William Bernhardt - Cruel Justice

“Right, right. Of course I remember,” Ben bluffed. “This is the public inebriation case, right?”

“Close. Solicitation.”

Ben thumbed hurriedly through the file, “Well, that’s what I meant. Where’s Christina?”

“Excuse me, sir. I must insist.” One member of the briefcase brigade tapped Ben on the shoulder. “My name is Scott Scofield, and I represent the Arctic Breath Air Company. I’m concerned—”

“You’re the one who installed the air conditioner.”

“Well, my company did. Certainly I was not personally involved in the installation of your unit.” Scofield adjusted his tie. “At any rate, your payments are woefully behind schedule.”

Ben pointed toward the machine in question. “This pathetic bucket of bolts you sold me hasn’t worked since day one!”

“Perhaps you should consider our extended care package for your unit. Of course, I’m not at liberty to offer it to you while your account is in arrears, but once everything is in order, and assuming you have not made any unauthorized alterations to the unit or attempted to repair it yourself, you could take advantage of our long-term maintenance service. This particular unit …”

Scofield droned on. Ben waited patiently for the man to take a breath. He wasn’t going to permit him to slide by with the standard salesman snappy patter. This was serious business. The temperature in Tulsa was over a hundred, and had been for almost a month. August in Tulsa was never a picnic, but this summer had been a record-breaking sweatfest. As a rule, Ben was not fond of summer, and he liked it even less when the air conditioner in his apartment worked only sporadically and the clunker in his office didn’t work at all.

Ben detected a momentary break in Scofield’s spiel and seized the opportunity. “Look, at the moment I don’t have a penny, and even if I did, this unit is a flat-out dud—”

“The debt must be paid, sir.”

“Look around, pal. You’re in a closet of an office on a block full of pawnshops and bars in the worst part of downtown Tulsa. My staff is on half-salary and my assistant is typing on the back of old pleadings because he can’t afford typing paper! Do you think I have money to throw at faulty air conditioners?”

“Your financial status is no concern of mine, I’m sure.”

“Thanks for your compassion.”

“If you do not remedy this deficit immediately, we will be forced to turn your account over to a collection agency—”

“No you won’t. I’ve filed a formal complaint pursuant to the warranty clause in our sales contract.”

Scofield shook his head despairingly. “Lawyers.” He sighed.

“And if you mess up my credit,” Ben continued, “I’ll haul you into court for defamation and abuse of process!”

Scofield drew himself up. “Are you threatening me, sir?”

“I’ll do a heck of a lot more than threaten if—”

“Boss,” Jones interrupted. “You’re due in court, remember? The Johnson case.”

Ben stopped in midoutburst. “Right. I don’t have time for this, Scofield. Work it out with my assistant.”

“Oh, thank you very much,” Jones said.

“I’ll be at the courthouse if—” Jones grabbed Ben’s arm and yanked him back. “What do you want now?”

Jones pointed through the street-front windows. “Psst. New client alert.”

Ben looked through the front windows and saw a middle-aged black man carrying a large shopping bag. “Well, if he is, make an appointment. I gotta vamoose.”

He started to leave again, but Jones jerked him back. “Boss, look at him.”

“I’m looking, Jones, but I don’t see anything that inspires me to incur Judge Hart’s wrath by being late.”

“Some detective you are,” Jones snorted. “You see, but you do not observe.”

“Okay, Sherlock. Give me the lowdown.”

“Take a look at his car, Boss. What do you see?”

“Nothing in particular, except that it’s a cheap old Ford Pinto with the front end smashed in.”

Scofield tried to cut back into the conversation. “Mr. Kincaid, I really must insist—”

“Butt out, Scofield. We’re doing important detective work here. Okay, Jones, his car is a wreck. So what?”

“Note the loose flecks of paint near the impact area. This was caused by a recent accident. Now notice how the man limps. Put it together and what have you got?”

“Traffic accident,” Ben murmured. “Personal injury case.”

“Contingency fee agreement,” Jones added. “Quick settlement. Easy money. Staff gets paid. Bill collectors go home. Take the case, Boss.”

“You’ve certainly become a venal so-and-so, Jones.”

“I like to eat regularly, if that’s what you mean. And I’ve been on half-salary since June. Which of course is more than the air conditioner manufacturer is getting, but still …”

“All right already. I’ll take the case.”

Jones batted his eyelashes. “My hero.”

Ben made a break for the north door, but the way was blocked by the other two briefcase men. He pivoted quickly and made his way toward the other door, only to find himself standing face-to-face with …

“Julia!” Ben said awkwardly. “It’s been … well, it’s been … well, at least … I mean …” He inhaled. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you, of course.” Julia Kincaid Morelli Collins, Ben’s sister, was cradling her baby son, one arm expertly curled beneath his body. Her long brown hair fell over her shoulders and tickled his chubby little face. “Is this a good time?”

“Well, to tell you the truth—”

“This is your nephew, Joey.” Julia propped the baby up in her arms. “Joey, say hello to your uncle Ben.”

“Please don’t call me that. I feel like I should be cooking Minute rice.”

Julia ignored him. “Can you say hi to your uncle Ben?” She looked up. “He’s seven months old. He can only say a few words.” She wiggled her fingers and spoke in high-pitched baby talk. “Say, ‘Hi there, Uncle Ben. Hi there!’ ”

Joey did not follow her lead, which Ben thought showed great presence of mind on his part. Ben took the moment to give his sister a quick once-over. She’d changed since he’d last seen her. Not surprising, really—it had been more than two years.

She had slimmed down considerably. Working as an emergency room nurse in Glasgow, Montana, had undoubtedly played a part in that. Not to mention her second divorce, just after the baby was born, and the stress of caring for a newborn on her own. Something about the new improved Julia bothered him, though.

“So what have you been up to?” he asked.

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe it.” Joey was getting restless—squirming and scrunching up his face. Julia plopped him over her shoulder, burped him, then switched him to her other arm. “I finished my contract term at the hospital in Glasgow and got offered a seat in a graduate program in Connecticut. It’s very exclusive.”

“So you’ll be accepting?”

“I hope to, but there are a few problems.” She smiled at Joey, then wiped a bit of drool from his face. “I can’t believe how long it’s been since we last saw each other, Ben. Why is that?”

“Well,” Ben said hesitantly, “I thought it was because you didn’t like me very much.”

“Don’t be silly. Where would you get that idea?”

“Because you always said I was a jerk.”

“Did I? Sorry about that.”

“Because you said I don’t care about anyone other than myself.”

“I’m sure I didn’t mean it.”

“Because you told Mother I tried to drown you in the swimming pool when you were eight.”

“Well, you did do that, but let’s let bygones be bygones.” She wriggled the diaper bag down off her shoulder, wrested free a wet-wipe, and cleaned up Joey’s face. “It didn’t help family relations, you know, when you took Mike’s side during our divorce.”