William Bernhardt - Naked Justice

Barrett didn’t seem to be around today. Come to think of it, Ben had heard something on the car radio about Barrett holding a press conference, announcing his intent to run for reelection. That probably explained his absence.

Barrett had two daughters, both beauties. Ben recalled seeing them the previous Friday, when one of them had been so anxious to get to her father that she crashed into Ben’s leg.

“Hey, slow down,” Ben had said.

The girl ignored him, rushing on down the corridor. “Daddy!” she screamed. When she reached the end of the hallway, she leaped into her father’s arms. Her father scooped her up, hugged her tight, then swung her around in a circle.

“Hey, Kincaid! Sorry about my little crash pilot.” A second girl clutched Barrett’s leg.

Ben and Barrett had met at school functions and had become nodding acquaintances. Barrett was the kind of person who never forgot your name, your wife’s name, your kids’ names, or anything else.

“I’m fine, Mr. Mayor. Don’t worry about it. You’ve got a great pair of daughters.”

“Don’t I know it.” He scooped his other girl into his arms and beamed at the both of them. They were practically identical, but for the difference in their ages. Slim and pretty, with curly black hair.

Barrett squeezed his daughters till they burst out laughing. They threw their arms around, his neck and hugged him. He kissed them both on the cheek. Ben had seen the love in his eyes, the love so freely and enthusiastically returned by his daughters.

Barrett grinned from ear to ear. “I must be the luckiest man on earth.”

Ben nodded. “I think you’re probably right.”

A tug on his arm snapped Ben back to the present. He looked down at Joey, who was still holding his hand and gazing off into space. Ben crouched down eye to eye with him. “Joey,” he said hesitantly, “you’re not … I mean, you don’t—Joey?”

Joey seemed to have taken an intense interest in the aquarium.

Ben took Joey’s chin and gently guided it around to face him. “Joey, I know you didn’t have any choice about staying with me, but you’re not …”

He swallowed, then tried again. “I know you don’t show it much, but deep down you really do … don’t you?”

Joey stuck his finger between his lips and explored the roof of his mouth.

“Right. Well. Anyway.” He stood up again and took Joey’s hand. “Let’s go, pardner.” They pushed through the front doors. “What sounds good for dinner tonight? I was thinking we might make spaghetti.”

Chapter 4

LATER THAT EVENING, HARVEY Sanders peered through the curtains of his upstairs window at the house next door and shook his head sadly. They were at it again.

Seemed like it was almost every day now. Rain or shine, come what may, he could count on his famous neighbors having some terrific row before the day was over. Harvey hated to think of those lovely little girls being subjected to this barrage of hatred. Must be hard trying to tell yourself that Mommy and Daddy love each other after you’ve witnessed something like this day after day. Those poor kids.

Harvey closed the curtains, turned off Little House on the Prairie , and walked downstairs to the kitchen. He took a beer out of the fridge and popped the lid into the sink. As he did, he passed an open window that overlooked an equally open window in the Barretts’ house. Man alive, they were really going at it now.

“Shut up, you stupid cow!”

Harvey couldn’t hear them any better if they were in the next room. Wally had one of those deep booming voices; it carried. There was some more shouting, some general clamor. Then he heard some crying. Damn. One of the girls. “Daddy! Daddy!”

The crying swelled till it was almost piercing, then it seemed to fade. The girl was moving away from the window.

The fight continued. “I know you care about them, or pretend to. What about me?”

There was some reply Harvey didn’t catch.

“You’re damn right! Me!”

The next sound startled Harvey so that he dropped his beer bottle on the linoleum. It was a sharp, quick sound, like the popping of a paper bag.

Or a slap across the face. Flesh against flesh.

There were several more exchanges he couldn’t understand. Then: “Don’t drag the children into this!”

“I don’t have any choice!”

There was another noise, loud enough to make Harvey flinch. A great, crashing noise—Harvey couldn’t even think of anything that would make a noise like that. Dishes? Furniture? Or worse?

Harvey strolled into his living room. Well, what would his excuse be this time? Perhaps a shard of Anasazi pottery? Or perhaps a toilet that needed attention? Either would do.

He’d give them a little cool-down time before he went over and interjected himself into the situation. He really wasn’t the nosy neighbor type, not some sitcom cliché, sneaking up to windows and holding a glass against the wall. He didn’t like to butt into other people’s business. But back where he came from (Dill City, Oklahoma, to be exact—population 632), people cared about each other, and tried to be there for each other, and didn’t get nervous about walking in and offering help when folks were needing it.

Here in the big city (Tulsa, Oklahoma, to be exact—population 503,000) he had learned to be more circumspect. He’d moved out here twelve years before, after his grandmother passed on and left him this great house in a ritzy neighborhood. In that time, he’d found that folks got a little nervous when you started asking personal questions. Back in Dill City, doors were never locked and people expected to be visited. No one thought twice about dropping in unannounced on a neighbor. Here, seemed like neighbors never called on each other unless they had made an appointment days in advance and had some super-special reason. So he had learned to have reasons.

Harvey had moved to Tulsa after he got out of college (University of Oklahoma, to be exact—Class of ’85). Harvey wanted to be an actor, but to tide himself over until fame and fortune called, he took a job at the world-famous Gilcrease Museum of Western Art. Twelve years later, he was an assistant curator, which was as high as he cared to rise on the totem pole. Why would he want to be curator? That was just a fund-raising position. Harvey didn’t want to have lunch at Southern Hills. He wanted to play with the toys.

And Gilcrease had the best toys. Western art, yes—Remingtons and Carys and Morans, sculptures and paintings. But what Harvey really loved were the artifacts. Artifacts of the Old West, artifacts of Native American cultures. Great stuff. The museum’s holdings were so vast they couldn’t all be displayed at once. The artifacts in deep storage had to be maintained. Harvey took care of that. He loved working with the goods, and it gave him a legitimate excuse to take some of them home occasionally, just for a day or two. Which in turn gave him a great excuse to take them over to the Barretts. Show-and-tell for grown-ups.

“Hey, Wally, look at this great kachina doll!” he’d say as he strolled in through the kitchen door. Actually, he wasn’t sure the mayor cared a bit about kachina dolls. He wasn’t sure he much cared for being called Wally, either. Didn’t matter. It got Harvey through the door, where he could keep an eye on things. That mattered.

And if museum curios couldn’t do the trick, there was always home repair. One ruse he could count on—there was always something in the Barrett home that needed to be fixed. Back in Dill City, he had learned how to take care of most home emergencies himself, including the plumbing, because there was usually no one else to do it. These were useful skills, and skills that Wally had never managed to acquire, thus leading to another easy entrance into the Barrett home.