Hate Crime (39 page)

“How should I know? He never tells me anything.”

Loving’s eyes widened. “Didn’tcha see the press conference? It was on television.”

“As if I have time for television,” Jones grunted. “Someone has to keep this office afloat.” He paused, a puzzled expression on his face. “Ben gave a press conference? I thought he considered that the hallmark of sleaze.”

“So you don’t know nothin’ ’bout what happened in the courtroom today?”

“As I said—”

“You’re not gonna believe it. This case has had more twists and turns than the Million Dollar Highway.” Loving continued recounting the day’s events. It was only a matter of moments before Jones became so entranced he turned away from his computer monitor. After a minute, he dropped his pencil, hanging on every word. He was so wrapped up in Loving’s account that he didn’t even look up when the front door chime sounded.

The visitor crossed the front lobby and approached Jones’s desk.

“. . . and once Ben proves who the fourth partner is, my bookie’s laying three-to-one odds that the judge—” He stopped abruptly as the visitor entered his field of vision. “Psst. Jones.”

The visitor was a large man. His posture spoke of strength and power and a blustery sort of confidence. He was wearing a nondescript blue suit with a bland black tie. About the only noteworthy thing about him was his face—or lack thereof. He was wearing a mask, one of those cheap plastic Halloween masks that come from discount toy stores. Jones couldn’t be certain, but he thought he was looking into the simulated face of Captain Kirk.

“May I help you?”

“Yes,” said the deep voice behind the mask. “I’d like you both to come with me.”

A deep furrow crossed Jones’s brow. “Come where?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

Jones and Loving exchanged a look. “Then . . . why would we want to come?”

The man’s hand emerged from his suit coat pocket holding a small revolver. “Because if you don’t, I’ll have to kill you.”

Ben and Christina trudged from the parking lot back to the building where Kevin Mahoney had his offices. Ben was carrying a large and heavy banker’s box. Christina was hauling a catalog case in each hand.

“Have I mentioned that this is the worst part of any trial?” Ben said.

“Only every day,” Christina grunted back.

“I don’t know why they won’t let us keep our stuff in the courtroom.”

“Because it isn’t safe. If something happened to it, they don’t want you trying to blame the court because your case goes south. Besides, you never know what you’ll need to prep for the next day.”

Christina dropped one of the cases and opened the glass lobby door. “At least this time around we have Vicki—an extra set of hands and an extra car. That saves at least two or three trips a day.” She gathered up the case with a grunt. “She’s a bit on the timid side, of course, but she sure gets the job done. And her French is excellent.”

Ben grinned. “And that’s important when you’re trying a brutal homicide case.”

“Civility is always important,” Christina replied airily.

They entered the elevator and rode up to the floor where they were borrowing space from Mahoney. When they entered the office, they found it deserted.

“I expected all of Kevin’s people to be gone this late in the day. But where’s Jones?” Christina asked.

“Or Loving? Dunno.” Ben scratched his head. “Jones is usually right at the door waiting for us, so he can give me his complaints of the day.”

Christina smiled. “He gives me doughnuts.”

“I guess we know where his heart lies.” Ben left his materials by the door—so they could be more easily carted back to court again tomorrow morning—then headed back to his office. He’d been there maybe ten minutes when he heard the front door chime.

Who would be coming in at this time of night? he wondered. It was way too late for business visitors. Probably just Jones returning from whatever errand he was on. Maybe a reporter. Or Ellen. Or . . . there was one other possibility. He clapped his side coat pocket. He was ready, in any case.

He pushed out of his chair and approached the door. He was almost through it when a man entered—wearing a Hallo-ween mask.

Ben drew back. “Excuse me. What are you—”

The man did not wait for him to finish. He shoved Ben back, hard. Ben fell against his desk, the edge slamming into him.

Ben didn’t waste a second. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small handheld radio. “Boxer?
Now!
Call the police and come!”

The man in the mask knocked the radio out of his hand. “Would you by chance be calling Boxer Johnson?”

Ben felt his mouth go dry.

