William Bernhardt - Primary Justice

Poor woman, Ben thought. She’s embarrassed about the shabby state of her home. Maybe I should have telephoned first.

“Call me Ben, please,” he said. It seemed stupid, but he felt they should be on a first-name basis.

“Ben, then,” she murmured.

“I’ll be very brief, ma’am,” Ben continued. “I have a couple of additional questions, and then, well, kind of a strange request.”

He paused, trying to choose the right words. “First, in light of, well, what’s happened …” He immediately regretted starting the sentence he hadn’t the courage to complete. Imbecile. He could see the tears welling in her eyes. “I’m sure the police asked you already, but do you know of anything that would make someone want—” He stopped.

The woman said nothing. Ben wiped his brow. “Was anything … out of the ordinary happening between your husband and Joseph Sanguine?”

Bertha raised her head a bit but remained silent.

“Mrs. Adams,” Christina said, “we should remind you that Ben is your attorney. Everything you tell us is confidential. Every court in the country will honor that privilege. We only ask for information because we think we can help you.”

Bertha seemed to be searching for an assurance she could not find. Finally, she said, almost in a whisper, “There was something going on, I believe, but I honestly don’t know what. Jonathan never talked about his work. But during his last month or so, he was very excited about something. He started getting phone calls at odd hours and spending lots of late nights at the office. I think it had something to do with Sanguine. We …” She searched for the right words. “We weren’t always pleased with Joseph Sanguine. He made several promises to Jonathan that he didn’t keep.” Her eyes darted down to her lap.

Ben could see there was no point in pushing her for details. She was good for one, maybe two more questions, so he had to choose judiciously. Maybe later, after she’d had more time to heal, he could try again.

“Do you know any reason why Sanguine might not want me to look through your husband’s office?”

Bertha looked up, then quickly away. “No,” she said. “I don’t know what the reason would be.”

But you don’t deny that it’s possible, either, Ben noted. He decided to cut to the quick. “Bertha, Lieutenant Morelli of the homicide department tells me they returned the few personal belongings found on your husband’s body.”

“Yes.”

His eyes connected with hers. “Could I borrow your husband’s keychain?”

Don’t ask, Ben thought. Just don’t ask.

She didn’t. “I’ll get it.”

She walked into one of the inner rooms, then returned holding a chain filled to capacity with keys of various shapes and sizes.

“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll return these as soon as I can.”

The woman nodded. Christina and Ben rose.

“Leaving so soon?” Emily asked. “We could play pat-a-cake.”

“Not today,” Ben said, smiling at her. “But later. I promise.”

He rubbed the top of her head affectionately. He felt compelled to be nice to her. Foolish, he thought. I’m trying to make a favorable impression, but the minute the door closes behind me, she won’t even remember that she’s met me before.

Ben stopped at the door. “I’m going to do everything I can for you, Mrs. Adams. You and Emily. Really.”

Bertha nodded slightly, then turned away.

Ben and Christina let themselves out.

14

“HOW MUCH LONGER?” CHRISTINA whispered. “It’s as dark as it’s ever going to get.”

Ben glanced at his watch. It was still a few minutes before midnight. He stared out the window of his car at the tall glassy office building across the street. As long as they stayed in the car, they couldn’t be arrested for anything. But as soon as they stepped out …

“Talk me out of this, Christina.”

“No way, boss. It’s for a good cause. Remember the Alamo.”

Ben nodded nervously. They had been sitting in Ben’s Honda Accord for over an hour. As far as they could tell, there was but a single security officer watching the place, and he alternated between prowling through the building and prowling around the grounds. The man moved in cycles of about twenty-five minutes inside, twenty-five minutes outside, and so forth. About half the outside cycle was spent in the wooded area behind the building.

As near as Ben could tell through his binoculars, the security guard plodded through his routine like a sleepwalking zombie. That was fortunate. He also appeared to be an older man. That, too, was fortunate. Alas, he was making his rounds with a Doberman. That was unfortunate.

They had their routine planned in detail. Obviously, they needed to pass quietly through the front door while the security officer and his dog were in the back. Then they could search Adams’s office freely for about twelve minutes or so until the man came back inside. They’d hide while he made his cursory indoor sweep and leave when he returned to the wooded area in the back. They could be in and out in under an hour. It should work. Really, it should, Ben kept telling himself.

“We’ll enter as soon as the guard comes outside and goes to the back. Be ready. We won’t have a lot of time to mess around.”

“Aye, aye, Cap’n,” Christina answered.

Ben examined and reexamined the twenty-odd keys on Adams’s keychain. Based on their varying sizes, shapes, and logos, he had selected five that appeared to be keys that might open the front office doors. Assuming Adams had a key to the front door.

That left the question of an alarm. There were three small keys on the ring of the sort that Greg said usually controlled alarm systems. Or opened suitcases. Or briefcases. Or diaries. Ben wiped his brow. He felt extremely warm.

“Have you ever done anything like this?” Ben asked, eyes glued to the building.

“Nope. You?”

“Not really. I mean, when I was with the D.A., I went on a few police stakeouts, but that was different. Then I knew where the police were. They were right in front of me. On my side.”

“Yeah,” Christina said. “Well, try to relax. You look tense.”

“Imagine that.”

“Concentrate on something else.”

Ben continued to stare at the office building.

“How did a nice guy like you ever get into law?” Christina asked.

“Well, what I really wanted to do was pitch for the Cardinals, but I kept breaking training.”

“Ahh,” Christina replied, “an athlete.”

Ben laughed. “Hardly. I was the most miserable athlete that ever was. Voted Least Valuable Player year after year.” He glanced away from the building. “Some of my most miserable childhood memories revolve around my pathetic efforts to curry favor by going out for sports. Only thing I could play at all was baseball, and that only barely.”

“Mom wanted her son to be a jock, huh?”

“Mom didn’t care. It was—” He stopped short. “But that’s another story.”

He shifted in his seat. “I remember playing Little League when I was in grade school. They played me at second base—you don’t need a great arm, and the ball doesn’t come your way that often. We had this one coach, a short, skinny psychopath named Shedd. God forbid, he must’ve been some poor kid’s father. He used to throw baseballs at us if he didn’t think we were hustling enough.”

Christina giggled softly.

“Shedd was bad news in the locker room, too. ‘Hey, look everybody, Kincaid’s gonna do a strip show for us.’ Cripes, what a jerk. Used to give holy hell to this inept little Jewish kid—only guy on the team worse than me. He couldn’t control his bladder—always used to wet his pants during practice. ‘Get a load of Litvack,’ Shedd would say. ‘The widdle baby wet his pants again. Awww!’ ” Ben shook his head. “Man, I hated that bastard.”