Cruel Justice (12 page)

He took a ballpoint pen and wrote himself a note on his wrist. Peoria and Twenty-sixth. One-thirty.

He’d be there.

J
UST ABOUT THE TIME
Ben had finally managed to fall asleep, he was awakened by the bristly sensation of whiskers on stubbled cheek.

Giselle, natch.

“Giselle,” he mumbled, eyelids closed, “do me a favor and …
go away.
” Nothing personal, Ben thought, but that kid of Julia’s kept me up almost all night. Whoever invented the phrase
slept like a baby
obviously never had one.

He rolled over and pulled the pillow on top of his head. It was no use. Giselle was insistent. It was breakfast time, and she would not take
go away
for an answer. She insinuated her wet nose between the pillow and Ben’s face.

She’s awfully scratchy this morning, Ben thought. And then it hit him.

He shot bolt upright, bug-eyed. “
Giselle!
”

Her mouth was empty. He ripped the covers off his bed and searched.

Thankfully, there did not appear to be any mangled remains of wildlife foolish enough to come near Giselle’s piece of the roof. Giselle wasn’t bringing him another victim. She was just hungry.

Relieved, Ben stumbled to his closet and threw on a robe. He opened his back window and inhaled the fresh morning air. Well, he inhaled the air, anyway. It was a pity they kept those trash bins just below his window.

Out the window, pressed up against the building, Ben saw Joni Singleton in a romantic clinch with a tall black teenager about her age. Joni and her twin sister, Jami, lived with their parents, and their two-year-old brothers, also twins, in one of the other apartments in the building. How they all managed to coexist in a space barely bigger than Ben’s he did not understand.

Overcoming a mild pang of guilt, he watched the two smooch for a while. They talked and kissed, talked and kissed. Mostly kissed. They appeared very comfortable with one another. Probably not a first date.

Ben closed the window and left them alone. He hadn’t heard anything about this new boyfriend; he suspected it was a closely guarded secret. An interracial romance—bet Joni’s parents will be thrilled about that.

He made a quick stop in the bathroom, humming his way down the hallway. “A country dance was being held in a garden. …” “Polka Dots and Moonbeams” was an old tune from the 1920s. Ben couldn’t remember where he had learned it, but somewhere along the line it had become his favorite song. “Suddenly I saw … polka dots and moonbeams … all around a pug-nosed dream. …”

He wandered into the kitchen and opened a can of Feline’s Fancy. He was just reaching for the Cap’n Crunch when he heard the door buzzer.

He checked the clock over the oven. It was barely seven. This could only be Mrs. Marmelstein.

Mrs. Marmelstein owned the boardinghouse. She and her husband had moved to Tulsa decades ago and made a fortune in the oil business. They traveled the world, bought and sold ritzy Utica Hills real estate, and generally lived high off the hog. A little too high, as it turned out. In the mid-Seventies, Mr. Marmelstein passed away, and in the early Eighties, the oil business imploded. When the dust had settled, Mrs. Marmelstein had almost no money left, and her only remaining property was this third-rate house in one of the least desirable neighborhoods in Tulsa.

Ben opened the front door. Mrs. Marmelstein was wearing a green print dress with a lace collar. Her silver-gray hair was tied back in a bun.

She looked at him sternly. “Benjamin Kincaid.”

“That’s me,” Ben said amiably.

She wagged her head back and forth. “Ben-ja-min Kin-caid.”

“Is there going to be more to this conversation? You know, it is rather early. …”

She made a tsking noise. “Did you think I wouldn’t hear?”

“Ah … hear what?”

“Benjamin, I’m sixty-nine years old. I know what a baby sounds like.”

“Oh, the baby!” His voice dropped to a whisper. “That reminds me, could you talk a little softer?”

“And what may I ask would you be doing with a baby?”

“Well, that’s kind of complicated. …”

“No doubt.” She folded her arms disapprovingly. “You know, Ben, I’ve been very liberal with you. I think we both know I’ve … shall we say … relaxed my standards where you’re concerned. I’ve allowed your police friends to tromp through my house on several occasions. And I’ve permitted unchaperoned visitation by that … redhead.”

Ben suppressed a smile. He wasn’t sure if Mrs. Marmelstein disapproved of Christina because she was a single working woman, because she dropped by Ben’s place at all hours of the day and night, or simply because she was a redhead. “You’ve been very generous to me, Mrs. Marmelstein. No two ways about it.”

