William Bernhardt - Blind Justice

“No. I came to ask you a few questions.”

Reynolds looked at him expressionlessly. “Questions? Hmm.” Listening to Reynolds was like being stuck in traffic. “What…kind of questions?”

“I was curious why you went to Tony Lombardi’s apartment Monday night.”

Even given his slow-as-molasses delivery, Reynolds’s surprise was evident. “I—mmm.” He folded his arms across his chest, flashing his French cuffs, studded links, and Rolex watch.

“You’re not denying it, are you?”

“No. Why should I? I was just…surprised that you were aware of the fact. My wife suggested that something like this could happen. I should have listened to her; she’s the judge.”

Ben wondered how many times in the course of the average conversation Reynolds managed to mention that his wife sat on the Supreme Court. “You are aware that Mr. Lombardi was killed Monday night, aren’t you?”

“Oh yes.” Reynolds unfolded his arms and pressed a finger against his long, thin face. “But why does that concern you, Mr. Kincaid?”

“Didn’t Marjorie tell you? I’m representing your employee, Christina McCall.”

“I see.” Now that Reynolds had the key information, that Ben was handling one of those nasty criminal things, he was able to put Ben into perspective.

Ben glanced at the chairs surrounding a round conference table. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

“How inhospitable of me,” Reynolds said, without much conviction. “Please.” He gestured toward the table.

Reynolds apparently eschewed the traditional desk, with its hierarchal I’m-behind-the-desk, you’re-not implications. He favored the open forum feel of a large round table. How very modern of him, Ben mused. The table was bare, except for a stained glass-paneled lamp and an art deco clock. As he sat, Ben glanced at the feet of the mahogany chairs. He had read somewhere that clawed feet were the indicia of high-quality antique furniture. These chairs qualified.

“I see you’ve noticed the chairs,” Reynolds said. “They’re Chippendale, nineteenth century.” He sighed. “Many people think they’re Louis the Fourteenths, not that the two are at all alike. I much prefer these. French furniture is so…” He waved his hand limply in the air, then shrugged his shoulders. “Well, you know.”

Ben didn’t, but he wasn’t about to admit it. “Is that a Tiffany lamp?”

“Oh yes,” Reynolds said wearily. “Almost required, isn’t it? The clock is an Erte design. My wife commutes to Oklahoma City on a regular basis…when the Court is in session…and she always takes the opportunity to shop the antique dealers.”

That’s two, Ben thought. “Can you tell me what your relationship with Mr. Lombardi is?”

“Was, don’t you mean?”

“Was,” Ben corrected.

“I acted as his attorney.”

“I know you handled that automobile accident litigation. Did you draft his will?”

Reynolds nodded.

“Care to tell me what’s in it?”

“I’m afraid I can’t disclose that.”

“Not even a hint?”

“I can tell you this. I’m the executor of his estate.”

“That means you’ll be receiving all his financial and business records.”

“I already have them. I acted as his …business adviser in many respects. When he was alive.”

“What can you tell me about Lombardi’s business?”

“What…would you like to know?”

“Almost anything would be helpful. I understand he imported parrots?”

“Not exclusively parrots. Many exotic birds.”

“Doesn’t seem like much of a business.”

“How naïve of you. The retail bird business is worth $300 million in gross sales per year, with a sixty percent profit margin at every level. Tony did handsomely by it. There’s quite a demand for rare birds.”

“Did you ever see any of these alleged parrots?”

Reynolds stared at Ben as if he were utterly brainless. “Did you not notice?”

“Notice what?”

“My bird, of course. Behind you.”

Ben glanced over his shoulder. There were several more antiques in that corner of the office, but even more noticeable was the large blue-and-green parrot in a small cage.

“You have a parrot,” Ben said.

“Obviously. It was a gift from Tony. An Imperial Amazon. A. imperialis. The emperor of parrots. Very rare.” Reynolds almost smiled. “He said that nothing but the rarest of birds could possibly fit in my office.”

Ben took a closer look. The parrot’s head, neck, and abdomen were purplish blue; its crown feathers were dark green with black edges. Its tail was a deep reddish brown; the irises of its eyes were orange. The parrot was at least nineteen or twenty inches in length. “What’s his name?”

Reynolds’s eyes tossed about in their sockets. “It’s a her.”

“Okay, what’s her name?”

“I—” He sighed. “It was my wife’s idea. She insisted. She named her for a fellow member of the court. Polly.” He frowned.

“Polly?”

Reynolds appeared embarrassed. “I’m afraid so.”

Ben smiled, pleased by this breathtaking lack of creativity. “Does Polly speak?”

“Only when spoken to,” Reynolds answered. “The ideal pet.”

“ Make her say something.”

“I prefer not to. We don’t do tricks.”

“Just once?”

“Oh, very well.” He turned toward the parrot. “Polly, introduce me.”

The parrot spoke in a sharp nasal tone. “Quinn Reynolds,” it squawked. “Attorney-at-law.”

How unbearably egocentric. Reynolds had turned his pet into the doorman. “Does she ever get out of the cage?”

“Heavens, no.” Reynolds shuddered. “Letting a bird fly around the office. What a mess. You know, parrots, like all birds…” He cleared his throat. “Are incontinent.”

Lawyers learn the most fascinating things. “You never let her out of the cage?”

Reynolds shifted his weight. “If there’s nothing else, Mr. Kincaid, I have several legal matters that require my attention.…”

“Just one more question. What happened at Lombardi’s apartment Monday night?”

Reynolds shrugged listlessly. “Absolutely nothing. The doorman let me in; I rode the elevator to Tony’s apartment; I knocked on the door. After a few moments, I surmised that he was not in. So I left.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Why did you go?”

“I had a business matter to discuss.”

“What kind of business matter?”

“I’m afraid that’s confidential.”

“The police will ask you the same question.”

“Then I shall answer it,” Reynolds replied. “But you are not the police, are you?”

Ben felt his fists tighten. Reynolds’s air of passive serenity was making his skin crawl. “I’d like to look at Lombardi’s business records.”

“I’m afraid that is impossible.”

“Mr. Reynolds, it may be very important to Christina’s case.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“Mr. Reynolds, I have a responsibility to my client—”

“As do I, Mr. Kincaid.” For the first time, Reynolds’s voice increased minutely, both in volume and speed. “Those documents are strictly confidential. At least until we’ve completed probate. Then you may take the matter up with Tony’s heirs.”

“That could take months!”

“I’m afraid that will likely be the case. I’m sorry.”

His voice, Ben thought, gave little indication of either fear or sorrow. “Mr. Reynolds, think about Christina, your own legal assistant. This could be a matter of life or death for her.”

“Mr. Kincaid,” Reynolds said, “there’s nothing you can do to change my mind.”

“I can subpoena those records.”