Cruel Justice bk-5 Page 2

  “I have responsibilities. …”

  “You have a responsibility to your son! Your family! You talk a good talk; babbling to your buddies about what a devoted father you are, and you insist that we come in for these family portraits, so you can have something showy to hang on your wall, but when it comes right down to it, you put everything else before your family.”

  “That isn’t true.”

  “It is. Sometimes I think you never wanted—”

  He cut her off with a harsh glare. “I can’t believe you would say that. I love my son.”

  “Does he know that?”

  The question took him aback. “Well … what a stupid question. Of course he does.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” Rutherford answered her. “He knows. I’m sure.”

  Royce waited patiently for the boy to enter the country-club ballroom. He passed the time by thumbing through the Polaroids he’d snapped so far that morning. No. No. Definitely not. Too old. Too fair. Just not right.

  The sound of the heavy wooden door closing reverberated through the cavernous room. Quickly, Royce put the Polaroids back in his satchel and stepped behind his portrait camera.

  “You must be Abie,” Royce said, glancing at his master list. “Abie Rutherford.”

  “Yeah.” Royce judged the boy to be about nine or ten. He had dark hair, dark features. His locks swooped wildly across his head and dangled down onto his forehead. He was wearing a loose Polo T-shirt and a Drillers baseball cap.

  He was lovely.

  Royce pressed his hand over his mouth, concealing his smile.

  This was the one.

  “I thought we were going to have a family portrait,” Royce said as the boy positioned himself on the stool.

  “We were s’posed to,” the boy said sullenly. “My dad didn’t show up.”

  “That’s a shame.” Royce fidgeted with the camera settings. “Will your father be wanting the economy ten-pic pack, the standard-size twenty-five assorted pack, or the super-deluxe combo sixty-pic pack?”

  The boy shrugged. “My dad prob’ly won’t buy any of them.”

  Royce huddled down over the lens and focused. “Looks like you’re a Drillers fan.”

  “So?”

  “Does your dad take you to the ball games?”

  Abie’s fake camera smile disappeared. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Abie didn’t answer.

  “Come on, you can tell me. Who am I going to tell? I’m just a photographer.”

  Abie considered. “My dad never takes me anywhere. He says ball games are for ordinary people. Drones, he calls them.” He folded his arms unhappily. “I think he hates me.”

  Royce nodded sympathetically. “And your mom?”

  “She doesn’t hate me. She’s always arguing with my dad. I hate it when they argue.”

  “Poor thing.” Royce walked around the camera, smiled, then pressed his hand against Abie’s cheek. “All right now, tilt your head to the side. A little more. That’s it.”

  Royce reached down and adjusted Abie’s clothes, running his hands down the boy’s arms and legs. “There you are. What a perfect child. A photographer’s dream.”

  Royce pressed his eye to the viewfinder and started clicking. He took twice as many pictures as normal. He couldn’t be too careful; he wanted to make sure he had a flattering photo for his friend’s scrutiny.

  “You really are a delightful subject,” Royce remarked. “Have you ever thought about becoming a professional model?”

  “A model?” Abie’s face wrinkled. “What kind of dumb job is that? I’m going to be a baseball player.”

  “Of course.” Royce finished the roll of film in the camera, then surreptitiously took a shot with each of his two Polaroids. “There now. That’ll do it.”

  The boy hopped off the stool. “Can I go now?”

  “Of course you can.” Royce reached out and patted Abie on the head. “Have a nice day, sweet boy.”

  As soon as he finished for the day, Royce packed up his equipment and drove directly to his friend’s apartment, a separate room behind a house on the North Side.

  “What are you doing here?” his friend asked, anything but friendly. “Haven’t I told you never to come here?”

  “I couldn’t wait,” Royce said enthusiastically. “And I knew you wouldn’t want me to, either. I have something you’re going to love.”

  “I’ll be surprised. You haven’t come up with anything suitable for weeks.”

  “How quickly you forget. I found the kid that—” Royce stopped, immediately realizing his mistake.

