Naked Justice (19 page)

The deleterious effects of this rage on his health were profound. According to the specialists, these enormous bouts of anger triggered internal chain reactions releasing adrenaline and other stress-related compounds, as well as decreasing the number of immune cells and inducing abnormal electrical activity and aberrant heartbeats. Blood saturated with these damaging hormones destroyed his arterial walls, interfering with the flow of blood to his heart. He had already suffered three minor heart attacks, and was at considerable risk for a fourth.

“And you’re sure it was the DA’s office?
Here?
”

Mike nodded grimly. “Absolutely positive.”

Ben jumped into his Honda and drove downtown. Night had already fallen, but he knew that Bullock would still be at the office. He had to get some answers.

Ben stomped into Bullock’s office at full tilt. There were two OSBI agents there, but he didn’t let that stop him from asking what he wanted to know.

To his credit, Bullock didn’t even attempt to deny it.

“I’m sorry we had to keep you out of the loop on this one, Ben, but I’m sure you understand—”

“I do not understand!” Ben surprised himself with his anger, and his ability to express it. A month, even a week earlier, he could never have imagined himself talking to his boss—hell, his hero—in this manner. “We’re talking about my father!”

“Ben, I’m afraid we’re going to be asking the grand jury to consider some very serious charges against your father and some of his business associates. The evidence against him is overwhelming.”

“How long has this investigation been going on?”

Bullock glanced at his two companions. “Months. The OSBI contacted me in December—”

Ben found himself so enraged he could barely talk. “I can’t believe you would investigate my own father behind my back.”

“Ben, be realistic. We couldn’t tell you. The potential conflict of interest is obvious. Still, now that you know, there’s no reason why you can’t help.”

“Help? Help you prosecute my own father?”

“Well, you are a member of my staff.”

“You must be joking.”

“Ben, I don’t think you understand the gravity of the charges.”

That quieted Ben, however briefly. “What charges do you expect the grand jury to return?”

“At the very least, criminal fraud. Maybe murder.”

“Murder! There’s no way—”

“Yes, Ben, there is. Let me tell you about the case.”

“You’re going to have the grand jury indict my father for murder?”

“Well,” Bullock hedged, “we don’t know that we’ll get it.”

Ben knew better than to believe that line. He’d been around long enough to know that the grand jury room was the prosecutor’s playground. The defendant wasn’t even entitled to have a lawyer present.

And Bullock was very skillful.

“I can’t believe this,” Ben said, pressing the side of his head. “I can’t believe it.”

“Really, Ben, I didn’t expect you to react in this emotional manner. Frankly, I didn’t think you even liked him.”

“Like him or not, he’s still my father.” Something about the way Bullock had said it, though, triggered a memory in Ben’s brain. “You felt me out about my father the very first night we met.” A growing realization dawned with disturbing clarity. “You knew even then. You knew you were going after him even then!”

“Now, Ben—”

“Admit it! You’ve known all along!”

Bullock stared back at Ben, then sighed. “All right. I knew he was under investigation. Even then. Of course, I didn’t know whether charges would be brought.”

“And you never once mentioned it to me?”

“I couldn’t. It might have imperiled the investigation.”

“But I know my father. He couldn’t possibly—”

Bullock looked away. “If that’s true, then he won’t be indicted. But I can’t stop the investigation.”

“But he’s my father!” Ben turned away. He was getting too emotional; any minute now he would be crying, and that was the last thing he wanted Bullock to see. “I thought I could trust you.”

“Ben, the public trust is what matters. We have an obligation to the people we serve.”

“That doesn’t justify—”

“That justifies everything. What we’re doing is for the common good. People have been hurt. People have died.”

His words hung heavily in the air between them.

“I’m out of here,” Ben murmured. He headed for the door.

“Wait.” As always Bullock expected his one-word imperatives to be instantly obeyed. “I need a commitment from you.”

“A commitment?”

“You’re a member of my staff. I need to know where you stand. Are you with us or against us?”

“If you’re asking if I’m going to help you lock up my father, no.”

