Murder One (7 page)

Because the holding cell belonged to the county, Ben was patted down by sheriff’s deputies. They were none too gentle about it, and didn’t avoid any place where a weapon of any kind could conceivably be hidden.

“Is this a frisking,” Ben asked, “or are you giving me a physical?”

The officer to his left “accidentally” cuffed him on the jaw with his elbow.

They dragged him inside the cell block. “Stand on those footsteps, asshole,” the jailer said, pointing to a set of yellow prints painted on the floor. Ben complied. “Lean forward.” The jailer searched him again, just as thoroughly, if not more so.

When he was done, the jailer barked, “Take off your clothes.”

Ben squirmed. “On our first date?”

The jailer kicked him in the back of his knees. “Take off your goddamn clothes.”

When Ben was naked, and the officers had let him stand around exposed long enough to humiliate him, they tossed him a pair of the orange coveralls that were standard attire for all inmates. Then they dragged him to a small cell.

Ben noticed that the cells on either side both had someone inside. One if not both of them were probably plants, he realized. He would have to be careful with what he said.

The jailer removed his cuffs. Just as Ben began to stretch his aching arms, the jailer twisted his right arm around and pinned it behind his back. He shoved Ben forward till his face was pressed against the hard bars of the cell.

“I hope you’re enjoying this,” Ben grunted, though he could barely move his mouth. “ ’Cause I’m going to be out of here before the second shift arrives.”

“I don’t think so, creep,” the jailer whispered. “We have special rules for lawyers who help cop killers. The wheels just don’t seem to turn as quickly.”

“All I did was my job,” Ben said. “Why are you doing this?”

The other man’s voice hissed in his ear. “Joe McNaughton was my best friend. He and his wife are my kids’ godparents.”

Ben closed his eyes. So what you’re saying is, this stay isn’t going to be quite as nice as a night at the Ramada Inn.

Without warning, the jailer whirled him around and pounded him in the gut, hard. Ben doubled over. The jailer followed up with another blow, then another. Ben fell to his knees.

“I’m hitting you in the stomach because I don’t want to leave a mark. If you tell anyone about this, I’ll say you had to be restrained while attempting escape. And every man on the force will back me up. No one will speak up for the creep who helped kill Joe McNaughton. But you’ll get some extra time for attempted escape.”

He opened the cell door and kicked Ben inside. Ben crashed against the opposite wall of the tiny cell, banging his head against the concrete.

“Get used to being treated like this,” the jailer growled, as he locked the cell door behind Ben. “It ain’t gonna get any better. And you’re gonna be here a good long time.”

K
IRK DALCANTON COULDN’T DECIDE
which he thought more feeble: the spindly rotted staircase or the decrepit old man leading him up it.

“Last tenants I had in here, they didn’t give a damn about anyone or anything except themselves.” The elderly man could only manage one step every thirty seconds or so, which made the ascent even more painfully slow, not to mention hazardous. “And maybe not even themselves. Tore the place apart. Left in the dead of night and never paid me a dime. You’re not going to do that, are you, son?”

“No. No, I mean, I wouldn’t. I’ll pay in advance, if you want.”

“That’d be all right, sure. Not that I don’t trust you. But you know how it is.”

Kirk wrenched a wad of cash out of his pocket. For once, he was flush, at least by his standards. He grabbed about a hundred bucks and shoved it into the pocket of the old man’s ratty cardigan. For a dump like this, that ought to last him a month.

“I appreciate that, son, I do. Gets harder and harder to get good people, if you know what I mean. Quality folk. Not like it was in the old days. Back during the oil boom, even before. Then I had a list of people as long as your arm wanting to get in here. I couldn’t rent space fast enough. People wanted to be near downtown, where the action was. Wasn’t considered a bad neighborhood back then. Nowadays, all the yuppies and high-flyers run south and everyone else follows them and pretty soon I don’t have anyone I can rent to except crack heads and pimps and people who disappear in the dead of night and don’t pay their rent.”

Kirk batted his eyelashes, trying not to fall asleep halfway up the stairs. You’re bo-
ring
! old man, he wanted to shout at the top of his lungs. But he decided to restrain himself. At least until he signed the lease.

