William Bernhardt - Blind Justice

“Feather-plucking. Clayton Langdell was telling me about it.”

“Clayton Langdell is…something of an extremist,” Reynolds said, in his slow, pained manner.

“Maybe so, but he knows his parrots. Feather-plucking is an abnormal behavior pattern—the parrot goes crazy and starts mutilating itself.”

“That hardly seems likely.”

“That’s exactly what’s happening. You’ve got to set this bird free. Or turn her over to someone trained to care for birds.”

“Mr. Kincaid. Do you have any idea how valuable that bird is?”

“I don’t really care. This isn’t Waterford crystal you’ve got locked up there. It’s a living creature. A fellow animal.”

Reynolds seemed vaguely amused. “Have you been spending an inordinate quantity of time with Mr. Langdell?”

“I’ve been reading his brochures.”

“That explains a great deal. Now, were there any legal matters you wished to discuss, or are you simply here to admire my parrot?”

“I’ve come to renew my request that you permit me to examine Lombardi’s financial records.”

“Really, Mr. Kincaid.”

“Hear me out. I know you don’t have to comply. But I’m hoping you will anyway. I need to learn more about Lombardi’s business, especially his dealings with Albert DeCarlo. Those financial records may be the first step toward discovering who’s behind Lombardi’s murder. I can’t believe you’re so heartless you’d let your former employee be executed just to keep a dead client’s confidences.”

“My position is not changed by your hyperbole, Mr. Kincaid. What if you in turn provided the documents to the FBI, and they used them to seize the assets that rightfully belong to Margot Lombardi? I simply can’t risk it. And may I also say I resent your turning my compliance with established rules of ethics into a vast moral indictment.”

“Mr. Reynolds, you are somewhat responsible for Christina’s plight. And so far, your only contribution has been firing her. Here’s your chance to help.”

“You’re wasting your time, Mr. Kincaid.”

“What’s in those records that you don’t want revealed?”

“I don’t understand you.”

“You’re not a stupid man, Reynolds. And I can’t believe you’re devoid of human kindness, much as you might pretend to be. Therefore, I have to assume there’s information in those records you don’t want me to see.”

“Assume what you like. However, if you do your assuming anywhere outside this office, you may find yourself in a court of law. Not as a counselor, but as a defendant.”

“At least allow me to see the documents in probate. The will, any prior wills, the property assignments. Let me see who else might’ve had a motive to kill Lombardi.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Those documents are going to be public eventually.”

“All the better for you. Perhaps you should move for a continuance.”

“I already have. Several times. The motions were denied. I need those documents now. ”

“I am sorry.”

“Are you a beneficiary of Lombardi’s will?”

Reynolds stared at Ben as if his parents simply had to be first cousins. “As you should know, if I were a beneficiary, I couldn’t act as executor.”

“Did Lombardi create any charitable trusts? And appoint you as trustee?”

Reynolds stuttered for a moment. “I—he—”

“Yeah. I get it now. You’re going to be the chairman of the Lombardi Memorial Fund for Widows and Orphans.”

Reynolds wasn’t pleased, but he wasn’t denying, either.

“You must be looking forward to playing J. P. Morgan—doling out money to charitable groups as the whim strikes you. If they please your delicate sensibilities. If the fund is well endowed, this could make you almost as important as your wife.”

“I think you should leave now, Mr. Kincaid.”

No way. “Funny thing is, nothing I’ve heard about Lombardi suggests that he was the charitable type. I wonder if maybe you cooked up this trust yourself, then shredded all the prior wills and underlying documents to cover your trail. That would explain why you’re refusing to cooperate. If I scrutinized the records too carefully, I just might figure out what you’ve done.”

Reynolds rose to his feet. “Go.”

“When I see the documents.”

Reynolds walked to the credenza on the north wall. “Do you see this drawer, Mr. Kincaid? It is filled with the documents you so strongly desire. All the information you need to know. I’ll tell you something else, too. The documents are loaded with information you would love to have. The references to Albert DeCarlo are legion.”

His voice rose. “And do you know what else, Mr. Kincaid? You will never see these documents. Absolutely never !”

He pointed toward the door. “Now leave, before I call the security guards.”

Ben stomped out of the office, smiling at Marjorie on his way through the lobby. All right, he thought. Have it your way. I’ll go.

But I’ll be back.

26

“OF ALL YOUR LAME ideas, this is the lamest!”

Christina sat on the sofa in Ben’s office, stuffing a large pillow under her oversized blouse. “It is not lame! It could work!”

“Or it could get us both thrown in prison.”

“You supplied the idea,” Christina insisted. “All I did was analyze it and figure out how we’re going to get what we need: c’est à dire , Reynolds’s files.” She shoved the bulk of the pillow into the top part of the pillowcase, twisted the tail tight, and tucked it into her slacks. “You told me where the records are. And that Marjorie opens the office each morning and locks up at night. And most importantly, you told me she goes to a Lamaze class. All I did was come up with a plan for infiltration.”

“And a brilliant plan it is, too. Sets up our insanity defense nicely.” Ben paced back and forth. Since the office was only about fourteen by fourteen, he did as much turning as pacing.

“I wish I had a key to the office,” Christina said, “but I don’t. I never did. Only Reynolds and the receptionist do.”

“Are you certain her class is at St. Francis?” Ben asked.

“ Oui. Besides, why would she go anywhere else? It’s just down the road from the office.”

Ben continued pacing and pondering. “Even if we do this, how will we get the records?”

“I can’t think of everything, Ben. Let’s just get in there, cuddle up to this woman, and see what happens.” She fixed the pillow into place with masking tape. “We’ll play it by ear.”

“But won’t Marjorie know you?”

“Nope. She started working at Swayze & Reynolds the day I was fired. I’ve barely even seen the woman.”

“I can’t believe you’re resorting to that old pillow-under-the-shirt gag. You’re not going to fool anyone.”

“Just give me another minute.” She adjusted the pillow, fluffed things up a bit, applied more tape, men let her blouse fall over the whole. “What do you think?”

Ben reconsidered. To tell the truth, she looked pregnant. “You’ll make a lovely mother one day, Christina.”

“Not at the rate I ‘m going. Help me with this scarf.”

Christina rolled up her hair while Ben pulled the dark scarf over her head. “I’m going to add some thick makeup, too,” she said. “Just to change my general look. Probably no one would recognize me anyway, but you never know. The Drug Princess has been in the papers lately.”

“Christina, I have serious misgivings about this. We could jeopardize your whole case.”

Christina didn’t answer. She opened her compact, studied her face in the mirror, and busied herself with her disguise.