“Well, of course, you’ve helped me here and there as well.” Here and there wasn’t the half of it. Since he had moved in, Ben had taken over the management of her beleaguered finances, which typically involved cooling off creditors (a task with which Ben was singularly familiar), juggling bills, and occasionally slipping a few bucks of his own money into her petty-cash envelope. Unfortunately, even though Ben knew Mrs. Marmelstein wasn’t rich anymore, Mrs. Marmelstein hadn’t quite figured it out yet. “And I have always been grateful for your assistance. But now I simply must draw the line.”

“At what?”

“At …” Her head trembled. “Babies.”

“You don’t allow babies? The Singletons have two!”

“Yes, but that’s different, isn’t it?” She leaned forward. “Benjamin Kincaid, we both know that you are not married!”

The corners of Ben’s mouth slowly turned up. “Mrs. Marmelstein, allow me to explain—”

She raised a hand. “That’s hardly necessary. I know how babies come into the world. And I know boys will be boys. But I expected a bit more discretion from you.”

“Really, Mrs. Marmelstein, it isn’t at all—”

“Even if such an … accident had to occur, you should have done the decent thing and married the poor girl. It was that redhead, wasn’t it?”

“Mrs. Marmelstein, Christina and I are just good friends and coworkers. The baby belongs to my sister, Julia. Joey’s my nephew.”

“He’s—” Her expression could not have been much different if she’d been hit by a truck. “Oh. Well, that changes things, doesn’t it?” She shuffled her hands awkwardly. “Why are you keeping the baby?”

“I’m not entirely clear on that myself. …”

“How long will he be staying?”

“I’m not sure. It may be a while.”

Mrs. Marmelstein frowned. “Well, if he’ll be here longer than a week, let me know. There’ll have to be a rent adjustment, you know.”

“Naturally.”

Her expression seemed to soften. “If you have time, you might stop by my room later. After you get dressed, of course. I’ve made a new fruitcake.”

“Ah, well, I’m actually very busy today—”

“Speaking of that baby, I think I hear him.”

Ben held his breath in suspense. Sure enough, the plaintive wail with which he had become so familiar during the night was rattling the walls. “Right you are.” He sighed. “By the way, Mrs. Marmelstein, I don’t suppose you know how to change a diaper. …”

Mere seconds after Christina pushed the door buzzer, Ben flung it open, his face marked by panic and desperation.

“Do you know what
butt
is?” he asked urgently.

Christina blinked. “I beg your pardon.”

“Butt.
Butt!
” Ben waved his arms wildly in the air.

“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow. …”

“He keeps saying
butt.
”

“Who does?”

“Joey! Who else? I think it’s the only word he knows!”

“That seems unlikely. …”

“He keeps looking at me like I’m supposed to do something, like I’m the stupidest uncle on earth because I don’t know what
butt
is. He wants something, but I don’t know what it is. You wouldn’t believe some of the things I tried.”

“I don’t want to hear about it.”

Christina looked past Ben into the front room. Joey was trying to pull himself up on the side of the laundry basket. He was indeed chirping the same word over and over again. “It does sound like
butt
,” she admitted, “but unless Julia has an unusually perverse sense of humor, it must be something else.”

She began rummaging through Joey’s enormous diaper bag. “Aha!” she cried a moment later. “
Bert!
”

“Bert?”

She withdrew a small stuffed doll from the bag. It was a longish, yellow, vaguely humanoid creature.

“What is that?” Ben asked.

“It’s Bert, you ninny.”

“And what is Bert, some sort of mutant?”

“He’s a Muppet, you ding-a-ling.” She put the doll in Joey’s little hands. He hugged the doll under his chin and quietly sat down in the basket.

Christina reached back into the diaper bag and pulled out a shorter, rounder, orange-faced doll. “This is Ernie.”

“How can you tell?”

“How can I tell? He just …
is.
I can’t believe you don’t know them. These characters are world-famous. Didn’t you ever watch
Sesame Street
?”

“No.”

Christina stared at him. “How did you learn the alphabet?”

“Actually, I had a private tutor.”

She slapped her forehead. “God save me from rich kids.”

