Dark Justice (4 page)

“I don’t think the vet will—”

“I’ve already made the arrangements. Appointment’s at ten in the morning. So I’ll feed kitty her last meal, let her get a good night’s sleep, and then …” He pantomimed pushing the plunger on a syringe, then acted as if he’d just received an electric shock. “
Bzzzzt
!”

Ben’s lips moved wordlessly.

“Anyway, Kincaid, thanks again for coming to the store.” He took the cat from Ben. “It’s been great.”

Ben stared blank-faced at the man. “Yeah. Great.”

Even as ben crept down the alleyway, he couldn’t believe he was doing it. This was the kind of escapade Christina would concoct; she would spend hours trying to talk him into it, until finally he relented. But now here he was out by himself, doing it on his own.

Damn. Whatever she had, it must be catching.

But how on earth could he face Clayton Langdell and the rest of the gang at the Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Our Other-Than-Human Neighbors if he allowed this act of barbaric cruelty and species snobbery to take place? More to the point, how could he face Giselle? He had argued and argued with Fred, but nothing he had said had changed the man’s mind. There was no other alternative. Ben normally wasn’t one to meddle in other people’s business, but some things were just wrong, and this was one of them. He had to do something.

Didn’t he?

Navigating the town had been easy, even for a stranger, even in the dead of night. Magic Valley was a small northwest Washington town nestled at the foot of Mount Crescent. It had fewer than ten thousand residents, and the cabdriver had given Ben a thorough tour on his way in. Downtown was laid out on five streets: Main Street, which coursed through the center of the town, and the four cross streets, Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, and Kennedy—one for each assassinated president. Most of the residences were to the north, between Main and the Magic Valley National Forest, site of the logging operation that supported most of the town.

Ben tiptoed past a pawnshop, a drugstore, a dry goods store, and a grocery. Almost all the businesses had yellow ribbons tied to the door or a lamppost. What was that all about? he wondered. Well, that was something he could ask about tomorrow, after this
Mission: Impossible
escapade was behind him.

He crept down the steps that led to the basement entrance of the bookstore. He had checked the lock on his way out; it wasn’t the worst he’d ever seen, but he didn’t think he’d have much trouble getting past it. Long ago his friend Mike Morelli, Tulsa homicide cop, had made him an expert on lockpicking. And there was no sign of a security system.

He scanned the street above him in all directions. He saw two men standing on a streetcorner two blocks away. Even from this distance, he could see one of the men was huge, with muscles rippling out of his tank top and shoulder-length jet-black hair. The two were having an intense discussion about something. Ben couldn’t imagine what anyone could want to talk about at this hour of the morning. After a few more minutes, both men disappeared down a side street.

Ben waited until everything was quiet. He whipped out the simple two-piece metal lockpick he had acquired at the pawnshop not far from his hotel. He pushed the thin metal brace up, holding the trigger piece out of the action. Then he probed the interior of the lock with the longer ridged piece, trying to trip the tumbler that would open the lock.

He heard a distinct popping noise, then tried the doorknob. It moved.

Ben drew in his breath. This was the critical moment. If he took the next step, he would be committed to this course of action. This absolutely positively illegal course of action.

Slowly he pushed the door open. There was no alarm—or none that he could hear, anyway. That at least was a relief.

He shuffled inside, feeling a sudden surge of adrenaline. He had taken the decisive step now; best to just get it over with.

He pulled his flashlight out of his coat pocket and swept it across the bookstore. The card table at which he had sat before was gone, and the largely unsold stock of his book had already been loaded into a cardboard box, ready to be shipped back to the publisher for credit.

He tiptoed down the nearest corridor, passing Agatha Christie’s entire life’s work, the Sue Grafton alphabet books, and the endless array of lawyer books, all of which appeared to have exactly the same cover.

In the far corner, he found his prey.

“Hello, Margery,” Ben whispered, crouching down to the cat’s level. “We’re going to do a road-show reenactment of
The Great Escape
. And I’m playing Steve McQueen.”

To his relief, the cat did not struggle, hiss, fight, claw, or otherwise express her objections. Ben shoved the flashlight into his jacket, then scooped Margery into his arms. He was almost back up and running when he heard the rhythmic
click-click
sound behind him.

