William Bernhardt - Deadly Justice

His bedroom was just the same, and the kitchen was even worse. There were so many easily broken objects in the kitchen. And yet, through all the rubble, he saw precious few indications that his apartment had been searched. He knew the usual signs—rifled drawers, dumped files—and he didn’t see any of them.

This wasn’t a search. This was a warning.

Ben slapped himself on the side of the head. Giselle!

“Giselle? Sweetie?” He made a clicking sound with his tongue. “C’mere, kitty.”

No response.

“Kitty kitty kitty. C’mon. Daddy’s home.”

He watched for some stirring, some indication of life. Nothing.

Ben felt a deep hollow in his heart. That poor cat. He bent over and crawled through a stack of broken records, ripped books, and torn linens. Maybe she was buried under here somewhere. Maybe she was pinned and couldn’t get out.

Wait a minute. He shouldn’t jump to any conclusions. He knew how to test for cat life. He ran into the kitchen, burrowed through the cabinets—now a jumbled mess—and retrieved a can of Feline’s Fancy. Giselle’s favorite.

He opened the can and waited as the aroma filled the apartment. Not that it ever took more than a few seconds. She was normally prancing around beneath his feet before he had the lid off. He waved the can around the kitchen, trying to deny the obvious, trying to pretend it hadn’t been too long yet.

Until it was. Even he had to admit that she would’ve been here long ago. If she could.

He fell back against the refrigerator and brushed a tear from the corner of his eye. He just couldn’t believe—just couldn’t believe—

He heard something. Something barely perceptible, just outside the range of his hearing. What was it?

He stood, trying to trace the source of the sound. It seemed as if it had come from—where?

He whirled toward the kitchen sink. And the window just above the sink. The broken window he had seen from outside the house.

He crawled up on the sink and pressed his head through the broken window, careful not to cut himself on the jagged pieces of glass. The window overlooked a short ledge of the roof, a narrow shingled eave. And in the corner was a huge black cat huddled against the edge, as far as she could go without falling off the roof.

“Giselle!”

He wrapped his hand in a towel, knocked out the loose pieces of glass, then raised the window. “Giselle! It’s me!”

Giselle slowly moved her paws away from her eyes. She was terrified, but not so much that she couldn’t recognize the putative master of the house. Her head perked up. She slowly padded back to the window.

Ben scooped the cat up and brought her inside the kitchen. “You smart kitty. You must’ve crawled out there to get away.” He cradled her in his arms and hugged her close. “What a smart little kitty.”

Giselle purred and snuggled against the crook of Ben’s neck. She stayed there for at least ten seconds, until she noticed the open can of Feline’s Fancy on the floor. She leaped out of Ben’s arms and started munching.

Ben smiled, but the smile only lasted a moment. In the back of his mind, he was still thinking about what had been done, and why…

And when.

It must’ve been during the day. Otherwise it would’ve been impossible. Too many people would’ve been in the building in the evening or night. They would’ve heard and come to investigate. But if this destruction had occurred during the day…

Mrs. Marmelstein would’ve been home.

He shut Giselle in the bedroom so she couldn’t get out again, then ran downstairs and pounded on his landlady’s door.

“Mrs. Marmelstein? It’s Ben!” he shouted. “Are you okay?” He continued to pound on the door.

No one answered.

He pounded some more. The door popped open a crack. It must not have been closed securely.

He shoved his way into her room. That son of a bitch. That miserable goddamn son of a bitch. If he hurt Mrs. Marmelstein—

From inside her bedroom, Ben heard the sound of…Paul Harvey?

“Mrs. Marmelstein? It’s Ben Kincaid!”

The sound of the radio evaporated. Ben recalled that Mrs. Marmelstein left the radio on all night—not to help her sleep, but to keep her company. He heard some heavy footsteps on the carpet, and a few seconds later, Mrs. Marmelstein poked her head through her bedroom door. She had obviously just awakened. “You’re not a tenant here any more, Mr. Kincaid.”

“What?” Now he was thoroughly confused. “Are you all right?”

“Of course I’m all right. I’m as all right as any woman could be who just had the worst day of her entire life.” She stepped into the parlor, tightly bundled up in a pink woolly robe. “It’s a wonder I could sleep at all last night.”

“I don’t understand. What happened?”

“Don’t act innocent with me, Ben Kincaid. I heard all that noise you were making up there yesterday.”

“You did? And you didn’t call the police?”

“Hmmph. For all I knew you were with the police. Partying with those hooligan police friends of yours. Making all kinds of noise. Breaking furniture. Don’t think I don’t know you did. My hearing’s not as bad as you think.”

“Mrs. Marmelstein, it wasn’t like that at all. Someone—” He cut himself off. On second thought, maybe it was better to leave her with the illusion of drunken revelry than to let her know her home had been invaded.

“I heard some squealing and shrieking, too. Harlots, no doubt.” She sniffed. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Squealing? Must’ve been Giselle, poor thing. She wasn’t friendly with strangers under the best of circumstances, which these weren’t.

“I told you a long time ago I wouldn’t put up with that sort of immoral behavior. I’m sorry to do this, Ben. I’ll miss you, and I don’t know how I’ll manage without you looking after my estate. But I’m evicting you.”

“Mrs. Marmelstein—”

“Don’t try to talk me out of it. My mind’s made up.”

“Mrs. Marmelstein—” He stepped closer and took her hand. “I don’t know what came over me. You know how men are sometimes.”

“Hmmph. Indeed I do. And I—”

“Then you can surely find it in your heart to forgive me. Just this once. If I promise never to do it again. Never ever ever.” He plastered his most contrite expression on his face. “Pretty please?”

“Well…I don’t know….”

“I promise I’ll pay for all the breakage.”

“Still…I don’t—”

“And I’ll handle your financial affairs for the next year for no charge.” What a sacrifice—he’d never charged her in his entire life.

“Well…I suppose I could give you one more chance.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Marmelstein. You’re a doll.” He kissed her on the cheek and hurried toward the door. “Sorry, but I have to run. Immediately.”

Ben bolted back up the stairs and into his apartment. Hell with the shower and shave—he had to call Mike, and he had to get back to Trixie, pronto. If this maniac was on the rampage—and Ben was ankle-deep in proof that he was—Ben couldn’t afford to leave Trixie and Christina alone.

Who knew where the killer might be at this very moment?

45

“THEN WHERE THE HELL is he?”

The switchboard operator on the other end of the line assured Ben that she had no idea where Lieutenant Mike Morelli was at this particular moment.

“It’s almost five o’clock in the morning!” Ben shouted. “If he’s not at home, he must be out on police business.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I have no information as to his current whereabouts.”

“Can you at least take a message? Tell Mike I’ve found Trixie, and the murderer has found me. Tell him Trixie and Christina may both be in danger. Tell him to meet me at this address as soon as possible.”