With Christina’s assistance, Ben changed Joey’s diaper (after being instructed that the end with the
Sesame Street
characters goes on top), filled a bottle, warmed it so it was not too hot and not too cold, and gave Joey his morning feeding. For such a tiny slip of a thing, he could pack away a lot of formula.

While Joey chowed down, Ben told Christina about the videotape.

“Sounds like we’d best get started
tout de suite,
” she said. That was Christina—always ready to take on the least desirable chore and to do whatever was required. Ben only hoped that continued to prove true today. “Have you got assignments ready?”

“Well … I’ll have Loving start investigating the country club. All the members, all the staff. And Jones should dig up all the written accounts of the murder from ten years ago. Any additional information would be welcome, especially any information he can find about the victim. I’m going to check out the scene of the crime. But don’t tell Jones that. He’ll want to come.”

Christina nodded. “What should I do?”

“Well … to tell you the truth … I need you to look after the baby.”

“
What?
” Christina rose to her feet. “How dare you!”

“Christina, someone has to—”

“Someone, yes. Do I look like an au pair? This is so sexist.”

“You know me better than that. But you’re the only person in the office who knows anything about babies.”

“I still don’t see why—”

“What else can I do? Leave the baby with Jones?”

Christina frowned.

“Loving?”

Christina blanched. “All right already. I’ll look after the baby. But not forever.”

“Understood. Just until I can make other arrangements. I’ll call some child-care centers. Maybe they can rent me a nanny.”

“You can’t afford them,” Christina replied succinctly.

“I’ll see what I can do, anyway.” He pulled out a chair. “Make yourself at home. Do anything, eat anything. Pretend it’s your place.”

“I may take you up on that. I overslept and didn’t get a chance to shower.” She ran her fingers through her tangled red hair. “But tell your concierge to stop giving me those looks every time I come up the stairs.”

“Mrs. Marmelstein gives you looks?” Ben asked innocently.

“Yes, she does. I feel like a tainted woman.”

“I’ll talk to her. Thanks, Christina. I really appreciate this.”

“Like I had any choice,” she muttered. “Either I spend all day with the baby, or I leave him in the clutches of someone who doesn’t know Bert from Ernie.” She pulled out a clean diaper. “Such a life I lead.”

T
HE UTICA GREENS COUNTRY
Club was without question Tulsa’s oldest, most famous, most prestigious, and most exclusive playground for the rich and pampered. Built on land formerly owned by the Phillips family, it occupied two city blocks. It was conveniently located in the ritziest part of town, less than a mile from the Utica Square shopping emporium and Philbrook, the former Phillips mansion, now converted to a sprawling museum and cultural center.

As soon as he drove up to the front guardhouse in his beat-up Accord, Ben knew he was going to have problems. The paint had chipped and rusted in so many places he had long since stopped worrying about it, and the engine made a loud churning noise all the time. Well, not all the time. Only when the wheels moved. Despite several repair attempts, the muffler still hung low and tended to scrape the pavement every time he hit a bump. To be fair, the Accord had been a great car in its day, but its day had ended roughly about a hundred and fifty thousand miles ago.

The security man in the guardhouse stared at Ben as if he might have dynamite strapped to his chest. Eventually, after giving the guard everything from his Tulsa County Bar number to his Book-of-the-Month Club membership card, he was grudgingly admitted onto the club grounds.

The road wove its way through the gentle hills separating the thirteenth and eighteenth greens. Ben couldn’t believe anyone would be playing golf in this sweltering heat, but there they were, in their pastel cotton shirts and spiffy checkered caps. He watched an all-male foursome play through; they looked hot. Once again, Ben was grateful that he had never taken the game up, despite the fact that one is never really taken seriously as a Tulsa lawyer until one has played Utica Greens with a one-digit handicap.

Ben was not looking forward to this visit. All this privileged, exclusionary, keep-them-away-from-us stuff struck a little too close to home. He’d grown up, after all, in the ultrarich Nichols Hills, which some people considered an overgrown residential country club. When he was young, Ben’s father used to drag him to a place not unlike this on a regular basis so he could “get out in the sun and get some exercise.” As Ben drove through the club grounds a cascade of unpleasant memories returned to him. The golf shoes with the stupid floppy ties, the afternoon martinis, the chatter about “keeping the country pure.”