William Bernhardt - Deadly Justice

“Excusez moi,” said a voice from behind them. Ben turned and saw Christina poised in the doorway. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Ben, but Lieutenant Morelli is here to speak with you.”

Ben looked at Consetti apologetically. “I’m sorry, sir. Can we continue this conversation later?”

Consetti gritted his teeth and barreled through the door, pushing Christina to one side. “Goddamn… lawyers !”

Ben grinned sheepishly at Christina. “I don’t suppose Mike is really here?”

“As a matter of fact, he is, although he’s perfectly content to wait. I thought you needed a save.”

“You were right.”

“I take it Abernathy tried some cheap sleazemeister tricks at the deposition?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe. He realizes he hasn’t got any proof of design defects and he’s getting desperate. Plus, he was unprepared for the deposition—didn’t know anything about the suspension system or any of the important issues. All he had was a police report and a lot of experience with tawdry discovery tactics.”

“Of course,” Christina replied, “what he probably hoped to do was scare Apollo’s upper management into early settlement.”

Ben knew better than to doubt Christina’s instincts. “Probably right.”

“And from the looks of Consetti’s major over-reaction—”

“Exactly. Mission accomplished. If I don’t win this case soon, Apollo’s going to end up writing Abernathy a big check.”

“Well, if anyone can do it, you can. I heard you creamed Abernathy at the hearing yesterday.”

“True. But only because he was so pathetically unprepared.”

“Sure. It couldn’t possibly be because you did anything right. By the by, you need to call Jones.”

“Why? Is he in trouble?”

“No. He just misses the sound of his master’s voice. Maybe you could phone him and ask him to draft some motions for you, just for old time’s sake.”

“I’ll give it some thought.”

“Well, I’ve got to get back to work. Crichton’s got me feeding documents into a litigation support computer program. You should see him in the computer room. He loves to play with gadgets.”

“The male prerogative.”

“Yeah. I just wish he’d stop trying to look up my skirt.”

“Perils of the workplace.”

“This one, anyway. I’ll send Mike in.”

“Thanks.”

A few seconds after Christina left, Mike strolled into the office.

“What’s up?” Ben asked.

“You are. You’re coming with me.”

Ben blanched. “You’re kidding. Blackwell is hauling me in? My time isn’t up yet.”

“No, no, no. We’re going to search Hamel’s home.”

“Oh.” Ben exhaled, relieved. “What about his widow?”

“She’s consented. In fact, she called this morning and asked us to come.”

“I thought she was mounting very serious opposition. What made her change her mind?”

“A very serious pair of fists. Impacting repeatedly on her face.”

24

BEN AND MIKE DROVE to the Hamel residence in an unmarked silver Trans Am.

“How did you ever get the department to spring for a slick pair of wheels like this?”

Mike grinned. “Let’s just say Chief Blackwell and I have an extremely close working relationship.”

“What does that mean? You have photographs of him in drag?”

“That would be telling.” Mike rolled down the driver’s side window and barreled into the fast lane. “Snazzy car, though, don’t you think?”

“Yup. It’s every sixteen-year-old’s dream.”

“Every guy’s dream, you mean.” He glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror. “I think I wear it well.”

“Well, it looks better on you than that dirty overcoat. If you’d had this four years ago, you might have Julia sitting in the front seat instead of me.”

“Not unless I filled the glove compartment with credit cards.”

Just as Mike finished his sentence, a red Ferrari weaved around him and zoomed past.

“Did you see that?” Mike cried. He groped around in the compartment between the seats. “Where’s my siren?”

“Forget it, Mike. We have other business. You’re not a traffic cop.”

“I will not forget it. I hate reckless drivers. Especially when I’m driving my Trans Am.” He clamped the red bulb onto the roof of his car and pressed down on the accelerator. Ben felt his stomach fly out of his body as the Trans Am kicked in all eight cylinders.

“Mike, would you cool it, for God’s sake! I do not want to the in a high-speed chase!”

“Show some nerve, Ben. We’re catching bad guys.”

“I don’t want to catch bad guys. I want to live to a ripe old age.” They whizzed by a black pickup so quickly that Ben ducked. “Look, I already know you’re a hardboiled two-fisted male-machismo sumbitch. You don’t have to prove it to me by nailing some moron in a Ferrari!”

“It’s a matter of principle,” Mike muttered. “He didn’t even use his left turn indicator.”

“Oh, well then—life imprisonment for him.” Ben glanced fearfully at the speedometer. “Mike! You’re doing a hundred miles an hour!”

“Is that all? No wonder I haven’t caught up.” He pressed harder on the accelerator.

“Mike, listen to me. I’m an innocent. A civilian. I don’t want to perish in the line of duty. I want out!”

“Sorry, Ben, no time,” he said, his hands tightly clenching the steering wheel. “Justice is on patrol.”

Forty minutes and three tickets later, Ben and Mike arrived at the home of Gloria Hamel in the plush residential section surrounding the Philbrook Museum. They rang the door, and a few moments later she opened it.

Ben was horrified.

Mike’s description, although gruesome enough, left him utterly unprepared for what he saw. Mrs. Hamel’s face was a scarred and bloody nightmare. Her nose had been flattened; her eyes were so swollen she could barely see. She had two deep lacerations, one beneath each cheek, creating a macabre symmetry. Both appeared to have been sutured. A white bandage stretched down the middle of her face, covering the place where her nose used to be.

“I apologize for keeping you waiting,” Gloria said. Her words were slurred and unenunciated; she was only barely able to move her mouth. “I’m having some trouble getting around this morning.”

Ben was astonished she was even able to stand. “I’m Ben Kincaid.”

“I know,” she said, nodding. “Lieutenant Morelli told me you would be coming when he visited me at the hospital.”

“Are you feeling any better?” Mike asked gently.

“It’s hard to say.” She looked at them as if she might find her answer in their eyes. “The doctors said I could go home, although I have to return to the hospital tomorrow for more sutures. They think my brain may be partially detached from my skull.

Having grown up with a doctor father, Ben had had an opportunity to see injuries of all sorts and degrees. Nonetheless, he could not recall ever seeing anyone so hideously damaged, so…ruined. “Forgive me for asking, but have you consulted a plastic surgeon?”

“Just long enough to find out they are very expensive. Too expensive for me. Especially now that Howard is gone.”

“Surely your husband’s medical insurance at Apollo—”

“Terminated the instant he died. I’ve already spoken to Robert Crichton about it. He said he was sorry, but there was nothing he could do.”

Mike gave Ben a pointed look. “Some boss you got there, Ben.”

Ben didn’t reply.

“Please come in,” Gloria said. “I don’t like to stand out in the open.”

They stepped into the foyer of the house. Now that he was inside, Ben realized that the house was even more palatial than it seemed from the outside. The furnishings were absolutely top-drawer—much better than he would have expected a mid-level member of the Apollo legal staff to be able to afford.