William Bernhardt - Blind Justice

“Given what we know, there’s only one person who had a realistic opportunity to violate the vino. Lombardi. He could get the drug easily enough from DeCarlo, or perhaps Lennie, and of course he had access to his own booze. But why would he do such a thing? Obviously, because he knew Christina would drink it when she came over that night. In fact, he invited her to do just that when he left the message asking her to come to his apartment. And that deduction leads to the big question. Why did he want to drug Christina?”

“And the answer is?”

“He was planning to let Christina take the fall for him. As we’ve established, even before Stanford called to blackmail him, Lombardi knew the FBI was closing in. Whether the FBI ever proves it or not, I’ve no doubt Lombardi was using his parrot operation to run drugs, especially after he started doing business with DeCarlo. And now he knew they were on to him. He panicked. He had to think of some scheme to prevent himself from going to prison. He was still expecting a big drug shipment. DeCarlo probably got wind of the FBI investigation and called it off, but Lombardi didn’t know that. So he planned to leave Christina in his apartment that night, sound asleep with a large stash of cocaine, while he was somewhere miles away with an unbreakable alibi. He thought the FBI would come charging in, as in fact they did, and they’d find her with all the illegal narcotics.

“Lombardi’s theory was, let Christina fill the FBI quota; at the very least, it would temporarily take some of the heat off him. The fact that she was in his apartment might be somewhat incriminating, but there would be no hard evidence against him—since Christina didn’t know anything about his drug-running activities. She’d just plead innocence, and no one would believe her, and she’d be put away for a long haul. And if he got lucky, the FBI would call their investigation a success and close it down before they got to him.”

Ben nodded. “But something went wrong.”

“Yeah. Stanford. After Lombardi’s telephone conversations with him, he knew it was hopeless; he couldn’t divert suspicion from himself just by planting the drugs on someone else. Christina had already drunk the rosé; it was too late to stop that part of the plan. But it was not too late to save himself from his worst nightmare—a long stretch in prison and the wrath of Albert DeCarlo. So he killed himself.”

Ben tried to roll over onto his side, but the pressure on his sore arm was too great. “I remember what Margot said when she was testifying. Something like, ‘I don’t know why Lombardi wanted Christina around, but it wasn’t for the reason everyone assumes.’ I thought that was chilling at the time. Now I realize it was chillingly true.”

“Which brings us back to my original question. Are you going to tell Christina?”

“She may have already figured it out,” Ben said. “And if not, well…I think she’s been through enough pain and disappointment these past few weeks.”

“I concur.” Mike started out the door, then stopped, as if something were holding him back.

“Ben,” he said, after a long moment.

“Yeah?”

“I just wanted…well…to discuss the way I’ve been behaving—”

“You were on the other side, Mike. I understand.”

“Let me finish, will you?” He walked closer to Ben and leaned against the examining table. “When I took this job, I swore an oath.”

“I know. To defend the United States and the Constitution, etc.”

“More than that. To obey the rules and procedures of the state and federal law enforcement agencies. To be a good cop. To play it by the book. And that meant something to me, Ben. It really did.” He exhaled slowly. “Well, I’ve learned something from all this.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve learned that by the book isn’t good enough anymore.” His eyes became hooded. “That following the rules isn’t always sufficient. Oh, I’m not talking about becoming a vigilante or anything: I’m just saying…I think sometimes we hide behind our professionalism, our badges, our licenses, our procedures—”

“Our Rules of Professional Conduct,” Ben added.

“Yeah. May be. We hide behind those things because they protect us from moral debate, from the really tough questions. It’s easier to read a rule than to consider individual cases—specific people in specific situations.

“But that’s wrong,” Mike said firmly. “People are more important than rules. I won’t make that mistake again.” He half smiled. “You think you can forgive me?”

“Mike, pals are for thick and thin—no matter what happens. That’s why they’re called pals.”

Mike clasped Ben’s arm firmly. “Thanks, pal.”

“Don’t mention it. Incidentally, pal, you’re hurting my arm.”

44

BEN SLIPPED INTO THE Oneok Building at about 7:45 and rode the elevator to the tenth floor. He might be slow, but he wasn’t stupid; if the security guard didn’t take names until eight, the intelligent burglar slipped in just before. He ducked into the bathroom, hid in a stall and read back issues of Stereo Review for two hours. He had a story planned out in the event someone came in to clean the bathroom, but the contingency never arose.

At eleven o’clock, when he was reasonably certain everyone was gone, Ben slipped out of the men’s room and crossed the hallway to Swayze & Reynolds. Keeping an eye out for security, he used his copied key to open the front door. He passed through the ornate lobby and into Reynolds’s office.

He found Polly in her usual place, trapped in a cage much too small, barely alive. Her coat had lost its sheen; the colors of her wings and the brightness of her eyes had faded. Worst of all, the pile of feathers at the bottom of the cage had doubled in size. Ben could see exposed patches of flesh where the feathers had been yanked out.

As quietly as possible, Ben removed the cage from the stand and carried it out of the office. He rode the elevator to the ground floor.

He stopped at the security guard’s station. “I’ve got a medical emergency,” he said. “This parrot’s dying.”

The security guard scrutinized him with evident suspicion.

“I was working in Reynolds’s office,” Ben added, “when she started croaking.”

“Working this late?” the guard asked.

“Of course. Why else would I be up there? Look, if Mr. Reynolds’s prize parrot dies, he is not going to be happy.”

The guard shrugged. “So what do you want me to do, call an ambulance or something?”

“Never mind,” Ben said. “I’ve got a car.” He brushed past the guard and walked out onto the street.

Whew! Managed to bluff his way through that one. Reynolds, of course, would be furious the next morning when he found his parrot missing. Even if he thought to ask the night security guard, though, Ben didn’t think the guy could describe him well enough for Reynolds to make an ID. And if he did, that was fine, too. Ben would sic Clayton Langdell and his entire organization on Reynolds. Maybe the ASPCA and a few others, too, just for good measure.

Ben crossed the street and walked about halfway down Fifth Street. After a few seconds, he heard the low plaintive wail of a hoot owl. He walked toward the sound.

“Pssst.” Ben followed the voice into a side alley.

In the soft moonlight,, he could just make out Wolf’s face. He looked good; his appearance had improved a hundred percent since he had been released from St. John’s. His right arm, the one that caught the first bullet, was still in a sling, but otherwise he almost seemed like his former self.

“Here,” Ben said, passing him the cage. “Take care of her.”