“Here we go,” the landlord said, as he crossed the threshold at the top of the stairs: “Only one room up here, and that’s yours.” He opened the door and flung out his arm, like he was presenting some breathtaking view. What he was actually displaying was a dump. Possibly the worst, most horrible-looking dive Kirk had ever seen in his life.

Kirk stepped inside and took a quick inventory, trying to keep his face from revealing the disgust and revulsion he felt. Exposed wooden planks that passed for a floor, many of them broken or even missing. Bare white walls, with off-color blotches that showed where filthy words had been whitewashed out. There was an exposed sink with a cracked mirror overhead, a toilet in a tiny dark closet. That was what passed for the bathroom.

He saw a chair but no table. Where was a man supposed to eat? There was a bed; he supposed he should be grateful for small mercies. But if there had ever been springs in that mattress, he couldn’t tell it now, and the tattered bedspread had a smell that made him gag. This was far worse than the place where he’d stayed with his sister, and he’d thought that was a real rat’s nest at the time. He’d seen better places than this in the worst parts of Stroud—and that was after the tornado hit.

“I’ll take it,” Kirk said.

“Well, wonderful,” the old man said. “I’m pleased. Truly pleased. I have a good feeling about this.”

You wouldn’t, you stupid old man, Kirk thought, if you had any idea what I’ve been up to lately. Or what I’m likely to be doing in the future. But of course, you don’t know anything about that. You just see a chance to get your bony little fingers on a quick hundred bucks. That’s what you have a good feeling about.

“What’s this place like when it gets chilly out?” Kirk asked. This was more than just an academic question. A serious cold snap was expected any day now.

“Well, it’s cold, naturally. What would you expect?”

“Does the central heating—”

The landlord started shuffling toward the door. “My recommendation would be that you get one of those space heaters. Maybe a bottle of cheap wine. Snuggle up to them when night falls. Keep you good and warm.” The man turned slightly and actually winked. “And it’ll be a hell of a lot cheaper than a woman, right? Although, on this street, not by much.”

Sleazy old goat, Kirk thought bitterly. What did he mean by that? What was he suggesting? Why would he want that kind of woman? Or was he implying that he wouldn’t want any kind of woman? Was that it?

All of a sudden, Kirk hated the man. He flashed on that book they’d made him read in high school—
Crime and Punishment,
right? Took damn near forever for Kirk to finish that one. Boring book, but the guy in it had the right idea. If this landlord didn’t disappear soon, he was going to end up dead, too.

“If I need anything, who should I call?” Kirk asked.

The old man shrugged his spindly shoulders. “God?” He flashed a withered smile, then closed the door behind him.

Wiseass, Kirk thought, as the old man thankfully disappeared from his sight. First the comment about women, then the smart remark about God. Did the decrepit creep have any idea what had happened? Did he know that God had stopped answering Kirk’s prayers?

He threw his backpack onto the floor, causing a crash that threatened to break through the floorboards. He collapsed on the stone-hard bed, suddenly exhausted. He didn’t know when, it had happened, exactly. He’d been praying all his life, ever since he first learned how back in that one-room white-boarded Baptist church in Stroud. And God had always answered in prayers. Not in words, like some weird Oral Roberts-like message from beyond. But Kirk had always had the sense that someone was listening, that even if he didn’t always get everything he wanted, his voice was still being heard.

But not any longer. God had closed the door on him. He was certain of it.

And who could blame Him? He had done a horrible, nasty thing. But surely God could see what he was up against, how he was being pulled one way and the other. Surely God could see some cause for forgiveness. Surely—

He closed his eyes. Sweat oozed from his pores. He could feel his pulse throbbing in his temples. He had sinned. Horribly so. Unforgivably so. God would never smile down on him again. He was an outcast. He was Cain in the land of Nod. Worse, really. Even Cain had never—

But couldn’t God see how he had been tempted? How could any human being resist? At first, he thought God had forgiven him. He allowed Kirk’s sister to be acquitted, right? Surely that was a sign of God’s grace. Except now it was starting up all over again. If what he’d heard on the radio was true, she might not be safe after all. And neither was he. God was sending His demons to torment him. He couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t eat.