  “Yes, you were responsible for that, weren’t you?” His friend’s eyes became two small beads buried deeply beneath a heavy brow. “Believe me, I haven’t forgotten.”

  Royce reached for his satchel. He was so nervous he dropped it while fumbling with the buckle. “Wasn’t my fault,” he mumbled. “I always do the best I can for you. Fat lot I get in return.”

  “I got you this gig for the country-club photo directory, didn’t I?”

  “Right, right.” Royce pulled out one of the Polaroids. “Take a look at this.”

  His friend snatched the photo from Royce’s hands. There was a sudden intake of breath. “You took this picture at the country club?”

  “Yes. This morning.”

  His friend frowned. That was a bit close to home. “Who is it?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “You think I have time to keep up with everyone’s kids? What’s his name?”

  “On the flip side.”

  His friend turned over the photo and reacted first with surprise, then, gradually, with delight. “Perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

  Royce was relieved. “Then … he’s the one?”

  “Oh, yes,” his friend said breathlessly. “He’s the one. He’s the one I want.”

  ONE

  Don’t Be Such a Sucker

  1

  THE INSTANT BEN PUSHED open his office door, three men with briefcases sprang to their feet.

  “Mr. Kincaid!” they shouted in unison.

  Bill collectors, Ben thought unhappily. He could spot ’em anywhere. Why did everyone expect Ben to pay his bills on time? None of his clients did. “Sorry, gents, I’m on my way to an important meeting.”

  The three men flung invoices in his path, but Ben sidestepped them and rushed to Jones’s desk in the center of the lobby.

  “Jones,” he said sotto voce, “please tell me I have an important meeting this morning.”

  Jones, Ben’s office assistant, pushed a thick expanding file across his desk. “Even better. You’re due in court. The Johnson case, remember? Continued from last week. Judge Hart awaits.”

  “Right, right. Of course I remember,” Ben bluffed. “This is the public inebriation case, right?”

  “Close. Solicitation.”

  Ben thumbed hurriedly through the file, “Well, that’s what I meant. Where’s Christina?”

  “Excuse me, sir. I must insist.” One member of the briefcase brigade tapped Ben on the shoulder. “My name is Scott Scofield, and I represent the Arctic Breath Air Company. I’m concerned—”

  “You’re the one who installed the air conditioner.”

  “Well, my company did. Certainly I was not personally involved in the installation of your unit.” Scofield adjusted his tie. “At any rate, your payments are woefully behind schedule.”

  Ben pointed toward the machine in question. “This pathetic bucket of bolts you sold me hasn’t worked since day one!”

  “Perhaps you should consider our extended care package for your unit. Of course, I’m not at liberty to offer it to you while your account is in arrears, but once everything is in order, and assuming you have not made any unauthorized alterations to the unit or attempted to repair it yourself, you could take advantage of our long-term maintenance service. This particular unit …”

  Scofield droned on. Ben waited patiently for the m
an to take a breath. He wasn’t going to permit him to slide by with the standard salesman snappy patter. This was serious business. The temperature in Tulsa was over a hundred, and had been for almost a month. August in Tulsa was never a picnic, but this summer had been a record-breaking sweatfest. As a rule, Ben was not fond of summer, and he liked it even less when the air conditioner in his apartment worked only sporadically and the clunker in his office didn’t work at all.

  Ben detected a momentary break in Scofield’s spiel and seized the opportunity. “Look, at the moment I don’t have a penny, and even if I did, this unit is a flat-out dud—”

  “The debt must be paid, sir.”

  “Look around, pal. You’re in a closet of an office on a block full of pawnshops and bars in the worst part of downtown Tulsa. My staff is on half-salary and my assistant is typing on the back of old pleadings because he can’t afford typing paper! Do you think I have money to throw at faulty air conditioners?”

  “Your financial status is no concern of mine, I’m sure.”

  “Thanks for your compassion.”

  “If you do not remedy this deficit immediately, we will be forced to turn your account over to a collection agency—”

  “No you won’t. I’ve filed a formal complaint pursuant to the warranty clause in our sales contract.”

