William Bernhardt - Primary Justice

“Who is he , Catherine. Who is he ?”

“If I’m good, he’ll reward me, he’ll bring her back. If I’m bad again, it’ll be worse than before.”

Ben held her tightly. “Bring who back, Catherine? Your baby?”

“My baby !” She was screaming, protracting each syllable. “My baby! God, please don’t take her away! Please! I’ll do anything. I can’t live without my baby!” She tried to say more, but there was no more left in her. Her chin dropped.

Ben took a red handkerchief from his jacket pocket. “Here. Wipe your eyes.”

She stared at it. “I can’t use that. It’s too pretty.”

“No, really. Take it. It’s for you.”

“For me?” She seemed amazed. She held the handkerchief against her face, then placed it in her bathrobe pocket.

Ben held her firmly in his hands. She pulled herself against him, and they hugged one another tightly. Her tears washed against Ben’s face.

“Will you help me?” she pleaded.

“I’ll do anything you want,” he said. Gently, he moved her to the bedroom and lowered her onto her bed.

“Stay with me,” she said. She touched him lightly on the arm.

He pulled the covers over her. “I really can’t. It wouldn’t be—” He stopped. Her eyes were beginning to well up again.

“Perhaps for just a little while,” he said. He lowered himself to the bed and cuddled next to her. He knew that he shouldn’t be doing this, but at the same time, knew that he should. She had asked him to help her and he would, damn it, he would do anything she wanted. It was time for him to do something right, and he would. He would.

37

BEN EASED OFF OF the bed, careful to create as little disturbance as possible. Without turning on the light, he found his shoes. As he stepped toward the door, his foot fell on something sharp. He started to cry out but caught himself. He reached down and plucked the object from his foot. It was a syringe. He wasn’t surprised.

He crept into the hallway, pulled on his shoes, tiptoed out of the apartment, and locked the door behind him.

The sun was just beginning to rise; the first orange rays were seeping over the horizon and surrounding the broad outlines of the Williams and Bank of Oklahoma Towers. The fresh morning air felt invigorating, cleansing.

Ben walked briskly, then began to jog, down the street to his Honda. He drove back to his apartment, thinking he would shower and change his clothes before calling Mike.

He rode the elevator to the fourteenth floor, reached for the doorknob to his apartment, then froze. His mood took a sudden, crashing, downhill turn.

The door was not shut.

Ben stared at the door, listening intently. He always shut and locked his door before he left. Always. And it was way too early for another visit from Julia.

Ben steeled himself. He kicked the door open and pressed himself up against the outside wall.

There was no sound inside.

After a moment, he stepped into the apartment. Records, books, pillows, and boxes were scattered across the floor. The television was shattered; shards of gray glass lay on the floor beneath the broken box. The stereo cabinet was upset and lying on the floor; the turntable cover was crushed. Ben saw what little he owned smashed and broken into pieces.

The kitchenette was just the same. Everything was upside down and out of place—pots and pans on the linoleum floor, plates broken, refrigerator door wide open. In the bedroom, clothes were scattered, and his sleeping bag was thrown in a heap in the corner. Either a hurricane had blown through during the night, or someone had ransacked Ben’s apartment.

Someone, it suddenly occurred to Ben, who might still be there.

Ben ran out of the apartment and stood outside the door. This is ridiculous, he told himself. I’ve been in every room. No one is there. Somehow, logic didn’t make him feel any better about going back inside.

While Ben deliberated, his telephone rang. After three rings, he decided to brave it. Once inside, it took him three more rings to find the phone, buried under a pile of heavily starched and now thoroughly wrinkled white shirts.

“Who is it?”

“Where the hell have you been all night? I’ve been calling since three in the morning.” It was Mike, and he sounded hostile.

“Mike, thank God. I was just about to call you. Someone searched my apartment. Tore the place apart.”

“Yeah?” Mike sounded decidedly unsympathetic. “Maybe if you spent more time there these things wouldn’t happen. I mean, I understand, a guy’s been in town not quite two weeks, he starts to get a little lonely—”

“Look, Mike, I need help—”

“Sounds like you’re doing okay to me, lover boy. But that’s not why I called. I’ve got another stiff on my hands.”

Ben felt the gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach intensify. “Who?”

“Don’t know. No identification.” Then he added: “It’s like before.”

“What do you mean, like before?”

“Like why the hell do you think I’ve been trying to call you? I’ve got another corpse bearing your business card! Clenched in his rigor-mortised fist!”

Ben began to breathe rapidly. “What does he look like? It is a he, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s a he. He’s about five foot eight, short dark hair, probable Italian descent, no chin, beak nose.”

“My God. It’s Brancusci. The accountant. Mike, this is very important. Did he have any papers on him?”

“Nothing. I told you—he’s been stripped clean.” The gnawing sensation was like a knife. Ben began to feel light-headed. “Got any suspects?”

“Just the usual,” Mike replied. “You.”

Ben and Mike stood in an alleyway in the heart of old downtown Tulsa, a few blocks north of the river, wedged between Ernie’s Pool Hall and a tiny Greek restaurant. Both were closed; their Fifties-era neon signs were dark. Diagonally across the street, the scuzziest Safeway in town was just beginning to open for a new business day. The street people huddling over the sidewalk vents began to awaken, stretching and urinating and brushing the night’s grime from their clothes.

For the first time in his life, Ben considered whether déjà vu was more than a cliché. The weather was misty, wet, and unpleasant—just like before. He and Mike stood in a filthy alley—just like before. Again, he watched paramedics lift a broken corpse onto a stretcher with considerable difficulty and stash it in the back of an ambulance. Again, he knew that the only thing sparing him from a grueling police interrogation was a former relation by marriage to the investigating detective. There was one difference, though, Ben told himself, one key difference. This time, it was probably my fault. He had promised Brancusci he would call, but in the excitement of locating the apartment at Malador, he had forgotten all about Brancusci. Even after seeing how anxious and afraid he had been at the party, Ben had forgotten. And now Brancusci was dead.

“This Brancusci guy had your business card clenched in his fist,” Mike said. “Any idea why?”

Ben told him about his meetings with Brancusci. He also revealed the details about the apartment at Malador and his chat with Harriet. He declined to tell Mike about his return visit.

“Something is going on in that apartment,” Mike murmured. “I’m going to send out a couple of uniforms to check it out.”

“Not yet,” Ben said quickly. “Any bust now would tip off the man in charge. If we wait, we might be able to use the apartment to track down our killer.”

Mike exhaled wearily. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“Do you know how Brancusci was killed?”

“Same as before,” Mike said, with a sort of a grunt. “With a big knife. It’s too early to tell, but it looks like it could be the same knife that was used on Adams. We’ve found no trace of a weapon. I’ve got men searching the general area, but I’m willing to bet we won’t find anything. The killer’s smart enough to take the knife home and stick it back in his roast beef.”