William Bernhardt - Blind Justice

Ben took a giant step away from Spud. The stench of alcohol was so thick on the guard’s breath he might as well have been wearing it as cologne. Perhaps this was the lodge’s unique way of discouraging intruders. “How do you know someone didn’t, say, ride the elevator up to the ninth floor, then walk up to the tenth?”

“ ’Cause it ain’t possible,” Spud answered. “The doors are locked from the outside. We have to maintain access to the stairwell—fire codes, you know. But once you’re in, you’re in for good. You can’t exit the stairwell until you get all the way down to the first floor.”

“How do you know these four people weren’t going to see some other tenant on the top floor?”

“ ’Cause there ain’t no other tenants on the top floor. Mr. Lombardi’s suite takes up the whole floor.”

Good answer, Ben thought.

“That’s why they call it a penthouse, son.”

“Does your list also record the times these four persons left the building?”

“No can do, son. See, there’s only one way into the building, but there’s a couple’a ways out. There’s two back doors that are locked from the inside. You can’t use them to get in, but you can sure use them to get out. Most folks do, since those doors are closer to the parking lot.”

“Ah,” Ben said, spotting an escape hatch. “Then someone could open a back door from the inside and let someone else in.”

“Possibly,” Spud admitted, “but the intruder still couldn’t get nowhere. He couldn’t ride the elevator unless I activated it for him. He couldn’t enter the stairwell without my seein’ him, and even if he could, he couldn’t open the stairwell doors on any of the upper floors.”

“Right. Locked from the outside.”

“Absolutely correct,” Spud said. “You’re a pretty quick study, son.”

“They teach that in law school,” Ben replied. “I don’t suppose you might’ve fallen asleep last night?”

Spud shook his head vigorously. “Not a chance. But what if I did? Unless I open the front door or activate the elevator, nobody gets in.”

So it seemed, Ben had to admit.

“Doesn’t matter anyway. It didn’t happen. Let me tell you, son—I’ve been workin’ this job over three years now, and I ain’t fallen asleep once yet.” He lowered his voice a notch. “Just between you and me, every now and then, when I feel myself gettin’ a mite drowsy, I just whip out Jackie D here and take a good hard swig.” He withdrew a silver flask strapped to his leg and waved it under Ben’s nose. “Just a quick snort, and I’m wide awake again.”

Not exactly the way they described it in driver’s ed class, Ben thought, but whatever works. “Tell me, Spud, did you recognize any of these four visitors?”

“Recognized all of them.”

“Who were they?”

“Well,” Spud said, a bit awkwardly, “first of all, there was that cute redhead you’re representin’.”

Right. Wouldn’t want to leave her out. “You saw Christina McCall come in?”

“Oh, yeah,” Spud answered. “Couldn’t have missed her. She seemed kinda angry.” He leaned closer to Ben and whispered. “I think she was mad at Mr. Lombardi about something.”

That’s wonderful. Just feed them a motive, why don’t you? “Who else?”

“There was Mr. Lombardi’s lawyer, Quinn Reynolds.”

Ben’s eyebrows rose. “Is that a fact? Any idea why he was here?”

“Sorry. Can’t help you there. T’wern’t unusual, though. He came to see Mr. Lombardi all the time.”

“Who else was here last night?”

“That animal nut, Clayton Langdell.”

The name was familiar. “Doesn’t he run some kind of society for animals?”

“That’s the guy.”

“What would he be doing with Lombardi?”

“He came callin’ from time to time. Don’t know what about. Don’t think they were particularly friendly.”

Ben made a notation on his legal pad. “And the other visitor to see Lombardi?”

Spud seemed to be prolonging the moment. Must be something good coming, Ben realized.

“Albert DeCarlo.”

If Spud was waiting for a reaction (and he was), he must have been disappointed. Mike had already prepared Ben for this revelation. “How did you know it was DeCarlo?”

“Seen him here before. Seen him several times. Always the same. Dark sunglasses. Dark muffler. Big white overcoat. I’d recognize him a mile away.”

“Any idea what business DeCarlo would have with Lombardi?”

Spud cleared his throat. “Well,” he said sotto voce , “I wouldn’t want to speculate.…”

What a perfect security guard. The soul of discretion, even about mob kingpins.

“Did DeCarlo say anything to you?”

“Heck, no. I just waved him through. You don’t mess around with someone like Albert DeCarlo.”

“How much do you know about Lombardi’s…business activities?”

“Next to nothing. Some kind of import business, so I’ve heard. Every now and then Lennie will say a little something about it.”

“Lennie?”

“Lombardi’s assistant. Thin, wiry guy. Does the work Lombardi doesn’t—excuse me —didn’t want to do. You know, detail stuff. Making deliveries. Paying the bills. Taking the missus her money.”

Ben looked up. “The missus ’?”

“Oh yeah. Lombardi was married. Thin, blonde-haired lady. You didn’t know that?”

Ben felt his heart sink into the vicinity of his intestinal tract. “No. Did she come here often?”

“No way. Last time I let her in, Lombardi showed up with some floozy he’d picked up on Eleventh Street. Mrs. Lombardi went nuts. She started screaming and crying, calling names, slapping the woman around, making a major-league scene. She was like a madwoman. Crazy jealous. Ever since then, I’ve had strict instructions from Mr. Lombardi not to admit her under any circumstances.”

“But they were still married?”

“Oh, yeah. They’ve been apart for several months now. I don’t think they’re divorced—just separated or something. I’ve heard Lennie gripe about having to take money over to her. I guess she could be pretty unpleasant about it.”

A wife. Christina had a date with a married man. Ben’s eyes started to glaze over; the hollow feeling inside him increased a thousandfold. Ben expected the prosecution to try to paint Christina as some sort of tramp—the unmarried consort (wink, wink) of the perverted druglord. But this was worse. Now they would be talking (in hushed tones) about… adultery. Now they would take every opportunity to remind the jury she went to that penthouse apartment for a (dramatic pause) liaison with a married man.

What would the jury think? Ben knew all too well. They would loathe her. Before the government had even finished its opening statement.

The phone rang just seconds after Ben’s Honda pulled out of the parking lot.

“Hello,” Spud said. And a few seconds after that, “Yeah, Kincaid, that was his name. Why?”

Spud glided into the chair behind his station. His brow creased. “Sure, I told him. What, should I have clammed up?”

A burst of static from the phone. “Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t know. If that’s the way you want it, from now on, that’s the way it’ll be. Promise.”

The tension in his face intensified. “Sure, whatever you want. No, he didn’t say where he was going. Oh, wait, he did say he was going back to the police station later on. No, he doesn’t know anything. Well, I don’t see any cause for that. Yeah, I know, you’re in charge, not me. Of course I will. You can count on it. I’ll call you first thing. Right.”

Spud wanted to hang up, but the voice on the other end would not release him. Another burst of staccato noise, finally followed by an abrupt disconnection.