Deadly Justice bk-3 Page 12

  Now that he finally had a few hours off, Tomlinson planned to do some investigating on his own. He knew he had seen the tattoo on the second victim before—at the Rainbow Boutique, just off Eleventh near Cincinnati. Since he had already linked the body dump site to the Eleventh Street subculture, this connection seemed all the more likely.

  The Rainbow Boutique catered to the varied professionals of the district: prostitutes, pimps, drug dealers, and assorted other hoodlums. It was a combination drug store, head shop, and tattoo parlor. Something for everyone.

  Tomlinson maneuvered past a group of tattered winos hovering around a shared bottle of stoop booze and entered the boutique. He walked briskly through the shop, heading for a small room in the back. He pushed away the strings of beads hanging in the doorway and stepped inside.

  A white-haired man sat behind a table cluttered with tattoo needles. The man was withered and drawn; he couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds. Around him, posted on all four walls, were countless multicolored tattoos. Hearts, anchors, cherubs, flags—a lifetime of illustration and design.

  Tomlinson examined a series of tattoos on the wall just inside the door. There it was, just as he remembered it—a lovely blue butterfly with a garland of pink flowers around its wings.

  The man’s eyes darted around the room, then peered up at Tomlinson.

  “How’s business?” Tomlinson asked.

  “Not bad.” The man’s eyes narrowed. “It’d be better if I could keep the police off my tail.”

  So much for the chameleon. Tomlinson had to hand it to him—the man was nothing if not quick. “Don’t worry. This isn’t my beat. I’m here…unofficially.”

  “I’ll believe it when you leave.”

  “Police been giving you a bad time?”

  “Constantly.”

  “I didn’t realize tattooing was illegal among consenting adults.”

  “It isn’t.” He rubbed his tongue against yellow teeth. “Just disfavored.”

  “They confiscate your needles?”

  “Of course. Want to make sure I’m not spreading diseases, like everyone else on The Stroll.”

  “I’m sure everyone else gets hassled, too.”

  “Everyone who can’t afford not to.”

  Tomlinson decided it was best not to ask what he meant. “I’ve been thinking about getting a tattoo myself. I thought maybe one of these colorful butterfly jobs.”

  “You some kind of queer?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I never had no man ask for a butterfly before. It’s the ladies that like them.”

  “Really? Is this a…popular design?”

  “Some of the street girls like it.”

  “Anyone recently?”

  The man looked at Tomlinson, a suspicious expression on his face. After a brief hesitation, he answered. “Did one not more than three weeks ago for a girl named Suzie. Pretty little Suzie.”

  “Does Suzie have a last name?”

  The man reared back his head and laughed.

  Point taken, Tomlinson thought. “Don’t you need parental consent to tattoo a minor?”

  “Suzie don’t have no parents. Not around here, anyway.”

  Let it drop, Tomlinson told himself. This is not the time. “Is Suzie still working The Stroll?”

  The man pondered a moment. “Can’t say for sure. Haven’t seen her for over two weeks.”

  “Really.” That would tie in nicely with the murder of the second victim. “Do you normally see most of the street girls on a regular basis?”

  “I live here, don’t I? Sometimes they take off suddenly, though, and we never see them again. Never know why they were here, or why they left. Runaways are like that.”

  “Yeah.” Tomlinson absently glanced over some of the other tattoo designs. “Do you know where she lived?”

  “Lived?”

  “Lives. Or lived before she blew town.” What a stupid slip. Damn, damn, damn.

  “No. But Trixie would.”

  “And who’s Trixie?”

  “Her best friend. On The Stroll, anyway. They worked together, if you know what I mean. Did a lot of joint jobs. Whenever the opportunity arose.”

  Great. An honest-to-God lead. “What does Trixie look like?”

  “Are you going to get her in some kind of trouble?”

  “Absolutely not. I give you my word. I’m trying to help her. She may be in great danger.”

  The man thought for a long, hard moment. Eventually, the words dripped out of his mouth. “She’s young. Fifteen, sixteen, I’d guess. Blonde.”

  “Aren’t they all?”

  “She’s different. You’ll understand when you see her. It hasn’t gotten to her yet. She can still smile.”

  “Got anything more tangible?”

  “Look for a scar.” He drew a line on his face. “Right across the bridge of her nose.”

  “Any idea where I could find her?”

  The man made a sweeping gesture toward the street.

  “On The Stroll. Where else?” His lips turned up slightly. “Look for the trail of pennies.”

  Pennies? He wanted to ask, but he was afraid he was already pushing his luck. “Thanks. You’ve been a big help.” He dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the table.

  “What?” the man said. “No tattoo?”

  “Maybe next time.” Tomlinson started back through the beads.

  “If I find out you’ve hurt Trixie, or caused her to come to harm, I’ll personally come after you. With my needles.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Tomlinson hustled out of the shop. He could barely restrain himself. He was close, closer than he’d ever been before, closer than anyone else working the case. Maybe he could pull this off; maybe he could shove that stupid switchboard down Morelli’s throat.

  But first he had to find a teenage girl named Trixie. Before the killer did.

