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  Deadly Justice

  ( Ben Kincaid - 3 )

  William Bernhardt

  Finding his place back in the corporate world, Ben Kincaid tries to make his fortune without losing his soul

  Since he fled the dehumanizing tedium of corporate law, Ben Kincaid has scratched out a living on the rough side of Tulsa, working cases strictly related to the three Ds: divorce, deeds, and dog bites. So when the state's largest corporation, the Apollo Consortium, offers him six figures to join them as in-house counsel, he can't turn down the pay raise. But if the Apollo partners think they've hired a legal stooge, they're wrong. Kincaid is a bloodhound, determined to sniff out the truth no matter the cost.

  As Kincaid tries to fit in at his new offices, a serial killer stalks Tulsa, luring young women into his car before chopping them into bits. But these horrors pale in comparison to the infighting at Apollo. And when he comes out on the wrong side of a turf war, Kincaid finds himself defending a hapless loser against a murder charge. The client's name: Ben Kincaid.

  Deadly Justice

  A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense (Book Three)

  William Bernhardt

  A MysteriousPress.com

  Open Road Integrated Media

  Ebook

  for Joe and Barbara

  When men are pure, laws are useless; when men are corrupt, laws are broken.

  Benjamin Disraeli (1804-1881)

  Lawyers, I suppose, were children once.

  Charles Lamb (1775-1834)

  Prologue

  THE BLACK VAN PULLED over on the south side of Eleventh Street. The driver rolled down a smoked glass window and smiled. He was a handsome man, especially when he smiled.

  “Are you the one?” he asked.

  The girl on the street corner stopped chomping her gum. “That depends on what you’re looking for, pal.”

  “I’m looking for you.”

  “Then I guess I’m the one.” She returned his smile, adding a raised eyebrow to complete the message. She was wearing a turquoise tube top, black spandex pants, and a black leather jacket with fringe dangling from the sleeves. “What exactly did you have in mind?”

  “Peace. Contentment. An end to suffering.”

  “That’s a tall order. Probably will cost you extra.”

  He shrugged. “Cheap at any price.”

  “Who’s cheap? Are you calling me cheap?”

  “Of course not.” He flashed his winning smile again. “Step into the light, fair maiden. So I can see you.”

  She hesitated a moment, then approached the van. The neon signs of the massage parlors and sex shops flashed about her, bringing her features into sharp focus.

  The man examined her carefully, from her swirling bleached-blond hair down her long, coltish legs to the tips of her pink-painted toes. Clothes and makeup could not conceal what her thin flat figure betrayed: she was in her mid-teens, sixteen at the most.

  The man checked the Polaroid photo he held out of her line of vision. Yes—she was the one.

  “Let’s go for a ride,” the man said.

  “Not necessary.” She felt less skittish, now that she could see his honest, handsome face. “I have a room upstairs.”

  “What, some closet rathole in a house full of rat-holes, with a different couple pumping like pistons on every square foot? I think we deserve something better than that.” He popped open the door. “Get in the van.”

  “I can’t.” A worry line creased her brow. “We’re not supposed to leave with anyone. Two girls have disappeared from The Stroll in the past week. I knew the first one. Her name was Angel.”

  The man appeared surprised. “What happened to her?”

  “No one knows. But some of the rumors I’ve heard…” Goose bumps suddenly appeared on her neck and shoulders. “I just hope they’re not true.”

  “When did you see her last?”

  “The day she disappeared. It was her birthday. Trixie gave her a necklace, a gold heart broken into two pieces. It was real nice—cost Trixie a whole night’s pay. She’s always doing sweet stuff like that.”

  “Perhaps Angel moved on,” the man said in a comforting voice. “Perhaps she found her own slice of paradise.”

  “Yeah, maybe. Still…” She leaned forward and touched his arm. “Why don’tcha come upstairs? You’ll be glad you did. Everyone says I’m real good. I’ll do almost anything. Some of it costs extra, though.”