Bullock was silent for a moment. “I’m disappointed to hear that, Ben. I thought we understood each other. I thought we believed in the same things.”

“We’re talking about my
father!
”

“We can’t make exceptions. Once you start that, you tumble down a slippery slope that doesn’t end until the foundations of our society have been totally eroded. Either you’re the defender of the law or you’re not.” He lifted his head slightly. “I guess you’re not.”

Ben stared back at his mentor, his lips slightly parted, frozen.

Bullock turned away. “As of this moment, Kincaid, consider yourself on the other side of a Chinese wall. You are to have no contact with this case or with anyone who is working on this case.”

“But—”

“That’s all there is to say. Now if you don’t mind, we have a lot of work to do before the grand jury hearing tomorrow.”

And that was how it ended. Like a translucent soap bubble, beautiful but fragile, the Bullock-Kincaid crusade for justice disappeared. That was the last time Bullock had ever spoken a civil word to Ben. Their friendship, their partnership, was over.

But, as Ben learned the very next day, the nightmare was just beginning.

W
HEN BEN RETURNED TO
his office after the Barrett preliminary hearing, Loving was waiting for him, his eyes eager with anticipation. “How’d it go, Skipper?”

It occurred to Ben that if he could win murder trials, play all twenty-five Chopin preludes by heart, and recite “Annabel Lee” without error, he ought to be able to persuade Loving to stop calling him Skipper. But so far, not.

“Well, as I anticipated, Barrett was bound over for trial. We got a start date in about three weeks. And the judge denied my motion to suppress.”

“Damn!” Loving slammed one huge fist into the palm of his hand. “Did you show him the affidavits? You didn’t forget to show him the affidavits, did you?

“I assure you, I remembered.”

“Jeez, I worked my butt off gettin’ those guys to sign up.”

“I know, Loving, and I appreciate it.”

“They didn’t wanna do it, you know. ’Specially the cops.”

“Really. How did you persuade them?”

Loving shrugged. “I gotta lot of friends with the boys in blue. So do you, believe it or not. Even if you are a lawyer. They ain’t forgotten how you put yourself on the line to help catch the Kindergarten Killer. And none of them are too crazy ’bout Prescott. I can’t believe the judge turned down your motion.” He snapped his fingers. “It must be ’cause of all them reporters. You know how the media distort everything. They’re the ones who really pull the strings in this country.”

“Are they? I thought it was the military-industrial complex.”

“Jeez, you’re behind the times. The media bosses control everything now. They can make people believe anything they want. Look how they framed Tonya Harding.”

“What?”

Christina whirled around in her chair and pushed away from her desk. “I’ve gone through the prosecution exhibit list with a fine-tooth comb, Ben.”

“Good,” he said, happy to change the subject.

“I’ve identified all the evidence that hasn’t been produced. There’s definitely a pattern. Almost all of it came from the crime scene. They must be hiding something, but I don’t know what it is.”

“I do.” Ben threw his briefcase on top of her desk. “I knew as soon as I announced in court that the crime scene hadn’t been properly preserved. I knew from Bullock’s reaction.”

“He was surprised?”

“No. I’ve seen Bullock surprised before, and that wasn’t it. Oh, it was a good fake, but it didn’t fool me. He might’ve been surprised that I already found out, but he wasn’t surprised to hear that the crime scene was corrupted.”

“So why the big stall?”

“The less time we have to examine the evidence, the less time we’ll have to determine the extent of the corruption. He doesn’t want to fight any more evidentiary motions than necessary.” He turned back toward Loving. “How’s your snooping on the city council going?”

Loving frowned. “Slow. I made a list, talked to some of them. These are high-profile respectable citizen types, natch. No one volunteered that they’d hired a hit man.”

“Well, that’s no surprise.”

“I made some notes. Jones said he’d type them up.”

“Where is Jones, anyway?” Ben turned around. Jones was standing over his desk beside the phone. He seemed stricken. The blood had drained out of his face.

“Jones?” Ben walked beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

It took Jones more than a moment before he could respond. “I … just …” He shook his head, licked his lips. “I just got back from lunch.” His eyes drifted down toward the answering machine. “Thought I’d listen to the phone messages.”

