William Bernhardt - Murder One

“I don’t like your attitude!” Matthews barked.

“And I don’t like your breath, so why don’t we both go back to our conversations and leave each other alone?”

Matthews gave Loving a little shove on the chest. “We want you out of here, and we don’t want to see you again. You or your cop-killing boss.”

“Is that right? Does that go for all of you?” Loving let his eyes scan the bar, even though he knew it was dangerous to take his eyes off this cretin for a minute. “Does that go for you, Barry?”

Dodds looked away.

“Ben Kincaid helped you out when you were hauled in front of IA, didn’t he?” Loving asked. “Saved your butt, the way I remember it. What about you, Bert?” He pointed toward a gray-haired man in the back, who immediately looked away. “I kinda recall when the Board was tryin’ to cancel your pension, just three weeks before you retired. Let me think, what was the name of the attorney who gave you your future back? Oh yeah, I remember now. Ben Kincaid.”

Matthews shoved Loving again, this time harder. “We’ve had it with your games. Get the hell out of here before I throw you out on your ass!”

Loving glanced over his shoulder. He was hoping a manager or bartender might intervene, but no one was coming. It seemed the management was cowardly in the extreme—or perhaps, extremely on Matthews’s side.

“You’re pretty brave, aren’t you?” Loving said, walking toward Matthews in slow steady steps. “You’re a tower of strength—when you’ve got, oh, fifty or sixty other guys to back you up. But I wonder how brave you’d be if it were just you and me?”

For the first time, he saw Matthews blink. “I could take you standing on my head, but it doesn’t matter, ’cause if you don’t haul ass right now every damn one of us is going to be pounding your brains into pudding.”

“I know what’s going on,” Loving said, in a much louder voice. “I know you’ve put the Blue Squeeze on Kincaid.”

“You’re hallucinating, chump.”

Loving continued as if Matthews wasn’t there. “I know you’ve framed him—some of you, anyway. And I want it to stop.”

“And I want a Jaguar XJS. But that ain’t gonna happen, either.”

Loving felt his jaw tightening. Control, he reminded himself. You came here to open potential channels of communication. Not to start a barroom brawl. In which the odds against you would be roughly fifty to one. “All I want is the truth.”

“Last chance. Leave now or pay the price.”

“You know you can’t keep this secret long,” Loving said.

“Too many people know about it. Eventually someone will talk to me. And when they do—”

Loving never got to finish his sentence, because before he could, Matthews’s fist materialized at the edge of his vision and slammed into his jaw. It was a good punch; it knocked him several steps back and would’ve done more if he hadn’t seen it coming.

“Consider that a warning,” Matthews said. “Now get the hell out.”

Loving massaged his aching jaw. It would be so … pleasing to deck Matthews, right here and now. But that wouldn’t advance the investigation. He dropped a few bills on the bar and headed toward the door. “One of you is going to talk to me,” he repeated quietly, just before he left. “It’s just a matter of time. And when they do”—he cast a sharp eye in Matthews’s direction—“I’ll be back.”

15

CHRISTINA FOUND ANDREA MCNAUGHTON at the John 3:16 soup kitchen, scooping red beans and rice onto tin trays. The priest at St. Dunstan’s, Father Danney, after being assured that her intentions were honorable, had told Christina this is where Andrea would be. Even with forewarning, however, Christina found it hard to adjust reality to fit the preconceived mental image. Andrea McNaughton had been all over the newspapers for months, and she had been portrayed in a variety of roles. Grieving. Long-suffering. Betrayed. Most of the coverage in the World had suggested that she was the true victim of this sordid affair. Most of its readers, particularly the female ones, empathized with her and had elevated her to the status of tragic heroine, like Marilyn Monroe or Princess Diana.

Had they run pictures of the woman feeding the homeless, she might have attained sainthood.

Christina waited until Andrea finished serving lunch, which was a considerable wait. John 3:16 was the oldest and largest of the Tulsa shelters that undertook the monumental job of feeding the hungry; there were more than a hundred people, mostly elderly men, in line for a fundamental but life-preserving meal. Some had found a place to live in permanent shelters, but Christina knew far too many of them would return to the streets, a cardboard box under a bridge, a downtown gutter, or some other hellish place they called home. She strengthened her resolve to continue contributing to her retirement fund and to work the daily crossword to keep her mind sharp. Homelessness was not for sissies.

As soon as lunch was served, Christina tapped the shoulder of the woman behind the serving counter. “Mrs. McNaughton?”

Andrea looked at her warily. No doubt the past few months had taught her to be cautious about strangers who already knew her name. For that matter, even if she couldn’t quite place the face, she probably recognized Christina from the courtroom. “Yes?”

Christina extended her hand. “My name’s Christina McCall. I work with Ben Kincaid.”

Not surprisingly, Andrea turned away. “We have nothing to talk about.”

“I just have a few questions I’d like to ask you.”

Andrea moved away, untying her apron. “Please. I don’t want to talk.”

Christina followed her into the kitchen. “I’m sure you don’t. But it’s very important.”

Andrea continued walking away from her. “I’ve already said everything. Over and over again.”

“Not to me.”

Andrea whirled around, and in her eyes, Christina saw a sudden flash of anger. “Why can’t you people just leave me alone!”

Instinctively, Christina reached out and took the woman’s hand. “Please. Just give me a moment of your time. I know this must have been hideous for you—losing the man you loved. But now I’m about to lose my—someone I care about. Deeply. And I can’t just stand by and let that happen.”

“You’re talking about Keri Dalcanton.”

“No. I’m not. She’s our client, but we don’t have a personal relationship.”

“Just as well. Let me give you a news flash, honey. Your client did it!”

“I realize that’s your opinion. Frankly, that’s not why I’m here.”

Andrea’s face seemed to soften slightly. “You must be talking about the lawyer. Kincaid.”

A slight tincture of pink appeared on Christina’s cheeks. “I am.”

Andrea drew in her breath, then released it, slow and full, as if purging demons from her soul. “It wasn’t my idea to go after the lawyer. The D.A. came up with that one on his own. I thought it was a little extreme, even under these circumstances.”

“It was a grandstand play. A desperate gambit to get the case reopened.”

“But it worked.”

Christina nodded. “Which is why I need to talk to you. Now more than ever.”

Andrea’s eyelids fluttered heavily. She seemed to relent, not so much from a sense of obligation as from weariness, from an inability to muster the strength to maintain the fight.

“Excuse me. Is everything all right in here?”

Christina turned and saw a white-bearded older man poking his head through the swinging kitchen doors.

“I’m fine,” Andrea said. The man disappeared. “That was Father Danney, from St. Dunstan’s.”

“I know. He’s a friend, right?”