The man reached into his coat and removed another radio, just like the one Ben had, then a black leather wallet. “Boxer Johnson, age fifty-five, blue eyes, one hundred and seventy-five pounds, eyesight restriction.” He threw the wallet into Ben’s face. “Bad news, Kincaid. He won’t be coming.”

Ben pressed back against the desk, trying to get as far as possible from the man. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“Oh, but you already know that, don’t you? This is your party, after all.”

“I don’t know what—”

“Don’t treat me like a jerk.” He drew his hand back and slapped Ben hard across the face. “You set this up, with your little press conference. You knew I’d have no choice but to come after you. I wasn’t going to let you screw everything up. Not after all the work, all the . . . killing. Maybe you thought I’d wait till you left the office, but I figured I better move quick, before it’s too late. Before you were ready. First, I took out your two little friends. But I kept telling myself, this kid Kincaid can’t be this stupid. He’s practically inviting me to come after him. He must have backup. So after you went into the office, I sat back and waited. And sure enough, as predictable as clockwork, your rear guard showed up, chatting into his little radio, making his rounds.”

“If you’ve hurt him—”

“Oh, I’ve hurt him all right. I hurt him good, like he won’t forget for a long time. If he can remember anything.”

“Ben, have you got the ex—” Christina stepped through the doorway, then froze. A millisecond later, she turned to run. The man in the mask whirled around, grabbed her arm. As she tried to pull away, he jerked her backwards. Ben knew that it hurt; he could see it in her eyes. She flew backward and careered into the desk beside him.

“And here’s the pretty one,” he said, contempt dripping from his voice. “I might have a little fun with you, before it’s over. Or after.”

“I don’t know who you are or what—”

He slapped her, silencing her. “You may be an innocent victim of your boss’s little prank. But you’re going to suffer just as bad.” He grabbed Ben by the collar, shaking him. “Did you think you could fuck with me? With
me
? You little punk.” He threw Ben back with disgust. “This is going to be a pleasure.” He pulled a revolver out of his coat pocket and pressed it against the side of Ben’s skull. “Gonna take away all your troubles, lawyer-boy. You should thank me.”

“No!” Christina screamed. “Please don’t hurt him!”

“Don’t waste your breath crying for this asswipe,” the man said, pulling Ben up by the collar and pressing his head down with the gun. “Save it for yourself. You’re next.”

Mike found Sergeant Baxter in the kitchen of the Chicago FBI office. She had a coffee cup in one hand and a half-eaten yogurt in the other.

“Care to join me for a little slash-and-burn operation?” he asked.

“Why would I?”

“Because you’re my partner.”

She pressed a hand against her chest. “He remembers!”

“Don’t be so—”

“I thought you had totally forgotten. Or that Special Agent Swift had worked some kind of Deep South mojo on your brain.”

“Hey, I didn’t ask to have a Feeb baby-sitting me on this case.”

“No, but you haven’t exactly resisted, either. So what’s a slash-and-burn, anyway?”

“Means I don’t really have a clue. I’m going to thrust myself into the lion’s den and see if I can stir something up. Hassle, threaten, intimidate. Take no prisoners.”

“Sounds very sophisticated. Count me in. What is it we’re trying to learn?”

“What else? The identity of the fourth kidnapper.”

Baxter stared at him strangely. “But—I thought you already knew.”

Mike returned an equally mystified expression. “Why in God’s name would you think that?”

“Because I watched your pal Kincaid on television telling everyone he knew who the fourth man was.”

“What?”

“And I figured he could only have gotten the scoop from you. Wrong?”

“Very.” Mike thrust his hands into his pockets. “What the hell is he playing at?”

“Hard to tell with those defense shysters. Must be some kind of trick.”

“Yeah. Must be. Maybe he—” All at once, Mike’s face went white. “Oh, my God. That stupid idiot.”

“What? What is it?”

“Change of plan.” Mike began racing down the corridor. He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and started dialing. “We’ve got to find him.” He put the phone to his ear, got no answer, swore. “That incredible moron!” He punched the elevator button, then didn’t have the patience to wait. He lurched toward the stairs. “Ben has pulled some stupid stunts in his time, take my word for it. But this one’s going to get him killed.”

