Primary Justice (Ben Kincaid series Book 1) (32 page)

Ben shrugged. “I hope you’re right.”

“But it may take you awhile to find something. And I don’t suppose you’ve had time to build up an enormous nest egg.”

“Hardly. Good thing my rent’s paid up till the end of the month. After that …”

Christina turned to face him. “I’ve got bad news for you, Ben. Today is the last day of the month.”

Ben blinked. “Is that right? I guess it is. I’ve completely lost track of time.”

“I’ve got a decent apartment, Ben. Not plush, but highly adequate. You can stay with me for a while, if you like.”

“Christina …”

“Don’t worry. No strings are attached. You can sleep on the couch; you can leave on a night-light. And you don’t have to worry about your reputation. We won’t tell Mother. Word will never get back to Nichols Hills.”

Ben frowned. “Christina—”

“It’s just an idea. You don’t have to.”

“Christina,
stop
!” He held her in place and looked into her eyes. “I don’t know if it would be fair to you.”

“So be unfair. Please. Life is short.”

They both grinned.

“Hey, guess what?” Ben said. His eyebrows bounced up and down. “She remembered my name.”

Christina’s brow wrinkled until she realized what he was talking about. “Congratulations,” she said.

Ben looped her arm around his, and they walked toward his Honda. Maybe congratulations
were
in order. He knew he should feel miserable about losing his job, but instead, for some reason, he was elated. The gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach seemed to have vanished. Perhaps, he thought, somewhere in the midst of this fiasco, he
had
done something right. Perhaps it was all right to feel happy now. It would only last a moment. And what is life but moments?

I
HAVE BEEN FORTUNATE
to draw on the kindness and expertise of those who have assisted me in the preparation of this book. I want to thank Kathy Humphries and Belinda Cuevas for their assistance in the preparation of the manuscript; Dave Johnson for his help with police procedure; Mark and Dixie Banner for the same, as well as their assistance on matters medical and psychological. I also want to acknowledge the writings of Oliver Sacks and A. R. Luria and their inspirational efforts to explain and treat profound neurological disorders. Most of all, I want to acknowledge the inexhaustible assistance of my wife, Kirsten, the source of all good things.

William Bernhardt

Turn the page to continue reading from the Ben Kincaid Novels

H
E RETURNED THE GUN
to the end table drawer. That would be his last resort, he thought, as he closed the drawer, hands trembling. The absolute last.

There were all kinds of tricks he could try before it came to that. Options abounded. He strode into the kitchen, trying to buoy his spirits with false optimism. It didn’t work.

He opened the refrigerator and removed the chilled carafe. He knew which one she would choose; it didn’t take a genius. He removed a small bottle from his pocket, unscrewed the dropper, and carefully let eight drops fall into the carafe. That was the recommended dosage—more than enough, in all likelihood. Then again, he thought, better safe than sorry. He released six more drops into the carafe.

He returned the carafe to the refrigerator, almost dropping it in the process. He stared at his hands—they were covered with sweat. His whole body was soaked; a cold, clammy sensation radiated from his head to his toes. He wiped his brow, then dried his hands on a dish towel. He couldn’t let this get to him. Options, he reminded himself. Abundant options. Everything would be fine. Well, except for her, of course.

He walked back into the living room, glancing through the patio windows on the north side. There were two cars parked on the ground level in the driveway, watching, ready to follow at a moment’s notice. They had been there all day.

What were they waiting for? He felt his knees shaking, his respiration accelerating. Just don’t panic, he told himself. There could be hundreds of reasons why two cars would be parked in the driveway. Perfectly innocent ones. It still wasn’t hopeless. Options, abundant options.

Yeah, right. He couldn’t just sit here and wait for them to come. He opened the end table drawer and reached for the gun—then stopped. Mother of God!—that wasn’t the answer. At least not yet. He slammed the drawer closed, his heart palpitating violently in his chest.

