Silent Justice (34 page)

Mike sat at his desk in the dead of night, frustrated.

Ronald Harris was not at home, or if he was, he wasn’t answering the phone. Which was understandable, given the hour. But Mike couldn’t wait. He wanted to ask Harris about the two-million-dollar payoff, not to mention the disappearing sixty million from the corporate coffers. He didn’t know why, but he felt certain it was important.

But Harris wasn’t at home. So he would just have to wait until tomorrow. Unless …

A few synapses inside his weary brain fired back to life.

What was it George Philby had said when they’d met? “I figured you weren’t here investigating financial improprieties.”

Mike pondered. Could be just a coincidence. A smart aleck trying to make wise. But as he had mentioned before—he didn’t believe in coincidences. Why would Philby’s mind take that turn?

It was probably nothing. But then, his last fifty or so interrogations had been nothing, too. What did he have to lose?

He picked up the phone, hoping George Philby was a light sleeper.

Just as Ben was almost out of the office, the phone rang. Jones scurried out to take the call, then returned. “Ben?”

“Take a message. We’re busy.”

“It’s Colby.”

Ben’s head cleared with amazing alacrity. The weariness that had been seeping into his bones evaporated.

Colby? At this hour? What the hell did he want?

Ben punched the blinking red light on his phone and picked it up. “Yes?”

“I want to say up front, this was not my idea.” Colby’s voice was flat and unemotional, even on the phone. “I personally am against this. But I am required to act at the instruction of my client. And my client has instructed me to make a settlement offer.”

Ben felt a clutching at his heart. A settlement offer! Could it be true? He had discussed this possibility with his clients earlier in the afternoon, had considered what they would and would not accept, even though he thought an offer was unlikely. But here it was! And if they accepted—the whole hideous spectacle of a trial would become unnecessary!

“What is it, Colby?”

“Here’s the terms. We want a confidentiality agreement. No one talks to the press. The numbers are not revealed. The settlement will be structured, with a payout over ten years.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Ben said. “Cut to the part that matters.”

“We admit no liability. We’re doing this strictly to avoid the inevitable expense of going to trial.”

“Spare me the sermon. I wasn’t born yesterday. How much?”

Colby drew in his breath. “I’m in a position to offer you a cash settlement of two hundred and twenty thousand dollars.”

Two hundred and twenty? In other words, twenty thousand per dead kid. Barely more than what Colby had offered at that first hearing. Not nearly enough to compensate the parents for their medical expenses. It wasn’t an offer—it was an insult.

“Your offer is rejected,” Ben said.

“Excuse me, counsel. Don’t you have an ethical obligation to take the offer to your clients? Or have you decided to disregard the ethics code entirely now?

“I’ve already discussed settlement with them, and they’ve given me parameters for what they will and won’t accept, to avoid the trouble of tracking them all down every time we need to make a decision. Your offer isn’t even close.”

“It’s a mistake to get greedy, Kincaid. Twenty thousand is a lot of money. And a lot better than nothing.”

“The answer is no, Colby.”

“At least this way they take something and save some face. If they go to trial, they’re going to be humiliated—and take home nothing.”

“I gave you my answer. If there’s nothing else—”

“You plaintiff’s attorneys are all alike,” Colby snarled. “You claim there are great principles involved. You say it isn’t about money. But it always is. You and your pack are just looking for a quick financial fix. Someone else’s money.”

“It isn’t about money, Colby,” Ben shot back, “and I can prove it to you. Here’s a counteroffer, which my clients have authorized me to make when I think the time is right. They’re willing to settle for this amount: one dollar.”

The silence on the other end of the phone was satisfyingly long. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“What’s the catch?”

“No catch. Blaylock pays us one dollar—and admits that what it did was wrong. Admits they poisoned the well and caused those unnecessary deaths. And pays to clean up the Blackwood water supply. That’s the whole deal, Colby. No greed involved. So what do you say?”

Colby’s voice was low and subdued. “You know we can’t accept that.”

“One measly dollar, Colby. Not a very greedy offer.”

“Your offer is rejected,” Colby said.

He hung up without another word.

“What was that all about?” Christina asked.