  “Sorry. I don’t like crowds.”

  The girl pushed away from the van. “Then you’d better move on. I’m not supposed to talk to anyone who’s not a customer.”

  The man took out his wallet, removed five hundred-dollar bills and laid them end-to-end on the dash. “I’ve got a room at the Doubletree, just ten minutes from here. If you’ll come with me, all this will be yours.”

  The girl stared at the money, her mouth gaping. “How…long?”

  “You’ll be back by midnight,” he lied.

  “I don’t know….”

  “Come on now. Do I look like someone who would hurt a poor working girl?”

  The corners of her lips turned up, almost involuntarily. He didn’t seem dangerous; on the contrary, he was friendly and wholesome and all-American. The kind of man she could’ve brought home, back when she had one, without sending her father through the roof.

  Maybe she was being foolish—letting a few rumors get the best of her. He was offering more money than she could make in a week, and the night would only be half over. Judging by the wad he was carrying, he must be rich. Who knew? It was just possible, if he really liked her…

  “All right,” she said. “You sweet talker, you.” She slid into the passenger seat, sweeping the bills off the dash and tucking them inside her spandex pants.

  “I’m glad.” He fastened his seat belt, adjusted the rearview mirror, and turned the ignition. “This is going to be the greatest adventure of your life.”

  “Swell.” She stroked the side of his face. “I’m excited already.” It wasn’t entirely untrue. She wasn’t sure if it was the man or the money or both, but she was definitely feeling charged up.

  The black van pulled away from the corner and zoomed down the street. In the darkness, she did not see his smile flatten and fade and become something else altogether, just as she did not see the black garbage bag in the back of the van, or the white silken cord, or the golden half-heart necklace.

  PART ONE

  Tennessee Gold

  1

  BEN GNAWED ON THE end of his pencil. Things were worse already.

  The lawyer representing the defendant, Topeka Natural Gas Limited, had just completed the direct examination of his expert witness, and the expert was magnificent. Authoritative yet relaxed, confident yet not overbearing—everything an expert witness should be. Ben hadn’t a chance of convincing the jury that the proposed gas processing plant would cause permanent damage to endangered animal habitats unless he came up with some way to take this expert apart on cross. And so far he hadn’t come up with any.

  Ben had prepared cross-examination questions in advance, but the expert had anticipated his every feint and effectively cut Ben off at the pass. To compound matters, Christina still hadn’t shown up. It was hardly unusual for her to be late, but this morning he needed her more than ever, not just for her services as a legal assistant but for her intuitive leaps of insight and perception. To make matters even worse, his investigator, Loving, hadn’t put in an appearance yet either. Times like these made Ben wish he could afford to hire an associate, but as a solo practitioner barely scraping by, such luxuries were out of his reach. Once again, Ben was on his own.

  He grabbed his briefcase and popped it open. A black plastic object flew out and dropped onto the flo
or.

  Judge Hart peered down from the bench. “Mr. Kincaid, what is that on the floor?”

  “That…appears to be a plastic spider, your honor.” He was going to have to stop letting his cat Giselle play in his briefcase.

  “And I assume that is going to play some pivotal role in your cross-examination of this witness?”

  “Well…you never know, your honor. On cross, one has to be prepared for anything.”

  “I see.” Ben was glad he was in Hart’s court this morning; at least she had a sense of humor. “Getting to the point of the matter, Mr. Kincaid, have you any cross-examination for this witness?”

  “Uh…yes. Definitely. Pages and pages.”

  The judge seemed surprised. Apparently she found the expert’s testimony as flawless as Ben did. “Do you anticipate that your cross-examination will be time-consuming?”

  “That’s entirely possible, your honor. Could we please have a short recess?” So I can dream up some more questions? Please?

  “I suppose. Ten minutes, counsel.”

  Thank goodness. A reprieve.

