William Bernhardt - Murder One

“I don’t think it’s—”

“ Is — it—possible? ” Ben asked, practically shouting.

“I couldn’t say,” Bailey replied.

“Then you don’t really know who killed Joe McNaughton, do you?”

“No,” he said finally. “I guess I don’t.”

“That’s right,” Ben said, walking away from the podium. “And neither does anyone else.”

38

IT WAS LATE, WELL past visiting hours at St. John’s, but Ben still wanted to stop by the hospital before he went home. It had been an exhausting day at trial, and tomorrow would be no better—but this was something he had to do. He owed it to Jones—and to Paula.

After sweet-talking his way past the admissions desk, he quietly pushed open the door to room 522 and tiptoed inside.

Jones was sitting at the side of the bed, his head resting against the iron railing. His eyes were closed, but Ben knew he was not asleep.

“How goes it?” Ben asked quietly.

Jones did not look up. “No change.”

Ben stepped carefully around the end of the bed, glancing at the chart as he passed. “Christina told me the doctors say she’s stable.”

“Sort of,” Jones mumbled. “Stable, but critical. They’ve got her blood level normal again. They’ve patched up the wound. They’re feeding her intravenously. But she won’t wake up.”

Ben glanced at Paula’s recumbent form, lying atop the bed like Sleeping Beauty, alive but deep in slumber. She looked as if she had been that way forever. The rubber bag attached to her respirator slowly filled and emptied, but there was no other sign of life. “Is she in a coma?”

Jones shrugged. “They don’t know what it is exactly. They say she should come around. But she doesn’t. She may have gone too close to the edge. She was very low on blood before they got her to the hospital. It may have been too—”

“Don’t talk that way,” Ben said, cutting him off. “Don’t even think it. She just needs time, that’s all. She suffered a grievous injury and she needs time to recover. Build her strength. I was in a coma once, and I know—”

“Ben, stop.” Slowly, Jones’s head rose from the railing. His eyes were red and lined and tired. A pink smudge showed where the iron bar had imprinted upon his cheek. “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know. That I haven’t already thought about. Constantly.” He stood up, but his legs seemed wobbly and insubstantial. “How goes the trial?”

Ben shrugged. The trial was a matter of life and death to Keri, but at the moment, in this room, it seemed almost trivial. “Not well. But it always looks dark when the prosecution is putting on their case.”

“I heard you put some major dents in LaBelle’s witnesses on cross-ex.”

Evidently Christina, the eternal optimist, had preceded him. “I think I established that some members of the police department were willing to do anything to put Keri Dalcanton behind bars. And that helps. And Christina did a great job with the coroner. But did either of us prove Keri didn’t commit the murder? No.”

“It’s early days yet.”

“Yeah.” That was what defense attorneys always said. It’ll get better, once we’re putting on our case. Ben just hoped it was true. “Seen Matthews around?”

“Some. Not much.”

Ben swore under his breath. “I filed a formal protest, asking that Paula’s case be reassigned, but it doesn’t seem to have done much good. I don’t have much pull with Tulsa P.D. these days. I wish to God Mike were around. But he isn’t, and no one’s telling where he is.”

Jones’s jaw tightened. “They’re never going to find out who did this to Paula, are they?”

He couldn’t lie. “I don’t know. But I won’t let them give up without trying. And I’ve got Loving looking into it, too.”

That seemed to cheer Jones, at least a little. “That’s good. Loving will make a serious effort. He—” His voice choked. “He liked Paula, too.”

“Don’t talk about her in the past tense, Jones.”

“I didn’t mean to. I just—I—” His voice dwindled away to nothing.

Ben walked to the door. He had felt it was important to stop in, but he had no sense that his presence was a comfort to Jones—almost the opposite, in fact. He wondered if his being here reminded Jones of how this tragedy came about—and whose fault it was.

“Is there anything I can do?” Ben asked.

Jones’s eyes turned toward the still figure on the hospital bed. “Got a miracle in your pocket?”

“ ’Fraid not.” He shoved his hands deep inside his coat. “I do have some leftover cheese puffs, though.”

Jones almost smiled. “Then I guess that’ll have to do.”

39

KIRK HAD BARELY TEN seconds to wait after he knocked on the faded, warped-wood door of apartment 12.

She smiled. “I knew you’d be back.”

Kirk entered the room. He did not make eye contact, but chose instead to walk right past her, sullen and silent.

“And you couldn’ta chosen a better time. I was thinkin’ ’bout going back out. I called my girlfriend, but she said, ‘Girlfriend, whatchoo wanna go out there now for? There’s no one out this time of night. No one you wanna see, leastwise.’ ”

Kirk jabbed his hand into his tight jeans pocket and withdrew what seemed like a huge wad of cash. He tossed it down on the end table beside her sofa. “That’s for you.”

The expression on Chantelle’s face, which had been lively from the start, became positively animated. “Why, you generous boy.” She untied the scarf from her neck and wrapped it around the back of his head, tugging him closer. “For that kind of money, my little man, you can do anything you want. Anything at all.”

“Glad to hear it,” Kirk grunted. A second later, he was on top of her. There was nothing subtle about this approach. His mouth was on hers, pressing hard. His arms were flailing all over her, probing, groping, half fighting against hers. Their teeth actually scraped, then Chantelle opened her mouth wider. Kirk’s tongue plunged inside, exploring with an urgency that almost gagged her.

“Whoa, slow down, boy,” she said, as soon as she was able, but Kirk did not comply. She had told him he could do anything he wanted, and he meant to do it. There was nothing tender about what they were doing, in his mind. There was no pretense that this was lovemaking. This was brutal, animal, and he wanted it to show. He wanted to feel what was happening to them. He wanted it to hurt.

He slung Chantelle backward, missing the sofa by inches. She fell onto the floor, which fortunately for her was carpeted. He pounced on top of her again. He was breathing hard and audibly now; they could feel one another’s breath.

“My, my, you are in a hurry, sugah.” Despite her position, she did not seem in great distress. She had seen it all before, Kirk supposed. A small smile creased her face and she nuzzled into the crook of his neck and waited to see what would come next.

Kirk bit her. Hard.

Chantelle screamed. It was perhaps a scream more of surprise than pain, but at any rate, it sent her into action. Her hips rocked; her legs locked around his.

“Now don’t you be damaging the goods,” Chantelle said, rubbing the place on her neck where he’d bitten her. “Don’t want you gettin’ in trouble with my main man.”

“You said I could do anything I wanted,” Kirk growled. He pushed himself up with one strong arm and, bringing the other around faster than she could follow, slapped her hard on the side of the face.

She screamed again, and this time she meant it.

Kirk began ripping off her clothes, her dress, her panties, her bra. When he couldn’t figure out the clasp, he tore it apart. I’ve paid for this several times over, he told himself. This belongs to me. He clawed at her relentlessly, never resting until she was totally naked. Using one hand to undress, while the other kept her firmly pinned in place, he soon had his clothes off as well.