  22

  “LET ME TELL YOU about” depositions,” Ben told Albert Consetti, Apollo’s vice president in charge of transportation design.

  “Fine,” Consetti replied. “Just make it short.”

  “Mr. Consetti…this is an important deposition. Millions of Apollo dollars are on the line.”

  “Kid, may I be blunt?” Consetti was a short man, balding, with a ruddy complexion. “I don’t like lawyers. As far as I’m concerned, lawyers are a blight on mankind, a necessary evil. It’s bad enough that I have to waste the better part of a day playing with you lawyers when I could be accomplishing something of importance. Don’t compound the injury with a lot of unnecessary chitchat.”

  “Regardless of how busy you are, Mr. Consetti, the attorney on the other side will ask you tough questions, and a court reporter will take down every word you say in response. It’s best to be prepared.”

  Consetti seemed unperturbed. “Don’t knock yourself out, kid. I’ve been deposed twice before. We get sued all the time.”

  “Just the same,” Ben insisted, “I’d like to review some of the basics. Once the deposition starts, there’s not much I can do.”

  “That’s not the way my last attorney handled it. What was his name? Herb something or another, I think. Man, he was constantly butting in, making objections, arguing, shouting rude remarks, getting the other attorney steamed up. He was great.”

  Ben smiled thinly. That was one of the biggest problems with litigation today—the most disreputable tactics were the ones clients enjoyed most. And lawyers like to please their clients.

  “I won’t be doing that,” Ben said curtly. “If I make an objection, it will just be for the record. You will still be required to answer the question.”

  An angry tone crept into Consetti’s voice. “What about instructing me not to answer? Herb used, to do that all the time.”

  “I won’t. Not unless the questions invade the attorney-client privilege or become unduly abusive.”

  “Are we going to let these chumps walk all over us?”

  “No. But
neither are we going to obstruct the discovery process with frivolous behavior designed to obtain a cheap tactical advantage. Understand?”

  “Sounds like a wimpy approach to me.”

  “Well, Mr. Consetti, this wimp is going to win this case, if you don’t screw it up during this deposition. Okay?”

  Consetti folded his arms unhappily across his chest. “I suppose.”

  “Excellent. Now let’s review your testimony.”

  When Abernathy entered the deposition conference room, he passed Ben without saying a word and plopped himself into a chair opposite Consetti.

  “Can this be?” Rob whispered. “No play-by-play of his latest commercial? I expected him to be using billboards and skywriters by now.”

  “I think he’s still stinging from yesterday’s defeat,” Ben said. “We made him look seriously stupid in the courtroom.”

  “Don’t bother with the royal we,” Rob said. “It was all you, you old trial hound.”

  “Shall we begin?” the court reporter asked.

  Ben nodded.

  Abernathy began with the usual questions about Consetti’s educational and occupational background. After spending almost an hour with that, Abernathy plunged into Consetti’s work at Apollo—his duties, the members of his staff, the various projects they worked on during the past eleven years. Three hours and two bathroom breaks later, Abernathy had yet to mention the XKL-1 design project.

  It was clear to Ben that Abernathy had not adequately prepared, if indeed he had prepared at all. He had no notes, no outline. His terminology was awkward; he had not personally reviewed the documents that had been produced. He couldn’t focus; his questions roamed all around the issues without honing in on the critical details.

  Finally, about an hour after me lunch break, Abernathy began the line of inquiry that mattered. “Were you personally involved in the XKL-1 design?”

  “No.” Thus far, Consetti has been an ideal deposition witness; he just answered the question, without elaboration or explanation.

  “You were the head of the department, weren’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you have any idea what your design team was doing?”

  “Of course I did.” Ben could see Consetti struggling to keep his lips zipped. Unfortunately, Abernathy had successfully baited him into expounding. “I am intimately involved in the day-to-day affairs of everyone who works under me. I believe in hands-on management, and I take full responsibility for the acts of all my employees.”

  “Indeed? Full responsibility?”

  “You got it.”

  “We’ll talk about that later,” Abernathy replied. “Did you supervise the design of the XKL-1 suspension system?”

  “Yes.”

  “The XKL-1 was a project of your department, then?”

  “Right.”

  “Who were the principal designers involved?”

  “That would be Al Austin and Bernie King.”

  “And where are they today?”

  “Bernie is a vice president out at the Oklahoma City office. I have no idea what happened to Al.”

  “He’s no longer in Apollo’s employ?”

  “Correct.”

  “Was he fired?”

  “Not by me.”

  “Who would know where he is?”

  Consetti shrugged his shoulders. “Beats me. Might ask Bernie, I suppose.”

  “Was a study ever made of the performance of the leaf spring under stress?”

  Consetti drew himself up and put on his fighting face. “Mr. Abernathy, every aspect of every design project that passes through the Apollo Consortium is thoroughly tested, retested, and tested again for safety. That’s our motto, you know. An Apollo product is as safe as a mother’s hug.”

  “Very catchy.”

  “We were in total compliance with every applicable federal regulation.”

  “I’m sure. But I specifically asked whether you tested the leaf spring. Did you?”

  Ben shot Consetti a pointed look. Don’t prick this guy’s curiosity by being evasive. Just answer the question.