  The courtroom attendants stood and stretched as Judge Hart retreated to her chambers. Ben scanned the courtroom high and low—and it was low that he spotted a familiar pair of yellow leotards. Help was on its way.

  “Christina! Glad you could make it.”

  “I hurried as fast as I could.” She seemed out of breath, as did Ben’s secretary, Jones, who was standing beside her. “Have you crossed the expert yet?”

  “No, but I’ll start in about ten minutes. What have you been doing?”

  “Working, of course.” She was carrying a huge posterboard. Even folded down the middle, the board was shoulder-high on Christina, who was just over five feet tall. “Am I not your faithful aide-de-camp?”

  “Spare me your French.” Ben focused on the poster. “What’s that?”

  “Your Exhibit A. Let’s go somewhere private and talk entre nous.”

  Ben followed her to a relatively unpopulated corner of the courtroom. She was wearing a brown leather skirt, not quite knee length, a noisy chain belt, and a silky blouse. And she wondered why he didn’t let her sit at counsel table!

  “Did Loving discover anything?”

  “No,” Jones answered. His eyebrows bobbed up and down. “That’s why I got into the action.”

  “Jones, when are you going to get it through your head that you’re a secretary? You’re not supposed to be skulking around dark alleys. That’s Loving’s job. You’re supposed to answer the phone.”

  “Aw, Boss, no one ever calls except your creditors. That guy you stiffed for the photocopier is driving me crazy.”

  “I told him I’d pay as soon as some money came in.”

  “Yeah, but that was four months ago. Anyway, Loving was upset because you wouldn’t let him talk to the expert witness directly.”

  “The Rules of Professional Conduct don’t permit me or my staff to contact opposing witnesses.”

  “Loving felt stymied.”

  “There are methods of gaining information other than beating the witness into submission!”

  “Perhaps,” Jones said, “but that’s sort of Loving’s specialty….”

  “Okay,” Ben said, “I know I’ll regret asking, but what did you do?”

  “I followed Mr. Expert Witness when he left Anglin’s offices last night.” Anglin was the attorney representing Topeka Natural Gas Limited.

  “And where did he go?”

  “To a classroom at Tulsa Junior College.”

  “Pick up the pace, Jones. I don’t have a lot of time. Did you find out what the class was?”

  “I didn’t have to. The classroom was being used as a public meeting room. I knew because I’ve been there before with Christina.”

  This did not bode well. “And what undoubtedly auspicious group meets there?”

  “The Tulsa Past Lives Society.”

  Ben slapped his forehead. Surely this was a mistake.

  “See, Ben,” Christina interjected. “I’ve been saying for months that you should attend some of those meetings with me. But you always refuse.”

  “I can’t get too excited about spending the evening with a bunch of people who think Shirley MacLaine is on the inside track.” He glanced at his watch. “I suppose you checked this out?”

  “Of course.” She tossed her long strawberry blond hair behind her shoulders. “Where do you think I’ve been? I wasn’t at the meeting last night, but my girlfriend Sally Zacharias was, and she says that the expert was just the cutest man, very polite and a vegetarian—”

  “Cut to the chase, Christina.” He saw the judge’s clerk reentering the courtroom. “What did you find out?”

  She smiled. “Perhaps it would be simpler if you just looked at the exhibit.”

  Ben laid his hand on the oversize posterboard. He had a definite suspicion he was going to regret this.

  “Mr. Kincaid, are you ready to proceed with your cross-examination?” Judge Hart asked when she returned to the courtroom.

  “Yes, your honor.”

  “And you still believe it may be lengthy?”

  “It’s…possible I’ll finish sooner than I anticipated, your honor.”

  The judge’s eyes brightened. “Now that’s encouraging. Remember, Mr. Kincaid, brevity is the soul of wit.”

  “I will, your honor.” He approached the witness stand. “Dr. Lindstrom, you are a Ph.D., are you not?”

