Cruel Justice (45 page)

“A memory that would get him off the hook.”

“That’s correct.”

“Even though she never saw the murder.”

“That’s what I believe. She fabricated the entire incident.”

Ben turned and saw Carlee in the gallery, her hands pressed against her face. Her husband was trying to comfort her, without much success. The look on her face was heartbreaking. She was being humiliated in public, just as she had feared. Carlee stood and ran out of the courtroom. Her husband rose to follow.

His glaring eyes met Ben’s. The message was clear.

You should’ve prevented this.

This is your fault.

“Would Ms. Crane be the first person who ever fabricated a memory?” Bullock asked.

“Oh, far from it. I’ve been called in on several cases of purported juvenile sexual abuse, only to later find that the child wasn’t even living with the accused parent at the time the event supposedly occurred. In my office last week, a lady told me she woke up one morning and remembered that she had been abducted by a UFO and impregnated by aliens.”

Bullock slowly returned to his table. “Dr. Allyn, do you believe Carlee Crane was an eyewitness to the murder of Maria Alvarez?”

“No, I don’t. I’m sure she means well, but I don’t believe it”—he chuckled—“any more than I believed last week’s patient was carrying a Martian baby.”

The jury smiled.

“Thank you. No more questions.”

The judge looked up from the bench. “Redirect?”

Ben knew his expert had switched alliances in midtrial. A redirect would just be asking for trouble.

But what the hell. He had to try. For Leeman’s sake. And Carlee’s.

“Dr. Allyn, have you ever spoken to the prosecutor, Mr. Bullock, before today?”

The doctor paused before answering. “No. Why?”

Ben’s mind raced. Either he was lying, or this betrayal had been arranged through a third party. It was impossible to know. Ben hated cross-exing in the dark.

“Have you spoken to anyone about your testimony?”

“Mr. Kincaid, as you know, until this morning, I didn’t even know I would be testifying.”

“Have you made a deal with the prosecutor?”

“A deal? What are you babbling about?”

“Why have you changed your testimony?”

“Changed? Changed from what? This is the first time I’ve given it.”

It was useless. Ben knew he had been stung, but he simply didn’t have enough information to prove it. “No more questions.”

As he returned to his table Ben checked the faces in the jury box. No doubt about it. The effect of Bullock’s cross had been total and devastating. Carlee Crane would be written off as a well-meaning crackpot.

Leeman Hayes was back to square one. With no defense.

How could Bullock have known what was coming? How could he be so confident the expert would cave in during cross?

As the doctor passed out of the courtroom Ben saw Bullock wink at a man in the back row. The man looked familiar.

Ben craned his neck for a better view. It took him a minute to place the man. Then the light dawned.

The air-conditioning company bill collector. The new one. The one who wouldn’t take “get lost” for an answer.

The man who had staked out Ben’s office for the past few days.

Ben turned toward Bullock, who was grinning broadly.

Their eyes met. And it all became clear.

The bill collector was a spy. Bullock’s spy. That’s how the prosecution knew Ben had a repressed-memory witness. They probably fed Jones the expert—an expert already prepped to shaft the defense during cross.

No wonder Bullock hadn’t crossed Carlee. He knew he didn’t need to.

The judge was pounding his gavel and shouting, trying to get Ben’s attention. “Any further witnesses, Mr. Kincaid, or does the defense rest?”

God, no. Not now. Even if he had nothing more to say, he couldn’t leave me jury on this note. “We will proceed, your honor.”

“Fine. Call your next witness.”

“The defense calls—”

Ben had to think on the spot. Where did he go now? Who was left? What else did he have?

His eyes inadvertently returned to Bullock. He was leaning back in his chair, his arms folded, his legs comfortably crossed. He was so smug it was unbearable.

Ben couldn’t leave it like this. No way in hell.

He inhaled deeply and pulled himself back together. “The defense calls Ronald Pearson to the stand.” He paused. “Captain Pearson, that is.”

L
IEUTENANT MIKE MORELLI PLODDED
down the pavement of Third and Nowheresville. He was following the route outlined on his map, following a trail of ever-widening concentric, circles radiating from Tulsa International. He was hot and sweaty, his feet hurt, and he had blisters on both big toes. He told himself to ignore his discomfort. He wasn’t going to stop until he found what he was looking for.

Mike might have been more willing to rest if a superior had imposed this impossible mission upon him, but since he’d thrust it upon himself, and since he knew it was only a matter of time until Blackwell brought it to an end, he couldn’t give up. He did feel bad about dumping Abie on Christina, especially when she already had Julia and what’s-his-face’s baby to worry about. Abie was pretty cute, even if he was a kid. It was hard to get too grumpy with someone who worshiped everything about you, including the rumpled coat you normally hid deep inside of.

He had an obligation to give Abie some hope of long-term safety. And that hope could come about only if the man who had kidnapped him was caught. Or dead.

Mike thought he was getting closer. He couldn’t explain why, but that didn’t particularly trouble him. The longer he served on the force, the more he realized that data was not as important to a police officer as instinct. Maybe he was deluding himself; maybe he subconsciously assumed he must be getting close because his feet felt as if he had crisscrossed the whole city three times over. Then again, maybe his subconscious was zeroing in on something his conscious mind hadn’t discovered yet. Whatever. He thought he was getting close.

Mike turned a corner too quickly and brushed shoulders with a burly teenage boy in a jeans jacket with the sleeves cut out. He was holding a can of spray paint.

“Excuse me,” Mike said.

The boy whipped around, then growled in a low voice. Yes, growled.

