William Bernhardt - Primary Justice

“Who found the body?”

“We’re not sure. We got an anonymous phone call about two in the morning. I’d guess it was another street person, except they probably wouldn’t have a quarter for a telephone call. Did you get a look at the knife wounds?”

Ben swallowed hard. “No,” he whispered.

“Unfinished business,” Mike said. “I’m making a big guess, based on what happened to the Adams corpse and the evidence that the two killings are connected. I’m guessing that our killer got caught in the act. I think he’d made the fatal slice and was just beginning the sicko mutilation when someone cut in. So to speak.”

Ben ignored the morbid humor. “Who could have seen them?”

Mike shrugged. “Anyone. Drunk. Prostitute. Street person. You’d be amazed how many people are running around Tulsa late at night, particularly downtown. Most of them have nowhere else to go. I’ve got guys interviewing to see if anyone saw anything significant.”

“Think you’ll have any luck?”

“Who knows?” Mike thrust his hands in his overcoat pockets. “The homeless aren’t really renowned for their sense of civic obligation. Most of them don’t like cops much, either. Cops are always pushing them around, telling them to get off the streets. As if they could.” Mike paused. “There is one thing in our favor, though. I can’t believe the killer chose this place. My guess is Brancusci lives around here and insisted on meeting somewhere nearby. The way I see it, the killer calls Brancusci up, they agree to meet somewhere, and Brancusci gets knifed. Killer drags the body into the alley and begins to slice.”

Ben rubbed his throbbing temples. “It doesn’t make any sense. When I saw Brancusci last, he was totally on edge. Why would he agree to meet the killer out on the street in the dead of night?”

“The killer probably didn’t identify himself as such,” Mike answered. “Maybe he pretended to be you.”

The churning in Ben’s stomach seemed to explode, like a firecracker in the duodenum. Of course. It made sense. Ben was long overdue. Brancusci would be waiting for him to call so that Brancusci could give Ben the financial records Ben had bullied him into providing.

“Excuse me,” Ben said. He walked down the alley, turned around the corner to the back of the building and fell to his knees to be sick. He retched a futile retch. He realized that he had not eaten since—when? He could not remember his last meal. He had been busy. Busy forgetting about Brancusci.

Slowly, Ben rose, wiped his mouth, and walked back to the alleyway.

“We’ve got to go see Sanguine, Mike, and you’ve got to make him talk.”

Mike guffawed. “Right. Just like on TV. He’ll break down, whimper, and confess.”

“Then scare him. Teach him the fear of God and the criminal justice system.”

Mike fidgeted with his pipe. “I don’t even know what it is we think Sanguine has done. I don’t understand how it all fits together—the fraudulent records, the apartment at Malador, Adams, the little girl. What do we charge him with? Corporate fraud? We can’t tie him to either murder, and it’s not against the law to rent an apartment.”

“Sanguine has to be the killer, Mike.”

“Think you’ve got it figured out, huh, Sherlock?”

“Yeah, I think I do.”

“Know who trashed your apartment? And why?”

“I think Sanguine was looking for the stolen records. Maybe Brancusci wasn’t stupid enough to carry them with him when he got killed. Or maybe Sanguine wanted to see if I had copies.”

Mike looked at Ben and held his gaze firmly for a moment. Then, with an air more of resignation than confidence, he opened the door of his car and slid behind the wheel.

“You’d better be right,” Mike said simply.

“Let’s take separate cars,” Ben said.

Mike nodded. “I hope one thing has occurred to you, though,” he added. “Whoever the killer is, he’s apparently killed to lay his hands on misappropriated financial records. That killer may also believe you have the same records.”

“So?”

“You know what Shakespeare said, kemo sabe. ‘The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers.’ ”

Ben’s body suddenly turned cold, “Christina knows about the records, too,” he said.

Before Mike had a chance to answer, Ben ran down the street to his Honda, gunned the engine, and pulled out into the street.

38

BEN BOLTED OUT OF the thirty-eighth floor elevator, jogged around the corner, and ran down the corridor to Maggie’s station. Maggie was reclining in her secretarial chair and thumbing through a fashion magazine.

“Have you seen Christina yet this morning?” Ben asked breathlessly.

Maggie raised her head slowly and peered at him, squinting her eyes. “I haven’t seen her.”

“Call her at home.”

Maggie shook her head. “Mr. Derek told me to keep the line open—”

Reaching over her typewriter, Ben picked up the phone receiver and shoved it under Maggie’s chin. “Call her!” he shouted.

Maggie’s eyes narrowed. Then, after glancing at the list taped to her desk, she dialed the number. “No answer,” she said after a moment.

Ben pounded his fist against her desk. “Damn, damn, damn !”

Maggie exhaled slowly. “She’s in the library,” she said at last.

“What?”

“She left a note on my desk this morning. She’s in the library.”

“Why didn’t you say so?”

Maggie looked down at her magazine. “You didn’t ask if I knew where she was. You asked if I had seen her.”

After two weeks of wondering, Ben suddenly understood how a man could be driven to kill. Suppressing his temper, he ran down the corridor and into the library.

Christina was standing in the stacks beside the Supreme Court reporters, wearing her green Robin Hood outfit.

“Christina!” Ben shouted. Several associates sitting at the reference table looked up. “Thank God you’re here.”

“Ben! How did it go?”

“Fine.” He walked over to her. “Just fine.”

“I called your place late last night but you weren’t there.”

“Yeah, I was—”

“Is something wrong? You look really strung out.”

“I was just worried. “

Christina’s brow knitted. “What’s happened, Ben?”

“Brancusci is dead.”

Christina’s hands slowly dropped to her side. “My God,” she whispered. “Did you get the—”

“No. I think that’s why he was killed.”

Christina looked at him but didn’t say anything.

“Look, Christina, I need your help.”

She nodded. “Serving you always gives me that special joie de vivre .”

“Then find out where Brancusci lived. Go there and wait for the police to arrive. Don’t go in until they get there. It’s not safe. I want you to help them search. Mike will okay it. You know more about this case than they do; you’ll know what to look for. See if you can find those records or anything that might tell us who Brancusci met last night.”

“Got it. Then what?”

“Then go over to apartment 724 at the Malador and wait for me. You know the way. And”—he paused, unable to think of a diplomatic way to put it—“bring some women’s clothing. I don’t know the exact size. She’s a little shorter than you, and about the same weight. Just take some stuff that doesn’t have to fit too well. Everything—from the undies out.”

“Got it.”

And thanks for not asking, Ben thought. “I want you to call Maggie every half hour, on the half hour. Instruct her that if you don’t call on the half hour, she’s to call the police immediately. Understand? Immediately.”

Christina’s lips turned up slightly. “You were worried about me, weren’t you?”