Murder One (23 page)

“Ye-ss …”

“Well, I can give you a real one. Won’t that look stud?”

“I don’t know.”

“Imagine how she’ll feel when you start frenching her with that thing. Problem is, your tongue does tend to lose some of its sensation after the cutting.”

“I don’t want that. I want to be able to feel everything.”

“Doesn’t have to be your tongue. I can split earlobes, lips. I even had one girl who wanted me to do her nose.”

“Would that hurt?”

“It always comes back to the same thing for you, doesn’t it?” He glanced down at his hand and, applying a sharp fingernail, pricked his own finger. Blood spurted out.

Kirk jumped out of his seat. “What are you doing?”

“Bloodletting. Good for you.”

“You’re kidding.”

“This from the kid who goes around trying to get himself tortured. Look, pal, people have been bloodletting for centuries. It’s healthy. Makes the body work a little. Freshens up the supply. You’ll feel good afterward. I know I do.”

Yes, Kirk thought, but you’re soaking in your own urine.

“Look,” the man said, “I’ve seen guys like you before. Want to mutilate themselves, cause themselves pain. This may not be in my best interests, but I’ll give you a tip. You’re making a mistake.”

“Izzat so?”

“Yeah, it is. You think that if you punish yourself long enough, you’ll be able to get past your guilt. Right?”

Kirk looked at him sideways but didn’t answer.

“Thought so. Thing is—it won’t work It won’t work because the only way to root out that guilt is to go after its source.”

“Source?”

“Sure. I don’t know what it is that’s making you miserable. Your boss, your landlord, your car, your girl—”

“Why do you keep talking about a girl? I don’t have a girl!”

“Uh-huh. Whatever. The point is—if you want to eliminate that guilt, you have to root out whatever is causing it. Nothing else will do. You can turn yourself into mincemeat, but it won’t help.”

“Who are you, Obi-Wan Kenobi?”

The blond man laughed. “No, I’m just a guy dripping blood from his ringer who sees freaks like you every day. And I know what I’m talking about. You won’t be cured until you confront the problem head on.”

Kirk fell quiet. “I … can’t do that.”

“You mean you don’t want to do that.”

“I—I guess—” He hesitated. “It wouldn’t be right.”

“I can’t say whether it would be right, not knowing what the hell we’re talking about. But it’s the only thing that will make you whole again.”

Could he be right? Kirk wondered. He stared out the one small window on the north wall, seeing little but his own reflection. Is that what he should do? Was it even possible?

He turned back around, but the blond man’s body seemed to be shimmering, fading. He was having a hard time focusing. He mumbled a few words, stumbled to his feet, and ran toward the door.

The night air was bracing, stark cold, but it didn’t clear his head. He was so confused, so lost and angry and … messed up.

One thing the freak had said rang true, though. Maybe it was time to confront the source. Someone had to pay. Someone had to be punished before he would ever feel whole again.

And maybe, just maybe, that someone wasn’t supposed to be him.

“A
RE WE ANY CLOSER TO
figuring out what the hell is going on?”

Christina was standing on the conference table, orchestrating the pretrial chaos all around her. She paced agitatedly from one end of the table to the other; a strand of hair was looped tightly around her finger. Normally, Ben thought, when you talk about someone pulling out their hair, it was just an expression. In the present case, Ben was afraid that if this kept up much longer, he wouldn’t be the only lawyer in the firm with a bald spot.

“Do you people understand that we’re going to trial? As in, tomorrow morning? On a capital charge?”

Jones and Loving did not appear impressed. “Yeah,” Jones said. “And we’ve been here before. And we’re never ready the night before trial. And we never will be. No one ever is. I think it’s inherent in the nature of trials.”

“Still,” Loving grunted, “this is worse than usual. What’s the deal?”

Jones took the bait. “It’s because we used to have an aggressive, hyperefficient legal assistant, and now we’ve got a second lawyer. So we’re getting about half as much work done.” He turned toward Ben. “Boss, now that she’s a lawyer, can we hire a new Christina?”

Ben arched an eyebrow. “I’ll check the budget.”

Jones cringed. “Don’t bother.”

