William Bernhardt - Primary Justice

“Who’s the wacko?” Ben asked.

“Are you serious?” Christina said. “You don’t know?”

Ben shook his head. “I’m familiar with Tulsa’s standard repertory of revival preachers who shout about how AIDS is a plague of the pharaohs and so forth, but I’ve never encountered this particular Looney Tune before.”

Christina smiled enigmatically. “That’s Lance Caldwell.”

“Who’s Lance Caldwell?”

“Don’t you remember? He’s the guy who had your office. The last associate Raven, Tucker & Tubb assigned to Richard Derek.”

“You’re kidding! This guy is a lawyer?”

“Well, I don’t know if he paid his bar dues this year. But he used to be.”

Ben knocked himself on the side of the head. “I don’t understand.”

“You will, kiddo. Being an associate in a pressure cooker like Raven, Tucker & Tubb is bad enough. Trying to work with Richard Derek is lunacy. He’s broken better men than you.”

“Great. Dandy.”

Ben and Christina ordered burritos from a Mexican food cart, then sat down on a bench next to the fountain farthest from Lance Caldwell. While consuming their burritos, Ben told Christina about his meeting with Sanguine.

“So Sanguine gave you the brush-off?”

“That’s how it seemed to me. His private secretary was practically apologizing for his rudeness. Suggested that I try again when Sanguine wasn’t so busy.”

“Do you think Sanguine is involved in this somehow?” Christina asked. “Seems unlikely.”

“I don’t know if he’s involved or not. But I suspect he knows something he’s not telling. And I’d like another chance to talk to Tidwell. He seemed willing—almost eager—to talk.”

Ben wiped a bit of sauce from his mouth. “And why all the subterfuge about Adams’s office? I called Mike. He told me the police finished searching the office last week, and that they found nothing particularly helpful. So why wouldn’t Sanguine let me look at it? I’m not buying this business about letting the widow have first dibs.”

“The police were looking for clues to a murder. Maybe there’s something that doesn’t relate to murder, but that Sanguine still doesn’t want you to find.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” He pointed across the mall. “How about an ice cream?” he asked. “My treat.”

Christina’s eyelashes fluttered. “Ice cream is my raison d’être .”

They walked across the mall and stood in the short line. “So what’s your game plan, boss?”

“I don’t know. I want to help Mrs. Adams, but I don’t know what I can do. I’m stymied.” He purchased two ice-cream cones, and they returned to their seats by the fountain.

“Sounds to me like you need to take a look inside that office,” Christina mumbled. She was focusing on her rapidly melting dessert, trying to get more of it in her mouth and less of it on her hand.

“You know, it’s possible that Sanguine hasn’t had a chance to look through the place himself. The cops were already there before he found out about the murder. But when he gets back from Dallas tomorrow morning, I bet he remedies that.”

“Then you need to work fast,” Christina said.

Ben’s eyebrows raised. “Oh? And do what?”

“Break in, I suppose.”

“Are you kidding? What if I got caught? I could go to jail! Even if I got off, I’d almost certainly lose my bar license. My career would be over before it started.”

“Well, you know what I always say, Ben. Qué será será .”

Ben glared at her. “It’s out of the question.”

“Okay. Do you have any better ideas?”

Ben was silent for a moment. “No.”

“So the options are, basically, you either try to get into that office, or you just give up, right?”

“We should wait. We might get another lead.”

“Look, Ben,” Christina said. “If you’re right about Sanguine, and you wait until tomorrow, everything worth looking at in that office will be gone.”

Another long pause. “How would we get in?”

Christina shrugged. “Don’t look at me. They didn’t cover breaking and entering in my legal-assistant courses.”

Ben returned his attention to his ice cream. “This has got to violate the Rules of Professional Conduct,” he said, shaking his head.

“The rules say you have an obligation to zealously represent your client to the best of your ability,” Christina countered. “That’s all you’re doing.”

He swallowed the last of his ice cream silently.

“Don’t worry, mon ami ,” she said, giving him a mock punch on the arm. “I’ll be with you.”

Ben smiled thinly. “ Merci beaucoup .”

Ben had been pacing outside Greg’s office for about five minutes, but it seemed longer. Where the hell was he, anyway? Probably off putting the make on a secretary.

Didn’t he have work to do like everybody else? Ben shoved his hands into his pockets and waited.

After a few more moments, Greg emerged from the men’s room down the hallway. He greeted Ben in the hall and they walked into his office together. Ben shut the door behind them.

“A closed door meeting. Must be important.” Greg situated himself behind his desk and smiled. “What can I do for you, Kincaid?”

“I’ve come to consult.”

“Really? I’m flattered.”

“I have need of your expertise.”

“No kidding?” Greg’s eyebrows raised. “Oh, I see. You want to get laid.”

“No. Well, not at the moment. I’m talking about what you said the other night at the party.”

A puzzled expression crossed Greg’s face. “What I said at the party? You mean about your sweetheart Mona?”

“No.” Ben wiggled his fingers in the air. “ ‘These fingers can open any lock, crack any security system.’ Was that true, or were you just bullshitting?”

“Ben, I’m offended. I never bullshit. I was simply testifying as to wisdom gained from years spent as a social reprobate.”

“Good.” Ben pulled his chair closer to the desk. “We need to talk.”

13

BEN WAS SURPRISED WHEN Emily opened the door. He had assumed Bertha handled matters of hospitality, since Emily could hardly be expected to greet a visitor.

He and Christina stood on the porch staring at Emily. She didn’t seem scared of Ben, but she clearly did not recognize him.

“Hello, Emily,” he said. “I’m Ben Kincaid. Remember? We met at my office the other day. Nice to see you again. Is Mrs. Adams at home?”

Emily smiled, as if relieved that she needn’t confess she couldn’t identify him. She didn’t answer his question. She couldn’t.

Bertha Adams appeared in the doorway. She looked exhausted. “Hello,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry. I usually answer the door myself, but I was in the back bedroom napping. I’ve been so tired lately.”

“I understand,” Ben hurried to say. “Mrs. Adams, this is Christina McCall. She works with me.”

Bertha eyed the new woman uncertainly, a response Christina had told Ben to anticipate during the drive over. Bertha was of a generation of women that still had not come to expect, or trust, other women in professional positions.

They walked into the living room, furnished with a tasteful but inexpensive collection of unmatched items. The room was tidy but simple. Ben and Christina sat on a thin-cloth sofa upholstered with a familiar green floral pattern; Bertha sat in a fake leather recliner facing opposite. Emily sat at her feet.

“This is a surprise, Mr. Kincaid,” she said in an even tone. “I didn’t expect to see you before the hearing. If I’d known you wanted to speak to me, I’d have come to your office. There was no need for you to come here. I know you must be very busy.”