William Bernhardt - Cruel Justice

HAROLD RUTHERFORD MET HIS wife, Rachel, at the front door of the elegant main foyer of the Utica Greens Country Club. Sweat dripped from his brow, and a golf club was cocked over his shoulder.

“Where’s Abie?” he asked.

“I sent him in to have his picture taken,” Rachel said. “Isn’t that why we’re here?”

Rutherford pressed his lips together in that subtle and thoroughly annoying way he had of expressing irritation. “I wanted us to have our picture taken together.”

“The group portrait was scheduled for ten. You’re fifteen minutes late,” Rachel said sharply. “And you’re a mess.” She had a few ways of expressing irritation herself.

Rutherford checked his watch. “I was in a board meeting.”

Rachel’s eyes conveyed her disbelief. “You’ve been outside.”

“We decided to take in nine holes while we talked.”

“That doesn’t explain why you’re late.”

He stared at her uncomprehendingly. “Well, I couldn’t just leave.”

“Why not?”

He cast his eyes skyward. “You don’t understand.”

“Hal, Western civilization wouldn’t crumble because you left a country-club board meeting a few minutes early.”

“I have responsibilities. …”

“You have a responsibility to your son! Your family! You talk a good talk; babbling to your buddies about what a devoted father you are, and you insist that we come in for these family portraits, so you can have something showy to hang on your wall, but when it comes right down to it, you put everything else before your family.”

“That isn’t true.”

“It is. Sometimes I think you never wanted—”

He cut her off with a harsh glare. “I can’t believe you would say that. I love my son.”

“Does he know that?”

The question took him aback. “Well … what a stupid question. Of course he does.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Rutherford answered her. “He knows. I’m sure.”

Royce waited patiently for the boy to enter the country-club ballroom. He passed the time by thumbing through the Polaroids he’d snapped so far that morning. No. No. Definitely not. Too old. Too fair. Just not right.

The sound of the heavy wooden door closing reverberated through the cavernous room. Quickly, Royce put the Polaroids back in his satchel and stepped behind his portrait camera.

“You must be Abie,” Royce said, glancing at his master list. “Abie Rutherford.”

“Yeah.” Royce judged the boy to be about nine or ten. He had dark hair, dark features. His locks swooped wildly across his head and dangled down onto his forehead. He was wearing a loose Polo T-shirt and a Drillers baseball cap.

He was lovely.

Royce pressed his hand over his mouth, concealing his smile.

This was the one.

“I thought we were going to have a family portrait,” Royce said as the boy positioned himself on the stool.

“We were s’posed to,” the boy said sullenly. “My dad didn’t show up.”

“That’s a shame.” Royce fidgeted with the camera settings. “Will your father be wanting the economy ten-pic pack, the standard-size twenty-five assorted pack, or the super-deluxe combo sixty-pic pack?”

The boy shrugged. “My dad prob’ly won’t buy any of them.”

Royce huddled down over the lens and focused. “Looks like you’re a Drillers fan.”

“So?”

“Does your dad take you to the ball games?”

Abie’s fake camera smile disappeared. “No.”

“Why not?”

Abie didn’t answer.

“Come on, you can tell me. Who am I going to tell? I’m just a photographer.”

Abie considered. “My dad never takes me anywhere. He says ball games are for ordinary people. Drones, he calls them.” He folded his arms unhappily. “I think he hates me.”

Royce nodded sympathetically. “And your mom?”

“She doesn’t hate me. She’s always arguing with my dad. I hate it when they argue.”

“Poor thing.” Royce walked around the camera, smiled, then pressed his hand against Abie’s cheek. “All right now, tilt your head to the side. A little more. That’s it.”

Royce reached down and adjusted Abie’s clothes, running his hands down the boy’s arms and legs. “There you are. What a perfect child. A photographer’s dream.”

Royce pressed his eye to the viewfinder and started clicking. He took twice as many pictures as normal. He couldn’t be too careful; he wanted to make sure he had a flattering photo for his friend’s scrutiny.

“You really are a delightful subject,” Royce remarked. “Have you ever thought about becoming a professional model?”

“A model?” Abie’s face wrinkled. “What kind of dumb job is that? I’m going to be a baseball player.”

“Of course.” Royce finished the roll of film in the camera, then surreptitiously took a shot with each of his two Polaroids. “There now. That’ll do it.”

The boy hopped off the stool. “Can I go now?”

“Of course you can.” Royce reached out and patted Abie on the head. “Have a nice day, sweet boy.”

As soon as he finished for the day, Royce packed up his equipment and drove directly to his friend’s apartment, a separate room behind a house on the North Side.

“What are you doing here?” his friend asked, anything but friendly. “Haven’t I told you never to come here?”

“I couldn’t wait,” Royce said enthusiastically. “And I knew you wouldn’t want me to, either. I have something you’re going to love.”

“I’ll be surprised. You haven’t come up with anything suitable for weeks.”

“How quickly you forget. I found the kid that—” Royce stopped, immediately realizing his mistake.

“Yes, you were responsible for that, weren’t you?” His friend’s eyes became two small beads buried deeply beneath a heavy brow. “Believe me, I haven’t forgotten.”

Royce reached for his satchel. He was so nervous he dropped it while fumbling with the buckle. “Wasn’t my fault,” he mumbled. “I always do the best I can for you. Fat lot I get in return.”

“I got you this gig for the country-club photo directory, didn’t I?”

“Right, right.” Royce pulled out one of the Polaroids. “Take a look at this.”

His friend snatched the photo from Royce’s hands. There was a sudden intake of breath. “You took this picture at the country club?”

“Yes. This morning.”

His friend frowned. That was a bit close to home. “Who is it?”

“You don’t know?”

“You think I have time to keep up with everyone’s kids? What’s his name?”

“On the flip side.”

His friend turned over the photo and reacted first with surprise, then, gradually, with delight. “Perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

Royce was relieved. “Then … he’s the one?”

“Oh, yes,” his friend said breathlessly. “He’s the one. He’s the one I want.”

ONE

Don’t Be Such a Sucker

1

THE INSTANT BEN PUSHED open his office door, three men with briefcases sprang to their feet.

“Mr. Kincaid!” they shouted in unison.

Bill collectors, Ben thought unhappily. He could spot ’em anywhere. Why did everyone expect Ben to pay his bills on time? None of his clients did. “Sorry, gents, I’m on my way to an important meeting.”

The three men flung invoices in his path, but Ben sidestepped them and rushed to Jones’s desk in the center of the lobby.

“Jones,” he said sotto voce, “please tell me I have an important meeting this morning.”

Jones, Ben’s office assistant, pushed a thick expanding file across his desk. “Even better. You’re due in court. The Johnson case, remember? Continued from last week. Judge Hart awaits.”