He threw himself into an easy chair and tried to think through his plan, its intricate details and contingencies, but his eyes kept diverting to the window. Were they still there? And how much longer until—

He closed his eyes. This was pointless. He would just proceed according to plan; that was the only solution. Create a diversion, as it were—throw the heat off him. It would buy him sufficient time to get the hell out of town. At any rate, it was better than the alternative.

He inhaled deeply and felt his heartbeat slowly subside. That was the ticket—just stick to the plan, and watch everything work itself out. Oh!—he would have to call her and leave the appropriate message. But it was too early for that. The less time she had to think about it the better.

He smiled. This will work, he told himself. It really will. Let the bastards come; he would be ready for them. He fell back into his chair, at last confident that everything would work out, that the end table drawer would not have to be opened.

Until the phone rang.

T
HERE WAS SOMETHING WRONG
with Ben’s office, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what. Maybe it was the dozen or so chickens running amuck on the linoleum floor. Perhaps it was the toilet paper strewn throughout the lobby. Or possibly it was the man pointing a gun at Ben’s face.

“Is there something I can do for you?” Ben asked, trying to appear calm.

“Not really,” said the large, unshaven man holding the weapon. “I just come in to blow your head off.”

“Oh,” Ben said. It was hard to know what to say.

Jones, Ben’s male secretary, stood up behind the small card table he called his secretarial station. “Is there something I should be doing, Boss?”

“Call 911,” Ben said succinctly.

“Right away, Boss.” Jones picked up the phone receiver and began to dial.

The intruder adjusted his aim slightly in Jones’s direction. “You try it and I’ll shoot the phone right out of your hand.”

Jones hesitated. “Come on. You don’t look like you’re nearly that good a shot.”

“You’re right,” the man replied, “I’ll probably miss.”

Jones hung up the phone.

“Look,” Ben said, “at least tell me what this is all about. You know, grant the last wish of the condemned.”

The man looked at Ben suspiciously. “Why should I?”

Ben thought for a moment. “So I can rue my fatal error in the hour of my doom?”

The man did not seem impressed.

“So I know what file to put the coroner’s report in,” Jones offered. “I hate it when the filing backs up.”

Ben rolled his eyes. Thanks, Jones.

This line of reasoning, however, seemed to engage the man’s attention. “Try the file labeled
Loving
versus
Loving
,” he said bitterly.

Ben remembered the case. The surnames stuck in his mind; they were pretty ironic, given that it was a divorce case. “You must be Mr. Loving.”

“Damn straight,” Loving said, pushing the gun closer to Ben’s face. “And you’re the man who took my woman away from me.”

“I’m the attorney who represented her in the divorce,” Ben corrected. “Why didn’t you show up at the hearing?”

Loving’s broad, strong shoulders expanded. “Some things is between a man and a woman,” he said. “I don’t hold with airin’ dirty laundry in public.”

“When you didn’t appear at the hearing or send a lawyer to represent you,” Ben explained, “the matter became uncontested.” He saw in the corner of his eye that Jones had quietly lifted the phone receiver again and was beginning to dial. He tried to keep Loving distracted. “The judge granted the divorce by default. She had no choice, really, under the circumstances.”

Loving took a step closer. “I heard you told some disgusting, filthy lies about me in that courtroom.”

Ben cleared his throat. “I…merely recited the allegations of my client.”

“Like sayin’ I liked to dress up in high heels and panty hose?”

“Uhh…I believe that was one of the reasons your ex wanted a divorce,” Ben said weakly.

“And what was that stuff about barnyard animals?” Loving growled.

Ben stared at the ceiling. “Oh, was there something about barnyard animals? I don’t recall exactly.…” He felt a bead of sweat trickling down his forehead. Couldn’t Jones dial any faster?

“You made my life a living hell!” Loving shouted. He was waving the gun wildly back and forth. “You took away the best woman I ever knew. Now you’re going to pay for it.”