Mike checked the emblem sewn on the back of his jacket. A snake curled around a handgun. He was a Cobra.

Mike hated the Cobras. They pushed drugs. And they killed kids.

And now this punk had the gall to growl at him. It would have given Mike great pleasure to call that an assault and give me clown a swift punch in the chops (in self-defense, of course), but for once, better judgment prevailed. Business before pleasure. Child molesters first; thugs second.

He let the Cobra pass.

Mike resumed walking. A few seconds later he turned the corner and noticed the stop sign:

Obviously Cobra handwork. Now Mike wished he had stopped the creep; he was marking his territory and declaring his deadly intentions. Mike had learned that gang graffiti was neither random nor meaningless. You just had to know how to read it. The big letters at the top, the
placa,
was the territorial marker. The
CB
was the Cobra’s marker,
KING
was the kid’s gang name;
DK
meant
Demons Killer,
BOBA
was undoubtedly the name of the poor Demon who had been targeted. And for what?

No question. 187 was the penal-code number for homicide.

After the hit, King would draw a cloud around Boba’s name, or perhaps add the letters
R.I.P.

Mike had been right. The Cobras were on the move, planning hits to undermine the Demons’ rival drug-distributing network. If something didn’t happen soon, it would be too late for Boba. And a lot of other kids as well.

Mike punched the LED button on his digital watch and checked the time. He’d been walking for over six hours. Add that to the seven hours he’d been clocking each night for the last three nights and … well, it was probably best not to dwell on it. He’d been at it for a while. And so far all he had was … sore feet and two major blisters on his toes.

And a chance to get reacquainted with some of the worst parts of north Tulsa. What a panoramic display, Mike thought, scanning the streets surrounding him. Urban blight. Poverty. Crime. Human misery. All his favorite scenery. After all, why go to the beach when you can go to—oh, say, Dino’s Hubcap Emporium, or the Wizard’s Smoke Shop, or the crumbling remains of the ABC Taxicab Company, or—

Wait a minute. Some half-remembered detail was nagging at him.
What?

The taxicab company. That was it.

Without looking, Mike plunged off the sidewalk and crossed the street. The front of the stone building was crumbling; the faded paint lettering identifying it as the ABC Taxicab Company was barely visible. The door was bolted and the windows were blocked. It didn’t look as if ABC had been in business for years.

Mike peered down an alley beside the building. It was dark, even though the sun was blazing overhead. The alley was littered with trash and debris. Mike found a huge pile of broken booze bottles stacked against one wall, along with spoiled food and human waste.

He spotted a burlap bag that looked as if it were someone’s bedtime blanket. A homeless person must be using the alley for shelter.

Holding his breath, Mike trudged onward. About halfway down the side of the building, he found the hole. A large hole, as big as a door, in the side wall.

And then we walked through the wall.

Mike looked inside.

There was no movement, no sign of life. Of course there wasn’t, he told himself. What were you expecting? Shake out of it. He was not in danger here. He was just poking around.

Mike stepped through the hole. There were no signs of life, true enough, but there were many taxicabs. Old yellow cabs, most on blocks, the tires having long since been lifted.

Mike looked under one of the hoods. Nothing. Anything of value must’ve long since been removed. Still, there was something about this place. …

Mike snapped his fingers. He was looking at this all wrong. He was thinking like an adult, viewing it as an adult would. Abie was only ten; he had an entirely different perspective on the world.

Mike crouched down and surveyed the room from a height of, oh, say, four feet. The view was very different. You didn’t focus on the cars, because you weren’t looking down on them. All you saw were the doors.

Yellow doors. With numbers.

Mike raced through the building: 54-28X. 54-76X. 64-99C. The numbers flew past.

Abie had been here.

Mike checked the opposite wall. Sure enough, there was a hole in it, too, even larger than the other one. They must’ve passed through this building as a shortcut.

Mike ran through the second hole. His excitement was mounting. If there had been any doubt before, it was gone now. He
was
close.

The hole led to the back end of the block. On the opposite side, Mike spotted a row of low-income houses.

Mike tried to concentrate. Why would it make sense to go through that building?

He checked his map. The deserted building in Rockville where he found Abie was due north from his current position. Someone could stay away from the major streets and still get there from here in half an hour easily. But they wouldn’t cut through this building unless they were coming from …

Directly south, Mike spotted the backyard of a white plasterboard home. The yard was barely big enough for the clothesline strung across it. Extending out from the house on the upper level, though, Mike saw some sort of … attic? No.

Extra room. With a separate set of stairs.

That was it. That’s why the police weren’t finding him. They were looking for apartments. There was probably no way to tell from the front of that house that it had an extra room. The police wouldn’t even stop.

Mike jumped over the chain-link fence. He was happy to find there was no dog. The staircase allowed the tenant to come and go without communicating with the people who lived in the main house. Perfect for a kiddie pervert. He could go about his business … well, unmolested.

Complications would arise only when he was bringing a boy home and thought there was a possibility of some … noise. That was undoubtedly when he used the abandoned building in Rockville. He would walk there to prevent anyone from spotting his car. And once inside, the boy could scream and cry as loud as he was able. …

No one would hear him.

Mike checked the garden by the staircase.
Eureka!

Statues of two dwarfs. Or trolls, if you prefer.

Mike ran up the stairs to the private room. He pressed his ear against the door. At first, he didn’t hear anything. Then he did. Someone was talking in a low voice, barely audible.

Mike reached inside his coat and withdrew his Bren Ten automatic. By all rights, he should get a search warrant, then come back and knock politely

Aw, screw it. For all he knew, there was another exit. The pervert could get away, and he would never come back.