He didn’t have to be a detective to know he was not alone. And he didn’t have to be a weapons expert to know he had just heard someone cock a shotgun.

“All right, mister.” A cranky, nasal voice emerged from the darkness. “Turn around slow and easy. And keep your hands up in the air where I can see them.”

Ben raised his hands. As he did so, Margery jumped down. She skittered across the floor, returned to her comfortable cushioned bed on the floor, snuggled her head into her paws, and closed her eyes. It would seem Margery knew when to abandon ship. “Ingrate,” Ben murmured.

“All right,” barked the voice in the darkness. “Keep your hands in the air and move!”

W
HEN AT LAST THE HONORABLE
Judge Tyrone J. Pickens entered his courtroom, he looked as if he was suffering the ill effects of a singularly hard night. Perhaps several hard nights. On closer examination, Ben thought, perhaps years of hard nights.

Pickens’s craggy face was speckled and ruddy, his nose shiny. His black-rimmed glasses seemed to be in constant motion, on, then off, on, then off. His posture was slumped and his expression was grim. He looked as if he would rather be anywhere else on earth.

Of course, Ben could sympathize with that. He would also rather be anywhere else. But here he was standing in the Magic Valley county courthouse. Handcuffed to the sheriff.

Judge Pickens rifled through the papers on his desk. “Looks like we got us a breaking and entering, is that it?”

The woman up at the bench, who Ben gathered was the district attorney, nodded.

“Great,” the judge murmured. “Just great. First good fishing day in months, and I’ve got me a goddamn breaking and entering. How many days to try this sucker?”

The bailiff standing dutifully to the judge’s side cleared his throat. “This is just an arraignment, your honor.”

Pickens’s face brightened. “An arraignment? Hot damn. We can whip through this sucker in two minutes.” He pointed his gavel in Ben’s direction. “You the perp?”

Ben cleared his throat. “I’m the accused, yes, your honor.”

“You got a lawyer?” He gave Ben the once-over. “No, I suppose you’ll be wanting us to appoint one.”

“Actually, I am a lawyer.”

The judge did a double take. “You sure about that? You ain’t exactly dressed for court.”

“The sheriff didn’t give me a chance to change before hauling me to the county jail.”

“Oh, I get it. You’re the perp and the lawyer.”

Ben nodded. “That’s it.”

“You gonna represent yourself? That would probably be a big mistake, you know.”

Thank you very much, Ben thought. “I will for now, at any rate.”

“Suit yourself.” He recalibrated his gavel toward the other table. “Granny, whatcha got on this man?”

Ben’s eyes crinkled. Granny? As far as he could tell, the woman standing before the judge was in her late twenties, tops. She had a perfect hourglass figure and rich, full chestnut-brown hair that swished engagingly across her clavicle with every step she took. She was not tall, but everything she had was jam-packed into a package that Ben was having a hard time keeping his eyes off.

Granny?

“Your honor,” she explained, “the accused was apprehended down at Fred Franklin’s bookstore this morning about three
A.M.
”

Judge Pickens began scribbling notes. “What was he after? Cash?”

“According to him, all he wanted was Fred’s cat.”

Pickens raised his glasses. “His
cat
?”

“That’s his story. Had his own lockpick he used to get in. He was a pro.”

The judge smiled. “I guess that makes him a professional cat burglar. Literally.” Pickens slapped his knee and let loose with a ripsnorter of a laugh, then leaned back and wiped his eyes. “But seriously, is attempted cat theft a crime?”

“Breaking and entering is.”

Ben stepped forward, as best he could while still handcuffed to the sheriff. “Your honor, could I please explain?”

Pickens didn’t look up. “No.”

“But I think I could clear—”

Pickens cut him off. “You will remain silent until such time as I ask you to plead, got it?”

Ben complied.

Judge Pickens returned his attention to the prosecutor. “So, Granny, this guy got any priors?”

She nodded. “I ran some checks this morning. Turns out he was arrested once before in Arkansas for brawling in a bar.”

Pickens scrutinized Ben’s thin frame. “This guy?”