  In fact, Dr. Lindstrom was the stereotypical picture of a Ph.D.—tortoiseshell eyeglasses, tweed jacket, salt-and-pepper beard. “I am. I received my degree in Environmental Sciences, with an emphasis on toxic gases.”

  “And you belong to a myriad of professional organizations.”

  He seemed pleased at the opportunity to flaunt his awesome credentials. “Yes, and I’m also a delegate to the National Environmental Congress for North America.”

  “I’m sure we don’t want to bore the jury with a litany of your countless awards and commendations.”

  He sniffed. “Well…if you say so.”

  “You also hold an endowed chair at the University of Oklahoma, correct?”

  “I have been fortunate to receive the John Taylor Ross chair, yes.”

  “But the vast majority of your current income does not come from the University, does it?”

  He paused. “I’m…not sure what—”

  “You make far more money these days as a professional expert witness, right?”

  “I have been called on occasion to offer my expertise—”

  “And always by right-wing groups or businesses that want to destroy something natural so they can erect something artificial.”

  Anglin rose to his feet. “Objection.”

  Judge Hart nodded. “Sustained.”

  “Your honor,” Ben said, “I’m endeavoring to make the point that this witness has been paid to testify twelve times in the past three years, and in each instance he has testified that the project in question would not harm the endangered species whose habitat was being destroyed.”

  “Then perhaps you should establish that through cross-examination testimony,” Judge Hart said, “rather than by making long-winded speeches.”

  “That’s all right, your honor. I’m ready to move on.” Especially since the point was already made. If Ben had learned anything in the time he’d been practicing, it was when to leave well enough alone. “Dr. Lindstrom, I’d like you to look at an exhibit.”

  Dr. Lindstrom reached for the stack of previously admitted documents.

  “No, no, Doctor,” Ben said. “I want you to examine a new exhibit.” He lifted the posterboard off plaintiff’s table, unfolded it, and propped it up against the courtroom easel. The poster was an enlargement of a full-length photo of an attractive platinum blonde in a white party dress.

  Anglin was back on his feet the instant the blow-up was displayed. “Objection, your honor. What relevance can this possibly have to the question of whether the p
roposed gas treatment plant will cause environmental harm?”

  The judge fingered her glasses. “I admit I’m a bit mystified myself….”

  “I will make me relevance clear very quickly,” Ben assured her.

  Anglin continued to protest. “Your honor, I have no idea what he’s planning to do!”

  “Well, life is an adventure,” the judge said. “Let’s just kick back and see what happens.”

  Obviously unhappy, Anglin returned to his seat.

  Ben confronted the expert witness. “Dr. Lindstrom, do you know who the woman in this photograph is?”

  “Uh…I believe that would be Jean Harlow.”

  “I believe you’re right. And you’re familiar with Miss Harlow, correct?”

  He tugged at his collar. “I…am familiar with her, yes…”

  “And can you tell the jury why you’re familiar with Miss Harlow?”

  “I…uh…was Jean Harlow.”

  “I’m sorry.” Ben pivoted toward the jury box. “I’m not certain the jury got that. What did you say?”

  “I said I was Jean Harlow. In a past life.”

  In the corner of his eye, Ben saw Anglin slump down into his chair.

  “A past life. You know, Doctor, some members of the jury may not be familiar with that concept. Could you please explain exactly how that works?”

  The doctor turned to face the jury. “In 1937,” he explained, “Jean Harlow developed a painful inflamed gallbladder, probably exacerbated by kidney damage she sustained during a beating her ex-husband gave her years before on their honeymoon. Unfortunately, my—er, her mother was a devout Christian Scientist who refused to permit Jean to seek medical treatment. Jean lay helplessly in her bedroom, in great pain, becoming sicker by the hour. Eventually, her fiancé, William Powell, broke into the house with some friends, scooped Jean into his arms, and carried her to the hospital.” He sighed. “William Powell. What a man he was.”

  After a long moment, Lindstrom broke out of his reverie. “Bill did the best he could, but he was too late. Jean Harlow died.”