And he couldn’t pray. He could try, but no one was listening. And what was the point of praying to a god who wouldn’t hear?

Kirk flung himself out of the bed, collapsing on the floor. He pounded his fist on the floorboards, sending a trembling throughout the small apartment. He had to get out of here, had to do something. He didn’t know what, but he had to try something to wrench himself free of this pervasive guilt. He couldn’t live with this, not much longer. He would rather die than live with this.

He pushed himself to his feet, scrounging for his coat. Surely there were answers somewhere, out on the street. Surely he could find some form of redemption. Some kind of relief, some peace of mind. He couldn’t go on living like this, he just couldn’t.

B
EN HEARD HER FOOTSTEPS
long before she arrived; there were no secrets on a metal cage floor. He almost smiled with recognition of the quick, light sensible heels, tapping like Morse Code as she scurried down the passage. He’d been hearing that for years now. He thought he should sit up, push himself off the cot, greet her appropriately. But somehow that seemed like more work than he could manage at the moment.

“Ben?” He heard Christina’s voice the instant the guard admitted her through the cell door. “Ben! What happened to you?”

He could tell she was beside him now. He tried to open his eyes—but only one of them worked.

A moment later, he felt her soft cool hand behind his neck. “Ben! Talk to me. Are you all right?”

His lips felt dry and cracked, probably because they were. His voice crackled when he tried to speak. “I’m fine.”

“The hell you are. You’ve got a shiner the size of Kilimanjaro. Who did this to you?”

“I don’t exactly know.”

“By God, this is police brutality. I’ll haul their butts up on charges. I can’t believe this crap still goes on in this day and age. In a big city.”

Ben shook his head, although the stiffness of his neck made it difficult. “It wasn’t the police. Not the eye, anyway.”

“Then who was it?”

“Another inmate. Temporarily lodged in my cell. I didn’t get his name.”

“What a coincidence. I bet they put him up to it.”

“Likely.” Braced by Christina’s hand, Ben managed to pull himself upright. He was immediately embarrassed, remembering that he was wearing the formless bright orange coveralls. “But you’ll never prove it.”

“What about the cops? Have they been after you?”

“Well …”

“Ben! You have to file a complaint.”

“C’mon, Christina. You’ve been around long enough to know how stupid that would be. Sad truth is, inmates get punched up in jail all the time. And if they make a fuss, they get an additional charge of assaulting an officer. ‘I hated to hurt him, your honor, but it was self-defense.’ ” He glanced over his shoulder. “By the way, the inmates on either side of us are probably informants, so be careful what you say. The attorney-client privilege won’t extend to them.”

“Ben, I want the name of everyone who hit you.”

He shook his head. “We’ve got more important things to investigate at the moment. By the way, how did you get in here? Shouldn’t we be meeting in a visitor room? “

“That would take too long. I wanted to see you immediately. And I know one of the guards on duty …”

“Of course you do. You know everyone. So—do you have any idea what the hell is going on?”

“I know a little. I called the D.A.”

That was his Christina. Straight to the top. “You mean the actual D.A.? Not an assistant?”

“Right. Woke LaBelle up in the middle of the night. Unfortunately, he didn’t know much more than I did.”

“What was the basis for the search warrant?”

“Anonymous tip.”

“How convenient. Tape recording?”

“No. It didn’t come over the phone. But Sergeant Matthews got it from a reliable source.”

“Of course.”

“Whom he refuses to name. Informant privilege.”

“Naturally. He planned it out perfectly.”

“Yeah. Except I still have two questions. How did the knife get in your file cabinet? And if it really is the murder weapon—where did it come from?” She touched her fingers lightly to the swollen blue-black bulge beneath Ben’s left eye. “Is it tender?”

“Ouch!” He pulled away from her. “What do you think?”

“Sorry. I could get an ice pack …”

“Don’t. I’d rather it was nice and dramatic when we appear before Judge Collier for the arraignment.”

“But the police will deny—”

“Collier isn’t an idiot.”

“Are you going to be okay?” Christina asked. “I mean—really. You seem … subdued.” She paused a moment. “Did they work you over?”

Ben nodded. “Like you wouldn’t believe. They didn’t miss a trick.”