“I don’t suppose it would make any difference if I told you today was my birthday?” Ben asked.

Loving cocked the hammer. “Consider this your present.”

“If you really love your wife so much, why don’t you try to win her back?”

“Win her back?”

“Yeah. Maybe you two could get remarried.”

“It’s too late for that.”

“Of course it’s not too late,” Ben assured him. “Reconciliations happen all the time. Natalie Wood and Robert Wagner got married three times!”

Loving appeared to consider this. “I don’t know.…”

“You’ve got to court her, that’s all. Like when you were first dating. Bring her flowers, candy. Write her a poem. Hold hands in the moonlight.”

“We never did any of that.”

Ben frowned. “You must have done something romantic when you were courting.”

“Courting?” Loving snorted. “I met Babs in a bar downtown. After a few drinks, we did the hokeypokey in the back of my semi. It wasn’t no big deal. Damned if she didn’t turn up pregnant, though. So we had to get married.”

“Well then,” Ben said, trying to salvage himself, “so much the better. This will all be new to her.” He snapped his fingers. “I bet I have some old love poems I could loan you.”

“You really think this could work?” Loving asked. He began to smile, however slightly.

“You’ll never know until you try. But I think you two crazy kids could patch things up, assuming you don’t make a tragic mistake that sends you to the penitentiary for the rest of your life.”

“Babs might come back to me?”

“I think it’s entirely possible.”

“Well, I don’t,” Loving said. The last vestiges of a smile faded from his face. He leveled the gun at Ben’s nose and fired.

Jones cracked the ice out of the tray. He wrapped the ice in a washcloth and tied it with a rubber band. After struggling with the person-proof bottle cap, he popped a few Tylenol tablets into his pocket. Just in case. He returned to Ben’s tiny office and walked to the ratty sofa on the far wall.

He brushed Ben’s hand aside and placed the ice pack on his forehead. “How does that feel?”

“Cold,” Ben answered.

“Is it having a calming effect?”

“At the moment I don’t think a hundred winged seraphs strumming Brahms’s Lullaby on their harps would have a calming effect. I just got shot at, remember?”

“Well, yeah,” Jones said, “by a man with a toy pistol containing a little flag with the word
BOOM!
on it. We’re not exactly talking Lee Harvey Oswald here.”

“Easy for you to say. The little flag didn’t poke you in the eye. I nearly lost a contact.” He read the expression on Jones’s face. “I was startled, okay?”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Jones said. “I was there. I saw you swoon.”

“I did not
swoon.
I lost my balance.”

“If you say so.” Jones tried not to smile.

“I can still hear that man’s maniacal laughter. What was it he said? ‘You put me through hell, Kincaid, so I decided to let you see what it was like.’ What a sicko.”

“Yeah. It was kind of funny, though.” Jones glanced at Ben’s somber expression. “In a sick sort of way, I mean.”

“That’s what I thought you meant.” Ben covered his eyes with the ice pack. “Incidentally, Jones, this may be none of my business, but why are there chickens running all over my office?”

“Frank Brannon finally decided to pay his bill. He didn’t have any money. But he has a surplus of hens.”

“Great. This is what I get for taking a tractor repossession case.”

“I wasn’t aware you were in a position to choose.”

“Yeah, well, nonetheless.” Ben rubbed the ice pack up and down the sides of his face. “Chickens. Jeez, that’ll help pay the rent. And think of the convenience, if a famine should suddenly strike Tulsa.”

“Speaking of paying the rent, Boss—I don’t like to be a nag, but my paycheck is overdue.”

“That’s true. Unfortunately, I’m fresh out of cash. But feel free to take all the chickens you want. By the way, is all that toilet paper still littering the lobby?”

“No. I cleaned that up right after the police hauled off Mr. Loving for assault with a practical joke.”

“Jones,” Ben said, pointedly ignoring the jibe, “may I ask who T.P.’d my office?”