walk the streets till the cops pick you up on some bogus charges and beat you over the head with them. Better to stay safe right here at … home?

The home he’d sworn off, sworn he’d never return to. But here he was, first time he needed help. First time he needed a friend, a place to hole up. Something.

Here he was. Safe.

Except in his nightmares. He kept replaying the chase through the ruins, a psychopath at his heels. Except in Tyrone’s nightmares, the psycho always caught him. He held him down while the knife came closer and closer, trying to carve him like a jack-o’-lantern, trying to give him a smile that was not his own.

And then Tyrone would wake up screaming.

When had the nightmares started? Probably two days ago. He’d thought he was safe until then, when one of the boys spotted someone searching through the ruins. The description had sucked; he was probably wearing another one of those stupid disguises. It didn’t matter. Tyrone knew who he was. And what he was looking for.

Correction:
who
he was looking for.

The first few days after the murder, he’d forgotten all about the shiny bauble he’d found on the men’s room floor—a penknife, as it turned out. Momo had been the one who suggested that it might have been dropped by the same man who’d been removing his disguise, the same man who was in all likelihood the killer. And if so, then maybe it could tell them who the man was. Tyrone didn’t know what to make of it, but Kincaid was just smart enough that he might. So Tyrone mailed it to him.

Momo was being kind letting Tyrone stay here. He hadn’t complained, and he hadn’t made demands—not in so many words, anyway. But Tyrone knew Momo, and he knew Momo did nothing for free. Eventually it would be payback time. Tyrone would be back in the gang once more.

Right back where he started.

They say you never quit the gangs, not really. Tyrone had tried to prove them wrong. But now it looked like he was going to fall right back into the trap.

He couldn’t let that happen to him. Not again.

Comfortable as it was here, safe as he was in the cocoon, he had to get out. He couldn’t put it off any longer. If he did, Earl would go up the river. The psycho would keep killing.

He opened his eyes and pushed himself out of his chair. Like it or not, it was time to leave home.

Tyrone already knew about Ben’s new office at Warren Place; he’d had to get the address so he could mail him the package. Sending mail was one thing. Driving there was another. He had hoped to keep a low profile, and now it looked like he was going to be driving clear across town. Twenty minutes in the car he’d borrowed, never knowing who might pull up and see him.

He parked the car on the curb and quietly eased out onto the sidewalk. Someone must be paying the gardeners here a tidy sum, he thought; these lawns looked like they’d been manicured. The trees were all perfectly spaced and cared for. It was a class A location—not, frankly, the type of place where he expected to find Kincaid.

As late as it was, Tyrone could see lights blazing on the seventh floor. With any luck, Kincaid was still there. It made sense; with Earl being arrested, he probably had a ton of work to do.

Well, if nothing else, he could make Kincaid’s load a little lighter. He could tell Kincaid his chief witness was still alive. True, it was risky, but he couldn’t play it safe. Not while psychopaths roamed the streets and the only man who ever really gave a damn about you was being charged with murders he didn’t commit.

Tyrone had almost made it across the street when he heard a rustle in the bushes behind him. He whirled around, staring into the darkness.

He didn’t see anything. Had he imagined it? Or had he been so busy congratulating himself that he missed something?

Or someone.

He turned back toward the building, this time moving a good deal faster than before. He felt exposed, and rightly so—he was. Out in the open, unprotected. No one even knew where he was.

He tried not to panic. Once he got inside, Kincaid would know what to do. Where to go. How to be safe.

Tyrone’s feet moved even faster. He was running, racing toward the glass revolving doors that led to the main lobby. And he was almost there when a black shadow leaped out from behind one of those perfectly spaced trees and wrapped its arms around his neck.

Tyrone’s speed worked against him; he hit the ground before he even knew what had happened. He tried to struggle, but the shadow had him pinned down and was using all its weight against him.

The shadow pressed a damp cloth over his mouth and nose, and before Tyrone could stop himself, he inhaled something with a sharp and pungent odor. Sort of sweet, like peppermint, but Tyrone knew that wasn’t what it was. Almost immediately, his vision went blurry and his brain began to reel. He was losing consciousness. He was helpless, absolutely helpless.

The shadow pressed closer, and in the very last instant before everything went black, Tyrone saw the face emerging from the darkness, the same face he had seen that night in Rockwood—the same face he had seen in his nightmares, which, as it turned out, were nothing compared with the real nightmare that was yet to come.

W
HEN BEN SAW
Rick Anglin at the opposite end of the county courthouse corridor, he knew it wasn’t just a coincidence. There weren’t many people at the courthouse this time of night—and especially no senior members of the prosecutor’s staff.

They met outside Judge Sarah L. Hart’s courtroom. “Evening, Rick. Hope I didn’t get you out of bed.” Ben stretched out his hand.

Anglin didn’t take it. “As a matter of fact, you did.”

“Oh. No wonder you seem grumpy. I hate being awakened when I’m sleeping.”

“For your information, I wasn’t sleeping. Which is why I’m particularly pissed off!”

Ben decided not to pursue that tidbit of information. “Haven’t seen you in a while. Not since that prairie dog case. Where you been hiding?”

“In Jack Bullock’s shadow. Till you and Judge Hart got him suspended.”

“Hey, I didn’t have anything—”

Anglin held up his hands. “Don’t waste it on me, Kincaid. I couldn’t stand the man.” He popped open his briefcase and took out a file. “Look, we both know your client is guilty, so why don’t you make it easy for everyone and cop a plea now. I promise I’ll do everything possible to keep him away from the Big Needle.”

“No chance, Rick. Earl didn’t do it.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure. Still, he’d be better off taking a plea.”

“That’s what his last lawyer told him, and he did twenty-two years for a crime he didn’t commit.”

Anglin blew air through his lips. “Man, it’s true what they say about you, isn’t it? You’ll swallow any sob story.”

“It’s not a story. It’s the truth.”

“And the cow jumped over the moon.”

“Rick, Earl Bonner is innocent.”

“Bullshit.”

“He didn’t kill Lily Campbell or Scat Morris.”

“Bullshit.”

“He’s being framed.”

“Bullshit.”