Christina looked distinctly annoyed. “Listen up, you muggles. This is serious business. I can promise you LaBelle will have his ducks in a row, not to mention a staff of thirty or so people supporting him. He’s going to make us look like amateurs. And that’s not acceptable. A woman’s life is on the line.”

Jones fluttered his eyelashes. “Not to mention your brand-new professional reputation.”

She gave him a look that would chill fire. “Listen to me, you—”

Ben rose from his chair. “Perhaps this would be a good time for me to get the updates I didn’t get earlier—”

“Because you were off trying to get yourself killed strong-arming major mafiosi.”

Ben ignored her. “Did you ever find out what Andrea wanted to tell you, Christina?”

“No. After the big catfight in our lobby, she’s not talking to any of us. Not even me. Wouldn’t even come to the door.”

“Great. Don’t stop trying.”

“Of course not. Goodness knows I have nothing else to do but to harass widows.”

“What’s your take on her, anyway? You know, Keri thinks she’s Suspect Number One.”

Christina thought before answering. “It’s hard to say. She’s very sympathetic when she tells her story. She’s going to be devastating on the stand, unless maybe we can get her to lose her temper and slug somebody.” She hesitated. “There’s something else, though. I had a real sense that something is … bothering her. Something she’s not telling us. Or anyone, probably. But I have no idea what that would be.”

Interesting, Ben thought. But not helpful, unfortunately. “Does anyone know where Keri is? I called and asked her to be here.”

Christina nodded. “I called and asked her not to be here.”

Ben did a double take. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“And why may I ask did you take it upon yourself to do this?”

“Because we have a lot of work to get done,” Christina fired back, “and we can’t get it done if you two are off making—”

“Excuse me! I think your law degree has gone to your head.”

“Baloney. I just know we won’t get anywhere if you’re busy groping—”

“Hey!” He glanced at Jones’s and Loving’s attentive and somewhat astonished faces. “Not in front of the children.”

Christina shook her head, exasperated. “Loving, have you heard any more from your cop informant? Barry whatsit?”

Loving shook his head. “We’ve talked, but he ain’t said much.”

“Is he worried about retaliation?”

“Yeah. But I think he’s pretty much told me everything he knows.”

“So … have we seen the last of the Blue Squeeze routine?”

“I wouldn’t count on it. I don’t think it’ll end until Matthews has a heart attack or Keri Dalcanton gets convicted.”

“Which isn’t going to happen,” Ben said firmly. “Not if I can help it.”

“Unfortunately,” Jones said quietly, “that’s a big
if.
”

“Where’s your one true love, Jones? “

“Search me. Paula’s probably at the library. Trying to get more dope on McNaughton. The mystery of his sudden fall and rise in the police department.”

Ben nodded. “I’ll be interested to hear what she learns. Everything Catrona told me suggested there was something dirty going on in the police department. Something involving McNaughton. Or maybe Matthews and his Blue Squeeze brigade. Or both.”

“I got a question about that, Skipper,” Loving said.

“Which is?”

“If some of the boys were on the take, or tied in with Catrona somehow, why would Catrona be so eager to tell you about it?”

“A good question,” Ben said, stroking the side of his face. “But alas one to which I don’t know the answer.” He glanced at Christina, who had climbed down from the table and started plowing through the document bags. “Is my trial notebook ready?”

She gave him a stern look. “Yes, Ben,
our
trial notebooks are ready.”

Whoops. This was going to take some getting used to. “Exhibits?”

“Oh yeah. I just wish some of them were our exhibits rather than the State’s exhibits.”

Ben nodded. “Then I’d say we’ve done about all we can do tonight.”

Christina glared at him. “Are you kidding me? Ben—we don’t have a defense! We don’t have an alternate explanation for what happened to McNaughton. We don’t even have a decent alibi.”

“No, and we’re not going to get one tonight, either. It’ll take LaBelle at least a week to put on his case, and we’ll continue to investigate. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“And if we don’t?”

Ben drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Excuse me, but aren’t I suppose to be the worried one and you the supportive one?”

“That was before I got my law degree. Now I can wring my hands with the best of them.”

