William Bernhardt - Murder One

It was the D.A. himself—Thomas LaBelle. He was a sturdy, handsome man, broad-shouldered and slightly graying. His countenance emanated calm, mature strength. And he had a reputation for being unwilling to put up with any unprofessional behavior.

It was from bad to worse for Dexter, and he knew it. His mouth opened, but he couldn’t seem to make any words come out.

“Nick, do you mind?” Not waiting for an answer, LaBelle stepped behind the podium, nudging Dexter into the background. “Why don’t you return to your office, Nick? I’d like to have a few words with you, as soon as I’m done here.”

Dexter obediently skulked away.

LaBelle adjusted the microphone for his greater height. “I’ve just been on the phone with the team I sent this morning to the Court of Criminal Appeals.” In the space of a sentence, LaBelle had transformed the tenor of the press conference. Where before they’d had Dexter’s blustering and fumbling, they now had LaBelle’s considerable and imposing presence. No one was going to mess around with him. “I’m pleased to announce that the Court of Criminal Appeals has agreed that the apparent concealment of evidence, outside the control of the law-enforcement community, justifies the reopening of the Keri Dalcanton case.”

Like the pro he was, LaBelle waited a few moments to allow the audience to absorb what he had said. “There will be a new trial. And we will do everything imaginable to see that justice prevails.” He paused, making eye contact, not with the reporters, but with the cameras. “This time, I will handle the trial myself.”

One newspaper reporter raised his hand, almost timidly. “What about the charges against Kincaid?”

LaBelle didn’t blink. “Given this latest development, the murder charge will be dropped. We believe Keri Dalcanton is the murderer, and we will focus on her. We will continue to prosecute the charges of concealment of evidence and obstruction of justice against Mr. Kincaid. We will not oppose a defense motion to release Mr. Kincaid on bail.”

Several more hands shot up, but a stony look from LaBelle was more than sufficient to tell them that, unlike Dexter, he was in charge, and he was not interested in messing around any further with their questions. “Thank you,” he said curtly. Then he disappeared.

The crowd dispersed. Christina stopped Karen and LeAnne before they left. “Thanks for the help, girlfriends. Give my best to Jeff, too.”

“Our pleasure,” LeAnne said. “Nick definitely needed to be reminded of a few things. Like, say, the Constitution.”

“Still, thanks.”

“Hey,” Karen said, “with your coaching, how could we go wrong? Nick should’ve known better than to take you on. Unless I miss my guess, he’s now undergoing a major chewing out—and possibly losing his job.”

Christina did not appear regretful. “I told the man he wouldn’t like me mad.”

Karen jabbed her in the arm. “Wait till Ben finds out. He’ll be impressed.”

“I’m not sure Ben would approve of this escapade. Even if it does mean he’ll be brushing his teeth in his own bathroom tonight.”

“Oh, of course he’ll approve. Tell me something—have women always run the world, or does it just seem that way?”

Christina and LeAnne spoke as one. “Always.”

“There is a problem, though, you know. Now LaBelle is on the case. And he’s a million times tougher to beat than Nick Dexter ever thought about being. He’s the best prosecutor in the state. Plus, after all this publicity, he’ll have his whole reputation—and his chances for reelection—riding on this. He’ll marshal all his resources to get a conviction. And his resources are pretty considerable.”

Some of the light faded from Christina’s eyes. “I know,” she said, as she gathered up her briefcase and headed toward the jailhouse. “I know.”

For some reason, Ben thought, as the officers shoved him down the corridor and repeatedly violated his personal space, not to mention his bruised and tender body, the police department did not seem as delighted as he was by the fact that he was being released. His jailer—Joe McNaughton’s best friend, at least according to him—was downright surly. His eyes were cold and harsh. Most of the other officers’ expressions were about the same.

“Yup,” Ben said, as they handed him back his clothes, “I’m going to miss this place. And I’m going to miss all you sweet, good-hearted men. But most of all, I’m going to miss these lovely orange pajamas.”

Once he was dressed, they took him to the Property Room and returned the belongings taken from him when he was arrested. Almost all of them—his wallet was empty and someone had drawn a mustache on the photo on his driver’s license. But he wasn’t about to complain.

The jailer personally led him to the exit. Through the window, Ben could see Christina waiting for him.

“Well, that’s it then,” Ben said, smiling. “Have a good life.”

“You forgot something.” Ben turned and, in the blink of an eye, the jailer landed a solid punch in the pit of his stomach. Ben doubled over, clutching himself.

“One to remember me by,” the jailer whispered. “This isn’t over,” he added, as he unlocked the heavy steel door. “Not by a long shot. I’ll be watching you.” He paused, making sure Ben caught the malicious expression in his eyes. “We all will be.”

11

KIRK HIT THE STREETS of the city at midnight, an hour when all good respectable folks are tucked away in bed—leaving the territory wide open for everyone neither good nor respectable. Just the place for me, Kirk thought miserably. Walking the streets with the rest of the Great Unwashed. The Unclean. The Unforgiven.

He was making his way down Brady when he saw three street punks collecting in front of a pawnshop. They were all wearing matching jackets. Were they Crips or Bloods? Or some local variant? He couldn’t remember. They never had this sort of thing back in Stroud.

He knew they were bad news, no doubt about that. Anyone with half a brain in his head, anyone who didn’t want trouble, would give them a wide berth.

Kirk kept walking.

The three punks, teenagers all, were acting casual, talking the talk, punching each other playfully, doing a little hip-hop dance. They were trying to act as if their presence here was strictly coincidence, but Kirk could see through that without any problem. He watched their eyes, gliding over the storefront window, inventorying its contents. He saw one of them position himself behind a wire mesh trash can next to a telephone pole.

Kirk knew what was going down. They were waiting until the moment was right, the street was clear. Then one of them would toss the trash can through the window, shattering it. Another one would grab the television in the window, and maybe some of the jewelry or whatever else he could stuff into his pockets. And then they’d run like hell. The whole thing would be over in twenty seconds. There was no way they could be caught. No alarm on earth could get the police here in time. The little thieves would get away scot-free. And there was nothing he or anyone else could do about it, not without getting seriously lacerated in the process.

Which did not deter him in the least. This is exactly what I need, Kirk realized. This is what I’ve been searching for.

I need to be punished.

He sauntered forward, just as he saw the punk in the rear laying his hands on the rim of the trash can. “ ’Scuse me, gentlemen,” Kirk said, affecting a lighthearted confidence he did not feel. “May I suggest that you give your plan of action a second thought?”

The punk in the middle, the largest and meanest looking of the lot, growled at him. “Get the hell out of here.”