William Bernhardt - Blind Justice

“Wrong,” Ben said. “Lombardi identified you in his suicide note. By name.”

It started before Ben knew what was happening. Stanford threw himself across the table. He hit Ben mid-chest, tipping him backward. His chair crashed down on the floor, dropping Ben and Stanford with a thud.

Ben felt the impact of Stanford’s elbows jabbing into his ribs. He tried to pull away, but Stanford was squarely on top of him. Stanford raised his fist and brought it down hard. It caught Ben on the side of his face, jarring his teeth together, making him bite his tongue. A sickening queasiness spread through his body.

Stanford raised his fist again. Before he connected, Ben shoved him backward as hard as he could. Stanford teetered, just enough to allow Ben to squirm out from under him. Ben rolled under the table and scrambled out the other side. Stanford leaped over the table and positioned himself between Ben and the door, blocking his exit.

“Help!” Ben shouted. “Somebody get in here!”

Stanford smiled malevolently. “That’s the down side of working after hours. You’re on your own, Kincaid.”

Ben grabbed a chair and held it between them like a lion tamer.

“That’s pathetic,” Stanford said. He jabbed his thumb against his chest. “I’m FBI, man. I’m a trained killer. Do you really think you’re going to stop me with a chair?”

He knocked the chair away with a single swipe of his arm. Ben’s wrists twisted painfully; he had to drop it. As soon as the chair fell, Stanford tackled him, knocking him to the floor. In the space of a second, Ben tried to remember something Christina had told him once: use your hands to break the fall, roll on your arms, don’t hurt your back. He tried to cushion his fall, but after he landed, Stanford fell on of him, crushing the breath from his lungs. He felt sick, disoriented; his vision was obscured by flashing white lights.

For a moment, the pressure eased. Ben gasped, trying to catch his breath. Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in his side. He opened his eyes, tried to focus. Stanford was standing over him, kicking him in the ribs.

“Take this, you sorry bleeding-heart sack of shit. Christ, even Lennie put up more of a fight.” He pulled his boot back and kicked Ben again, this time even harder.

Ben cried out in pain. He felt something inside his chest snap. His ribs felt as if they were on fire.

He clutched his side, but it didn’t help. He was breathing rapidly; he couldn’t catch his breath. He could taste blood trickling into his mouth. Another moment passed, then he felt the boot slam into his ribs again, in the same soft spot as before.

Ben screamed in agony. The pain was excruciating, blinding. He tried to move, to think, to do something—but he couldn’t. He was absolutely helpless. Tears flooded his eyes. He saw a blurred image of Stanford, pulling his foot back for another killing blow.

Then he heard a blessed sound outside the door. “What the hell?”

It was Mike. Ben had a vague impression of Mike running down the hallway and throwing himself against Stanford. They began to struggle.

Ben clenched his teeth and tried to push himself up. He pressed against Mike’s desk, pulling himself up the side by inches.

Stanford and Mike rolled on the floor, exchanging blows. Ben saw several sharp punches fall into Mike’s stomach, then several more into Mike’s jaw. Mike pushed Stanford back, and they both went careening into the wooden coat rack. The rack tumbled over, spilling Mike’s suit jacket, his overcoat…and his gun holster, gun intact.

Stanford and Mike both saw it at the same time. Mike reached out, but Stanford jabbed him in the solar plexus. Mike winced, retracted involuntarily. Stanford got the gun.

Stanford pulled himself onto his knees, pointing the gun at Mike’s heart. “Thought you could take me, huh?” Stanford said, breathing heavily. “Thought you were going to nail me to your self-righteous cross. Well, think again.” He stretched out his arm and aimed. Mike closed his eyes.

Ben grabbed the book on Mike’s desk and slammed it against the side of Stanford’s head. Before Stanford could regain his balance, Ben hit him again, this time in his face. Mike sprang forward and grabbed Stanford’s wrist, pounding it against the desk, loosening his grip on the gun. Mike kicked the gun away, then brought his fist directly into Stanford’s face. Stanford fell backward onto the carpet, unconscious.

Mike slowly pulled himself to his feet. A steady flow of blood trickled from the side of his mouth. “What the hell did you hit him with?”

Ben looked. “ The Complete Works of William Shakespeare ,” he said, gasping.

“Another triumph for the Bard,” Mike announced jubilantly.

It was the last sound Ben heard before he passed out.

43

“OWW!” BEN CRIED. “BE careful!”

The nurse frowned and plunged ahead, winding the stiff tape around Ben’s rib cage. Clearly, she had no patience for wimps.

“Where did this woman take her training?” Ben asked Mike. “Belsen-Belsen?”

“Yeah, that’s where we get all our nurses. Helps prepare them for life with the force.”

“No doubt. Ouch !”

The nurse wound the tape around Ben’s chest a final time, then cut it off with a small pair of scissors. “There,” she said. “You’ll be fine.”

“Really?” Ben rubbed his sore arm, the one on the side Stanford had kicked repeatedly. “I guess that explains why I feel like I’ve been hit by a tank.”

“Just take the medicine the doctor prescribed,” she said brusquely. “The cracks are small. You’ll heal.” She turned and left the infirmary.

“A doting mother,” Ben murmured.

“She works the police department and both jailhouses,” Mike said. “She has to be tough.”

“I suppose. How are you feeling?”

“All. right. I can’t believe I let that goddamn old white shirt get the drop on me.”

“Don’t keep riding yourself. He was desperate.”

Mike shook his head in self-disgust. “I just lay there like a pansy while Stanford tried out his recipe for face pudding.”

“I thought you handled yourself okay. At least you didn’t get totally walloped, like yours truly.”

“Yeah, well. Things could be worse.”

“Now you’re doing it! Everyone keeps telling me that, but somehow, I’ve yet to be convinced.”

“What the hell did you say to Stanford, anyway? To get him so rattled?”

“I told him we had the goods on him. Described his entire scheme. And I mentioned that Lombardi had identified him by name in his suicide note.”

“But Lombardi didn’t identify Stanford in his suicide note. He didn’t identify anyone.”

Ben looked away. “Gosh, I guess I misspoke myself.”

“You sly dog, you. You set him up.”

“The least I could do. Considering what he did to Christina.”

“Understood. By the by, Ben Kincaid, consulting detective, I have one final question, Something that occurred to me while I was running around like an idiot.”

“Okay. What’s your question?”

“Are you going to tell her?”

Ben laid back on the examining table, taking some of the pressure off his bruised and aching ribs. “Care to explain that?”

“Surely you’re not going to make me outline the entire line of reasoning.”

“Well, I’ve always wondered if you’re really any good at this detective stuff. Now’s my chance to find out.”

“All right. It goes like this. It occurred to me, that between what you’d told me, what we found out, and what we’d deduced, there was still one detail unexplained.”

“Which was?”

“Who drugged Christina? I’m assuming she was drugged. There’s just no other explanation for the fact that she dozed through four rounds of a gun with no silencer.” He took his pipe out of his pocket, blissfully ignoring the sign on the wall that thanked him for not smoking. “The rosé she drank must have been doctored. But by whom? And why?