William Bernhardt - Deadly Justice

Tomlinson raised his hand. “Sir, may I suggest that we make the identification of the victims our number one priority—even over identifying the killer? After all, if we can figure out the pattern, we may be able to save future lives.”

“What a brilliant plan,” Morelli replied. “Are you sure you aren’t a lieutenant? Or maybe even a captain?” A mild tittering filtered through the room. “Or did you steal that idea from your wife?”

Tomlinson ground his teeth together. When would he ever learn?

Morelli resumed his briefing. “All the bodies have been found within a twenty-mile radius in an unpopulated area in the western part of Tulsa County. Everything has been neat and tidy; the killer hasn’t left us a clue to work with. Even the amputations have been effected with almost surgical precision.”

He looked up from his notebook and stared out into the sea of uniforms. “The bottom line is this: we’re in the dark. We have a major crime, no leads, and no likelihood of preventing repeat offenses. We’re looking for ideas, people. Any suggestions will be considered, and anyone who suggests something that helps will find some extra change in his or her pay envelope—and maybe another stripe on his or her shoulder. Even you, Tomlinson.”

Another mild chuckle from the crowd. Tomlinson realized the insidious reason he must’ve been invited to this briefing: so he could be the butt of Morelli’s jokes.

“On the next page of the notebook,” Morelli continued, “you’ll find an action plan I’ve devised in coordination with Chief Blackwell. Item one, as you can see, is to identify the victims. We’ll call that the Tomlinson Plan.”

Laughter again, even more unrestrained than before. What did the man want—his resignation?

“Other action items involve creating a useful profile of the killer, defining his working environment, and setting a trap. But we’ll talk about those when the time comes.” He flipped to the back of his notebook. “On the last page, you’ll find orders informing you of your work assignment on the task force. A lot of thought has gone into these assignments, so I don’t want to hear any bitching about them. We’ve tried to distribute the work so as to make maximum use of our available talent. We expect each of you to perform your assigned tasks to the best of your abilities.”

Tomlinson turned to the back of his notebook and read the order sheet. Under his name, the assignment name read: SWITCHBOARD/RADIO DUTY.

Switchboard/radio? Tulsa was facing the most heinous crime wave in its history—and he was going to be the frigging telephone operator? Tomlinson slammed the notebook shut.

Morelli heard the noise, but didn’t comment. He told everyone to “get their butts in gear” and dismissed the meeting.

Tomlinson followed the crowd out of the room, then started down the hallway to—he could barely even think about it—the switchboard room. He wasn’t going to take this lying down. If Morelli didn’t have any faith in him— fine . He’d prove himself without Morelli’s help, and with any luck, he’d make Morelli look like a fool in the process.

He checked the duty roster. He would be off the switchboard by midnight. No problem—he’d start then.

Someone was going to have to make the first breakthrough. This time, it was going to be him.

5

BEN SCANNED THE OUTER offices of the Apollo Consortium headquarters. The architecture was elegant and expensive—the general design was of spiraling glass columns and gold-plated panels. The glass glistened; the gold panels were polished and gleaming. The building was less than a year old; Apollo was probably the only business entity in all of Oklahoma that was ostentatiously spending money during the recession that had paralyzed so much of the Southwest.

Howard Hamel stepped out of the elevator after Ben had waited less than a minute. I don’t get service this prompt when I visit my mother, Ben thought.

“Ben! Great to see you again,” Hamel said, his hand extended. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you accepted our offer.”

“Well, it was a difficult offer to refuse.”

“Good. It was intended that way. In case you haven’t gotten the message yet, the Apollo Consortium wants you bad.”

“I suppose I’ll need to fill out some forms. Insurance, direct deposit…”

“Sure, sure, but later. Let me take you on a tour of the complex. Our first stop is at the top—Robert Crichton’s office.”

“He’s the head of the legal department, right?”

“Right. In fact, he’s general counsel for the entire Apollo Consortium.”

“And he wants to see me?”

“Damn straight. He told me to show you in the moment you arrived.”

Hamel ushered Ben into a glass elevator that rose up the south side of the office building. Ben watched south Tulsa recede as the elevator rose toward the penthouse floor.

“Great view, huh?” Hamel said. “Strictly speaking, these exposed elevators are illegal here, but we managed to pull a few strings with the city counsel and get a variance.” He winked. “Called in a few vouchers.”

“I’ll bet.” Ben gazed out through the elevator glass. He could spot Southern Hills, the Sheraton Kensington, and the Oral Roberts campus, with its shimmering towers like something out of a Fifties science fiction movie. He felt a sudden clutching in his chest; Ben was not handy with heights. He turned away. “The view must be terrific at night.”

“It is. But don’t take my word for it. Come up some night and see for yourself.”

The elevator bell dinged, and they stepped off. They passed through an elegant private dining room staffed with waiters in formal attire, and a large health spa.

“Is this open to the public?” Ben asked.

“You must be kidding. We have over three thousand employees in this building. If the spa and restaurant were open to everyone, no one would be able to get a toe in edgewise. No, this whole floor is strictly for the top executives.”

“Oh. Pity.”

“Fret not, Ben. If you want in, we’ll get you in.”

They approached two huge wooden doors with ornate burnished paneling. A secretary sat at a desk outside.

“Janice, I have Mr. Kincaid.”

She pointed toward the doors. “Mr. Crichton said you were to bring him in immediately.”

“Right-o.” Hamel pushed the heavy doors open. Ben followed. The outer office was large and luxurious. No surprise. The glass and gold design of the front lobby was repeated, although one wall was white stucco. A painted mural stretched from one end to the other. It was an N. C. Wyeth mural, if Ben wasn’t mistaken. Could it possibly be an original?

They stepped quietly into the inner office. A man in his mid-forties was seated behind a desk, while a much younger woman slumped down in the chair opposite him.

“Look,” the man said, “I’m not saying you should put your job ahead of your baby, but—” Mid-sentence, he noticed his two visitors. “Hamel, what’s the meaning of this?”

Hamel stiffened ever so slightly. “I’ve brought Ben Kincaid to see you, Mr. Crichton.”

Crichton’s expression and manner changed the instant he heard the name. He rose to his feet. “Ben Kincaid. A pleasure.” Ben stepped forward, and they shook hands. After a moment, Crichton looked back, almost regretfully, at the woman in the chair. “Shelly…why don’t we continue this later?”

The woman in the chair was small, with a thin face and dishwater blond hair. She seemed to be pressed back as far as possible in the chair. Her eyes were red, as if she had been crying or was likely to start at any moment. After Crichton dismissed her, she turned and rushed out without saying a word.