William Bernhardt - Silent Justice - A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense

Somehow, though, Pfieffer had managed to get this approved. It was funny; since Mike had gotten him involved, since he found the missing sixty million dollars that gave Mike his first real lead, he’d done everything he could to advance Mike’s investigation, as if all at once he’d become a team player. He even asked to come along on this stakeout. Imagine that—Accountant by day; Danger Boy by night.

Not that Mike would mind a little company right about now. Once he’d pried out of Ronald Harris the location of the fishing cabin where Tony Montague died, he’d been determined to stake it out. Everyone involved in this case had been into fishing. Although the corporate records were incomplete, it was clear that at least some of the victims had come here on occasion—maybe all of them. It couldn’t be just a coincidence. Mike felt certain that if he staked out the place long enough, he’d stumble across someone else who was involved in this little escapade. A potential victim—or maybe the killer himself.

The problem was the waiting. In the course of his career, he’d been on a wide variety of stakeouts, of all shapes and sizes, and they all had one thing in common: intense boredom. Sure, once the perp made his move, the pace might pick up a bit. But until then, it was just one long tedious sit. And he hated sitting.

What could you do? Couldn’t listen to your Walkman; someone might get the drop on you. Couldn’t read a book, tempting though it was. His eyes had to stay on the door, and besides, it was dark outside, and the luminescent glow of an itty bitty book light would definitely attract attention. Couldn’t play solitaire, couldn’t recite poetry, couldn’t watch a ball game. All you could do was sit. Sit like a rock until you felt the moss start to creep—

Wait a minute. A shadow moved, down on the other side of the dock. Someone was moving toward the cabin.

Slowly, Mike lifted himself out of his private spot in the shadows of the brush on the opposite end of the dock. Slowly, he reminded himself. God knows he didn’t want to blow it now. Not when he’d come so far.

The silhouetted figure continued toward the cabin at top speed.

Mike crept along the dock as quietly as possible, trying not to attract any attention. His prey did not appear to have heard him; he was much too busy trying to get into the cabin. He was having trouble with the key; nervousness was making his fingers fumble. Which gave Mike just enough time to sneak up behind him.…

“Freeze, buddy.”

The man screamed. He whirled around, his hands flailing in the air. “Don’t kill me. Please! I’m begging you! Don’t kill me!”

Just a hunch, but Mike suspected this man was not the killer. He effortlessly blocked the man’s mostly wild and aimless blows.

“I don’t know anything! I don’t have it!” The man tried to run, but Mike grabbed him by the collar and swung him back by the door.

“Let me go! Someone call the police!”

Mike pulled out his badge. “I am the police, you nitwit. Now put your hands in the air and calm down.” He grabbed the man’s wrists and pinned them behind his back. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The man peered at Mike’s face. “You’re the guy who’s been quizzing everyone at Blaylock. Morelli, isn’t that it? What’re you doing way out here?”

“I might ask you the same question.” Mike jerked his head toward the door. “Can you open that door?”

“Well … uh … yeah.” His face was red and flushed. “I think so.”

“Do it. Then we can have a nice chat.”

He was so nervous it still took several minutes of fumbling to turn the lock and open the door, but he finally managed it. Mike shoved him inside and turned on the lights.

The interior decor was spartan, to put it mildly. A few rudimentary pieces of furniture, that was it. Everything was covered with a thick layer of dust.

“So what’s your name?” Mike asked as he pushed the man into a wobbly wooden chair.

“Fred Henderson,” the man replied.

“Nice to meet you, Fred. What brings you to the cabin?”

“Me? I—I just came to fish.”

Mike smiled thinly. “Nice try. But I notice you aren’t carrying any fishing gear. And I’ve also been reliably informed that the company no longer lets its employees come here. Apparently they’re trying to sell the place.”

“Really?” Fred said, trying a bit too hard. “I hadn’t heard.”

“Yeah, right. And why should you, since you seem to have your own key.”

Fred thought for a moment. “I … accidentally forgot to return it. Last time I came out here. Come to think of it, I forgot my fishing pole, too.”

Mike grabbed the nearest chair and sat himself down in front of Fred. “Look, Fred—I’m going to make this easy for you. You’re not here for any officially authorized purpose. You’re here to hide. From the killer.”

Fred’s eyebrows twitched. “How did you know?”

“That reception you gave me was a pretty dead giveaway. You obviously weren’t expecting the Avon lady.”

“Oh, yeah. Right. Well—there’s been so much killing lately, you know, back in Oklahoma. A guy has to be careful.”

“Especially a guy who knows the killer personally.”

“You—” He stopped himself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Fred, don’t make yourself look more pathetic than you already do.”

“I am not pathetic!” he said indignantly. “That’s what they all used to say. But I showed—” Once again he stopped, realizing his mouth had gotten the better of him.

“How about this, Fred? I’ll tell you everything I already know, just to get you started. Then all you have to do is fill in the blanks.”

“I’m telling you, I don’t—”

Mike held his finger up to his lips. “Shhh. Listen.” He pushed himself back up to his feet. “Many years ago, you and some of the other employees discovered you had a common passion. Fishing. Maybe you knew each other from the company cafeteria. Maybe you lived on the same block. Maybe you had some special kind or way of fishing you liked, I don’t know.”

Fred’s head was bowed. “Deep-sea fishing.”

“Ah. Which would explain why you came all the way out here. I’m guessing this went on for years, and a good time was had by all. A pleasant, mindless diversion. Until one day, you stumbled across Tony Montague.”

Fred’s resistance seemed to be fading. “Harvey was the one who got it started. He was the big organizer. Mr. Social Event. Blaylock’s Hookers, that’s what he liked to call us. He and Maggie had a thing going back then, before they both married other people. Even after they married, though, they still stayed friends. Fishing buddies. Thick and thin.”

“Untiiiilll …”

“Right. Until a dead man interrupted our lives, for barely more than half an hour. But after that, everything changed.”

It was after dark before Ben made it to the hospital, and visiting hours were almost over. He only had about twenty minutes with Mrs. Marmelstein before the nurses chased him out—twenty of the most unsatisfying minutes of his entire life. Mrs. Marmelstein was entirely blind now, and her hearing was far from perfect. Conversation was a chore, not a pleasure. Probably the only reason she put up with it was that she hoped he would have some news about her son. And he didn’t.

He couldn’t even get that right.

After Ben left her room, out in the hallway, he was met by Loving and Jones.

“Any word?” he asked Loving.

“No luck. Paulie won’t budge. Asshole.”

“Language,” Jones said, making a tsking noise. “Language.”

“When a guy won’t go see his own mother on her deathbed, I say he’s an asshole.” Obviously, this was something Loving felt strongly about. “Language or not.”