  “Yes, we did.”

  “Are there any documents reflecting or memorializing the testing that was performed?”

  “I’m sure there are.”

  “Where would those documents be?”

  Consetti glanced at Ben. “I produced all my files to counsel.”

  “They were produced to you last week,” Ben added.

  “Right,” Abernathy said. “Along with approximately a hundred thousand other documents. It’s just possible I overlooked those.” He picked up a pencil and began fidgeting with it. “Do you recall whether you or anyone else at Apollo considered an alternate design that would strengthen the axle-to leaf spring-to frame connections?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “I mean did you consider design alternatives that would prevent the leaf spring from crumbling when subjected to sudden shocks?”

  “I never said the leaf spring would crumble when subjected to sudden shocks.”

  “Well, it sure as hell did when my clients’ son was riding that-flatbed!”

  “Objection,” Ben said. “Move to strike.”

  “I’m tired of your client dillydallying with me, Kincaid.”

  “If you have another question,” Ben replied calmly, “ask it. Otherwise, we’re ready to leave.”

  Abernathy turned back toward Consetti and growled. “Answer my question.”

  “What question was that?”

  “About suspension system design alternatives.”

  “No, I do not specifically recall any such study.”

  “Fine. Thank you for your courtesy.” Abernathy stretched his arms and cracked his knuckles.

  “Would this be a suitable time to take a break?” Ben asked.

  “No!” Abernathy barked. “I have a few more questions for your witness. If he’ll deign to answer them.” He hunched down over the table. “Have you ever been convicted of a felony?”

  Consetti’s face was the picture of outrage. “How dare you ask me such an offensive question!”

  “Just answer.”

  “I refuse.”

  “Pal, you have no choice.”

  Consetti turned toward Ben. “Do I have to answer that question?”

  Ben nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

  Consetti glared back at him. Obviously, he wanted an attorney who would scream and shout, not one who would instruct him to obey the law. “No. I’ve never been convicted of a felony.”

  “Have you ever been arrested on a felony charge?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Really?” Abernathy reached into his briefcase and withdrew a thin manila folder. “What about the time you were picked up on the Broken Arrow Expressway on a DUI after you crossed lanes and smashed into a car going in the opposite direction?”

  Consetti’s eyes flared. “This is outrageous!”

  “Save the righteous indignation for the jury,” Abernathy said. “Just answer the question.”

  “I’m going to object,” Ben interjected. “I fail to see any relevance of this question to the subject matter at hand.”

  “You don’t see any relevance in learning that the XKL-1 was designed by a drunk!” Abernathy yelled.

  “Objection!” Ben repeated. “Move to strike.”

  “I think the people of America would like to know if every time they enter a motor vehicle with an Apollo component they’re putting their lives in danger!”

  “I renew my objection, counsel. This is grossly improper.”

  “Not as improper as letting teenage boys die because you’re too cheap to change your design!”

  “I’ve had enough!” Consetti shouted. He pushed himself out of his chair. “I don’t have to sit here and listen to this. I’m leaving.”

  Ben grabbed Consetti’s shoulder and shoved him back down in his chair. That was exactly what Abernathy wanted, of course; Consetti was playing into his
hands. Abernathy had already asked all the questions he could think of—and he had come up with nothing. But if he could create a big scene and cause the witness to walk out before the deposition was officially terminated, Abernathy would have an excuse to recall Consetti later when he’d done more work and had more questions.

  “Last chance, Abernathy,” Ben said. “If you have any more legitimate questions, ask ’em. Otherwise, we walk.”

  Abernathy shuffled through his file, obviously disappointed that Ben had prevented his ploy from paying off. “You were arrested for DUI, were you not?”

  “I was not. I was detained. I was never charged.”

  “Ah. Now that is an elegant distinction. I commend you on your cleverness. You were taken to police headquarters, Eastern Division, were you not?”

  “That’s true,” he replied grudgingly.

  “And you were placed in a holding cell?”

  Consetti’s teeth were tightly clenched. “Yes.”

  “But you were never charged?”

  “I was completely exonerated.”

  Abernathy shook his head thoughtfully. “Funny. I didn’t find that in the file. But I did find that you were allowed to make one phone call, and soon thereafter Chief of Police Blackwell arrived at headquarters. Shortly after his visit, you were released.”

  “Was that a question?” Consetti snarled.

  “No, but this is. You and Blackwell are members of the same country club, aren’t you?”

  “What of it?”

  “Nothing. Just comforting to know the good ol’ boy network is still in fine shape. Were you aware that there were two teenage girls, ages sixteen and fourteen, in the backseat of the car you hit?”

  Consetti hesitated before answering. “Yes.”

  “And those two girls died, didn’t they?”

  “That is…my understanding.”

  “And you got off scot-free, right? You didn’t pay their families a cent. You didn’t even offer to repair their car!”

  “Again I object,” Ben interjected. “This line of questioning is abusive and not remotely relevant to the case pending before the court.”

  “Not relevant!” Abernathy was practically screaming. “This man killed two girls and took no responsibility for his actions. How can we expect him to take any more responsibility for what he did to. Jason Nelson?”