  Scofield shook his head despairingly. “Lawyers.” He sighed.

  “And if you mess up my credit,” Ben continued, “I’ll haul you into court for defamation and abuse of process!”

  Scofield drew himself up. “Are you threatening me, sir?”

  “I’ll do a heck of a lot more than threaten if—”

  “Boss,” Jones interrupted. “You’re due in court, remember? The Johnson case.”

  Ben stopped in midoutburst. “Right. I don’t have time for this, Scofield. Work it out with my assistant.”

  “Oh, thank you very much,” Jones said.

  “I’ll be at the courthouse if—” Jones grabbed Ben’s arm and yanked him back. “What do you want now?”

  Jones pointed through the street-front windows. “Psst. New client alert.”

  Ben looked through the front windows and saw a middle-aged black man carrying a large shopping bag. “Well, if he is, make an appointment. I gotta vamoose.”

  He started to leave again, but Jones jerked him back. “Boss, look at him.”

  “I’m looking, Jones, but I don’t see anything that inspires me to incur Judge Hart’s wrath by being late.”

  “Some detective you are,” Jones snorted. “You see, but you do not observe.”

  “Okay, Sherlock. Give me the lowdown.”

  “Take a look at his car, Boss. What do you see?”

  “Nothing in particular, except that it’s a cheap old Ford Pinto with the front end smashed in.”

  Scofield tried to cut back into the conversation. “Mr. Kincaid, I really must insist—”

  “Butt out, Scofield. We’re doing important detective work here. Okay, Jones, his car is a wreck. So what?”

  “Note the loose flecks of paint near the impact area. This was caused by a recent accident. Now notice how the man limps. Put it together and what have you got?”

  “Traffic accident,” Ben murmured. “Personal injury case.”

  “Contingency fee agreement,” Jones added. “Quick settlement. Easy money. Staff gets paid. Bill collectors go home. Take the case, Boss.”

  “You’ve certainly become a venal so-and-so, Jones.”

  “I like to eat regularly, if that’s what you mean. And I’ve been on half-salary since June. Which of course is more than the air conditioner manufacturer is getting, but still …”

  “All right already. I’ll take the case.”

  Jones batted his eyelashes. “My hero.”

  Ben made a break for the north door, but the way was blocked by the other two briefcase men. He pivoted quickly and made his way toward the other door, only to find himself standing face-to-face with …

  “Julia!” Ben said awkwardly. “It’s been … well, it’s been … well, at least … I mean …” He inhaled. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see you, of course.” Julia Kincaid Morelli Collins, Ben’s sister, was cradling her baby son, one arm expertly curled beneath his body. Her long brown hair fell over her shoulders and tickled his chubby little face. “Is this a good time?”

  “Well, to tell you the truth—”

  “This is your nephew, Joey.” Julia propped the baby up in her arms. “Joey, say hello to your uncle Ben.”

  “Please don’t call me that. I feel like I should be cooking Minute rice.”

  Julia ignored him. “Can you say hi to your uncle Ben?” She looked up. “He’s seven months old. He can only say a few words.” She wiggled her fingers and spoke in high-pitched baby talk. “Say, ‘Hi there, Uncle Ben. Hi there!’ ”

  Joey did not follow her lead, which Ben thought showed great presence of mind on his part. Ben took the moment to give his sister a quick once-over. She’d changed since he’d last seen her. Not surprising, really—it had been more than two years.

  She had slimmed down considerably. Working as an emergency room nurse in Glasgow, Montana, had undoubtedly played a part in that. Not to mention her second divorce, just after the baby was born, and the stress of caring for a newborn on her own. Something about the new improved Julia bothered him, though.

  “So what have you been up to?” he asked.

  “Oh, you wouldn’t believe it.” Joey was getting restless—squirming and scrunching up his face. Julia plopped him over her shoulder, burped him, then switched him to her other arm. “I finished my contract term at the hospital in Glasgow and got offered a seat in a graduate program in Connecticut. It’s very exclusive.”

  “So you’ll be accepting?”

