William Bernhardt - Primary Justice

“Come on, honey,” Derek said. “You’re making a scene. Don’t get upset.” He reached out toward her.

“Don’t tell me not to get upset!” she said, slapping his hands away. “I have every right to get upset!” She took a giant step backward, which brought her to the edge of the shallow end of the pool.

“Get her away from the pool,” Ben said, not loudly enough. “Someone needs to get her away from the pool, before this tragedy turns to farce.”

“I want you out of the house!” Louise continued screaming. “I want you, and all your belongings, and every filthy microbe of your being out of my house!”

“Honey, be reasonable.” Again Derek reached out to her.

She swung wildly at his arms, missed, and slipped. She waved her arms in desperate circles, trying to regain her balance, but it was too late. With a loud shriek, she plummeted into the shallow end of the pool.

Ben hoped Derek would at least have the decorum not to laugh. He was seriously overestimating Derek’s powers of self-control. Derek virtually exploded with glee. “It’s too rich!” he said, between drunken laughs. “Too perfect.”

“Well, that’s the limit,” Mona muttered. She threw down her purse, stomped over to the swimming pool, and, with a single shove, pushed Derek into the pool. He screamed, then started splashing wildly.

Ben noticed several people looking anxiously toward the front gate. The show was over, he supposed, all but the mopping up of the blood. He decided it would be a good time to join the exodus.

As he headed toward his car, he saw a shadowy figure standing in the street, pacing back and forth beside the curb.

“Ben?” the figure asked. It was Brancusci.

“What are you doing here?” Ben asked.

“Looking for you. Your office told me where you were. Eventually. What a snotty secretary you have.” He stepped into the beam of the streetlight. “I’ve got all the papers you wanted together. They’re at my apartment now.”

Ben sighed. It had been an exhausting day. He couldn’t possibly focus on financial reports tonight. “I think tomorrow morning will be soon enough.”

Brancusci’s brow creased. “I thought you said you were in a hurry? Besides, it isn’t just the financials. I figured out who—” He froze in the middle of the sentence.

“What? What is it?”

“My God,” Brancusci said, almost imperceptibly. “I didn’t know he’d be here.”

Ben turned and saw Mona walking out with a tall, good-looking fellow with a mustache. He realized it was Marianne’s date, the notorious C. Kevin. Poor Marianne—evidently, he wasn’t as professional as she thought. Or maybe he was.

“Did he see me?” Brancusci whispered. He ducked behind one of the cars parked on the street.

“Did who see you?” Ben asked. “C. Kevin?”

More people were coming through the gate. Brancusci began skittering away.

“Call me tomorrow,” Brancusci whispered. He disappeared into the darkness.

The guests were dispersing. After a few moments, Derek and his wife emerged from the front of the house. Ben ducked into his Honda.

Derek had both arms around his wife’s shoulders. He was patting her dry with a bath towel. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” Ben heard him say, in a soft, purring tone. “I’ll try to be better. Let’s get you to the hospital and see about that nasty bump on your head.” He opened the passenger door of the Jaguar parked in the driveway, and she stepped inside. Derek crawled behind the wheel and drove the car down the street.

What an incredible night, Ben thought, driving away. His headlights flashed on the front porch, and Ben saw someone standing in a dark corner beside the door. He looked in his rearview mirror. He couldn’t see anyone. A trick of the light? If not, how long had the person been there? Is that who Brancusci saw?

He turned his car around and flashed his brights on the front of the house. There was no one there, now.

Ben made a U-turn and headed home. He rolled up the car window, trying to shake off a distinct chill.

PART THREE

If Bees Are Few

33

“SUCCESS!” CHRISTINA ANNOUNCED. SHE held her yellow legal pad over her head triumphantly. “We’re lucky the entry on that ledger was for such an odd amount. If it had been an even four or five hundred, I’d have a thousand possible locations for you. As it is, I have one.”

“One what?” Ben asked, looking up from the brief he was writing.

“One apartment. Well, two floors of an apartment complex, to be exact. The Malador Apartments, the tall round building just south of downtown. They have three sizes of apartments—efficiencies, one-bedrooms, and two-bedrooms. And the monthly rent for a one-bedroom apartment is—yes, you guessed it— exactly four hundred and seventeen dollars and forty-six cents, tax and bills included.”

“Incredible!” Ben said. “You’re a gem and a half, Christina.”

“Well, yes,” she said, fluttering her eyelids.

“I suppose we can’t be certain the payment was for an apartment rental. Even if Brancusci is right about it being some kind of real estate payment, it might be for a private home or even undeveloped real estate.”

“I don’t think so. If Sanguine was setting up some kind of pied-à-terre on the sly, he’d want as much anonymity as possible. An apartment complex would be ideal. He could send one of his many minions over to rent the place, then just drop the rent check in the mail once a month. But the pièce de résistance is the amount of the monthly rental, Ben. It’s an exact match.”

“That’s got to be it,” Ben said. “At any rate, it’s definitely our best lead. Let’s go.”

Ben and Christina sat in the front seat of Ben’s Honda, parked halfway down the street from the Malador apartment building. On the way, they had stopped at Christina’s apartment so she could change into less eye-catching clothes. An ordinary blue jeans skirt and a white blouse. No leotards.

Ben filled her in on everything he had learned during his last visit to Sanguine. She particularly enjoyed the news about the new double-duty locks on the front doors of the office building. Once Christina was up-to-date, they began to plan their strategic assault on the Malador Apartments.

“Why me ?” Christina exclaimed. “I thought we were a team.”

“We are a team, but it’s your turn to run with the ball. It will seem more credible coming from a woman. And besides, I have to stay free for the follow-up. I can’t do that if they’ve already seen me claiming to be a pollster.” He ran through his mental checklist to see if he could come up with any more excuses. “And what if I got caught? I could be disbarred. Legal assistants can’t be disbarred.”

“No, but we can be fired, imprisoned, ridiculed, and impoverished.” She took the clipboard from the backseat. “Yes, I can see it now. It is better that I go.”

Ben smiled.

Christina brushed her golden-red hair away from her face. “Maybe I should change clothes again.”

“Stop stalling. You look fine. Very professional. Just tell them you’re with the city of Tulsa. You’re taking a survey of apartment dwellers on behalf of the Chamber of Commerce in order to formulate plans for a large-scale downtown renovation project lah-dee-dah-dee-dah.” He paused. “And Christina. Lay off the French.”

“Got it,” she said. She pushed open the car door, then stopped. “Shouldn’t I have a badge or ID?”

“Will you get out of here already?” Ben shoved her out of the car. “Don’t worry, you’ll be great.”

“Great,” she muttered, closing the car door. “You’d better be damned appreciative when this is over.”