William Bernhardt: Extreme Justice: A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense

Extreme Justice

A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense (Book Seven)

William Bernhardt

A MysteriousPress.com

Open Road Integrated Media

Ebook

Dedicated to Harry Chapin

“There only was one choice…”

The greatest thing in the world

is to know how to be one’s own self.

—MICHEL EYQUEM DE MONTAIGNE

Prologue

SHE HAS NEVER looked more beautiful than she does right now, completely naked and absolutely forever still. He cannot take his eyes off her, cannot part with the sight of her chocolate brown skin, her proud high cheekbones, her smooth velveteen neck. His eyes scan her immaculate body, radiant in the light of the twelve candles encircling her. She is an impeccable creation, a masterpiece; and now, he supposes, she is his masterpiece.

She is not as young as she once was, he thinks, then chastises himself for having such an unkind thought. Still, he cannot block out the unbidden image of the girl who once inhabited that body—young, fresh, innocent. Time is a cruel master; it keeps no secrets. And yet he is struck by how well she has held her beauty, how her deepening lines suggest character and grace more than age. Surely maturity is as valuable as innocence. Perhaps more so. Or perhaps he is simply being romantic because, no matter how much he tries to deny it, he cares for this woman deeply.

He is amazed that she can remain so rivetingly attractive with her eyes closed. Wasn’t it Shakespeare who said the eyes are the doorways to the soul? The eyes, more than any other feature, are what make a woman lovely. And yet here she is, those vivid brown eyes concealed, and still every bit the beauty. Her face is still the face—it may not have launched a thousand ships, but in its own way, it moved men to commit acts even more extreme, even more dangerous.

He wonders: would it be in bad taste to take a picture? He decides to do it—he is the arbiter of taste here, now. He takes his Polaroid and snaps the shot, the flash turning the tiny room inside out, making it an X-ray reversal of what had been before. The square photo juts out suddenly, vulgarly, urging to be released.

He checks his watch and waits as the requisite minute passes and the photo develops itself. His eyes return to the woman lying before him, like wayward puppies making their way home. He loves the way she cut her hair. Short in the back and on the sides, but full in the front, creating a peekaboo effect as the long bangs dangle flirtatiously over one side of her face. A touch of glamour, a hint of mystery. Now that he thinks of it, he realizes that describes not just her hair but her. Her persona in a nutshell. Her elusive charm.

The photo is finished, but it is awful. It does not do justice to her splendor. It is too dark in here, and the candles made everything look greenish-yellow and grainy. He tosses the snapshot aside. It seems film is of no help to him on this occasion. He will have to remember everything himself.

He approaches her quietly, gently, as if afraid he might disturb her peaceful sleep. She is so beautiful! As he draws close, he is overwhelmed by a sudden surge of energy; it courses through him like an electric shock, like a frisson of passion and memory.

Did he dare touch her? Did he dare not? he answers himself. This is his last opportunity; he cannot let it pass untaken.

Gently he lowers his hand. His fingers trace the lines of her face, the soft sensual pout of her lower lip, her elegant neckline. He feels the old stirrings, just as he did before. The old affection returns to him; or perhaps it never left.

His hand moves onward, brushing over her collarbone, tracing the mounds of her shoulders, drawing a line down the tender valley between her breasts. He bends down and kisses them, unable to restrain himself any longer. It is a sweet, cold kiss—just as he remembers it. He can see the soft push of her ribs under her skin, see the soft curve of her hips below a nearly nonexistent waist. God, how he wants to pull her close, how he wants to press himself against her, to roll her over and brush his lips against her back, to curl one leg between hers, to feel the soft cushion of her backside against his groin.

It is becoming too much for him, not just the yearning, but the sorrow, the heartbreak. How had it come to this? They had made beautiful music together, and he didn’t mean that just as a cliché—they really had. But that was all past now. All gone. And all that remained was, well, what he saw before him now, in the fierce glow of candlelight.

He casts his eyes one last time upon her perfect face. It is almost as if he had set her in stone, sculpted her, preserved her visage for all eternity. The only thing missing was her smile. She had such an infectious, vibrant smile. It warmed his heart every time he saw it.

Yes, the smile is important, he realizes. He would have to add the smile.

Almost without thinking, he bends down and presses his lips against hers, presses hard. He is kissing her for all time now, kissing like there is no tomorrow, which of course for her there isn’t. Sweet angel, he thinks, squeezing her tightly. Now you can be in heaven where you belong. Where you have always belonged. One more kiss, this time a chaste address to the cheek, and then he pulls away.

He stands over her for a moment and then ritualistically extinguishes each of the twelve candles, leaving the room in darkness. It is time to get on with it. He has much work to do.

He presses his fingers to his lips and blows her a kiss, casting it out into the black void.

Farewell, angel, he says aloud, even though he knows she cannot hear. I love you so much. I always have. I wish I hadn’t been the one who had to kill you.

But I was.

One

Just Another Night in Babylon

Chapter 1

BEN KINCAID WAS playing the piano and singing with such enthusiasm that he neither saw nor heard the man sitting at the foot of the stage desperately trying to get his attention.

“ ‘I know I’m going no-oh-where …’ ” Ben belted out his song in a high-pitched adenoidal voice that seemed part Bob Dylan, part Sonny Bono. “ ‘… and anywhere’s a better place to be.’ ”

Unfortunately, the man offstage couldn’t stand it any longer. He stood up and barked, “Stop!”

Ben did not hear him. “ ‘I come back with my pa-ay-per ba-a-ag … to find that she was gone …’ ”

The man slammed his fist down on the nearest table, rattling two beer mugs and a centerpiece candle. “Stop already!”

Ben froze. He stopped singing. He stopped playing. For a moment he even stopped breathing. “Earl? Were you talking to me?”

Earl Bonner let out a sigh of relief. “I was.”

Ben nervously fingered the sheet music propped up before him on the piano. “But… I’m not finished yet.”

Earl pulled a white handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped his brow. “Not finished? You’ve been compin’ chords for somethin’ like ten minutes already!”

Ben swallowed. “It’s a long song.”

“That ain’t no song, son. That’s more like an opera.”

Ben scooted to the end of the piano bench. “It’s a story song, Earl. It takes a while to lay out the plot, develop the characters—”

“What’re you talkin’ about? Plot? Characters?”

“See, it’s a Harry Chapin song—”

“Harry who?” Earl ambled to the foot of the stage. “Ben, did you happen to notice on your way in what the name of this here club is?”

Ben cleared his throat. “Uh … Uncle Earl’s Jazz Emporium?”

“Right. And what do you suppose the most important word in that name is?”

Ben looked down sheepishly. “Jazz?”