“It’s on his record. Tell you what else I found out. He really is a lawyer. And he often works for something called the Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Our Other-Than-Human Neighbors. Some kind of animal rights terrorist group.”

Ben couldn’t remain silent. “
Terrorist
group?”

“The accused is believed to have participated in any number of break-ins and underground activities, many of them masterminded by this animal rights group.”

The judge’s teeth clenched up. “Go on.”

“According to the court records, the accused represented this group in twenty-seven different cases in one year alone.”

Ben pressed forward. “They were my only client!”

Pickens ignored him. “Recommendations, Granny?”

“I think we’ve got enough trouble right now from political extremists without letting another one loose on the streets.”

“I agree.” Judge Pickens pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “The court hereby finds sufficient cause to bind the defendant over on the charge of breaking and entering. Bail is set for fifty thousand dollars.”

Ben jumped out of his chair. “Fifty thousand dollars? For a catnapping?”

“If you can make bail,” the judge explained, “you may pay it to the clerk of the court on your way out.”

“Are you kidding? I can’t even come close!”

“In which case I hope you like prison food, because you’re going to be getting a lot of it.” He pounded his gavel. “Court is out of session.”

“But wait! I haven’t even—”

The sheriff laid his hand on Ben’s shoulder. “Don’t bother. It’s over.”

Ben saw that the judge was already off the bench. A second later, he was out of the courtroom. And a second after that, Ben presumed, he was stepping into his fishing waders.

Ben peered pleadingly at the sheriff. “It was just a cat!”

The sheriff nodded as he tugged on Ben’s cuffs and led him toward the back of the courtroom. “That’s what they all say.”

S
HERIFF DOUGLAS ALLEN
walked Ben back to the county jail cell where he had spent part of the night and morning between arrest and arraignment. “Sorry the accommodations aren’t nicer. I’ve been trying to get the town to appropriate money for a new jail, but it’s no go. People just aren’t interested in spending money to make life comfier for the criminal element.” He cleared his throat. “No offense intended.”

“None taken.” Ben resituated himself on the edge of the metal cot that passed for a bed. There was nowhere else to sit. “Mind if I ask you a question?”

Sheriff Allen grinned. “Let me save you the trouble. It’s short for Granville.”

“Granville?”

“Right. Usually a boy’s name, but that didn’t stop her pappy from passing it on to her. Actually, it’s her middle name. Her first name’s Rebecca, not that it matters. Everybody calls her Granny. Always has. Even when she was just a scrawny little thing.”

“She’s not just a scrawny little thing anymore.”

“You noticed that, did ya?” Allen laughed again, and Ben found himself liking this man who kept locking him up in an eight-square-foot cell. “I saw the way your eyes peeled back when she strolled across the courtroom. Not that you’re the first.”

“I don’t suppose she’s …”

“Available? She is, although she doesn’t normally consort with the criminal element.” He stepped out of the cell and locked the door. “Let me give you a piece of advice about our stunning young prosecutor, if I may.”

“I’m listening.”

“You know about the black widow?”

“I know what it is.”

“But do you know about the female’s … mating habits?”

Ben shrugged. “Sure. Mates with the male, then eats him.”

Allen nodded. “And do you know where the black widow learned its tricks? From watching that sweet little package you drooled over in the courtroom. Granny Adams taught the black widow everything it knows.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. But actually, that wasn’t my question.”

“It wasn’t? Damn. This is gonna get me thrown off the psychic hotline. What was it?”

“I wanted to know about the judge. He seems a bit … how shall I say it? On the extreme side.”

“That’s Tyrone, for you. Always very extreme.”

“Fancies himself a hanging judge?”

“Around here, we call Judge Pickens ‘The Time Machine’—because whatever the crime is, he always gives the defendant the maximum time.”

This was lovely to hear. “Even catnappers?”

“Don’t believe we’ve had any precedent. But I can tell you what he did to Sonny Carlisle last week.”

“Stiff sentence?”

“The stiffest. Sonny’d been drinking too hard out at Bunyan’s. He shouldn’t have been driving, but he was. Ended up smashing into two teenagers. Killed one of ’em. ’Course, it was negligent homicide, but that didn’t slow The Time Machine down any. He gave Sonny two fifty-year sentences.”