Silent Justice (29 page)

After all this work. All this time and money. Summary judgment. Ben’s chest felt as if his heart had stopped beating.

“Can this be right?” Ben said softly, under his breath.

“Don’t ask me,” Jones replied. “But it looks good on paper. And they’ve got a lot of cases supporting their position.”

Which was true. The brief’s table of cases went on for three pages. Most were cases Ben had never heard of.

“What are you going to do?” Jones asked.

Ben dropped the briefs on the desk, feeling forlorn and useless. “I don’t know. When she comes in, ask Christina to go to the library and start working on all this.”

“Boss, she can’t possibly—”

“She’s a law student. She knows her way around the library.”

“But Boss—
eight motions?”

“I’ll help.”

“You’ve got your own work to take care of. You’ve got stacks of documents you still haven’t waded through. Depo transcripts you haven’t read. Experts to locate and prepare.”

“We have no choice.”

“Boss—you need help.”

Ben arched an eyebrow. “What did you have in mind?”

“I don’t know. Can’t you … hire an associate?”

“Hire an associate with what? No money, remember?”

“You’re going to have to do something.”

Ben blew air through his lips, suddenly feeling enormously tired. “Thanks for telling me something I didn’t already know.” He started toward his office. “Did I mention that I hate civil litigation?”

“No,” Jones said, with a wry smile. “Why?”

“Because there’s nothing civil about it.”

Mike stared glassy-eyed at the mound of paper covering his desk. He hated paperwork. Hated it with a passion. Avoidance of paperwork could well be the secret reason he’d decided to become a cop in the first place. He wanted to be Starsky and Hutch, not Bob Cratchit.

So why was he—top homicide detective in the Tulsa police department—going over these blinking accounting records?

It had taken him more than a week to pry these financial statements out of H. P. Blaylock. He’d had to bully, swagger, threaten, cajole, wave subpoenae in the air. Finally, experiencing a rare moment of triumph, he got what he wanted.

Except, now that he had it, he didn’t know what to do with it.

He couldn’t read this spreadsheet crap. He couldn’t even balance his checkbook. He’d been an English major, for God’s sake. And although there were many reasons for that choice, one of the highest ranking was definitely—no math.

He couldn’t begin to decode all this accountant gobbledygook. Much as he hated to admit it, he needed assistance.

He punched the intercom button on his phone. “Nita?”

The floor secretary was there. “Yes, Mike?”

“I need a consultant. Who’s the top accountant in our white-collar crimes division?”

“That would be Pfieffer.”

“Not Pfieffer!”

“ ‘Fraid so.”

Mike groaned. “Okay, who’s the bottom accountant?”

“That would also be Pfieffer.”

“Are you saying he’s the only accountant we have on staff?”

“Where do you think you are, New York City? Of course he’s the only accountant we have.”

Great. Just great. “Would you please tell Mr. Pfieffer that I would like to request an audience with him at the earliest possible opportunity?”

“I will.” She giggled. “Can I come and watch?”

“No.” He slammed the phone receiver down. He hated to be harsh with a sweetie like Nita. But some things just weren’t funny.

Ben checked his watch again. Thirty minutes. He’d been waiting thirty minutes. If he were in a doctor’s office, of course, that would be nothing. But in a bank, it seemed like an eternity.

Finally, a bleached blond secretary escorted him into The Brain’s interior office. He was actually named Cecil Conrad Eversole II. He was twice as old as Ben and about half the size, a tiny man who seemed almost entirely enveloped by his white starched shirt and pinstripes.

The Brain was sitting at his desk, bifocals poised at the end of his nose, staring at some documents. When he spotted Ben, he offered a slight smile. “Always a pleasure to see you, Ben.”

Ben scrunched down in a chair, already feeling cranky. “If it’s such a pleasure, why did I have to wait so long?”

“Sorry about that. Busy day. Hope you weren’t too miserable.”

“I was. I hate banks.”

The Brain did a double take. “You hate banks? Why?”

“Because I don’t have any money in them.”

The banker smiled. “Anyway, how much will it be?”

Ben blinked. “How … much?”

“Of course. I assume since you’re here in person this time, you’re planning to pay back some—”

He froze. The expression on Ben’s face told him how mistaken he was.

