William Bernhardt - Deadly Justice

“Mike did?”

“Yeah. What of it?”

“Just doesn’t sound like Mike. I’d expect him to grab the suspect, snap on the cuffs, and haul out the rubber hoses.”

Ben smiled. “Mike does have his subtler side.”

“Very subtle. In fact, almost invisible.”

Ben watched Buddy hesitate on the corner of Eighth Street. Buddy seemed to be waiting for something. He checked his watch, men tapped his foot nervously. He glanced back over his shoulder, then up and down the street. Eventually, he continued walking north.

“Good thing you were out of sight,” Ben commented.

“What was he looking for?”

“Beats me. He acted as if he thought someone might be following him. And of course, he was right.”

“He acted nervous the entire time we talked,” Christina said. “As if someone might be lurking just around the corner. He didn’t even want to say Trixie’s name aloud. It was as if the evocation of her name might put her in danger.”

“Perhaps it might,” Ben said. He let his car inch forward, maintaining a constant distance between himself and Buddy. “Are you sure he knows where she is?”

“I’m not sure of anything,” Christina replied. “But he did act strange when Trixie’s name came up. Defensive—in fact, almost protective. His friend suggested that Buddy knew something about where she was. And of course, the lady of the evening now modeling my feather boa also indicated that Buddy was the key to finding Trixie.”

“Let’s hope she’s right. I’m not sure we could repossess your boa.”

“I’m not sure I’d want to.”

Ben continued his surveillance for about ten minutes. Buddy turned left, walked about five more minutes, then took another left.

“I think this is it,” Ben said.

Buddy approached a small two-story house with a white brick exterior. It was not in the best condition, but that lent it a certain charm, Ben thought. It looked as if it belonged in this neighborhood, but in a different time.

There were no lights on inside the house. Buddy fumbled for his keys a moment or two, then opened the door.

As soon as he was inside, Christina sat upright. “Elegant pied-à-terre. You think that’s where he lives?”

Ben shrugged. “He seems to have his own keys.”

“I thought all the prostitutes lived on The Stroll. Under their pimp’s thumbnail.”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s different for guys. At any rate, he appears to be here for a reason.”

“Great. Now what do we do?”

“We wait.”

And wait they did. They followed the trail of lights that showed Buddy moving into a small room on the ground floor (bathroom, Ben guessed), then up the stairs. Lights came on in a larger room, and Ben saw Buddy’s silhouette pass across the windows.

“Bingo,” Ben muttered under his breath.

“What? What’s going on?”

Ben grabbed the binoculars and trained them on the upstairs window. “There’s a second silhouette in there. He’s not alone.”

“Can you tell who it is?”

“Not without X-ray vision. But there is definitely a second person in there—a smallish person, on the short side.”

“Like a teenage girl?”

“My thought exactly.”

Ben kept his binoculars trained on the window for a few more moments, then put his car back in drive and cruised down the street.

“Where are we going now?” Christina asked. I thought we were going to watch him.”

“We found out where he lives. Time to get you back home.”

“Home? Who says I want to go home?”

“I do.”

“What is this, some macho protect-the-damsel-from-distress routine?”

“It’s nothing like that—”

“You’re just getting rid of me because you think there may be trouble.”

“Someone needs to fill Mike in on what we’ve learned. And cover for me at the office.” And yes, he thought but would never say: there might be trouble.

Christina laid her hand on Ben’s shoulder. “You’re going in there, aren’t you?”

Ben nodded.

“Ben, five people have been killed already. Be careful.”

He placed his hand on hers. “Believe me, I’ll do my damnedest.”

About an hour later, Buddy exited the front door of the house. He was dressed as before, except that he had added a scarf wrapped several times around his neck. Protection against the chill of the night, Ben thought. He wished he had one himself.

Buddy rounded the corner and headed back toward Eleventh Street. As soon as Ben was certain he was out of sight, he eased quietly out of his car and approached the house.

The lights in the house were off, but he knew there was still someone in there. He passed through the white picket gate that provided access to the front door. There was a doorbell just beside the mailbox. Ben pushed it twice.

There was no answer. He didn’t detect any movement inside.

Could he possibly have been wrong? He thought he had seen a second figure through the window curtains, but perhaps it was a trick of the light, or a reflection in the mirror.

He knocked on the door, loud enough to be heard in the attic. But there was still no response. Well…

He tried the doorknob. To his astonishment, the door was unlocked. He pushed the door open, just a crack.

“Hello? Is there anybody there?”

His voice echoed through the empty house.

“Anybody there?” he repeated.

Still no answer. Ben pushed the door the rest of the way open and stepped inside. The house was dark. He searched for a light switch, then thought better of it. Maybe he shouldn’t make it obvious that someone else was here.

He scanned the living room area as best he could. The furniture had a musty, grandmotherly feel about it; most of it appeared at least fifty years old. Lace doilies on the sofa and faded burnished curtains on the windows. An old piano in the corner. But no trace of a human being.

On the far end of the living room, he spotted a swinging door. Probably leads to the kitchen, he mused. He pushed open the door and walked inside.

The instant he passed through the door, something dropped out of the darkness and grabbed him by the throat.

40

BEN WHIRLED, TRYING TO loosen the grip of whoever or whatever had descended upon him. He felt fingers clutching at his neck—it was definitely a person. He threw his shoulders back, trying to dislodge his attacker, without success. He grabbed the hands, trying to pry them off his throat. He felt something jab him in the side. Something sharp.

“Ahhhhh!” He wanted to clutch his side, but knew if he loosened his grip on the hands around his throat he’d be history. He had to do something quick; he couldn’t breathe at all. His vision was getting spotty and it was difficult to think. He needed air, badly.

He careened backward into the swinging door, using the person on his back as a battering ram. They smacked the door solidly, but the impact threw Ben off-balance. There was nothing he could do to regain his equilibrium. He fell over and smashed down on the pinewood floor.

The shock of the fall loosened the grip of the hands around his throat. He managed to roll away, gasping desperately for air. He felt the oxygen coursing back into his lungs, clearing away the cloudiness that was already fogging his brain.

He tried to focus on the bundle he had so gracelessly deposited on the floor. Whoever it was was already gone. He squinted into the darkness, but couldn’t find a trace.

“Look,” he said, breathing heavily, “my name is Ben Kincaid and I—”

The shadow lunged at him before he could finish his sentence. The sharp instrument again jabbed into his side, just below the ribs. He fell sideways, collapsing onto a love seat. The pain was even worse this time.