Ben shook his head. “Nothing important. You people go home and get some sleep.” He pushed himself up and snapped his trial notebook shut. “Tomorrow morning, we’re going to trial.”

G
EORGE PHILBY SAT AT
home, waiting.

Why the hell was the cop chasing him tonight, when there was a killer on the loose? Morelli had called a few minutes ago, said he wanted to come over and ask a few more questions. Fine, jerk-off—whatever amuses you. The cop was clueless; he still hadn’t tumbled onto what this was all about. As long as he was in the dark, he was helpless.

George wasn’t excited at the prospect of talking to Morelli, but what could the man do? He had no grounds to arrest him. George would bluff, lie—whatever it took. The far greater danger lurked in the killing hands of his former friend.

The doorbell rang. That would be the cop. George wondered if he knew about the money. Probably not, but even if he did, so what? It wasn’t illegal to give an employee a big paycheck. The police might frown on the motivation for the payout, but they had no way of learning about that. No one could tell them—except George, or Blaylock himself. Maybe Ronald Harris. And none of them was likely to start talking.

He peered through the peephole in the door. He saw the back of the cop’s trenchcoat. He was gazing at the stars. Probably fancied himself the romantic type, George mused. What a fool. He’d blow wind up this guy’s ass, get him out of the house, then go upstairs and catch some sleep.

He opened the door. “Okay, Lieutenant, let’s get this over with. I’ve got a big day—”

George froze. His expression disintegrated, from impatient tolerance to unmasked horror.

“Hello, George,” his old friend said, as he peered out with his piercing green eyes. “Miss me?”

While he steered his Trans Am with his left hand, Mike punched the number into his cell phone again with his right. No answer. That was odd. He had spoken to George Philby just ten minutes ago, telling him that he wanted to talk to him tonight. Sure, come on over, the man had said. I’ll be here all evening. So why was it that when Mike called now, just to tell him he was going to be a little delayed, there was no answer?

Something strange was going on here. Mike felt a tingling somewhere at the base of his brain. There were, of course, a thousand possible explanations. Maybe the man was in the bathtub and didn’t care to get out. But would he do that when he was expecting a police detective to drop by? Maybe he had call waiting and he didn’t want to ditch his first caller. But Mike had tried three times; surely he would’ve eventually taken the call. It was possible the man was taking out the trash, or doing some moonlight weeding, or had fallen asleep …

But Mike didn’t buy any of that. Something was wrong. Either Philby had something to hide, and he’d decided to hit the road before Mike got there …

Or Mike wasn’t the only visitor dropping by the Philby residence tonight.

With his free hand, Mike yanked the portable siren out of his backseat. He rolled down the window, snapped the thing on tight, and let it rip. The siren wailed, and Mike’s face was bathed in a fuzzy, red glow. There weren’t that many cars on the road this time of night, but Mike didn’t want to take any chances.

The killer had gotten past him twice already, had already killed four people in hideously grotesque ways. He didn’t want to see what the maniac might have cooked up next.

“Comfortable?” he asked as he smeared lubricating jelly under each of the handcuffs. “I hope so. This isn’t supposed to hurt you, George. Well, not yet, anyway.”

George’s eyelids began to flicker open. Good. It would be more fun with him awake. And they were supposed to be friends, right? So they should be facing one another, eyes open in eager anticipation. He hadn’t meant to knock George out cold. He just wanted to apply enough force to make the man compliant. To get him on the bed and handcuffed to the bedposts without resistance.

“Rise and shine, Georgie-Porgie.” He slapped the man’s face a few times, harder than was necessary. “It’s showtime.”

George’s eyelids fluttered open. “What … is it? What do you want?”

“I think you know the answer to that question, George.”

As he regained awareness, George first realized he’d been stripped naked. Then he realized he was lying flat on the bed. A horrible moment later, he realized he couldn’t move. He jerked his arms down, jangling the cuffs. “Wha-what is this?”

“This is the way the world ends, George. For you, anyway.”

“What are you going to do? Where are my clothes?”

“You won’t need them.” He crawled off the bed, bent over, and picked up a breadbox-sized metal device. “See this? It’s a portable battery charger. I had it in my car.”