Christina looked on in horror as the brutal man in the Halloween mask pressed a gun to Ben’s temple. How had this plan gone so wrong so fast? Images flashed unbidden in her brain—Manny Nowosky with the drill bit through his skull; Charlie the Chicken with the gun in his mouth. And now Ben was poised to be the next victim.

“You brought this on yourself,” the man growled. “You could’ve just let that son-of-a-bitch kid take the rap. But no, you had to go messin’ around in my business. And now you’re going to pay the price.”

Christina’s mind was racing. That voice, even hoarse and broken, sounded familiar, but with the mask concealing his face she couldn’t be sure. She watched helplessly as his thumb pulled back the hammer of the pistol. He was really going to do it! She couldn’t wait another second. Without warning, she lurched forward, head-butting the gun away from Ben.

The gun fired, but the bullet went off somewhere into the far wall. The man in the mask fell backward. Christina scrambled to her feet, but he was too quick for her. He caught her with the back of his gun hand and whipped her hard across the face. She felt her head explode, her neck bent by the force of the blow. Blood trickled down her cheek.

She began to topple, but the man in the mask grabbed her by the hair and jerked her head up. Ben scrambled to his feet and tried to rush him, but he shoved Ben back with ease.

“One more move like that and the girl dies!” he barked.

Ben froze in his tracks.

Christina tried to pull her head out of the daze and figure out what to do next. The man was still holding the gun in his spare hand, but it was pointing off to the side; during the struggle, it had pivoted around on his trigger finger. This would be a good time to do something. If she could only figure out what.

“You thought you could hurt me?” The man’s former cool had evaporated. “I’ve been fighting all my life! I’ve taken out the biggest and the strongest. Never let anyone get in my way. And that includes you!”

He outweighed Christina by more than two-to-one, but she had been taking those self-defense classes at the Y for a reason, and no matter how tough the guy was, he had the same vulnerable points as everyone else. The eyes, which she couldn’t get to. The temples, the ears, which she also couldn’t get to. And the knees.

Now that was a different story.

She reared back with the heel of her shoe and smashed it into the small of his kneecap. He tumbled. Just like her instructor told her—no matter how big the man, a good swift kick to the knee will bring him down.

But he was still holding the gun. She brought her foot around, this time kicking his gun hand. He released it, then she kicked it to the other side of the room.

“Ben! Get it!”

Ben dove for that corner of the office, but the man grabbed his foot and fell right on top of him. They began to struggle. Christina tried to get around him, but he threw up his arm and tripped her. He pulled himself onto his knees, holding back Ben with one hand and Christina with the other.

The gun lay on the floor in the opposite corner.

Ben rammed his elbow into the man’s nose. Christina came at his neck with her fingernails. He still did not release them. Christina could feel great power surging through his arms. He was stronger than Samson, and determined not to let them go.

With a mighty effort, he tossed the both of them back a few feet, then flung himself toward the gun. He grabbed the revolver, then rolled around on his shoulder. Christina raced forward—just in time to see a poised gun staring her down the throat.

“You goddamn punks!” the man shouted, almost hysterical. The gun was wavering, trembling, but not so much that there was any chance he would miss her if he pulled the trigger. “You goddamn smart-ass punks!”

“I thought so,” Christina said quietly. “I know who you are.”

In the midst of the struggle, the man’s mask had been knocked to the side.

“You’re Mario Roma,” Christina continued. “You own Remote Control.”

“Yeah,” Roma said, his teeth clenched, both hands squeezing the shaking revolver. “And you’re a corpse.”

“He’s not in the courthouse!” Mike shouted back to Baxter, who was waiting in the unmarked Bureau car.

“I’ve been calling their office. No answer.”

“Damn.” He dove into the passenger seat. “You drive.”

Given the urgency, she did as he instructed, but she was incredulous even as she slid across the seat.

“I want to keep working the phone,” Mike explained. “And I need someone giving the road their full attention—and driving just as fast as possible.”

Baxter pulled the car away from the curb, with a peel of rubber. “You must really be tight with this shyster.”

Mike shrugged. “We go way back.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Besides, it’s kind of like being a Good Samaritan. How many friends can a defense lawyer have?”