“Oh, no,” he whispered under his breath. “No, no. Please no. Don’t tell me—”

“I need more money.”

“I made it clear to Mr. Jones last time that it was absolutely your last trip to the well.”

Ben squirmed. “We’ve got this big lawsuit going—”

“I know all about the class action suit. Mr. Jones has briefed me extensively.”

Ben fingered his collar. “Well, then, you must realize that the potential for recovery is … unlimited.”

“I think it’s speculative in the extreme. I think you were foolish to take the case.”

Well, that was going to make this more complicated. “We’ve had some unforeseen expenses. But I’ve no doubt that in the end—”

The Brain cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Let me make this easier for you, Ben. No.”

“Excuse me?”

“No. Absolutely not. Not a penny more.”

“But—we’re in the middle of a lawsuit!”

“All the more reason. This is a responsible financial institution. We can’t throw good money after bad.”

“But—”

“Ben, I’m trying to make this easy for you because I like you. I’m trying to spare you the mortification of making a lot of desperate pleas. They won’t work. I cannot loan you any more money.”

“But I’ve got to hire experts—”

“My colleagues think I was crazy to humor you as long as I did. Making loans with a lawsuit as collateral is preposterous.”

“Then—take something else as collateral. Take the title to my van.”

“Already got it.”

“Take a lien on our office equipment.”

“Did that months ago.”

“Then—take a lien on my personal possessions.”

“I can’t, Ben. You don’t have anything anyone else would ever want to have.” He fidgeted with a pencil. “This is making me most uncomfortable, Ben. Please desist.”

Ben threw himself back in his chair. “There must be some way. I can’t just abandon the case.”

“I don’t think you have any choice. I can’t loan you any more money for a lawsuit. And no one else in town will, either.”

Ben felt his weight sinking into the cushioned pads of the chair. There had to be some way to continue.

“Hear what I’m saying, Ben. I cannot loan you any more money for a lawsuit.”

Ben tilted his head slightly. The way The Brain was overemphasizing some of the words—it was almost as if he was trying to tell him something. Tell him something without saying it.

The light dawned. “What if the money … wasn’t for a lawsuit?”

The Brain arched an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“What if it were something more … ordinary?”

“An ordinary business expense?” He shuffled his papers around. “That, of course, would be an entirely different matter.”

“What if I simply wanted to … expand my business?”

The Brain shrugged. “A loan of that nature would be a far simpler matter. Principally the decision would be based upon an analysis of your most recent financial statements and your potential gains after the implemented expansion. I believe I have a copy of your last year’s profits.”

“I had a pretty good year last year. Well, for me.”

“What kind of expansion did you have in mind?”

“Well … I’ve been thinking of bringing in another lawyer. So I could handle more business.”

“A sound business move. Assuming you have more business.”

“Oh, I do. More than I can handle. And I’ve been thinking about hiring some … outside consultants. To enable my firm to handle a … wider variety of legal matters.”

“That, too, is a sound business practice.” For all his stoicism, The Brain seemed to be suppressing a smile. “Of course, you’re carrying a lot of debt already.”

“But that’s all secured. Valuable collateral.”

The Brain made a sort of humming noise. “Well, let’s not dwell on that point too much. I think I can agree to a reasonable business loan for expansion purposes.”

Ben jumped out of his chair and grabbed the tiny man by the shoulders. “Thanks. I really appreciate this.”

He held up a finger. “But listen to me, Ben. Listen carefully. You’ve been to the well once too often already. There is no more water.”

“I understand.”

“I mean it. Nothing more. Not for any reason. And you must begin repaying your outstanding debt. Soon.”

“No more loans will be necessary.” He grabbed his coat and smiled. “I’ll invite you to the victory celebration.”

The Brain smiled wearily. “Just send me a check.”

Mike found Pfieffer at the New York Deli on Seventy-first near Yale. He was sitting upright and precisely consuming his Brooklyn Bomber pastrami sandwich in measured, equal-sized bites. He had removed his suit coat; all that was visible above the booth was his white shirt and his trademark suspenders and bow tie.