George’s eyes widened. He tugged again at his chains, unable to get free. He tried to squirm, but found his feet were tied to the end of the bed. He could barely move at all. Sweat poured down the sides of his face.

“You’re not getting away, George. Not possible. So don’t waste your energy. You’re going to need it.”

“What are you planning to do, you sick bastard?”

He made a tsking noise. “Language, George. Language.” He patted the top of the charger. “You were always mechanically minded, George. I’ll bet you’ve already got the whole thing figured out.”

“Don’t get any ideas, you asshole. A cop’ll be here any minute!”

“Oh, I’m sure. I suppose you called him telepathically.” He giggled, then withdrew the two charging cables, one positive, one negative, and attached them to the metal frame of the bed. “Forget it, George. I cut the phone line before I came in. You couldn’t call the cops even if you could get free. Which you can’t.” He ran his hand along the smooth metal frame of the bed. “So convenient of you to have this old-fashioned brass bed. Very attractive. And conductive.”

“What are you going to do to me?” George screamed.

“Here’s the game plan.” He withdrew a small timer from his overcoat pocket and plugged it into one of the AC jacks on the back of the charger. “I plugged the charger into the handy-dandy wall socket. Had to unplug your VCR, though. Sorry about that—you’re going to miss tonight’s episode of
Frasier.
Anyway, when activated, this charger is capable of transmitting something like a thousand volts of electricity per second. That’ll really supercharge your brain cells.” He laughed, loud and horribly.

When his hysteria finally subsided, he wiped his eyes dry. “I was being facetious, of course. It’ll fry your brain like a poached egg. A minute or so of this and you won’t be able to do more than sit in a chair and drool on yourself. But it won’t really matter, because after two minutes, you’ll be dead.”

“Don’t do this,” George said. “Please.”

“The electricity will travel through the cables, into the bed, into your handcuffs and, greased by that jelly I rubbed over each wrist, right into your body. Oh, you’ll feel it, all right. You’ll feel it in every neuron and synapse of your being. I’m sure you’ve felt pain once or twice, George, even in your pampered existence. But you’ve never felt anything like this before. You’ll be begging me to stop it. Crying like a baby. But it won’t stop. It won’t stop until you’re dead.”

“Please,” George said. His quiet voice was nonetheless urgent. “Please. I’ll do anything.”

The man smiled. “Here it comes.”

“No!
Please, no!”

He reached behind the battery charger and flicked the power switch. George braced himself. His body arched up into the air, stiff—and a moment later, he realized there was no charge.

The man practically fell over himself laughing. He pressed a hand against his side, reeling. “You’re such a sucker, George! Such a fool!” He laughed some more, until finally, almost a minute later, he had settled down enough to explain. “The power is on, George. But you didn’t get shocked. Know why?”

George shook his trembling head.

“There’s only one thing saving you from the big shockeroony, George. And that’s this timer. You’ve probably seen them before. People use them to turn the lights on and off while they’re out of town. I got this one set for five minutes.” He walked over to the side of the bed and pressed close to George’s face. “For the moment, the timer is blocking the flow of electricity. But unless I do something to prevent it, in five minutes, the juice will flow.” He poked a finger into George’s rib cage.
“Zzzht!”

Why were all the lights out in the house? Mike wondered as he steered his Trans Am toward George Philby’s house. Did he have the wrong address? He checked his notes. No, this was the place. But if Philby was expecting him, why wasn’t the porch light on? Or at least the living room light. Why didn’t he see the same blue television glow he saw in most of the other houses he’d passed?

As before, there were a thousand possible explanations. Philby might be in a room that only had a window on the back of the house. There could’ve been a power outage. But coupled with Philby’s failure to answer the phone for the last fifteen minutes, it gave Mike the inescapable feeling that something was wrong. Call it the influence of years of cop work, or just call it gut instinct. Whatever it was, it told Mike he was heading toward trouble.

He parked on the street, then slipped out the side door quietly, his Sig Sauer at the ready.

“
Please,” George said. Tears were welling up in his eyes. “I don’t want to die. I’ll do anything. Tell you anything.”