Cruel Justice (22 page)

“And this is profitable?”

“Extremely. I typically charge a twenty-five-thousand-dollar retainer up front per job, and keep twenty-five percent of the ultimate take. And I have almost no expenses! After all, the charity pays the expenses for the fund-raisers and I don’t have to pay any of those women to make phone calls. They’re volunteers! They do it for nothing, because they think they’re helping a worthy cause. I get a percentage of what they collect, the charity gets the rest. And the volunteers get to sleep easy with the knowledge that they’re making a difference.” He chortled softly. “It’s a perfect arrangement.”

“I don’t suppose any of those volunteers knows that you’re running a for-profit business.”

“Why kill the goose that lays the golden eggs?”

“But think how many meals for homeless children your cut could provide. If you didn’t carve out your piece of the action, that money might actually do some good in the world instead of being frittered away on green fees and martinis.”

Bentley gave Ben a long look. “As I mentioned, Kincaid, I got into this business because I needed money. Big money. Back then, I would’ve done almost anything to make a few bucks. But the glory of it was, I turned out to be good at this. I see nothing wrong with being adequately compensated for a job well done. Charities seek me out and gladly pay my fee, because they know I can make their fund-raising drive a success.”

“But still—”

“Look, Kincaid, it’s easy to be sanctimonious in the abstract. But I have practical considerations. My pot of gold isn’t as infinite as the rest of these jokers’. I had to seek a balance. I had to merge my living with my charitable works. Is that a crime?”

“It’s not a crime, but—”

“I’m sure you’re a paragon of compassion, Kincaid, but are all your cases pro bono cases?”

“Well, no, of course not …”

“Of course not. Neither are mine. I make money for myself, and I make money for the other guy. What’s wrong with that?”

Ben shrugged. Perhaps he had been too hasty to condemn these people. He was letting the experiences of his childhood, the stereotype of the wealthy Ugly American, taint his perceptions. Maybe. “Well, I hope your charity ball is a success.”

“Me, too. You’d be welcome to come, Kincaid, if you’ve got a tux and you promise not to spend the whole night talking about the damn murder.”

Not a bad idea, Ben thought, but I really can’t spare the time. “I’m afraid I have to prepare for trial. Maybe I could send my legal assistant.”

Bentley’s head turned. “A woman?”

“Ye-es.”

“Good-looking?”

“Well … it’s a matter of opinion, I suppose. I think so.”

“You know, Kincaid, I don’t have a date for the ball. You may have heard that I’m …”

“Between wives?”

“Right.”

Ben cleared his throat. “I don’t think Christina is your type.”

“Why not?”

“Well … she’s, um, she’s …”

“Yes?”

Ben swallowed. “She’s poor. Well, not rich, anyway. After all, she works for me.”

All of a sudden Bentley burst into laughter. “Kincaid, where did you get the idea that all I care about is how much money a woman has?”

“Then … it isn’t true?”

Bentley bent down and checked the slope of the hill. “I didn’t say that. I just want to know who’s been talking about me.”

Bentley took his shot, a beautiful drive right down the fairway and just a bit short of the green.

“I’m surprised the police have time for this ten-year-old murder,” Bentley commented as they walked toward their balls. “I would’ve thought they’d have all hands out looking for the man who’s killing those little boys.”

“They’re trying,” Ben said. “Believe me.”

“That’s such a disgusting crime. I don’t understand these kiddie perverts. I think they should all be castrated and hanged.”

“The police are scouring the area where the last boy was killed.”

“Would they know him if they found him? He’s not likely to walk up and say, ‘Yes, sir, I’m the pedophile. Why do you ask?’ ”

“There are certain pieces of physical evidence they hope to find. The last little boy disappeared wearing a red baseball cap, for instance. It’s never been found. If it turns up—”

“Someone’s going to have the police descending upon him like flies. Got it.” Bentley pulled back his club. The ball descended onto the green just inches from the hole. “Excellent. You’re next, Kincaid.”

“Oh. Well, if you insist.” He squared himself in front of his ball. “Here goes nothing.”

Bentley grinned. “Truer words were never spoken.”

By the seventh hole, Ben was really feeling the heat. He seemed to be sweating more than anyone else. Of course, he was swinging about three times as often as anyone else.

Just when he thought he was going to have to call for an oxygen mask, he saw Mitch tootling over the hill in a golf cart. “Refreshments, anyone?”