Pfieffer spotted Mike as he approached. “Ah, Lieutenant Morelli. I was told you’d be visiting me.” He gestured toward the empty seat on the other side of the booth. “If I’d known you were coming here, I’d have ordered you a sandwich. Still, it’s not too late. I particularly recommend the pastrami. It’s hard to get genuine deli meat here in Tulsa, you know. Shall I order one up?”

Mike crawled into the booth and faced him. “No thanks. I’m not hungry.”

“Are you sure? Man does not live by murder alone.”

“Cut the crap, Pfieffer. This is unpleasant enough without having to put up with your baloney.”

Pfieffer s eyes widened. “Beg pardon? Have I done something to offend?”

“You know damn well you have. Let’s not talk about it.” Mike pushed the snaps on his briefcase and drew out some papers. “I need your help.”

Pfieffer nodded. “So I gathered. Something of a financial nature, I assume.”

“You assume correctly.” Mike pushed the documents across the table. “This is just the tip of the iceberg. I’ve got mounds more of this stuff in my office.”

Pfieffer gave it a quick once-over. “Look like the monthly financials for some large business entity.”

“Correct. H. P. Blaylock Industrial Machinery.”

“Ah.” He fingered through some of the documents. “This must relate to your current murder investigation.”

“You know about that?”

“Of course. I’ve reviewed all your expense reports. Lots of trips out to Blackwood. Too many, really.”

Mike felt his blood pressure rising. Control yourself, he said silently. Keep it under wraps.

“I hope everything was in order,” Mike replied. The edge in his voice was nonetheless unmistakable.

“So far.” Pfieffer didn’t look up. His eyes were trained on the documents Mike had provided. What bored Mike to tears seemed to fascinate Pfieffer. “So tell me, Lieutenant. What exactly is it you’re looking for?”

“I don’t know.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Mike barked. “I don’t know.”

“Are we on the trail of an embezzler? Tax fraud? Illegal campaign contributions?”

“I don’t know.”

Pfieffer seemed incredulous. “But this pertains to a murder investigation?”

“I got an anonymous tip, okay? Someone told me to … follow the money.”

“Follow the money? You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not.”

“And what exactly does that mean?”

Mike had reached his own personal boiling point. “I don’t know, you pompous twit. That’s why I have to resort to getting help from you!”

Several heads turned their way. Mike made a show of not looking like he was about to throttle the man, even though that was exactly what he wanted to do.

Pfieffer, of course, maintained the same even-tempered demeanor. “You don’t … like me very much, do you, Lieutenant?”

Mike was never one to mince words. “No. I don’t.”

“May I ask why?”

“Why? You have to ask why? After what you did?”

Pfieffer seemed utterly flabbergasted. “What I did? What did I do?”

“You got me hauled in front of Internal Affairs!”

“Oh. That.”

“Yes, that! What the hell did you think you were doing?”

“My job.”

“I’ve been on this force since I got out of college. I’ve worked on some of the toughest murder investigations this town has ever seen. And I never got hauled before IA. I never had a blemish on my record.” His eyes narrowed. “Until you changed all that.”

“It is my duty to scrutinize all expense reports and to report any instances of fraud.”

“Fraud! Fraud!”

“You attempted to receive more money than that to which you were entitled. That comes out of the taxpayer’s pocket, you know.”

“I made a math error!”

“If we allowed that excuse to prevail, everyone on the force would be overcharging.”

“Four dollars and twenty-three cents! I overcharged the department four dollars and twenty-three cents!”

“Of course,” Pfieffer said diffidently, “it’s the offense that matters, not the amount. That would be like saying, well, it was only a little murder.”

“Murder! This has nothing to do with murder! My calculator was broken!”

“My, you do have a plethora of excuses, don’t you? No wonder you were hauled before Internal Affairs.”

Mike leaned across the table. “I was completely exonerated.”

“Then what are you getting so hot under the collar about?”

“It’s the principle of the thing. You damaged my reputation.”

“You damaged your reputation when you filled out the expense report incorrectly. Did you pay the money back?”

“Of course.”

Pfieffer spread wide his hands. “Then why don’t we let bygones be bygones?”

I’m simply going to have to kill him, Mike thought. Perhaps I could stuff the body into one of those steel drums.