  “I hope to, but there are a few problems.” She smiled at Joey, then wiped a bit of drool from his face. “I can’t believe how long it’s been since we last saw each other, Ben. Why is that?”

  “Well,” Ben said hesitantly, “I thought it was because you didn’t like me very much.”

  “Don’t be silly. Where would you get that idea?”

  “Because you always said I was a jerk.”

  “Did I? Sorry about that.”

  “Because you said I don’t care about anyone other than myself.”

  “I’m sure I didn’t mean it.”

  “Because you told Mother I tried to drown you in the swimming pool when you were eight.”

  “Well, you did do that, but let’s let bygones be bygones.” She wriggled the diaper bag down off her shoulder, wrested free a wet-wipe, and cleaned up Joey’s face. “It didn’t help family relations, you know, when you took Mike’s side during our divorce.”

  Mike Morelli was her first husband—and Ben’s old college buddy, currently a homicide detective with the Tulsa PD. “Did I? He thinks I took your side.”

  “Well, he’s wrong. As usual.”

  Ben diverted his attention to the infant. “He’s a cute little guy, isn’t he?”

  “Oh yeah. And very advanced for his age. He can already pull himself up in his crib. He’ll be walking in another month or two. Here, why don’t you hold him?”

  “Oh, no,” Ben said quickly. ‘That’s all right.”

  “Come on, Ben. He’s your nephew. He won’t break. Hold him a second.”

  Ben reluctantly extended his arms. It wasn’t anything personal against Joey. Ben just didn’t know the slightest thing about babies. He didn’t even know where to place his hands.

  “No, no,” Julia said, “like this. He can hold up his head now, but you still need to brace his body.”

  Ben contorted in accordance with her directions. Joey gazed up at his uncle and made a strange gurgling noise.

  “See?” Julia said. “He likes you.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Tickle his lower lip. He loves that.”

  Ben did as instructed. The baby did seem to smile a bi
t.

  “ ’Scuse me, sir.”

  Ben turned. It was the black man he and Jones had spotted outside. He stood unevenly, leaning heavily on his right leg. “My name’s Ernest Hayes. Friends call me Ernie. Sorry to interrupt, but I’m wantin’ to talk with you ‘bout handlin’ a case—”

  “Right,” Ben said. “I’d be happy to do it.”

  The man blinked. “Jus’ like that?”

  “Sure. My pleasure.”

  Ernie hesitated. “I gotta be honest with you, Mr. Kincaid. I ain’t got much money.”

  “Not a problem. I’ll do it on a contingency fee. My assistant will give you some forms to fill out—terms, provisions, and so on. There are standard percentages for cases of this sort. Here, I’ll sign now.” Ben scrawled his name on the bottom of one of the forms. “We’ll talk about the details when I get back from court.”

  “Land sakes. This was even easier than I thought it would be.”

  Ben winked at Jones. “Happy now?”

  “Ecstatic.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Kincaid. I’m attempting to be patient, but this is truly the limit.”

  It was Scofield again. “You know,” Ben said, “if your air conditioner was half as resilient as you are, I wouldn’t be standing here worrying about the baby sniffing my sweaty pits.”

  Scofield appeared shocked. “Really! If this is your idea of humor—”

  “Can’t you leave me alone for a minute? I’m bonding with my nephew.”

  “I hate to interrupt any familial bonding,” Jones said, “but you seem to keep forgetting about your trial.”

  “Yikes! What time does it start?”

  “Nine A.M.” Jones glanced at his Mickey Mouse watch. “That would be exactly five minutes ago.”

  “Jiminy Christmas!” Ben shouldered Scofield aside, using the baby to run interference. “Julia, I hate to make goo-goo faces and run, but—”

  He froze in his tracks. “Julia?”

  Ben whirled around, but Julia was gone. Without a trace.

  And he was left holding the baby.

  2

  “WHERE’D SHE GO?” Ben screeched.

  One of the briefcase brigadiers guarding the front door offered an explanation. “She left. Got in a green convertible and drove away.”