Mitch unpacked a chest filled with drinks, both soft and hard, then unwrapped an elaborate food spread. He had pâté and chips, caviar and crackers, and several other exotic treats Ben couldn’t identify. Mitch passed Pearson and Crenshaw ice-cold beers; Bentley got a martini poured out of a thermos.

“What about for you, Ben?” Mitch asked.

“I don’t suppose by any wild chance you’d be carrying chocolate milk?”

“Uh, no. I could go back to the clubhouse. …”

“Never mind.” Ben took a can of Coke Classic. “Thanks anyway; Mitch. You’re a lifesaver.”

“That’s why they pay me the big money. Not.”

After everyone was done munching and imbibing, Mitch cleared away the spread and packed up the cart. “How’s it going, anyway?” he whispered to Ben.

“Not too bad.”

“Are they talking?”

“Some. Mostly about Rutherford, since he’s not here today. Bentley says at dinner last night Rutherford droned on for an hour about soil composition and bagworm infestation. And he tried to make everyone eat his radishes. Sounded unpleasant.”

Mitch laughed. “Humorous, but not very helpful.”

“True. Still, I’m probably getting a lot more than I would’ve if we were sitting around in some office. Thanks for getting me in on this game.”

“No problem.” Mitch climbed behind the wheel of the cart and turned the key. “Anything else I can bring you?”

“Yeah. Arnold Palmer. Hey, let me ask you a question before you go.” He glanced over his shoulder to make sure none of his golf partners was listening. “How does Pearson make so much money?”

“Like he says. Oil and gas. Foreign investments.”

“So as far as you know, he doesn’t have … anything going on the side?”

Mitch laughed. “Oh, you found out about the green fees.”

Ben didn’t know what Mitch was talking about, but he saw no reason to admit it “Then it’s true?”

“It’s true. Pearson skims a healthy percentage off the top of the green fees. Hell, he makes back twice what he contributes in dues each year.”

“Why don’t the other board members stop him?”

“Because they’ve each got a little fiddle of their own. Crenshaw takes his from the pro shop. Bentley takes his from the dining room. I could make you a list.”

In due time, Ben thought. “Do they know that you know about this?”

“I’d have to be a blind man, or seriously mathematically challenged, to miss it. What do they care? What could I do? As Pearson has repeatedly pointed out, I’m an employee, not a member. And how they decide to divvy up the money in their own private club is their own business.”

“The dues-paying members who aren’t on the board might have a different view.”

“Probably,” Mitch agreed. “But they’ll never know.”

By the time the golfing party reached the ninth hole, Crenshaw was looking seriously winded. Although they had a cart, and Crenshaw spent more time in it than anyone, he still looked beat. His eyes were lined and hollow; sweat dripped from every pore. Of course, it was an abominably hot day. And, Ben reasoned, being a short fat bald man, Crenshaw was probably more subject to heat prostration.

“Looks to me like Dick needs a shower,” Ben whispered to Bentley.

“Looks to me like Dick needs a hit,” Bentley replied.

“A hit?”

“You know.” Bentley mimed an exaggerated snorting through his nose.

“Crenshaw? You’re kidding.”

“How do you think that man keeps going all day long at that energy level? He’s more high-strung than Robin Williams.”

Ben watched carefully as Crenshaw approached the tee. Ten minutes ago he’d been loud, animated, and boisterous. Now he looked as if he’d gone six days without sleep. Ben was no expert on substance abusers, but he supposed it was possible.

Crenshaw took a swing and totally missed his golf ball. Wasn’t even close. Privately, Ben was pleased to see he wasn’t the only one who had ever committed that humiliating gaffe, although, of course, Crenshaw did it when he was exhausted, and Ben did it on his first swing of the day.

“Damn, damn, damn!” Crenshaw shouted. He hurled his golf club across the fairway at a tree with sudden and startling force. The club hit a tree and splintered, just as the club that killed Maria Alvarez must have done.

“Now don’t get your dick in a twist,” Pearson grumbled.

“I can’t get it in a twist!” Crenshaw shouted back. “It isn’t big enough!”

Ah, Ben thought. Here we go again.

“I hate this game. I don’t know why I play it. I quit.”

“Calm down, Dick,” Bentley said. He glanced at the scorecard. “You’re only … twenty strokes over par. You’re still beating Kincaid, though!” Bentley and Pearson laughed heartily.

