William Bernhardt - Blind Justice

Bingo. “And what happened after the plane landed?”

“The pilot and a man on a dirt bike met. They traded packages.”

“And what was in the packages?”

Instinctively, Wolf glanced down at his pocket. He caught himself, looked up quickly. “I don’t know.”

It was too late. “What’s in your pocket?” Ben asked.

“None of your business.”

Ben tilted his head. “Christina.”

Christina stood behind Wolf and held his arms while Ben searched his pocket.

“Hey, where’s your goddamn warrant?” Wolf squirmed beneath her grasp.

“Sorry,” Ben said. “We’re not cops. Far from it.” He removed a small glassy package from Wolf’s torn jeans and shone the beam of the flashlight on it. The white powder twinkled in the light.

“Holy smokes,” Christina said. “Is that what I think it is?”

“I don’t know,” Ben replied.

“Well, taste it.”

“Taste it? How would I know what cocaine tastes like?”

“You used to work for the D.A., didn’t you?”

“Oh yeah. And on the first day of work he used to line us all up and make us taste cocaine. Give me a break.” He placed the powder in his pocket for future examination. “Wolf, had you ever seen a rendezvous in the clearing before?”

“No. But two Mondays before, I heard a strange noise. I was too far away to follow it, but I think that was the plane coming in for a landing.”

“That jibes with what Burris told me. Shipments every other Monday.” Ben grasped Wolf by the shoulders. “Wolf, do you think you would recognize these men if you saw them again?”

“It was very dark. But my eyes are like Katar, the hawk’s. I would recognize them.”

“Christina, if we can learn who was running the drugs, we can prove you weren’t involved. And maybe find out who the murderer was in the process. Wolf, can you show us this clearing you mentioned?”

Wolf folded his arms across his chest. “What’s in it for me?”

Ben pulled two twenty dollar bills out of his wallet. “This would buy a lot of birdseed. Maybe some first aid supplies, too.”

Wolf snatched the bills out of his hand. “Let’s go.”

He led them out of the shack, careful to rechain the bicycle lock behind him. They had gone only a few hundred yards before Ben clamped down on Christina and Wolf’s shoulders. “Shhh!”

“Not again!” Christina said. “Are you still hearing things?”

“Yes. Behind us.”

“That’s what you said before.”

“Yeah, and as it turns out, Wolf was following us. But since he’s right here at the moment, who’s following us now?”

Ben and Christina looked at one another, then out into the black forest. They spread their flashlight beams in a wide arc, but saw nothing.

The now familiar shiver crept up Ben’s spine, then spread throughout his entire body. Was he losing his grip? Or was someone following them? The same person who followed them from the jailhouse, perhaps, or who ransacked Christina’s apartment. And if so, what did he want now?

“Do you want to see the clearing or not?” Wolf asked impatiently.

“We do,” Ben said. He turned his eyes to the path ahead and followed Wolf through the forest.

But he kept his ears focused behind him.

21

BEN DROVE UP THE curved driveway of Margot Lombardi’s home in the South Livingston Park neighborhood near Southern Hills. Her house was French Provincial, painted white brick with a blue canopy over the front door. The flower beds were blooming with bright red tulips.

The glass front door was slightly ajar. Ben knocked.

A voice emerged from inside. “Please come in.”

He pushed through the door. Although none of the foyer furnishings were Reynoldsesque showstoppers, they were attractive—delicate, tidy, and tasteful. He found Mrs. Lombardi in a sunken living room on a striped fabric sofa. She was wearing a long dark skirt that reflected her shoulder-length black hair and dark sad eyes. They introduced themselves.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Ben said.

“You’re the lawyer?” Her voice was like crystal—thin and fragile.

“That’s right. Ben Kincaid.”

“You seem young for a lawyer. Forgive me, but do you have a business card?”

“I’m sorry, no. I don’t use them. They give me the heebie-jeebies.”

Margot arched one thinly penciled eyebrow. “You’re afraid of business cards?”

“It’s a long story. Do you mind if I sit down?”

She motioned toward a chair separated from the sofa by a cherry wood coffee table. Margot was tall and extremely slender. Possibly less than a hundred pounds. She seemed to favor loose-fitting, billowy clothes, probably because they gave her an imagined fullness nature didn’t provide.

Ben passed his Oklahoma driver’s license across the table, careful not to disturb any of the ornamental knickknacks and figurines. He had the feeling that if he breathed too hard the entire room would shatter and dissolve. Including the hostess.

She examined the license briefly. “Forgive me for being overcautious. I find I must restrict with whom I speak. Recent events are bad enough without fanning the flames of gossip.”

She passed the license back. Ben noticed her fingernails were chewed to the quick. “First of all,” Ben said, “let me convey my sincere condolences regarding your husband’s death.”

She waved her hand in a get-on-with-it motion.

“I’m following up several leads relating to your husband and his business.”

“Frankly, I was never very knowledgeable about Tony’s business,” she said. “The FBI would know more. I understand they’re investigating his holdings, hoping to seize our property under some federal foreclosure laws.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“It seems it’s not enough that I be widowed. I must be penniless as well.” Frown lines outlined her mouth. “But if I can help you, I will.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

“I just want to see that Tony’s killer is caught. And I’m not at all convinced your client was the culprit.”

Now that was a refreshing point of view. “Why do you say that?”

“She seems more a victim of circumstance than anything. Tony had a habit of turning the people in his life info victims.”

Ben took a small, notepad out of his pocket. “What exactly did your husband do?”

“He imported parrots. Found them in South America, brought them to the United States for sale to pet shops, collectors, zoos. As of late, he’d been using an Albert DeCarlo shell corporation as distributor.”

“And how was that working out?”

“Horribly. I’m not privy to the details, but I know Tony considered linking with DeCarlo the worst mistake he’d ever made.”

“Why did he do it?”

“It was DeCarlo’s idea. He came to Tony. For some reason, he was very interested in Tony’s business. Said it could be the basis for a profitable partnership. And as it turned out, he was right.”

“Tony was making large sums of money?”

“More than he’d ever imagined. Tony told me it was due to the increased penetration of DeCarlo’s distribution network, but of course, one couldn’t help but wonder…” She brushed her hand against her face. “Tony obtained no pleasure from the arrangement, profitable or not. He was scared to death.”

“Scared?”

“One morning I came downstairs and found Tony crying in his Rice Krispies. Out-and-out bawling like a baby. He told me something someone had told him. He said, ‘Once you’re in the mob, you’re in for life.’ ”

The mob credo. Ben wondered what Lombardi had done—or attempted—that had brought that down on his head.

“I asked him for details, but he refused. Insisted it could be dangerous to talk. Both for him and me.”