“Pity. I’d rather have someone hold my hand than wring it.”

“Well, that’s why you’ve got your cute little client.”

Ben’s expression was indescribable.

“Look, we’re not doing any good here.” Ben checked his watch. “It’s late, we’re tired, we’re cranky, and we’re getting on one another’s nerves. Some of us are getting snappish”—he cast a harsh look in Christina’s direction—“and I’m sure it’s making everyone else uncomfortable.”

“Actually,” Jones said, “I’m rather enjoying it.”

“We’re not going to get anything more done tonight. So let’s go home and get a good night’s sleep for once. It’s the best thing, really.”

“I’m not ready to call it quits,” Christina said, almost immediately. “I want to review the witness outlines.”

“You’ve already reviewed those things so many times you can probably recite them from memory.”

“I’d just feel better if I looked everything over again. Made sure we haven’t missed anything.”

“That’s not necessary.”

She looked down. “You … just don’t understand.”

“I do. I remember my first trial. How nervous I was. How sure I was I’d do something wrong. Which I did. But I got through it, and you will, too. Are you feeling sick yet?”

“Seriously. Haven’t been able to keep anything down.”

“Knees knocking?”

“Like pistons.” She looked up. “Does it get any better, after you’ve got a few trials under your belt?”

“Not really. But you do learn when it’s time to go home and get some sleep.”

She grinned. “All right. I’ll bow to the voice of experience.”

“Good. Lights out in five minutes. Anyone caught on the premises is docked to half pay.”

Jones pushed himself out of his chair. “Half nothing is still nothing.”

She stepped out of the elevator and moved down the darkened corridor, a thick bundle of papers under her arms. The front doors to the office were locked, but she had her own key. Quietly, she turned the tumblers and stepped inside, not locking them behind her. She was only going to be here a minute.

She knew Ben would be angry if he knew she was here, but she had something she had to check and it couldn’t wait until morning. Besides, as well she knew, her chances of getting any sleep tonight were about nil. If she had some little detail nagging at her that she couldn’t resolve, she’d toss and turn till sunup.

She pushed the power button on Jones’s computer. The sudden blue illumination reminded her that she hadn’t turned on the lights. Probably just as well, since she wasn’t supposed to be here. Still, she would need something. She flicked the switch on the lamp hanging over Jones’s desk blotter. The sixty-watt bulb helped a little, but not nearly enough.

“That’s just not going to cut it,” she murmured. She started away from the desk—then stopped dead in her tracks.

“Is someone in here?” She couldn’t explain why, but for some reason she suddenly had the distinct, almost certain feeling that she was not alone.

Had she heard something? That wasn’t it, not exactly. It was more like she … felt something. Like she sensed a presence. A warm body emanating from… somewhere. But if someone was here, why on earth didn’t they answer?

“I said, is somebody here? Answer me!”

There was no response. But she was certain she was not alone.

Springing away from the desk, she ran toward the light switch on the opposite wall. Before she arrived, however, she collided. With something. Something that shouldn’t be there.

Not something. Someone.

“Who are you?”

She felt two powerful arms grip her, pinning her against the wall. She peered at the person before her, but in the near-total darkness, she was unable to make out her assailant’s features.

She pounded her fists against her attacker’s chest, not that it did any good. “Who is it? Who are you?”

When at last the intruder spoke, the voice was eerily soft, almost as if it were drifting in from a distant location. “Call me the strong right arm of justice.”

“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?” She continued to struggle, but to no avail.

“Justice has not been served.” The soft flat voice made the hairs rise on the back of her neck. There was something inhuman about it, something rough but cutting, like a dull knife.

“Look, I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing here, but—”

“It’s time justice took a firmer hand.”

An instant later, she felt the intruder’s right hand leave her arm. She thought this might be her chance to break away, but before she could, the hand came back and slammed hard into her abdomen.

She doubled over, the pain so sharp and abrupt she couldn’t immediately tell what had happened to her. She pressed her hands over the place on her stomach where he had hit her.

There was blood on her hands. Lots of it.

The shock was enormous, more than she could bear, more than her brain could catalog. The intruder released her and she crumpled to the floor.