Crenshaw ripped off the Porky Pig cover and grabbed a new club. “Sure, laugh. I know you guys just make fun of me because my dick’s so small. Sons of bitches.”

Eventually Crenshaw managed to get off his shot. After all four had teed off, Ben managed to pair himself in the cart with Crenshaw for the drive down the fairway.

“Mitch told me you knew Leeman Hayes back when he was caddying here ten years ago.”

“Oh, damn it all to hell. You’re not going to hassle me about that, are you? I’ve already told the police everything I know about a thousand times.”

“The police questioned you?”

“Damn straight. Just because I had the kid over to my house a few times.”

Ben’s head turned. “You had Leeman at your home?”

“Sure. Why not? I didn’t know he was going to kill someone.”

“I don’t believe he did—”

“Man, it’s blazing today! I’m pooped.” He stopped the cart, bent over, and placed his hands on his knees. “Look, Leeman caddied for me a few times. He was okay. Quiet, but I like that in a caddy. You could tell he wasn’t quite right in the head, but what did it matter? Caddying doesn’t require rocket scientists. I needed some work done at my house, laying bricks around the garden and such. Simple stuff, but tiring. I didn’t want to do it. I figured he would.” Crenshaw winked. “I also figured I wouldn’t have to pay him too much, since he couldn’t tell a nickel from a hundred-dollar bill.”

“You mean you—”

“It was just a few times. I got some work done; he made some pin money. It was a perfect arrangement.”

Where have I heard that before? Ben reflected.

“But after the kid got arrested, the cops started acting like we were best friends or something.”

“You didn’t know anything about the murder?”

“Absolutely nothing. How would I know why he killed that woman? He was probably trying to get into her pants. You know how those retards are.”

Ben felt his neck stiffening. “Mr. Crenshaw—”

“Quiet. I’m taking my shot.” Crenshaw positioned himself, then swung. The ball flew about a hundred feet, still a good ways from the hole. “Damn! Rack up another one to Dick Crenshaw, the dickless wonder.”

“Mr. Crenshaw—”

He grinned. “Sorry, kid. Guess I’m embarrassing you with my ribald sense of humor. You’re probably not used to public discussions about genitalia.”

“You should’ve been at my last trial.”

That slowed Crenshaw down—for a moment, anyway. “What kind of work do you do, Kincaid, when you’re not representing underprivileged killers?”

Ben gave Crenshaw a brief description of his keenly unglamorous practice.
How long can you go on representing the scum of the earth?

“Sounds like you stay pretty, uh, diverse,” Crenshaw said. “Is that by choice, or do you have to take whatever walks in the door?”

“I don’t—”

“Never mind. Unfair question. Well, hang in there. The law will keep you fed, till you move on to something else.”

“Something else?”

“Hell, yes. Surely you don’t want to be trudging through courtrooms forever.”

“Well—”

“There’s no future in that. You know where the future is?”

“Uh, plastics?”

“No. Turkish mutual funds.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard it. I’m not going to say it again. Now that we’ve declawed the Russian bear, some of those third-world countries are making money for the first time, and they don’t know what to do with it. A smart man playing some smart investments could make a killing. And that’s what it’s all about, right?”

“Well …”

“You don’t want to be chasing child-custody payments for the rest of your life, do you?”

“Well …”

“Look, Kincaid, I get more cases these days than I can possibly handle. I refer out as many as I take. I’ll keep you in mind. If I get some small-potatoes stuff I don’t want to screw with, I’ll send it your way.”

“Well, gee whiz. Thanks very much.”

“No problem.” He looked at Ben pointedly. “I can be a help to people I consider my friends. If you get my drift.”

Ben had a sneaking suspicion that he did.

To Ben’s relief and, truth be told, his mild surprise, they completed the nine holes. There was a brief discussion of making it eighteen, but Ben pleaded work and begged off. Pearson and Bentley followed his lead, while Crenshaw, tired as he was, or seemed to be, proceeded to the tenth tee. Ben watched Crenshaw recede into the distance. “ ’S wonderful … ’S marvelous …”

Ben and Captain Pearson left the course and headed back to the main club building. Pearson gave Ben his personal short course on how to improve his golf game. Ben listened politely as Pearson babbled on about Pings and torque and swinging the club like you’re serving a tray.