Ben’s brow creased with concern. “And?”

His voice trembled a bit as he spoke. He was obviously shaken. “Listen.”

Jones turned the volume up to the highest setting. He pushed the Messages button. After a loud beep, they all heard the same two words repeated in a hushed, guttural monotone.

“Sick heart. Sick heart. Sick heart. Sick heart. Sick heart.”

The message was repeated again and again until the caller finally hung up. A harsh beep signaled the end.

“That’s … odd.” Ben said quietly.

“That would be one word for it,” Jones murmured.

“It must be the same creep,” Ben said. “The same nut who shut down your computer. But why? What’s the point? At least the computer trick interfered with our investigation. One message is hardly going to tie up the phone line.”

Loving shook his head. “He didn’t do this to tie up the phone, Skipper. He did this to scare the hell out of you. This is a threat.”

“Against Barrett?”

“No way. It ain’t that hard to get messages into the jailhouse. If he’d wanted it to go to Barrett, he would’ve sent it to Barrett.” He turned and faced Ben. “This was for you.”

D
EANNA RUMMAGED THROUGH THE
cluttered collection of teenage effluvia on the floor of Martha’s closet. She’d already searched her dresser, her desk, and the pockets of her dirty clothes. She found Martha’s diary, too, but so far she’d managed to resist that temptation. She had a hunch that resolution would not last long, however. Especially if she didn’t find what she was looking for.

Martha had been given permission to go to the movies—her first time out of the house, other than for school, since their big blowout over Buck. Martha had actually seemed slightly grateful, nice even, although perhaps she was just so relieved to be released from incarceration that she was willing to be kind even to the woman who had “destroyed the only love she ever knew.” Deanna had dropped her at the Eton Square Cineplex, then returned home to begin the search.

The pile on the closet floor was a mishmash of dirty and clean clothes, old book reports, posters, makeup, shoes, top-secret notes, all piled together like autumn leaves on the carpet. Deanna sifted through it quickly; indeed, it was not long at all before she had found what she wanted.

A red tank top.

Deanna had been almost certain Martha had one, but she wanted to be sure. This was important, after all.

She had thought she might find the blue headband as well, but realistically, that was probably impossible, because it was probably on Martha’s head. It always was. She wore it everywhere.

Deanna removed the newspaper article from her back pocket and carefully unfolded it. She reread the description given by one of Barrett’s neighbors of the strangers he had seen lurking in the neighborhood prior to the murder. Dark hair, skinny, shaggy, with a goatee and green fatigues. That fit Buck to a tee. And the girl with him? Short hair, five foot two or three, red tank top, blue headband.

Martha.

The only part of the description she had been remotely unsure about was the tank top, and now she had confirmed it.

Could it really have been Martha? Deanna knew the poor girl thought she was in love, and would probably have been easily influenced by Buck, thug that he was. But to do something like this? To have stalked the mayor and his family? What if the police were wrong? What if Mayor Barrett didn’t kill his family? What if—

She pressed her fingers against her mouth. She just couldn’t think about it. Couldn’t even imagine it. Not her Martha. Not her!

Her eyes returned unbidden to the newspaper article. Something about it clicked in her memory. Her eyes scanned the neighbor’s description. He also recalled that on at least one occasion the man had been carrying a black bag. Bigger than a handbag, smaller than a suitcase. Maybe a gym bag.

The suggestion, of course, was that the bag might have contained some kind of weapon.

And the reason it had clicked in Deanna’s memory was that she had seen that bag somewhere in this room.

Deanna brushed the dirty clothes off her lap and stood up. It wasn’t in the closet. The desk didn’t check out, so she tried the dresser. My God, my God, my God. She could feel the panic rising, her blood rushing to her head. What if Martha was involved with some gangster? What if he carried a gun?

What if the gun was hidden in Martha’s room?

She was fumbling now, rushing so fast and with such urgency that she was spilling things, knocking them over. She would never be able to put this back together again. Martha would know she had been searched, that her privacy had been invaded.

Didn’t matter. This was more important.